Why I Hate my Name.

In the second grade, after recess on Fridays, my teacher would have some sort of way for us to make 5 pennies. She would ask the entire class a certain question on Monday, and we had an entire week to find the answer to the question. These questions would be easy, mind you. We were second graders. Questions like, "What is your heritage", or "What is your favorite animal and why". Questions a 7 year old could answer. If the question was right, she would give us 5 pennies. If wrong, no money. The rules were simple.

One Monday, she asked us to find out what our name meant. It was an exciting one, a harder one to figure out. So I went home and asked my dad what my name meant.

'We found your name in a dictionary," he said.

"We liked the name Amber because it sounded cool, and it is a semi-precious rock, just like you. Millions of years ago, in the pre-historic era, mosquitoes were enormous. They would try to drink the tree sap from trees, but the sap would trap the mosquitoes inside, where they remained for millions of years. Over time, the sap would petrify while continuing to preserve the mosquito on the inside. Your name comes from the finished product, the petrified amber. The tree sap, and the color of the sap."

I thought that this was an awesome answer. I loved that the mosquitoes probably had seen dinosaurs, and who doesn't like dinosaurs? This was going to rule.

Friday rolls around and I am practically peeing myself. I was so excited to tell everyone what my name meant! I had the coolest name ever!

'Any volunteers to go first?" My teacher asked, but I was already halfway up to the front of the class room.

And I told everyone word for word what my dad told me.

And I waited to get my 5 pennies.

My teacher had a baby name book to see if our answers were real.

"Close, but not quite." She said.

What?

"Your name means 'golden yellow brown'. Now, who is next?"

I didn't get my 5 pennies.

My name cost me getting money.

I hate my name.

Fun with Catalogs!

When I am not having a party being a waitress at my place of employment, I work the front desk. Usually, this means I answer phones and sit there (mainly a lot of sitting).

There are occasions where I am blessed to find a magazine

or a catalog which makes the time go by a lot faster, and which makes for some pretty compelling entertainment. Except when there are 3 pages full of personal massagers. Then I want to kill myself.

Luckily for you (and me) there were no vibrators in this issue of Harriet Cole magazine. Even better, there was a picture of a delicious looking meat-loaf right on the cov

er to draw me in!

As you can tell, this man is extremely happy having his hair cut. I bet he would be even happier if he had a body. What this product is supposed to do is keep the hair from falling on the ground which makes it harder to to clean up, but I would rather make a huge mess on the bathroom floor than to ever wear this. He looks like a modern day Queen.

By Day, Harvey Wilson is a regular man. Nobody pays him any attention, and he goes about his daily activities of working for the local Bank. Sometimes, he goes a little bit crazy, and takes the day off so he can read a book! Yowza! What a dangerous man! But by night...

Harvey is known as Fleece-Man, the bank robber. He uses his skills as a banker to his advantage and makes the best out of his situation. And since he is very careful about never ever showing his identity, he never gets caught.

Or he is a rapist.

There really isn't much to say about this image, except for the fact that it is a toilet mug. Let me repeat that statement. This man is drinking coffee. Out of a toilet shaped mug. And we yell at dogs for drinking out of a toilet. I have heard of people drinking some pretty shitty coffee, but I guess this somehow better than drinking it out of a regular mug?

This is not the face of a man who is happy to be wearing a necklace (LIKE A PRO). This is the face of a man who has died emotionally years ago. I bet the girl he loved gave him this necklace, and shortly after she died in a horrific freak accident (perhaps by drinking poison out of a coffee mug???) and the man carries on her legacy by wearing this for the rest of his life.

Or maybe he just really likes wearing ugly pieces of jewelry.

And this is a beer holster. So your hands are free to hold other, more important things. Like maybe another beer?

The rest of the magazine was pretty much like this, except for a lot more puppies and support hose.

It all boils down to this, though-

PEOPLE ACTUALLY BUY THESE THINGS. THERE IS A MARKET FOR TOILET MUGS AND BEER HOLSTERS.

The people who produced this catalog are either terrible human beings or ultimate geniuses.

Or Both. I haven't really decided yet.