You know, I really hate the spring Daylight Saving jump. Hate it. I don’t lose that hour just once; I lose it like FIVE times. In fact, my clock says that it’s 9:30 but I feel like it should be about four o’clock in the afternoon. It’s dark out and I feel like orange juice. It’s 2003 and my head thinks it should be 1998. It’s very confusing.
While driving to breakfast with Esteban this morning, at 12:30 pm, I realized one of the reasons I really hate this day so much. When I was nine or perhaps eight, there was a local show on Channel 2 called The Popeye Show. It was a great show, because not only did you get to watch a ton of vintage Popeye cartoons (which I loved loved loved for some reason, even though my tastes normally ran to Battle Of The Planets and Kroft SuperShow) but it was also a local thing, sort of like Howdy Doody in that in between the cartoons, there would be this bleacher full of local kids and a guy would pass the microphone around and they would each say their name and age and where they lived. And they’d give away prizes. And if it was your birthday, you got to sit in a folding chair in front of the bleachers and get the best spot to watch the cartoons. There must have been more to it than that but I don’t really remember it. And I was already a little jilted because our girl scout troop was scheduled to go to the show when one of the troop leader’s kids had her birthday, but I came down with my first bout of chicken pox (yes, I had it twice, lucky me, I’ll undoubtedly get a six pack of shingles too) and thus was DENIED my chance to sit on the bleachers and say ‘Weetabix Age 8 Green Bay’. Anyway, it was on UNGODLY early on Sunday morning, probably for the kids who were getting ready to go to church or something. We didn’t go to church, even though I attended a private religious school. That was because my grandparents paid for my schooling, whereas my mother would have left me to be raised by wolves or something. Ok, I’m being a little overdramatic.
But anyway, after weeks and weeks of waking up too late to see that damn Popeye show, I finally remembered to set my alarm. So I set it to go off five minutes before the show started. And that morning, when it went off, I quickly scuffled my little footie pajamas down the hall to the living room, careful not to wake up Mo, who was an absolute hellion when she was four, and popped on our enormous Trinitron. And found a fishing show.
Fishing show? That came on AFTER Popeye? What the Freckles?
(Because I went to religious school, I totally didn’t swear back then. Yeah, I don’t know what happened either.)
My mom’s boyfriend wandered through right then and found me with the phone book out, trying to find the number for the television station. And he explained that it was Daylight Saving Day, and the clocks all needed to get put ahead the night before and they hadn’t thought about doing my little clock radio the night before.
I think I boycotted Popeye from that point forward. Or I simply gave up. The world was conspiring against me to make sure that I did not partake in the goodness that was the ancient Popeye cartoons.
So not only do they take away like two weeks of my life every year (seriously, what is it right now, Tuesday? May? 2007? What?) with the Daylight Saving Day, they made me hate Channel 2, Popeye, and canned spinach.
I’m not so upset about the canned spinach, though.
In other news, while I was driving I saw a woman walking down the street today wearing a t-shirt, no bra, and jogging pants.
I own a pair of jogging pants. They are comfy. I’m not against jogging pants. I’m not disrespecting the pants. Let me just say that right now. But people, I never leave my house with them on. It’s just me. It’s wrong. No one jogs in jogging pants. Do you ever notice that? In fact, I seem to only see people who specifically must NOT jog wearing jogging pants. So maybe not so much with the public wearing of the jogging pants, ok? They’re not attractive. They do nothing for you. Nothing. Not even Gwen Stefani, who has put track pants on the map of fashion, would look cute in jogging pants. It’s like a law of the universe or something.
But that wasn’t my problem, as I have grown quite accustomed to seeing displays of questionable taste in this city. My problem was the no bra thing. She might have been pregnant or maybe just very unfortunately proportioned, but she had a body like a barrel on legs and what might have been very large breasts. Except that they looked as though they were trying to flee her body through escape pods located under her arms. I am not one to take the Lord’s name in vain (mostly) but I simply could not stop myself until I had uttered ‘Jesus’ four hundred and eighty two times.
People, this is Weetabix talking. For the sake of all that is holy, if you have enough boobies to droop down to your waist, wear a bra. I don’t care how depressed you are, wear a bra. Even just a sports bra would suffice. Your boobies will thank you. Your community will thank you.
This has been a public service announcement.
Whoopsie… I accidentally first posted this to Quoted because I was logged in there, so if you’re confused about why your buddy list said that there was a Quoted update and there wasn’t, this is why. Oh, and go make a banner ad with that angst, ok?
