Friday, 30 May 2008
Guess who has spent $150 this week on gas? This girl!
Seriously, though, I've been driving back and forth from my life and a "family" "situation" which is why the Collective schedule has been all fucked up. Sorryz. My "family" "situation" isn't something that is emotional for me, but it does involve dealing with a lot of emotional people and I've lost count of the glasses of wine I've had this week. For example, I know I've had at least four Thursday night because that's how many I counted and THEN these AWESOME people I am related to kept refilling my glass. (White wine, for those counting. I don't know which kind because I kept mixing them which is APPARENTLY a crime, but whatevs, I'm 23, I'm immune to alcohol-related crimes.)
Speaking of people I'm related to:
I have one sibling. His name is Jeremy and he lives in Chicago and he is three years younger than me. Our relationship now is fairly awesome, but when Jeremy and I were little babies we were not BFF on account of his inability to play fair, nice, or be fun at all. Three ways he totally marred my childhood:
Playmobile Pirate Ship
This thing was huge and took up up at least forty percent of the bathtub at any given time. We had several pirates that went with it as well as a sizable army of dinosaurs, city folk, and legos that filled in has pirates, and had developed several story lines to follow when playing with it. However, my brother would get tired of the story lines and push the boat down just enough so that water would start to fill the lower cavities of the ship and eventually sink it, Titanic-style.
This was the only damn card game Jeremy would play. I spent many years trying to get him to do something--ANYTHING--different including the old standbys like Old Maid, Fish, etc. I wasn't asking him to learn all the rules of Poker or anything, I was asking for simple stuff. But noooo even Egyptian War was too outside the box. He would make me play War until someone won which can take upwards of three hours when you've only got two players and I totally did it because it was my only opportunity to play cards. He still refuses to play other card games and I DON'T KNOW WHY.
Ranger Rick magazine
We had a bit that seems very bit-ish to me in retrospect, but maybe as kids it was real, true life. Whenever he came across one of millions of Ranger Rick mags he would flip to a macro image of a particularly repulsive and slimy bug and then push it in my face. I would scream and run away. And then he would chase me around the house menacingly.
These days we bond over video games and the internet. More neutral ground, I think.
Thursday, 29 May 2008
So anyway, if a parent's love is judged by the number of toys in the toy chest, well, my parents didn't love me very much. And if a parent's love is counted in hugs and kisses it seems my parents still didn't love me.
Huh. That probably explains a lot, doesn't it?
I swear to effing God this was the only toy I had as a kid. Granted, it was a good one, insofar as, you know, I get to listen to this song whenever I want. But it was a bad one because my parents only waited until you could pick up the Atari 2600 in the bargain bin, AFTER all of my friends had Nintendos and were rocking the 1-ups on Super Mario World, AFTER they stopped even making games for the damn thing.
Fucking stupid parents. I DIDN'T ASK TO BE BORN!!!!
Wednesday, 28 May 2008
Fairly recently, I was complaining about how kids today have way cooler toys than I did when I was little. I never had an iPod or a Wii (hee) and the Internets didn't even exist yet. My grandma had a computer that I was sometimes allowed to play Solitaire on, and if I was REALLY lucky, Oregon Trail, but that was about as technologically advanced as it got.
I was a fairly introverted child, quiet with sudden bursts of energy (noisy energy), as likely to be tucked away somewhere with a book as getting yelled at by my a friend's mother at a birthday party for hiding under my chair during cake and ice cream time (true story). What I'm saying is, I haven't changed much. Which is why, if I still owned the following toys, I would probably never leave my apartment. Dear Internets, here are my 5 Top Toys from Childhood:
1. Little People
I went to daycare when I was but a tiny child, and the Little People were the most coveted toys in the entire building. At home, I had scores of Little People with Little People Furniture in a Little People House and Little People Cars and a Little People Bus that they took to the Little People Schoolhouse. The Little People at daycare were a bit more bedraggled than my own Little People, having been handled by countless grubby hands, but we fought over those things like they were made of candy. Willy Wonka candy, even.
2. Fisher Price skates
I was never the most coordinated child. I fell off all sorts of things, like the monkey bars, my swingset, a teeter totter (I was trying to fly). But I was determined to learn how to roller skate. I had this pair of Fisher Price skates that you could expand as your feet grew, and I tried to wear these things long after my feet had outgrown the biggest size. I never did learn how to roller skate very well, but at least the scuff marks all over my skates proved that I tried.
3. Big Wheel
My Big Wheel was my most prized possession. I rode that thing up and down the block until my legs felt like they were going to fall off. If I got too tired, sometimes I'd turn it upside-down, spin the front wheel really fast and pretend it was the sewing wheel that Sleeping Beauty pricked her finger on. Yeah, I don't know either.
4. Talking Whiz Kid
Do do do do, do do do do do do do INSERT CARD, is the sound of my childhood. If I knew how to record stuff, I'd sing it for you, but I don't, so here is the toy I'm talking about at least:
5. Theodore doll
Here's the thing. When I was a kid, I loved the Chipmunks more than life itself (wow), which is one reason I will never, ever see the abomination of a Chipmunks movie that was recently released. I can still recite the words to most of the songs from The Chipmunk Adventure, I had a tiny Alvin doll, but EVEN BETTER, I had a talking Theodore doll. We were BFF. For real. I think I've mentioned this before, but when I was six, I had to go to the dentist and get some teeth pulled, so I brought Theodore along with me for luck. I figured that since Theodore was a bigger chicken than I was, if he could sit there in that big, scary dentist chair, then so could I. Unfortunately, I still go to the same dentist and he hasn't forgotten this. Sometimes I think he still thinks of me as that tiny, pigtailed girl and he wonders why I'm no longer clutching my Theodore doll.
Tuesday, 27 May 2008
I guess The Collective is supposed to be talking about the joy of childhood, and games? The joy of rocking when they were but The Wee Collective? Well, Heather Anne is a lazy, lazy woman who shirks her duty and needs her sister, (that's me, folks) to post for her. I suppose that makes her a bad contributor, but I'll tell you what she isn't bad at, and that is all things Super Mario Brothers, most specifically Mario Three (3). We'd probably be appalled if we knew the number our hours Heather and I spent lounging in our bright yellow bean bags, eating Doritos and playing Mario Three. Well, I read The Baby-Sitter's Club and Heather played Nintendo and on the rare occasions she 'died', I'd have a go for approximately three minutes.
Of all the things Heather is great at (writing, being nice, raising lovely dogs, running, reading, organizing books) all of those things pale in comparison to her Mario skills. She rocked it morning, noon and night. She rocked it while eating Cheerios, ham pickles, and Bagel Bites. She rocked it in the rain, in the snow and occasionally in the sunshine. I suppose you could consider it tragic that she peaked around the age of nine, and that everything since has really been downhill, but I don't. All her mad gaming skills have translated nicely to the internets, and haven't you all benefited from that?
I thought so.
Monday, 26 May 2008
We've heard that people don't really go on the internet on long weekends. I mean, this is foreign to us as we're babysitting Google Reader just to make sure we've read anything and everything new, but as for the rest of you normal people who are eating hot dogs and getting appliances on sale at Home Depot: if an asshole writes a blog post and no one reads it, did it make a sound? What?
Regularly scheduled programming will resume Tuesday. Have a beer on us.
Friday, 23 May 2008
Wednesday, 21 May 2008
“Keep moving, I’ll be right back!”
“Just a moment,” I shouted, over the music.
DING DONG! DING DONG! DING DONG! DING DONG!
“I said just a mo—
“Theodore!” my brothers chorused as I swung open the door. (Let’s just get this over with: yes, I am a triplet and my brothers and I are called Alvin, Simon, and Theodore. But it’s not after those chipmunks. I am named after Theodore Roosevelt. Simon is named after my mom’s favorite musical group. And
“Blown over,” I corrected him, even though I hadn’t the foggiest idea what he was talking about.
“What do you know about tin roofs?” Simon asked. “Your house was a straw lean-to.”
“At least my plates weren’t made of sticks,”
“At least I had plates,” said Simon.
“At least my first girlfriend wasn’t Snotty Suzy from Orwell’s Farm. ‘Oh, look at me, I’m so important with my clothes and my walking on two legs’.”
“At least I didn’t piss on your floor.”
“At least I don’t TiVo cooking shows.”
“At least my life’s ambition is not to pilot a plane. It’s called ‘when pigs fly’ for a reason, wanker.”
“At least I’ve never accidentally eaten sausage.”
“At least my name’s not Garfunkel.”
“My name is NOT—”
“STOP IT, BOTH OF YOU!” I shouted. “Look, I don’t know what your issue is, but you can both just sleep here tonight. You’ll have to come back later, though. I’m busy right now. Simon, what’s in your hand?”
“TiVo,” he muttered.
“Seriously, what is that clickity-clacking?”
“And dude, what’s on your face?” Simon asked, reaching for me with his hoof.
“Stop it!” I said, ducking away.
Simon snorted. “Is that… are you growing a beard?”
“Brah, what is with the hair on your chinny-chin-chin? It’s ridiculous.”
“No,” he said, his face lighting up like Christmas. “No effing way. Tapping Teddy’s School of Porcine Prancing. You’re a… dance teacher?”
“Give that back,” I said, snatching at the card.
“No way, man.”
“I am a carpenter.”
“Carpenters don’t wear tutus. Jesus did not wear a tutu.”
“I do not wear a tutu! I just think dance is an expression of—”
“SHUTUP!” Simon shouted. “Here he comes.” He pointed to the hill behind my house, where a dark figure was skulking toward us.
“Who is that?” I asked.
“The big, bad wolf!” Simon said.
“What! I thought he was locked up with that woman who baked those German kids in an oven.”
“No, he’s out and he knocked down both of our houses and now he’s coming for all three of us.”
“Quick,” I said. “Get inside.”
As I shut and bolted the door behind us,
Tuesday, 20 May 2008
"No time!" he yelled.
"What, were you raised in a barn?" I asked.
"Well . . . yes, and so were you," he answered.
"Fair enough," I said. "What's with the sudden incontinence, grandpa?"
Monday, 19 May 2008
Here's the thing about straw: it's cheap. At least around here.
It's also plentiful.
It's cheap because it's plentiful.
That's as good an argument as I can manage--as good as a defense--for why I built a house of straw.
It's not like I was the first to do it either.
And I was new to town, okay?
It's a good defense!
I'd just made it to town, see, and all I could see was straw, for miles and miles (or yards and yards as was probably the case) and I needed somewhere to stay. I didn't want to board with anyone and I'm not useless so I stole some straw at night and developed a lean to.
It was sufficient.
And I wasn't going to stay there forever.
It was a temporary fix. A temporary lean to. It was lean-to-ed against a WELL for crissakes! You don't really think I intended to live there permanently do you? OF COURSE it blows down easy.
It was the VERY next day--I swear!--when this wolf came a knockin'. I ignored the raps on the stone well because I wasn't accustomed to visitors in my (temporary!) home. My brother wasn't expected in town for another few days.
In fact, I though the raps were the wind or something, okay? How was I supposed to know there was a predator trying to bamboozle me?
It was a total shock when half my little home blew away! I thought the wind had picked up! My little piggy tail felt the draft first! And then the hairs on my chinny chin chin stood straight up! Only then did I turn around and see the wolf!
He greedily made eye contact and I jumped--all four feet right off the ground--and tredded air. His jowls widened into a grin and I collapsed to the ground. I didn't know what to do! He looked hungry! He could probably out run me!
And so when he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, I took off running with my little piggy tail between my legs. He blew my house down with a huff and a puff and then receded back into the woods. I played it smart; he didn't get me.
Sure, I made some poor and unsafe decisions along the way, but I'm okay now. I'M OKAY.
And I'm going to build a real house. Or go find my brother. He was always better at this life stuff.
Friday, 16 May 2008
(cause the Internet is biiii-iiiiig)
Your comments make us think and laugh, and while it's hard to do both at the same time, we appreciate it. After all, laughter is the best medicine.
(laughed so hard I peed a liiiiiiiittle)
So today, Collective Readers, it's your turn. Raise your glasses and toast your own favorite Real Man of Genius.
(it could be aaaaanyoooooone)
Thursday, 15 May 2008
Aaaaaaaanyway . . . raise your glasses and I'll put on my super-deep, announcer man voice.
Today we salute YOU, Miss Baseball Diamond Fashionista,
Why wear sneakers and jeans to the game when you can rock stilettos and that teeny tiny dress? While all those other suckers are sweating in their oversize jerseys, you draw stares from the crowd as you teeter down the steps, clutching the railing to keep your balance.
(if you fall, it will huuuuu-uuuurrrrt)
Don't worry that there's a line of sports fans behind you, their arms full of hot dogs and nachos and beer, who just want to get to their seats before the game is over. Take your time . . . one day Mr. Right will swoop in and carry you to your seat.
(He drives a Camaaaaarooooooo)
Sure there was that one time you tripped over your heels and fell flat on your face on your way to the bathroom. And there was that other time someone spilled nachos all over your new leather pants. But it's a small price to pay for being the best dressed in the ballpark. After all, you're just killing time until Derek Jeter gazes into the stands, sees you posing and preening in your seat, and whisks you away to a life of glamour and fancy clothes. Paris Hilton's got nothing on you.
(Paris doesn't like basebaaaaaaall)
So tug up that tube top, you pretty, pretty princess. Scotch guard that Coach purse, because beer stains are impossible to get out, and the chances that some irate fan will "accidentally" throw beer on you? Are good. Very good. Enjoy the game.
Wednesday, 14 May 2008
SCENE: COLLECTIVE HQ
H!A!: What shall we write about this week, ladies?
K!: Let's be snarky. I'm in the mood for snark.
K!: Oh noez! I have The Block!
So in swoops my own personal superhero, just returned from his latest Vegas excursion, where he realized that it's not so much Sin City any longer, but Douchbag Central. Ladies and gentlemen, I present the world's greatest boyfriend's blogging debut:
Today we salute you, Mr. World's-Most-Asinine-Drink Buyer
Wearing a neck strap to hold up your 100 ounces of frozen daiquiri, you're living the American Dream.
Walking around the Vegas Strip, golf shirt tucked into jean shorts, no belt usually but when it's there it's braided, condensation dripping down onto your leather sandals....everyone is looking at you.
As far as you know, they're all saying "Who's that lucky guy who not only looks good and has a nice refreshing cocktail, but ALSO has both of his hands free?"
You knowwww they want onnnnnne
Ohh, one of the 5 cell phones on your belt is ringing a Garth Brooks ringtone; now it's the neck strap's time to shine.
Knocking down bachelorette parties like they were bowling pins, stepping on the feet of porn slappers**, and pretending "Danger" really is your middle name, nothing will get in the way of you and your asinine drink.
And by all means, there is danger: further obesity, neck-strap tan line, and scoliosis, to name a few.
Don't sliiiiiiiip a disc nowwwwww
So drink up, Mr. World's-Most-Asinine-Drink Buyer, because I'd sure like to see you try to go to the bathroom while wearing that thing.
**(For those who haven't been to Las Vegas, Porn Slappers, as they have been dubbed, are illegal aliens who stand all over the the strip slapping these cards against their leg....When you look at the noise, they shove the cards in your face.)
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
You bravely went where no man has gone before. You expanded the limited fashion wardrobe of teenage girls, and provided protection for those that must go undercover in malls. You gave women a reason to visit the Army Navy surplus store and you faciliated infinite opportunities for His-and-Hers photo ops. People complain that the armed forces are too rough for women and you proved them wrong.
Thank you, Mr. Pink Camouflage Designer for reminding us--again--where women belong. Crack open a nice cold one and toast with your friends, Man's Men, I'm sure. You truly know greatness.
Monday, 12 May 2008
McDreamy. Who? McLovin. Who? Your colleagues may waste their mornings talking T.V., but you've got work to do, and what kind of person names their child after a McDonald's entree anyway?
Spencer Pratt? He sounds like a swell guy. Noted Fashion Photographer Nigel Barker? Isn't he that bloke that that used to host that show The Price Is Right? Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? How did I meet your mother? Samantha who? YOU DON'T KNOW! You don't fill your brain with useless drivel! You are intellectually superior to all of us, because you do not watch television! You do not own a television! You have never even been in the same room as a television!
You don't care that that your co-workers have replaced the word "lunch" with "tribal council," and that every day over Lean Cuisine they vote to kick you off the "island." In case they missed it, you don't work on an island. You work in an cubicle, in an office building, where, in your opinion, the Internet is far too accessible. Did I mention that you really Schruted those WEENUS Reports? But blurgh me, you have no idea what that means either.
You swear to God, if one more person mentions American Idol, you are going to lose your shit. You don't vote for television contestants; you vote in the presidential election, because America is the only democratic nation in the world where a candidate can win the popular vote but lose the election. And if there's anything you hate, it's popularity.
So pocket those 30 bucks you save each month on TiVo, oh, long lost Humphrey Cousin, and spend it on your next "date." But don't blame us when you have nothing to talk about. Like sands through the hourglass, these are the days of your life, Mr.-Too-Important-for-Television-Watching.
Monday, 5 May 2008
What I mean to say is: we are taking a holiday this week. We'll be back next Monday with bossy lists and book reviews and who knows what all. If there is anything you'd like to see Collectivized in the coming months, just leave us a comment. We're a pretty agreeable lot... when we're not hungover or existing on Paris time of a Monday morning.
Friday, 2 May 2008
Thursday, 1 May 2008
Too bad about Dex. He was in love with Joanna. She broke up with him. And then he died. Joanna's sorry, of course. But it's not her fault he's dead, is it? Besides, she never loved him. Boys are just toys, to be used and thrown away. But this time, Joanna's gone too far. Because Dex is back. From the dead. For one last date with her . . .
Aren't you dying to read this book now? Luckily, you don't have to because I'm going to tell you what happens. OK, so sit down because this story is going to BLOW. YOUR. MIND. Our protagonist (I guess?) is a teenage girl named Joanna. She has no feelings, you see. She's cold. Brr. We know she's cold because about 80 billion people call her cold throughout the course of the book. Her dad left her mother for his secretary (how cliche) and Joanna thinks her mom is mousy and old and boring. Joanna is dating this guy named Dex, who is her opposite in every way. She's preppy and rich, he wears leather jackets and rock shirts (gasp!) and he lives in a part of town that smells like garbage. Apparently. ANYWAY. Joanna wants to break up with Dex, but instead of just telling him that it's not him, it's her, she just treats him like shit. For instance. She's supposed to meet him at the mall, but instead, she stands him up. Only she doesn't just stand him up. She hides behind a pillar or something and watches him AS SHE'S STANDING HIM UP. She's COLD.
THE END (or is it?)