I cite Mucinex as an example.
They have an animated booger and their tagline is "Mucinex in, mucus out".
What ? They couldn't call it Snot-B-Gon ?
Thoughts ?
14 February 2009
09 February 2009
Because I Know The Internet Wants to Know My Opinion on the Octuplets
Here's the deal as I see it:
Ms. Suleman wanted a "big family". Okay.
She is a single mother.
She has no home of her own.
She has no discernible income stream.
Whu ? HOW ?
And, she managed to get some doctor to set her up with more than the six children under 7 that SHE ALREADY HAD AT HOME ! *boggle*
I have a lot of issues with this, but here's my main problem with this -- by somehow managing to whelp (yes, whelp) eight children at once, she has attracted enough media attention to potentially PAY for this incredibly bad decision. (Smell like the bank bailouts, anyone ?)
What would have happened had she NOT had eight at once ? Who would have paid for the kids that she already had ? And, while we're on that subject, who is going to pay for the hospital costs of this last birth ? And the costs of bringing them up -- the food, formula, diapers, college educations, and. . . let's not kid ourselves. . . therapy.
These children are going to be some of the most photographed, documented, and hounded children ever born. And their mother has condemned them to this because she wanted "a big family".
Thoughts ?
Update: Ms. Suleman wants to use STUDENT. LOANS. to fund her decision, "temporarily".
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/29117041/
Three of her older children are already classified as "disabled" and receive SSI payments as well as food stamps. Kaiser Permanente is also asking for Medi-Cal to cover the cost of the births.
But. . . Ms. Suleman does not see this as "asking for welfare" -- she sees this as "programs for people in need".
Oh. Mah. Head. I hope someday that someone will be able to explain the "need" for fourteen children under the age of 8 -- when you have NO WAY TO PAY FOR THEM YOURSELF. (That's my essential gripe, you see. I don't care if she wants to have a zillion kids - that is her choice. It is MY choice, however, not to want to pay for other people's kids. My choice (and everyone else's) has been trumped because we all want to do "what's best for the children". Except, we really don't. Because, if we really did, this woman would not have been ALLOWED to have eight, 8, more.)
Ms. Suleman wanted a "big family". Okay.
She is a single mother.
She has no home of her own.
She has no discernible income stream.
Whu ? HOW ?
And, she managed to get some doctor to set her up with more than the six children under 7 that SHE ALREADY HAD AT HOME ! *boggle*
I have a lot of issues with this, but here's my main problem with this -- by somehow managing to whelp (yes, whelp) eight children at once, she has attracted enough media attention to potentially PAY for this incredibly bad decision. (Smell like the bank bailouts, anyone ?)
What would have happened had she NOT had eight at once ? Who would have paid for the kids that she already had ? And, while we're on that subject, who is going to pay for the hospital costs of this last birth ? And the costs of bringing them up -- the food, formula, diapers, college educations, and. . . let's not kid ourselves. . . therapy.
These children are going to be some of the most photographed, documented, and hounded children ever born. And their mother has condemned them to this because she wanted "a big family".
Thoughts ?
Update: Ms. Suleman wants to use STUDENT. LOANS. to fund her decision, "temporarily".
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/29117041/
Three of her older children are already classified as "disabled" and receive SSI payments as well as food stamps. Kaiser Permanente is also asking for Medi-Cal to cover the cost of the births.
But. . . Ms. Suleman does not see this as "asking for welfare" -- she sees this as "programs for people in need".
Oh. Mah. Head. I hope someday that someone will be able to explain the "need" for fourteen children under the age of 8 -- when you have NO WAY TO PAY FOR THEM YOURSELF. (That's my essential gripe, you see. I don't care if she wants to have a zillion kids - that is her choice. It is MY choice, however, not to want to pay for other people's kids. My choice (and everyone else's) has been trumped because we all want to do "what's best for the children". Except, we really don't. Because, if we really did, this woman would not have been ALLOWED to have eight, 8, more.)
05 February 2009
Memory Lane -- M***** Manor
So. . . I've been promising myself that I would start writing some of the stories that I have rattling around in my brain because I know too many people who wonder just why I am the way I am.
Here's one. . . between my freshman and sophomore years in college, a friend of mine talked me in to remaining in our college town for the summer instead of going back home. We thought we might be able to set up a rooming arrangement with one of our male friends, but my dad thought otherwise.
I was able, finally, to talk him in to the "apartment" idea when I explained that the male element would be removed from the equation and it would be just me and Rita * rooming together.
Ohhhh. . . if he had only known that this would be the greater of two evils.
So. . . we put all my dorm stuff in storage and head out on a road trip with some other college friends. When we get back, you see, we will take that stuff and use it to furnish an apartment. Makes perfect sense. . .
Rita and I agree to split the rent this way: I will cover the first month fully, we split the second month, and then she covers the third month. She tells me this is better for her because her dad is a little weird about "covering expenses". Mmkay.
We come back from the road trip (which involves 1) her losing our running buddies on a trip where she did not know where we were going -- Mapquest & Google were not available at that time so we were caravanning. She got impatient at the speed our caravanners were going so she drove off from them. I found out about this when I woke up in Denton, 2) a Sting album that I still cannot listen to because she played it over. and. over, 3) a tornado, AND 4) a flood on the way back. Yeah, the only thing we missed out on were the locusts and boils. So fun.) and pull my stuff out of storage. Her stuff travelled with us on the road trip. In the back of the truck. Yes. You read correctly. That's when I found out where the apartment was. Let me just mention that the words "not the best neighborhood" do not come close to describing the property. Brrr.
Second floor. Up the stairs. All the way to the back. Dragging our stuff past every resident (not "neighbor") on the left side. Ohhhhh, yeah. One-bedroom apartment. With Edgar. Who is Edgar, you ask ? Edgar is. . .the couch with the pullout bed. The HEAVY couch. The hernia-inducing couch. Edgar. So. . . we settle in for our summer apartment life. I took the one bedroom in the back because, after all, Rita had Edgar. And Edgar stayed in the living room.
Did I happen to mention that Rita was dating two guys ? Yep. Oh, and that they were really good friends ? Were. Mmmhmmm. *shrug* I gave up being outraged about it because I was learning that it really wouldn't make a dang bit of difference to her and. . . I didn't want to hurt their feelings. Plus, they were all grown-ups. Sorta.
Except for. . . that one night.
The night that Rita and Ted ** did the nasty. On the floor. In the living room. WHEN I WAS HOME. Please understand -- I was in the bedroom in the back, with the door closed, when. . . I heard the dreaded sound. At this point, of course, I have two options. Neither of them is good. I can 1) try to ignore it and turn up the television as loud as it will go to cover the . . . noises or 2) I can walk THROUGH the living room, PAST THEM, NAKED, open the door, walk through our scary apartment complex by myself, get in my truck IN THE DARK BY MYSELF, in the SCARY NEIGHBORHOOD, and go. . . NOWHERE BY MYSELF.
Being a reasonably sensible girl, all I can say is. . . Thank God for Johnny Carson. Go Doc !
And this was not the worst of it.
Ohhh, noooooo. About a week later, the other guy found out about it/her/the other guy. Yeah, our (my) social opportunities pretty much went in the dumper after that because "awkward" does not EVEN begin to cover it.
That seems like enough, right. Nope. I is a slow learner.
I went back home during the second month to help teach Vacation Bible School. Yeah, yeah, quit laughing. I wrote a check for my half of the rent and left it with Rita. I am gone almost four days. Mind you, I TOLD her where I was going and what I was doing. She also had my contact numbers.
Imagine my surprise to get a call. From the Property Manager. Letting me know that I have three days to get my stuff and pay the rest of the rent. Whu ? Yes, boys and girls, Rita never PAID the second half for the second month. She just. . . didn't.
I explain to the Property Manager that I am about 300 miles from her and that I have one more day to go at VBS, but that I will be there as soon as I can to make the arrangements to work it out. I explain to my mom what happened and what I need to do. My mom provides suggestions and prevents me from immediately driving six hours to commit a "slight" homicide.
I am enraged as I drive back down. Livid.
I zoom in to the apartments in time to see Rita getting the last of HER stuff out of the apartment. She has already packed up all her things and is going. . . I dunno. . . somewhere else. Her best friend from high school has come down, on a bus, to help her pack. (This seems random, but I assure you, it figures in to the story later.) Rita refuses to speak to me when I get there. Refuses. To speak. To me. Because I am "mad". At her. She states that she "will get the rest of her stuff later" and leaves. With her friend.
My mom, who is awesome, helps me pack up all the rest of the stuff (my stuff) and get it into my truck. I go down and figure out from the Property Manager what has happened and get THAT straightened out as well.
Later that day, I go over to the "other guy's" place and Rita just happens to call him. She has taken her friend TO THE MALL and is doing a LITTLE SHOPPING. With the RENT MONEY. That she "does not have". When I YELL at her, she "does not understand" why I am so upset. Her guy is also confused at why I am SCREAMING at her. (I do not often scream at people -- instead I talk very softly as my rage increases. Just a handy note.)
Suffice it to say, I do not remember many of the details of the call, but here's the footnote to the whole thing: she also managed to abandon her friend (BEST FRIEND !) in San Antonio and my mom (remember ? The awesome one ?) paid to get that girl a bus ticket home because she was crying and didn't know how she was getting back. I have never spoken to Rita again.
I drove home poorer, but wiser. Rita became a lawyer. ***
Thoughts ?
* name has been changed to protect the absolutely idiotic.
** name has also been changed, but only because I think he got the raw end of the deal -- no pun intended.
*** No, I'm not kidding.
Here's one. . . between my freshman and sophomore years in college, a friend of mine talked me in to remaining in our college town for the summer instead of going back home. We thought we might be able to set up a rooming arrangement with one of our male friends, but my dad thought otherwise.
I was able, finally, to talk him in to the "apartment" idea when I explained that the male element would be removed from the equation and it would be just me and Rita * rooming together.
Ohhhh. . . if he had only known that this would be the greater of two evils.
So. . . we put all my dorm stuff in storage and head out on a road trip with some other college friends. When we get back, you see, we will take that stuff and use it to furnish an apartment. Makes perfect sense. . .
Rita and I agree to split the rent this way: I will cover the first month fully, we split the second month, and then she covers the third month. She tells me this is better for her because her dad is a little weird about "covering expenses". Mmkay.
We come back from the road trip (which involves 1) her losing our running buddies on a trip where she did not know where we were going -- Mapquest & Google were not available at that time so we were caravanning. She got impatient at the speed our caravanners were going so she drove off from them. I found out about this when I woke up in Denton, 2) a Sting album that I still cannot listen to because she played it over. and. over, 3) a tornado, AND 4) a flood on the way back. Yeah, the only thing we missed out on were the locusts and boils. So fun.) and pull my stuff out of storage. Her stuff travelled with us on the road trip. In the back of the truck. Yes. You read correctly. That's when I found out where the apartment was. Let me just mention that the words "not the best neighborhood" do not come close to describing the property. Brrr.
Second floor. Up the stairs. All the way to the back. Dragging our stuff past every resident (not "neighbor") on the left side. Ohhhhh, yeah. One-bedroom apartment. With Edgar. Who is Edgar, you ask ? Edgar is. . .the couch with the pullout bed. The HEAVY couch. The hernia-inducing couch. Edgar. So. . . we settle in for our summer apartment life. I took the one bedroom in the back because, after all, Rita had Edgar. And Edgar stayed in the living room.
Did I happen to mention that Rita was dating two guys ? Yep. Oh, and that they were really good friends ? Were. Mmmhmmm. *shrug* I gave up being outraged about it because I was learning that it really wouldn't make a dang bit of difference to her and. . . I didn't want to hurt their feelings. Plus, they were all grown-ups. Sorta.
Except for. . . that one night.
The night that Rita and Ted ** did the nasty. On the floor. In the living room. WHEN I WAS HOME. Please understand -- I was in the bedroom in the back, with the door closed, when. . . I heard the dreaded sound. At this point, of course, I have two options. Neither of them is good. I can 1) try to ignore it and turn up the television as loud as it will go to cover the . . . noises or 2) I can walk THROUGH the living room, PAST THEM, NAKED, open the door, walk through our scary apartment complex by myself, get in my truck IN THE DARK BY MYSELF, in the SCARY NEIGHBORHOOD, and go. . . NOWHERE BY MYSELF.
Being a reasonably sensible girl, all I can say is. . . Thank God for Johnny Carson. Go Doc !
And this was not the worst of it.
Ohhh, noooooo. About a week later, the other guy found out about it/her/the other guy. Yeah, our (my) social opportunities pretty much went in the dumper after that because "awkward" does not EVEN begin to cover it.
That seems like enough, right. Nope. I is a slow learner.
I went back home during the second month to help teach Vacation Bible School. Yeah, yeah, quit laughing. I wrote a check for my half of the rent and left it with Rita. I am gone almost four days. Mind you, I TOLD her where I was going and what I was doing. She also had my contact numbers.
Imagine my surprise to get a call. From the Property Manager. Letting me know that I have three days to get my stuff and pay the rest of the rent. Whu ? Yes, boys and girls, Rita never PAID the second half for the second month. She just. . . didn't.
I explain to the Property Manager that I am about 300 miles from her and that I have one more day to go at VBS, but that I will be there as soon as I can to make the arrangements to work it out. I explain to my mom what happened and what I need to do. My mom provides suggestions and prevents me from immediately driving six hours to commit a "slight" homicide.
I am enraged as I drive back down. Livid.
I zoom in to the apartments in time to see Rita getting the last of HER stuff out of the apartment. She has already packed up all her things and is going. . . I dunno. . . somewhere else. Her best friend from high school has come down, on a bus, to help her pack. (This seems random, but I assure you, it figures in to the story later.) Rita refuses to speak to me when I get there. Refuses. To speak. To me. Because I am "mad". At her. She states that she "will get the rest of her stuff later" and leaves. With her friend.
My mom, who is awesome, helps me pack up all the rest of the stuff (my stuff) and get it into my truck. I go down and figure out from the Property Manager what has happened and get THAT straightened out as well.
Later that day, I go over to the "other guy's" place and Rita just happens to call him. She has taken her friend TO THE MALL and is doing a LITTLE SHOPPING. With the RENT MONEY. That she "does not have". When I YELL at her, she "does not understand" why I am so upset. Her guy is also confused at why I am SCREAMING at her. (I do not often scream at people -- instead I talk very softly as my rage increases. Just a handy note.)
Suffice it to say, I do not remember many of the details of the call, but here's the footnote to the whole thing: she also managed to abandon her friend (BEST FRIEND !) in San Antonio and my mom (remember ? The awesome one ?) paid to get that girl a bus ticket home because she was crying and didn't know how she was getting back. I have never spoken to Rita again.
I drove home poorer, but wiser. Rita became a lawyer. ***
Thoughts ?
* name has been changed to protect the absolutely idiotic.
** name has also been changed, but only because I think he got the raw end of the deal -- no pun intended.
*** No, I'm not kidding.
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