Jen on the Edge

When you were a kid, did you ever have Sea Monkeys? I never did, but boy did I want some. After all, the packages always had amazing pictures like these:

Never mind that the Sea Monkeys that come in any given kit don’t actually have little scooters, those little dudes look fun!  Seriously, I’ve never seen a Sea Monkeys box that didn’t show all those little creatures partying like they were on a cruise ship and there were always those sexual undertones to really grab a person’s interest.  But I ask you, why did the Sea Monkeys marketing people always make the Sea Monkeys have pot bellies and thin gangly limbs?  There’s absolutely nothing hawt about that.  That’s just reminiscent of my geeky ninth grade science partner.

One year, Pete helped me fulfill a childhood dream by giving me my very own Sea Monkeys aquarium. Of course, the reality was that they looked not at all like the fun-loving swingers shown above and were more like something I’d stomple if it skittered across my floor:

If that’s a female, she needs lipstick, just like its little cartoon counterpart.  If it’s a male, he might want to grow some chest hair or possibly work on his British accent, as that always gets us American chicks.

Still, I maintained my little colony of Sea Monkeys until they all died, due to a cannibalistic coup that led to one lonely Sea Monkey who presumably died of boredom or possibly even tried to eat himself.

My fascination with Sea Monkeys hasn’t really abated after all this time, probably because I’m immature and just need to grow up.

So imagine my delight when I discovered this at my local Tar-zhay.

Do you see that key accessory on the bottom left?  A Sea Monkeys Wrist Aquarium! Take your Sea Monkeys with you wherever you go!!!!!  My life is now complete.

I gave serious thought to buying this for about 15 seconds, really pondering if spending a whopping $6.74 on this made-in-China plastic crap could be justified in any way, shape, or form.  I was SO tempted, I tell you. I ultimately decided that it was a bad idea, because I’d wear my little Sea Monkeys Wrist Aquarium while running errands and then would probably wreck the car because I was too busy looking down at my wrist, trying to talk to my little friends. Can you imagine me trying to explain that one to Pete? So in the interest of saving my marriage, I decided not to splurge on the Sea Monkeys Wrist Aquarium.

I was all set to tell you about this innovative marvel and then be done with it, but then in my online searches to find appropriate images, I discovered even more Sea Monkey magic!

Check these out:

• The Sea Monkeys Executive set — Complete with faux gold finishing touches.
• The Sea Monkeys Friendship locket — Nothing says BFF like a plastic locket filled with little squiggly creatures.  I’m not sure even Elegant would wear that bit of bling bling.
• The Sea Monkeys on Mars — Because nothing makes more sense than to send the Sea Monkeys to outer space.  I wonder if they come with wee space suits?
• The Ultimate Guide to Sea Monkeys — 100+ pages of information and humor (I think; I haven’t actually read it)  I don’t think this particular publication has been nominated for the National Book Award.
• Sea Monkeys t-shirts — here, here, here, and here.
• Sea Monkeys action figures — If anything is going to tempt me to give up my pledge to avoid buying plastic crapola, it’s going to be this one, but not at those prices.  Plus, I think they’re too tall; they should really only 2″-3″ max.
• Websites and blogs –the Sea Monkey Worship Page, Sea Monkey Mania, and a Sea Monkey blog.

For those of you who need an idea for Halloween costumes, I found this online:

Do you think I can talk Pete into wearing a skin-colored leotard?

For those of you who need a little something holy in your lives, I humbly offer this:

“The Last Supper.” But of course.  Do you think they take communion with salt water and seaweed?

What I’d really like to see is a little Sea Monkey Elvis, complete with rhinestone jumpsuit.

I suspect that some of you have some Sea Monkeys stories or might even know of another product I failed to find. Share your info here with the rest of us so that I’m not the only person who wasted time on this.

I’ve mentioned here before about how the girls love their American Girl dolls. Santa gave them each their very own doll a couple of years ago and then some well-meaning grandparents who don’t quite understand that more does not necessarily mean better, gave the girls two more dolls each over the course of a couple of holidays. The gifts were well-meant, so I’m trying not to be irritated by the fact that we now have six American Girl dolls in residence.

(And if anyone really needs to know what the dolls are, Graceful has Felicity, Jess, and Julie and Elegant has Nellie, Samantha, and Ivy. If the same grandparents give the girls more dolls this year, I’ll probably have a stroke from the stress of trying to be polite about it.)

(And yes, I have tried to steer those grandparents toward other gifts. Like I said, they mean well and I appreciate their generosity.)

Of course, if a couple of girls have some American Girl dolls, you can imagine what follows. Clothes, accessories, dolls for the dolls, furniture, and even transportation. If we had the space and the inclination, we could easily set aside a room in our house and call it the American Girl room.

It has reached the point that I’ve started recycling the American Girl catalogs as soon as they arrive in the mail, as the girls really don’t need any inspiration for what doll items are ostensibly missing in their lives.

The American Girl Company powers-that-be, in their vast wisdom and marketing savvy, figured out a few years ago that movies would be an excellent addition to their ever-growing empire of dolls and books and whatnot. They produced a movie based on the Samantha books and it debuted on TV at the beginning of the holiday season, thereby causing thousands of girls across the country to have a renewed interest in their dolls RIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS. I’m sure there was absolutely NO thought put into the timing.

We didn’t watch the movie, as it was on TV and there were ads. Instead, I waited a few weeks and ordered the DVD, which the girls have watched approximately 517 times.

The movie was such a hit that Felicity followed the next year with exactly the same timing and exactly the same post-movie shopping frenzy. Then Molly was in 2006. We got the DVD’s for both, natch.

Last year, we waited to hear which American Girl doll/character would be made into the next movie. To our surprise, there was no movie released on TV at the beginning of the holiday season. Oh no, the American Girl people are much smarter than that. Instead, Kit Kittredge will be in theaters across the country next month.

And, as you can imagine, the marketing machine is in full gear.

Earlier this week, we got something in the mail from the American Girl Company. Seeing that it was about the movie, and since I am planning to take the girls to see it, I handed it to Graceful and Elegant without thoroughly vetting it first.

Uh oh.

Not only was this mailing about the movie, it was about the doll and all the wonderful things you can buy for your doll. I’m not just talking about the $100 doll and her $100 best friend. Nor am I referring to the $30 outfits or Kit’s $22 typewriter. Oh no, it gets much more insane than that. It is possible to buy your precious daughter a tree house for her doll — just like the one in the movie.

Now before you say, “Oh, how fun!” I suggest you go take a look at that link. Go on, I’ll wait here for you.

Cute, isn’t it? Yes, your daughter could have SO MUCH FUN playing with it. Did you happen to notice the price? $250. Yes, you read that correctly. 250 large ones. All because you love your daughter so very much and want her to be happy. For less than that, I could buy some lumber and build my children a real tree house. Oh wait, I already have.

I can’t decide if the American Girl Company people are smoking the crack pipe if they think people will buy that tree house or if they really are geniuses, because they know people will in fact fork over that kind of money for their daughters and granddaughters.

I’m sure it’s a wonderful tree house. I know I would have loved it when I was Graceful and Elegant’s age. I know for a fact that my girls would love to have that tree house, as they have discussed it with me and within my hearing numerous times since I foolishly handed them that mailing. They have come up with various strategies, including withdrawing money from their personal savings accounts, as well as telling a certain pair of grandparents straight up about the doll house (and then batting their eyelashes adorably, I suppose). They may be in elementary school, but they’re not stupid and they’re quickly learning which grandparents they could sucker into this if allowed.

(By the way, if any of you know my children’s grandparents in real life, PLEASE don’t tell them about this tree house. I’m not kidding.)

Now here’s where I’m going to confess my lunacy. For about an hour there, I contemplated having Santa give the girls that tree house this coming Christmas. I reasoned that Santa usually spends about $100-125 per child, so this would be a little more money, but not a huge amount and it wouldn’t break Santa’s budget.

Luckily, I mentioned this to Pete, who immediately talked me off the ledge. In addition to forking over a ridiculous amount of money for a TOY, he reminded me of the sheer size of this toy. It’s 3′ tall and 3′ wide. That’s a lot of space to add to the already large amount of space that our American Girl crappola takes up. I agreed that he was right and we agreed that this would not be a wise purchase.

Yesterday, I kept thinking about that damn tree house and how much I would have loved it as a child and how much my girls would enjoy it. Buying it was out, I mused, but could I make one? Hell yes, I am that crafty. I have several large boxes in the basement; I’ll bet one of them would be just the right size.

So, instead of working hard yesterday while my husband and daughters were off on an amusement park jaunt, I spent a couple of hours channeling my inner Martha Stewart.

Pete recently installed a new sink and counter in our bathroom and that box was still lurking near our recycling bin. It turns out it was the right size:

What you see here is the box, plus some other pieces of cardboard that I used to create a sloped roof — instant attic, which I can assure you that Kit’s tree house doesn’t have.

As I was taping everything together, it occurred to me that I could easily cut a window to allow more light into the tree house, so I did. The window has working shutters.

While I was doing that, I remembered that I had plenty of paint in a variety of colors, so why not slap on a couple of coats to add some color? So I did. In fact, I used several colors.

While I was painting, I glanced over at the original American Girl brochure that started this whole mess. I couldn’t help but notice some of the fun accessories included with that tree house, including some sort of little beaded chandelier. Why not make one of those, I thought? So I did. It doesn’t actually light up, but that’s simply because I have no practical knowledge of electricity, other than it could kill me.

As I was beading, I thought, why not make some cute paper lanterns? So I did.

As I was working on the lanterns, I thought, why not add some leaves and branches to really make this look like a tree house? I thought about that a little more and then remembered that I had some fake flowers stashed in closet. Why not use those? So I did.

At that point, I decided that I had done enough and it was time to stop working. I moved the dollhouse in the living room, for the girls to discover when they came home. Of course, every time I walked by, I started second-guessing myself. I should have done a better job. The girls aren’t going to like it. It’s a poor substitute for the fancy schmancy doll tree house.

I need not have worried:

Do you like the forest we created around the tree house?

So, I learned a lesson yesterday — a reminder that expensive toys are not necessary. Imagination is what wins every time.

You all know the game “Where’s Waldo?”, right? Today we are going to play “Where’s Jen’s Humor?” The rules are simple: We’re going to look around Jenworld and see where my Humor could be hiding. Look carefully, as my Humor appears to be well hidden and I just can’t find it.

Let’s start in the Jenworld Blogging Headquarters. Is my Humor hidden under the stack of old documents I need to shred:

Nope, not there.

Let’s mosey across the hall to the living room.

Is my Humor under the pile of crap on the coffee table:

Nope, not there either.

What about under the pile of vacation photos I’ve tossed on the floor and ignored for days and days:

Not there either.

Hmmm… This is really perplexing. Let’s go upstairs and see if my Humor is up there.

Is my Humor in Graceful’s room, which she has been asked repeatedly to clean:

There’s definitely no Humor hiding in there.

How about next door in Elegant’s room:

Not in there either.

What about in the laundry? Something could hide in there:

Nope not there either.

Well, this is really strange. I can’t find my Humor anywhere. I guess that means I have no Humor to share with you today. So sorry. I’ll try again tomorrow.

Our demands have been met.

We will offer photographic proof on the 25th.

A message to my brother and sister-in-law:

WE HAVE YOUR SON’S TIGGER:

DO NOT CALL THE POLICE.

TIGGER IS SAFE AND UNHARMED. (AND NOW CLEAN. HE SMELLED LIKE BABY DROOL. BLECH.)

PAYMENT: BRING THE BOY TO OUR HOUSE BY NOON ON CHRISTMAS DAY.

IF YOU DO NOT COMPLY, TIGGER GETS IT.

My fab friend Melissa has provided me with a fun new toy: A church sign generator.

The possibilities, they are endless. But here’s my first attempt:

One of my favorite blogs is Mamarazzi. Every morning I check with bated breath, hoping for a new entry. One that will make me laugh or smirk. Or both.

Yesterday, they had a leetle ol’ contest to caption a photo of Britney Spears. And I won.

Woot!

There’s no prize, other than the pride of a job well done. And I do feel most satisfied. Do you think I can put this on my resume?

Y’all should click on over there and read all the entries, which were damn hilarious. My acceptance speech is #18.

[With apologies to my brother and sister-in-law, because I just couldn't help myself.]

Dear Aunt Jen,

Halloween’s coming. My first one ever! I’m so excited. I get to wear a costume and have all the wild fun that a seven-month-old baby has on Halloween.

The problem is that Mom and Dad aren’t letting me be COOL. They want me to be CUTE. This is what they got me:

A freaking penguin!?!? Are they shitting me? This picture is going to come back to haunt me, I just know it.

My cousins are going as Star Wars characters and I want in on the action.

THIS is what I want to be:

You see that? That is one bad mofo. No one calls Vader cute. (Just like no one puts Baby in a corner — but that’s another story.)

I even let my sticky fingers do some research. Here’s where you can buy my costume and save me from ignominy.

Help me Aunt Jen. You’re my only hope.

Love,
Micah

[And, just for shits and giggles, here's another recent photo...]

(For part 1, see here.)

Once upon a time, after the ‘happily ever after’ part, things weren’t so great in the pumpkin patch. The man pumpkin and the woman pumpkin weren’t getting along. They weren’t connecting. They weren’t happy.

The man pumpkin went on a “business trip” to Las Vegas. While there, he met a showgourd:

Unfortunately, what happens in Vegas doesn’t always stay in Vegas.

The woman pumpkin found out about the other gourd and kicked the man pumpkin’s lyin’ cheatin’ vine out of the patch. She retained a good lawyer and got custody of the gourds:

The man pumpkin rolled quickly back to Vegas to rekindle his romance with the showgourd.

Unfortunately, the showgourd was the gourdfriend of Anthony “Tiny” Pumpkinoli, the boss of the local mob:

Here are some of Tiny Pumpkinoli’s associates:

Vinnie

And his brother Carmine

These were not nice pumpkins.

Tiny was quite upset about his gourdfriend and ordered a hit on the dumb ass man pumpkin:

And that was the end of that.

The end.