Forbidden Love and Leprehchauns

We always want what we cannot have... the age-old tale. And growing up, my mother's quest toward health and familial happiness involved a distinct separation of me from all that tantalized and teased the tastebuds.

Yes, for 360 days a year, it parted me from my one ultimate and blindingly-beautiful true love....

Lucky Charms cereal.

Lucky Charms... it was the Arnold Schwartzenegger of Cheerios. A crispy oaty shape, yes.... But on steroids-- pumped up with a mouth-wateringly sweet coating and paired with a rainbow of marshmallow magic that captivated the eyes as well as the salivary glands...

It was kiddie crack.

I suppose if I had never known its power, its magnetic lure... If it had never passed my lips in quiet, stolen moments, then I never would have felt the bittersweet longing for it in its absence.

But once a year on vacation to Cape May, I was allowed to partake of the joy that was artificial flavors and colors. I could pop open that box and inhale the sweet dextrose, honeyed methylcellulose and heart-jolting corn syrup... Feast my eyes on the playful Yellow #5, warm Red #40 and soothing Blue #1.

Nirvana in a bowl! How I did adore thee!

But then, time too soon slipped through the fingers, like quarters into that claw game nobody actually wins.

And as our Dodge Family Wagon would wend its way from campground trails and skee-ball paradise, back to the bustle and traffic of north Jersey strip-mall-land... I would see the pink hearts and blue diamonds, green clovers, yellow stars and purple horseshoes melt before my tear-stained eyes for yet another year. As if they never were.

Back to the dim, gray world of Wheaties and Grape Nuts... A return to the colder place of Kix, that tasteless impostor of kid cereals, made predominantly of styrofoam and recycled cardboard boxes.

It was like being ripped back from heavenly bliss to join the cruel Earthly plane once more.

Yes, Lucky and I were too-soon parted, with only wistful memories between us. This marshmallow heart I hold today is for you, my playful Irish imp. I will keep it close to my own heart and cherish it as long as the beauty of true passion survives.

Or at least until my shirt pocket gets sticky.


So-- let's hear it, gang: what item did you love growing up that you weren't allowed to have?

(This post was inspired by JD of I Do Things So You Don't Have To's recent discussion of Quisp. Thanks for the memories, JD!)

--------------------------------------------------------------
Humorbloggers
Humor-blogs

The Beauty of Boudreaux's Butt Paste

Boudreaux's Butt Paste... Just once in my life, I would like to work on marketing a product with a name like that.

Imagine going to a family reunion or visiting relatives at the holidays.

"So, Jenn, what clients are you writing for now?"

"Boudreaux's Butt Paste."

"No, really. What clients are you writing for now?"

"Boudreaux's butt paste," I'd insist.

"Well, if you didn't want to talk about work, why don't you just say so?"

My heart fills with joy at the very thought of it.

A couple of years ago, I'd had to write a tagline for a company that manufactured tubes. Oh, sorry-- matter conveyance technology.

Do you have any idea how challenging it is to write something short, catchy and yet serious about tu-- er, matter conveyance technology?

I spent two days staring at my computer screen with the most absurd slogans running through my head. Finally, I had to write them down to get them out of my system.

"Just Tube It."

"It's Tube-tastic!"

"When Only a Tube Will Do."

"Tuberiffic!"

"When Conveying Matter Matters."

Eventually, they decided to go without a slogan. Funny. I wonder why?

But with Boudreaux's Butt Paste, I wouldn't have to hold back at all. I mean, when you have a brand name like that, you tend to expect a certain amount of creative freedom with your marketing.

Getting to the Bottom of Your Baby's Rash

Pasting Butts since 1978

When You Think Butts, Think Boudreaux's

Superior for the Posterior

Baby's Bums for Boudreaux's

It's a whole world of possibilities! So, Boudreaux's folks, I'm here for ya! Just give the word, and I'll be happy to develop a whole Butt Paste Promo Plan!

Bottoms all over the country are crying out for your product! Plus, I bet I can come up with some alternate uses. A facial moisturizer! A hand cream! A squeaky hinge lubricant! A—

Hm. Do you think I gave away too much up front?

Call me.

---------------------------------------
Humorbloggers
Humor-blogs

Help Cabbages Get Inked!

Tomorrow's my annual adventure to the local amusement park, Kennywood. Where wooden roller coasters still clack onward... And Potato Patch fries are slathered in a delightful day-glo orange cheese that was only once vaguely acquainted with a cow.

How I love it!

But our discussion today will not entail just how many chili cheese dogs it's possible to eat before extending them in altered form to the coaster population as a whole...

Or about taking bets on how long the kid in the Garfield costume can stand 80% humidity before smothering in a pile of sweat, faux fur and chickenwire...

Or even predicting the Rorschach pattern of bruises I'll have after three rounds of jouncing around on the Exterminator. (Once I got an excellent seatbelt buckle-shaped bruise on my butt!... It kinda looked like Spongebob.)

But nope. Today, I want to talk to you about tattoos.

See, the one thing I've come to notice, as I wend my way through Kennywood's mouse-maze of ride queues, is that somehow I have come to be the only person in the entire tri-state region who isn't inked.

Grandmas sporting the barbed wire... Teens unveiling the disembodied heads of the Jonas Brothers... Hog-riders flapping Harley wings... Infants showing off that edgy Gerber logo, symbolizing their induction into those tough pre-school gangs...

Yes, one and all, they are branded with their interests... wearing their image on their sleeve. Or 48-inch waist. Or whatnot.

And then there's me.

But, see, the thing about tattoos is, they're pretty much forever. I'd want to really be certain about anything I put on myself until the end of time. I mean, I haven't even had the same shade of hair for more than six weeks sequentially...

How can I commit to something likely to hang around so much longer than that Spongebob seat buckle butt bruise?

So here's where you folks can help. If I were to get a tattoo and blend in with my fellow amusement enthusiasts, what should I choose?

Here are some of the things I was thinking about:


The Monroeville Zombies logo.


It says local. It says undead. And anyone who sees how pale I am would find it entirely believable. Plus, y'know, nobody wants to mess with someone who might, potentially, try to nibble your arm. I imagine I could get through those long concession and ride lines much quicker!


Old King Cole Slaw.


Marketing promotion meets body art! And it would end up being such a conversation piece!

Stranger: "So-- what's with the crown-wearing lettuce?"

Me: (sniff) Lettuce?! It's so clearly a cabbage! And what's with your Woody Woodpecker? I mean, he hardly had the charisma and talent of Bugs Bunny, did he?

See? I'd be destined to make all sorts of new friends!

The only drawback? Old King Cole Slaw becoming famous like this... well, he'd be likely to develop a big head. He'd be charging me for appearances here... Copping an attitude about the temperature in the crisper drawer... I don't know. I see trouble ahead.


Some Kind of Symbol I May Or May Not Know What It Means.


So often I see people with Chinese or Japanese characters, or swirls or Celtic knots, and I think it's so amazing and impressive how well-versed everyone seems to be in all these other cultures and languages.

I mean, how else could you guarantee that in Japanese it didn't say something like, "I'm an overweight, Japanese-illiterate American. Kick me"?

Now, me, unfortunately, I don't know Japanese or Chinese, or as much as I should about Celtic knots and ancient runes. So, to ensure the symbol I chose actually meant something-- even if I didn't know what it was-- I thought I would tap into the greatest, most extensive symbolic repository I knew--

The Wingdings font I have in Word.

There just seem to be so many options! I'm leaning toward one of those curlicue squigglies, or perhaps the file folder symbol. Either one of them could totally say "me."

What do you think?

Well, I'm anxious to hear your opinions. I suppose if I don't make a decision in time for tomorrow's amusement park outing, I can always save it for next year...

Sure, I'll be the only woman under 50 without a giant Tweety-bird on my boob. But good art takes time.

Hmmm... I wonder how I'd look with a cartoon sheep?....

----------------------------------
Humorbloggers
Humor-blogs