What is wrong with children's toys?

My sister and I were Barbie girls. We had tons of Barbies (don't you dare call them dolls), multiple cars, the dream house.

The works.

And since our childhood, Barbie has undergone multiple rounds of plastic surgery to shrink her bust, expand her waist, and reshape her hips. Because several people felt that her unrealistic body was prompting little girls to eat less and wear less.

Barbie has also been dating Ken for decades. And both of them have also undergone procedures to make sure their genitalia is as un-genital like as possible.

Because God forbid some little girl knows that men have penises and women have ass cracks.

Yet today, toddlers are given these toys.

Yo Gabba Gabba character, a giant dildo with one eye

Sing-A-Ma-Jig, looks to go along great with the above Gabba

And all I'm going to say about these horrific toys is this:
If Barbie is considered dirty, what in the hell do people say about these creepy toys? Usually these items are illegal in the state of Texas unless labeled "cake topper."

Next bachelorette party I attend, guess what the bride is getting.

I'd hate to hear what Freud thought of this.

Today, after a considerable amount of job-related stressors attacked me like buck shot, I realized that I was working with left my hand firmly wrapped around my throat.

And I panicked a bit.

Not only because I looked weird in my masochistic pose, but because I was so subconsciously angered by a particular project that I was trying to off myself in public.

Did anyone see? And if so, why didn't anyone stop me?

I have  dangerously expressive gestures anyway. (Another writer who shares my plight works by the manta "hide your face.") It's not unusual for someone to walk by me and make some comment about my being deep in thought, frustrated, or elated. I'll smile when I write something I enjoy. I'll slap my forehead when I write something particularly bad (or someone makes an asinine comment). Or I'll blankly stare out the window, at ceiling tiles, or at my pencil cup as I search for the right grouping of words.

All of this when something small happens. I over exaggerate with my body what I'm feeling on the inside.

But never before have I so unknowingly slipped a hand around my throat and started to squeeze.

Perhaps it's time to take up a new hobby.

I have a deal for the bed bugs.

Dear Bed Bugs,

I have a few family members around the country who've had to deal with exterminating you. And the whole experience sounds awful.

Steaming furniture. Bagging books. Washing everything including curtains. Temporarily moving out. Spending assloads of money.

I don't want to do any of that.

So I'll cut you a deal, Bed Bugs. I hear that you like tasty tasty blood. In fact, I hear you love it. So I will gladly give you a lip-smacky vial of my sweet vegetarian blood every week if you promise not to infest my home.

I'll even deliver it to wherever you'd like.

Think about it. Fragrant, veggie blood. I'll even eat extra fruit so it's super sugary with hints of citrus. And just think, you won't have to try and break through my skin. Extra bonus!

Act now, Bed Bugs. I'm completely serious.

I will make beautiful music.

When I was little, I wanted to learn how to play the piano.

I saw tons of my friend playing talk about going to their piano lessons. And I wanted to go to piano lessons, too.

So I begged my parents. And they said, "No." Because they felt that I would get bored. And it would be a waste of money.

We had an out-of-tune piano in our house. And I would spend hours banging on the keys. Making little tunes. Writing songs that I can sort of still remember. Sounding out things like "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and "Mary Had a Little Lamb."

But even after bleeding as much dedication as a seven year old could, my parents still wouldn't give me piano lessons. And being the eighties, I couldn't simply google "how to play the piano" like I can today.

So when we started playing the recorder, those simple little plastic instruments in the third grade, I practiced and practiced until I was the best recorder player in class. I played in my room after school. Before dinner. After dinner. I could play any song in that book the teacher gave us.

Still. My parents felt I'd get bored with the piano. I think they were just cheap. Or they thought dance lessons were more feminine (after all, I wasn't allowed to take karate, either).

So after years of being discouraged from learning the piano, at 27 years old, I googled "how to play the piano."

I also bought myself a keyboard. And I've been learning how to read music. I already know all of the keys. And  I'm starting to be able to play the easy songs (although playing with two hands at once is still beyond me, but it'll happen).

I'm going to do this. I can do this.

I taught myself how to ride a bike when I was in third grade (late bloomer, I know; but I had no one to teach me).

I taught myself how to do back handsprings. And then a series of back handsprings. And then with a flip in the end. And to salto off of a balance beam.

I taught myself how to swim. And dive. Sort of.

And I'm going to teach myself how to play beautiful music. It's not going to be easy. But neither was waiting twenty years to learn.

I am officially a professional.

The dictionary definition of a professional is someone who gets paid to do something.

It's a lose definition, but you get the gist.

Well, the dictionary is wrong. In order to be a professional, one must master the art of walking away while still engaged in conversation.

Not ending the conversation and then departing. Actually finishing up a sentence while increasing distance. It's multitasking at it's finest. And only the best professionals do it well.

EXAMPLE 1
Person 1: This is great.
Person 2: I appreciate that.
Person 1: Thanks for getting it to me so quickly.
Person 2 (while walking away): Let me know if you need anything else.

EXAMPLE 2
Both people are approaching one another in the hallway.
Person 1: Hey, how was your weekend.
Person 2: It was fantastic. Did you go to Six Flags with your family?
Now they are side by side, but only for a moment because they're both still walking.
Person 1: Sure did. I won a basketball.
Person 2: Did you play in college?
They are now walking away from one another and not facing.
Person 1: Sure did.

Over the course of the last few weeks, I've been slowly observing this phenomenon. And I'm finally getting the hang of it.

Hooray. My parents would be so proud.

I usually don't drink while I write.

There's one week out of every month that I refer to as Hell Week.

And no, we're not talking about that week.

I have a monthly writing assignment (that I absolutely love) that's a ton of work for a relatively short amount of time.

So for that week, I'm usually writing late into the night and burning my brain with the glow of a very large computer screen.

Some of the things I have to write come easily. Some of them require more time-eating research than I'd prefer to do. And some just bust my non-existant balls.

Like this one thing I have to write tonight. I don't even know where to start. It's a ridiculous little thing that's so far outside of my comfort zone that I had to go to the liquor cabinet.

I never drink while I write. Er, I never start writing and need a drink. After all, I can't help it if my glass of wine from dinner follows me into the home office. Plus that glass usually take three hours to drink.

I digress. I don't purposefully drink to alter myself to alter my writing.

Drinking makes me fuzzy, not funny, slow, and a poor judge of taste.

But without my little glass of flavored vodka, there's no way in Hell I'd get through this one piece of an otherwise overflowing Hell Week.

Cheers, friends.

I really hate censorship.

Have you heard of the phenomenon "Shit my dad says."

It's hilarious. It's basically insane ramblings from someone's hilarious father (in a nutshell, anyway).

And one of the big networks is adapting the concept into a TV show. And they've decided to call it "[Funny Symbols That Imply a Censored Word] My Dad Says."

That's right. They're using symbols. They're not saying "shit."

And people are getting their fucking panties in a tight little wad and then shoving that tight little wad up their puckered asses like little bitches.

Because symbols mean there's a dirty word. GASP! You know what else means a dirty word? Darn. Or fiddle sticks. Or oh my stars. Or golly geez.

Using *&%# in type when you're expressing shock is no different than keying, "Shoot!"

I just can't believe people are getting offended by an asterisk. If they're so worried about their kids learning a dirty word (that isn't even there), tell the kids that the symbols mean kablooey, blast, rats, or drat.

I'm glad William Shatner (whom I will now refer to as the Shat) is on board with this show. The guy's got a temper and he's bound to say some brilliant stuff about these censor-happy fucktards.

Let the Shat hit the fan.