Keep on Pushing Me Baby

Did you know that you can give a soon to be 3-year-old an IQ test?

You can.

And when that almost 3-year-old would prefer to hit a balloon around a room rather than answer inane questions, that nearly 3-year-old earns the distinction of “borderline.”

Yes, my son scored in the 2 percentile of “total bullshit bullshittery” category on his IQ test. He was average in other made-up areas and low in I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter Hoopery. I have a glisteny report that details it all and it sort of tastes like margarine.

Three years ago today, my son was born. That day was going to be a gorge-athon of hamburgers and french fries when my water unexpectantly broke and I underwent an emergency c-section because my kid was breech. He was a month early. He came out in the shape of a potato head with the same spindly arms.

He had trouble lifting his head. He didn’t walk until 18 months, but fuck if he didn’t know all the letters of the alphabet by 2.

We got on it early. By six months, he was in physical therapy. Six months ago, he started occupational therapy to help his fine motor skills. His therapists say the same thing: “He’s smart as get out; he’s just low muscle tone.”

Because of his birthday, he’s being moved from the county to the local school district, and this is why he’s suddenly “bordeline” and in the words of Madonna, it’s like I’m gonna lose my mind.

Even the IQ administrator stated the test doesn’t adequately gauge intelligence. So why are we doing this exactly?

Tomorrow he has his first committee on preschool special education meeting. The day I learned about this meeting, my “borderline” son read the word “toys” in a new book.

Something seems a bit off. In the same way, giving every child the same state assessment to judge a teacher’s ability seems like an inadequate form of measurement.

Tomorrow will be a success if I do not throw a chair through a window.

Bland’s Sister Wives

Bland of  The Bachelor is having bland struggles.

“I like these girls, but I live in a country that outlaws polygamy. I think I should take off my shirt.”

Serious ponderous swimming. Bland is shirtless.

He is transported to Thailand to get a firsthand glimpse of how prostitution rings are really run, and to “find my wife.”

First date is with Lindddsseeyyyy. Her voice is as pleasant as chewing on aluminum foil filled with pop rocks. Incidentally I believe that is what is in her head in place of a brain.

They go to a farmer’s market, and openly laugh at the “cuteness” of a thousand-year-old culture. They eat bugs. Linddsseeyyy looks like she’s about to barf.

The producers attempt to create tension by having Linddsseeyyy vocal fry over whether she should tell Bland she loves his giant red face. They head to dinner. Linddseeyyy describes the beauty: “There’s beautiful flowers made out of petals.”

Yup…that’s usually how it works.

Finally the moment arrives:

“I love you,” Linddsseeyyy brays

I love hearing you say that,” Bland smugly replies.

Ow.

I mean, I have absolutely no feelings left in my being, but that even hurt me a little.

They spend the night together.

Now onto his second conquest AshLee. AshLee is a “personal organizer.”

He wants to challenge her by having them swim through a cave to get to a private beach. Ominous music plays as AshLee says cave-swimming reminds her of being abandoned as a child. Mmm? What the fuck, now?

He wants “my wife” to let go of control, which is code for “always does what I say.” AshLee’s “scared” and “vulnerable” even though there’s a whole camera crew ready to save them if necessary. Please don’t.

I’m feeling vulnerable or bored. Bored might be more appropriate.

Bland has no compunction making the same wife claims to AshLee right before she is to decide to spend the night with him. Where have I seen this move before? Oh right, when he did the same thing with Linddsseeyyy. Romance!

AshLee knows Bland is her “soulmate” — gah — and that he’s healed her broken heart. He’s gonna look like a big ol asshole when he dumps her for one of the younger ones.

Last date with Catherine. She yips around like a hyped-up toddler puppy. This will likely be shorter than the rest because I’m dividing my time between punching myself in the face to stay awake and looking up naked pictures of Orville Redenbacher on the Internet.

Snorkling and thunderstorm kissing. Overnight date discussion. “I’m not a whore,” Catherine paraphrases. “But I’ll spend the night.”

Catherine was fearful of putting her heart out there™ but she has never worn a bathing suit around someone as much as Bland, and I’m wondering if she’s speaking in Thai because I have lost the ability to comprehend anything.

Bro-meet between Bland and Chris Harrison. Bland discusses his “pain” from being rejected by a Bachelorette during the fabricated fantasy dates. He has to dump someone though “to reach my final goal,” which is f-list celebrity and occasional appearances in US Weekly dry-humping other f-list celebrities.

Seven years later we get to the rose ceremony. He sends AshLee packing. The other two ninnies gripe that she didn’t say “good-bye” as AshLee storms off.

She glares at Bland as if she’s willing her eyeballs to fly out of her skull and stab him in the face. He attempts to explain himself and just looks redder and redder. And for the first time, it actually feels a little realistic. He is a bumbling ass and she is crushed. Okay, that’s over.

Three-hour finale in two weeks.

Kill me.

Mentos, the Porn Maker

I was looking at Redbook magazine, trying to find ways to juggle my career and my belly fat, when I came across this ad:

Hm. What exactly is happening here? Is the hand, the hand of God? If so, nice manicure, and what happened to the “fresh and full of life” Mentos ads? I remember less breasts.

See the Mentos ads of my youth were like this: the heroine breaks a heel, pops a Mentos, and decides to break the other heel while a dazzled Mitt Romney-type gestures emphatically.

You know, something dorky like this.

This new ad campaign is something else:

I feel kind of squicky looking at it. I know women are sex objects. I realize that is our only purpose–oh and to work flexible hours so we can be home on time to make dinner–but I thought gum was just gum. Do we need a women’s bare breast or butt to say “chew on this?”

This new ad campaign is the equivalent of finding out Bert and Ernie engage in a sado-masochistic relationship.

“You will submit to rubber duckie.”

See I feel weird that I’m suppose to be thinking sexy time when it comes to gum. I just want something to cover up the hummus I had for lunch. I don’t want to feel like I should be masturbating. Is this what the future holds?

Actually that last one kinda works for me.

Dearest Reader: Speaker7 is attempting to write a post every day in November so she doesn’t have to participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). This is the ninth post. She appreciates any and all suggestions unless you recommend she make out with Hugo, the man of 1,000 faces. He scares her, and is currently hiding in her closet.