Sign on the McDonald’s menu board at LAX: “New Apple and Walnut Salad only $4.99 plus tax. Contains nuts.”
Are people so stupid and litigious that this needed to be said?! “Contains nuts”??! Why not say “contains apples”? I could be deathly allergic to apples, you know. And god forbid I had a reaction and decided to sue McD’s for a lack of ingredient transparency on the grounds that only a reckless and wanton disregard for public safety would cause a company to not alert the consumer that an Apple and Walnut Salad contained apples. I mean, after all, they took the time to mention the nuts. It’s pure negligence to omit the mention of apples, is it not?
They'll be hearing from my lawyer...
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Flying the Friendly Skies
Heard at the United ticket counter at LAX at 10:20pm last night:
Passenger: “This stupid machine is not letting me check in! What’s going on?!”
Attendant: “You have to be checked in at least 45 minutes before your flight in order to use this self-service kiosk, ma'am.
Passenger: “Are you stupid?! It’s not me! It’s the stupid machine! It won’t let me check in!”
Attendant: “You have to be checked in at least 45 minutes before your flight in order to use this self-service kiosk, ma’am. You are too late to check in here; you have to go to the staffed lines to check in, but I’m not sure you’ll make it.”
Passenger: “But my flight to Philadelphia is at 11:55! That’s more than an hour and a half away! What are you, stupid?! This is an outrage!”
Attendant: “No ma’am, I believe if you check your itinerary you’ll see that the flight is at 10:55.”
Passenger: “No! It’s at 11:55! No wonder you people are going bankrupt! G-d! So stupid! This is a f*&^%ing outrage! A total f%$#@ing outrage!”
Attendant: “Ma’am. I believe you will find the flight to be at 10:55.”
Passenger: “Let me just check the stupid f$%^&*ing itinerary and you’ll see that….oh. my. god. 10:55. So what the hell am I supposed to do now?!!!”
Moral of this story: If you are going to be a jerk and unleash a diatribe of expletives on an unsuspecting and well-intentioned service provider, at least be sure you are RIGHT. To do otherwise is, well, “a total f&)*^%ing outrage.”
Passenger: “This stupid machine is not letting me check in! What’s going on?!”
Attendant: “You have to be checked in at least 45 minutes before your flight in order to use this self-service kiosk, ma'am.
Passenger: “Are you stupid?! It’s not me! It’s the stupid machine! It won’t let me check in!”
Attendant: “You have to be checked in at least 45 minutes before your flight in order to use this self-service kiosk, ma’am. You are too late to check in here; you have to go to the staffed lines to check in, but I’m not sure you’ll make it.”
Passenger: “But my flight to Philadelphia is at 11:55! That’s more than an hour and a half away! What are you, stupid?! This is an outrage!”
Attendant: “No ma’am, I believe if you check your itinerary you’ll see that the flight is at 10:55.”
Passenger: “No! It’s at 11:55! No wonder you people are going bankrupt! G-d! So stupid! This is a f*&^%ing outrage! A total f%$#@ing outrage!”
Attendant: “Ma’am. I believe you will find the flight to be at 10:55.”
Passenger: “Let me just check the stupid f$%^&*ing itinerary and you’ll see that….oh. my. god. 10:55. So what the hell am I supposed to do now?!!!”
Moral of this story: If you are going to be a jerk and unleash a diatribe of expletives on an unsuspecting and well-intentioned service provider, at least be sure you are RIGHT. To do otherwise is, well, “a total f&)*^%ing outrage.”
Friday, June 10, 2005
WTF with the WC on the 747?
Right now I am on a flight to LAX for business. I just returned to my seat after making my post-beverage-cart trip to the lavatory (whereupon I remind you that tampering with or disabling smoke alarms is against federal regulations). One of the lavs was out of order, which left only one functioning. I was waiting behind a thirtysomething guy who offered to let me go first, which I found on its face to be quite lovely. However, the person who was currently occupying the lavatory was quickly approaching that time duration that creates discomfort among those waiting. You know what I mean: it’s like that 30-45 seconds beyond what a basic pee—even a long one—should take. It’s the extra time that tells you that the person is either ill or simply taking a very large dump in a very small toilet. Meaning that in either scenario, you just don’t want to be next in line.
So I said just that to the lovely guy: “Oh you are so sweet, but I’ve got to tell you that I’m not so sure I want to be the next one in since it’s taking so long.” The guy started laughing and said that he was thinking the same thing, which is why he offered me the option of preceding him in lavatory matters. I told him “nothin’ doin, Mr. Chivalrous.” And, don’t you know that even as we were having this discussion, Man #1 (or should we say #2?!!) was STILL in the lav. Gross!
As the line moved and I navigated the emanating effluence, I finally got to return to my seat as I wondered: who are the people who wait till they are on a plane to poop? We’ve only been in the air about an hour! Surely you felt it brewing while we were in the airport! Why not go then? Why wait till you are in a 2x2 water closet hurtling through the atmosphere at 500 miles an hour to relieve yourself? Why not get yourself the latest US Weekly and head for the furthermost stall at Dulles and take your sweet time? For heaven’s sake!
Maybe it’s a guy thing. I don’t know any of my female friends who view a poop as an opportunity to read Foreign Affairs or back issues of Architectural Digest. Mostly, we see is as a human function to be dispensed with as necessary. The men in my life, conversely, seem to view it in one—or more—of several ways: an act of life affirmation--“man! That was awesome!,” a confirmation that their health is good—“that was a colon cleanser!,” perhaps a brief oasis of quiet in an otherwise overbooked day—“I’ll help you as soon as I finish in the bathroom,” or perhaps, truly, a chance to catch up on reading. All of these are valid and wonderful reasons to Love The Poop. But WHY would you want to experience them in an airplane lavatory?
Perhaps the mechanics of pooping are different for men and women, i.e, I can pretty much tell when I have to go. I doesn’t surprise me or sneak up on me (barring illness of course), and I am perfectly adroit at having them have minimal impact on my life schedule. For men, I’m not so sure. In high school, all three of us drove in my brother’s car to school (a ’76 Caddie, baby! We was Big Pimpin!). Unfortunately, I was late more times than I care to remember simply because my brother would all of a sudden have to go to the bathroom 5 minutes before we had to leave to make it on time. What’s more, he took total delight in coming up with some new weekly nomenclature for what was about to occur: “I gotta go lay some cable,” “I gotta cut off a tail..” dear lord I could go on and on but it will only encourage him if he reads this. All of the men in my life are the same. How do they all of a sudden have to poop with seemingly no prior warning? Can’t men sense the signs of poopal percolation before ending up late for work/dinner/class?
If anyone has any insight (gentlemen!), I’d love to hear it.
In the meantime I am avoiding all further refreshments and beverages in order to forestall a round trip visit to The Lone Lav in Service for One Hundred Passengers. Bleeaaah!
So I said just that to the lovely guy: “Oh you are so sweet, but I’ve got to tell you that I’m not so sure I want to be the next one in since it’s taking so long.” The guy started laughing and said that he was thinking the same thing, which is why he offered me the option of preceding him in lavatory matters. I told him “nothin’ doin, Mr. Chivalrous.” And, don’t you know that even as we were having this discussion, Man #1 (or should we say #2?!!) was STILL in the lav. Gross!
As the line moved and I navigated the emanating effluence, I finally got to return to my seat as I wondered: who are the people who wait till they are on a plane to poop? We’ve only been in the air about an hour! Surely you felt it brewing while we were in the airport! Why not go then? Why wait till you are in a 2x2 water closet hurtling through the atmosphere at 500 miles an hour to relieve yourself? Why not get yourself the latest US Weekly and head for the furthermost stall at Dulles and take your sweet time? For heaven’s sake!
Maybe it’s a guy thing. I don’t know any of my female friends who view a poop as an opportunity to read Foreign Affairs or back issues of Architectural Digest. Mostly, we see is as a human function to be dispensed with as necessary. The men in my life, conversely, seem to view it in one—or more—of several ways: an act of life affirmation--“man! That was awesome!,” a confirmation that their health is good—“that was a colon cleanser!,” perhaps a brief oasis of quiet in an otherwise overbooked day—“I’ll help you as soon as I finish in the bathroom,” or perhaps, truly, a chance to catch up on reading. All of these are valid and wonderful reasons to Love The Poop. But WHY would you want to experience them in an airplane lavatory?
Perhaps the mechanics of pooping are different for men and women, i.e, I can pretty much tell when I have to go. I doesn’t surprise me or sneak up on me (barring illness of course), and I am perfectly adroit at having them have minimal impact on my life schedule. For men, I’m not so sure. In high school, all three of us drove in my brother’s car to school (a ’76 Caddie, baby! We was Big Pimpin!). Unfortunately, I was late more times than I care to remember simply because my brother would all of a sudden have to go to the bathroom 5 minutes before we had to leave to make it on time. What’s more, he took total delight in coming up with some new weekly nomenclature for what was about to occur: “I gotta go lay some cable,” “I gotta cut off a tail..” dear lord I could go on and on but it will only encourage him if he reads this. All of the men in my life are the same. How do they all of a sudden have to poop with seemingly no prior warning? Can’t men sense the signs of poopal percolation before ending up late for work/dinner/class?
If anyone has any insight (gentlemen!), I’d love to hear it.
In the meantime I am avoiding all further refreshments and beverages in order to forestall a round trip visit to The Lone Lav in Service for One Hundred Passengers. Bleeaaah!
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Happy Bithday....Griswold?
http://www.plannedparenthood.org/pp2/portal/files/portal/media/media-050603-griswold.xml
You know how every family has the Drunk Uncle or the Paxil Addicted Aunt or the Overly Judgmental Sibling? You know, the relative that kind of embarrasses you but that you love regardless? The one you would never consider not inviting to the family barbeque, but who you just KNOW is going to do something to make themselves--and perhaps your family--look bad?
Well, what if all the organizations dedicated to family planning are, indeed, a family? It seems clear, then, that Planned Parenthood is our Uncle Drunky Pants.
What on earth were these lunatics thinking?! To celebrate the anniversary of the right of an American woman to make a personal decision about birth control, Planned Parenthood, the grande dame of women's reproductive health, decided to roll out waving, cheering STUFFED PILL replete with free cupcakes?!! They had a bunch of twentysomething women cheering "woo hoo!" as they handed out the cupcakes and regaled visitors to Union Station with their big stuffed Ortho Tri-Cyclen guy. (Kind of like the big Kool-Aid guy you remember from your childhood in the 80's, but just far less appropriate.)
Um, can we chat for a moment away from the kids, Uncle Drunky Pants? You know, I appreciate how you THOUGHT what you did would be funny and festive, but making light of something as important as reproductive rights in the current political climate just strikes me as inappropriate and borderline self-immolating. The 'Pubs already think we take abortion lightly, that the pill simply allows a bunch of urban hos to have sex with impunity, that the sex education and health care access that PP provides simply encourage promiscuous behavior. So, tell me, why get all jovial about Griswold v. Connecticut? PP's efforts are important and serious and necessary...and in danger of being hacked off at the knees by conservatives every single d*mn day of the year, and certainly not in the running for "most beloved public issue." So why trivialize Griswold with a misguided birthday celebration? Was that the best you could come up with? How many people did you have in the meeting? When exactly are you firing your fundraising/marketing agency? How much had you all had to drink when this plan was hatched?
I mean, every anniversary of any political or historical event could ostensibly be "celebrated" with a birthday. But would it be appropriate? Let's light the candles and sing Happy Birthday for the anniversary of The Surrender at Appomattox Courthouse, the release of the US hostages in Iran, the liberation of the Nazi deathcamps. Whaddaya say?! We'll have a big stuffed General Lee bobblehead character handing out slices of red velvet cake and mint juleps! Woo Hoo!
I guess you can tell I'm a bit stunned. For a bunch of smart women, this sure was a dumb idea.
You know how every family has the Drunk Uncle or the Paxil Addicted Aunt or the Overly Judgmental Sibling? You know, the relative that kind of embarrasses you but that you love regardless? The one you would never consider not inviting to the family barbeque, but who you just KNOW is going to do something to make themselves--and perhaps your family--look bad?
Well, what if all the organizations dedicated to family planning are, indeed, a family? It seems clear, then, that Planned Parenthood is our Uncle Drunky Pants.
What on earth were these lunatics thinking?! To celebrate the anniversary of the right of an American woman to make a personal decision about birth control, Planned Parenthood, the grande dame of women's reproductive health, decided to roll out waving, cheering STUFFED PILL replete with free cupcakes?!! They had a bunch of twentysomething women cheering "woo hoo!" as they handed out the cupcakes and regaled visitors to Union Station with their big stuffed Ortho Tri-Cyclen guy. (Kind of like the big Kool-Aid guy you remember from your childhood in the 80's, but just far less appropriate.)
Um, can we chat for a moment away from the kids, Uncle Drunky Pants? You know, I appreciate how you THOUGHT what you did would be funny and festive, but making light of something as important as reproductive rights in the current political climate just strikes me as inappropriate and borderline self-immolating. The 'Pubs already think we take abortion lightly, that the pill simply allows a bunch of urban hos to have sex with impunity, that the sex education and health care access that PP provides simply encourage promiscuous behavior. So, tell me, why get all jovial about Griswold v. Connecticut? PP's efforts are important and serious and necessary...and in danger of being hacked off at the knees by conservatives every single d*mn day of the year, and certainly not in the running for "most beloved public issue." So why trivialize Griswold with a misguided birthday celebration? Was that the best you could come up with? How many people did you have in the meeting? When exactly are you firing your fundraising/marketing agency? How much had you all had to drink when this plan was hatched?
I mean, every anniversary of any political or historical event could ostensibly be "celebrated" with a birthday. But would it be appropriate? Let's light the candles and sing Happy Birthday for the anniversary of The Surrender at Appomattox Courthouse, the release of the US hostages in Iran, the liberation of the Nazi deathcamps. Whaddaya say?! We'll have a big stuffed General Lee bobblehead character handing out slices of red velvet cake and mint juleps! Woo Hoo!
I guess you can tell I'm a bit stunned. For a bunch of smart women, this sure was a dumb idea.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Cubicle Etiquette
In today's Washington Post there is an article entitled "Low Walls Call for a Low Profile." It offers tips for office-dwellers transitioning to a cubicle.
Lordamercy!
This article needed to have been written back when I worked for a massive national nonprofit in the late 90's. Good God. I HATED Cubeland with a passion, not simply because I couldn't order my clinique.com products in privacy, but because most of my fellow colleagues had no clue how to operate in an open environment.
The article offers the following tips:
Keep Your Voice Down.
Amen. I knew waaaay more than I needed to about the executive assistant's pap smear results, her boyfriend's anatomy, and her sister's drug problem simply because her cube abutted mine.
Control the Cell Phone.
Um, yeah. I don't need to hear the full "Ride of the Valkyries" or worse, "Rump Shaker" in the office. How about a regular ring, sweetie?
Ask Before Entering.
Another Amen. I kept a pile of books on my cube chair for the sole purpose of dissuading Roving Chatters to not sit down. And, mental note, if I am on the phone, assume you can't come in. Duh.
Avoid Sneak Attacks.
Which is why I had a cheapie mirror on my computer. So I could avoid routine heart failure every time someone tapped my shoulder.
Don't Pile Up.
Amen again. Do NOT hold meetings--or worse, conference calls on speakerphone--in your cube. Get a conference room. Really.
Keep Your Germs At Home.
Stay home if you are sick. I kept those little pump bottles of rubbing alcohol next to my desk to ward off the common cold banshee. It looked a little anti-social to wash my hands when someone left, but no more anti-social than they looked sneezing on my keyboard.
Choose Your Decor Carefully.
Drunken college photos are out, classy girl. My most "out there" wall hanging was a Vanity Fair cover of the delicious Ewan McGregor in a kilt. (If you know me, you know that the greatest aphrodisiac in my world is a man with hairy, manly legs in a kilt. Rowwwrrrr).
Choose Food Carefully.
Okay. This is serious. When I worked at an agency in Atlanta, I worked with a "raw foodist," a man who did not cook anything. To this day, I cannot eat cantaloupe melons because he filled the office kitchen with overripe cantaloupes and ate them around the clock. The smell--to this day--makes me gag. It was overpowering and cloying and gamey and horrible. I spent hours and days wishing he'd cook up some nice halibut just to get rid of the overripe cantaloupe rank miasma around my cube. Bleeeaaah.
And Finally....
Speak Up.
Yes indeedy. Nothing like an "I can hear you, sweetie! Get a room!" lobbed over the cube wall to save you from another story of connubial bliss on the part of your coworker.
Happy Monday, y'all!
Lordamercy!
This article needed to have been written back when I worked for a massive national nonprofit in the late 90's. Good God. I HATED Cubeland with a passion, not simply because I couldn't order my clinique.com products in privacy, but because most of my fellow colleagues had no clue how to operate in an open environment.
The article offers the following tips:
Keep Your Voice Down.
Amen. I knew waaaay more than I needed to about the executive assistant's pap smear results, her boyfriend's anatomy, and her sister's drug problem simply because her cube abutted mine.
Control the Cell Phone.
Um, yeah. I don't need to hear the full "Ride of the Valkyries" or worse, "Rump Shaker" in the office. How about a regular ring, sweetie?
Ask Before Entering.
Another Amen. I kept a pile of books on my cube chair for the sole purpose of dissuading Roving Chatters to not sit down. And, mental note, if I am on the phone, assume you can't come in. Duh.
Avoid Sneak Attacks.
Which is why I had a cheapie mirror on my computer. So I could avoid routine heart failure every time someone tapped my shoulder.
Don't Pile Up.
Amen again. Do NOT hold meetings--or worse, conference calls on speakerphone--in your cube. Get a conference room. Really.
Keep Your Germs At Home.
Stay home if you are sick. I kept those little pump bottles of rubbing alcohol next to my desk to ward off the common cold banshee. It looked a little anti-social to wash my hands when someone left, but no more anti-social than they looked sneezing on my keyboard.
Choose Your Decor Carefully.
Drunken college photos are out, classy girl. My most "out there" wall hanging was a Vanity Fair cover of the delicious Ewan McGregor in a kilt. (If you know me, you know that the greatest aphrodisiac in my world is a man with hairy, manly legs in a kilt. Rowwwrrrr).
Choose Food Carefully.
Okay. This is serious. When I worked at an agency in Atlanta, I worked with a "raw foodist," a man who did not cook anything. To this day, I cannot eat cantaloupe melons because he filled the office kitchen with overripe cantaloupes and ate them around the clock. The smell--to this day--makes me gag. It was overpowering and cloying and gamey and horrible. I spent hours and days wishing he'd cook up some nice halibut just to get rid of the overripe cantaloupe rank miasma around my cube. Bleeeaaah.
And Finally....
Speak Up.
Yes indeedy. Nothing like an "I can hear you, sweetie! Get a room!" lobbed over the cube wall to save you from another story of connubial bliss on the part of your coworker.
Happy Monday, y'all!
Deep Throat Do-Over
Okay. I apparently have given my father a world-class case of agita because I was making "tom swifties" about the phrase Deep Throat, which in the opinion of some esteemed family elders, is inappropriate for a young lady with a child.
Okaaay.
So here is my mea culpa.
I have NO IDEA what Deep Throat really means. My play on words about it was just that; sound and fury signifying nothing.
Cool?
As I have explained before to friends and family, if you read it on this blog, assume it's not personal. Trust me. As much as I love writing my stories and being inflammatory in the service of jolly japes--trust me--if it's deeply personal and about ME, you will not read it here. You might read a theme of it. You might see it as a subject to be discussed. You might figure that I'm making up "the friend" who has a problem with a serially unfaithful boyfriend. That's the point. I write it, and you determine what it means to YOU. Obviously, who I am and what I experience finds its way into these posts. But this is NOT an online diary. It's a blog. Which means "opinion" and "straw man arguments" and "thought-provoking (I hope)" and sometimes even kind of sort of maybe possibly "kinda funny." If you want an online diary, check out livejournal.com. If you want saucy ribald silly kinda funny hopefully interesting reading, check out The Haggis.
And don't forget to check out the links too. Some good, good bloggin' goin' on there too!
So. Short Story Long: Me Haggis. You Reader. End of story.
Okaaay.
So here is my mea culpa.
I have NO IDEA what Deep Throat really means. My play on words about it was just that; sound and fury signifying nothing.
Cool?
As I have explained before to friends and family, if you read it on this blog, assume it's not personal. Trust me. As much as I love writing my stories and being inflammatory in the service of jolly japes--trust me--if it's deeply personal and about ME, you will not read it here. You might read a theme of it. You might see it as a subject to be discussed. You might figure that I'm making up "the friend" who has a problem with a serially unfaithful boyfriend. That's the point. I write it, and you determine what it means to YOU. Obviously, who I am and what I experience finds its way into these posts. But this is NOT an online diary. It's a blog. Which means "opinion" and "straw man arguments" and "thought-provoking (I hope)" and sometimes even kind of sort of maybe possibly "kinda funny." If you want an online diary, check out livejournal.com. If you want saucy ribald silly kinda funny hopefully interesting reading, check out The Haggis.
And don't forget to check out the links too. Some good, good bloggin' goin' on there too!
So. Short Story Long: Me Haggis. You Reader. End of story.
Friday, June 03, 2005
Not to Be Ungrateful or Anything...
As you know, I have done a few posts on the ridiculous things people say to you when you adopt/adopt internationally. I had no idea that those posts would be simply one or two in a year-long series. I had no idea at the time that I would stop being offended by them and just start finding them hilariously funny...as long as my child doesn't hear or see them.
So--you knew another post was coming, didn't you? ;)
Tell me, friends. When someone tells you they are engaged, would you:
A) Say congratulations and wish them the best
or
B) Get them a book detailing that 50% of marriages end in divorce, with an enclosed gift certificate to marriage counseling--you know, just in case things go badly.
Or let's say someone moved into a new home. Would you:
A) Say congratulations and joke about when their housewarming party might be
or
B) Get them a book on dry rot, termites, home invasions by armed intruders, and why it's a waste of money to give up your rental property
Heck, let's do one more.
If someone told you they were pregnant, would you:
A) Say congratulations and ask when the due date is and where are they registered
or
B) Buy them a book on birth defects, pre-eclampsia, maternal or child death during labor, and signs of autism in early childhood
Oh dear. Such a difficult choice between all the As and all the Bs, right?
So tell me why, when someone has adopted, someone thinks a thoughtful, appropriate gift is a book on Meeting The Challenges of Adoption, which details (I kid you not) how to work with an adopted child who has attempted suicide, among other heartwarming nuggets. Forget that the book isn't even about the international adoption of infants but rather the domestic adoption of troubled children. Forget that the book itself is appalling in its use of the cheeseball term "forever family" as a way to somehow assure the child that you won't leave them. Gee, in my house, that word was just "family," how about in yours? The word "family" alone says, "you are so freakin stuck with us, kiddo." Why add "forever" to it? So you can remind the child that they are not simply "family?"
I could go on and on, but I am too busy laughing M.A.O. I was kind of annoyed when I first saw the "gift" but began to laugh out loud as I read through it, realizing that the givers truly, seriously thought that this would be a helpful present. And being that clueless is truly a reason to laugh long and loud and publicly. After all, I want my daughter to know that she is just a member of a regular old family, which means that someone has to be a little eccentric and embarrassing to her. Might as well be me...
So--you knew another post was coming, didn't you? ;)
Tell me, friends. When someone tells you they are engaged, would you:
A) Say congratulations and wish them the best
or
B) Get them a book detailing that 50% of marriages end in divorce, with an enclosed gift certificate to marriage counseling--you know, just in case things go badly.
Or let's say someone moved into a new home. Would you:
A) Say congratulations and joke about when their housewarming party might be
or
B) Get them a book on dry rot, termites, home invasions by armed intruders, and why it's a waste of money to give up your rental property
Heck, let's do one more.
If someone told you they were pregnant, would you:
A) Say congratulations and ask when the due date is and where are they registered
or
B) Buy them a book on birth defects, pre-eclampsia, maternal or child death during labor, and signs of autism in early childhood
Oh dear. Such a difficult choice between all the As and all the Bs, right?
So tell me why, when someone has adopted, someone thinks a thoughtful, appropriate gift is a book on Meeting The Challenges of Adoption, which details (I kid you not) how to work with an adopted child who has attempted suicide, among other heartwarming nuggets. Forget that the book isn't even about the international adoption of infants but rather the domestic adoption of troubled children. Forget that the book itself is appalling in its use of the cheeseball term "forever family" as a way to somehow assure the child that you won't leave them. Gee, in my house, that word was just "family," how about in yours? The word "family" alone says, "you are so freakin stuck with us, kiddo." Why add "forever" to it? So you can remind the child that they are not simply "family?"
I could go on and on, but I am too busy laughing M.A.O. I was kind of annoyed when I first saw the "gift" but began to laugh out loud as I read through it, realizing that the givers truly, seriously thought that this would be a helpful present. And being that clueless is truly a reason to laugh long and loud and publicly. After all, I want my daughter to know that she is just a member of a regular old family, which means that someone has to be a little eccentric and embarrassing to her. Might as well be me...
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