Annapalooza

It’s Finally Here! My Book is Published! April 19, 2018

So it took a lot longer than I had planned, but last night I finally pressed the “publish” button on Amazon. It’s both exciting and completely terrifying, but there’s no turning back now!

 

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In Da Club (with apologies to 50 Cent) November 27, 2017

At about 9:15 p.m. there’s a knock on my hotel room door. I open it up, only to find two helpless twenty-one -year-olds holding dress shirts and pants. They give me their best sheepish looks.

Millennials don’t iron.

I sigh dramatically and tell my stepson Chase and his best friend Ben to come on in, I’ll iron their clothes. Besides, I can’t have them embarrassing themselves and looking all wrinkly while I rock out my Halston Heritage dress with side cut-outs and super high-but-amazing Diane Von Furstenburg strappy heels.

We’re going to THE CLUB.

We’re on a Vegas trip for Chase’s belated twenty-first birthday, and not only are we going to one of Vegas’ hottest clubs, but we’ll get to see Calvin Harris DJ. I’ve been hyping the whole Vegas club scene to Chase for months. And as much as I hate to admit it…tick-tock… it will only be a matter of a few years before I start getting strange looks from the other patrons in such establishments. You know the look, a.k.a. what the hell are you doing here old lady? Besides, I tell Chase and Ben that even though I’m old, it will be easier for them to get in the club quickly since they have a female with them. I know how the bouncers like the keep the male-female ratio in check, otherwise things could turn into one big sausage party pretty quickly.

Around 10:30 p.m. we arrive at THE CLUB, where I effortlessly pass through security. Chase, on the other hand, has his ID checked about twenty different times from twenty different serious-looking dudes, in addition to some serious patting down. You know that rubber stamp you get for admittance? His arm basically looked like a tattoo sleeve by the time he got inside.

We first check out the multi-level main club area where Calvin Harris will eventually be performing. There’s a “warm-up” DJ first, so the area isn’t crowded at all. We’re told that a lot of people first head to the terrace, then migrate inside as the night progresses. This seems like a good idea to us; the terrace is beautiful and overlooks the Vegas strip. We hunker down and I tell Chase to get us some drinks as payment for my ironing services. I say I want a glass of champagne; it can be the cheapest champagne they have, it doesn’t matter, I say.

About ten minutes later he returns with my champagne, a rum and Coke for himself and a small bottled water for Ben.  He looks like a deer in headlights as he tells us the drinks cost seventy-five dollars.

Yup, you read that right. What the ham and cheese is wrong with you, Omnia Nightclub? (Yup, you are no longer THE CLUB, I am calling you out by name.) I wasn’t that naïve to know that Vegas drink prices were high, but seventy-five bucks? I apologized profusely to Chase and told him I would make it up to him since I had no idea the drinks contained pure gold. In talking to other patrons, it sounded like this was par for the course; the two girls next to us paid $95 for whatever they were drinking. (If your mouth isn’t hanging open in shock and disgust by now, you must be a Kardashian or a Disick, because this was most definitely NOT what I came for, Calvin Harris. See what I did there?) So, in summary, no, 50 Cent, we can’t go up in da club with a bottle of bub because we can’t f*cking afford one.

The night only got worse from there. For one, my beautiful shoes turned out to be devil shoes from hell, as every step I took resulted in shooting pain. The little rubber things I put inside the shoe to help cushion my foot? As useless as a ten-dollar bill at Omnia night club. (Seriously, I will NEVER let the whole drink thing go.)

Eventually Chase and Ben did meet a group of girls (good luck getting them to pay for drinks, ladies) so I slowly drifted away, not wanting to be the creepy older woman hanging around people half my age. (Or younger. Yikes.) I decided to just do some laps around the club, hoping that maybe somebody would talk to me. (Spoiler alert: nobody did.) Since I was wearing Satan’s Sandals this just made my entire loser trek even more miserable. Plus, I couldn’t get back into the main club area anymore; every time I walked by, a bouncer was there saying no more people could be admitted. What? How could it have filled up that quickly? How were we ever going to see Calvin Harris?

After a few more laps and growing frustration, I had had it. I told the boys I was leaving, and then it promptly started to rain, even though we were in the desert and it was August. Everyone on the terrace made a beeline to the ONE exit (again, really Omnia? Isn’t that a safety concern?) and as soon as I saw any exit door, I took it. I was promptly deposited outside Caesar’s Palace on the sidewalk.

I scooted inside where I saw the (still) impossibly long line for the club, then changed into my flats. I had never been so happy to see a pair of crappy ballerina slippers in my life. I then walked across the street to The Flamingo where my husband was playing poker. Sensing my irritation (and probably because I was soaked wet at this point), he gathered up his chips.

“Come on, honey,” I said. “Let’s go eat.”

None of us ever did see Calvin Harris, as apparently there was no room in the main club? (#Omniaisatotalscam)

So much for sippin’ Bacardi like it was my birthday.

And that is how I found myself eating a hot dog and tater tots at 12:30 a.m. in Vegas. I was a bit overdressed for the Haute Doggery, but whatever…it was a fancy hot dog place, okay?

 

 

Does My Bluetooth Discriminate? May 29, 2017

About 18 months ago I got a brand new car. This whole new car gig opened me up to an entirely new world: dual heated seats, a heated steering wheel, Sirius XM radio, keyless start, a camera for backing up (and a beep to tell me when I’m too close to something), and a whole bunch more bells and whistles I never even knew existed. I could finally be as cool as those people on TV who receive texts and phone calls right through their car. (What is this, The Jetsons?! Craziness!) I finally knew what I had been missing out on and now there was no going back. (I realize some of you may have been luxuriating in this technology for the past 10 years, and I just sounded a lot like Romy in Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion when she busted out her HUGE portable phone and asked if anyone needed to make a call… BUT… in the meantime my mortgage is paid off, so there’s that.)

So I am loving the Bluetooth, but there’s a slight problem.

Me: (pressing phone call button and trying to call my husband) Call Dan Mobile One.

Bluetooth Voice: Do you want to call an ambulance?

Me: (panicking) NO!

Bluetooth Voice: Okay, say the name of the contact you wish you call.

Me: (annunciating profusely – and sweating profusely as well) Call DAN MOBILE ONE.

Bluetooth Voice: Do you want to call an ambulance?

Me: Gah! NO!!

Bluetooth Voice: Okay, let’s try this again.

After several near-misses with reporting a false emergency, along with some serious reflection on my Wisconsin accent, I finally figured out the trick. Apparently the Bluetooth lady only recognizes ‘Dan’ when I pronounce it with a slight English accent mixed with major nasal congestion. It ends up being much closer to ‘Don’ than ‘Dan’, plus I wind up feeling and sounding like a pretentious a**hole when I say it.

So I couldn’t help but wonder: What kinds of accents does the Bluetooth lady actually recognize? Do people in other parts of the country with other accents also struggle with this problem? And would it just be easier to use an entirely different accent overall when trying to use Bluetooth? (Hmmm now that could be fun. But also very confusing/annoying to my passengers.)

I did a very quick experiment for myself, and here were the results:

Southern Accent: Even with my deepest, twangy-ist Southern accent impersonation, the Bluetooth still recognized that I wanted to call Dan. Huh. I would have thought the Southern version of Dan would have triggered an ambulance more than anything, but no dice. This might keep me awake at night.

English Accent: Not surprisingly, this worked like a charm. No issues.

Irish Accent: This one worked too, even though I sounded exactly like Mrs. Doubtfire.

Indian Accent: This one was a fail. The Bluetooth lady kept telling me, “I didn’t understand what you said,” and eventually she just went ahead and dialed my last incoming call.

Butthead: (yes, of Beavis and…) Even when I added a little obnoxious Butthead laugh in front of my request, the Bluetooth STILL recognized it.

Since I can’t really do any more accents, and I wasn’t even sure how well I did the ones I tried, I stopped there. I mean if you wanted me to yell at the Bluetooth in a Russian accent and say, “He beat me! Straight up!” a la John Malkovich in Rounders, I could do that. But ask me to say anything else in a Russian accent and I’d fail miserably.

So what did I conclude?

We’ve still got a long way to go, Bluetooth. I mean it kind of concerns me that you could understand my Butthead voice but not my normal voice. What does that say about your quality control? But I’m going to keep trying. We’ll see how Amazon’s Echo fairs when I start speaking to it. If it can understand me when I say flag and bag, then we’ve got a winner.

Stay tuned.

 

When Cheeseheads Travel South April 24, 2017

The road trip seemed like a good idea at the time.

“It’s only the panhandle…it’s not like we’re driving to Miami,” I reasoned. “Besides, all the flights are astronomically expensive during spring break.”

About twelve hours into the trip we ended up cursing ourselves for being such cheap-asses. On the other hand, it only took me about five hours to realize that even Sirius XM plays the same damn songs over and over again. (The top 50 songs from 1983 again, Alan Hunter?) And while we are certainly nostalgic, eventually we grew tired of Nina Blackwood’s “I just swallowed broken glass” voice and ended up on the ONEderland station. There we were promptly treated to the WKRP in Cincinnati theme song. Baby, if you ever wondered…wondered how long it would take for my husband to get tired of me singing that song? I’d say twenty minutes. Twenty minutes tops.

Thankfully the long trip was broken up a bit by a stop in Nashville. We jumped on a trolley tour and endured all the historical narration and the American Pickers store until we could hop off and zoom in on what really mattered. That’s right, I’m talking about hot chicken. We waited an hour and twenty minutes for Hattie B’s famous hot chicken, and yes, it was worth it. Waiting was not easy, especially since we were surrounded by about a bazillion twenty-something hipster dudes. Ladies, quit hooting and hollering on those pedal-bars and come and eat some chicken for God’s sake! A person can only listen to so many dive bar adventures and references to PBR.

After a late afternoon nap (because eating hot chicken and mac and cheese makes one very tired), we headed back out to Broadway, home to much honkin’ as well as much tonkin’. When I heard a band playing some very good Chuck Berry, we decided to make our way inside. After securing our beverages and a place up front, things took a bit of a turn for me. The band stopped the Chuck Berry and suddenly started playing Country. No Western, just Country. Had it been Kenny or Dolly or Loretta or Johnny or any of the Statlers I would have been fine, but this was new country. As in the music I have to tolerate before Monday Night Football begins. But apparently EVERYONE (including my husband – oh, the horror…) knew all the words to every song, leaving me to awkwardly clutch my Michelob Ultra and mumble over and over, “All I know is Way down yonder on the Chattahoochee.”[1] I felt like I had been transported to some sort of parallel pop culture universe where I was completely out of the loop… kind of like when I lived overseas in 1994 and then came home to find everyone drinking Zima. That is, it made me deeply concerned for human kind’s sense of judgment and overall taste level.

But I digress.

The next day we hit the back roads of Alabama. This is where we came across my favorite name for a restaurant ever, the “It Don’t Matter Family Restaurant” in Highland Heights. Unfortunately it was closed, but my disappointment was short-lived as we came to a convenience (?) store whose sign read: Hot dogs, wine, chainsaws and jewelry all in one stop.

I’m not really sure what more a person could ask for, but judging by all the rusty items sitting out front, an updated tetanus shot would be a good guess. And now I know what the Oily Bohunk’s dad’s new business venture is. (Besides video game arcades, laundry, cigarette machines, and trucking. Oh, and the little bit of dabbling in personal loans and politics.)[2]

Stay tuned for next time when the Cheeseheads continue their Southern adventure…

 

[1] How do I know even this much? Because years ago some commercial for NOW That’s Country! was played constantly, and some blond guy with a mustache and cut-off t-shirt kept singing that line in the commercial. I now know that guy’s name was Alan Jackson.

[2] Kudos if you caught my reference to Sixteen Candles. You can sit with us. On Wednesdays we wear pink. (I’ve never seen a footnote to a footnote, but if there were such a thing, there would be a footnote here referencing Mean Girls. I really must stop living my life through movie quotes, but why stop now?)

 

Things I’m Supposed to Like February 21, 2017

Attention, marketers: I’m not picking up what you’re laying down, so you can take your Chicos fashions and move right along: I’m not buying it. Along with the rest of these things that 43-year-old women are supposed to like.

Paint Your Own Picture or Paint Your Own Pottery

I know I will probably offend some of my friends when I say this, but I have no desire to go to a studio and drink wine while we all paint the same picture and then pose with our artwork in a proud group photo, undoubtedly comparing our skills to each other. Not gonna do it. And to be honest, the fact that so many ladies do this makes me not want to do it even more. (I know, that makes me a total badass.)

Jennifer Aniston Movies

Mother’s Day? Really? Blech. Drivel.

Bath and Body Works

Do I want a basket to help me shop? No, I don’t. Ever.

Fifty Shades of Grey

This is our modern day idea of romance? That is seriously screwed up. Give me Daniel Day Lewis removing Michelle Pfeiffer’s glove in The Age of Innocence. Or Lloyd Dobbler watching over Diane Court at the senior party.

Victoria’s Secret

Don’t get me wrong – I love me some nice lingerie. It’s just that I don’t think Victoria’s Secret is all that great. And yet thongs – I mean throngs – of women flock to it as if it’s the Holy Grail of lingerie. Stop buying that overpriced crap, people! I’m also a bit disturbed that the company is marketing the Pink brand to pre-teens and teenagers so they can feel “sexy”.

P.S. I may still feel some resentment and/or creepiness over trying to order several catalog items from them years ago. A man took my order and proceeded to giggle at everything I said, including the fact that I was from Wisconsin. Like it was that odd that someone from Wisconsin would actually be ordering sexy underwear. It turned out every single thing I tried to order was mysteriously out of stock, so he then tried to sell me a Dream Bra (like a Miracle Bra) right over the phone. Needless to say, I never called them again.

Leonardo Dicaprio

Please tell me I’m not the only woman who doesn’t find him attractive. Even in his Titanic days he had the body of a little boy. I’m not into that. I’m also not into self-righteous movie stars who only date supermodels.

Brad Pitt

Okay I do feel a bit bad for him because Angelina is truly batshit crazy; she seems like one of those moms who lets the kids run rampant and then gets upset when Brad tries to step in and say, “No, Pax, you can’t do whatever the f*ck you want, because you are a CHILD.” But that aside, it seems like he doesn’t shower enough.

Coldplay and Adele

Yeah, I know…I lost my white person card right there. It’s not that I hate them, it’s just that I am so freaking sick of them. I never saw what was so great about Coldplay, and Chris Martin lost even more points when he married Gwyneth Paltrow. Adele is obviously very talented, I get it. But if I hear Hello one more time I might set fire to the…never mind.

Chrissy Tiegen and John Legend

Sigh. I know everyone is having this giant love affair with this beautiful couple and their beautiful child, but I’m over it. I think it started recently when they decided to sit down on the red carpet in the middle of the Golden Globes. Hmmm…not enough attention is being paid to us, so what to do, what to do…Oh! I know! Let’s sit down on the red carpet!

The sad part is, this shit made headlines.

And lastly…

Apple Products

Sorry, Apple, but I will not get sucked into your cult! Again, I find it disturbing that people wait in line for hours for a new (super expensive) phone that is basically 99% similar to their previous phone. If people are really honest with themselves, it’s not because of the new “features”; it’s so they can brag to their friends that they have the latest phone. Oh and it’s also because all the cute phone cases are only made for the latest iPhones. Seriously, have you ever tried to find a hip phone case for a Samsung Galaxy S5? It doesn’t exist.

Bonus reason: I don’t even think Apple products are that easy to use. ITunes? Disaster. Personally I like how I can go to Amazon Music, buy or download a song from Prime, and then automagically all my music is on my phone. It’s brilliant and cheaper and I love it.

 

Please Get This Song Out of My Head June 11, 2016

Back in August and September I was pretty much in work hell: long hours, a stressful project, lots of new things to learn. This particular work project also required spending my days in a small conference room with two to four other people at any given time, often for 10-12 hours in a row. At one point I taped a sign to the door that said, “Please do not discuss the outside world”. This, of course, was a tribute to The Simpsons (because everyone knows that’s what the sign says outside Grandpa Simpson’s retirement home.) Sadly, not many people understood my pop culture reference, nor did they think it was funny. I thought it was downright hilarious, but the conference room was in the middle of the environmental, health and safety department, and who knows what those people find funny. Dilbert cartoons about ergonomics?

Anyway, lack of contact with the outside world can certainly drive a person quite batty. I don’t know about you, but when I get to the appropriate level of battiness, my mind turns into a one-woman radio station for those with ADHD. I have no control over the genre or taste level on this station; the songs just pop into my head before I can do anything about it. Perhaps it’s a coping mechanism…or perhaps I am somewhere on the ADHD spectrum myself but never really got diagnosed? Not sure. But the results range from annoying to embarrassing to what-the-f*ck?

One particular day my mind was so active with songs that I actually started writing them down. Here’s what I came up with:

  • “Family Man” by Hall and Oates. It makes perfect sense that I would have this song in my head first thing in the morning. I am not a morning person and furthermore I’m an introvert, so the last thing I want to do when I get to work is join a room full of people. So “Leave me alone, I’m a fam-ily man” just seemed to stick, minus the whole family man thing.
  • “Let the Good Times Roll” by The Cars. Obviously I was going through a sarcastic phase here.
  • “Whooomp There It Is” by Tag Team. I think someone came in the room and said “I’m back again”, and then it all went from there, naturally.
  • “Special” by the Pretenders. I honestly don’t know how this song got in my head.
  • “I Gotta Feeling” by Black Eyed Peas. This was right after lunch when all I really wanted was a nap. But instead I had that incessant wedding celebration song in my head.
  • “Rocky Top Tennessee” by one of the kids from the classic Kenny Rogers movie “Six Pack”. Yes, I realize that this was probably sung by someone famous, but I never did know my country singers. Except for Kenny, Dolly, Loretty, and The Statler Brothers. (Do The Statlers count? I think they do.) Anyway, when I sing Rocky Top to myself, it’s always this calm, reflective version sung by this little redneck boy while Kenny Rogers the washed-up racecar driver is driving the RV. Granted that kid was a little sh*t the rest of the movie, but boy could he sing like an angel.
  • “Give Your Heart a Break” by Demi Lovato. Hmmm. I thought this was by Selena Gomez but I just Googled it and I was wrong. Anyway, it was played on the radio ALL. THE. TIME. and I could not get it out of my head.
  • “We Built This City” by Starship. One of the worst songs of all time, yet here’s an interesting fact: A few years ago I saw a concert with Lou Gramm, Eddie Money and Mickey Thomas from Starship, and Mickey was the only performer who could actually still sing and not sweat through his shirt in less than 30 seconds. You have to respect that.
  • “Man in the Mirror” by Michael Jackson. Somebody mentioned something about ‘making a change’, hence I started whispering that in my head and it morphed into this Michael Jackson song which so many people find inspirational. I don’t. If my mind’s radio station is going to give me some Michael, then it better be “PYT”.
  • “Walk Away” by The Eagles. Again I had to look this up because I though the song was called, “Seems to Me”. And I always get my 70’s bands confused, so no, I didn’t know it was The Eagles. Which is odd because growing up just about every washed-up 70’s band came to my hometown to play in a festival each summer. This was before I figured out how awesome “No Sugar Tonight” was. Ugh, doesn’t your teenage self just disgust you sometimes?
  • “Give Your Heart a Break” – again. Damnit, Sel – I mean Demi!!
  • “The Final Countdown” by Europe. At this point I must’ve seen some hope that we were wrapping up the long day, and this was the most appropriate song of course.
  • Get out of my head, Demi Lovato!!!

And the final song of the day…

  • “I Alone” by Live. Because what else captures the triumph of another long work day better than a song about placenta falling to the floor?

 

P.S. If I had my way, I would have preferred a recently-discovered song from Pitbull’s Globalization station (don’t judge) on my satellite radio. It’s a nifty little number featuring Jennifer Lopez saying, “I done had a long week, now it’s time to celebrate. This drink’s for you.” Sure, Pitbull was dedicating the song to all the single ladies and single mothers out there (like his mom), but I think he could make an exception for the hardworking white ladies too, right?

 

The 6 Types of House Hunters September 21, 2015

Filed under: Humor,Pop Culture — aniederkorn @ 9:20 pm
Tags: , ,

I love watching HGTV’s House Hunters. In my opinion it’s one of the most reliable television shows out there; I can always be assured that no matter what other crap is on one of my 200 other channels, House Hunters will always be there to entertain me.

However, if you watch a show long enough, it’s bound to start annoying you with all its idiosyncrasies, and House Hunters is certainly no exception. Over the years I’ve noticed that the most annoying home buyers often fall into certain categories, which I have lovingly outlined for you below. You’re welcome.

The 6 Different Types of House Hunters (totally unofficial and stereotypical, but astoundingly accurate)

  • The Overly-Cautious Parents. These are the parents who are convinced that most houses are death traps waiting to harm their offspring. No matter how innocuous a house seems, the parents will find some reason to find an obscure and often ridiculous safety hazard. Common quotes include: “Well I know that in-ground pool with deck, waterslide and spectacular landscaping is pretty cool, but what if the kids sleepwalk and fall into it?” Or, “Hmmm the slant on that hill is a bit steep. Too much of a risk when the kids are running around.” And then there is the ever popular, “The master is on the first floor and the kids’ rooms are on the second floor?” (Note: at this point I think to myself, “Perfect!”) But then the parents say: “Yeah…that is way too far away. We need to be next to the kids at all times in case something happens.” Cue my husband and me, trying to make pretend helicopter noises.

On a related note, these parents are also most likely to be huge germophobes who ironically let their cats roam freely          across kitchen countertops. And speaking of pets…

  • The Ones Who Care Most About the Dogs. These episodes start innocently enough. The couple seems very likeable and normal, they have good taste, and they both agree on what they want. As the narrator explains the things they are looking for (i.e. open concept, a modern kitchen, a large master suite), the words I dread are then delivered: “They’re also looking for a large yard for their two German Shepherds.”

As the couple starts to look at houses, my opinion of them changes very quickly. These are not just dog people;                  these are crazy-ass dog people ready to go all Parker Posey in Best in Show on you at any given moment. Not                    surprisingly, the housing decision is primarily based on the yard space for the dogs, fencing for the dogs, the proper            environment to walk the dogs, and proximity of a park to run the dogs. After looking at every house, the hunters                    mutter something like this: “Well it’s in our budget and in our desired neighborhood. Plus it’s got those stainless steel           appliances and open concept we love. Basically everything is absolutely perfect for us except the yard is a little too               small for Buster and Roscoe.” I then want to stick a fork in my eye as the couple ends up buying a fixer upper with               mustard yellow appliances and knotty pine walls.  But at least the yard is big enough for the damn dogs.

  • The Wealthy Empty-Nesters Who Are “Downsizing”. Usually he’s some corporate executive or Wall Street maverick, and she’s never had a job outside the home. Now that all their kids are gone, they decide that maybe the 8000 square foot mansion in Westchester is a bit too large for just the two of them. Their plan is to “downsize” to 3500 square feet. As soon as they begin the hunt, she will continue to complain that the houses are way too small, and he will be overly concerned with the price even though they already own condos in Palm Beach and Aspen. They settle on something around 5000 square feet, “for when the kids come to visit.”
  • The Couple with Polar Opposite Tastes. This one can be summed up pretty quickly. For example: His tastes are modern and she loves Victorian style. You know from the start that dude can kiss his chances of a minimalist, neutral palette goodbye. It’s going to be toile and lace for that poor guy for the rest of his life. The closing shot is a quote from the dejected husband who tries his best to smile and say, “Well, it was most important that she was happy.”
  • The Couple Who Want a House “In Their Current Neighborhood”. This couple is also commonly found on HGTV’s Love It or List It. It’s usually a family who has outgrown its current home due to all the kids’ crap: i.e., the dining room has been overtaken by giant plastic puzzles pieces, a pretend kitchen set, a fort, and several makeshift tunnels. The wish list for their new home is impossibly long, but it most likely contains the following: 1) A bedroom for each child, 2) A playroom for the kids, 3) a craft area for Mom, 4) a Man Cave for Dad, and 5) the location absolutely must be in their same neighborhood.

Is it just me, or isn’t it hard enough to simply find a house you love within your budget? What are the chances that                house is going to be in your same neighborhood?

“Little to none, you completely unreasonable hoarders”, I want to tell them.  As is the case with Love It or List It, once            a decorator bulldozes all their crap into a nearby storage unit, the couple realizes they are going to stay in their same          house.

  • The “Mystery Money” Couple. The intro goes something like this: Robin and Josh are twenty-something newlyweds looking for a starter home. Robin is a social worker while Josh is finishing up his graduate degree in Russian Literature. They both want a colonial within easy commuting distance to the university, while still staying within their budget of $450,000.

        Say what?

         In other words, mommy and daddy are fitting the bill, therefore delaying the couple’s entry in the “real world” until they          are well into their mid-thirties, if not longer.

At this point I usually turn the channel in disgust. The Simpsons have got to be on somewhere.