Slightly Insane Mom

"All mothers are slightly insane." –J.D. Salinger

Archive for the ‘Worthless Crap’ Category

July 2nd, 2014 by Molly

Worthless Crap Wednesday: Internet Things That Need to Die a Fast, Painful Internet Death

After a month-long hiatus in which I engaged in a bit of self-pity and simultaneously gained 5 pounds by binge-eating ice cream, I’m back, and I have a few things to talk about. I need to tell you about Little Miss Sunshine’s first Girl Scout camping trip, Sergeant Snowflake’s new behavioral therapist, and I should probably talk about Mr. Mischief a bit, too (I swear, he does exist, and he’s awesome!). But before I can do any of that, it’s time for another edition of Worthless Crap Wednesday, in which I talk about things that are of absolutely no importance whatsoever.

This week’s topic: Internet Things That Need to Die a Fast, Painful Internet Death.

Much like LFO, those jeans with the pleather chaps attached, and Pogs, some trends are stupid and need to be forever scattered to the winds of pop culture history. Unfortunately, now we have the internet, which means that stupid things that would have been a flash in the pan in previous decades are now drawn out agonizingly, in every possible iteration. We all have different pet peeves. My brother-in-law, for example, hates Buzzfeed quizzes, whereas I am ALWAYS down for them, as I find them to be stunningly accurate windows into my soul.

Here is my own personal list of Internet Things that induce instant, teeth-gnashing rage whenever I see them:

1. “Nom nom nom.” Why are people still saying this? It’s stupid.¬† Don’t type it, and for fuck’s sake, don’t say it out loud. Don’t even think it. Let’s just go back to “yum” and save ourselves 2 syllables worth of idiocy.

2. The Condescending Wonka meme. The one about North Face jackets was funny.



Since then, they’ve all gone downhill.

3. Posting an article on Friendface, with the comment “THIS.” Listen, I get it. Sometimes you’re so enraged or flummoxed or coffee-deprived that you know you won’t be able to articulate anything nearly as concise as the author of the article. But friends, I really think we need to aim a little higher. Tell us why this link to a Colbert clip means something to you. Give me four or five words about why Matt Walsh’s latest right wing rant sums up your existence. Or–and here’s a concept–don’t say anything at all. Let the piece speak for itself. I know that little rectangle on the share window is beckoning, but if you must fill it with something, fill it with an actual thought. I’ll take an “LOL, this is awesome!” over “THIS” any day of the week.

4. Rape Sloth memes. Not everyone is familiar with the Rape Sloth, but believe it or not, it’s a thing, and it needs to go away. Much like sloths themselves, the Rape Sloth meme is creepy to the extreme.



The original meme started as a parody of a fashion spread–a model poses in a photo shoot with a creepy sloth whispering in her ear–who comes up with these things?! The problem is, rape is not funny. It’s never, ever funny. Not in meme form, not in stand-up comedy form, and not in casual conversation. I know this post is supposed to be about Internet Things, but now I’m off on a tangent and it’s my blog so I can do that. While the Rape Sloth is an Internet Thing, rape jokes are a Human Thing, and they need to die a fast, painful death.

5. Making fun of obese people. So there was this photo posted on a popular humor site and passed around the Interwebs. I’m not going to show it here, because I don’t want to contribute to the subject’s continued embarrassment, but I’ll describe it as best I can. Picture a grocery store soft drink aisle. In the middle of the aisle is an obese man who has tipped over his motorized scooter while trying to reach for a 12-pack of pop. This photo has made its way around the internet, always with a caption along the lines of “Must… Reach… Diet Coke!” And I’m assuming the message we’re supposed to take away from it is, “Ahhh, fat people! So funny!” It’s also supposed to be a commentary on the obesity epidemic in America. But to me, it’s more of a statement about the insensitivity epidemic in our country. A disabled person has fallen in a grocery store aisle, and rather than help, someone whips out a cell phone and snaps a photo that gets shared by thousands of people.

Think before you share insensitive bullshit. Also, those apps that take your photos and make you fat or old? Those things need to die, too.

6. Upworthy. Has there ever been a smarmier name for a site? This site owes its continued existence to suckers who fall for its click-bait headlines. “The Most Important Video You’ll See All Day.” “You’ll Never Believe What This Little Girl Does Next.” “What this Veteran Does Will Amaze You.” Folks, you’re being manipulated by these words to click, share, and increase Upworthy’s ad revenue.

7. Friendface Like Farming. I have personally shared Facecrooks’ excellent breakdown of like-farming scams about eleventy-seven times on my newsfeed. Alas, my Friendface friends still insist on sharing nonsense, so let me break it down for you. Scammy McScamster sets up a Friendface page with a name that is meant to sound legit. For my particular group of friends (30-40-something moms) we tend to fall for things in the home arena. Let’s say the page is called Scammy’s Splendid Home. Scammy trolls around the internet and finds recipes, inspirational quotes on pretty backgrounds, home tips, and those nifty “50 Great Preschool Crafts” posts. She then steals the post, giving no credit whatsoever to the original author, and posts it on her Scammy’s Splendid Home Friendface page. The page starts gathering likes, and once it gets enough, it can start making money off Friendface by posting ads for products and identity-stealing malware. So when you share that recipe for cinnamon rolls that most certainly was not written by Scammy herself, you’re encouraging the scammers, you’re endorsing plagiarism, and you’re putting your friends at risk for identity theft. If a post about How to Spotlessly Clean Your Windows encourages you to “like, and share to your timeline to save this post,” it’s a like-farming scam, no more. If you’re into sharing home tips, there’s a site for that. It’s called Pinterest.

8. Grumpy Cat Abuse. Perhaps the issue that weighs most heavily on my mind is the misuse of Grumpy Cat in memes. Poor Grumpy. All she wants to do is hang around and be mildly perturbed.



But instead, she’s got asshats making memes like this:


via some knucklehead on

She’s Grumpy Cat, not Evil Sadist Cat. Get it straight, Internet.

To sum up, friends, can we just agree to do away with some of these things? Let’s let them die to make room for the inevitable creation of more internet fuckery.

April 30th, 2014 by Molly

Worthless Crap Wednesday: Laundry

It’s time for a brand spanking new feature here on SIM. I’m calling it Worthless Crap Wednesday. Wednesdays are going to be reserved for posting about only the most worthless topics. So let’s get to it!

Laundry.¬† Back when I was a single gal, I actually sort of enjoyed laundry day. Did you notice what I said there? Laundry DAY, as in, a single, solitary day, once a week–heck, sometimes I even stretched it to every other week–on which I did a few loads of laundry. I’d get my little basket, the kind with the curvy indentation so I could rest it jauntily on my hip, and I’d grab my roll of quarters and off I’d go to the laundry room of my apartment building to do my load (singular) of colors and my load (singular) of whites. I’d throw in an episode of Sex and the City or Dawson’s Creek while I waited, and then it was done. Laundry. Check.

Oh, how I miss those days! Because this, my friends, is what I have now:


That’s just the dirty laundry. There’s another pile up on my bed waiting to be folded.

The kicker is, I JUST. DID. THE. LAUNDRY. Just did it. Just the other day. And here I am. Doing laundry.

Dante wrote about the 9 circles of hell. He was wrong. There’s actually a 10th circle, and it’s Laundry.

I was in the 10th circle of Laundry Hell this morning. I went down to start a load, and discovered that there was a load in the washing machine already. Apparently it had been forgotten about for a few days, because it smelled like a Wet Dog and Toe Fungus Sandwich. I started the load over again, with hot water and copious amounts of detergent and Oxi Clean. (Does that stuff actually do anything? I’ve been using it for years, mainly, I think, for psychological purposes.)

Once the load was done, I went to transfer it to the dryer, only to discover that there was a load of whites in there. Still wet. Le sigh. Started the dryer.

Waited an hour.

I opened the dryer and pulled out a dry blanket and dry sheet, and discovered a NEW LAUNDRY PHENOMENON. The pillow that was in the load somehow managed to suction itself to the side wall of the dryer drum, defying all rules of physics (or something). I had to literally peel the pillow off the side of the dryer, and the side that was attached to the dryer wall was–as you might guess–soaking wet. Le sigh. Started the dryer again.

Waited another hour.

Friends, it took me THE ENTIRE MORNING to clean one load of clothes.

Once the laundry is done, I schlep it upstairs and dump it out on our bed to fold. But God forbid I have to leave the room and actually leave a pile of inanimate objects unattended. If I do, I might come back to this scene:


Thing 1 and Thing 2, curled up all innocently on my clean laundry. LE SIIIIIGH.

Some days I find myself resenting the people of my household for producing so much laundry. Look at them, I think. Just who do they think they are? Walking around here, wearing those clothes like they own the place!

The kicker is, I have a sneaking suspicion that I may be one of the largest laundry-producing offenders in our household. The other family members do contribute to the laundry-doing, and if my suspicion is correct, they may be shouldering an unfair percentage of the laundry burden.

But sometimes we must make sacrifices as part of being a family. It’ll all come out in the wash.

April 26th, 2014 by Molly

The Stiffy

You would think when starting a blog, that I would tell you about my husband or my kids, but instead I’m going to tell you about my dog, Shithead. No, that’s not his actual name. Go rent The Jerk, for pete’s sake.

Shithead is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, a foo-foo breed of canine known for being a companion animal, excellent with children, and also for needing little exercise. Perfect for couch potatoes like me and The Dude. When we got Shithead, we assumed a certain amount of maintenance in terms of grooming, vaccinations, and the usual dog upkeep. We did not, however, count on things like bladder stones, with which Shithead is unfortunately cursed.

Last year, conveniently around the time Mr. Mischief was born, Shithead developed a nasty case of bladder stones, which had him peeing like a 90-year-old man. So off we went to the vet for a pricey stone removal surgery, followed by a special prescription diet that costs lots of money and is apparently the only food he can safely eat for the rest of his life.

At any rate, when he had the surgery, the vet sternly warned me to watch for signs of more bladder stones, because if one gets lodged in his urethra, it could mean IMMINENT DEATH, for either Shithead and/or my new family room carpet.

One day a few months back, I noticed that Shithead was spending  more time lazing about on my bed than usual. I was alarmed, and drew upon that one youtube video I watched my vast veterinary knowledge to examine him. And what I found was a lump. A big, firm lump right in his abdominal area.

So, fearing for my dog’s imminent demise, I packed up the boys and the dog, and off we went to the vet.

We get there, and they immediately gather up Shithead and hustle him off to the doggy x-ray room. Meanwhile, Mr. Mischief is amusing himself by putting his mouth on every conceivable fur-covered surface in the exam room, and Sgt. Snowflake is whining about playing Angry Birds on my phone. And for some reason, I’m having one of those “Am I suddenly menopausal and I didn’t get the memo?” sweat attacks.

After a while, the doc comes back with Shithead in tow. She has a slight grin on her face.

“Well,” she says, “I have good news. We didn’t find any bladder stones. Shithead is just fine.”

“I’m confused,” I say. “What’s that big mass in his belly?”

“Well, you see,” she says, the smirk growing just a smidge. “Don’t be embarrassed, it happens to dog owners a lot. We see this at least once a week. There’s a thing that happens in the dog’s urinary bulbous glandis blah something… when the dog gets… excited…”

“Oh, don’t tell me,” I say, facepalming. “I brought my dog to see you because he’s horny?”

“Yep,” she says. “On the bright side, no bladder stones!”

So off we went, Mischief, Snowflake, Shithead, and I, after forking over $80 to find out my dog had a boner.