Yah, it's a picture of my bathroom closet.
Big chunks of time go by in Bloggerville without a good, reportable get outta here moment. Every day is the same: You get up, go to your job, work at whatever pays the bills until dinner, then go to bed and start the cycle again.
And then this week, I took a few personal moments, if you know what I mean, to open a magazine. Just my luck — stuck here and all I have is Consumer Reports. Not the greatest photos like my scrapbooking titles, but if you're going to be a while, it has some in-depth reading to keep you glued to your seat.
The May 2009 issue rates toilet paper.
That in itself was ironic enough. But you see, my husband has always insisted we buy Northern tissue. Not Cottonelle, not Angel, not White Cloud. God forbid I buy a store brand. I've spent 26 years in a personal relationship with Northern for reasons he could not explain to my satisfaction. (I accused him of having a thing for the little girls on the logo.) For Pete's sake, the man doesn't even use as much of it as I do, but somehow his quirky buying habits have ruled the shopping cart.
Now CR has rated Quilted Northern Ultra Plush at the top of its rankings. It won categories like softness and tearing ease. while the Soft and Strong version scores well on those plus disintegration. (OK, who sits on the crapper and worries about this kind of thing? As long as there is enough of it and it doesn't leave scratch marks, I'm good.)
So at last I have the answer to a 26-year mystery in our house: We buy Northern because my husband reads Consumer Reports on the john. He's lucky I don't make him wipe with that next week.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
I may have officially seen it all.
I was standing in the seasonal aisle at Hobby Lobby (yes, I hang out there enough to know it by its technical name), looking for crafts or geegaws or something to put in my niece and nephew's Easter baskets this year. When they start selling this stuff at 50 percent off a month before the holiday, you know it's all cheap crap, but then they are kids. Who cares if it's some off-brand toy trucked in by a nearly unknown distributor?
So I was rather happy to find color-it-yourself paddle balls. You know, the kind where they put a rubber ball on a piece of elastic and you whap the snot out of that ball with the paddle as it bounces back? I suppose it teaches coordination; I rarely get past 5 hits before I miss and the ball swings back and smacks me in the eye.
There's one with Easter eggs to decorate, and a sweet one with a lamb in the meadow, and oh, look! Here's one with a Bible.
A Bible? You want to hand a kid a Bible and let him smack the holy tar out of something with it? And if this toy ends up taking the same path in my nephew's house that it would have in my childhood, Dad will eventually rip off that little elastic appendage and use the paddle to tan his hide.
Whoohoo! Getting spanked by the Good Book. You don't think that will require counseling?