Fathead Flu Remedy

I write a humor blog over here at Fathead Follies. It’s not a health and wellness or a cooking site. However it’s flu season at the Fathead household and this past month has been particularly festive if you love misery. For some reason, this time around I’ve been the sickest of the bunch and the resulting delirium has spurred a temporary departure from my usual format. And apparently reality in general, which might explain why in the past week I’ve:

  • Earnestly planned a dinner party for myself, Tina Fey, Amy Poehler and Zooey Deschanel without a hint of irony.
  • Let Hubs cook a week’s worth of fiberless, vegetable-free meals for the kids without a thought about nutrition, constipation or the impressive stove splatters. Seriously our kitchen looks like a Jackson Pollock painting.
  • Gone through a giant bottle of NyQuil in a week…end. Don’t worry I staged an intervention for myself and I’m now NyQuil free, which is for the best. NyQuil isn’t organic. Nor does it contain any whole grains or fruit, despite the appetizing picture of cherries on the bottle. It should be avoided except in emergencies. Much like cheap chocolate.

By the way, it’s my contention that purgatory is gripping the sides of your commode while your four-year old stands in the bathroom doorway playing the theme song from Thomas the Tank Engine on loop like some sort of demented John Cusack in a preschool version of Say Anything.

John-Cusack-in-Say-Anythi-002

If only Peter Gabriel had written the Thomas theme song.

Anyway, I decided to make my own homeopathic cold remedy using only the healthiest ingredients. I call it…

A Mojito.

Here are my instructions:

Boil two cups of organic sugar and two cups of water from one of those crazy filtered water stores.

Sure you could use tap water but we Californians don’t feel comfortable unless we’ve paid a premium price for our water and dispensed it from a bottle. Also, I’m fairly sure the raccoons have been poisoning our water supply and the kids really enjoy riding the cart at the water store. If you’re going to spend the evening whacked out on my home remedy, the least you can do is bring them some joy with a water cart ride first.

Boil your premium filtered water and organic sugar for one minute. DO NOT walk away from the stove. Otherwise you’ll lie down, forget you’re boiling something and ruin another pan.

Remove from heat. Be careful not to spill it on yourself. Boiling sugar burns like molten lava and you don’t want to be spotted running out of your house screaming like Richard Pryor after a crack fire.

Richard_Pryor

Sugar and cocaine are remarkably similar at high temperatures.

Pour your simple syrup over the zest of two limes and 1/2 cup of mint leaves. Be sure to use organic limes and mint grown by vegans and sold in a local farmer’s market. You’ll feel better about yourself. Steep for 30 minutes. Strain your simple syrup and chill it in an energy star refrigerator.

Now eat the solids because not only does it taste like the best minty lime candy ever, you’ve just gotten a dose of fiber and prevented scurvy. And we all know that scurvy leads to a peg leg.

Now take some lime wedges and a half cup more mint and muddle them with feeling in the bottom of a pitcher. Add crushed ice, a half cup of lime juice, one cup of your lime/mint simple syrup and a half liter of rum. The rum doesn’t have to be organic because the distillation process kills pesticides…I’m pretty sure.

Note: feel free to use any color rum you like. I firmly believe that a rum should be judged by the content of its character.

Serve your remedy in a glass with more crushed ice, soda water (the extra expensive brand purchased at your local Whole Foods allegedly uses carbonation obtained from the intestinal gas of woodland fairies) and my secret ingredient: Antihistamine.

One glass of this and you’ll forget you’re feeling bad. As an added bonus, the antihistamine will prevent you from leaving a pool of snot on your floor when you face plant on the way to your bathroom.

I'm not sure which is more disturbing: that I had my 4 year old take this picture or that my linoleum looks that bad.

I’m not sure which is more disturbing: that I had my 4-year-old take this picture or that my linoleum looks that bad.

Author’s note: This was written two weeks ago. I’ve since come down with another flu virus. This cannot be attributed to the Mojitos, however, so drink up.

***********

Photo Credits:

The Guardian

Answers.com

Conor

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Santa is Loaded

I mean emotionally loaded.

I mean emotionally loaded.

Can I be frank? Christmas has a history of being an emotionally loaded holiday for me.

My mom lost her battle with cancer on December 21st, 1979. (To my knowledge the Mayans did not predict that event.) I was ten.

It immediately became clear after Mom’s death that she had been single-handedly holding the entire family together and making Christmas magical. Without Mom’s deft talent of redirection, I discovered that we were ill-suited to handle family togetherness and joy.

For one thing, my father hated the holiday. He was a social worker with Child Protective Services and, as any social worker or police officer can tell you, Christmas is a time for killing your loved ones. He spent the holiday marinated. Everyone else was just as miserable.

In front of our Charlie Brown Christmas tree Here I am in an ill-fitting thrift store dress, blissfully ignorant of the impending misery.

Here I am in front of our Charlie Brown Christmas tree in an ill-fitting thrift store dress, blissfully ignorant of the impending misery.

I tried my best to slip into Mom’s shoes and resurrect the Christmas spirit, but those shoes weren’t made for a ten-year old. I started finding ways to desert my family during the holiday. When I got older I would often spend Christmas alone watching depressing foreign films and thinking deep thoughts while wearing a beret.

Reality check: I’ve never worn a beret. They don’t fit my head. However when I picture that time period I see myself as a sad mime with a beret and white gloves, trapped in a box—not a real box that would spare the world the horror of a mime performance but a pretend box so that everyone could suffer through my melancholy along with me. Because I’m a giver.

Sad mime wants to give you a present. How sweet.

Sad mime wants to give you a present. How sweet.

Then I had kids and rediscovered the magic of the holiday. There is nothing more satisfying than hoodwinking a trusting child into believing in that magical bearded toy schlepper, Santa Claus. Against all odds Christmas came from dead last to miraculously take first place as my favorite holiday. Disney could make a movie about that sh!t…oh wait, they have.

But this was a weird Christmas. I’m 43, the age my mom was when she died and that fact took some of the sparkle out of the holiday. Perhaps due to this fact, my current family decided to do a serviceable impression of the dysfunctional family of my youth. They were probably trying to help me work through some stuff. It’s sweet really. Sweet like a bottle of Vics 44 with a rubbing alcohol chaser.

I love these people though they torture me so.

I love these people though they torture me so.

Picture Hubs watching a UFC match while we decorated the tree, complaining that we were blocking the fight, Riley ditching me at the city’s tree lighting ceremony to spend time with her friend’s family, Riley and Conor yelling at each other and slamming doors, Hubs complaining that I was trying to kill the whole family during a manic drive to look at Christmas lights (in his defense it did cross my mind). It was all so achingly nostalgic. And through it all I kept my teeth clamped together in a pained smile and trudged along, determined to make it a joyful holiday.

This child isn't related to me in any way but was kind enough to stand in for this photo depicting a joyous holiday occasion.

This child isn’t related to me in any way but was kind enough to stand in for this photo depicting a joyous holiday occasion.

And it was joyful at times. We had some good moments. Moments when I didn’t feel like Chevy Chase right after he received the certificate for the Jelly of the Month Club instead of his Christmas bonus in Christmas Vacation.

Sure most of my planned activities backfired, Hubs bought himself a midlife crisis motorcycle as if the audio book he received from me was insufficient and Riley lamented immediately that she didn’t get everything on her list which read like War and Peace (seriously, Santa would’ve had to rent a semi to deliver all of her requests). The important thing to remember is that we were all together, nobody got arrested or “voluntarily admitted” and we didn’t actually kill each other.

And one day all of the insanity will make for precious family memories. Like when I tried to explain to Riley why her friend wanted to hang out with her own family instead of us, even though Riley had no problem dropping us at a moment’s notice to spend time with them. I was trying to explain it in an upbeat I’m-too-cool-and-self-confident-to-mind kind of way with just a splash of guilt thrown in because I actually did mind when Riley responded in a stricken voice, “I didn’t realize that I didn’t like you” and then I nearly drove into oncoming traffic. We laughed about that later. Some of us more than others.

Don't patronize me.

Don’t patronize me.

See what I mean? Precious.

Anyway, I hope your holidays were also filled with precious memories or at least adequate Zoloft and I hope this new year is filled with more joy and less sensationalist tragedies.  May we all find a way to nourish our creativity and still get the laundry done.

Mazel tov!

************

Photo Credits:

Dreamstime

Cheesecake Off Of Taylor Lautner’s Abs

True Confession:

I made a $12.50 contribution to the Twilight empire. I saw Breaking Dawn. In the theater. And now I’m outing myself.

Behold the shame

Behold: shame and an approaching weather system.

You might roll your eyes but sometimes a girl just wants to watch a Matrix-style fight scene with pretty people in paper snow, surrounded by CG werewolves. Much like a key lime cheesecake, it has no nutritional value, but is still delicious. Like Taylor Lautner’s abs. Or a key lime cheesecake eaten off Taylor Lautner’s abs.

Caution: those abs are wet. You will end up with soggy cheesecake.

Let’s not judge.

Frankly I found this movie thought-provoking. For instance, did you know that ancient vampires all learn perfect English? (Well you would if you’d stop wasting your time watching Oscar contenders.) Even the vampires deep in the Brazilian rain forest who still wear loin cloths take the time to enroll in their local ESL class, which is helpful when you have a giant vampire war. Let’s face it, delicate battle strategies can get lost in language barriers.

Imagine that you are lined up for battle with a bunch of other amber-eyed immortal hotties. Tension is mounting because a whole bunch of Italians are carrying a can of Sterno with your name on it. Italian vampires might behave like autistic drag queens but they’re vicious and connected.

Sheldon meets Liberace meets Vito Corleone.

You turn to the jungle vampire next to you and helpfully suggest, “Hey, fly through the air and rip the head off of that guy over there.”

Miss loin cloth, pointing in the opposite direction, says something ancient and rainforesty that you don’t understand because tribal-speak wasn’t even offered in your high school.

You roll your eyes. Where did they get this girl? Is she some sort of undocumented vampire who Matrix-jumped over the border? So you say (loudly and with extra enunciation),  “No. The. Guy. Over. There.”

Then she shakes her Amazonian flat-ironed hair with attitude and babbles something unintelligible with emphasis like she just insulted your mother, which is totally disrespectful because your mother died 200 years ago.

Meanwhile, the guy you were trying to get Miss Loin Cloth to kill flies through the air and rips your head off and now where are you? Stuck in eternal damnation, that’s where. And all because Miss Loin Cloth couldn’t even invest in a phrase book. I mean, do you have to do all of the work? You’ve been busy looking impossibly beautiful and drinking the blood of woodland animals with your equally beautiful immortal soul mate.

This Amazonian vampire is fresh from a stint on America’s Next Top Model and a Michael Jackson video.

Speaking of soul mates. I was watching the scene where KStew and RPat were lying in a field of flowers and KStew lifted the CG gauze that made up her mind shield so that RPat could watch a video montage of painful acting moments from the three previous Twilight films, which apparently demonstrated how KStew had loved RPat more than anyone had ever loved anyone else in the history of the world. RPat was enthralled and asked for another peak at her glorious awkwardness but KStew declined, saying, “We’ve got a really long time,” to which RPat replied, “Forever”  or “Eternity,” I forget which exactly because I was having not one but two epiphanies at the time and epiphanies screw with my short-term memory.

First of all, KStew’s video montage suggests that all of the painful acting moments in my past were actually signs of deep abiding love.  Will someone please alert my acting teachers? This is extremely encouraging news.  I think perhaps deep abiding love has caused all of my crappy writing as well.

And second, eternity is a long G.D. time. Holy prenups, Batman. Even ten years is a really long time when you don’t even take a nap to break up the monotony, but forever? Centuries of your soul mate not wiping the deer blood off of their expensive shoes before they track it through your magically clean, tastefully decorated home might have you eying your own can of Sterno. I think I’d have to have some sort of vampire open marriage because that’s just mind numbing craziness, but maybe matrimony is different when you sparkle. I wouldn’t know.

Alas, since this was the final installment of the Twilight extravaganza, I’m done with guilty pleasures for a while. Unless the latest James Bond film is still in theaters, because you know I love car chases and cool gadgets…and key lime cheesecake tastes just as delicious when eaten off of Daniel Craig’s abs.

Mmm, cheesecake.

Delicious. And this cheesecake is appropriately aged.

***

Photo Credits

movies.about.com

Criterion.com

Wikia.com

HighlightHollywood.com

Jesus Wears Nike

Warning: This post contains confusing religious messages and delusions of grandeur.

I don’t want to make anyone feel inferior here, but sometimes God talks to me. I don’t actually hear his voice, which I imagine sounds just like James Earl Jones, but sometimes he sends me little messages, like a spiritual IM. I’ve noticed that I receive more messages after a Venti beverage, which may mean that these are just caffeinated delusions or maybe Starbucks is adding an extra squirt of Jesus in my cup. I’m not here to question. Sometimes those messages are clear, sometimes they’re confusing as hell and sometimes they freak me the f*ck out, but regardless,  I take them and shove them in my little bag of crazy to figure out later.

Take this morning, for instance, I decided to add to the world’s most pathetic Christmas display happening in our yard with a trip to the local hardware store, because nothing says “happy birthday, Jesus!” like an inflatable Santa and icicle lights.

I think Jesus kicked over our tinsel tree in disgust.

As I was driving, sipping on my Starbucks green tea, I heard Charlie Sheen’s response to the statement made by the kid from Two and a Half Men about the show being filth and forcing him to be an incredibly rich, conflicted 19-year-old telling bad jokes (I’m paraphrasing here, but you get the idea). Anyway, Charlie believes that the kid’s outburst is yet more proof that the show is cursed and he referenced the Heaven’s Gate cult (the cult where everybody committed suicide while wearing Nike tennis shoes) in his statement.

I love Charlie. He makes me feel so sane.

A tweaker, a Seventh Day Adventist and a closeted gay man walk into a bar…

Anyway, I get to the hardware store and on my way inside, this person emerges from a convertible Jaguar with a handicap placard, who was so disturbing that I violently averted my eyes and nearly veered right into the pole holding the handicap sign in front of the store.  In my defense, let me just say that I am absolutely unphased by most handicaps and disfigurements. Sadly, I’m not as adept at handling really bad plastic surgery. I’m not proud of my reaction. I tried to play off my tactlessness, hoping that the person would interpret my rudeness as confusion and joy at my hardware store arrival or a mini stroke.

I say “person” because at first I honestly wasn’t sure whether I was looking at a man or a woman or just a composite of a plastic surgeon’s patient files. Imagine if a wax statue of Donatella Versace melted into a wax statue of Mickey Rourke and then went hardware shopping. This person’s face was stretched and plumped and then generously spray tanned into a look I’ll call Timeless Alien. His (I checked for breasts, that’s how I know) hair was bleached white blonde on top and left dark on the bottom in a classic boy band style and he wore a red and black Nike warm up outfit as if he’d just emerged from rehearsals as Siegfried and Roy’s new stage partner. Given that this is LA, the land of celebrity, I did wonder if he actually was a celebrity like Siegfried or Roy or Melanie Griffith.

Anyway, he was very friendly, chatting up all of the women in the Christmas lights and ornaments aisle and I felt very badly about my reaction. Really I was so overcome with guilt that I could barely manage to grab the last inflatable Santa on sale. I did manage, but I want you to know that there was no joy in it.

Then it struck me. This was the second time that craziness and Nike had been combined in the past half hour. This was a message from God.

Messages are everywhere. Here we have a bedazzled @ss message.

But what was the message? Vanity is its own handicap? Appreciate what you have? Shop locally, age gracefully and watch out for chemical spills? Don’t smoke meth and then visit a plastic surgeon?

If I had another green tea, I’m sure that I would unravel this parable. Of course, I’d also stop blinking and then my heart would explode, so I’m going to hold off on enlightenment for now.

Instead, I thought I’d share the message with you on the off-chance that you were looking for a message from God and hadn’t had the time to make it to your local Starbucks or hardware store. Consider it an early Christmas gift. Ho ho ho.

Sorry I didn’t get you a card.

****

nydailynews

antiquiet

A Tale Told By An Idiot, Full Of Sound And Fury, Signifying Nothing

I’ve been unmotivated lately to do anything but redecorate and eat comfort foods. No, I am not pregnant. You’d be able to hear Hubs’s shrieks as I beat him unmercifully with my pregnancy test if I were. The change of seasons does it to me. So Monday, my usual day to publish a blog post, I took the day off to sew pillows in honor of veterans, care for my ailing daughter and suffer through birthday cake/Halloween candy withdrawal (it looked like a scene from Trainspotting up in here.)

Dang, these guys miss chocolate almost as much as I do. This is a movie about sugar addiction, right?

I vowed to buckle down yesterday and write something of quality…and yet I didn’t. I just didn’t make time in my productive schedule. I did a great many things. I was very busy. Want to hear about it? No? Too bad, I’m going to tell you anyway. Here’s what I accomplished yesterday instead of writing:

  • Thought of three clever tweets.

  • Realized that I’d already tweeted one of my clever tweets the night before.

  • Checked WebMD for symptoms of early onset Alzheimer.

  • Watched my daughter stagger around dramatically, demonstrating how she was on her death bed and deserving of our sympathy.

    Yes, I am standing over her “death bed” to take a picture. I staged my own death scene when I was six so this is a very proud moment for me. I wish my mom had taken a picture but apparently she was busy cleaning up the “blood splatter”.

  • Enrolled her in acting classes.

  • Purchased one can of black beans and five packets of holiday foam shapes from the dollar bin at Target with an ancient gift card, because it was the day before pay day. In my family we traditionally ate beans and behaved in a destitute fashion the week before my father was paid. I still like to observe many of our poverty-born traditions, especially around the holidays.

  • Made an Advent calendar with purchased holiday foam shapes while watching episode after episode of various Disney Channel sitcoms. The Advent calendar is full of activities that my family can do together. I’m taking wagers as to how many activities we accomplish before Hubs is making irrational parental ultimatums, both kids are crying, and I abandon the whole idea.

    On the back of each shape is a precious family memory just waiting to be made. PRECIOUS! NOW STOP YELLING AT YOUR SISTER!

  • Checked repeatedly to see if my complexion had cleared after my one day off of candy and cake. Spoiler: It had not. Detox is a slow process.

  • Checked repeatedly on the remaining birthday cake to see if it was still there. It was.

  • Called Narconon and demanded to speak with Kirstie Ally.

    “Look honey, Narconon deals with cocaine and mother ships, not chocolate. Call me at my Jenny Craig number.”

     

  • Forgot my son at preschool until a teacher called me. By the time I arrived, he’d been made an employee and was working toward his pension. On the way to the car he asked me to forget him tomorrow too. Drove him home in a shroud of guilt.

  • Used the can of black beans purchased earlier to make a soup for my ailing daughter in near darkness (due to Hubs’s handiwork with our kitchen light fixture), while reminding myself that I do love my husband and should never ever ask him to perform household tasks that involve electrical wiring and/or breakable objects.

    Never ask a man who breaks down doors for a living to change a fluorescent light bulb. He punched it repeatedly but it still won’t work.

  • Made no less than four bonehead moves cooking said soup in near darkness, resulting in temporary blindness, a burn and a lot of extra mess.

  • Cleaned the kitchen, I think, hard to say in the dark.

  • Performed the bed time routine: reassemble beds, search for mysterious pee smell in bathroom, coerce, cajole, assist, read stories, kiss foreheads, drink beer.

Riveting, isn’t it? It all seemed way more interesting at the time than writing.

Photo Credits:

Wikipedia

IMDB

My iphone

The Galloping Consumption

This is not a real post. Consider this an excused absence from my normal blog writing. i have what my father affectionately referred to as the Galloping Consumption, a term he applied to any respiratory illness that makes you doubt your will to live. Having spent six months in the hospital for tuberculosis, I consider him an expert in this area.

I’m in my second week of the Galloping Consumption. I haven’t been able to sleep, hold a conversation or even read a story to my children. Hubs is renting out my side of the bed and taking applications for a new wife and mother, should I finally blow a major blood vessel on my next coughing fit.  Meanwhile I entertain visions of myself in a cane-backed wheel chair with a lap blanket, being wheeled around by an attendant or lying supplicant on a velvet couch while Johnny Depp recreates Neverland in my sitting room. In my visions I cough with an English accent.

Now I wouldn’t publicly declare myself an optimist but I am prone to want to look at the bright side of a situation, so I can say that I’ve lost ten pounds, though most of it has been in muscle tone and breast tissue. I’m on the verge of obtaining the coveted lollipop figure that LA is known for. Rachel Zoe actually considered taking me as a client until she realized that there was movement in my forehead and declared me dead to her until I developed the good sense to paralyze my face with Botox.

However just between you and me, even a career as a geriatric super model isn’t enough to raise my spirits while I am coughing mercilessly through the night. I can be tough and resilient for short stretches but I grow impatient about hardship quickly and then I’m just irritable and nihilistic.

I’d be terrible at war. Sure I’d be focused and bad@ss for a couple of fire fights but then I’d grow weepy, start complaining about a lack of coffee breaks and finally I’d lie down in a fox hole and wait for enemy fire to claim me. They never would’ve made a mini series about my war-time heroics. So don’t hold out for Band of Brothers and One Sister. It ain’t coming.

Anyway, thank you for your patience. Normal posts will resume shortly.

Captain Agro’s Pre-tween Soccer School

The following is the tale of Hubs’s brief and bittersweet side career as the soccer coach of eight to ten-year old girls. That’s right, pre-tweens. The age group before the age group that terrifies intelligent adults and drives Disney Channel marketing. The names have not been changed because nobody is innocent.

This year Riley decided that she was a little bored with gymnastics and wanted to try something new. Riley’s BFF plays soccer, so Riley decided that she’d like to give soccer a try too, despite the fact that she and her BFF couldn’t play on the same team. You see, Riley’s birthday is in April, which puts her in the eight-ten age group, while her BFF’s birthday is in August, putting her in a younger category.

You’d never know it by looking at them, but Riley is older by three months. A veritable old lady by comparison. She could break a hip at any moment.

Old lady on the right. As you can see, osteoporosis is already curving her spine.

However, as it turned out, the soccer organization was desperate for coaches, so they offered to put Riley and her BFF on the same team if Hubs agreed to coach.

Now Hubs knows a thing or two about a thing or two; cycling, wrestling, pond hockey, and all manner of combat and law enforcement lie within his areas of expertise. But he knows absolutely bupkis about soccer. He could effectively train an elite squad of pre-tween crime fighting assassins. But he has no idea what to do with a soccer ball, unless of course you tell him to kill someone with it.

Despite his lack of expertise and extra time, Hubs saw coaching as an opportunity to ease our introverted daughter’s entry into the sport by providing her with the security of her BFF. And as an added bonus, he could be a part of Riley’s pre-Olympic sports career. He figured that teaching pre-tween girls was only marginally more intimidating than kicking down the doors of armed criminals, which he considers just a fun way to spend a Monday morning.

Hubs told Riley. She was ecstatic and declared Hubs a hero. He purchased a book on coaching giggly girls. All was right with the world. A rainbow hung over our house every day and unicorns crapped on our front lawn.

Unicorn poop may be rainbow-colored and sprinkled with stars but it will still kill your grass. (image via themarysue)

Then at the first coaches’ meeting, Hubs got his team roster and discovered (gasp!) there was no BFF on the list.

Whaaaaaa??

When he brought it to the attention of the powers-that-be he was told that he must have misinterpreted the offer because the organization would never mix such vastly different ages as eight and eight-plus-three-months together on the same team. That was crazy talk! They meant that they would sometimes put two girls of EXACTLY the same age on the same team even if they were friends. Then they told him to have a nice day and enjoy coaching.

“Sir, may I suggest what you can do with your ‘nice day’, sir?”

Hubs was not pleased. He’d been hoodwinked. To his credit, he didn’t pull his weapon and administer a body cavity search at the meeting, but he did come home and draft a lengthy email, which then needed to be edited heavily to delete foul language and implications of violence. Then he tossed and turned all night. For the next three nights. And wore down his molars.

Despite his carefully crafted, non-threatening arguments, the soccer organization refused to put the girls on the same team. In and of itself this would have been frustrating but not disastrous if Hubs had not shared this plan with Riley. But he had.

Have you ever destroyed the dream of an eight-year old girl? It resembles a scene from a Telenovela but in English.

“Sin mi amigo yo me moriré sin duda!” Translation: “without my friend I will surely die!” (image via jahpeaceful666)

Riley decided that soccer was the devil’s sport, run by terrible ogres bent on breaking the hearts of small girls. She requested that the man in charge be flogged or at least arrested for deliberate meanness. I tried but could not sway her opinion and Hubs, who was on-board with the flogging idea, decided that he would not use soccer as an opportunity for the two of them to bond in misery, so he gave the organization the one fingered salute tactfully resigned and we enrolled Riley in swimming class.

And that was it. Hubs’s brief and bittersweet side career as a pre-tween soccer coach was over before it began. Riley will never rip off her soccer jersey to display her sports bra after winning the Olympic gold. We will never have David Beckham or Mia Hamm over for dinner. All we’re left with is a front lawn full of unicorn crap.

The soccer organization had better hope that Hubs doesn’t figure out a way to weaponize unicorn crap.