Airing My Dirty Laundry The Blog

Now Picture This on an Eyeball

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 11:13:00 +0000

I've got this horrible mental picture...

A case reported in a recent issue of the journal Emergency Medicine Australia described the successful removal of a leech from an eyeball. A 66-year-old woman, gardening in her back yard in Sydney, had accidentally flicked some soil into her eye. By the time a surgeon could extract the leech, it had roughly tripled its body size by feeding on the eyeball's blood vessels.

You'll Live to Regret It, Archie...

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 10:27:00 +0000

I am truly upset about this!

After 68 years of waffling, Archie Andrews has made his choice. It’s the raven-haired heiress over the girl next door, Veronica Lodge over Betty Cooper.

Just eight days after Archie Comics announced that Archie would finally choose between his two high-school hotties, the word is out: Archie gets down on bended knee to present Veronica with his proposal and a ring while poor Betty looks on and wipes away a tear. Veronica replies to the proposal with a resounding “Yes!”

The Power of Being Blonde

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Fri, 29 May 2009 14:30:00 +0000

The Latvian Blondes Association -- take a moment to contemplate the fact there is such a thing -- has decided to use the power of peroxide (OK, some of them may be real blonds) to fight Latvia's deepening recession. It will parade 2,000 of the ladies who reportedly have more fun through the streets of Riga, the capital city.

Motto of the event: Make the World a Brighter Place. AWWWW...

A Pint-Sized Pool Shark...

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Tue, 26 May 2009 11:21:00 +0000

A New York toddler still in diapers has a growing reputation as a pool shark with a mean bank shot — even though he has to stand on a chair to reach the table.

Two-year-old Keith O'Dell Jr. from upstate New York has pool shooting videos posted on YouTube, has his own Web site (http://www.poolprodigy.com) and is the youngest member of the American Pool Association.

The son of pool-playing parents, the toddler recently traveled to Las Vegas to put on a demonstration for the APA, the governing body of amateur pool.

O'Dell started playing pool on a child-size table, but has since moved up to a regulation table.

His parents say his learning hasn't been limited to billiard games. Pool is also teaching him colors and how to count.

Now That's A Dog Lover

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Tue, 26 May 2009 11:12:00 +0000

CHEYENNE, WY – A man said he saved his dog's life after sucking venom from a rattlesnake bite out of the animal's nose.

Bobby Jenkins said he began feeling ill after getting his dog, Tank, to a vet. He went to the hospital and received a dose of antivenin.

In all, Jenkins needed four vials of antivenin at a cost of $3,500 per vial.

Meanwhile, Jenkins said his dog's head swelled up to three times its normal size. Tank had been bitten after running under some equipment on the family ranch.

The dog also received antivenin and both Jenkins and his dog have recovered.

Wipe That Smile Off Your Face

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Tue, 26 May 2009 11:07:00 +0000

Stopping driver's license fraud is no laughing matter: Four states are ordering people to wipe the grins off their faces in their license photos.

"Neutral facial expressions" are required at departments of motor vehicles (DMVs) in Arkansas, Indiana, Nevada and Virginia. That means you can't smile, or smile very much. Other states may follow.

Don't Stick That Gun Down Your Pants, Dufus

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Tue, 26 May 2009 10:51:00 +0000

Uh, dude, you're going to want a holster for that...

No matter how cool it looks in the movies, when you stick a gun down the front of your pants, there is only one thing you can be aiming at, even if you don't mean to. A 27-year-old man in Germany -- trying to impress his friends -- is the latest example of this truth. He told police that someone else shot him ... there ... but that story fell apart when police noticed there was no hole outside his jeans, just inside.

“Either it was the shot of the century or he did it himself,” police said. Doctors were able to stitch the damaged area back up.

He Wins By a Whisker

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Tue, 26 May 2009 10:44:00 +0000

This is some serious facial hair...

David Traver, 43, of Anchorage, Alaska, won the 2009 World Beard and Moustache Championships on his home court over the weekend. Traver won best in show for his 20.5inch beard and also won the freestyle competition. For the contest, his beard was dyed multiple colors and woven to look like a snowshoe.

The win, over 140 other contestants from around the world, earned him a gold pan and salmon fishing trip. He now plans to shave for charity, with a donation going to Covenant House. Afterward, he plans to grow a mustache.

An honest politician...

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Fri, 22 May 2009 11:52:00 +0000

In a mayoral election in Croatia, a candidate campaigned on the promise that he would openly rip off residents at every opportunity. His slogan: "All for me -- nothing for you." He won in a landslide...

Sign you may be driving too fast...

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Fri, 22 May 2009 11:37:00 +0000

By Jackie Papandrew

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Thu, 21 May 2009 11:44:00 +0000

We are now deeply embroiled in the grilling season, and the gentle man who promised to love me for better or for worse has once again morphed into the General Patton of the barbecue set, a tyrant with tongs who must not be questioned. Grilling, after all, is a man’s job.

As everyone knows, only a Y guy – one of those brave bearers of the Y chromosome also known as men – can possibly tame the open flame.

After 20 years of marriage, I’ve come to expect this annual transformation. The man who won’t touch the stovetop in our kitchen for fear that it might infuse him with estrogen becomes overnight an expert on cooking in the great outdoors, where only testosterone is allowed to roam free. Woe to the woman who tries to tell him how to grill.

Even though I know this, I usually cannot resist the temptation at the beginning of each summer to rile my king of the crackling cut of meat at least a little bit. I usually do this by suggesting that he needs to clean his grill.

Due to an ever-thickening layer of black grunge encasing it, the grill is only recognizable as a grill because it smells like scorched underbrush and, in compliance with federal grilling law, it has the word “master” in its name. Still, my cleaning suggestion always seems to deeply annoy my husband.

“Woman, do not tell me how to manage my grill,” he grunts in true Patton fashion....(Read more here.)

© Jackie Papandrew, All Rights Reserved
Come visit me at www.jackiepapandrew.com.

Tractor Shooter Gets Grazed

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Thu, 21 May 2009 11:29:00 +0000

This is a case of the tractor being smarter than the man shooting at it...

An Ohio man didn't like that a ditch along his property was being mowed. So he got his gun and fired five shots at the tractor doing the mowing in an effort to kill it. But bad things can happen when you start shooting at metal, and one of the bullets was deflected, came right back and grazed our tractor-shooting genius in the head. He's OK, except for a felony assault charge...

Cat missing? Call Roto Rooter

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Wed, 20 May 2009 11:40:00 +0000

Plumber uses camera-equipped snake to find missing cat.

MARION, Ark. -- When Bubba the cat disappeared inside the home he shares with Cheryl and Phillip Albers, they knocked holes in walls looking for him, but he couldn't be found.

Bubba's meows could be heard through the night last Monday, Cheryl Albers said, after he vanished following a visit from an air-conditioner repairman.

Bubba normally hides high atop a kitchen cabinet when there is a stranger in the house that he doesn't want to meet, Albers said. He wasn't there, however, after the repairman left.

Taking their cue from where they thought the meowing was coming from, the Albers cut holes in the walls of their dining room, their hallway and their closet. Then, they cut through the floor boards in their attic and ripped out insulation - all to no avail.

The meows continued, but there was no sign of the cat making them.

Finally, on Thursday, the Albers called Roto Rooter.

"We're plumbers, not cat finders," Roto Rooter's Fred Simmons told Memphis, Tenn., television station WMC.

But using a camera-equipped metal snake to search between the walls, Simmons turned out to be a cat finder after all.

"We just run the camera down through it and seen two eyes," Simmons said.

Bubba had fallen into a hole in the wall at her favorite hiding place and got stuck in a narrow passageway between the cabinet and the wall. After putting one more hole in the hall closet, Bubba was set free.

"She's really good today," Albers said Friday. "She's eating and drinking and we're all happy again."

In typical cat style, Bubba snubbed the man who saved her life, but her owner couldn't be more grateful.

Simmons said Roto Rooter won't be charging the Albers for the hours spent looking for Bubba.

But Bubba's adventure won't be cheap - they still have to repair the damage they did to their home.

Now we know what's at the end of the rainbow

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Wed, 20 May 2009 11:24:00 +0000

Sadly, it ain't a pot of gold...

Instead, the rainbow appears to be caught in traffic, like so many others, on a California highway.

Call to 911 results in clean bedroom...

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Tue, 19 May 2009 10:49:00 +0000

As the mother of teenagers,I understand the need to call in reinforcements....

A 28-year-old man in Ohio lives in the basement of his parent's home and apparently keeps a very messy room. His dad gave him the old "as long as you're under my roof" spiel and told him to get it cleaned up. Mr. Messy responded by shaking his fist and throwing a plate of food across the kitchen table. Naturally, the next step was to call 911, which apparently caused Sloppy Sam to clean up his act. Your tax dollars at work...

The Husband-Hunting Bra

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Fri, 15 May 2009 11:46:00 +0000

Shoot me if I ever get this desperate...

A Tokyo lingerie company has come out with a new Husband- Hunting Bra. The ticking clock is stopped by inserting an engagement ring.

Women would never do this...

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Fri, 15 May 2009 11:20:00 +0000

...even if we could, we would never do this!

Men caught using Old Faithful as toilet

A webcam installed last year to broadcast live streaming video of Yellowstone National Park’s iconic Old Faithful Geyser around the world was instrumental in the arrest of six vandals last week. As seen in photos released today by Public Employees for Environmental Responsibility (PEER), a group of six trespassers ventured off the visitor boardwalk; two apparently urinated and one dropped a rock into what is arguably the world’s most famous geyser.

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Thu, 14 May 2009 10:57:00 +0000

After a two-year visit to the United States, Michelangelo's David is returning to Italy....

His proud sponsors in the USA were:

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Wed, 13 May 2009 11:30:00 +0000

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Tue, 12 May 2009 11:05:00 +0000

Listen fatty, do it and die...

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Mon, 11 May 2009 19:23:00 +0000

No More Big Boob Surcharge

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Sat, 09 May 2009 12:56:00 +0000

This would never be a problem for me as I am, er, a private in the boob brigade...

Britain's largest retailer, Marks and Spencer, has backed down on its policy of charging a surcharge for bras that are DD or larger in the face of a spreading consumer revolt.

To get the messge out, the company paid for an eye-catching full-page advertisement in several national newspapers Friday. It showed a full-figured woman in lacy green lingerie and the words "We boobed."

In the add, the company apologized and offered a 25-percent reduction in all bras of all sizes for the next two weeks.

"We won, and we never thought it would happen so quickly, said Becky Mount, a co-founder of the Busts 4 Justice group that brought retailing icon M&S to its knees with a canny Internet and media-oriented campaign.

The group, which grew exponentially in the last few days, had vowed to challenge M&S executives at the company's annual meeting this summer. "They didn't want a lot of big-breasted women storming their meeting," said Mount.

Mother's Day Manifesto

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Fri, 08 May 2009 11:35:00 +0000

By Jackie Papandrew

Even though Mother's Day is fixed on the calendar, I've noticed in the last few years that it seems to catch the motley crew of kids who call me Mom (and the man who helped create them) by surprise. Despite my subtle system of reminders that begin in April -- in which I sigh heavily and say, to no one in particular, "I just can't believe Mother's Day is coming up so soon" -- my family invariably arises on that special Sunday and expresses astonishment -- while trying to avoid the flames shooting out of my eyes -- that the darn day has snuck up on them again.

It wasn't always this way. I've received my share of those wonderful, irreplaceable gifts made by eager young hands: decorated pencil holders, picture frames studded with colored macaroni, the laminated footprints of a five-year-old, the I Love You Mommy mug. I remember the flowered, handmade apron I got one year and the artful collage created with canned food labels that left me guessing at the contents of my cans for weeks.

But with the approach of adolescence, when childlike sweetness sours a bit and honoring your mother can seem about as cool as elevator music, my well of homemade wonders suddenly ran dry. The holiday was conveniently forgotten until the last minute, and I'd end up holding a wilted bunch of hastily-purchased flowers and eating a pancake dinner at IHOP.

So this year, I've taken matters into my own hands. I wrote a list cleverly titled What I Want for Mother's Day and put it on the refrigerator for everyone to see. Naturally, the list has been knocked off, stepped on, used to blot a spilled spot of jelly, but never, as far as I can tell, actually read. Even the dog, after determining that it was not edible, has ignored it.

Realizing a more direct approach was required, I recently gathered my loved ones around me – actually, I stood in front of the TV they were watching – and began to recite from my mom’s manifesto. I had to speak loudly to drown out the catcalls and boos coming from the crowd, but I bravely persisted:

What I Want for Mother’s Day

No. 1 -- I want coffee brought to me in bed the moment I awaken. I do not want to have to get up and wake you all up to remind you that it is Mother’s Day. The coffee should be of the traditional strength and consistency. Not thick as Mississippi Mud like you made for me last year or the weaker-than-water stuff I got the year before. Begin practicing now. And with the coffee, I want chocolate – lots of it. Bring me chocolate in every form known to woman.

No. 2 – I want a temporary cessation of all maternal responsibilities. No cleaning, no cooking, no breaking up knock-down-drag-out fights, no toy repair, no toilet unclogging, not even any stuck-zipper zapping. I plan to take a very hot bath and read a very long book. And I will allow myself the luxury of using a brand-new bar of soap. Not once during this glorious bath will anyone interrupt me with “Hey Mom, where’s the sugar?” or “Did I mention I have a science project due tomorrow?”

No. 3 – After my bath, I want to have control of the television. THE TV – the 52-inch high-definition behemoth around which all the males in the house genuflect. No ESPN will appear on the TV that day. There will be no Victoria ’s Secret Specials. I will be watching every movie Brad Pitt ever made. I’ll probably also eat some more chocolate.

No. 4 -- I’d like to be taken to dinner at a nice restaurant, one that requires an advance reservation and has no child’s menu. During the meal, I’d like my offspring to conduct themselves admirably. No eating with your fingers, no chewing with your mouth open, no kicking a sibling under the table. And not a single word about bodily processes.

No. 5 – After dinner, I’d like us all to go through family pictures together and reminisce about old times. You are required to look pleasant and appear to be having fun. Not even one teenage eye may roll in disgust. No surreptitious text messages may be sent to friends. And each one of you has to say “I love you, Mom,” and you have to mean it.

At that, several groans went up. I folded the paper and finished with something my Grandma used to say, something ungrammatical but undeniable.

“Just remember,” I told my gang. “If Mamma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”

I’ll let you know how the Big Day goes.

Resistance is Futile

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Mon, 04 May 2009 19:37:00 +0000

When my children were younger, our family went through a time of serious trekkiness.

Each night, we’d curl up together on the couch and watch a rerun of Star Trek: The Next Generation. That’s the Star Trek show in which the elegant Captain Picard would, in his rich, Shakespearean baritone, command his crew to “Make it so.”

No matter how daunting the task, Picard’s space-alien-butt-kicking crew would comply, and the galaxy would be safe for another day.

When the show was over, I’d send my own crew out with the more humble mission of getting ready for bed with the same command, delivered in a phony English accent.

“Make it so,” I’d say as I sent them to their rooms.

One of our favorite series of Star Trek episodes involved the Borg, a race of aggressive, technologically enhanced beings -- part human and part machine -- which had a collective consciousness.

They were not individuals, and they didn’t want to be. When one was cut off from the collective, the first thing the poor drone would notice would be its own loneliness. Essentially, the Borg was one giant, souped-up teenager, except that it didn’t slam doors or wear low-slung pants that showed its many pairs of underwear.

What the Borg did was ruthlessly assimilate all other life forms into its collective. Just like a teenager.

“Resistance is futile,” the Borg would intone without mercy to all its victims.

“Resistance is futile,” I’d intone without mercy each time one of my kids tried to avoid going to bed.

For days after a Borg episode had aired, my children would take on its robotic personality, and an assimilation battle would rage throughout our house. This usually involved one or more Borg beings (formerly known as people to whom I’d given birth) sitting on a carbon-based life form (a human, for you non-trekkies) also birthed by me, who was resisting assimilation.

The attack would continue until said squashed life form screamed “I am Borg!” and finally succumbed to the Borg Identity.

Ah, those were good times.

Eventually, our Trek phase passed, and the Borg went away where no man has gone before. Or so I thought until recently, when I realized that the Borg have secretly been among us for quite some time, in the form of the Internet.

We are all becoming part of the cyberspace collective, willingly shedding our individuality to become one with the great external mind.

Our children play virtual games, with virtual friends, in virtual rooms where everyone can be anonymous, but no one is autonomous. And we adults are just as bad. My husband and I make our living by way of the Web. And we carry it with us at all times. Sometimes, I’m not sure my mate knows where he ends and his Crackberry (Blackberry) begins.

And I’m not really one to talk. I’ve developed a serious addiction to googling myself, just to see how many times my name comes up. I am an online organism, and I like it.

My daughter saved up her money to buy a computer game that allows her to “bake” an online cake. She can select different frostings and decorations. She can whip up a comely confection with the click of a mouse. And she can share her cake with other online bakers.

Even though there’s no taste, no reality, no cold glass of milk to wash down this lifeless computer cake, she’s devoted to the game.

When I asked her the other day to help me make a real cake, she answered impatiently, “Mom, I’m busy right now. I’m baking!”

It’s as if there’s a metaphorical, Borg-like Bill Gates (who, now that I think of it, bears a passing resemblance to that Star Trek entity) sitting atop us all, squashing out the stuff that makes us human until we surrender and are assimilated into the information superhighway.

Or maybe it’s Al Gore sitting up there, since he invented the Internet. Either way, I’m pretty sure that resistance is futile. We are Borg.

Thanks, Barbie

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Papandrew) — Fri, 13 Mar 2009 00:09:00 +0000

It has come to my attention that Barbie and I are nearly the same age. She recently celebrated her 50^th birthday, and I’m not far from that particular milestone. But I am apparently more upset about this fact than Mattel’s plastic princess, even though she will get her AARP card before I get mine. Maybe that’s because all of Barbie’s body parts have remained toned and pleasingly perky through five decades, while mine have – well, that’s probably more information than you need.

The blond bombshell and I have had a roller-coaster relationship. When I was a little girl, I idolized her. My mother was concerned I’d grow up thinking the perfect woman was 12 inches tall with a four-inch bosom. But she needn’t have worried. I played with a whole bucket of Barbies, and my mind was never narrowed by doll dimensions. I grew up to dream of having a much larger bust measurement than that. Not that dreaming about it did me much good.

Eventually, my mother stopped worrying and grew quite fond of my Barbies. She made little outfits for the dolls that matched the ones she made for me. My favorite was a purple sheath mini-dress. I have a picture of myself in that dress, standing barefoot in the grass, my knobby knees sticking out under the hemline. In the picture, I’m holding a purple-sheathed Barbie in each hand.

Sadly, only one of the busty beauties in the photo has a head. That’s because my little brother had a disturbing desire to decapitate toyland’s most famous female, and he succeeded often enough that my dad became quite an experienced Barbie surgeon, with a specialty in head reattachment. The day that picture was taken, I apparently had only one intact doll left and was probably waiting impatiently for Dad to get home from work.

I retaliated against my brother’s Barbie butchery by hiding his Legos in my mother’s underwear drawer, effectively depriving him of the toys forever. In his cootie-fearing mind, no amount of soap could erase the contamination of female undergarments.

After a while, I became embarrassed by the matching outfits, and my ardor for all things Barbie began to cool. By the time I was a teenager, I would sneer at her various manifestations – doctor, astronaut, teacher, military officer and Madame President, to name just a few. The purple dresses somehow disappeared, and now I have only that picture.

My children have their own Barbie memories. My daughter played with dolls of every color and career. And my son carried on the family tradition of dismemberment. I once found a whole family of my daughter’s dolls hanging naked and legless in one of our trees. That’s probably an issue that should have been addressed with my son in therapy, but it’s too late for that now. My kids have moved on from Barbie, just as I did.

Today, however, I have a new appreciation for the platinum icon. In her own perky way, she was a trailblazer. And at 50, she’s still going strong. In fact, she’s sporting tattoos and looking like – to use today’s terminology – a cougar. When I turn 50, I very likely will not be sporting any tattoos or reminding anyone of sexy, predatory felines. But that’s OK. I still wish Barbie the best. And I thank her for the memories.

Visit my website at www.jackiepapandrew.com.