Monthly Archives: November 2011

Barbie’s Careers

Barbie’s Careers

Today I awoke from a text message being sent to my phone. A very random text message but the gist of it was an announcement of Barbie’s latest career. As the conversation went back and forth, I began to think back on how many careers Barbie has had….

(insert wavy dream sequence lines with dreamy music here)

Barbie began her career as a teenage fashion model in 1959.  This Barbie came with a whole pizza and shoebox full of candy that she could stash behind the pile of sweaters in her closet.  Then, when Mr. and Mrs. Barbie, Senior, weren’t looking she would dig through the sweaters until she found her stash.  Teenage Fashion Model Barbie shovelled the snacks in by the fistful….only to throw them up later.  A bargain at just $5.99 when you stop to think that she comes with teeth that yellow and fall out after purging.

Barbie’s eating disorder lead to a step up in the fashion world when, just one year after her modeling career took off, she was named Fashion Editor.  This doll had a button on the back that made her say three different phrases:

“You are nothing! A gnat!  Get me Gloria Vanderbilt on the horn now!”

“I said DECAF! DECAF!”

“No, honey, mommy can’t read to you now. She has to destroy some people.”

The next few years were a time of soul-searching for Barbie.  She had ambition and she had dreams but she lacked direction. She became what is known in the corporate world as a “job hopper,” skittering about from one career to the next in search of satisfaction. Ballerina, Nurse, Flight Attendant, Tennis Pro, Figure Skater, Executive.  But none of these careers gave her what she needed.

Barbie turned, very shortly to volunteer work.  She became a Candy Striper at the local hospital.  This incarnation of Barbie is thought to be where she was most happy.  Stripes, on Barbie are slimming. And her ego got a much-needed boost when she would be hit on by all of the dirty old men who were recuperating from prostate surgery.  She also found a way to escape when she got tired of dealing with all of the infirmed.  She would just stow away in the hospital linen closet with the stash of magazines she was supposed to be handing out. (Hospital linens sold seperately.)

Barbie’s next career move would really give her the attention she was searching for so desperately: Astronaut.  She would come back to this career several times years later. 

The ensuing years for Barbie meant many, many more careers. She was an Aerobics Instructor (came with same accessories as Teenage Fashion Model plus legwarmers) a singer, surgeon and even Miss America, twice.

But it was in 1985 that Barbie really stretched herself professionally.  For in that one year Barbie was a Business Executive (accessories:  briefcase, business power suit and two sets of books)  Dress Designer (accessories: a bolt of material, a dressmaker’s dummy and a young gay male assistant who was beaten down by Barbie’s cruel treatment of him.) TV News Reporter (accessories: microphone, video camera and blooper real in which Barbie says all seven of the words you can’t say on television)  Veterinarian (accessories: dog and thermometer, examination table and horse tranquilizers to help her fall asleep at night) and finally, Teacher (accessories: books, desk and underage student lover)

But Barbie was still unfulfilled.  Why weren’t any of her career choices making her happy? What could she do differently?  What could make her stop searching?

Unicef Ambassador?  She did love collecting pennies…but no.

Ice Capades Star? No, she would never have enough time to train properly if, at the same time she was going to be a U.S. Air Force Pilot and Summit Diplomat all at once.

Rapper?   No, it’s hard to be gangsta when you’re also a Marine Core Sargeant, Teacher, Chef, Business Executive, Doctor AND Presidential Candidate (sexually harrassed intern sold seperately.)

In fact Barbie would be a Presidential Candidate four more times over the years. But each time she was forced to withdraw from the race when the press discovered scandals that threatened to ruin her professional and private life.  One year, they even went so far as to suggest that there was something illicit going on between Barbie and Skipper. Barbie denied these accusations and no substantial proof would ever be produced.

Having always been athletic, Barbie would eventually go on to try her hand at being an Olympic Athlete, Baseball Player, Professional WNBA Player, Women’s World Cup Soccer Player, Swim Instructor, and Gymnastic Coach.  Each of these dolls came with home and away uniforms, duffel bag and mini case of steroids.  Seedy hotel bathroom stall set sold seperately.

Barbie has gone through so many careers in her lifetime. While she was successful at each and every thing she did, they all left her feeling empty.  The one thing she often came back to was music and athletics.  If only she could find a way to combine the two in one fulfilling and prosperous career.


The Mattel Corporation, in association with Larry Flynt Productions is pleased to announce the newest addition to it’s Barbie family of dolls:

2011’s  Stripper Barbie.

This very fit, very diseased Barbie comes with strategically hidden tattoos, two different thongs, two sets of stick on pasties, a stripper pole, crabs, textbooks (because she’s only stripping to put herself through college to become a doctor, SeaWorld Trainer, Pre-School Teacher, Cake Baker, and American Idol Winner), a newborn baby that lives with Grandma Barbie (sold seperately)  a DNA test to find out who the real father is (Once you find out who the father is by taking the DNA test, you can go to the store and buy the father doll! Don’t expect him to be part of the kid’s life though because his night with Barbie was a mistake and he is not leaving his wife), and miniature scraps of paper with her “phone number” on it to give out to the businessmen who think that Barbie is interested in them and not just the twenties they keep stuffing down her pants. Just touch Barbie’s face with the magical cloth and bruises appear from when she lied to Ken about how much money she made that night!   Also available is a leatherette booth, half full ashtrays on wobbly tables and a disco ball with several mirrors missing. 

Club Pimp Ken doll sold seperately and with the following accessories: Pimp Cup, Fur coat, Bling. Extra Be-otches also sold seperately.

Stripper Barbie: Now we know how she afforded that Dream House.


Posted by on November 28, 2011 in Random


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The Underpants

The Underpants

When it comes to shopping, I am a bargain shopper.  I look for the best deals anywhere I can.  And also, despite my OCD behavior (that includes but is not limited to: total disgust if someone sips from my drink or touches my food in any situation other than preparation, panic when someone threatens to use my chapstick)  I like used clothes.  Especially Levis. It keeps me from having to break them in. I also have loaded my closet with St. Louis Cardinals attire at Goodwill prices to the point that I could wear Cards gear every day for a month without having to do laundry.  Before the thought even creeps into your little peabrain though, NO, I DO NOT BUY USED UNDERWEAR. I do however, find other uses for the underwear while I’m in the store.

Earlier this year, Goodwill opened a “by the pound” store in the city. It is exactly as it sounds.  They sell stuff by the pound.  This is my dream store.  The store is in a refurbished downtown warehouse and is basically just one huge open space with bin upon bin of used goods.  The giant blue bins are about a foot deep and are on wheels.  Each day the bins are full to the brim with everything you could think of: glasses, dishes, shoes, toys, books, cds, movies, tons of clothes and recently, Christmas junk. As the bins begin to thin out, little Goodwill worker bees wheel them off, two at a time, like animals to the ark, leaving a gaping hole on the sales floor.  Then, within five minutes or so, as a pretty healthy crowd of customers has gathered waiting for new bins to come out, the worker bee comes back, dragging with him two NEW bins chock full of more merchandise.   As the bins reach their new home, the crowds swarm it, like cockroaches on a crumb at midnight.  This area of the store looks a lot like Wal-Mart on Black Friday. 

Romy and I have a system for our shopping adventures.  We get one cart and then go from bin to bin digging through like pirates searching for the golden booty.  After our first time shopping there, we now wear latex gloves to do the dig.  We roam around the bins, digging and rooting and rooting and digging and finding bargains:

You want this parrot made out of tiny metallic beads? Yes!

Hey, did you want this bag of cookie cutters? Yes!

I found this statue of an old man and old woman on a double seated toilet holding hands. You want it for your bathroom? Yes!

Just recently we have gotten brave enough to get in the swarm as a new bin comes out. But we are still newbies and we don’t last long. Soon we have backed out of the crowd. But not before snagging a Hallmark plate and a bag of embroidery floss.

When we feel like we have exhausted every bin, we take our loot over to the side of the store and begin to sort.  This is where we get serious.  This is the point where we decide whether or not to keep the things we have thrown in the cart or to put them back in the bins.

Do I really need this Christmas tree made out of gold painted pasta? No.

Will I use this egg poacher? No.

Don’t I already have a sequined reindeer sweater? No. But I don’t need one.

The first time we went, as I was digging through a bin, I found a pair of underwear.  I didn’t even think about it. I just threw them at Romy.  They landed on her arm. 

And tradition was born.

Today, Romy brought her entire family.  Her kids had gone with us before but her husband, Duke, was new to this experience.  And what better way to introduce him to the store than to throw a pair of underwear at him?  So as we were standing between bins, a pair of tighty whities caught my eye.  Again, I didn’t even think. I just grabbed the underpants and flung them at Duke.  My aim was off and they landed on the cart.

Except that my aim wasn’t off. As if in slow motion, we all saw the underpants land unceremoniously on the cart.  And at the same time we all saw the condition of the garment. Soiled. But it was Romy who spoke,

“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU THREW UNDERWEAR WITH SKIDMARKS AT MY HUSBAND!” she said at the decibel level of an oncoming fire truck.

I would be lying if I told you that people didn’t stop and stare at these grown adults flinging dirty underwear at each other.  I would also be lying if I told you that I was able to keep my composure. I laughed so hard my ribs were hurting.

When I reached for the underpants, I had no idea that they would have stains.  I had no idea that they would land perfectly so that the stain could be seen by all. 

And much like that perfect shot at the buzzer, I couldn’t do it again if I tried.

Which I will continue to do….


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It’s funny how we all become “thankful” this time of year, as opposed to being grateful for who and what we have year round.  I know that on every November morning, I can expect to find several status updates that start “Today I am thankful for….” Since we are nearing the end of this month and I have yet to be publicly thankful, I decided to, instead of dragging out my thankfulness for a full month, I would just smoosh it all up into one day and get it over with so that I can continue with my regularly scheduled feelings of entitlement, greed and self-centeredness.

Day 1:  I am thankful for Halloween candy sales, wherein I can purchase massive amounts of candy for fifty to seventy percent off.

Day 2:  I am thankful that I know how to use the timer on my camera so that I don’t have to take pictures with the camera held at arm’s length when I think I’m having a good hair day or am looking particularly sexy

Day 3:  I am thankful when I am in line behind someone in a store or at the library and they do not smell like stale bowling alleys.

Day 4: I am thankful that when I get out of the shower the first thing I see is a little rubber ducky rug. No, I am not five. I am…more than five.

Day 5:  I am thankful that I did not light a match immediately after using hand sanitizer.

Day 6: I am thankful that I haven’t reached that point of old ladyhood where my bright red lipstick bleeds into the creases around my mouth.

Day 7: I am thankful that I do not do heroin.  I wish my neighbors felt the same way.

Day 8:  I am thankful that I never lost a mylar balloon in a tree in my front yard because then I would have had to re-live that tragedy every day because they tend to withstand the elements for quite a while.

Day 9:  I am thankful for the smiley-winky face that is available for my use in text messages and facebook comments. It allows me to continue on my path to ultimate snarkdom.

Day 10: I am thankful that my dog does not like to eat the poop of any animal.

Day 11:  I am thankful for White Castle as an alternative to harsh laxatives.

Day 12: I am thankful that I am sometimes able to make sure someone is ok when they fall down before I begin laughing at them.

Day 13:  I am thankful that none of my friends have bumper stickers on their car because if they did they would not be my friend.

Day 14: I am thankful that I can perform a perfect spit take.

Day 15: I am thankful that my friends do not travel to the bathroom in herds.  I am not comfortable talking to anyone while they’re pooping.

Day 16: I am thankful that a rat has never crawled into my laundry basket in the basement and made its way into my living quarters.

Day 17:  I am thankful for marshmallow fluff. 

Day 18: I am thankful for Bob Ross on lazy afternoons.  Bob Ross paints naps.

Day 19: I am thankful that I have never been caught squishing my neighbor’s grass between my toes when I walk Yadi on the next street over because I’m not sure how I would explain my behavior.

Day 20: I am thankful that sometimes I can keep a straight face when someone says “duty.”

Day 21: I am thankful that the floor beneath my shower has not yet rotted enough for me to end up naked in a pile of rubble in my basement. Key word: YET.

Day 22: I am thankful for penguins. They always make me laugh when they walk because they look like they’re trying so hard to not slip and fall.

Day 23:  I am thankful that when I say something that I think is funny and no one laughs, I do not feel the need to repeat it to try to get the laugh.

Day 24: I am thankful that when I say something that I think is funny and no one laughs, I do not feel the need to repeat it to try to get the laugh.

Day 25: I am thankful that you just got that joke and laughed so that I don’t have to repeat it again.

Day 26; I am thankful that my neighbors with windchimes moved. Or had their windchimes destroyed.

Day 27: I am thankful that my hand is small enough to fit into a Pringles can fairly easily.

Day 28: I am thankful that I was able to get Midwest Hemorrhoid Treatment Center’s commercial jingle out of my head…until now. Dang it.  (singing) Midwest Hemorrhoid Treatment Center…Don’t suffer in silence.

Day 29: I am thankful that I never felt the urge to eat Play-Doh as a kid.

Day 30:  I am thankful that we are only a few months away from spring training.



Posted by on November 21, 2011 in Random


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My Tattoo

My Tattoo

When the Cardinals started their hot streak towards the end of the summer, I pondered doing something I said I would NEVER do:  Get a tattoo.  I got caught up in the moment and was so excited at the prospect of yet ANOTHER World Series Championship that I vowed to a few friends that WHEN (I never doubted my boys) we won the World Series, I was going to get a petite–less than in inch square–tattoo on my left wrist of the Redbird on the bat. 

All of the friends that I discussed my plans with tried to dissuade me, citing what they thought would be compelling arguments:

There are needles involved!   I just won’t look.

It’s permanent!  Pujols or no Pujols, I don’t plan on switching my allegiance. I support my hometown. (I recently defected from my former hometown which I never really claimed anyway and if ever asked, even though it’s in print, I will deny ever living there in the first place. Note how I cannot even bring myself to give it’s name mention. Such is my loathe of the place.) 

It’s going to hurt!  I have a high threshold for pain.

You’ll get old and saggy!  I have yet to see an old lady with a saggy wrist. It’s the boobs we have to worry about.

It’s expensive!  I’ll sell an egg…..

I deflected all of their attempts with Wonder Woman like stopping-a-bullet-cold precision. All of their persuasions fell on deaf ears.

As the possibility of an ELEVENTH (I’m not bragging…I’m just saying…) Championship became a reality, I only wavered because I wasn’t sure how much it would cost. I put that thought to rest by doing what I always do when I want something: put something else I own on Craigslist to sell it and then use that money to buy what I really want..  I WAS going to get a tattoo and nothing that anyone said was going to change my mind.

Or so I thought.

On Halloween weekend, having never been to Fright Fest at Six Flags, Romy and I decided to get one last go at the park, even though both of us have definitely hit that age where roller coasters are kind of a gamble in the vomit-inducing arena.  We bundled up, grabbed her kids and headed out.  We walked around the park for a while and then went to see one of the notoriously cheesy shows which despite having no plot, was pretty entertaining.  We were to meet her kids at the front of the park at ten pm so we tooled around, people watching the rest of the night. Coming up on an airbrushing booth right when the “artist” was getting ready to start a shirt, we stopped to watch.

The “Artist”  started the shirt which would end up saying “Toby’s Love” with pink and black flame-like designs around it.  As she finished the first word, she turned around and said,

“Oh…Toby is with Y isn’t it,” after she had neatly airbrushed “Tobi.”  She turned back around and started painting again, making the “i” into a “y” but leaving the dot.

While she worked on the shirt, we paged through the design book and found a page that had the St. Louis Arch on it.  It was the day after the Cards had won the Series so I was still pretty amped up about my hometown boys taking it all.

“I wonder how much it’ll cost to get my tattoo. Im not going to spend three hundred bucks.”

For some reason, when Romy and I are out and about, people seem to fall into our conversations.  It’s like people feel like they have to get in on what we’re talking about and it happens everywhere we go.  This night would be no different.

“You want to see a good picture of the Arch, look at this,” said this rather large, rather bleach-blonde Toby’s Love.  With one yank of her pant leg, she showed us her shin, which had a five-inch depiction of the arch on top of the KISS logo….you know, because when people think St. Louis, they automatically think of KISS.

Toby’s Love went on to explain that her now deceased father was a huge KISS fan and that was to memorialize him.  A nice thought I guess. I saw my opportunity.

“How much do you think it would cost to get a full color one inch Cardinals logo on my wrist?”

“It really depends but if you want detail, it would have to be no less than two by two inches. And you really have to be careful who you go to,” said Toby’s Love with authority. She knew this business.

“I have forty-seven tattoos.”


Toby’s Love went on to explain that the Arch/KISS was actually done as a cover-up tattoo to hide a tattoo gone wrong.  Then she showed us the back of her neck, which had a pair of eyes on it.

“Can you tell those are my eyes?”

What do you say to that? I don’t think we said anything.  Toby’s Love continued,

“Those are to cover up another tattoo I had.”

I began to see a pattern. 

Toby’s Love started to describe more of her tattoos to us, she had memorials all over her body and even had her husband and her childrens’ portraits on her upper legs (None of which are dead yet.) Many of her descriptions ended with “That’s a cover-up.”

Definitely seeing a pattern. And beginning to have doubt.

“You really have to be careful who does the tattoo. I had a friend do one. She got a kit in the mail and you know, everyone has to learn on someone so I let her do it on me.”

“I would not be that someone,” I said.

She continued, ” I had one tattoo that I dug out because I was allergic to the ink.”

When people tell me things, I tend to visualize it in my head.  So what I saw when she spoke was this woman curled up into a good size ball, scratching away at her bloody ankle like an animal, in order to gain relief over the allergen. Not a pretty picture.

By this time, the artist was done (or so she thought) with Toby’s Love’s shirt. We all stared at the shirt, as Artist turned around and said,

“How does that look?”

One glaring problem:  she hadn’t even pretended to try to fix the dot over the “i” 

Toby’s Love asked Artist to fix the problem so Artist sighed and turned back around to her masterpiece. We continued our conversation while she worked.  When the shirt was as good as it was going to get, it was nearly ten pm so we said our goodbyes and walked away.

“I don’t think I can commit to a two by two-inch tattoo wherein there is a very LARGE chance that it could end up going horribly wrong, although at fifty bucks (what Toby’s Love said it would probably cost) it’s not as expensive as I thought it would be,” I said to Romy when we were out of earshot.

“I don’t think I even know forty-seven dead people,” said Romy, in awe of how many memorials Toby’s Love had on her body.

And much to the relief of family and friends, I decided that I would not get a tattoo. Even though my love of the Cardinals is not going to diminish.

For a split second I considered getting an airbrushed shirt but realized that I would never be able to bring myself to wear a shirt that said “Cardynals.”


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Posted by on November 7, 2011 in Jenn's Adventures


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