“Actions are the first tragedy in life, words are the second. Words are perhaps worse.” – Oscar Wilde Dear Emoji Creator Team, I am writing to you to inquire about the company policy regarding which skin colour emoji I am allowed to use on the…
So, I have got some big news for you: It is never too late to keep the body you have right now. Let’s be honest. Do you feel comfortable in your body? Do you want to lose weight or get in shape? I wanted to…
I had a chat with a friend yesterday. About kids. About our kids who played Nintendo Switch like there is no tomorrow.
Kids today! They’re always toting their Air Up bottles around like they’re going to die of dehydration. Give me a break. All they’re doing is scrolling through their phones, iPads—how does that even work up a thirst? My generation played outside all day in the blazing hot sun, and we didn’t need any fancy water bottles—we either drank from corrosive, lead-contaminated water fountains or slurped our water straight from a hose. Delicious! We drank that stuff and we loved it. And guess what? We survived. Except for those of us who ended up consuming unsafe levels of mould and frog faeces, and eventually succumbed to fungal infections.
My generation played outside until dark—no checking in on “parental control apps” or whatever nonsense these helicopter parents are using to keep their kids dependent. Nope, it was a different world back then. We rode bikes all day without helmets, and our injuries made us stronger. We weren’t delicate little brainiacs, and we didn’t all get a trophy just for participating in the spelling bee—especially those of us whose bike-accident-related brain damage left us unable to spell our own names. I pity these kids today—we had a magical childhood, at least what we’re able to remember of it.
We were fearless—we didn’t hesitate to hop into pickup trucks driven by strange mustachioed men offering us chewing gum. Not only was it full of sugar and devoid of nutritional value, but it also looked just like chewing tobacco, so we got to sit in the back of the pickup and shove it in our faces like little badasses. And guess what? We turned out just fine unless you count the kids who got into the wrong truck and were never heard from again until their faces showed up on our cartons of full-fat chocolate milk or Kinder Riegel Chocolate. Yep, you heard me—we got to look at computer-aged photos of our missing buddies while we drank FULL-FAT CHOCOLATE MILK for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. What kid today gets to have that kind of good old-fashioned fun? And we turned out great! Even our presumed dead friends looked like they turned out fine. Back then, children were seen and not heard, and then occasionally never seen again.
When we misbehaved, we got spanked, and if we got in trouble at school, our parents automatically blamed us and sided with authority figures. Nobody worried about our delicate “feelings” or our “desperate pleas to be heard and believed” or any of that crap. If the teacher said you were bad, you were bad—end of story. And we turned out perfectly fine, except for the crippling hellscape of neuroses and inferiority complexes that have haunted us throughout our lives and now compel us to post lengthy screeds on social media about how fine we turned out!
Sure, life was tough, but we were tougher. There was nothing we loved better than riding in cars without air conditioning, airbags, or seat belts. Hell, we would have loved riding in cars without brakes if we could. Our parents wouldn’t have dreamed of strapping us into our car seats—straps were for spanking, not safety. And yet, we all managed to stay alive—unless you’re the kind of dork who believes all the fancy-schmancy statistics indicating that several thousand of us did not, in fact, stay alive.
And if you are that kind of dork, I don’t know what to tell you. Go drink some Vitamin Water while wearing your helmet, I guess. It’s a dog-eat-dog world (in fact, our dogs loved when we fed them other dogs, none of this “dog bakery” crap). Only the strongest and most able to click “share” will survive!
So, I was waiting for a return email and at the same time I could not log into my account anymore. I simply could not. The password was still the same, didn’t need to be changed but I wasn’t able to log in and register…
Wake up my sleepy, and loud open-mouth-breather, it’s 4:01 a.m. and I feel chatty! I might be small but I’m a warm-blooded lunatic and I’m right outside your bedroom door. I love each new day, what it might bring, the possibilities, and the joy of…
This is kind of a book recommendation but only kind of. I’ve read Goodnight Moon almost every night for two years straight to my son when he was tiny. It’s a wonderful book which my son enjoyed. But here are some of my issues with the bedroom depicted in it.
This bedroom is enormous. There is no one, I think, who has not noticed this. As someone who has lived in apartments only slightly larger than “a little toy house,” it’s mildly vexing that this bedroom is the size of a banquet hall in Downton Abbey.
This little toy house would rent out for $2500 a month in Manhattan (not including utilities)
This is not that little of a toy house. Not only could the rabbit easily fit inside the “little toy house”, but the little toy house also has working electricity. Why are these rabbits so civilized? Is this some f**ked up Watership Down sequel???
The colour scheme we are going for is “exploded paint factory.”
“So what colour have we decided on for the upstairs child’s bedroom?”
“Which child’s bedroom?”
“The enormous one. The one with the expansive tomato-coloured floor.”
“I was thinking for that room maybe a dark green?”
“Really? Dark green? You don’t think maybe dark green walls with a tomato-coloured floor is a bit much?”
“No, it’ll look amazing. We can break up the monotony of the colour with some dark green and yellow striped curtains.”
“That’s an amazing idea. On non-matching red and yellow spearhead curtain rods? Do you think a tiger skin rug would be overkill?”
“For a young child’s room? No. Not at all. ”
“For tonight would you rather read “Hop on Pop” or the entire Encyclopedia Britannica?”
Why are these books so thick? This is a child’s bedroom, not a law library. Unless this rabbit is defending a doctoral thesis, there’s no need for him to own every non-fiction hardcover from Law Publishing.
Almost as appealing as a nail clipper next to a plate of sunny-side-up eggs.
I’m right now trying to picture a situation in which I would place my unwashed hairbrush next to a bowl of cream of wheat and even the idea of it is turning my stomach.
Oh, you’re eating a bowl of warm cereal? How do you take it? With milk, cinnamon and dozens of soggy, long white hairs?
*Vomits onto neatly stacked fireplace logs*
Somewhere a personal organizer is having an aneurysm from this thing.
I lived in New York City for almost a decade and I’m very big into “intelligent use of space,” and the fact that this much floor space is taken up by a free-standing clothesline that’s being used to dry ONE pair of socks and ONE pair of mittens makes me grind my teeth. Mount it on the wall, idiots! The people at IKEA would have a seizure if they looked at this room. Also, isn’t there a laundry room or something? Just put it in there.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch…
“So what colour do you think for the child’s bed?”
“I was thinking like a tomato-ish red colour?”
“You remember the floor’s a tomato-ish red colour.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t think that’s a lot of red for a child’s bedroom? We don’t want it to look like the Amityville Horror kill room or anything.”
“You don’t trust me? I’ve been decorating children’s bedrooms for almost twenty years.”
“No, I trust you, I trust you. So you want to do all the furniture in red?”
“Are you out of your f**king mind? Of course not. For the rest of the furniture, I was thinking something sophisticated, like a mustard yellow.”
“For everything?? All the furniture?”
“All the furniture.”
“Even the little toy house?”
“Are you seriously asking me this? No. Of course not. The little toy house should be red.”
Also, nothing says “child’s bedroom” like an expensive mantelpiece clock bordered by Cookie Monster-blue funeral urns.
Look, I’m not a crazy stickler for safety or anything but shouldn’t there at least be a screen between the roaring open flame and the rest of the nursery? Also, can we talk about how the heating situation is going to play out? You’re going to use an old-fashioned fireplace to heat a room the size of an elementary school gymnasium when the room has zero radiators and two enormous single-paned windows? Have fun! You’ll be totally fine with that thin green blanket you’ve thrown over the kid’s legs!
As casual about their infestations as they are exacting about their interior design.
Anyone notice this guy? What sort of mouse just hangs out in the middle of the carpet in an enormous open room within spitting distance of two cats? Clearly, this illustrator has never had an apartment with mice because real mice creep along the edges of rooms, usually in the dark, along baseboards and under furniture, occasionally chewing through the walls. Given his devil-may-care attitude, this mouse is obviously lucid in a way we cannot understand.
“Goodnight, Technologically-out-of-date-telephone”
Who’s calling, his financial adviser? Why would someone this age need a telephone unless it’s to call the woman across the vast expanse of his bedroom to ask her to stop whispering, “Hush.”
“So you say your mother was…. protective?”
Husband Bear: We’ve started fighting more since our son was born. I feel like she resents me. I feel like every little thing turns into an argument.”
Wife Bear: “How could I not resent you? We have a newborn and you’re off eating salmon in a PBS documentary while I’m stuck at home 24/7.
Husband Bear: “Don’t start, Janet! That documentary was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!”
Therapist Bear: You sound angry.
Husband Bear: Brilliant observation! It took you eight years of graduate school to figure that out?
Therapist Bear: Let’s all take a deep breath. In, two three, out, two three…
(They are all silent for several seconds)
Wife Bear: Also, a tomato red floor seems like a really bold choice for a psychologist’s office, doesn’t it?
Husband Bear: God, you are so CRITICAL OF EVERYTHING.
Wife Bear: Ugh. My mother told me not to marry a grizzly.
*Husband Storms out. Wife sobs quietly. Psychologist quietly questions whether he was wise in going with the blue walls and mustard yellow office furniture.*
“Are we about done decorating this apocalypse of a bedroom?”
“Ok, so the mustard-coloured bookcase came in. I had them install it in the corner and fill it with large, antique books. ”
“Great, so now all we’re waiting on is the round side table, the rocking chair and the freakishly enormous nightstand.”
“So wait, that’s it on the furniture? It’s a big room, isn’t there going to be a lot of unused space? Or are we filling that with toys?”
“Actually I was thinking for toys let’s keep it minimal. I’m thinking maybe one elephant, one giraffe and then the uncomfortably pink naked dolls on the bookshelf.”
“You don’t think maybe he could use a few more toys? It’s such a huge room and it feels so empty and formal. You’re sure his parents are going to be ok with it?”
“Will his parents be ok with it? Did I not graduate at the top of my class with a degree in interior design?”
“I know, I just—”
“Have I not been designing rooms for the past twenty years?
“No, I know! I just thought—”
“How about when I want your opinion I ask for it.”
“Arrggghhh. I’m…I’m sorry I spoke up.” (struggles between wanting to storm out in anger and being grateful for this apprenticeship, which he knows is a big deal.
This book is awesome though. Purchase it. Your child will love it. Recommended age: 1-3 years old.
A lot of people who know I am writing books ask me, “So, do you think it is going to be any good? Well, do you?” It is hard to tell how successful or good anything will be. And, to be honest, it makes me…
It seems so many women are getting pregnant these days. Do I want to get pregnant again? Hellz no! I do have an almost nine year-old son who I love unconditionally and the whole parenting thing becomes easier or let’s say “it changes”. But the…
Sometimes I wonder why some car drivers are in a possession of a drivers license. WHY are some allowed to drive? Don’t you wonder sometimes or are you Racer X? This is what I think went through the mind of the Audi Q7 sports- edition- driver who I had the pleasure to “meet” at the train station in Vienna last Sunday. All I wanted was to drive home after a hell of a train ride. Nothing more, nothing less. Let me paint you a picture: I am driving home from an exhausting train ride, using the middle lane, and going just a few kilometres per hour over the speed limit. What could go wrong? Meet Racer X!
Racer X:
Oh, hey buddy, let me tell you: He could go wrong. He will come out of nowhere, doing ninety-five in a fifty, slam on the brakes, and tailgate me like we’re in Mad Max. He will scream as I veer into the left lane and slam so hard on the gas that my clothes smell like burnt rubber when I get home. He is pretty much every other driver on the road in Vienna, and he is a goddamn menace to society. The entire time he screams and yells and tells me to go fuck myself. Do you know this typ of driver?
You’ve probably seen him engulfing your rear-view mirror. Or maybe you spotted him swerving in and out of stand-still traffic. Or you just noticed him hurtling by in the right lane. However you know each other, allow him to reintroduce himself: He is the asshole driver on the road right now, and he is out of his fucking mind.
Does he use turn signals? Never. Unless he is not turning, and just want to confuse the shit out of you. Then, always.
Does he slow down at yellow lights? Absolutely not. He speeds up. Green means go, yellow means go faster, red means I didn’t go fast enough, and now he is going to lay his entire upper body on the horn while I sit behind him, seething that I he has to wait at a traffic light for thirty extra seconds.
Does he at least drive inside his lane? No way. To him, those lines on the road are less like rules and more like suggestions. He likes to go two and two: two tires in each lane. It’s the Noah’s Ark method of driving, and he is the goddamn flood.
His driving is enough to make me wonder: “Should we even have cars at all?” The usual answer is: no, they’re terrible for the planet, so probably not. But the answer for him, specifically, is: dear god abso-fucking-lutely!!
Maybe you’re not a fellow motorist. Maybe you ditched your car in favor of a bike. Good for you—you’re doing your part to save the world. HE is not! He is pumping hot gas into the air from his death machine while he gives me less than zero room on the road. He is a typical driver on the road right now, and an actual monster. Are you just trying to walk across a busy street to get home? Good luck with that. If there’s no light, he is not stopping. If there is a light, he is stomping on the goddamn gas.
So next time you’re out in your car, or riding your bike, or trying to walk across the street, just remember to look both ways, and then look every other possible way you can think of, and then petition the city to get rid of cars or require annual road tests or something—because he is the asshole driver on the road right now, and out of his fucking mind.
The other day I had an epiphany while eating a bag of potato chips. The bag was full of air, I had to burst it like a balloon to open it, and inside were only five or six crumbled chips. It got me thinking about…
