beef stew

Whimsy's various and sundry beefs...



I listen to Sting when Chip is not around. He is NOT a fan of The Sting, and I am. His reason being related to mumble-something-mumble-someone-that-I-used-to-know-who-sort-of-looked-like-Sting so we don't even much TALK about the dude because that one vein in Chip's head starts doing a bulgy thing and then he says that Sting is a hack. Though maybe not in those exact words. Anyhoo, I was listening to Sting's jazzy live album All This Time yesterday afternoon and something really bugs me about the live jazzy version of Roxanne. It's about a, um, hooker, right? Some lady of the night and the dude who is singing the song (he-who-shall-not-be-named) is begging her not to put on the red light, right? This is not Deep Song Lyrics town. We can understand EVERYTHING that's going on in the song, and yet Voldemort--I mean Sting, he's singing his jazzy little heart out and then gets to this part late in the song, begging Roxanne not to put that stupid red light on, and Mr. S, he actually TELLS THE AUDIENCE that "she did it anyway". It makes me feel dumb for him.


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I have an issue with Target, love mecca and favorite happy place in all the world for Whimsy. Target, you have severely disappointed me. I totally understand their whole rebranding of their Target-plain-jane stuff. It's fine, right? We all do it form time to time--- try to make ourselves look cooler and start going by a snazzy younger name (Up and Up, anyone?). What I don't get, what I CAN'T forgive is that they are now CHARGING MORE. The lotion that I used to get, the NotEucerin which rocked my world for a mere $4 per bottle (compared to ELEVEN DOLLARS for Eucerin)--- take a look.



What makes this worse is that they didn't even bother to HIDE the fact that they just added a nice $3 raise on that there SAME bottle of lotion.


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We were watching the movie Congo the other day (shut up, it was a slow night and there was NOTHING ELSE ON) and I started thinking about Amy the Gorilla who can communicate using sign language. They have that awesome (and improbable) electronic backpack that she carries on her back with the super duper glove thing for her hand, and it magically translates Amy's signs into spoken words.

Here's what I think: if they can create that crap for an animatronic gorilla in a fake movie about killer white gorillas who will bash your head in to defend their ridiculous city of gold, why the HECK can't they make something like that for my child? Tell you what, national merit scholar/scientist who is surely reading this blog: you create it and I'll split the profits with you, seeing as how I came up with the brilliant idea (by copying a movie). You make the impossible science work, I'll use it with Alice.

Because surely as I am sitting here, the communication gap between me and my offspring is slowly melting any remaining brain matter I have (and dearly need) and causing it to trickle out through my ears. It's... epic how little I understand right now. With the pointing! And the UH UH UH (which, I know, you heard about it yesterday, but still)! And the mad gestures for something that I can't even fathom (though if this is all about her wanting to wield the bottle of Clorox Clean-Up with bleach(!) then I'm thisclose to giving it to her just to stop the screaming)!

So yes, the backpack glove thingy would be very welcome in the Whimsy household right about now. And might help me to keep the last bit of working brain matter I have whole and intact.


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(Am beginning to think that I need to keep a List of Grievances on my person at all times so as to be able to fully remember my Irritations. Because I'm coming up all blank and glassy-eyed, and the last item barely counts as a Grievance and is much more along the lines of Weird Things That Bother The Whimsy.)


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There is something deeply chalkboard-scratchingly IRKSOME about doing this one task every night, and I can't come up with a proper reason as to why it bugs me, and it's such a weird little glitchy tick that Chip hardly even helps me out with it (because it just makes him laugh until he spits when I do complain about it). Here it is: I hate turning off the overhead fan in the hallway bathroom. HATE. With a deep-seated, white-hot-seething RAGE, HATE. We turn on the fan because it's right outside Bean's room - so once she's down for the evening, the fan gets switched on while we putter around the house: put dishes away, watch TV downstairs, generally make a little bit of noise. It's a nice noise buffer, you see. Once we get ourselves upstairs and hang out in our bedroom, the fan is supposed to be shut off. But I hate doing it. HATE. I will stall and beg, do everything EXCEPT turn off that blasted fan until ther eis nothing else for this body to do except wander back down the hall and flip the switch. It's not even HARD TO DO. But I hate it. And it deserves to be put in this list because it is one of the things that makes my nightly routine so weirdly ANXIETY-RIDDEN.



Now that I've unburdened myself to all of you, it's your turn. Tell me what's bugging you, and if you'd be so kind--- can you please turn off the hallway fan? Thanks, you're a doll.