Inflatable Allure

Why does having a random GIANT inflatable animal on the boulevard of your business make you think customers will see that and want to stop by? I have never looked at the giant purple dinosaur outside of Lenscrafters and thought, "Gee, I have not really thought about my eye health in a long time. I think I'll stop in for an eye exam!" Other than randomly surprising my kids in the car with shock value, I think those stupid inflatables are a waste of money.

Who the hell comes up with these creatures? A huge gorilla with marshmallow teeth wearing boxer shorts? Those freak-tard, cylindrical guys that collapse then blow upright, then blow air out of their tentacle head and collapse again? If I was on three hits of acid this might lure my attention. But it really does not make me hungry for your chalupa dinner platter with rice and beans, El Burrito Fresco. Whatever happened to the good old spotlight? Or a billboard or vinyl banner in the window? I don't get it.

In the realm of creepiness in advertising, let's also examine the random Jimmy Dean breakfast product commercials. You know the one, the creepy child molester-looking dude in the neon yellow sun suit, asking his lackluster co-workers if they've had their Jimmy Dean breakfasts today. His co-workers are planets or rainbows or even storm clouds. They spin uncontrollably out of orbit, they can't boom their thunder properly, their rainbow stripes are dull shades of the spectrum. But miraculously, after eating a buttery croissant loaded with sausage, eggs, and gooey cheese, they are vibrant, full of energy, and able to do their proper universe duties. WHAT THE FUCKING HELL IS THIS SHIT?! I won't even imply drugs as the culprit of douche bag creativity on this one. I can tell you that some old, Sansabelt polyester pants-wearing science teacher, fascinated by astronomy, takes a semester off from teaching to dabble in advertising. Some jack-off at Jimmy Dean, who is secretly a science geekoid himself, meets up with Super Solar Stanley. They BOTH share a fondness for high cholesterol breakfast meats--and a size 52 waist band. A match made in heart attack, advertising heaven. Thus, the Jimmy Dean Planet Extravaganza is born. Because nothing says "I forgot to nourish myself with 895 calories on a buttermilk biscuit" like creepy dudes in foam planet suits from the Barney and friends show. I'll stick with my coffee and Kashi cereal, thanks.

What makes you want to buy a product? What makes you step into a store you may have never even considered? If they have the shit you need and a clever way of presenting it, it's a damn simple equation for success. Creepy ads that have NOTHING to do with the product are turn-offs. Like a giant purple ape in his fucking underwear hocking tires. I don't need tires. I don't really enjoy apes, they are stinky and eat bugs off each others' heads and scratch their balls when they're not yelling guttural noises at each other. It's like a bunch of hairy Italian dudes talking smack at a fantasy football draft. Yuck.

If you want me to buy tires, show me your God damn Good Year's. If you want me to get my eyes checked, show me those shiny glasses. If you want me to landscape my yard, show me your sod and flower baskets. But if I need to eat a good breakfast, a Merv The Perv man in yellow tights offering his "sausage treat" is not enticing me. He is making me want to toss my cookies. He would more appropriately advertise plastic barf bowls. Now THAT is accuracy in advertising.

Getting a Little Ink

When I was a senior at Michigan State I decided to get my first tattoo. It was a symbol I designed, sort of resembling a fish but also appearing like an eye, with the spines on the back of the fish also resembling eyelashes. The center part looks like a blue iris of an eye and there is a scorpion in the center. My birthday is in November, I am a Scorpio. It's on my lower back though I got it long before anyone deemed them "tamp stamps". I have often been asked, "What does your tattoo MEAN? Does it symbolize anything special?" My response is usually, "No, I just made the design, liked it, and included a scorpion since I'm a Scorpio." The typically elicits very unimpressed responses. I don't give a shit. I don't judge you because you DON'T have any tattoos so don't judge me!

About a week ago I went with Sultan and another couple to get some more tattoos. Since my original one, I have gotten astrological symbols for me and Sultan, Sultan's name in Arabic, as well as the word "family" in Arabic on my wrist. I saw a really cool pineapple on a pack of pina colada Orbit gum and thought, "That would be a cool tattoo!" I enjoy going on warm, tropical vacations. I like pineapple. I liked the dot-inspired design I found. End of story. I am sorry if I don't have some crazy-ass soliloquy to explain WHY I have ink on my body.
"On our church mission, we rescued a young boy from a raft in the ocean who was fleeing the hardships of life in Haiti. His home was destroyed in the earthquake and he has full-blown AIDS. After we rescued him he lost his foot in a freak moped accident. Then he was struck by lightning. Twice. After this happened he suddenly spoke fluent English. Through home-schooling I discovered his intelligence level was far beyond what a normal 8 year-old's should be. He has now progressed to the 9th grade thanks to my Christian-based teachings. And THAT is why I'm getting the Haitian flag with Jesus Christ Superstar on my chest."
Can't I just think my fucking pineapple looks cool?

Tattoos are not for everyone. They hurt. It is not like getting an exfoliant or a pedicure. If you are a pussy who cries when you get a paper cut, don't get a tattoo. And I get it, "It's on your body FOR LIFE!! Are you sure you want to look at that pineapple when you are an old lady?!" Yes, I am sure. I don't give a flying shit if they are considered trendy. I like the tattoos I already have. I have a couple more I am thinking about getting, too. I am not crazy. I don't want to buy a motorcycle, pierce my nipples, and abandon my family to work at Kat's tattoo shop on "LA Ink". I am not getting my face tattooed, I am not planning on getting a swastika or "Fuck you, Mother Fucker" on my back. What's the big deal?
"EeeGADS!! You have TATTOOS?! {GULP}.. How MANY?" I am not in a Satanic cult, I do not practice witchcraft nor do I care for goth music. I live in the burbs, I walk my kids to the bus every morning, I don't have any weird part of my body pierced. But so what if I did? Does that change who I am? Nope. I'm just Jivemommy, the ballet-teaching mom who enjoys saying the F-word, listening to Erasure from the mid-80's, and my favorite color is still hot pink. And I have a kick ass pineapple tattooed on my left foot JUST BECAUSE.

Annoying as Fuck

Why are there so many shows about "little people" all over the damn TV? "The Little Couple", "Little Chocolatiers", "Little People, Big World", "Pit Boss", and the one about the little people who have a gargantuan baby who will soon be able to lock his parents in the closet and steal beers from their fridge. What's the God damn fascination? It's not like the "Wizard of Oz" was just released a few months ago and no one had ever seen a Munchkin before that. Did a freak tsunami swoop in from all the earthquakes and suddenly a random tribe of pygmy dwarves is overtaking America? I don't fucking think so. We get it. You are smaller than the rest of us. You got a sweet contract to do 57 episodes on TLC and your home designers built custom 22 inch countertops for your wee stature. A giant Slip and Slide covers your stairs so you can glide down with ease. I am over the fascination. Why isn't there in influx of TV shows for those people who are freakishly tall? Oh that's right, we already have that. It's called the NBA.

On a different but similarly annoying note, when I am flipping through my favorite fashion magazine and I come across the cutest God damn pair of suede pumps with fringe tassels that catch my eye, why does in read next to them "price upon request". I'm sorry, if I am looking at YOUR magazine which I paid MY money for and you took time to photograph these fucking sexy-as-shit shoes, why in God's name don't you tell me how much they cost?! Granted, I highly doubt I will ever be able to afford them. But can I at least know if I can ever buy them in this lifetime? Uppity Italian bitches. When people start stealing your fucking "secret-priced" shoes and then suddenly Payless is doing a mediocre knock-off for $29.99 we'll see how priceless you think they are then. Screw you, I don't want them anyways.

The last bitch point in my rant today is to all you folks who have created some sort of fucking sculptures out of your bushes in your front yards. They are swirling towers of foliage, resembling some sort of crazy giant organic lollipop or a hippie's dildo. Who has that much time to not only plan but meticulously sculpt your bush like Mr. Miyagi did to his miniature bonsai trees in Karate Kid. It's all I can do to pluck the plethora of weeds that shoot up from my mulch every time it rains. My bushes are there, they are "free-form" and do not grow over my sidewalk nor do they cover my windows. If I ever go on a meth bender, since my local Walgreens' seems to think I'm already selling from the lab I apparently have in my basement with all the Claritin-D and Sudafed I try to buy each month, I will be out there along side you all with my toenail clippers or cuticle scissors or miniature Barbie saws or whatever the fuck you use to create a spiral 6-foot tower of greenery. Until then the only bush I will give a shit about trimming is the one beneath my panties.

Benadryl Shooters, Anyone?

Holy fucking shitballs. Today I taught the craziest fucking little kids' ballet class ever. I am no stranger to bitching about little diva ballerinas because there are some asshole parents out there who seriously see me as their 45 minutes-a-week babysitter for their kids. Children who have no capacity for respect or more than 30 seconds of focus at a time without screaming, running, saying "butt", hanging on the ballet barre, playing baseball knee slides in their tights, or any other jackass shenanigans that have NOTHING to do with following my instructions are products of lazy parents. Sorry, it's true. It's not ADHD or sensory deprivation disorder--I've HAD kids who have disabilities and guess what?! They don't act 1/10 as fucktardedly spastic as some of these crazies I get.

Today I had a little girl, about 3 1/2 years-old, take her sister by the head and repeatedly BASH HER SKULL into the mirror because she wouldn't move to join the rest of class. Mind you, the head banger usually spends 2/3 of my class time crawling on her knees and saying she's a dog or Miley Cyrus. In fact, she will get in a heated debate over not being called Miley. Seriously?!!! I reprimanded her in a stern tone and when she kept on going smashing skull I raised my voice (not anywhere near the decibel I can achieve ripping my own kids a new one over lesser crimes) to tell her to stop hurting her sister. She proceeded to lose her shit, scream and cry, and thrash about like an electrocuted salmon mid-stream. I tried to pick her up under her arms to take her to her mom but she did the limp doll routine. Can I even TELL you how much that pisses me off?! Had it been my own kid I would have dragged her ass, Raggedy Ann-style, to the door and drop-kicked her into the hall. Of course her mom was no where to be found in the hallway. I had to CHASE HER around the room, as the little kids who behave are watching with their jaws gaping. She ran between the mobile ballet barres and I got a firm grip under her pits and yanked her out. I tried to place her in time out on the tumbling mats and she tried to run away again. I don't fucking think so. With ass firmly planted, I denied her participation in the Coup de Gras of ballet class, The Silly Dance Contest. She sobbed, whined, and whimpered but did not get up from her spot.

When I invited her to join class again she acted sullen and pissy. Fine, I have an older, much smarter, more manipulative kid who has perfected the art of Mind Games. So don't squeeze your arms till they're purple and pretend like you want to join but Miss Molly is not letting you. You acted like a freak, you were punished in time-out, it's over and done--get the hell over yourself. When she finally realized no one gave a shit about her frenzied fit, she reluctantly got up and joined the rest of class to work on our dance for the spring concert. Call me evil but I was actually GLAD they were no tissues for her to wipe her nose. When class was finished, I presented each of them with two candy Easter treats, even Twisted Sister, star of Headbanger's Ball. She was throwing ANOTHER hissy about leaving because I told her we were going to have a little talk with her mommy. Mommy was on the phone but quickly hung up when I mouthed, "I need to talk to you a second." After I explained the "incident", as it shall be called, the mom looked shocked. Judging by prior behavior I have witnessed of the Dynamic Duo both in class, in the parking lot, and in the halls where I teach, I truly doubt this was the first time such violent sisterly interaction has occurred. Mom told me, "She doesn't deal well with being reprimanded." No fucking shit, Sherlock!!!!!!! I feel sorry for whoever she has as a kindergarten teacher in a couple years. I think she might be singing a different tune the next time she enters Miss Molly's dance studio, as I clearly am not running a midget pro wrestling ring.