Milk In a Bag

I lived in Wisconsin during fourth and fifth grade. It was okay. Kind of cold. Very slushy snow. The grocery store closed during the Superbowl, which was inconvenient, but then again, this was at the height of Favremania, so I guess that's to be expected.

Anyway, Favremania aside, the main thing I remember about Wisconsin is that our cafeteria served milk in a bag. I've tried explaining milk in a bag to other people - privileged people, people with cartons - but they never seem to get it.

"You mean, it was like a Capri Sun?"
"Well, kind of. Except it wasn't vertical."
"What?"
"It didn't stand up. It just...flopped around. Like a fish."
"What kind of bag was it?"
"Like a Ziploc. Only no zip. Or lock. But it was plastic like that."
"How did you drink out of it?"
"You poked a straw through the plastic. The thing that sucked about it was that it was really easy to poke the straw through both sides, and then milk would go everywhere."
"I don't get it."

Well, I can't say I blame people for not getting it. Milk in a bag is a messed up concept. I had resigned myself to people never understanding this particular tale of woe, and honestly, I was happy for them, because there are certain things people should never have to understand. But today, I found a picture of milk in a bag, and I am gleefully posting it.


See? I told you it wasn't vertical!

Milk in a bag has made me the girl I am today.

A Wise Tourist Doesn't Monkey Around With Grammar

I just waited on a clueless tourist with a unidentifiable accent (she asked me if Helen Keller had written any "poyms"), which in itself is not that strange, except that this chick was wearing a bright orange t-shirt with a picture of one monkey pulling the tail of another monkey, and the words "a wise monkey doesn't monkey with another monkies monkey." I don't really think it's all that funny, but more importantly, shouldn't it say "a wise monkey doesn't monkey with another monkey's monkey"?

I think it should. And that disturbs me.

Pardon Me; I'm Just Having a Fangirl Moment

Last night I started watching Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, and it was intense and well-acted and achingly sad, but because I was more in the mood for happy rainbow-striped unicorns eating cotton candy in a grassy meadow than piece-of-shit brothers robbing their parents' jewelry store (a literal "mom-and-pop" operation), I turned it off and watched Penelope instead. Which was so freaking cute I almost couldn't stand it.

Okay, so there weren't any unicorns, rainbow-striped or otherwise, but it did have Christina Ricci's face marred by a pig snout, Reese Witherspoon on a Vespa, a midget reporter, and best of all, James McAvoy.
Friends, I can tolerate you mocking my love for Stephen Colbert, but my adoration of James McAvoy will go unmocked. (According to spellcheck, "unmocked" is not a word; also, neither is "spellcheck." Well, screw that.)

The point I'm making here is that, like the movie he starred in, James McAvoy is so freaking cute I almost can't stand it. See?

Oops, wrong picture.

That's better.

If I had gone to high school I would probably have gotten my fangirl-like tendencies out of my system, but I didn't go to high school, so I am still capable of blind adoration of actors who are probably moody and irritatingly eccentric in real life. To my underdeveloped mind, James McAvoy is pretty much perfect, and he can act. Also, he's Scottish, and his shoes in that last picture are artfully battered, and he has good hair, and...

Well anyway, it was a fun movie.

So tonight I'll be finishing Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, to find out:

Is Phillip Seymour Hoffman capable of shooting up on his own, or will he continue to seek assistance from that weird guy in the silk bathrobe?
Is Ethan Hawke going to come completely unhinged?
Will his ex-wife stop being such a bitch?
Does Marisa Tomei own a shirt?

And then I'm going to watch Penelope one more time.

Too Early In the Day to Be So Ridiculous

Woman looking at audio books: I don't want cassettes. They go flying everywhere at night and you can never find them in the morning.

What?

Middle-aged woman in valley girl voice: Do you have any books on, like, butterflies...or dreams? Like a coffee table book? Something pretty, like with angels?

Well gag me with a sequin-encrusted fairy wing.

For Christ's sake, who are these people? Why do they plague me so? When will they stop?

Fly with the cassettes; dance with the butterflies; just leave me be. I can't deal with you morons anymore.

The Horror

At dinner last night I used the phrase "I've never saw." I blame the red wine (the menu boasted of its "peppery overtones") and mood lighting.

That's right: a single glass of wine turns me into a redneck faster than a six-pack of PBR. (Not that I've ever had a six-pack of anything - and if I did it certainly wouldn't be PBR, which is disgusting - but, you know. At least I hope you do. 'Cause I sure don't.)

A Gift For the Silicone-Pumped Lolita In Every Man's Life

Is it irony? Or is it just offensive?

Pro-Date Rape T-Shirt, Sold By Amazon (Update: shirt is no longer available through Amazon. Ha. There are still pictures of them, however.) (Update 2: The pictures are down as well. Which is good. The shirt in question was a three-quarter sleeve raglan emblazoned with the words "Anti-Abortion, But Pro-Date Rape.")

Maybe it's meant to point out the hypocrisy of the so-called "pro-lifers" - in fact, it probably is - but I still felt sick when I looked at it. If it is meant to be ironic, it isn't clear enough, and thus it has failed.

Of course, you can also get this shirt - in a junior size - at the manufacturer's website. Or this one. Or this one.

But no, I think my favorite is this "girly-sized" stunner. One would presume that once she gets drunk, the shirt comes off.

Actually, wait. I don't mean to be one of those indecisive, wishy-washy women with breasts for brains, but after further perusal of this charming website, I've found it. The shirt I want. The shirt I need. The shirt every girl is destined to wear:


Yes, it comes in a junior size.