Design Fail

What you see above you is the result of a design failure of epic proportions. One you may even have experienced in your life. 

It's the ill-made drawer slide. 

Do you see the forlorn yellow basket on the bottom? Yes, that hole used to hold a drawer. A nice fat drawer sporting it's anal little label that matched the other anal little labels on all the matching little blue baskets. There's a second tall unit like this across the room you see. Also labeled.

Also with a dysfunctional drawer.

Now I'll have to buy another pair of blue baskets. Do you have any idea how many I own?

OCD issues aside, what I don't grasp is how centuries of craftsmanship fail to produce decent drawer slides again, and again, and again. 

Is it just me? Am I a bad drawer slide magnet? Do drawers in other parts of the planet function in a proper manner? IS IT AN EFFING CONSPIRACY?

Don't even ask why I am buying new baskets instead of installing more slides. 

Have you ever tried installing one of these? 

They're not normal. Neither are my assistants for that matter. Certainly not when I'm that close to the ground. 

I need to print out more labels. That always helps. 

Superfreak

I've been inspired.

See, I saw this movie last year and it spurred a train of thought. While I'm not really a vigilante justice kind of gal (aside from my weird Lara Croft ninja fantasies), there's a near-daily pet peeve in my life that nobody is fixing.

You know, real heroes care about the little people.

We're talking parking lot justice, folks. I know you've been there. People stealing your spot right in front of you? Carts left piled in prime spaces up front in negative fifteen degree weather? That guy driving  driving thirty-five through Piggly Wiggly's lot who nearly hit your kid? King Ranch, extended cab, extended bed, 4x4, extra turbo, Hummer madness parked crack-asswards ACROSS THE LINE when you have three car seats to fill and an overflowing cart of groceries?

Yeah, you've been there.

I'm fighting for angry, sleep-deprived parents everywhere. I'm going undercover. I'm keying cars and slashing tires, people.

Just as soon as I figure out a cool superhero name.

FYI

I caved and put my SIGGs through the dishwasher today.

If I die of unexplainable causes, please inform the Coroner's Office before they crack my skull open.

Thanks.

Redheads

Everything they say about redheads is true. 

I know what you're thinking. I must be one of those rotten people full of stereotypes; quick to judge; hateful; bitter. 

I'm really not. 

Well, bitter perhaps, but not the rest. 

But back to redheads.

I have one. He's that boy in the picture with the spark of evil in his left eyeball. Can you see it? 

It's that spark that makes him insist he's not growing up–he's growing down. He must only have the little cups, not the big ones. He can only wear the "softie" pants (pajamas) at all times. You know, because the others are all too small/belong to his brothers/too tight/too dirty. He must have his bedroom light on during naps and at night. He must have three, and exactly three stuffed animals to sleep with, and his books under the covers–not on top. He must take Matchbox cars to pick up his brother from school. WHICH I MUST CARRY IN MY POCKET. 

There's the possibility my psychoses have worn off on him, and it's not the hair at all. I don't think so though. I mean, you can see that spark, right?

Sexism

My name is Amy, and I'm a sexist hypocrite. Not sure what I'm a hypocrite about, sort of a CYA on that one, but the first statement is Oh. So. True.

See, I don't have crappy ideas about gender roles or inequality, and frankly I couldn't give a rip whether what's in your pants makes your job or life easier or harder to do. But I do know, oh I do know, that men and women watch movies differently.

It's probably just me being paranoid.
I'm really paranoid.

Men, in my experience, are suckers for great lines. They will watch movies and memorize the order and nuance of the bestest lines and repeat them at opportune moments. Extra kill points to buddies and potential girlfriends who know prime quotes.

Women, on the other hand, fantasize about being the characters in the movies. We work out elaborate scenes around "What Would Leia Do?" although we may never act them out. Well, most of us.

I'm pretty sure this is all a really elaborate ploy for us to lead secret lives as Lara Croft, Emma, Leia, and Buffy SIMULTANEOUSLY without any of the wardrobe changes or workout plans.

Maybe we're masking Split Personality Disorder.
Maybe that last part's just me.

Last night I was Kathy Bates in The Waterboy. "Suction cups are THE DEVIL!"
They are you know.

Love/Hate.

I hate Valentine's Day. My animosity began in my pre-pubescent years and had little to do with unrequited love or hatred of materialism. 

Those I would learn about and embrace later in life. 

It was born of the selfish, peeved off realization this holiday would, for the rest of my life, steal thunder from my birthday on the twentieth. 

I'm hopeful some of the cupcake myths of motherhood will come true. This holiday was no exception. Maybe, with kids, I could see things in a fresh light. Learn to love the day of love again.  

Today, my table was covered with stickers, crayons, perforated cartoon character cards. The floor was a teeming mass of scraps I (not them) would have to clean up despite a raging head cold. My toddler banged accompaniment on the stove with a stainless steel measuring cup, while I tried unsuccessfully not to swear at the name tags refusing to stick to the gifts I'd planned months ago. 

I realized. 

I still hate this holiday. 

Those mothers lie. 

Or their drugs are way better than mine.