Tag Archives: Humor

Elf On A What?

10 Dec

People may not have the same opinion as what I have stated below. That’s fine! After talking with others after posting this article on a different website, I’m not sure I completely agree with myself! So yes, I welcome criticism, I welcome agreement – but really, just realize that I’m not being completely serious. Sarcasm is my second language. THANX!

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I’m all for Christmas tradition. When I was little, we always had an Advent calendar. Each morning, one of us kids would takes turns opening each little slot that indicated the day of the month. Some years, there was chocolate inside for the taking. One year, there was mouse poop instead (oh, old Iowa houses).

We hung stockings from our wooden staircase. We baked an enormous amount of cookies and candy. We would pile into the car with our grandparents and go look at Christmas lights. We listened to holiday tunes every morning before school. We would make our way through an enormous amount of holiday classics – from Rudolph to Pee Wee’s Playhouse. Christmas Eve meant a huge vat of oyster stew and a gathering at my family’s home for games and conversation. And every year, we would leave out food for Santa and his reindeer.

But there is one “new” tradition that this girl can’t get behind – Elf On A Shelf. Call me a scrooge or whatever, but I just can’t. First off, they are just beyond ugly. I get nightmares pretty easily, and the best way to trigger them is by surrounding myself with little dolls. That is why I wasn’t into Precious Moments, trolls or china dolls dressed up in their finest when I was younger. The creep factor. Even as an adult, it would probably skeeve me out to see an elf staring straight at me while I was vacuuming, placing gifts under the tree – you name it. Gross.

But it has a book, you say, and a movie. Yes, but the interactive Polar Express has a train whistle, and those don’t freak me out in the least.

And there are five gazillion fun ways to place our little elf in the house. Hey, don’t get me wrong, there are some really smart cookies out there. My Facebook feed is inundated with the daily schedules of these elves. And man, the positions they put their creepy toys in are hilarious and brilliant. Those blogs telling you how to place your doll in the most inappropriate positions – I have read them all. The thing is, I don’t know about you, but I’m TIRED at the end of the day. I mean, Christmas is nuts. You have all the gifts to buy, cards to get out, traveling – besides all your normal work and everyday stuff. I don’t have kids yet and some days I am ready to crawl into bed as soon as I get home. So having to come up with another new, funny way to place that ugly thing in my home, cook dinner, and take the kids to all of their after-school practices? No thank you. I feel like it’s part of that whole parent mantra of “I have to do it all!!!” For me, as a kid, the whole month of December was exciting enough, I couldn’t imagine yet another activity to include in this jam-packed extravaganza.

The main reason I just am not all up on this new fad is the whole “big brother” aspect of it. Honestly, when I was a child, I was confused enough on whether Jesus or Santa was watching me. Did they tag team? Who reported to whom? Where was this ladder to heaven from the North Pole for their secret meetings? With our Catholic confessions, I knew Jesus was always out there and I had to be good on a DAILY basis, for I had to recite ten Hail Mary’s and ten Our Father’s if I wasn’t. And then when Santa came, woof dah, I tried not to put one toe out of line.

My parents made it pretty clear what the Christmas season was about, but I still had the Santa beliefs down ‘til fourth grade. And to add another little minion to the mix to do the fat man’s bidding? You are putting Catholic guilt times ten on a little kid. Besides that, my parents never empty threatened us with taking away our presents. “You better be good or you won’t get any presents from Santa for Christmas! He’s watching!” Yeah right, I doubt that really happens in most households. I can’t see my dad in the customer service line at Target during the holiday season returning all my Barbie toys. Not. Gonna. Happen. So instead of the “no presents” gag to get us to behave during the season, it was more of the usual, traditional time outs that were expected year round if we were not handling things right. I mean, why should good manners and well-behaved children be only expected at Christmas time? If that’s so, leave that stinkin’ elf out all year round.

And lastly, spending $30 on this thing? Dude … no. I can find ugly toys for as a little as $2. If I really need to EOAS it someday, I will grab my Ken doll in his mesh gold shirt and green board shorts and get crackin’! I love Christmas. I love tradition. I just don’t love the Elf. Sorry, little creepy, gross, ugly tchotchke. Sorry, since you you were introduced in 2005, I’m going to hope you leave in as big of a flurry as you came in.

A Sixth-Grader’s Nightmare: Christmas Edition

6 Dec

709fd2be62450971e334b29ee4c7f54aMortified. Horrified. Petrified.

I used to flip through teen magazines to the back section, a place where girls would write in to share their most distressing personal tales of embarrassing mishaps. “It was mortifying!!!” said every girl ever.

How awful! That would never happen to me, I thought. And as I chuckled over their misfortunes, in the back of my mind, I prayed that similar events would never happen to me.

Wrong.

It was my sixth-grade year. Instead of a traditional Christmas chorus concert, the entire grade put on the play The Runaway Snowman. Four kids would lead the production while the rest of the grade chimed in as the choir. I was one of those lucky few selected to fill one of the acting/singing parts.

This is it, I thought. People will recognize me, my talent, what I can bring to the table. As a sixth grader, I was consumed with the ideas of popularity, fitting in and standing out (go figure). And without athletic talent, this was an arena that I could perhaps shine in somehow.

So after many practices, our class was ready to present the show to our parents. It was a Friday afternoon and I spent the entire school day beaming. I was a star, I was brimming with absolute joy and excitement. My fellow cast mates and I were let out of class early to prepare for the production. A band director’s office was our costume slash prop room, and we had carefully laid out our clothes and makeup ahead of time.

After the lead character, the snowman, had put on his ensemble and headed out the door, I prepared to put on a dark blue jumper dress and a pair of my mother’s high heels. Not only was I playing the part of an adult woman, I would look the part. Absolutely stunning. There was a boy in the choir that I had been crushing on hard core. I kept thinking with the blush, lipstick and outfit (forget the thick glasses, buck teeth and braces), it would be hard to not take notice of me on stage.

And standing with just my Pocahontas underwear on (I was changing from my sports bra to a training bra), it happened. The door opened. And not one, or two, but four of my fellow male classmates happened to be standing right there. Wide mouthed.

I didn’t know what to do. How did they get in? Why were they here? What did they see?

I started to scream, “Get out! Get out!” I suddenly crossed my arms against my bare chest, realizing what they had just seen.

And the guys started screaming and running from the door, almost as horrified as I was.

I leaped under the teacher’s desk, crouched, breathing heavily. Was this a dream? It had to be. No way would something this horrible happen – it was too humiliating.

The frightened boys had come into the classroom to get the props for the stage, and I had forgotten to lock the door for privacy.

Something that people have nightmares about just happened to me. A 12-year-old girl just gave some of the cutest boys in school quite a show.

I couldn’t go back out there, even with just 15 minutes until the production would start. It took quite a bit of coaxing from the director to get me to show my face, and the confidence I had displayed earlier (after displaying my assets) was completely out the window.

For months, I couldn’t live it down with students teasing me about the incident. The boys were also unable to make eye contact with me or utter more than two words at a time in my presence.

Honestly, I hadn’t remembered the incident until a few days ago. Repression has most likely hidden many of my middle school slip-ups – especially terrible ones like this one.

After the event, it was difficult to visit that embarrassing moments page in the magazines. Part of the fun was knowing those events couldn’t happen to you. But I now knew for a fact that they could.

And although it was the worst thing that had happened to me at that time of my life, a few years later, I would understand that I could fill a couple pages with horrible moments similar to this one.

Love NOT Actually

24 Sep
love-actually-to-me-you-are-perfect

To me, this movie was PERFECT. Absolutely perfect. If wanting to rip out your eyes is the definition of the word.

Have you ever watched a movie from your past and come back with a completely different conclusion than before?

Well, that just happened to me after a viewing of Love Actually on Netflix. I first watched this in the theater while I was in college and LOVED it! What a true depiction of “love”. It was different, it was funny, it was unique. So basically, it was a movie made for me. I remember raving about the film with a friend, and we gushed and gushed over the various plot lines.

A few days ago? Not so much. It was a ridiculous pile of sh*t. Not even a little bit of an exaggeration there. It tried too hard, it made no sense, and it wasn’t sentimentally tugging at my heartstrings whatsoever. It was just plain dumb. Was I on drugs in college? I don’t remember taking drugs … does that mean I did?

It starts off with a voiceover from one of the too many famous actors in the film, Hugh Grant. People are congregating at Heathrow Airport, while Grant talks of what real love stories are. So you get the impression that you are going to hear about real love stories. Prepare to get really disappointed.

• The first story is about an aging rock and roll star Billy Mack. He goes from zero to amazing in five weeks flat, restarting his career. In ways that would make Miley Cyrus jealous, he uses shock and awe to show the world that he’s still a viable celebrity by making fun of himself. Not by writing new songs or becoming relevant (so I guess that is true to celebrities now?). At the end, he tells his manager Joe that he is the love of his life. It never clarifies if the love is platonic or if Mack just came out of the closet, so the audience is just left befuddled.

• Next, we come to Keira Knightley’s character getting married to a man named Peter. The groom’s best friend Mark might be in love with Peter? It seems that way. But then we find out that the pissed-off veneer that Mark has is really to disguise his love for Knightley’s character. What? Yeah, I understand friends falling for other friends and having to hide it, but usually it happens in a shy, standoffish way. Not by being a total jerk. Well, unless you are a 12-year-old boy. In the end, he’s still in love with her, and the film depicts the three of them just joyfully hanging out together like they are in a threesome or just accepting the situation. So confusing.

• Colin Firth’s character’s wife sleeps with his brother. Oh, well. No mention of either character after that! Because five weeks later he proposes to his Portuguese maid, someone he has not been able to communicate with. Attraction = perfect couple. Not.

• Snape, er, I mean Alan Rickman, plays Harry (was this name intentional?), a director of a design agency. His secretary is IN LOVE with him. She does this by spreading her legs, wearing devil horns, blatantly propositioning him – we get it, you like Harry. Unfortunately, he is married to Karen, played by über famous person Emma Thompson. She is just too, too busy of a mom to notice her husband buying jewelry for his maybe girlfriend/secretary. (The movie forgets to show us if he actually physically cheated on his wife or just likes buying gifts.) The only bright side of the movie is when Mr. Bean makes an appearance as the jewelry store’s salesman. BT-Dubs, Alan Rickman, please speak up. You mumble too much. For all that I know, you just cast a spell on Harry Potter or were just covering up for forgetting your lines to this awful movie. If I were in the situation: samesies! The wife eventually figures it out, but besides looking a bit perturbed, she seems just “what can you do?” at the end. Because really, what can she do? I guess Emma Thompson will just have to make some more banana bread!

• Back to the beautiful Hugh Grant. He plays the handsome prime minister. He falls in love with Natalie, a household staff member with a filthy mouth. The little bugger! But dammit, the U.S. President, played by Billy Bob Thornton, is just in the way. He’s too domineering, too take-control, and too USA. He gets what he wants. So he flirts and flirts and flirts with Natalie, finally kissing her neck. Natalie doesn’t seem to like the attention. So what does Hugh do? Well he basically butchers U.S.-U.K. political ties because he’s upset. Super smart. At a press conference, he pokes fun at the U.S. President (an easy caricature of President Bush) and says that Britain won’t be bullied and that the U.S. needs to watch out. Chivalry, dammit! The British crowd goes wild – wild I say. Because who doesn’t love allies with a long history of friendship becoming enemies? It’s sooooo realistic. He even asks Margaret Thatcher’s portrait what he should do in the situation. I would imagine she would say, “Probably the opposite of what you just did, asshole.”

• Liam Neeson plays Daniel. His wife just died. His stepson Sam doesn’t seem too upset. His mom just died. He’s a tiny little kid “in love”. So he learns the drum set in five weeks to impress a girl. Somehow, he succeeds. Child prodigy. Liam Neeson falls for Claudia Schiffer. Did I mention that his wife just died like a month ago? Is anyone listening to me?

• Laura Linney’s character has been in love with Karl FOR YEARS. They almost get together, unfortunately Linney’s brother is crazy and keeps calling! Linney can’t stop taking his phone calls! Relationship averted!

• This British guy Colin decides to go to America to find hot girls. He finds them. American girls love guys with accents. No personality, dumb as a stump, but has a great accent! YAY! This storyline was SOOO needed.

The only love scene that seems um, “accurate” is between porn stars John and Judy. They star in a movie together, go on a date, and find they have things in common. The porn star thing is obviously weird, but the whole dating and finding things in common seems about right.

WTF, I don’t know what to say. Why did I like this movie? Did I just have horrible taste in college? I just, I just – I can’t. There was nothing real about it (besides the porn couple part with the younger Bilbo Baggins). So watch it if you want, but do it to make fun of it. Please. It’s just that bad.

To T-strap Or Not?

7 Sep

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In all this wedding hoopla, I have been plagued by very few questions. The ones that stick all have to deal with shoes.

Forget vows, music, or even my dress (that was pretty easy), I need to know what my tootsies will be adorned with (God, I hate the word “tootsies.”)

I told the dress shop exactly what I wanted in a dress. Audrey Hepburn-inspired. Knee length. With a shirt-like top. Ordered. Donesies.

What do I want in a first dance song? Neil Young’s Harvest Moon. What else? (I mean, it’s about a couple breaking up, so yeah, gotta love that.)

And shoes. Sigh. At first, my shoes were going to be navy Jimmy Choo’s. Too much money. Then I found the perfect off-white Manolo Blahnik’s on E-Bay. And got outbid in the last minute of the sale. I seriously was down in the dumps for a good five days after that mishap. I imagined myself in all my bridal glory posing in pictures in those glorious vintage shoes. But that wasn’t going to happen. Finally, to stop all the madness of pondering over heels, I sprung for some vintage-like brand-new Kate Spade tan pumps at a Neiman Marcus clearance sale. I’m a classic kind of girl anyway, so these were perfect.

So basically, what I am saying is that the wedding is set. Seriously. Everything will be fine as long as I have some decent shoes on my feet. (If I didn’t, watch out, bridezilla on the loose! I don’t joke about shoes. Never.)

But here we are again, a day before my engagement photos in Central Park. And a dilemma hangs overhead. What to wear? Oh, my clothes were again an easy choice. At my workplace, one of the major perks of working at a magazine is the sales. When the fashion or beauty departments have too much in their inventory, they open up their closets to employees at deep-pocket discounts. High-dollar makeup for a buck? Why not? I come home each sale with a huge grin and with a gigantic stash of goodies. So when one well-known magazine at the company held a fashion sale a few months back, I didn’t hold back. Ten bucks for each item of clothing. Maybe that doesn’t seem that great of a deal, but when I picked up an Issa dress (a brand that Kate Middleton favors) for a bunch of dollar bills, I saved myself, oh, around 600 bucks. It’s a red and black boatneck-collar dress that flares at the knee. And fits perfectly. So there’s that.

Yet…shoes? When I buy a pair of shoes, it’s a big deal. Like I am saying to them, “Welcome to my closet family.” I favor vintage-inspired pumps, and I have six pairs in the black color category alone. (Of course, I have a ’50s pump, a ’40s T-strap, wedges, a skinny secretary-style pump, CK kitten heels, and some dressy strappy sandals. Black flats don’t belong in this category-too many of those to count.) So do I go with the Ralph Lauren fifties-style? They are classy, and if I happen to tilt my leg behind for a photo, it looks nice. But so does the Kimchi Blue T-strap. (My fiance knew about my addiction way before we got engaged, so please don’t feel sorry for him.)

Right now, I am sitting on my bed about to Skype with my matron of honor and mother over this serious problem. Did I need reinforcements when deciding over a classic Iowa dinner for my reception? No. Did I have to have a long conversation about table settings? Or my flowers? I said as long as they looked like they came out of an autumn Midwest ditch on the side of the road, they were perfect. But shoes.

This may take awhile.

Funny story …

13 Aug

pilot-light

For a majority of my undergrad college career, I held a variety of jobs. I paid for my schooling, room and board, and I tried to make most of my money in the summer months. I worked in my dad’s accounting department, at a grocery store, interned at the state fair, and worked in the office of the university president. My biggest money maker was working as a bev cart girl at a golf course. I held on to this job for a quite a few years, as it really helped keep my school loans at a minimum.

Although the job was pretty self explanatory, it took some time my first year to get used to it. It was about turning on the charm, flashing toothy grins and delivering quick beverages to the golfers. It was about earning tips. You weren’t out there to make minimum wage, you were there for some big bucks that kids just aren’t used to. I wanted to be the best at my job, so I worked all the hours that were thrown at me and tried to perfect my bev cart persona. At first, I was really quiet and awkward, then I was loud and boisterous, and towards the end, back to being quiet but funny.

Part of the job was cleaning up the clubhouse at night. There was a laundry list of things that needed completed, and it was kind of scary, out in the country putting away golf carts in the middle of the dark. So, I tried to finish as quickly as possible and wait for the last customers to leave. But I am not a hurry, half-ass kind of person. I’m kind of a perfectionist when it comes to cleaning – with gleaming counters and sparkling floors.

Well, as I was cleaning the kitchen one night, I decided to really get under the big industrial-sized ovens and fryer. And low and behold, while cleaning up a couple of hidden old French fries from the ground, there were these candle-like things on the bottom of each appliance. One oven had four! It confused me, as no one told me about blowing these lights out. No, it wasn’t listed in the cleaning manual either. I was confused. But I didn’t want people to think I was inept, so I just went for it. I spent a good 25 minutes lying on my stomach, blowing each of the 7 candles out. I had had a long day already, and using all of my wind power was exhausting. I hoped that the manager wouldn’t make me do that every night, and I took a mental note that it needed to be written down in the manual for future reference.

It was around 11 p.m. that night when I ended up back at my parents’ house.

“Man, I had such a long day at work, Dad,” I said. He was watching a baseball game on TV in the family room.

“Oh, yeah?” he replied, half interested and wanting to get back to the game.

“Yeah, I had to blow out all these candles underneath the ovens, so exhausting,” I said. This got his attention.

“What do you mean, ‘candles underneath the ovens’?” he suddenly seemed very intent on hearing about my cleaning routine.

I then explained to him about the silly little candles and how I was disappointed that this wasn’t listed in the cleaning manual.

“You mean the pilot lights?!?” he yelled. I innocently asked him what a pilot light meant, thinking it was some kind of bright light that kept the oven aerodynamic.

Soon, we rushed out the door, while I called my manager. We ended up having to call some more recruits, and the crowd ended up at the clubhouse, very gassy smelling by then, picking up industrial-sized ovens and lighting the pilot lights. I was made to tell my story over and over again, as middle-aged men just looked at me incredulously, shaking their heads thinking “Wow, what a ‘smart’ girl.”

I finally knew what a pilot light was, and the rest of the clubhouse crew was lectured the next day on keeping to the manual. What was on it was all that needed to happen at night when closing the place up. I’d like to say that I really learned a lesson there, but no, I didn’t. Maybe it was stop being stupid. Lesson not learned.

Laura Ingalls Wilder Would Have Loved Sephora

8 Aug

007725Just like me. I finished On The Banks Of Plum Creek and thought, “Man, we are so alike.” Really, truly, I thought me and Laura Ingalls Wilder would have been BFFs. For sure. I always wanted to live like a little hobbit in a mound of dirt house and she did. And when she survived The Long Winter, I was right with her. Man, I hate it when you can’t walk outside to the store and get your frozen pizza fix on because of the minor problem of a blizzard. Or when the electricity goes off because of high winds. You can’t watch Step By Step on TGIF, WTF!!! She just got me. Reading on my bed, eating my Little Debbie Oatmeal Pies, I tore through historical novels and always came up with the same conclusion: We would have gotten along. The Secret Garden, no prob. Mary was me, just back then. Heidi, yeah, samesies. Anne of Green Gables, wasn’t that my biography?

I got along well with my posse of literary girlfriends. And I was pretty sure they felt the same way. My plot line of middle class girl living in small town America was pretty unique. I had a diary filled with mystical thoughts and deep observations, and my top ten boys’ list was pure poetry.

So I imagined days with my friends shopping at the Dollar General for sugar sticks that you dip in flavored sugar. Riding bicycles to the pool in the summer and ending the afternoon with shaved ice at the Tropical Sno. Besties for ever, Laura and I.

It wasn’t until I watched Back To The Future III that I realized we weren’t exactly, uh, on the same page. I had romanticized the idea of living in more primitive times that I forgot their water was pretty gross. Lady Speed Stick wasn’t in high demand. And that whole leg shaving thing, what gives? There was a good year when I just imagined switching lives with these characters and being completely grossed out. Weekly baths. The whole women’s reproductive cycle problems thingy (I always just compiled that into one word: Yuck.) Teeth. That was a big part of my squeamishness. We had a pioneer day in fourth grade. It was fun eating out of a pail for one day. It was enjoyable trying a dandelion on a cracker for one day. Bonnets worked, again, for one day. (ONE DAY is the key here.) But then I wanted to go back into my house with no cracks or bugs crawling about and curl up with a game of Mario Paint on the Super NES. I sucked at cross-stitching, I’d be no good during that time period. I’d stick out sorely, watching people, judging them. It just wouldn’t work.

My dreams of meeting my different century friends were squashed. Thanks Michael J. Fox for jump starting that reality. Now, anytime I read Jane Austen or Charlotte Bronte, I get lost for a moment and then jolt back to shuddering thoughts of bloodletting and major B.O. Yeah, I don’t even seem to care about the lack of women’s rights at that time, much more concerned with the lack of clothes changing.

Still, I always try to bring a character to my realm, very Lost In Austen. Elizabeth Bennett would love a good bargain at Century 21. Laura Ingalls Wilder would just love the lipstick options at Sephora. Never mind vaccinations or central air or the right to vote, but I just know Little Women‘s Jo would have enjoyed Tampax tampons. She just would.

Child Wedding Planners

1 Aug

In honor of my cousin Elizabeth’s upcoming nuptials, I decided to run a column I wrote a year ago about our try at wedding planning at a very young age.

Unfortunately, Elizabeth didn't get to experience a lot of this. Her doll's head fell off. It was unfortunate.

Unfortunately, Elizabeth didn’t get to experience a lot of this hair color changing. Her doll’s head fell off. It was very unfortunate.

Shoes. The reason I fell in love with the world of Barbie was due to her wardrobe of tiny high-heeled shoes that came in a variety of colors. I’d receive the doll in its hot pink box, open it, and proceed to rid the blonde lady from the zapatos on her pointed dainty feet. I’d line them up on a table by color, marveling at the multitude of plastic shoes. Sticking my fingers in the little holes, I’d walk them around, modeling. Barbie didn’t need them, I did. Oh, I’d play with my Barbie doll, but mostly, I’d lay out coordinating outfits to go with the shoes, excited by my expertise.

My grandfather built me this doll mansion – a three-story house with a kitchen, living room and bedroom. Each had its own wallpaper and carpet. Most of the time, while playing with the clothes, I’d arrange the naked Barbies to sit in various parts of the house, awaiting their chance to model my ensembles.

Eventually, I learned to play house, doctor or whatever with the dolls, as playmates insisted upon it. My sister enjoyed breaking doll’s legs or wrapping them up so that they must lay in triage at our Barbie hospital. My cousin liked setting up the dolls on dates, going to the drive-thru and out dancing. We’d even let them make out in the window, leaving them by themselves for five minutes of alone time, on top of each other, of course. Besides shoe-ing, I dabbled in hair dressing. One Christmas, I received a hair salon. After brushing and detangling their long hair, I grew tired of “playing.” So I “borrowed” some adult scissors and preceded to give a few of my dolls a freshen-up. Always a mistake, but it seemed like a good idea at first. For some reason, I always thought short bobs with bangs would work. Barbie looked so sad with her shorn hair, blunt with short spikes in front that stuck straight up.

When the three of us would get together, our Barbie event planning became grandiose. Oh, they would take the pink mini-van up into the mountains, behind the television set. Meander to the orphanage where our many Kelly dolls and friends stayed (adopting all of them in the process.) And maybe, just maybe, we’d hold a wedding to remember.

This usually happened when we introduced a new Ken doll to the mix. (Ken’s were not as fun to play with, but essential, so each of us had one or two in our collections.)

I had just received a surfing Ken doll, complete with gold mesh shirt and neon green board shorts. My cousin received a Disney Pocahontas Barbie doll. And she was beautiful. Her skin was a milky brown, and that hair. It was black, silky and seemed to dance in the wind. It was settled. These two were gonna get hitched.

My mom had just bought a new treadmill and was placed perfectly in our basement – which doubled as our playroom. We knew what to do. After dressing up the dolls in bridal couture, lining up their various friends along the exercise machine, we placed Ken and Pocahontas at the top, ready for their debut as a couple. We turned the radio to Lite 104.1, knowing the soft hits would add to the atmosphere and dimmed the lights (turned them off, more like it.) That was our downfall. We turned the treadmill on, unfortunately, to full blast. The poor bride and groom that had been seated at the edge were now throttling at full speed to the base. Ken was lucky, he flew into the wall. Pocahontas, not so much. That beautiful silky mane of hair became entangled with the treadmill floor and quickly became wrapped in the machine. Her head became detached from body, as the machine started to sound funny and quickly slowed at its own accord. The weird mangled sounds attracted the attention of Mom, and by the time we shut off the machine, she was in the room, bewildered.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” we replied.

My cousin’s doll was in ruins after only playing with her once. So tragic. Ken was without his mate and the treadmill never worked the same again. It wasn’t until a few years ago that my sister and I ‘fessed up to the disaster.

Did that stop our doll escapades? No. But I continued to play it safe by making lining up Barbie shoes my number one priority.

- See more at: http://www.freemanjournal.net/page/content.detail/id/518546/Child-wedding-planners.html#sthash.vwiLQtLj.dpuf

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