Thursday, November 19, 2009

Grandma! What Did You Just Say?

If you haven't figured it out by now I come from a mildly dysfunctional family. Maybe dysfunctional is the wrong word. Bat shit crazy is better and this goes for my entire family, biological and extended. Now, as much as I would love to punish the whole lot of them by exposing their craziness, today is only about one; my grandma. At first glance she looks like a kind old lady, but then she opens her mouth and turns into Super Yenta, queen of the verbal bitch slap. (For my non-Jewish readers let me define Yenta for you. Yenta-(Yiddish) a vulgar shrew person, especially a woman, who is meddlesome or gossipy.)Please don't misunderstand, I love her for it. Honestly, there is nothing funnier than a 74 year old woman cursing like a sailor and talking smack. I can only hope that I'm half the Yenta she is someday.

I would like to share some dialogue from my last dinner time visit to Grandma's house. Knowing it was a gold mine of laughs, I wrote our conversation down the second I got home. I swear to you, this is all a true story. I couldn't make this up if I tried. My Grandma is hilarious.

After a healthy helping of pasta and meatballs, Grandma removes both of our plates from the table and goes for seconds.

Grandma- Jennie Would you like some more pasta?
Me- No, I'm full thank you.
Grandma- You don't like my cooking, do you? Every time you come over you barely eat anything.
Me- Grandma your cooking's fine. I'm just full and I'm trying to avoid getting a big fat ass.
Grandma- What are you implying, Jennie?
Me- Nothing. I'm just trying to keep the weight off. Everything isn't always about you.
Grandma-( glares at me while raising one penciled eyebrow) Yeah, I'm sure! Well move out of my way then, you little bitch. I need to get my big fat ass some more pasta. You know, it's terrible the things you say about your poor Grandma.

Once grandma polished off her seconds, we cleaned up the kitchen and talked about my youth.

Grandma- I don't know if you remember when you were little and we went to the pool?
Me- Maybe, why?
Grandma- Well, I could have killed you that day. (She then pauses and puts the dish she was washing into the sink to look at me.) You know, after spending time with you today, I probably should have killed you.
Me- Grandma! I thought I was your favorite. You want to kill me?
Grandma- Jennie, I told you I don't have a favorite and everyone wants to kill you sometimes. Stop being such a pain in the ass and hand me the rest of the dishes.

After spending 15 minutes washing dishes so that we could put them in the dishwasher, I asked Grandma why we didn't eat off of paper plates.

Grandma-I don't like eating dinner on paper. I always use dishes.
Me- Why, does dinner taste different on a paper plate? I always use paper and trust me it's fine.
Grandma- Jennie it has nothing to do with taste, it's about having class. If you want to eat dinner like an animal at your house that's OK with me. Just don't call me to come over.
Me- You know what, the next time you come over for dinner I'm feeding you on the floor.

Grandma- Don't be so dramatic, Jennie. It's not like I would eat your cooking if you invited me over anyway....Oh, stop with the face! I was just kidding.

After clean up and coffee, we enter her living room. It contains a sofa and a love seat that she has owned for 20 years. They are both in perfect condition and look like the came straight from a 1980's Sheridan hotel.

Grandma- Jennie, I think the baby has some chocolate on his face. Wipe him so he doesn't get any of it on my couch.
Me- Grandma, there is nothing on his face. Relax, your couches will live to see another decade.
Grandma- What's wrong with my couches?
Me- Nothing, they're fine. You're just so neurotic about getting them dirty. They're couches for Christ sake. Do you plan on taking them to heaven with you or are you hoping that the Guinness Book of World Records will show up when you die an award you for having the oldest and cleanest couches in existence.
Grandma- No Jennie, I don't think I'm going to take them with me or that your smart ass book people will come. I just like my stuff to be nice. Just because you like to live in shit and allow your son to use your couches as a goddamn napkin, doesn't mean I have too. You know you're such a bitch, I think I may slap you.

Once Grandma cooled down it was time for some Yenta style gossip. Someone in her condo died and Grandma shared the news early in the morning with her girlfriend, who also lives in the condo complex. Later that day Grandma's neighbor called to inform her of the death, unaware that she already knew. Here's how she told the rest of the story. I changed some of the names, so that my Grandma will be less likely to yell at me later for embarrassing her friends publicly. (Even though none of them own or even know how to operate a computer. )

Grandma- So Velma called me and said, "Did you hear Betty died? Silvia called me this morning and told me." I said to Velma, "Yes I did. I was the one who told Silvia in the first place." Then Velma had the nerve to argue with me saying that she talked to Silvia before I did and that I was lying. Can you believe that woman?
Me- No, that's crazy.
Grandma- I know, but it gets better. I was so annoyed that she called me a liar, that I hung up on her and went on with my day. Later that evening, it must have been around 9, there was a knock at my door and it was that psycho, Velma. I was already in my night gown, so I didn't bother flipping on the light, I just cracked the door open and peaked my head out to see what it was she wanted. No sooner did I have my head outside, she starts insisting that I let her in because she has something to show me. Against my better judgement, I let the bitch in and she starts giving me the third degree about our conversation earlier in the day. She was really getting on my nerves so I said, "Velma what is it that you want, because I just don't give a damn about this and I want to go to bed." She then pulls a cordless phone out of her pocket and shoves the caller ID in my face saying,"What does that say. Just look. I told you Silvia called me before you saw her." So I snatched the goddamn thing out of her hands and said " I see what it says. It says get the F##K out of my house Velma." And then I threw the phone back at her and shoved her out the door.
Me- Grandma! That is so awful.
Grandma- No Jennie, what's awful is living next store to that f##k head!

**No joke, that's how she talks to people. It's outstanding how mean she is, isn't it? Grandma has really learned how to take advantage of her golden years. This is her philosophy: "When you're old you can say whatever you want. Why? Because people never take it seriously, they just assume you're suffering from dementia."-Grandma

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Phoning In A Worthless Wednesday

"You would like to think you're hard working, but let's face it: Two or three hours after you get up in the morning, you're ready to pack it in." - Walter T Pratt

I have to be real honest with you guys, it's only a little over a day until the new Twilight movie is released and I have been way to absorbed re-reading the book and Googling cast interviews to put any effort into this blog. So, I'm phoning it in today. I was fortunate enough to have saved an extra blog for days like this. The problem is that it was one of the first blogs I ever wrote. Which means it's very safe and probably not what I would consider my best work. Oh, well... It still got you here and bulked up my views number, so I guess it's done the job. Enjoy your worthless Wednesday and remember that sometimes it's OK to do just enough not to get fired. Look at your boss for Christ sake. What is it that tool really does anyway? Besides micromanaging your ass and making sure you're not stealing computer paper (Which we all know you do anyway, you thief. ), he's basically doing the bare minimum too. What a worthless web we weave! Now read this and get back to pretending to work.

Driving Me Crazy. (Original date of conception 7/30/09)

After a long day of traveling with my crazy two year old, I'm ready to be committed. I always try to organize myself before a drive. In the passenger seat I keep extra juice boxes and toys. The center counsel contains pacifiers and the remote to the portable DVD player. Yet, it never fails that once the odometer hits 65 mph he loses his mind. The last two drives we have taken resulted in 3 near death experiences and one head trauma caused by a flying juice cup. The near death experiences I provided by over steering. It's always in an attempt to reach something he's screaming for. Once it was for the green dinosaur. I took the time to explain to him that he already had the red one, but the red one is a T-Rex and he clearly wanted the green Triceratops. Not that looking for Dino's is the only thing that leaves me searching when I should be driving. Sometimes I have to find the juice cup he chucked at me, because afterward he had throwers remorse and needed a sip of fruit punch to calm his nerves. I know letting him cry is smarter than putting our lives in jeopardy, but an hour drive with that little monster screaming at me is more painful than any wreck I could get my self into.

The long car rides with the "Mouthy Midget" are not the worst of it though. Now when we take a quick trip to the mall or supermarket he gets car sick. Unfortunately, he never throws up when we are safely parked. He always waits until I'm stuck in the middle lane with no place to pull over to start spewing like the exorcist. This then leaves me to drive the remainder of the way with him screaming "EWE, Yucky" and me rummaging for anything remotely close to absorbent.

I've tried thinking of ways to keep my driving dilemma under control and this is what I have so far:

*Duck tape and lots of it. It can be fashioned into a muzzle or restraint. Just make sure to do that before you start driving or it defeats the "safety" purpose.

* A helmet is great for protection in case of a collision caused by baby, but they also deflect flying debris.

* Sham Wow is another great thing to have handy. It's super absorbent and can be trimmed into sections to cover your kid and your car. And really, haven't you always wanted a reason to buy them? That animated crack head on TV is an outstanding salesman.

Though it sounds like I may end up looking like I belong in special "ed" more than Gymboree's "mommy and me", being safe on the road is worth the embarrassment; wouldn't you agree?
Wow, that was painful to read, but you know what's not painful to read; The Twilight Saga. Which is why I happily posted this. Now I can get back to what I really feel like doing today; fantasizing about mythical, underage creatures violating me...It's going to be a great week, folks. See you Friday!

Friday, November 13, 2009

The Redo

I'm reaching the age now where getting carded for booze and cigarettes is no longer mandatory. It could be because when I shop I usually have my kid with me and even if the clerk suspects I'm under age, he feels I deserve to self medicate. (Who wouldn't feel sorry for me after seeing baby gi-me-dat throwing a monstrous fit at my feet while I'm searching for my debit card.) Or maybe it has something to do with the bags under my eyes and bushel of grey hair I'm sporting on the top of my head . I'm not sure which it is, but I'm hoping it's the damn kid. Whatever the case, I get excited when I'm carded. Sometimes I get ahead of the game and have my drivers license out and on display before it is even required. Most of the time the cashier doesn't even look at it, he or she just continues ringing up my goods, while I stand awkwardly waving my ID in the air like some kind of idiot.

There are a few rare occasions when I get lucky and I'm actually asked to prove my date of birth. (It only happens when I am alone, so I guess that proves my theory that it's the damn kid.) It plays out the same way every time. I smile wildly at the cashier as he looks me up and down. Then with one hand on my hand bag, I wait for him to insist that I show identification for my purchase. Once the call is made, I spring to my wallet and hold my drivers license out like a golden ticket. A golden ticket that may or may not be mine. Though it excites me to get carded, I still haven't learned how to hand it over without looking guilty. I guess that's a habit that formed after years of carrying a fake ID. To this day, I never look the clerk in the eyes when I purchase a pack of smokes. I guess you can't teach an old juvenile delinquent new tricks.

With the back story out of the way, I will now direct you to the point of this story. Though it centers around being carded, it has a lot more to do with the things we can't say until it's too late. Last weekend something happened to me at the gas station and it reminded me that though I call myself the Mouthy Mommy, I am only tough when other people are far from swinging distance. It is true. In real life the Mouthy Mommy can be a real pussy. I like to speak my mind, but I hate getting my ass kicked for doing it. That's why I blog!

Last Sunday my wonderful husband took my son out for the day so I could get some writing done. About an hour after they left, I was hard at work and had burnt through my last cigarette. Unable to function without my filtered inspiration, I quickly changed into my track suit and set off to the gas station. Because it's only a block away, I made it there quickly and grabbed my debit card and ID( just in case) before going inside. On this day, a small Latin woman was working the counter. She looked about 45 and for some reason her hair was a horrific mess. It was really distracting, but honestly, it was none of my business why the gas station attendant chose not to brush her hair. I was there for smokes and nothing more. After briefly considering to enter her into one of those makeover shows, I order up a pack of my favorites and decided to leave before I had the urge to tackle her and run a comb through the mop on her head. Blissfully unaware of my need to fix her, she took my order and waddled back to fetch my cigarettes. As I waited for her to return, I tossed my ID down on the counter by the register. I really hoped that she would want to look at it when she got back and to my surprise she actually did. I was thrilled with her interest, but I noticed her eyes shifting back and forth between me and the card way to many times. For a minute my fear of getting busted for a fake ID returned, but then I realized that I really am 26 and instead of fear I felt sorry for myself. Sulking aside, I was getting concerned as to why the woman was taking so long, but before I could ask her what the problem was, she looked at me and said, "Oh, my. You look so pretty in this picture. It must have been taken a long time ago. You look sooooo different now." I was stunned. The gas attendant had just backhandedly insulted my appearance. The same old ass, gas attendant that looked like she had just walked out of a wind tunnel. I couldn't believe it, but she of all people, was calling me ugly. Briefly incapacitated by shock (And my fear of Latinas. Those girls can fight.), I didn't respond to her insult. I simply paid for the cigarettes and left. I was about half way home when I was ready to fight back, but by that time it was too late. The moment was lost.

There is nothing I hate more that having to redo the confrontation with myself, because I was unable to come up with anything when it mattered. I'm sure you have had one of these moments in your life. Where someone says something to you that is completely out of line and you can't think of anything because your brain has locked up. Yet later on, when you're all alone you're suddenly capable of doling out the comebacks like some kind of humiliation wizard. Think of all the times you should have opened your mouth and instead sat quiet. Times when you were reduced to fighting with yourself in the shower just so you could get the last word. These are the times when you really need a redo. Today I'm offering you that chance...

If you have a redo moment you want to get off your chest, take this chance to let the Mouthy Mommy know. You can share it in the comment section below this blog or post it on the Mouthy Mavens fan page on Facebook. Tell me what happened and what you wanted to say. I promise it will make you feel better and possibly give us all a laugh too!

I'll start the redos by replying to the gas attendant...
Gas Attendant-
"Oh, my. You look so pretty in this picture. It must have been taken a long time ago.You look sooooo different now."

"Actually it was taken last week. I got lucky I guess. It turned out that the DMV photographer use to work for Glamor Shots. Why? Are you trying to say I'm ugly, you old bitch? Have you seen yourself recently? You look like a tornado drove you to work."

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

In Loving Memory Of My Mother

Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does.Even for me.
-Stephanie Meyer

The world doesn't stop spinning because you lost someone you love. Life goes on. Days will pass. And eventually there will be a time when you will struggle to remember what life was like when they were still around.

It has been 11 months since my mother, Theresa Anne Nadler passed away and today would have been her 46 birthday. I wanted to take this opportunity to write something nice for her, but when I put the pen to paper, the direction changed and the content of this page is what I was left with. It's a little jumpy and incoherent at times, so please forgive me; vulnerable is not really my thing. So, a cheery, birthday tribute it is not. Maybe in a few years I will have gotten use to the fact that this is how life is going to be and I'll smile instead of cry when I think of her. Tonight my sister's and I are going to get together and celebrate my mother's life. We will have good food and plenty of tearful conversations about what it was like when mom was with us. Most importantly, there will be cake. Dead or alive, it's not a birthday unless there is cake and mom deserves a happy one no matter where she is...

In the almost year that my mother's been gone, I have thought long and hard about our relationship. It wasn't a perfect one. There were times when I was more her parent than she was mine, but I loved her more than words can express and I've managed to make peace with the fact that she did the best she could with what she had. Good or bad, I'm thankful to have had her as my mother.

Like anyone grieving, I sometimes ask myself if I told her I loved her often enough, if I visited as much as I should, and if I told her how important she was to me. I'm not sure what the answer is. I can only hope that I was able to give her enough of those things while I had the chance. It's too late now to beat myself up over it.

My mother's death was sudden. Not that it would have mattered if I had time to prepare for it. I still would have been shocked, even if I knew it was going to happen. I think it's because my mind plays crazy tricks. It convinced me that my parents were invincible. It fooled me into believing that there would always be more time and that my parents would live forever. Unfortunately, it was all a cruel lie. The truth is that for everyone, there comes a day when the deals we make with god must be repaid. And God doesn't care what you leave behind or the manner in which you cash in. He doesn't care that you were somebody's mother or daughter or friend. You just go blindly to fulfill your obligation, while those that love you struggle to pick up the pieces and move forward with the rest of the living. I struggle every day. It has broken me.

As much as I believe that things happen for a reason; I am still very angry with God. Not only did he take my mother, but he damned me with a mind that will eventually fail me. One day all my memories of my mom will start to fall away like sand through a sieve. A sieve that will allow me to forget the exact shade of green her eyes were and how small she felt in my arms when we hugged. It will allow me to lose the tone of her voice and what her house smelled like on Christmas morning. After less than a year, I'm already starting to feel some of that slipping. The scariest part of it for me, is knowing that there will be a time in the future, where I stare at pictures and question if the memories that flood my mind are real or manifested from the photographs.

Day by day life moves forward. New routines are set and new traditions are forming. It's sad how normal living without my mother is becoming. I am starting to have days when I don't think of her at all. Sometimes two days will pass before I realize there hasn't been a glimmer of her in my mind. I feel so guilty for that and as unfortunate as it is, I know that as days turn to months, and months to years, I will think of her less; there's just no way to stop it. Like God, time can be so unfair.

I hold on to the hope that things will get better the longer she is gone, but for now I miss her terribly. With every day that passes there comes more occasions to remind me that I'm motherless. They are unavoidable and heartbreaking. They leave me painfully longing for her; praying that she'll exist again even for a second. Sometimes I get lucky and I dream of her. But it seems my eyes open too soon and I'm just left wanting her more.

Sometimes it's difficult to be happy because I feel like I'm doing her a disservice by enjoying life while she's not around. My mother would have gone crazy if she heard me say that. More than anything she wanted her kids to be happy. That is why the hardest part of losing my mom is not the fact that I cry for her when I'm sick or that I forget she's gone and try to call her when I'm lonely. The hardest part for me, is looking into the eye's of my younger sisters when they need her most; knowing that though I may try with all my might, I will never be able to fill my mother's shoes. That void will always be there. All I can do is try to make the transition less painful by doing things for them the way my mother did. My mom would have wanted that and I think the girls appreciate the effort.

I miss my mother more than I ever thought was possible. For 25 years she was my best friend and a really great mom. I hope that where ever she is, she's having everything she dreamed of on her birthday. Oh, and cake... Lots and lots of cake.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

I'm A Bad Motha--Shut Yo Mouth!

How much do I love bad words? Let me count the ways....Just give me a minute to make sure there are no kids around or I'll be in big trouble.

I love bad words and honestly, who doesn't . They give you a way to express anger without violence. They show enthusiasm, joy, and are guaranteed to create a laugh if used in the right context.I think if used correctly, curse words can enhance any sentence. So why is it that I now have to pack my potty mouth away? Well, it seems that along with stealing my youth, looks and sanity, motherhood, in it's last attempt to crush my soul, needs me to alter my vocabulary too. To some extent I understand the need to watch what I say. I have a very impressionable two year old, who wants nothing more than to be just like me. When I laugh, he laughs. When I dance, he dances with me. He has even started carrying a purse to the store when we go out.( Though, I think that has more to do with his love of the color pink and show tunes) So I get that it is just a matter of time before he starts repeating some of the obscene nuggets I drop when I speak. The problem is I don't know how to quit. There is no bad word gum to chew, I've never heard of foul mouth rehab, and I doubt there is a cursing anonymous out there.

Since none of these things exist, my husband, Captain curb your language, has made it his job to help whip me into shape. He's very serious about his new role and I have to tell you, out of all the things about him that drive me crazy, him correcting my language is the worst. He cuts me no slack. The second an obscenity flies from my lips he's there standing on his soap box, cape blowing behind him, laying down the law. He's like some kind of Goddamn potty mouth crusader. I try to argue but he always interrupts me with something about our kid repeating the things we say at his religious nursery school. Then, in what I can only assume is an attempt to push me over the edge, he tries to give me a new word to use instead of the dirty one. Oh, and what gems they are. Instead of bitch use witch. Instead of fuck use frick. Instead of asshole use butt head. And so on...Now if you think people who say obscenities sound like idiots wait until you hear a sentence with one of my dip shit husbands substitutions. "Go frick yourself, Butt head." Really!?! I don't know about you, but that hardly holds the verbal face punch I was craving.

In an effort to compromise with my husband, I offered to only use the words that my son may hear on cable television. But apparently Captain CYL is running a household dictatorship. He quickly refused my offer and threatened to install a V-chip without giving me the password. In response to his unfairness, I stomped my foot like a child and insisted that he spell out where the line starts. If I can't use cable friendly words, then does that mean shut-up, moron and hell are contraband too? Do I have to stop saying Jesus Christ and Goddamn it? We're Jewish for Christ sake...It seems that Jew or not, taking the Lords name in vain is on his list of no-no's. While words like shut-up, moron, and hell are OK, just as long as they are not directed at the kid.

As the days go on this entire debacle gets more and more out of hand and my list of usable, fun and colorful words gets shorter. Just this week I got in trouble for using the word retarded in front of my kiddo. I wasn't saying he was retarded, I was simply describing the the nature of his new transformer toy. It was imposable to transform. I kept looking at the picture, while trying to bend and contort it, but it wouldn't change. It was retarded. (In retrospect I should have probably said I was retarded. After all, the age recommendation on the toy was four and up, yet at 26, I still couldn't get that bastard to cooperate.) My husband agreed that the toy was a piece of junk, but encouraged me to stop saying the r-word. Even more than the f-word the r-word is my favorite go-to when I'm frustrated. Now what was I going to f-ing do?

Angered by the fact my vocabulary was being raped harder than a drunk sorority girl at a frat mixer, I tried to think of a better way to clean up my language and still use the words I love so much. Sadly, I've only been able to come up with a new argument. Growing up my parents used bad words all the time. They just made it very clear that there are certain things adults can say and do that are off limits to kids. That's the angle I decided to use the next time my husband, AKA The Captain, starts in on me. Instead of cutting out all the things that make my life worth living; like bad words, cigarettes and cheap wine, I'll spend more time on teaching my kid boundaries. Just because my two year old can't be trusted with a pair of scissors doesn't mean I can't use them to clip coupons. I just have to be careful not to leave them where he can reach. My kid would kill himself if he was given a knife, but I still use one to cut my food when we are sitting at the dinner table. The point is, whether it's naughty words or sharp objects, I need to be straight with my kid and let him know that until he's old enough, somethings are not for him to use. After all,one day it might not be my foul mouth he's hearing, but someone else's; like his grandpa's for example. He needs to know what the boundaries are. And I think teaching him that lesson is better than me changing my vocabulary to shear ridiculousness. Honestly, that would just be retarded.

I realize there is a better chance that hell will freeze over than my husband buying into that speech, but I'll try it anyway and hope for the best. In the mean time I'll try to make peace with the fact that my potty mouth days are numbered...Oh well, at least my kid can't read yet, so I'm free to be me here.

Enjoy these fun clips. I feel they really celebrate the colorful nature of the English language. While you watch, think about how sorry they would be if they used The Captains substitutions. It would be a fricking shame, wouldn't it?

It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia is a gold mine of bad language. It's genius!

Yes, even Spongebob and Patrick could use a little soap in their mouths sometimes..

Monday, November 2, 2009

China VS America..A Worthless Toy Smack Down!

"People are probably trying to poison you"
"It's a conspiracy"-Walter T. Pratt

Last week my kid came down with a terrible head cold and I had to take him to the doctor. I hate going to the pediatricians office. One) because there's nothing worse than being quarantined in a room with sick children that have no regard for personal space and two) because there's never anything to read besides Highlights magazine and the toy recall binder. The toy recall binder is roughly the size of two encyclopedias stacked on top of one another and it is a real buzz kill. I hate finding toys on the list that I own. Not so much because they could potentially maim or kill my two year old, but because I spend a lot of money on these toys and I'm way to lazy to return them once they are recalled. Not that there is a point in returning them. I'm just going to use the money to buy another crappy toy that will eventually be recalled too. And God only knows what the company is going to do with the toy once they receive it. Probably repackage it and send it somewhere else in the world where people don't check lead content or care if their kid chokes to death. So to end the cycle and save a life, I toss the defective toys in the trash and go an my merry way.

(*** My little tree huggers out there try not to get you organic cotton panties in a bunch over this. I always wrap the hazardous toys in news paper, stuff them in a mess of plastic grocery bags and hide it under the soda cans at the bottom of the trash before I send them off to the landfill. I wouldn't want the lead paint leaking into our water supply any more than you would.)

Anyway, as I sat flipping through the book of doom, I found myself checking out where the defective junk was manufactured and yes, it was almost always made in China. Seeing "made in China" plastered on every page got me thinking about all the recent calls by American moms to ban Chinese made products from the USA. I wondered if it would really solve the problem. Would American made toys be safer? I decided to do some research to help me make a more educated decision. I hope my research will help you too.

When I got home from the doctors office I jumped on my China made P.C and did a little fact search. It turns out that though 96% of the recalled toys are made in China, only 10% of them are recalled because of lead paint. 77% of them are recalled do to design flaws. And do you know who was designing this junk...Stupid Americans. That's right, it was us. Did you really think the same people who are inventing robots and that PlayStation 3 you love so much would produce something as worthless as a Easy Bake Oven? No way. They simply follow the 77% of bad directions they are given and laugh at our ignorance while they do it. As for the lead paint issues, that is completely on the Chinese. They should have known better. However, I think it's an obvious case of "you get what you pay for". You can't pay people two cents and hour and expect them not to try and cut corners. These are the things that happen when you want something for nothing. And please try not to fool yourself into believing that American companies are more noble either.They find ways to cut back and make more money too. The only difference is we Americans have regulations. Regulations that still allow us to use lead paint, but show us how to do it with out getting caught. Regulations that allow small children to work in sweat shops in third world countries just so that you can save a buck when you buy a made in the USA product. So think about that when you decide to gather up your posse and boycott. If the products are not made in China that means the same idiots that design these death traps will be manufacturing them too. All while paying little children a dollar a day to do it. Does that revelation upset you? Well before you grab your torch and pitch fork think about this. Most labor shops are not filled with five year old children assembling Barbies and whatnot's while being whipped and starved. I have a close family member that was in charge of quality and shop control for a few of the big American factories and she gave me an interesting perspective on it all. The shops give these kids a place to go and make money for their family and it's a safer option than begging in the hot dangerous streets all day. The children are also guaranteed hot meals in the shops, which is more than I can say for them if they were at home with their poverty stricken families. I'm not trying to be funny or cruel. I realize not all of these child labor shops are good environments, but some of them are saving those poor kids from dieing of starvation. Just think about it before you hate-mail me or decide that your kid will be playing with home made garbage from now on because China and America are evil.

To all you boycotters who still feel China is out to get us, I want to commend you on trying to solve 10% of the problem by creating a new one. Just keep in mind that it will cost you double for that American made alternative and on top of raping your wallet, it will still be a worthless piece of junk that's probably made somewhere other than the USA. I hope this will help you choose your battle wisely....

**Sorry it was so heavy today. Let me make it up to you... I would like to send you off with a few worthless toys that were designed and made by Stupid Americans. Go USA!!!

Lawn Darts-

Made and designed in the U.S of A. This fun projectile reportedly cause over 6700 injuries. All the injuries occurred because Americans couldn't figure out that Lawn Darts were made to be thrown at the Lawn and not at family, friends and neighbors. In 1988 we the people of the United States could no longer be trusted with them and Lawn Darts were pulled off store shelves.

The Atomic Energy Lab-

With this toy created in 1951, you could be the first kid on your block to glow in the dark. It came complete with four samples of Uranium baring ores, a Wilson's cloud chamber and a Electroscope(to measure radioactivity). Included with the American made abomination was a government manual called "Prospecting for Uranium." The manual urged kids to go out and find radioactive material with the tools provided in the energy lab. If any was found they could receive a large monetary reward. The best part of this was that it was marketed to ten year old kids. (Were you even trusted with real scissors at the age of ten?) The Atomic Energy Lab was pulled from store shelves a year after it's release. It's sad that it took Americans a full year to realize playing with radioactive material is a bad idea...