I like little inventions that make my life less of a living hell from day-to-day. My most recent delight? The Scotch wrapping paper cutter.
There are few activities I enjoy doing in this world more than consuming Mexican food, sleeping, making fun of offensively ugly people, and playing Scrabble, and one of those things is wrapping presents. Wrapping presents for Christmas gives me more joy than squirting out another J-named child does Michelle Duggar (more on that later). I have probably spent an equal amount of money on just the gift-wrapping necessities this year as I have spent on the gifts themselves: at least eight rolls of festive foil wrapping paper, hundreds of square feet of tissue paper, festive gift bags, colorful bows, dozens of name tags, miles of tape–not even St. Nick himself can top my holiday appetite and festivity.
With that being said, the Scotch wrapping paper cutter has made my life infinitely easier. Sure, getting out the old orange kitchen scissors that for some reason have what looks like spaghetti sauce dried onto the blades and attempting to symmetrically slice even sheets of wrapping paper worked for the last twenty years, but this year I made the upgrade, and boy, was it worth it. This is a nifty little contraption, ladies and gentlemen. Give it a go, and ho ho ho. I’m gay.
I don’t necessarily want to need an engineering degree just to figure out how to start a DVD. Listen, folks–I’m a smart girl, but I don’t appreciate needing to know how to use six different remotes to control one single television. When someone tries to help me, I feel like they’re teaching me how to fly a plane. Why is it so complicated? When I’m in the mood to veg out and watch Everybody Loves Raymond, that means I am in the polar opposite mood to figure out Pandora’s Box. Are we clear? On that same note, why are babies so good at using modern technology these days? Just yesterday I was at a lady’s house whose barely two-year-old son crawled over to her desk, climbed into the swivel chair, and started playing games on their desktop computer. How is this happening? When I was two, I was still shitting myself and eating Play Dough, not checking my Facebook status and ordering Nikes online. Maybe I should employ a preschooler to set my DVR for me. Obviously they’re more up to speed in the technology department than I am.
Last week I caught an episode of the TLC television show 18 Kids & Counting, starring the Duggar family, parents Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar and their eighteen kids. EIGHTEEN. And there’s another one on the way! Who needs that many children? Why is everyone trying to one-up Octomom? The things people compete for in this country are ludicrous. We compete to lose the most weight, construct the most complicated cake, eat the most hot dogs in 15 minutes—it’s endless, and now we’re seeing who can give birth to the most children? I’ll tell you one thing: I would definitely rather eat 90 hot dogs and projectile vomit all over the nearest sidewalk a hundred times than give natural birth to 18 screaming, pooping, crying, snotting infants. Is this woman chemically imbalanced? Who wants that many children? I’m not ever sure I want one. It’s going to take some serious talking-into. EIGHTEEN? This woman’s vagina must be wider than the Rio Grande. She doesn’t even need to go into labor anymore, the kids just stroll right out with their umbilical cord tossed over their shoulder like a continental soldier. I’ve got one word for you, Michelle Duggar: Tri-Sprintec.
It is SO cold in the house that I live in. I don’t think words alone can describe the frigidness. Seriously, it takes more courage for me to take off my clothes and change and avoid hypothermia than it took for David to fight Goliath. I keep secretly turning the thermostat up, but someone keeps turning it down. It is clear that someone is trying to murder me by freezing me like a pound of ground beef in my sleep. So here I sit in the basement, sweatpants, sweatshirt, and Snuggie on, sitting directly next to the small space heater (another great invention–thanks Ben Franklin. Kidding, he didn’t invent that. I don’t know who did), trying not to die. Somebody needs to set fire to the lazy boy to my right. Maybe it will create enough heat to get me through the night without losing yet another toe to frost bite.
Trent: “I have to do my push-ups today.”
Me: “Do you want me to sit on your back while you do them??”
Trent: “BECAUSE! Inch by inch, it’s a cinch. Inch by inch with someone on your back is hard as fuck!”