We came across this today at a local grocer. Can you spot what’s wrong with the sign?
What’s wrong with this sign?
3 Replies
I’m done …
I’m so over …
- Chevron: Up till about six months ago I loved it, now you can buy a chevron mixer, and parents named their kid Chevron. I’m moving onto gingham, or polka dots.
- Infused … anything: Give me pure, give me original, but stop infusing everything from cookies to cocoa to cooking oil.
- Brian Williams: I prefer Lester Holt, anyway. Although we’ll have to see how he raps with Jimmy Fallon.
- Binge watching: Take your time, savor the show and remember when it’s over, it’s over. You can never experience “Parenthood” (the show, not the life) for the first time again.
- Bruce Jenner: So he’s (likely) transgender. It’s 2015. Let the man be (a woman).
- Leather ottoman coffee tables: It’s either a table or an ottoman. Trying to make one both is like texting on a date. Not a match made in … anywhere.
- FitBit status updates: You most certainly exercise more than I do, and you may sleep better, but I’m not sure why that information needs to be shared with anyone but you (and maybe your doctor).
- Money-grabbing GoFundMe campaigns: Helping others is good, but people asking for money to fund their trip to Costa Rica, or their iPhone 12s, dilute all the worthy causes and genuine “asks.”
- Kim Kardashian’s husband: He’s an attention-hungry baby. Don’t talk (tweet/blog about) his antics and they’ll stop. Irrelevancy would hurt him more than Kim K leaving the house in sweats and no makeup.
Overheard: Asian strippers, and a death threat
“Oh, man, we’ve got to go. Asian strippers are supposed to be sick. Do you get to pick your girl,” he asked his coworker. “I mean, if they send one over and you don’t like her, can you send her away and say ‘no, I want someone else’?”
I perked up. I’m an eavesdropper by nature (a trait ingrained in many reporters) and believe if you don’t want your conversation to become public consumption then you should not have that conversation when out and about.
“Um, uh, I don’t really know,” he said, busying himself behind the counter, not looking at his friend. “I’ve only been once.” Continue reading
10 things I learned during my first year as a parent
Not long ago, Little C was on her play mat, reaching for the toys hanging over head, but missing like a dental patient on laughing gas. Now she’s this little person — a girl who makes goofy faces when she’s being scolded and who spontaneously laughs at herself, and others. She has favorites — toys, people and places. I’ll often find her in her hiding space (between the chair and side table in her room) reading.
I have … a toddler.
When she burst into the world I was terrified to take her anywhere. On our first trip to the mall, I brought my mom. My heart palpitated when she (C, not my mother) squealed (in delight, mind you) in Pottery Barn. I was convinced people were thinking “why is there a child in here and why is said child making noise?!” Continue reading
Rude moms
Years ago, my parents took us to the Christmas show at Radio City. What I remember more than the falling soldiers routine or live camel on stage was how the group next to us talked the entire time.
For the full two hours they gabbed about everything from Christmas gifts to their drunk uncle to the homeless man who scared them in the Port Authority.
Why, I wondered, would you come to a show to talk? Coffee shops are for that nonsense, or bars.
We said “please stop talking.” The ushers asked them to quiet down. Management got involved. And yet, the conversation continued. Nothing worked. Continue reading
I deserved that …
Monday evening I tweeted how having a husband meant never (rarely) having to shovel.
Why?
Because he came with a snowblower — and he enjoys using it.
Before I was hitched, I lived on my own in a house over in Guilderland. The road was a dead end and, as a result, not as wide as your average street.
When the town plow came down, they’d push 80 percent of the slop to the right side (naturally) leaving those of us on the east side of the street with a heap of crunchy, crusty, icy, hardened snirt to dig out. No matter how many different types of shovels I bought, none were enough to tackle what felt like a pile of concrete at the end of my driveway. Even my neighbors who had snowblowers struggled. Continue reading
10 reasons I hate Valentine’s Day
OK, maybe ‘hate’ is too strong. I really only hate coleslaw, and hearing a woman (or girl) swear. “Dislike” is more fair. But no matter the word, the fact remains: Valentine’s Day doesn’t excite me — and it hasn’t since I was a child.
Here’s why:
10: Cheap chocolate: The big box grocery and drug stores look like cupid vomited poor-quality chocolate in the aisles — and on the displays by the door. No matter how fancy Mr. Whitman tries to make his heart boxes, they’re still filled with crappy candy made with sub-par ingredients. Amazon shoppers agree, rating the brand 2.5/5 stars, at best.
9: The color red: Blondes (at least this blonde) look like a broken capillary in red, unless we’re talking nail polish. Continue reading
Why I took a break from social media
One day last month I was driving on I-90. It was snowing and the person in the car next to me was smoking a cigarette and checking his phone. He also wasn’t wearing his seatbelt.
As I watched him steer with his wrists, and balance ash, I composed a status update in my head. I wanted to capture the right words to explain just what happened — but I needed those words to take up no more than 140 characters. My FB profile is connected to my Twitter account and, ideally, I don’t want people to have to click through to read my thoughts.
I can’t believe I Googled *that*
Sometimes, there are questions we’re too embarrassed to ask even our closest friends. They may not be the kinds of questions you see on “The Doctors,” but rather inquiries that seem … stupid. (Or that make us realize we’re lacking brain cells when it comes to a certain topic or topics).
I had a lot of these while pregnant. I asked Google why I was drooling at night (sexy, right?) or if that needle-like stabbing in my nethers was “normal.” Recently, Cindy and I debated where you’re from if you’re Dutch, and if Holland and the Netherlands were the same place.
“Erase your history when you’re done searching,” she said. “We don’t need others knowing we don’t know this.” Continue reading
Is it ever OK to ‘run over’ your child?
I heard him a good 10 aisles before I saw him. After weaving from the health and beauty section to the vacuum cleaner accessories I met the source of the screams — a towhead of about 3-years-old (maybe a tad younger) slung on his mother’s hip. She balanced the teary-eyed, red-faced youngster while pushing her shopping cart.
He squirmed and she tried uprighting him. My breath quickened, and my chest tightened. I was panicking as if this was my child having a breakdown. I gave the mother what was intended to be a sympathetic look, but what probably came across like fear, or constipation. I walked faster, as if leaving the tantrum in the rearview was somehow going to make it stop. Continue reading