Feb
17
I blew the inch-thick coating of dust off my trusty Turbo Jam DVD today and spent about half an hour flailing around in my living room, feeling like a giant clumsy tool. Afterwards, I had that virtuous après-workout feeling that comes with a false sense of optimism and I was sure I’d be able to slip into my pre-pregnancy clothes, but NO. My body has the audacity to continue to be puffy and post-partumy, despite a full 30 minutes of Chalene Johnston’s supportive cries of “You are going to be able to wear whatever you want this summer!” (Really, my motivational needs aren’t so lofty; “Your stomach will look 56% less like a fleshy accordion this summer!” would work just fine.)
The really sucky thing is that the only way I was able to pursue my Return to Sender: Baby Fat goal was that JB was home and able to watch (ie, hold, carry, jiggle, feed, etc) Dylan. The presence of a newborn in the household has officially killed the few hours of free time I had at my disposal each day, especially as he starts to come out of that all-coma-all-the-time stage. I know it’s a big old no-shitter that a toddler + baby = less time to stare off into space dreaming about Torchwood’s Captain Jack Harkness, but damn. It’s kind of a bitter pill to have the intent to do something not particularly fun — like exercising — but being unable to do so because somebody wants to be lifted out of this boppy pillow right the hell NOW, woman, and warm me a bottle while you’re up.
Dylan may be 20 inches of ass-pain (oh god that sounds wrong), but I suppose he has his good points too. I mean, it’s pretty cute how he snorts like a congested pug when he’s upset. The top of his head does smell fairly awesome. And there is the whole incredible business of being a perfectly tiny, perfectly perfect human being who’s part of our little family and all. I’ll keep him, I guess.
PUNKS:
He’s a maniac, maniac, oh no!
Dylan, throwing his very first goat.
Feb
14
Target demographic: DONG
Filed Under Uncategorized | 72 Comments
We ditched our craptastic Comcastic DVR in favor of a TiVo a while back and I’m sorry to report that the current TiVo system allows a person to record many, many, many shows. I would normally think of this as a beneficial feature rather than a colossal error on TiVo’s part, but apparently TiVo did not consider the effects an enormous amount of television storage space would have on the average American male, and the suffering his spouse would endure as a result.
If you were to turn on my television and browse the options available to you, you would find an astounding selection of shows that cater to the penis. They are targeted for the penis, with names like WEAPONOLOGY and SMASH LAB and DIRTY JOBS. I’m not saying some of them don’t offer appeal to both genders (Mike Rowe, after all, isn’t entirely difficult to watch, especially if you imagine him disrobing after one of his DIRTY JOBS to wash off all that dirtiness) but overall our DVR is dripping with testosterone. If a show has the term NAVY SEALS in it, we’ve recorded it. If it references MYTHS or SURVIVAL or MEGA FACTORIES or NINJAS or BIG HAIRY SWEATSACKS, we’ve recorded it.
If the Discovery Channel would just make a show about factories that manufacture giant guns that smash into each other and blow up before transforming into throwing stars whose top speed must be proven by nerdy velocity experts, JB could condense his viewing preferences to one big annoying series and I could avoid being exposed to this crap on a nightly basis. But NO. Instead, every time I turn on the TV there are more of these shows, and now JB is getting hooked by Flip This House too and OH MY GOD.
Luckily, we both agree that American Idol is some top quality programming. Well, not really — I mean, it’s total junk, the entertainment equivalent of eating a bag of Doritos (with some COCA COLA of course, perhaps consumed while driving a FORD vehicle of some kind) — but we can’t resist. Year after year we start watching the auditions in order to mock the untalented/clueless/batshit-fucking-crazy people, and then suddenly, somehow, like being pulled into a giant undertow made from Simon Cowell’s inexplicable scrub-brush hairstyle and turtlelike facial expressions, it’s too late, we’re sucked in for the entire season.
I would like to point out for the record that JB thinks this girl is going to win. Why? If you ask me, it’s because JB thinks she’s dreeeeaaamy, but he claims it’s because she’s got ‘country appeal’. Hmmm. Sadly, there’s not one cute guy contestant at this point, since they booted the young dimpled cowboy whose innocence I could easily imagine besmirching, possibly while wearing chaps. Ahem.
Why are we watching so much TV these days, you ask? Surely there are children to be attended to? Well, once 9 PM rolls around and one kid is ensconced in bed and the other is collapsed on one of our torsos, watching bad television while eating unhealthy snacks feels like pretty much the height of decadence. It’s the married-with-kids version of a rockstar lifestyle — just, you know, instead of hookers and blow, it’s Les Stroud and Breyer’s French Vanilla.
Lastly:
Is it just me, or have I given birth to a child whose feet are half the length of his body? This kid is going to LOVE the Discovery Channel someday.
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