All Rileyed Up

So I just got a phone call from Circuit City asking for a Mr. or Mrs. Desmond. I explained to them that no one by that name lived at this number. She apologized and said she would make a note of it, and I suggested she remove my phone number from the list, and she said okay, and then said, “And if you have any questions, our phone number is 1-800-blah blah blah (all I heard was 1-800-I DON’T-GIVE-A-SHIT).

So, why did she give me their number? Will I have some strange desire to contact them and discuss what I should or shouldn’t buy my brother in law and sister in law for Christmas? Can they tell me how to convince my son that clean underpants are the wave of the future? What? Why do I need their number? I hate scripted phone calls. There should be a specific script for wrong numbers, which is, “Sorry. Goodbye.” It’s that simple.

So that was my experience this morning with Circuit City. On to other electronics stores…

A couple weekends ago, the Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend, I went to Best Buy. I was there to look at dishwashers. Well, their whole dishwasher section was blocked off with boxes and inventory so I couldn’t even look at them. How lame is that? Why, on the alleged biggest shopping weekend of the year, would they have their inventory lying around blocking my view of dishwasher selections?

So I left. On my way down the main aisle to leave, there was a huge gazillion inch plasma screen playing Gladiator, facing the main aisle.

Did you effing read what I just wrote?????

On the largest shopping weekend of the year, Best Buy is playing a gruesome bloodfest of a movie on their big-ass plasma screen so that when I walked by it with my 3 year old, he got see a man get mauled by a tiger. “Mommy, what’s that?!” “Uh, they’re just playing with the big cat.” Thanks, Best Buy. Thanks a lot. Now, I worked at Blockbuster Video back in the high school days and if we had gotten caught playing a violent R-rated movie on one of our TV screens, we would have gotten in a shit load of trouble. We’re talking waaaay more serious than that time I got caught playing Ghostbusters. I can’t believe Best Buy wouldn’t have a similar policy. It’s not violent movies I have a problem with, I just think there’s a time and a place to watch them and Best Buy with a bunch of kids isn’t it. Let’s also add that Gladiator is what, 6 years old? Why are they even playing that movie? Nobody wants to buy that. Why not play Cars or Ice Age 2, since they have two towers of those DVDs waiting to sell over the season? I was so irritated by Best Buy over this, I actually sent them an email through their customer service. I got an automatic email response that said they would get back to me in 3 days or less, and well, you can count. It’s been way more than that.

So, in short, Best Buy is on my naughty list right now. And the next time something like this happens, I am sooooo taking part in it.

Well, it’s that time of year again. Time for the Holiday Newsletter. I write one. I’ve been writing one since Christmas 2003, to let everyone know how my children are doing, a nice yearly summation of crawls and falls, etc. Most people think of the holiday newsletter as an excuse to brag. Except mine of course. So, I’m going to impart to all of you newsletter writers some sage advice on not being the odious newsletter braggart.

About the Children

You write:
Janet is in her first year at Yale where she is acing all her pre-med classes, Laine was named the Junior Prom Queen this year, Michael won the 8th Grade Talent Show, and Hubert earned First Prize at the Regional Science Fair for his project on evolutionary biology. As a result, he has been invited to spend the summer working on the Chimpanzee Genome Project. Can you believe he’s only in fifth grade?

They read:
My kids are smarter than your kids. And more attractive. And more talented.
In your face, suckaaaaaaaah!

Better approach:
Janet is at Yale because she didn’t get into Harvard. Laine was named Junior Prom Queen after the original choice was knocked unconscious when she was mysteriously hit over the head with a Regional Science Fair trophy. Michael won the talent show by playing “Rawhide” with his armpit. Hubert’s intelligence scares all of us, and we live in fear of him, like that old Twilight Zone episode.

About Yourself and Spouse

You write:
I finished my year as PTA president and our numbers showed we raised more money than any previous year. Sweetheart just got promoted and doubled his pay. I was finally able to trade in that old 2004 beater of a Ferrari for something really hot. We’re going on our second honeymoon this January, a trip to Australia. Scuba diving, sunbathing, five star hotels, all the works. Can’t wait!

They read:
I’m rich, beyotch! In your face, suckaaaaaaaah!

Better approach:
I finished my year as the PTA president and now none of the teachers like me. I can’t remember my husband’s name anymore, and I’m hoping to figure it out before I tag along with him on the company trip to Australia. Oh, and I got rid of the Ferrari because I caught Laine having sex with her boyfriend in it and I can’t break the image. I now drive a station wagon. I daresay she won’t try anything in that.

About Your Home

You write:
We just finished our huge remodeling project. Those zeroes really do add up, don’t they? But on the bright side, our kitchen is gorgeous, the Florida room is spectacular, and the tumbled marble floor really gives the place a classy touch.

They read:
I’m living large. In your face, suckaaaaaaaah!

Better Approach:
We finally got the house cleaned after since Laine and her boyfriend threw that huge party while we were out of town. You know, the one that can now be seen on Volume 98 of Girls Gone Wild?The kitchen no longer smells of vomit and in place of a torn out wall, we now have a French doors leading to a new Florida room. We had to put the room in because it became clear the grass in the yard would not be growing back. The installers said our new flooring is called tumbled marble. I think they dropped it.

Closing Lines

You Write:
We hope to see you among our dearest 300 friends at our annual holiday party at the Ritz. If you can’t make it, we’ll be sending out pictures of what you missed. What a glorious year it’s been for us. Hope yours has been equally bountiful.

They read:
In your face, suckaaaaaaaah!

Better Approach:
We are doing the usual party this year. I think my husband might be at it. I hope to see him. Does anyone know if he still has hair or if it finally fell out? If you don’t come to the party, you can check out the YouTube video that will undoubtedly get posted after I confront my husband about the affair I suspect he is having with one of his associates. Is your life like mine? For your sake, I sure hope not.

Good luck!

Do you play the guitar? Do you know someone who does? Did you ever think it would be cool to be with someone who plays the guitar because they would serenade you with sweet music? Yes, yes, we all dream, don’t we? Here are some things I’ve picked up on in my guitar-loving family.

EVERY GUITAR SOUNDS DIFFERENT. If you fail to realize this, you will be forced to listen to chords being strummed on the different guitars OVER AND OVER until you say, “Oh yeah! That does sound different.” And you know what else—they never know that you’re lying.

Your son at age 2 may fall off an amplifier (in the music room that should be locked when no one is in it).

Your infant daughter, when learning to crawl, may get a lump the size of a hard boiled egg yoke on her forehead, when a guitar falls over and the head stock lands on her (and yes, that guitar shouldn’t have been there in the first place).

If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times, the chair is NOT a guitar stand.

Guitar strings have a reproductive rate that rivals rabbits. They never go away. In fact, here’s a picture of my kitchen table, just tonight.

Plus additional tools for added fun - a fret puller and roadie rench.

Please know that a convenient boost for scaling the couch is the large end of an acoustic guitar case.

Looks welcoming, doesn’t it?

Music catalogs will take over your mailbox. Musicians Friend. Guitar Center. Music 123. American Music. Homespun Tapes. Sweetwater. That was this week.

eBay. Let’s just leave it at that.

Your children will probably know how to say Fender before he or she can say Daddy. I attribute this to the possibility that they might think Fender is actually Daddy’s name. That wouldn’t be such a bad thing if that were true, because that would mean I would be rich, right?

Do you know the different between a Tele and Strat? Because I do. As in, “I do.” It was part of my wedding vows.

The following are all considered valid reasons for buying a guitar:
“It’s my dream guitar.”
“It was my dream guitar and I had it for a while, and then I had to sell it to get some money to pay XYZ utility bill and now I can get it again!”
“It was my dream guitar and I know I bought it before and then sold it when we needed the money and although I have since replaced it with other and better guitars, I’d just like to have it for old time’s sake!”
“It’s my best friend’s dream guitar and I’d really like to have a guitar for him to play when he comes over.”
“It’s not my dream guitar, but what a great deal it is, huh! It’d be a crime NOT to buy it!”

Guitar picks. Bridge pins. Frets. And sometimes pickups. These things find their ways into children’s hands and mouths faster than you can say, “No, Eddie Van Halen rocks harder!” They also accumulate in the dusty spaces beneath the couch cushions with crusty Cheetos and the like.

But, then, we do get to have moments like this.

Daddy + Best Friend + Kids = One Big Sing-A-Long While Mommy Blogs About It

Did I or did I not refer to them as the “MOTHERFUCKING UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA GATORS. FUCK. YEAH.” Yes, I did.

And now, my babies (you have to pronounce this word as “bebes” and as you say it, grab that over-the-stomach pooch that remained on your body after birthing the chillins) are going to the Fiesta Bowl. Er, Tostitos Bowl. I hate marketing. But I do love Tostitos. I’d like to eat a bowl of them right now with a plate of burrito sandwiches on the side. (*note: My bad, apparently they’re not going to the Fiesta Bowl, just to Arizona. WTF is that about?)

I realize not everyone is nearly as excited as myself, or my extended family members who all called me on Sunday afternoon to say, “Did you hear the Gators are going to play Ohio?! Huh? Huh? Didja?!”

And then of course, my two BFFs, both of those bitches – OSU fans. Technically, Brassy is a Cornhusker fan, which is worse, but I’ll just call her an OSU fan for the sake of her hubby. Got that Brassy? Hear that Lawyer Girl?
The Buckeyes are GOIN’ DOWN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I read this entertaining albeit snide article on espn.com that suggests the Gators are only going because of Urban Meyer’s whining. Read if you care to.

Who even wanted to watch Michigan and Ohio play again anyway (besides Michigan).

So the question of the day is this: does whining get you what you want, yes or no?

Let’s see…

Paris Hilton? Yes.
My son wanting to sleep in my bed? Yes.
My daughter wanting to drink more juice than I thought humanly possible? Yes.
The PTA? Yes.
Veruca Salt? Yes.
Me wanting a souped up 67 Mustang Fastback? No. (Perhaps this one just needs a little more time)

Ever heard the phrase “squeaky wheel gets the oil”? Of course you have. It’s like, older than Methuselah. Well, okay. Almost.

So what if some whining was involved to get the Gators to the game. The Buckeyes will be whining their sorry little asses off when the Gators stomp all over them come January (heh, I put that in there for you, Lawyer).

In the meantime, here’s a little sumthin’ sumthin’ to whet the appetite:

A scene from the men’s bathroom at the SEC game when the news came out that UCLA kicked the University of Spoiled Children’s asses out the yin yang, consequently meaning that the Gators had a shot at the National Title.