From Wait Wait Don't Tell Me:
SAGAL: For your last innovation, please listen to this advertisement from 1935, read for you by Carl.
KASELL: Guaranteed 100 percent free from splinters.
SAGAL: What product was finally offered squeezably soft and splinter-free?
Ms. DAVIDSON: A hint?
(Soundbite of laughter)
Ms. DAVIDSON: Please.
SAGAL: Mr. Whipple got splinters in his fingers.
Mr. ROCCA: Oh my god, wait, oh my gosh.
Ms. DAVIDSON: Oh, it's the sponge. No, wait.
(Soundbite of laughter)
Ms. DAVIDSON: Oh, toilet paper.
SAGAL: Toilet paper, yes, of course, toilet paper.
(Soundbite of bell)
Ms. DAVIDSON: Oh, what else.
Mr. BODETT: It took until 1935?
SAGAL: Amazingly.
Mr. ROCCA: Geez, what my grandparents went through.
SAGAL: Yeah, exactly. The next time some television commenter starts telling you that things are just as bad now as the Great Depression, don't you believe it.
My mind is supposed to go where my mind is going, right? Right?
Yeah. Unless your mind went to "vibrator," because it wasn't one.
The electrical cord didn't actually do anything. I forget what it was called, but I think "Hillbilly" was somewhere in the name of the thing (it was still in its box).
Coconut husk fibers, maybe? Still pretty scratchy, but better than a whole coconut.
I want to go hug the Charmin bears.
I think I'd rather use a rock, or even snow, than a corncob!
ION, I am cranky-pants at work today.
First, someone at headquarters was forwarded one of my personal tracking spreadsheets, and she wants me to change a bunch of the data in it. I really want to send a snarky email back, saying "why should I do that?" Instead I shall pretend I never got her email. Seriously: I prepared the spreadsheet for my immediate bosses and my clients in the field, to let them know what we're working on and what our priorities are. It's not for headquarters, especially not that office, where they seem to spend all their time issuing stupid directives and not actually helping us get anything done. Bah.
Second, I got an email from someone in another organization asking why I haven't responded to him about something he sent me in March. And the reason is because I sent the request to My Nemesis, who insists on doing all that specific kind of stuff. And she's not done anything with it in two months. So now I look like an incompetent. And no, reporting My Nemesis has no effect: she doesn't answer to my boss, and the person she does answer to thinks the sun shines out her ass. She never tells me what she's working on (even when it's my projects), she rarely does my work anyway (and when she does, she doesn't tell me about it, so I look uninformed and incompetent--yes, this is on purpose on her part), and I am not allowed to give the work to any of the other specialists. RAGE.
Botox Mom made it all up, was paid $200 by The Sun.
Rupert Murdoch can go burn in hell.
I'm kind of down with the Romans salt water and sponge approach.
I know that for a generation or so, the Sears catalog was housed in the outhouse.
Parents who've done this age already, how do you answer something like that?
I think all the advice you've gotten about reassuring Dylan is perfect, but I'd also emphasize all of the advantages of his age. Not just telling him what he can do but showing it to him in relation to Aeryn.
Matilda always likes younger kids in daycare and preschool because she likes being the helper. So you could start with her comment about Baby Carl's first birthday: "Baby Carl's just a baby. He don't know cake." And you can point out all the things Aeryn can't do, and how she's helpless.
"Oh, she's just a baby. Babies don't even know how to ask for ice cream. They don't know what dinosaurs are. Babies don't have favorite movies; they have favorite fingers to suck on."
Or, you could let him watch episodes of Archer with the Wee Baby Seamus. "Baby! You're pear-shaped."
Rupert Murdoch can go burn in hell.
On the plus side: one less nine year old on Botox in San Francisco.
On the plus side: one less nine year old on Botox in San Francisco.
Indeed. A friend of mine had a short story published in which she posited a modeling/acting school in which all the girls started botox at, like, 14. It's nice to know that's still fiction.
