Friday, July 23, 2010

Dear Discovery OnDemand,

Please, for the love of holy-jesus-stop-scarring-my-children-and-my-retinas, stop stop stop stop playing that commercial for where they show the whale being harpooned. I know they're using your own footage. I get the nifty connection, the cross promotion you are doing, but you are making me sad. Seriously sad. What's worse is that you are making my kids sad. What in the mother hell were you thinking? Harpooning whales? Just stop now.

It's like, "Oh, look, a promo for one of their shows about nature... what are they doing? Oh my god, is that a... harpoon? Oh my god... OH MY GOD! The poor whale! OH MY GOD THE BLOOD! Why?! WHY ARE YOU SHOWING ME THIS?! I just want to watch that show about those people who are pretending to be in the post-nuclear-apocalyptic-virus-ravaged world (which is set in an abandoned warehouse in downtown LA. How fitting. Did you have to do any set moderation, or was it just all how you actually found it?)."

Your people in charge of both OnDemand and Advertising should be fired. Immediately.

Love and killer-whale-eating-your-collective-face,


P.S. You people are assholes.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

"The president is cock-blocking our vacation."

This is not a phrase I ever expected to utter, yet there I was, last Saturday on Bridge Street in Bar Harbor, Maine.

Little did we know, back in November when we started planning this trip, that, the day before we left, Obama'd be like, "Bar Harbor? I hear their lobstas and local brews are kick-ass! Count me in!"
"Uh, no, sorry, Barack. This is a family vacation," I said.
"No problemo!" he replied. "I'll bring the first-fam!"

Obviously this was not going to go well.

So we finally get to Desert Island (that's desert as in "we don't desert our soldiers!", not like, "damn, it's hot in this desert!")(okay, yeah, like "mmmm! brownies and ice cream for dessert!), and damned if Google Navigation didn't go, "Here's your hotel!... What?... What do you mean, this isn't even the right goddamn road?". So, fine, we have to just drive along the right road- there aren't exactly a lot... hmm. Detour. Off the road our hotel is on.
"Listen. Michelle, the kids, and I just need a little privacy."
"Oh, do you, Barack? You need an entire block? A block that spans a quarter mile?"
"It's not me, it's the Secret Service."
"Screw the Secret Service! This is Maine! The only thing that's going to come after you is a moose! And the Secret Service cannot protect you from a moose! Those things are vicious!"

Which, let me just interrupt myself here and say this, this situation right here is exactly why I am a map-kind-of-girl, and not a depend-on-any-stupid-gps-system-kind-of-girl. The island, in essence, has no cell reception. This is bad when you need directions, but the rest of the time? So great. You know that dude who is blocking the sidewalk, gabbing business on his cell? Not in Bar Harbor. Know that annoying middle-aged woman, yelling into her phone about the amazing view at the top of that peaceful mountain? Not in Bar Harbor, baby.

So, being our resourceful selves, we find our way to the hotel. Guess what the front desk clerk is yammering on about? Did you know that normally there are soooo many rooms available? But not now! Lots of Obama roadies! Not to mention the media! Blugh.

The next morning we head down to the Sand Bar. In Caps. This is what Bar Harbor is named for. It is a sandbar which, at low tide, is exposed, giving a path over to an island. The locals just call it Bridge Street because it is, indeed, a continuation of the road. Twice a day. At low tide. Low tide varies, obviously, but you're looking at about twelve and a quarter-ish hours between each. This means, oh, for example, 9:30 am and 10:50 pm on a particular day. This means that if you- for some reason- miss an opportunity to go, you have to wait until the next day, that is unless you want to get lost in the woods by moonlight.

We parked a block away at eight am, and walked down the road. As we got nearer to Bridge Street, I started slowing, looking at the several police cars parked in the road. We got to the corner across the street, where a local was standing with her dog.
"So... did they actually close down the entire sandbar?"
"They sure did."
"Yeah. It's too bad, it's his favorite walk." She indicated the dog.
"That... kinda stinks."
"Well, it's not every day you have the president come to your town!" True excitement in her voice, though I can almost guarantee she never caught a glimpse of him.
"Yeah, well, this isn't my town, lady, and this is some bullshit!" No, this is not what I said. What I actually said was a muttered "guess so", but it's sure as hell what I was thinking.

So then I went to schedule a flying-tour of the entire island, only to find out that the whole island had become a no-fly zone for the entirety of his stay.


Okay, that last paragraph was crap. Yes, the island was a no-fly zone, but the hell if we have the kind of money for a plane tour.

In honesty, we had such a great time at Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park, and the president's visit actually impacted us very little, other than what I already mentioned. Lots of "Welcome Mr. Prez and Fam" signs everywhere. The mini-golf offered "free game if your dad is the president"*. Obama/Biden '08 signs. Just some "yay to you for coming" stuff.

*Barack Obama is my baby-daddy.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

I know, another other-driver-on-the-road complaint. Skip it if you want; no one's holding a gun to your head.

To- okay, more like "at"- a truck driver who had parked half on the shoulder, half in the lane of a major road, and then also had his driver side door open, thereby taking up the entire (and only, in that direction) lane- on yet another blind curve, which was also on the top of a blind hill*,

Me: Way to be a moron, Ohio Idiot. (Because he had an Ohio plate, of course.)

Ethan: Who, me?

Connor: Yes. That is your new nickname. "Ohio Idiot".

*A lot of blind stuff around here lately, huh?