Cover Your Giblets
Many parents now days are concerned about the influence our children’s TV programs have on their developing minds. We wonder if a cartoon is violent, or if a girl on a tweeny sit-com is wearing a skirt that is too short, or even if a kid on a show is being smart-mouthed to their parents. These all could be a bad influence on our little ones.
What is passing under our radar is the disturbing trend in the bizarre behavior of many of our advertising icons. Many of them are from our own childhood and for some reason, we have never questioned their strange manners at all; for example the cuddly Pillsbury Dough Boy. Isn’t it a little concerning that he is harking products made from dough, when that’s what he’s made of? Wouldn’t this be considered cannibalism? He also has that creepy laugh whenever someone pokes him, almost like he’s enjoying it too much. I always change the channel when his commercial comes on, because I’m afraid his dough will start rising..
I’m also very worried about all the blatant substance abuse among cereal characters. The Cocoa Puff bird seems a little too high strung. Coo Coo for cocoa puffs or Coo Coo for coca leaves? You be the judge. And the Fruit Loops Toucan is so hopped up on sugar that I think that there is some misuse of dextrose going on there, for sure. Do we really want to give our children this cereal and have them act like crazed tropical birds all day, with their eyeballs spinning around in their heads? And what’s with that Lucky Charms Leprechaun always hoarding his marshmallow bits? I’ll tell you what it sounds like, it sounds like deviant junkie behavior to me. I also wonder why the Tricks cereal rabbit is constantly trying to steal the Tricks from those innocent children. Do we really want our kids to think it’s okay to have weirdoes skulking around ready to leap on them at any moment and grab their breakfast treats?
These characters need an intervention, and they need it fast. I hope there is a wing at the Betty Ford Clinic to care for them.
Another alarming trend is the unhealthy nature of some of these cartoon spokespeople. Cocoa pebbles is pushed by none other than Fred Flintstone. Fred doesn’t look like he has a long history of healthy eating, so why would we take any dietary advice from him? If eating Cocoa Pebbles makes Fred almost burst out of his leopard skin pelt, do we really want Little Johnny following suit? I think not. The same goes for The Pillsbury Dough boy (he’s just bad!), Chef Boyardi, and Orville Redenbacher. Orville’s problem is not obesity. Quite the opposite, actually. I don’t think that his emaciated appearance speaks well for the nutritional value of popcorn. Wait a minute, isn’t he dead? I rest my case.
Of course, some of those characters aren’t too unsavory, like Mr. Clean who is pretty hot with that shiny bald head (obviously buffed with a Mr. Clean product) and tight white T shirt. I would scrub my bathtub everyday if he was standing next to me with those beefy arms folded. I don’t even mind his freaky wooly eyebrows, which I think double as scouring pads. Maybe he’ll bring his pal from the Brawny paper towels ads along and we could have a real good time cleaning. Oh boy, I think I’ve inhaled too many cleaning products.
There are those characters representing a product that are meant to be funny or cute, but who I want to kick in the pants. Bush’s makes great baked beans, and you’ve all seen TV ads with the lovable Jay Bush and his rascally Irish Setter, Duke, right? I love dogs, but Duke is a real jerk. Here’s Jay, being a wonderful owner by feeding him, walking him, giving him a home. He has even turned down offers of selling Duke the Talking Dog to the circus sideshow, and how does Duke repay him? He is constantly trying to sell the family secret recipe. I personally think he is trying to make some cash to support his bad milk bone habit (another candidate for Betty Ford). If my dog were such a creep, he’d be heading to the vet’s for a little snip-snip.
But the most disconcerting product icon of all is The Jolly Green Giant. I have it on good authority that his real name is Bruce and he is the Hulk’s gay cousin. I mean, no heterosexual giant would ever be caught dead in a dress. To be fair, it is a fetching leafy off-the-shoulder number; with matching green slippers he borrowed form Peter Pan. But, my God, it’s so short that you can almost see his giblets.
I tell you who I really feel sorry for, and that’s the villagers who live in the Green Giants town. Image this, if you will. You are villager, let’s call you “Kevin”, and you are out for a stroll, when you see the Green giant.
“Hey Bruce, how’s it going?”
“Good, Kevin”, Bruce bellows, almost causing Kevin’s eardrums to burst. At this point Kevin is right under Bruce, and tilts his head back to look up at him.
“Ahh, Geez Bruce! Didn’t we make it clear at the last town meeting that you can’t go commando any more? Man, no one wants to see your Brussel Sprouts! And another thing, the next time that nature calls, can you go in the woods? You’re killing my rose bushes! Bruce, hey, what are you doing?...no …don’t …ahhhhhhhh!!!!!”
At which point the Green Giant stomps his size 47 green foot down on top of Kevin, making him resemble creamed corn.
The Green Giant clearly has some anger issues, which is not surprising since he is related to the Hulk.
HO HO HO, Green Giant.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Purse Pitfalls
Here's another piece I wrote. Enjoy.
Purse Pitfalls
Am I the only one who feels like a failure-all because I cleaned out my purse? Let me explain.
As a busy mother of 3 small children, and to be honest, not ever a neat nick, my pocket book has a tendency to not only serve as a portable filing cabinet, but also a trash can. The result is chaos in my clutch, and so many lost opportunities; with hard to find flyers, coupons, and news letters that end up buried at the bottom of my bag.
.There are coupons crammed down into the crevices, covered with mysterious crumbs, most likely from a half-eaten snack from my 4 yr old son. These are the same coupons that I can never find while standing in line at the grocery store. Some days I wonder if they have some sort of cloaking device, that their secret desire is not to be redeemed, but to live their life covered in crumbs at the bottom of my purse. Okay, so I probably watch too much Sci-Fi, but I swear they are not there when I need them, but when I shovel out my purse, there they are, mocking me. Man, the money I could have saved, if only I were more organized.
Also forgotten in the depths, I come across flyers and brochures for various cool places to take my kids. The kind of venues that will be sure to culturally enhance their little minds, perhaps even spark an interest so much, that it could lead them someday to greatness. When they are an adult and have a sparkling career in Astrophysics, they’ll come to me and say, “Remember Mom, when you took me to that museum? If I hadn’t gone there and gotten that early look at all that cool stuff, I wouldn’t be where I am today.”
But, because of my muddled, middle-aged mind, I forgot I had stuffed those flyers into my bag. So now, my kids will probably have sparkling careers as Men’s or Ladies room attendants, all because I’m a slob. (No offense to people who are Men’s or Ladies room attendants, I’m sure they’re lovely folks who are just trying to earn a paycheck. But, honestly, would you rather your child grow up to be a Scientist or someone who hands out towels in a toilet all day?)
I pull out a crumpled mass that used to be a brochure for some sort of life altering opportunity. There are the remains of a lollipop stuck to it, and the date has already passed, so I throw it away. Talk about missed opportunities, I am so bummed out whenever I find any fuzzy M&Ms rolling around at the bottom of my purse. It is so sad that they have been deprived of their purpose in life, which is to be eaten by me.
Of course, along with the educational pamphlets for the kiddies, in the deepest corner, way, way at the bottom of my pocket book, are the schedules for classes at the gym. Again, all those dates have long since passed me by. Maybe if I had immediately taken those schedules out of my bag and posted them on the fridge, I would now be svelte. Well, maybe not svelte. I would settle for my curvaceous pre-child bearing form. Okay, so it was less curvy and perhaps even pear-shaped, but that beats my current form which is more …yam-shaped.
I often rationalize that I am at least getting an upper body workout lugging my heavy bag around, but the problem with that delusion is that it’s hard to see all that definition under my layers of fat.
All those lost chances of saving money, enriching my children’s lives, and being a buff mom, are lost to the pit that is my purse. So, what is the remedy? Maybe a smaller satchel, so I’m forced to go through and dig out more often? I’ve tried that and it doesn’t seem to work. All those papers have a way of pushing other important stuff out, like my keys or wallet.
When I have so much stuffed in my purse, that it is overflowing, I know I have to empty it out. With a plastic grocery bag at my side for trash, I rummage through each compartment, throwing out most of what’s in there. It’s weird how the contents of a regular size purse can somehow fill a garbage bag. There is some strange space altering phenomenon going on here. Now we’re talking Sci-Fi.
The ironic part of it all is that I usually keep all the stuff I need, like keys, cell phone, and money in my pocket, so I don’t even really need a purse. Honestly, the only time it comes in handy is when I am sneaking food into the movie theater. Although my pocketbook is really to blame for all those lost opportunities, in the long run it has saved me hundreds of dollars I would have spent on movie theater snacks.
So why do I carry a purse, you might ask? Well, because my friend bought the really cool purple swirly patterned one I have now. It’s from Sri Lanka, or Tibet, or Tehran- I can’t remember exactly where, but somewhere exotic. Everyone notices it and comments on it and asks where I got it from. When I tell them, “Yes, it is cool isn’t it? It’s from Turkistan” I hope they will think I actually went there just to purchase it, and therefore am way cooler than I really am. The purse also has multi-colored fuzzy balls hanging on the sides, and people often like to play with them. Okay, there is some disturbing Freudian thing going on there that is better off left unexamined. I think we should move on.
So in conclusion, my pocketbook’s only purpose is for smuggling contraband and because it gives me an air of mystery. The heck with the fact that it was probably made by toddlers from a third world country or that it masks all the missed chances of inspiring my child into greatness. It’s really, really, pretty, and I like it. How depressing. I think I’ll go rummage through my purse for some M&Ms now.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Purse Pitfalls
Am I the only one who feels like a failure-all because I cleaned out my purse? Let me explain.
As a busy mother of 3 small children, and to be honest, not ever a neat nick, my pocket book has a tendency to not only serve as a portable filing cabinet, but also a trash can. The result is chaos in my clutch, and so many lost opportunities; with hard to find flyers, coupons, and news letters that end up buried at the bottom of my bag.
.There are coupons crammed down into the crevices, covered with mysterious crumbs, most likely from a half-eaten snack from my 4 yr old son. These are the same coupons that I can never find while standing in line at the grocery store. Some days I wonder if they have some sort of cloaking device, that their secret desire is not to be redeemed, but to live their life covered in crumbs at the bottom of my purse. Okay, so I probably watch too much Sci-Fi, but I swear they are not there when I need them, but when I shovel out my purse, there they are, mocking me. Man, the money I could have saved, if only I were more organized.
Also forgotten in the depths, I come across flyers and brochures for various cool places to take my kids. The kind of venues that will be sure to culturally enhance their little minds, perhaps even spark an interest so much, that it could lead them someday to greatness. When they are an adult and have a sparkling career in Astrophysics, they’ll come to me and say, “Remember Mom, when you took me to that museum? If I hadn’t gone there and gotten that early look at all that cool stuff, I wouldn’t be where I am today.”
But, because of my muddled, middle-aged mind, I forgot I had stuffed those flyers into my bag. So now, my kids will probably have sparkling careers as Men’s or Ladies room attendants, all because I’m a slob. (No offense to people who are Men’s or Ladies room attendants, I’m sure they’re lovely folks who are just trying to earn a paycheck. But, honestly, would you rather your child grow up to be a Scientist or someone who hands out towels in a toilet all day?)
I pull out a crumpled mass that used to be a brochure for some sort of life altering opportunity. There are the remains of a lollipop stuck to it, and the date has already passed, so I throw it away. Talk about missed opportunities, I am so bummed out whenever I find any fuzzy M&Ms rolling around at the bottom of my purse. It is so sad that they have been deprived of their purpose in life, which is to be eaten by me.
Of course, along with the educational pamphlets for the kiddies, in the deepest corner, way, way at the bottom of my pocket book, are the schedules for classes at the gym. Again, all those dates have long since passed me by. Maybe if I had immediately taken those schedules out of my bag and posted them on the fridge, I would now be svelte. Well, maybe not svelte. I would settle for my curvaceous pre-child bearing form. Okay, so it was less curvy and perhaps even pear-shaped, but that beats my current form which is more …yam-shaped.
I often rationalize that I am at least getting an upper body workout lugging my heavy bag around, but the problem with that delusion is that it’s hard to see all that definition under my layers of fat.
All those lost chances of saving money, enriching my children’s lives, and being a buff mom, are lost to the pit that is my purse. So, what is the remedy? Maybe a smaller satchel, so I’m forced to go through and dig out more often? I’ve tried that and it doesn’t seem to work. All those papers have a way of pushing other important stuff out, like my keys or wallet.
When I have so much stuffed in my purse, that it is overflowing, I know I have to empty it out. With a plastic grocery bag at my side for trash, I rummage through each compartment, throwing out most of what’s in there. It’s weird how the contents of a regular size purse can somehow fill a garbage bag. There is some strange space altering phenomenon going on here. Now we’re talking Sci-Fi.
The ironic part of it all is that I usually keep all the stuff I need, like keys, cell phone, and money in my pocket, so I don’t even really need a purse. Honestly, the only time it comes in handy is when I am sneaking food into the movie theater. Although my pocketbook is really to blame for all those lost opportunities, in the long run it has saved me hundreds of dollars I would have spent on movie theater snacks.
So why do I carry a purse, you might ask? Well, because my friend bought the really cool purple swirly patterned one I have now. It’s from Sri Lanka, or Tibet, or Tehran- I can’t remember exactly where, but somewhere exotic. Everyone notices it and comments on it and asks where I got it from. When I tell them, “Yes, it is cool isn’t it? It’s from Turkistan” I hope they will think I actually went there just to purchase it, and therefore am way cooler than I really am. The purse also has multi-colored fuzzy balls hanging on the sides, and people often like to play with them. Okay, there is some disturbing Freudian thing going on there that is better off left unexamined. I think we should move on.
So in conclusion, my pocketbook’s only purpose is for smuggling contraband and because it gives me an air of mystery. The heck with the fact that it was probably made by toddlers from a third world country or that it masks all the missed chances of inspiring my child into greatness. It’s really, really, pretty, and I like it. How depressing. I think I’ll go rummage through my purse for some M&Ms now.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Saturday, January 23, 2010
5 K Fun
5K Fun
by Christine Waldman
I would be the first to admit that I am a woman built more for comfort than speed. That’s why I received many astonished looks from friends when I told them about the 5K race I would be running. I had not lost my mind nor wasI prone to subject my self to extreme forms of torture. I was doing it for my 9 year old daughter who wanted me to be her running buddy for her Girls on the Run race.
Since the event was over two months away when I first heard of it, I figured that would give me ample time to get into shape, or as it turned out, stuff my face and gain another 10 pounds with which to lug around on race day.
My daughter’s coaches assured me that I didn’t really need to be able to run, that I could walk and my daughter could run ahead and then run back to me throughout the race, somewhat like an over eager Golden Retriever.
The day arrived and run\walking in 35 degree weather was really the last thing I wanted to do. I had dressed in 47 layers of clothes, forgetting to take into account that I might actually need to bend at the knees.
For my daughters sake, I attempted to have a better attitude and tried to channel my inner Gazelle. Unfortunately, my inner Gazelle was more like a lumbering Rhinoceros, but I was determined to give it my best.
The race leaders started things off with stretches and calisthenics to warm everyone up right before the race. According to leading race officials and Sports medicine Authorities, doing the Macarena is the best way to avoid a Hamstring pull. I’ve heard this same philosophy applies to bike racing and even Lance Armstrong does the Macarena and the Funky Chicken before the Tour de France.
By the time we had done the Macarena, I was so hot and exhausted that I was ready for a nap. Unfortunately, that was when they started the race and we were up and running, or in my case, lumbering. In about 2.5 seconds my daughter, who had begged me to be her race buddy, took off leaving me in the dust, and started running up ahead with my Gazelle-like friend.
I had two goals in mind; #1-was not to come in last and #2-not to suffer a myocardial infarction, in which case I would definitely come in last, but would not be as humiliated because I would be dead and too busy floating above my body noticing how fat I looked in sweatpants.
I had walked around 1\2 a mile, or 10,000,000 centimeters, and had 10 people behind me. I was keeping an even keel with a woman a few years older and at least 15 pounds heavier than me, when my competitiveness kicked in.
I started jogging so I could outdistance the other woman. Well, jogging is a strong word, it was more like a fast shuffle, but it did get me ahead of her. I tried not to worry that those 11 people were all witnessing the sight of my butt in jog mode. Hopefully, I would never see them again.
I was sufficiently ahead, so I slowed my shuffle back to trudging speed so I could catch my breath. I went around a sharp turn, when suddenly the woman was in front of me! She cheated by cutting across the shortest point in the turn.
That was so not fair. I was mad that she took a short cut and messed up my plan to beat her, but most of all I was ticked off that I hadn’t thought of it first!
So now I had to run (think zombie with a Charlie Horse) past her again. Keep in mind that I had gone only 1 mile or 20,000,000 millimeters by now.
The next mile I did a fast walk, constantly looking behind me, in the manner of an extremely paranoid escaped convict, keeping an eye on my competition. I was feeling good, I had one more mile to go, I wasn’t last, and I wasn’t having a heart attack.
The race path led us into the woods and back out again on the same route. This meant that everyone ahead of you would pass by. I was given many pitying looks and words of encouragement from all those gazelles, including my daughter, who acknowledged me with a small wave. I somehow refrained from tripping her.
Some of the supportive remarks were things like; you can do it!, you’re almost there, and do you need CPR?
What seemed like 5 hours later, I did finally reach the turn around spot in the woods and was giving it all I had. At this point I was not lumbering as much as lurching forward. The racing guides were starting to break down the race markers, taking down signs and leisurely walking back to the finish line. No one else was coming towards me and when I looked back, there were only 5 people behind me and none of them were my nemesis. Man, she did it again! She somehow managed to get out in front.
The people that I was beating consisted of a woman with her daughter, who had twisted her ankle, and 3 very fit looking folks who could easily pass me at any moment. In fact, I had a sneaking suspicion that they were waiting until I was 50 feet from the finish line to do just that.
It was time to put on the steam and run. I zeroed in on another chubby mom in front of me and left her in my dust. The finish line was within sight now, and that’s when I hit the wall and couldn’t run anymore. The girl with the sprained ankle and her mother passed me, but I was just being gracious.
The last 30 feet I gave it what little I had left, and sprinted across the finish line. Later I saw a picture of me crossing the line, and I looked like I was standing still.
I am proud to say that I was not last, 5 people finished after me, and I had successfully ran (shuffled) in a 5 K (100,000,000,000 decameters) race without soiling my pants.
They were giving out free soup, pretzels, and hot chocolate for the participants, but by the time I got there, it was all gone. I looked over and my nemesis was just finishing her soup and hot chocolate and placing it in the trash.
I realized then that although cheaters never win, they can still get the last bowl of soup.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
by Christine Waldman
I would be the first to admit that I am a woman built more for comfort than speed. That’s why I received many astonished looks from friends when I told them about the 5K race I would be running. I had not lost my mind nor wasI prone to subject my self to extreme forms of torture. I was doing it for my 9 year old daughter who wanted me to be her running buddy for her Girls on the Run race.
Since the event was over two months away when I first heard of it, I figured that would give me ample time to get into shape, or as it turned out, stuff my face and gain another 10 pounds with which to lug around on race day.
My daughter’s coaches assured me that I didn’t really need to be able to run, that I could walk and my daughter could run ahead and then run back to me throughout the race, somewhat like an over eager Golden Retriever.
The day arrived and run\walking in 35 degree weather was really the last thing I wanted to do. I had dressed in 47 layers of clothes, forgetting to take into account that I might actually need to bend at the knees.
For my daughters sake, I attempted to have a better attitude and tried to channel my inner Gazelle. Unfortunately, my inner Gazelle was more like a lumbering Rhinoceros, but I was determined to give it my best.
The race leaders started things off with stretches and calisthenics to warm everyone up right before the race. According to leading race officials and Sports medicine Authorities, doing the Macarena is the best way to avoid a Hamstring pull. I’ve heard this same philosophy applies to bike racing and even Lance Armstrong does the Macarena and the Funky Chicken before the Tour de France.
By the time we had done the Macarena, I was so hot and exhausted that I was ready for a nap. Unfortunately, that was when they started the race and we were up and running, or in my case, lumbering. In about 2.5 seconds my daughter, who had begged me to be her race buddy, took off leaving me in the dust, and started running up ahead with my Gazelle-like friend.
I had two goals in mind; #1-was not to come in last and #2-not to suffer a myocardial infarction, in which case I would definitely come in last, but would not be as humiliated because I would be dead and too busy floating above my body noticing how fat I looked in sweatpants.
I had walked around 1\2 a mile, or 10,000,000 centimeters, and had 10 people behind me. I was keeping an even keel with a woman a few years older and at least 15 pounds heavier than me, when my competitiveness kicked in.
I started jogging so I could outdistance the other woman. Well, jogging is a strong word, it was more like a fast shuffle, but it did get me ahead of her. I tried not to worry that those 11 people were all witnessing the sight of my butt in jog mode. Hopefully, I would never see them again.
I was sufficiently ahead, so I slowed my shuffle back to trudging speed so I could catch my breath. I went around a sharp turn, when suddenly the woman was in front of me! She cheated by cutting across the shortest point in the turn.
That was so not fair. I was mad that she took a short cut and messed up my plan to beat her, but most of all I was ticked off that I hadn’t thought of it first!
So now I had to run (think zombie with a Charlie Horse) past her again. Keep in mind that I had gone only 1 mile or 20,000,000 millimeters by now.
The next mile I did a fast walk, constantly looking behind me, in the manner of an extremely paranoid escaped convict, keeping an eye on my competition. I was feeling good, I had one more mile to go, I wasn’t last, and I wasn’t having a heart attack.
The race path led us into the woods and back out again on the same route. This meant that everyone ahead of you would pass by. I was given many pitying looks and words of encouragement from all those gazelles, including my daughter, who acknowledged me with a small wave. I somehow refrained from tripping her.
Some of the supportive remarks were things like; you can do it!, you’re almost there, and do you need CPR?
What seemed like 5 hours later, I did finally reach the turn around spot in the woods and was giving it all I had. At this point I was not lumbering as much as lurching forward. The racing guides were starting to break down the race markers, taking down signs and leisurely walking back to the finish line. No one else was coming towards me and when I looked back, there were only 5 people behind me and none of them were my nemesis. Man, she did it again! She somehow managed to get out in front.
The people that I was beating consisted of a woman with her daughter, who had twisted her ankle, and 3 very fit looking folks who could easily pass me at any moment. In fact, I had a sneaking suspicion that they were waiting until I was 50 feet from the finish line to do just that.
It was time to put on the steam and run. I zeroed in on another chubby mom in front of me and left her in my dust. The finish line was within sight now, and that’s when I hit the wall and couldn’t run anymore. The girl with the sprained ankle and her mother passed me, but I was just being gracious.
The last 30 feet I gave it what little I had left, and sprinted across the finish line. Later I saw a picture of me crossing the line, and I looked like I was standing still.
I am proud to say that I was not last, 5 people finished after me, and I had successfully ran (shuffled) in a 5 K (100,000,000,000 decameters) race without soiling my pants.
They were giving out free soup, pretzels, and hot chocolate for the participants, but by the time I got there, it was all gone. I looked over and my nemesis was just finishing her soup and hot chocolate and placing it in the trash.
I realized then that although cheaters never win, they can still get the last bowl of soup.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Hello Everyone
Hello All,
This is my first blog experience, so please promise to be gentle with me. My purpose in blogging is to give my friends and family a laugh, hopefully. Even if it means laughing at me and not with me, have at it.
My second purpose is to post some of my ramblings, writing experiments, and thoughts for the day. Also, some of you have expressed an intrest in the book I have written, Meg O'Brien Wears a Thong, so I want to eventually post the first chapter, which is much easier than printing out copies for all you unsuspecting fools, um I mean friends.
This is my first blog experience, so please promise to be gentle with me. My purpose in blogging is to give my friends and family a laugh, hopefully. Even if it means laughing at me and not with me, have at it.
My second purpose is to post some of my ramblings, writing experiments, and thoughts for the day. Also, some of you have expressed an intrest in the book I have written, Meg O'Brien Wears a Thong, so I want to eventually post the first chapter, which is much easier than printing out copies for all you unsuspecting fools, um I mean friends.
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