Like Polaroid film, desperation raises prices…  

One seller has a 3-pack available for 59.99 on Amazon.

o.b. Ultra Absorbency Tampons, 40-Count Boxes 

This product has been discontinued by the manufacturer.

1.  Trying to cross 4 lanes of traffic on 93 South to get in the carpool lane.

2.  When the shows I like to watch go on hiatus for the summer.

3.  Being late for movies.

4.  Feeling bloated.

5.  Putting away laundry.

6.  Painstakingly shaving my legs and then finding out later in the day that there’s a spot I’ve been missing for apparently the last 3 months.

7.  Fucking up a crossword puzzle.

8.  Answering my phone.

9.  When weather.com says there’s going to be thunderstorms, but there isn’t.

10.  Waking up to piles of dishes.

11.  When I finish a really awesome book and the author hasn’t written anything else.

I just finished an online application for a server job at Not Your Average Joes.

And it contained a psych exam that took me 20 minutes to complete.

The first 100 questions were of the standard “strongly disagree to strongly agree” persuasion.  So were the next 30 and the next 23.  It reminded me of that time I got tricked into taking the Dianetics exam so they could figure out how depressed I was.  (Aside:  I really feel the need to explain this.  I was walking home from work after a reasonably good day at the Beacon Street Starbucks, and a guy stopped me to see if I wanted to take a personality test.  I always loved taking personality tests, and I had nothing else to do and was kind of feeling open-minded and friendly.  So I followed the guy to some brownstone and took their Strongly Agree to Strongly Disagree test, which took about 30 minutes, and then waited to find out if I was an INFJ or an ISTJ.  Turns out, the exam showed I was an extremely depressed individual, (as I’m sure every 22-year-old college student was) so I was brought to a cubical farm to find out that the only thing that would save me was Scientology.  (Aside within an aside:  It wasn’t until I was waiting in the cube that  I looked around and noticed all the L. Ron Hubbard posters that were adhered to any free space on the walls.)  I lied and said I didn’t have the $7 to buy L. Ron’s book, OR to go to the L. Ron convention that was happening the following month, and then they called me for the next week and a half to make sure I hadn’t killed myself yet, because they were super concerned about my mental state and felt it was in my best interest t join the Temple of Tom Cruise.) Digression finished.  Although I really enjoyed remembering that story…

The Joe’s exam also included a “what is the next number in this sequence” section.  One of which I had to guess on.  Help me out here:  10, 20, 40, ?, 40, 20.”  Am I stupid?

THEN, we did a Shape Series exam.

And to finish it off, your standard SAT analogy quiz (at least back when I took the SAT’s):

Canyon : Deep :: Mud : _____

(The answer was the “m” word, which I considered getting purposely wrong because of how much I hate that word.  If you don’t know what I’m talking about, ask someone.  It’s become a pretty popular hated word.)

So what I’ve determined is if I get called for an interview, I’m not as fucked up as I thought.  And if I don’t, I’m way to screwed up to serve chicken wings and diet coke.  But I’d be a good candidate for Scientology.

(For a good time, go through the application process here.)

I’m embarking on a new project that I think I’ll call Sleaze Art, and it requires me to comb through Google in search of porn magazine covers from the 1970’s.  (It’s not as hard as you think.)  While I’ve found some really good stuff, I’m sure you can imagine I’ve also stumbled upon some true gems, which I’d like to share with you now.  I assure you, your day will not be complete until you’ve laid your eyes upon these works of art (note:  there is no vagina in any of the following images):

This is technically a book cover, but I was pleased to find out that there is a magazine out there called “Gaybird.”  

This is one way to enlist teenage boys onto their high school tennis team.

Again, for the sportsman.  Perhaps this is the beginning of the high school birdwatching team.

Bandito.  I have nothing else to say.

And I was just thinking that I’m in the mood to hear some goddamn great bongos.  In high-fidelity.

Yes, this is a book cover, not a magazine, but there’s no way Alexis Jones-Smith will be accused for plagiarism. 

Marni will always be ready for those pop-in guests.

And, finally, the piece de resistance:

The title alone made me fall out of my chair.  It’s in color, it’s “gourmet.”  And seriously.  Best title ever.

I remember my mother plopping me down at the kitchen table and setting me up with one of these play-doh machines to keep me busy while she did something like escape from my incessant 4-year-old-ness:

(This is the new-fangled version.  You can tell by how the background is expertly photoshopped out.  And by the fact that the kid isn’t wearing a turtleneck, which, if you look at all the retro play-doh toy-boxes, every kid is wearing.)

The Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shop, which, hands down, is the best Play-Doh toy name ever.  (I had the monster one, too, which I can’t seem to find online.)

The Play-Doh Ice Cream Shop.  Not to be confused with the newer Play-Doh Magic Swirl Ice Cream Shoppe (2 p’s.)

(Again - no turtleneck = new version.)

I had one that made people, too.  I got one of these for every gift-related holiday, and boy did I love them.  My favorite thing to do with play-doh, however, was to mix the colors together until I achieved a beautiful poop brown color.  Sometimes an uplifting gray.  And then I’d whine for new play-doh, and then proceed to do the same thing again.  I apparently had terrible short-term memory.  Another favorite play-doh wasting pastime was to shape the “doh” into some sort of shape (a red blob, a blue blob, pretty much any color blob) that I thought would look good hanging on a nice chain (aka. piece of string or yarn) as a necklace.  I’d leave it in front of the heating vent behind the couch, where I’d promptly forget about it, and wonder why I didn’t have any play-doh left.   

Play-Doh was awesome.  And for my mother’s sake, I hope it was cheap.