Truth in advertising

I got a phone call from untitledmother the other day. She had my sister-in-law sign her up for eHarmony, and she wanted a good photo of herself for posting purposes. You know, a photo in which her head isn’t being swallowed by her neck and her teeth are a color other than camel.If she had her way, she’d have us Photoshop her to within an inch of her life, removing the rolls and wrinkles, giving her hair, bone structure and other such physical accoutrements. I feel bad for the poor schlump who responds to her post. There he’ll sit in a coffee shop, waiting for Sophia Loren to come walking in the door. Instead, he’ll get Jabba the Hut.

On her profile, she listed the following as her priorities: her children (the ones she shops for at the dollar store only after she has spent the bulk of her money on Lancome for herself), church (the one she only attends every six months and blames it on pedophile priests), and travelling. Stopping by the KarmelKorn stand in the mall qualifies as travelling, no?

In reality, the last time she travelled was five years ago, and it was with me. We went on a cruise together. She got so stressed out by the whole experience that she spent the entire flight home in the airplane’s bathroom with a case of the atomic shits. She emerged from the crapper looking like she’d just spent a year in the bush, eating grubs and sleeping in an earthen quonset. untitledhusband picked us up from the airport that day and about lost his shit when he saw her. His amusement was soon replaced by horror when she placed a newspaper under herself in our car, and then proceeded to soil it like a common barn animal.

One of the traits that she listed as a dislike was “laziness.” This, from a woman who sits for days (again, I wish I was exaggerating) on her sofa, living vicariously through the old westerns, made-for-TV movies and the trashy dog-eared novels that she denies reading. If not for bathroom and food breaks, she’d get no exercise at all. Every now and then, I’ll get a phone call from her on Saturday afternoon. “Say, did you see this movie about the woman whose husband has three legs?” “No, mother, I didn’t catch that one. Was it on Bravo? PBS? HBO? Oh — it was on LIFETIME.” My TIVO must’ve been busy taping re-runs of “Walker, Texas Ranger.”

Someone needs to remind her that dating would require her to actually comb the back of her hair and maybe even walk to her car. Such revelation just might sour this whole eHarmony thing a bit for her. C’mon mother. Get real. You don’t want a boyfriend. You want a little man servant — someone to shave the dead skin off your heels and fetch you chocolate covered peanuts.

Swedes, shopping and the Shanghai Shits.

While untitledson was away this weekend, untitledhusband and I tackled the most unholy of chores — painting the living room. Should be a simple task, right? Well christ. It took three days. And right now, I’m out of my mind, due to the manual labor and such, which I so clearly am not cut out for. It may also have something to do with all Goof Off paint remover I’ve been huffing (surely the high point of the weekend). Reading the can, I see it says something about prolonged exposure and brain/nerve damage. Now you tell me.

In an effort to jam-pack our weekend with everything we cannot do when untitledson is here, untitledhusband and I also decided to visit Ikea. We shopped until we lost our religion (which for us, is about four hours), then drove back home. One afternoon in that store, and I would’ve thought nothing of suffocating the random screaming child in a flokati rug.

Our experience has left me enlightened. First, I am in awe of that shopping cart escalator thing (you know, the device that latches onto your shopping cart and heaves it to the next floor as you ride the escalator next to it). Those crazy Swedes. They’ve now officially made up for the wretched Ace of Base.

Secondly, it seems anything tastes good after walking behind a loaded shopping cart for four hours. ANYTHING. In a shopping-induced delirium, untitledhusband and I wolfed down a plateful of Swedish meatballs and declared it the BEST FOOD EVER. I had wanted to eat at Panda Express a few hours earlier, but decided to forego, lest I get a debilitating case of the Shanghai Shits. Might as well have enjoyed the sesame chicken, because the Subway I opted for ended up giving me the squirts. Yes, Subway. Given that their food is fresh and all, I can only surmise that my Sandwich Artist must’ve wiped his ass with my Italian roll.

As you can tell by the photo, we took in quite the kill. Now, to assemble it all. I must admit that I feel a bit overwhelmed, in a minimalist chic sort of way.

Ikea Kill