The other day I actually read the instructions that come with Tampons. Seriously. There’s instructions. You’d think it would be rather obvious, but hell they give instructions on boxes of figs, so sure, why not? Besides, if you’re 12 years old and feeling left to your own devices, it could be a good thing, although I vaguely remember being 12 years old (the last time I actually bothered to look at those instructions) and being very confused by the crap illustrations. Yes, guys, it comes with pictures. But they are the most peculiar pictures of hoo-hoos I’ve ever seen. It’s like they were trying incredibly hard to be non-erotic to the point of even outdoing the non-eroticosity of high school ‘health’ textbooks.Ever since then I’ve gotten into reading the instructions on heretofore ignored household products. I cannot believe how stupid people, both manufacturers/marketing/labelling people and consumers, must be for these things to have come about.

Exhibit 1:

Right. Ears I’ve heard of, but are there people out there so delicate that they use implements to pick their noses? Tissues, sure. Sometimes ya gotta tidy up, but this is a tool, folks, and it never never never occured to me to stick it up my nose. Till now. Now it’s all I can think about. What if….

Exhibit 2:

Our drugs are so mystically powerful, that if you let the little buggers even SEE it, irreparable harm could be done.

Exhibit 3:

I so much enjoyed the fact that this drug instruction sheet included the baby-talk translation of the word “rectum” that I added my own, in case someone taking these drugs (which are part of a fertility regimen, btw), is not mature enough to know what their vagina is either. If you notice the last bit, it also made me want to go ask my pharmacist how to put something up my ass.

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Today I got this message from feedburner via my Google Reader:

“Your Source Feed, http://www.bloggerbingo.com/bitterwomen/feed/, is now working fine. Carry on! We will let you know if anything bad happens in the future.”

Wow, like my own little personal CNN.

Alert!  Jayne!  Hubby thinks you have onion breath!

-or-

Alert!  Jayne!  Son is eating cookies 30 minutes before dinner!

Because the regular CNN just notifies me of things that can’t possibly affect my life, like:

Alert!  Jayne!  Britney Spears has done something stupid again! 

-or-

Alert!  Jayne! Lots of people die hideously! Again today!

It’s always freaking something, but I tell you, I’m sort of liking the idea of this RSS alert telling me any time something bad happens.   As long as it’s all about ME, baby.

But then it might be more fun to have something tell me when something good happens.  Damn.  Even technology has gotten cynical.  

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I’m a bit under the weather these last few days, so short post today.  Apologise in advance for what promises to be a spotty week, post-wise.

Weird thing: I was reading a book today (this isn’t the weird part) and I realised that whenever I see the word “balaclava”, I pronounce it “baklava”.

I must be more pie obsessed than I realised.*

*Shut up. I know baklava isn’t pie.

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I used to think I liked spontaneity, and in truth, it was just impatience. I would think of an idea, like it, and want to see it implemented NOW. That’s not quite the same thing as being spontaneous. Unless it’s, of course, someone spontaneously doing what I want. Or spontaneous combustion (can’t quite get enough of that one.)

I wish I was one of those people who liked surprises, but I rather enjoy predictable. I like surprises in jokes. I like plot-twists , as long as the writers don’t cheat.

I’ve always wanted to be able to go through life asking myself “what if”. I imagine that doing so would somehow make me a better person. But in truth, I have more than enough on my plate dealing with “what IS”.

One of the funniest blog stories I’ve read was along these lines. You must read What Would Happen If You Bought 25 Bottles of Nyquil?

Because I tell ya, this isn’t one of those things I would ever have known the answer to if she hadn’t gone to all the trouble to find out. Now THAT is one dedicated blogger (or one slightly off-balance human being. The line between those two things are often difficult to see.)

It just makes me shiver thinking of all the things that might happen if I actually went around asking “what if”.  Like… hmmm… what if….

What’s your “what if”?  I don’t have any. (lie)  They scare me!

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Is it the cleavage that makes chicks with superpowers super? Would Wonder Woman have been so wonderful if she hadn’t gone around in a spangled high-hipped, low-cut bathing suit with bondage gear attached?

Bat-girl’s superpower seems to have been that she could ride a motorcycle.

If I had a superpower, I’d never change out of my jammies (that wouldn’t be my POWER, mind you, it would just be my POLICY). I don’t like to get dressed anyway unless pushed into it, but wearing jammies all the time is slightly eccentric. If you’re rich an eccentric, they invite you to parties. If you’re poor and eccentric, they put you on medication. I would think having superpowers, like being stinking rich, would also put you into the “she can do whatever the hell she wants” category.

So it would be jammies, a sleep mask, and my side-kick would be a teddy bear. Okay not really that different from now, except I’d be able to read your mind and shit too.

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