Target Special Edition Barbie

So apparently Mattel and Target teamed up to release a Target Special Edition of Barbie, which I discovered last week during a visit to Target. On the shelf I saw three models of the Barbies, aptly named Model 1 (the blonde Barbie), Model 3 (the brunette Barbie), and Model 8 (the African American Barbie).  The Barbie collection itself was named: RED.

Lookin' For Some Cheap Fun Big Fella?

Immediately I thought of a better name for this Mattarget Barbie collection: HO.

I dunno...maybe I am being too harsh a critic (or maybe I'm just jealous that Barbies 1, 3, and 8 still have super-perky boobs) but something about the way these dolls are dressed, coupled with their poses, makes me hate them. Plus, why couldn't models 3 or 8 be numbered as 1? As far as I could determine through an internet search, there are no other Barbies models in the Ho, I mean the Red collection.

So is Mattarget hatin' on brunettes and non-Caucasian Barbie models by calling them 3 and 8? Mostly likely not (although think of the irony if they actually did number the models with either the brunette or non-Caucasian as 1. Then I would be whining about why a blonde Barbie wasn't the #1 HO.)

Probably, I have just given all of this way too much thought..........

Salvation Army

Has anyone else noticed that this year the Salvation Army kettle ringers have been out since BEFORE Thanksgiving? WTF? 

You may be wondering why I am so belligerent. Well color me a crank. What follows is one of my first blog posts (slightly re-edited), where I am complaining about the Salvation Army kettle ringers. I think only 2 people read it, so I am assuming it's safe to re-post. Here it is:

‘Tis the season for the Salvation Army to strategically place a kettle ringer in front of every single store I need to go into. Their 'please give' tactic causes all kinds of trauma for me. Why? Because it makes it hard for me to just go buy my stuff without putting money in the kettle, and sometimes I don't want to put money in the kettle. And before you get all righteous on me, know that the Salvation Army is the one charity I’ve donated to every single year since, like, forever (and by donate, I mean at least a dollar, more sometimes). I know, their efforts help many people, blah, blah, blah, blu-blobity-blah. I get it, OK. So why my discombobulation? Let me explain.

The other day I went to the local Walgreens to buy a card. On my way out, I gave the kettle ringer my last couple of bucks. This left me with a few random coins as my only source of cash. 

I am going to stray from my story for a moment and remind you of yesteryear, when you could receive a red poppy flower or a roll of Lifesavers after providing a donation to the kettle ringer (although there has been some debate over these giveaways, as everyone I’ve asked seems to have a differing memory of which charity actually passed them out; but I’m sticking to my memory and it’s my rant.  If you don’t like it, get your own rant blog). The flower served as a sort of donation badge of honor, and would clue the next kettle ringer you happened to come across, that you already gave. The Lifesavers just contributed to tooth decay. Regardless, the Salvation Army discontinued this practice, thus leaving no visible sign of a kettle donation. 

So, back to my story. Next up on my itinerary, was a two minute drive to Jewel for a few essential grocery items. As I pulled into the parking lot, I immediately noticed two kettle ringers positioned at both ends of the store entries. Still in my car, I'm already distressed at the thought of my badge-less walk past this new kettle ringer. Why? Because he’s probably been standing outside ringing that clanky-ass bell in the cold Midwest winter for the last two hours, waiting for people like me to donate some dough. Except just two minutes ago I did donate, only he doesn’t know it.  And to be honest, I really don’t want to part with the rest of my available cash, even if it is only just a pittance.   

As I walk up to the entrance wondering how I can avoid the kettle ringer, I come up with a great strategy that I instantly put into place.  To the right of the door is a huge display of Christmas wreaths; I pretend to be so overcome by the unique beauty of the standard green wreaths as I am walking to the store, that I am too distracted to acknowledge the kettle ringer standing 4 feet away clanging his bell at 75 decibels. With my face pointed in the opposite direction of where my body is headed, I am practically walking sideways into the entrance. Victory is just seconds away when I hear the kettle ringer holler, “Happy Holidays Ma’am!”. D'oh, I'm busted. And double D'oh, for being referred to as "ma'am" (asshat kettle ringer, I hate being called ma'am. Do I really look like a grandma? No. I do not).

Now at this point, any other normal person would have kept right on going.  But NOT me. It appears as though I have some sort of mutant Salvation Army gene that compels me to want to explain to this new ringer that I already donated about 5 minutes ago to the Walgreens ringer down the street, only I don’t have a roll of Lifesavers, or a poppy, to show for it (which technically, is all Salvation Army’s fault), so if You, Mr. Kettle Ringer, could be so kind as to call your Walgreens kettle ringer colleague on his cell and confirm I already gave, I could get on with my shopping, guilt-free.

Except. I don’t say that at all. Instead I take a backwards side step, pretend to be Meryl Streep, and act so surprised to see the kettle ringer standing there.

“Oh hi-ya! Have you seen those wreaths?  Gor-GEE-ous!  Ya know, the store should really consider moving them further away from the entrance, because they got me so distracted, I almost didn’t even notice you standing there! My big bad. Hey here’s an idea, I’m gonna give you all of the rest of my change from my pocket. And you SIR, have a happy holiday too!”

Of course in the store I feel stupid, because not only did I give away more money, but I most certainly came across as a total cheapass. *Sigh* My only consolation is that I know I can soon leave in peace, because I already gave to that kettle ringer.

With my shopping done, I make my way to leave with grocery bags in hand, when I see that the original Jewel kettle ringer has now been replaced by a different kettle ringer! NOOOOOOOOO DAMMIT!!! This new guy has no idea I just gave the other Jewel ringer my last 67¢, plus another $2 to the ringer dude at Walgreens. And where exactly did the last Jewel ringer go anyway, lunch? It’s only 10:30 a.m.

I have no choice but to plot anew…..

Ahead of me is an older lady with a cart, who is moving rather slow. I decided to use her as a decoy: I will closely follow behind her and as we approach the ringer, I will finagle my way off to her left side, increase my stride, and thus avoid a France/Kettle-Ringer interaction. Except! The old coot suddenly stops short to search for money to give the ringer a donation, inadvertently causing an effective block, which results in near Jewel shopper collision between the two of us. And the new ringer?  He totally saw me. And very smugly declared, “Happy Holidays.....Ma’am.” Red faced, I scampered off to my car, giving nothing and feeling the kettle ringer death stare burning into my back.

Safely in my car, I wonder: Dear God, do I have it in me to drive up the road to the Ace Hardware for bird seed? We ran out and the little birdies love eating the seeds, and my kitty loves to watch the little birdies eating the seeds, and I love to watch my kitty watching the little birdies eating the seeds; it could really be a win-win situation, if only I can avoid an Ace kettle ringer.

I pulled into the Ace lot and looked for kettle ringers. There’s none to be found. Hurray! The lot is full, prompting me to park towards the back. The cold wind is whipping around, so I pull up my hood and keep my head down as I trek through the lot. Then about 50 feet from the door, I hear it.

That. Familiar. Ringing. 

I look up. Standing in front of the Ace entrance, I am dumbfounded to see a stealth kettle ringer. Huh? What? And just like Curly Howard, I scream a heartfelt woowoowoowoowoowoo, spin around on one leg, and hightail it back to my car. Sorry my feathered and furry friends, no birdseed for you.

And that folks, is why I suffer from Salvation Army kettle ringer trauma. My hub advises me to just smile, say happy holidays back, and walk past if I don't want to give money. But for me, there is no escaping the kettle ringers during the holidays.  Because, really? I just want to go buy my stupid cards, my stupid half and half, and my stupid birdseed without having to pay a self-imposed retail toll at every single store.

Celebrity Cabbage Patch Kids

Have you heard about the celebrity Cabbage Patch Kids that are currently being auctioned on eBay to benefit the organization CAN (Children’s Action Network)?  The goal is to raise awareness and funds for this charity, which finds homes for U.S. children who are in foster care.

Intrigued, I searched for the dolls to see what celebrities were available.  I am posting the options I found, along with my opinions and purchasing ranks for each:

Coming in at #5: Al Roker

Sorry Al, but I am not sure your doll would be appropriate for any child, mostly because your malocclusioned doll teeth look like they belong on a squirrel and could possibly induce nightmares. I mean really, what kid would want to sleep with that set of chompers next to his face?

Coming in at #4 Kristin Chenowich

The Kristin Chenoweth doll would be great for any child who…..ah….does not know who the hell Kristin Chenoweth is?

Coming in at #3 Katherine Heigl

I think the Katherine Heigl doll would be a popular choice for any girl who aspires to one day become an actress known for her diva behavior and love of cigarettes (both tobacco and electronic).

Coming in at #2 Steven Tyler

I can’t imagine a better role model for a developing child than a Cabbage Patch Steven Tyler doll.  Besides getting a blinged out Cabbage-Patched Tyler (The hair feather! The skull necklace! An Anna Nicole Smith tee! Chest hair!) I am wondering if the doll also comes with a bong, a STD, and a box condoms?

And finally, my #1 choice: Symone-Raven

My favorite is the Raven-Symone doll because I think she could also pass for Gabourey Sidibe, so it’s like getting two dolls, for the price of one.

If your interested in bidding or helping out CAN, you can find out more information here: http://bit.ly/u5nPQW

Forgive Me

Remember back in August when I put out that post that said I was writing a book and wasn't going to blog much anymore?

Why didn't someone slap me upside the head?

Because the thing is, I like blogging and I miss it.  I liked the connection I had with other bloggers.  One of my problems in August became that I ran out of things to blog about, because I was always so focused on writing 'stories'.  These stories took up a lot of time because I became extraordinarily anal retentive about writing something worthy, while simultaneously ensuring every word I wrote was perfectly placed. (But please note, I am NOT anal retentive about ensuring other things I do are perfect.  A good example would be the contact paper lining my kitchen cabinets. Those are not perfect.  In fact they look like they were cut by a crossed eye ninety two year man with one hand tied behind his back, who was using dull garden shears while smoking an unfiltered Marlboro.)

Anyway, by the time I made my huge August declaration, I had lost my writing mojo.  I couldn't think of anything funny or witty to write about. I was creativity spent. I was like a deflated balloon; a leaky Dixie paper cup; a crumpled piece of scrap paper; a...... uh, I think you get the point.

The other thing that was hindering me was the fact I was obsessed with my stats: How many followers did I have? How many hits was I getting? How come I wasn't getting more comments?  Which translated to FranceSpeak meant: Where are all the people?? Why don't more people like me? Why don't more people read me? Why am I so needy???

Also by the end of August I felt I needed to earn some money again, because it just felt weird for me not to. So I decided to get a part time job where I worked solely on commission (stupid idea people, stupid idea). But the part time job ended up being a full time job for about two months, and I was working with/for a group of people that should have been actually named Moe-Larry-Curly. I am not going to say what company I was with (mostly because I don't want to get sued) but let's just say it was a sales position where I supposed to sell stuff that ended up online.  And I am an ex-sales person, who has sold lots of stuff, millions and millions of dollars of stuff.  I know what I am doing.  And for all my efforts, I sold nothing and earned $0. Let me repeat - $0. Plus my new third manager was an ex-paralegal who had never sold a thing. And she was supposed to help me sell stuff. In fact, scratch out the Moe-Larry-Curly reference and make it Moe-Larry-and-CurlyJoe instead.

And the kicker? Well because I lost my writing mojo, I hadn't started my book either. So in essence all I had managed to do since August was alienate my blog followers, work a part time position that acted like a full time job, not earn any money, and become depressed because apparently, I sucked at everything. 

But wait, I'm not done.  I also think I even lost my mind a little during that time too, because I did many stupid things.  For example, once I left my curling iron plugged in and then set it on a pair of sweatpants that were special to me (does anyone else have special meaningful sweatpants? Mine were given to me by my dear Mother, who is probably wanting to biff me upside the head from heaven as I write). Anyway, apparently my sweatpants were slowly smoldering in the bathroom, which my husband discovered when he went to go pee, as our bathroom doesn't typically smell like it's on fire.  Fortunately everything turned out okay, except for my ego and my sweatpants, which I can't wear anymore, because the burnt marks are right on the seat and it looks like I shit myself. 

So what am I trying to say here? Because it sounds like I am: *whaa*f*cking*whaa*, right?

Wrong.  So is it: I am back bitches?

No, that's not quite right either.

It's more like: I am sorta back, bitches! (Can I call you bitches? I hope that isn't offensive. Because when I say bitches, it is with the utmost respect.)

Yes, I am sorta back.  I want to blog, but I don't want to be obsessed with stats.  I also don't want to write the long ass stories I used to write every week, because it takes up too much time and energy. While I'm at it, I don't want to have to doctor up my logo at the end of every post, because sometimes that makes my head hurt.  Plus, I don't want to be committed to having to post every Monday morning, either. Maybe every other Monday. Hell, maybe even on Wednesdays?

So can the few followers I haven't alienated accept these terms?  Together can we agree to be like bloggy booty partners, you know, use each other for fun, but the commitment is somewhat loose on both sides? I won't stress about long stories and stats, and you won't expect me to be write them?

Let me know. Really. I don't need long comments either, a Yes or No will suffice.  And as penitence for my abrupt departure in August, I will leave you with a humiliating picture of what looks likes my shit-stained sweatpants (although, please note that I swear my ass is not as big as it would seem based on the picture).

xoxo - France

See I Told You, It Looks Just Like Poo, Right?