Lego Flooring Sucks: An Open Letter to Target and Costco

Dear Target and Costco:

I have spent fortunes in your stores. In fact, I visit so often that my 3 year old son calls you "Popcorn" and "Hot Dog", respectively, because those are the rewards he gets if he's a good little monkey while we shop in your store.

So listen, I have a question for you guys. Whose bright idea was it to put those fucking red bumps outside of your doors? You know the ones I mean, right? The crippling ones on the floor that regularly break my eggs and cause my son, who is still sitting in your cart on our way into the parking lot, to grimace in pain as his testicles are pounded back into his stomach and beyond. Yes, those red bumps.

I would really love to meet the brain trust who thought that these might be a good idea. Seriously - what the fuck?! They practically shake me to my knees, knock my shit around in the cart and hurt my feet through my shoes. What possible good purpose could they have???

As if all of that weren't enough, I am a woman of a certain age. And in case you missed the memo, we don't like to be uncontrollably shaken when standing upright. I'll not go into any further detail, other than to say that it has to do with the back of our arms and our necks. Of course, the only thing worse than personally going over the bumps is being behind an obese person trying to make their way through it. I'm surprised that my eyes aren't bleeding.

So please, be good little stewards of commerce and give Lego their red flooring back before someone gets hurt by the back bacon of a fat chick.

Sincerely,

Bex

Neti Pot Nuttiness

Last summer I took my kids to the neighborhood pool even though I had a horrible sinus infection. And yes, I'm expecting my major award any day now. Anyhoo, I was sitting and suffering, watching my kids frolic, when a friend showed up. Now, she wasn't a good friend. We didn't have a whole lot in common other than being mothers. She was really into all of that natural, vegetarian, holistic crap. She was even wearing her Free Tibet! t-shirt over her itsy bitsy bikini (that she looked alarmingly fantastic in).

She looked at me carefully and said, "You look like you don't feel well" which is, let's face it, a polite way of saying "Damn, Girl - you look like shit!" I told her about my sinus infection, expecting pity and the offer of an organic pulp bar or something. But no, she hit me with the, "Do you have a Neti Pot?" Of course I had no idea what the hell she was talking about so she explained it. "You're kidding! I don't know WHAT we'd do without ours! It looks like a little tea pot..."

I interjected that I hate tea. A lot. That's why I don't have one....

She laughed at me and said, "No, Silly! You don't drink it! heh heh heh - you stick the spout up your nose and run salted water through your sinus cavity!"

I'm pretty sure the shock and horror on my face demonstrated my position on the whole neti pot thing. Then she started telling me how her 7 year old kid does it, too, and loves it, blah, blah, blah.

I left that conversation thinking that she is - officially - a super freak. Of all of the orifices I'd stick a tea pot spout, well, my nose is the bottom of the list.

About six months later my eldest (who was 8) got a sinus infection. She had just finished up a round of antibiotics for something else and I was dreading taking her to the pediatrician. Remembering the above conversation I went to the drugstore, in a fit of desperation, and discreetly asked for the neti pot section. When I got there I saw that there was an entire industry related to sinus rinsing. Who knew?!

I purchased a sinus rinser that looks like a plastic shampoo bottle with a whole in the lid. It came with 50 packs of sinus rinse. I kept looking for a box that had just a couple of packs as there was no way we were going to need FIFTY opportunities to squirt water up our noses.

When I got home I hopped in the shower with my kid and told her the dealio. She leaned her head forward and I squirted water into one nostril. Green oysters of death paraded out of the other nostril as if on a Slip-N-Slide. It was INSANE how much crap came out of there. After that my kid took a deep breath - and smiled at me. Even more shocking was that the next morning she came to me and asked me to do it to her again because she could breath so much better afterwards. I was shocked, but complied. Again, funky nastiness of a consistency so vile I was concerned that our plumbing would get corked up ran out of her nose.

She got better in no time. Now, I think she prefers this sinus rinse to blowing her nose. We went through those 50 packs much sooner than I would have thought and I went right out and bought the pack of 100.

The next time I got sick I spent about 30 minutes sitting in front of my bathroom mirror. I kept blowing my nose but nothing would come out, even though I felt so stuffed up. I held the sinus rinser in my trembling hand. Finally, I worked up the courage to stick it up to my right nostril and squeeze. It's a weird feeling. It feels kind of like you're in the pool and about to get water up your nose. But then you quit worrying about that because you're in shock and awe at the crapola you've been hiding in your sinuses. After I was done, I blew my nose, took a deep breath - and smiled. I felt fantastic!

Recently I read an entry on one of my favorite blogs when suddenly a new term leaped out at me - Neti Pot Nut Job.

What the...what the fuck is Dan talking about?! Nut Job...I'm not a Nut Job!

Then I began mentally running through the evidence. When I packed for the move to Florida I put my sinus rinser in my purse to make sure that it wouldn't get lost. Every time someone in the family sniffles I jump up, anxious to go get the rinser ready. Now whenever I have a friend with a stuffed up nose I recommend that they go get one. When they reject the idea I push back, insisting that I'm right - they'll love it if only they'd try it. I've considered buying a second "back up" sinus rinser. Because you never know.

And I almost forgot the Grand Daddy Litmus Test of all "Do I Have A Problem" questions: Have you ever concealed your usage from a loved one? Ummm...hell yes. (Nothing lets your husband know "I'm feeling super sexy tonight" like hunching over your sink in a nightgown, shooting salt-water boogers out of your nose with a syringe.)

Fuck. I'm totally a Neti Pot Nut Job.

Paris in 1995

On July 25, 1995 I took the metro from my dormitory in Paris to the station Saint Michel, which was a stones throw from Notre Dame Cathedral. I was with a group of fellow students and we were to meet our professor for Le Bateau Mouche, which is a tour of Paris on a little boat.

Saint Michel is a busy station as it has two main trains that intersect there. RER B is the bottom line and above that crosses the RER C line. And then above RER C is the street.

We arrived at the station via RER B and looked for the exit our teacher had told us to use. A couple of the students saw a big map and began to study it, convinced that it would show them the way. I thought this was stupid and said so - after all, how hard could this be? Get out of the station, look for a river. Follow the river until you see the boats.

Our group split into two and we left our friends who were fruitlessly staring at the map. We ascended some stairs and were standing next to the RER C train when we felt an explosion. There was a total moment of silence as we all pondered, "What the hell was that?!" The impact didn't move my body, but it had caused my organs to vibrate in the creepiest way.

I decided to leave, with or without my peers. I headed towards an exit where there was a line of people who had the same idea. In my peripheral vision I saw someone running in a strange way. His arms were down at his side and he was swaying as he ran. I looked at him and saw that he was badly injured - his shirt was torn and burned and there appeared to be blood all over him.

I jumped the small fence keeping me in the station and ran out to the street.

It was a beautiful day. There were many people elegantly snacking in the cafes, ladies were walking their babies...it was almost as if I had dreamed it.

A stampede of people erupted from the station. Transfixed, I stood there. I have no idea why. I just couldn't leave. People with minor injuries were coming out and everyone looked as though they'd been in a fire.

After the initial thrust of people I saw a woman lying on the stairs. Thinking she had fallen, I ran down to help her. She had a bad cut diagonally across her throat and blood was coming out in squirts, just like the movies. I tried to talk to her but her eyes were like marbles, rolling around in her head. She began smacking herself in the ears...in hindsight I think that she was near the bomb and it might have deafened her, at least temporarily. I took her skirt and held it against her neck but she kept swatting at me.

I heard the sirens above so I ran to get her help. The medics shoved me out of the way and got to work. I still hadn't realized what had happened.

The explosion sounded exactly like a bomb had gone off. But that was too incredible to assume. But it was indeed a bomb, planted by Algerian terrorists. It had been on the train line we had been on. They had put it under a seat and many people sitting or standing there lost their legs. 8 people died.

The medics began pulling people out of the station. I think there were around 75 seriously injured. The beautiful cafes were turned into operating rooms as limbs were removed to save lives.

Our friend slowly walked up the stairs in a daze. Her face was completely white except for two bright red spots on her cheeks, as though she were blushing. There was soot all over her. Apparently she was still standing next to that map when the bomb went off. It sent her flying backwards into a wall where she hit her head. But her much more serious injury was mental; she saw people dying, people on fire, people who had lost their arms or legs in the explosion.

Helicopters filled the air. There must have been hundreds of them. The whole thing was so surreal...we just stood there with our mouths hanging open.

Then I heard one of the policemen say that there was another bomb that had not yet detonated and we needed to clear the area. I began blindly running down the street, having no idea where I could or should go.

We found out later that the terrorists had planted bombs on both RER B and C. But the one on C - the one that I was standing next to - was a dud. They had been designed to go off at the same time and I heard that they had hoped to rupture the wall of the station so that the river would flood it.

Thankfully they failed in the more catastrophic plan.

For a long time I felt like I'd never be the same again. I had nightmares and trouble eating; my doctor said it was post traumatic stress disorder. Now I rarely think about it. But for whatever reason I was thinking about it today and thought that I'd write about it.

As if I needed ONE more reason not to like Sushi

Apparently a group of seven Japanese men were sickened recently, three of them critically, for eating Blowfish testicles. This has caused me to wonder...what the hell is the matter with people, anyway???!

Now, before I get too judgmental I should note that they ordered the grilled fish nuts. Perhaps they thought that, through the grilling process, the tender regions might be somehow pasteurized or something. And speaking of cooking them, how big could these things be anyway? What kind of grill do they have to accomodate what couldn't be much larger than an M & M??

It is well known in Japan that eating any part of a blowfish could be deadly yet people treat it as a delicacy and clamor for it in restaurants. But let it be known - if anyone I know ever gets sick from eating Blowfish - whether you ate the balls or not - prepare to get about the same amount of sympathy you'd get for "accidentally" lodging a gerbil up your ass.

Douche Du Jour

You know, it's not every day when you find someone so socially and morally repugnant that even evangelical Christians don't want anything to do with him. But this is exactly what has happened when the New Life Church pushed out pastor Ted Haggard with the following statement: "Dude. Live in the now. You're GAY. Don't go away mad, just please, please go away."

Simultaneously gay activists are actively trying to push him back into the church as they don't want him, either.

Even the infamous NAMBLA (North American Man/Boy Love Association) rejected him with the following press release: "Ehhhh....yeah...regarding the rumors that Ted Haggard wants to join our ranks...umm...we are going to have to pass. He makes our skin crawl."

In closing, I would like to suggest that Gayle Taggard go have random, crazy cougar sex with as many hot guys as possible. She probably has a lot of tension to release.

Stewardese, translated for YOU

I used to want to be a Airline Stewardess. But then I thought that maybe that wasn't such a great idea because, at the end of the day, you're just walking around a pressurized tube that sails through the air at 300 miles an hour while hustling cocktails and preparing for a catastrophic crash. All while wearing heels and panty hose. Fuck that.

Plus, I'm pretty sure that I'd find a way to screw up the little speech they give before take off. At the very least I'd struggle with keeping a straight face through some of it. As it is I can't help but translate their Stewardese into Bex Speak:

What the Stews say: "If the airplane cabin were to suddenly lose pressure..."

What I hear: It is possible that, at any given time and with NO real warning, there won't be enough oxygen on this fucker to sustain human life. But don't panic....

Them: "...in which case the oxygen masks will pop out of the overhead compartment. Please put on your mask before assisting anyone else."

Me: Plan on taking up some of the precious remaining air with a loud scream as something with tentacles just dropped on your head. Of course your ensuing panic is amplified as you were already feeling a little lightheaded (probably an effect of the lack of oxygen). You will be a lot more comfortable on this doomed flight if you allow the kid next to you to pass out from lack of air before you put his mask on.

Them: "...do not be alarmed when the oxygen mask doesn't inflate with air..."

Me: Let me get this straight...for some reason this plane doesn't have air in it. So I'm supposed to believe that this little plastic mask is somehow designed to allow me to breathe but just "looks" like it's failing. RIGHT. See you on the other side, bitches....

Them: "Everybody! Look at this bright and shiny object! It's called a SEAT BELT and here is how you use it. See this end? You stick it in that end. And then you pull it to make it tighter. So, just to recap, you put this part into this part...."

Me: I have a mental image of the individual for whom this is stated. He approaches the belt with cautious curiosity, initially hitting it with a stick to see if it bites. Of course he'll be making his chimp noises while investigating. Then, when his courage is worked up, he'll begin smacking the two belt ends together over his head while yelling, "Oklahoma! Oklahoma!" There will be drool on his shirt and a big pee stain on his pants because he forgot to shake it...again.

But I think the airlines need to add something to their seat belt spiel. Something like, "If your seat belt doesn't fit around your jelly belly please let one of us know immediately. Because this is an excellent indicator that you do not actually fit and probably are not really contained within the airspace of your seat. This could be construed as offensive to some, as we read about in this scathing post on the Blog of Bex. Apparently she was forced to wear someone else's fat like a parka. At any rate, big boned beauties need to procure two seats or be prepared to be featured in a blog entry."

MOM...she started it....

Our house is typically a peaceful place. But every now and again, my girls fight. And then every once in a blue moon they BATTLE. We're talking punches, smacks and name calling. Apparently being called "poopie head" is the pinnacle of bad names right now, which is quite fortunate considering the bad words they've surely heard me mutter over the years.

These battles will often times will go for a day or two, peppered with periods of peace. Then, suddenly, there will be an attack, which will be a retribution for some previous offense.

For example:

Girl 1 is sitting on the sofa, reading a book when Girl 2 stealthily descends upon Girl 1 and snatches the book away.

Girl 1: Chases her sister until she's cornered and slaps her arm.

Girl 2: (in an incredulous voice) "What was THAT for?!"

Girl 1: "You took my book!"

And the bickering escalates which brings a visit from the pissed off maternal figure in the house. By the time I get there, they are both breathing heavily with their little red cheeks puffed out in indignation while beads of perspiration roll down their brows.

They both begin yelling at me at once with familiar phrases falling to the ground like shrapnel:

She started it!
Did not!
Did too!

So I take each of them by the ear (which immediately quiets them) and we begin to attempt to dissect the root of the issue. Here is a snapshot:

Last night Girl 1 entered Girl 2's room without permission, which is against house rules.

But, Girl 2 asserts that the only reason she broke that rule was to recover ownership of her favorite Barbie that Girl 1 had taken, again without permission, which is also against house rules.

And it goes on and on. Each attack is actually a retaliation for a previous offense. I try to explain to them that there are more mature ways of dealing with conflict. You don't always have to get someone back. But, acknowledge that you should not allow yourself to become a doormat, either, who is constantly pushed around by the other.

This morning I read a news story that stated Israel continued its air strikes in the Gaza strip. For years I have tried to understand this conflict with little success. I have friends on both sides of this argument and have listened to hours of impassioned descriptions of what "THEY" have unfairly and cruelly done while "WE" only want peace. I see a correlation between my daughters behavior and that of those in the Middle East.

There seems to be a lot of yelling about who did what last. I wish that the emphasis would switch to where and how the conflict will end.

After the last big fight between my girls I sat them down and said, "You are sisters. Love and protect each other. You guys are always looking for ways to make me proud and happy. Well, this is how you can honor me. Be good to each other, be thoughtful, patient and tolerant."

I would like to take both Israel and Palestine by the ear and drag them to a quiet corner of my house and tell them the same thing. After all, they are brothers. If they found a way to get along they would all be stronger. It would be a way to honor their planet, not to mention a way to ensure their future generations would have a better chance of success.

But I fear that I will have to continue to sit here in my little corner of the world and watch these two groups of human beings beat the shit out of each other. Innocent people will die every day, further incensing the other group, resulting in more attacks, more innocents dying, and so on. If they were my children I would spank them both for outrageously dangerous and bad behavior and then send them to their rooms - indefinitely.

This all leads me to wonder how Israelis and Palestinians resolve conflicts between their children. I wonder if they hate hearing "...she STARTED it..." as much as I do. I hope that they will find a way to peace. But I fear they will kill each other off. Hopefully they won't take out the rest of us on their way to this horrific but seemingly inevitable end.

Maxi-Mahem

I think I was 11 when I got my first menstrual cycle. What a strange time in a girls life. My daughters are getting older and that's weird, too, to see their bodies changing and their personalities more developed and complex.

When I was around 12 or so something really horrible happened to me. And every now and again the terrible memory will wash over me, leaving my stomach tied in knots. I feel that I should warn my girls, but I just don't have the words, you know? How can you explain to a young girl just how quickly things can go downhill??

It's very complicated. Yet also simple. Here is what happened. I was invited to go the mall by a girlfriend whose dad was willing to drop us off. My cycle had started that morning so I put on the only protection we had way back then - a maxi-pad that you could land an airplane on. If you wore pants that were too tight with one of these things on you looked as though you had some kind of tail that made squishy diaper noises as you waddled around. As if I didn't feel conspicuous enough. That's probably where those baggy MC Hammer pants came from. Women created them because they didn't want to advertise that they were OTR.

Anyway, my friend and I were walking around at a brisk pace when, without ANY warning at all, my pad somehow flipped upside down. Now...without being TOO crude, this was around 1980. Think back to all of the Playboy pictures from back then. Lots of hair. Lots of it. Nobody was really into coiffing their junk back then. Especially not naive 12 year olds.

And these pads didn't have just any old adhesive tape. No, this was magical tape that seemed to be forever slipping off of my cotton underwear but then could (apparently) hermetically seal itself to pubic hair in no time at all.

As I said, the pad flipped upside down. All I really knew was that I was suddenly, without any warning, in the most excruciating pain of my young life while cruising the epicenter of Junior High (the mall). I began wildly gyrating around, trying to ease the pain yet every move I made created an even bigger tangled mess. Finally, I doubled over (likely giving the appearance of eminent diarrhea) and ran towards the restroom where I could free myself from the wiley tangle.

I stayed in the bathroom for about an hour, convinced that "everyone" saw me. I didn't realize then that I was such a spaz, nobody probably gave it much thought at all.

So now that you know my secret, you can probably also see my dilemma. Had my mother told me that such a travesty was possible, I'd probably never have left my room. I suppose this will be just one more thing that my girls will have to discuss with their shrinks in the years to come. Sigh....

Crazy chicks are dangerous, yo.

Just when I was getting ready to have Lorena Bobbitt's name permanently laminated on the "Craziest Wife EVER" trophy, I read the little ditty about an Australian lassie who saw her husband hug another woman.

Did she ginsu his junk off, a la Bobbitt? No...she went a little pyro on us and doused his genitals with alcohol and then SET THEM ON FIRE.



(Get your hot nuts...get your hot nuts here....)

Apparently the fire in his crotch woke him up with a start and he leaped off the bed. This action knocked the bottle of alcohol over which ignited the whole place and he eventually died from his injuries. They've charged her with murder.

I wonder what defense claim her attorney might be considering.

"I thought I saw a tick and was going to burn it off but didn't want to wake him...."

"I was cold and thought he might be, too."

"Well, he loves The Doors, and I was going to surprise him with an interpretive dance to Light My Fire...."


My point is, if your woman is kinda crazy...maybe you should just not sleep.