Category Archives: Silva Nuggets (Random)

The Pantyhose Roll-volution

The other day, one of my friends asked me if I ever wear pantyhose. After nearly choking on my lunch and exclaiming “Oh God, no!” I explained that there was no reason for me to wear pantyhose, since I’m not a bank robber, the Duchess of Cambridge, or a pregnant woman trying to avoid varicose veins.

I will admit that Spanx is an incredibly cute name for pantyhose, but it’s still pantyhose.

I remember the days when my parents would force me to wear pantyhose to church or fancy events. The worst part was having to get into those things.

Pantyhose

They were so tight. It felt like I was squeezing a condom onto a watermelon.

That wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was dealing with the top of the pantyhose. The band would cut into my stomach, thereby creating these unflattering rolls of fat. I might as well have been a chain of sausage links.

“They’re a perfect fit for you,” my mom would say.

They were a perfect fit for a fetus, not me.

“They make your legs look nicer.”

Apparently ham hocks stuffed into matte nylon casings looked nicer than my natural legs.

My mom used to wear pantyhose almost everyday for work, and we tried to tell her that her legs looked better without it. Even the cat agreed, but she never listened.

Then one day, our old cat Speedo couldn’t take the sight of it anymore, and he took matters into his own hands:

SpeedoDestroyerOfPantyhose

Please do your part to save a cat. Ditch the pantyhose. Who’s with me?

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Post-Holiday Meltdown

Is it just me, or do the holidays get more expensive and exhausting every year?

By now, if you haven’t spent your entire paycheck, come down with the flu, sold a kidney, or lost your mind, I’d say you’re in pretty good shape and coping quite well with your postholiday meltdown so far.

I really don’t understand how Christmas has become so expensive and exhausting over the years, especially if the purpose of the holiday is supposed to be getting together with loved ones and celebrating Jesus’ birthday.

The other week, I was sitting next to a kid in a waiting room who was coloring a picture of the nativity scene. I complimented him on his artwork and how well he colored the baby Jesus. He looked up at me with a bewildered look and shouted “WHO THE HECK IS BABY JESUS?” I told him that baby Jesus was the little guy in the manger who he was coloring with the dark red crayon. He lit up instantly, grinning from ear to ear, and yelled “NO, THAT’S SANTA!” Now that’s just sad.

Speaking of Santa, I kind of recall kids asking the old man in red for much simpler things back in the day… like Hot Wheels or Barbie dolls. These days, it’s all about iPods, iPads, and other costly gadgets. I feel sorry for all the parents out there, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the fallout from all this is a rise in alcohol consumption and adult tantrums.

I know I’m probably going to sound a bit Kardashian-like here, but being Santa is extremely tiring. It’s incredibly strenuous having to run around shopping for gifts, attending parties, and entertaining out-of-town guests, all the while maintaining a jolly attitude. I justify going around smiling, being kind to others, and spreading Christmas cheer as my annual cardio workout and community service.

Believe me when I say that Santa has a rough gig, but baby Jesus has it made. Baby Jesus gets to spend all day drinking and relaxing in a crib while people visit and adore him. Who in their right mind would rather be Santa than Baby Jesus on Christmas?!

Not me. While other people are out playing Santa every year—caroling and spreading the Christmas spirit—I’ll be kicking back in my crib with some eggnog, watching “Die Hard” marathons on TV, and grunting intermittently from the couch to signal the family I’m still alive.

Despite the usual caroling, shopping, and other Santa-inspired nonsense, I actually do look forward to Christmas dinner each year. There’s just something special about it, a certain je ne se quoi, if you will.

These are a few of the things that I think make Christmas dinner so special every year:

  • One of your relatives will always get too inebriated during dinner, resulting in intriguing conversations; fearless actions (i.e. awkward hip gyrations and ass slaps); inappropriate outbursts (i.e. “I’ve got your taters right here swinging, baby!”); and overall bickering when voices that should be inner voices end up on speakerphone.

 “I was just saying that cranberry is good for a urinary tract infection. That’s it. It’s a perfectly acceptable dinner conversation. I mean, we’re eating cranberries for God’s sake!”

 “You brought a Democrat to dinner? Jesus Christ! Have you lost your damn mind?! I need some more scotch!”

  • Someone will bring a dessert they made that looks and/or tastes absolutely disgusting (yes, worse than fruitcake). You should prepare yourself in advance to expect a strange concoction to arrive at the dinner table from someone “trying a new recipe” which ultimately looks like something scooped from a baby’s diaper.
  • Speaking of fruitcake, there’s always at least two in attendance on Christmas: 1) most likely one of your relatives (refer to the first item above) and 2) an actual fruitcake made with those rubbery chunks of artificially-colored fruit that defy the natural world as we know it.

I’m happy to report that I accomplished quite a bit over the holidays this year, but I’m sad to report that my postholiday meltdown so far entails a bad case of the flu. Unfortunately, it’s not how I planned on ringing in the New Year, and not exactly what I had in mind for “out with the old, in with the new,” but oh well.

I wish all of you a healthy and prosperous 2013, and please, let’s all take a moment of silence to give thanks to vodka for getting us through another year! Cheers!

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Bad Picture Frame Etiquette

Whenever friends come over to our house, they love to look at our framed pictures and photo albums. Apparently they find something alluring about viewing random moments that don’t include them.

Personally, I’m not a fan of picture frames or albums. They’re just one more thing that has to be dusted when company comes over. Unfortunately, I would feel weird telling everyone who visits my house that I hate pictures, because then I’d have to dodge the bewildered looks of “What? How can you hate pictures? Who are you?” So, I always make sure I have at least some presentable family photos up to make myself seem more normal and less serial killer-y.

The downside to having photos displayed is that when people look at them, many of them can’t just do so in silence and resist the urge to make comments. The entire photo-review process can be awkward, especially when it’s accompanied by mild criticism:

“My God, check out your uncle’s hair! He actually had some!”

“Ah, so that’s how you look with no makeup on!”

“How long ago was this photo taken? You look really young!”

Don’t people know what constitutes bad picture frame etiquette?

Check it out, people… here are ten more things that you should never say (or do) while looking at other people’s photos:

  1. “It’s amazing… you’re like the female version of your brother!”
  2. “You and your dog kinda look alike, and it’s creeping me out.”
  3. “Man, look how skinny you were in high school!”
  4. “Is that you and your new friends from fat camp?”
  5. “You know, you could have used Photoshop to clean these up a bit.”
  6. “Jesus, what is that?! I’m hoping it’s one of your pets and not a close-up of your genitals.”
  7. “And this must be the night we all threw up.”
  8. “Oh wow, you’re still friends with that guy?!”
  9. “Red solo cups and beer koozies, huh? Keepin’ it classy.”
  10. “Hey, let me see that one!” (as you eat Doritos and grab the glass picture frame with your greasy thumbs pressed up against people’s faces).

Leave us a comment below if you can think of anymore to add to the list!

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Camping Is… for Other People

One of my most memorable camping experiences occurred about 10 years ago at a popular campground in Northern California. I recall that after my friends and I drove around for miles through a remote redwood forest, we finally found the perfect spot. We parked the car at the campsite and proceeded to unload all of our gear and food.

After a few trips to the car to unload our supplies, I noticed a seatbelt twitching back and forth in the car. When I got closer, I realized that there was a raccoon sitting in the driver’s seat. Luckily, his legs were too short to reach the gas pedal; otherwise, that could have made for quite an interesting 911 call…

Frantic Caller (Me): “Oh my God, our car was just stolen!”

911 Dispatch: “Ma’am, please calm down. Did you get a look at the person who stole it?”

Me: “Yes, but it wasn’t so much a person per se. The culprit was really fluffy and stood about a foot tall. I know this sounds crazy, but it was actually a raccoon.”

911 Dispatch: “Ma’am, let me get this straight: you’re calling to report that a raccoon stole your vehicle?”

Me: “Yes, that’s correct sir. A raccoon just sped out of here with our car and our camping supplies!”

911 Dispatch: “Ma’am, have you been drinking?”

Anyway, so there sat a raccoon in the driver’s seat of our car. My friend rushed over to the car, swung the door open, and out jumped this raccoon, running like a raccoon out of hell into the forest with half a loaf of our bread. The most mind-blowing part was that the raccoon (we’ll call him Mr. Belvedere) seemed to be civilized and have manners. Mr. Belvedere hadn’t just ripped open the bag of bread as I envisioned a savage, rabies-ridden vermin would: he actually took the time to take the twisty tie off the bag and take out individual slices of bread one by one while killing time in the car.

Later that evening, as I struggled through one of the most uncomfortable nights of sleep imaginable amongst rocks, pinecones, and creatures of the dark, I heard a rustling noise outside my tent. Heart racing, I pointed my flashlight in the direction of the noise and laid eyes on what appeared to be rascally little Mr. Belvedere. Only this time, he was sitting on top of my cooler, meticulously unwrapping slices of Kraft singles with his tiny, oddly human-like hands and fingers.

Well, at least he didn’t get the Cracker Jack’s! Um… hey, wait a minute… where are the Cracker Jack’s?! He’s lucky he’s cute, or there’d be hell to pay!

My friend tried to make the best of the situation and get me re-energized about camping, so he started telling me things like:

“You don’t see that in the city.”

“That raccoon was awesome.”

“There’s some amazing wildlife out here.”

“I like how it’s so rustic.”

Riiight. Rustic. A fancy way of saying that we voluntarily gave up wonderful modern conveniences like electricity, hot water, and toilets in order to suffocate each other with our own smells in a tiny microcosm of re-circulated air (commonly referred to as a “tent”). Also a fancy way of saying that if we didn’t slather ourselves in toxic insect repellant and lock up all our food, we would be violated and pillaged in the night by mosquitoes and the aforementioned “amazing wildlife.”

A couple years later, I must have suffered some type of brain injury, because I actually agreed to go camping again. This time, we ended up near a scenic lake infested with mosquitoes. It was so horrible, I couldn’t even pull my pants down to go to the bathroom in peace. As soon as I did, hoards of mosquitoes swarmed my butt cheeks, covering them like sprinkles on a donut. This forced me to have to multi-task (and by “multi-task,” I mean that I had to go to the bathroom and swat mosquitoes on my rear end simultaneously while trying not to pee in my shoe). It was awesome.

How nice. But, I don’t miss YOU.

If you haven’t already, y’all should try camping sometime. If you are fond of the idea of being homeless and out of your element, it’s definitely a fun way to spend a weekend… for those of you who are clearly insane.

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Weekend of Champions

This could be me!
Photo courtesy of: kpopstarz.com

Holy crap on a cracker! The Silva Gang was honored with another award! Gosh, I’m so giddy right now, I feel like the little Korean dude in that Gangnam Style video!

Thank you to Cassie Behle for the One Lovely Blog Award! Cassie is hilarious, an awesome writer, and my blogger bestie who continues to redefine life’s perceptions… one glass of wine at a time.

As a recipient of this award, I’m supposed to share something about myself. Since I’m incredibly thankful that you read my extremely sarcastic blog on a regular basis, and I want you to come back, I’ll keep it brief so as not to lull you into a deep sleep. Besides, there isn’t much I can tell you that you probably don’t already know.

One random fact that I will share with you is that my ancestors hail from the Planet Goo Gone in the majestic spiral galaxy called NGC 4414. I’d tell you more about it, but I want to avoid any sticky situations related to a full disclosure. Ha, just kidding (but how cool would that be?!).

What I was going to say is that I absolutely despise camping. Yes, despise. I pretty much avoid anything with the word “camping” in it. I’ll be writing all about it in my next blog post, so stay tuned! I also dislike artsy fartsy films, overly emotional films, or films with exceedingly cryptic plots. I’m more of a Lord of the Rings and Gladiator kind of gal, and not so much a Memento or Crying Game kind of gal.

As for another blogger I’d like to pass this One Lovely Blog Award to…

…I love you all (I really do)!

This time around, please join me in congratulating Harper Faulkner over at All Write! HF is a super funny guy, and I’d like to thank him for all the laughs!

Lady Antebellum performing in Hawaii.

In other news, I saw Lady Antebellum in concert in Hawaii this weekend, and they were fabulous! The only thing that wasn’t fabulous was that Darius Rucker and Thompson Square didn’t bother to show up! I know! How rude! The hubby and I were looking forward to seeing them on tour with Lady Antebellum, but they just didn’t have any aloha for us.

Neither did the middle-aged couple sitting next to us at the concert apparently, as they didn’t even hesitate to park their overweight derrières in our seats before we got there. As they stuffed their faces with nachos, we literally had to point out the seat numbers and show them our tickets to motivate them to budge. To make matters worse, they reverted to ignorance as an excuse, and they gruffly remarked: “Well, we didn’t know! It’s so dark, we couldn’t see!”

As I stood there pondering life’s pressing questions, particularly why these people’s parents didn’t use birth control, they started packing up their belongings and vacating our seats. It made the whole experience that much more worth it when I squeezed by them and managed to whack the lady in the face with my gigantic purse (yes, that would be the purse that the hubby refers to as a feed bag). She gave me a dirty look, and I said to her “Oh, whoops! Did my bag hit you? Gosh, it’s so dark, I couldn’t see!”

And that, my friends, is how the game of karma is played.

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