What the hell, silly bandz? Seriously, you trying to ruin my life? Ah, yes. I do believe that you are.
You started out innocent enough. You were just another one on the laundry list of things my children need to have…the pillow pet, the snuggie, the brownie pan, the cupcake cake, the bump-it, the touch and brush toothpaste dispenser…yes, my children are a marketer’s wet dream. “You know what you need, Mama? PROACTIV!” Thank you, child, for pointing out my pesky little acne problem (but, it’s not my fault…it’s the effing Mirena!) Next thing you know, Isabella will be pimping that chin-exerciser contraption thing for my chin waddle. Children really are a blessing, aren’t they?
Yes, pimping as-seen-on-tv shit. As long as it’s shown during Full House. Oh my god, you guys, those Olsen Twins and Uncle Jesse are making a killing in royalty fees off of my children. At first I thought, it’s a miracle! A show that ALL THREE of my children will watch and not complain. But now, we have a dvr filled with 87 episodes, a child who wants to change her name to Michelle, andÂ “you got it, dude” and “how rude!” have permanently been added to their lexicons.
It’s all Full House. All the damn time.
The urges to make the meth jokes are strong with me.
But back to the pesky little problem at hand. We will deal with the fact that “whatever happened to predictability…the milk man, the paper boy…evening tv…” is in my head all the livelong day tomorrow. today we will deal with THIS
Apparently, you are not SOMEBODY unless you have more of these animal and circus and princess and rock shaped pieces of silicone than anyone else in your class. Apparently, if a boy likes you, he gives you silly bandz. Apparently, there are silly bandz CLUBS. Apparently, different silly bandz are worth more than others.
And apparently, you cannot buy this little suckers ANYWHERE.
Oh no, I have tried. I have driven around the city hearing about all the clubs my kids are going to get kicked out of if they can’t produce enough silly bandz. THERE WERE TEARS, people. TEARS. So, I bought them online.
Mother of the year, thankyouverymuch.
But, alas, there’s that little thing called 5-9 days shipping. My ears cannot take this. If those bloody things don’t arrive in the mail soon, there’s going to be hell to pay.
And I’m sure there’s a club I’m going to get kicked out of. No matter how many pink pancakes with chocolate chips I make for them…
If you want to see more of me – and, I mean, obviously, you do – you can read my latest entertainment news over atÂ Juice, my latest outfit over atÂ The Urban Closet, my latest advice over atÂ So You Want It, and my latest blathering over atÂ Aiming Low.