Hey – I got another hate comment! This time, instead of racist garbage, it was this gem:
“Ey Gina, you look like a fat cow yourself, so what´s your fucking problem ugly bitch”
Isn’t that awesome?
You know, I’ll admit – at first I thought, “Ouch- that hurts.” but then I realized that Anonymous is a bitch ass fucking cunt and I felt better. I can’t help but wonder, though, what goes on in the mind of a person who leaves a comment like that on the blog of a person they (presumably) don’t even know, that they definitely don’t have to read. I think about how sad and pathetic an existence it must be to have to take pleasure from something like that. And I think about how I am, in fact, a fat cow, but that I can do something about it while unfortunately for Anonymous (and moreso, everyone around him/her), there is no cure for pathetic bitch ass fucking cunt.
Oh – and while we’re on the subject of assholes – two words: Sharon Stone. Seriously? I mean – do you really think that, given the number of innocent people – children – affected by the quake? Because I think I’d watch out for karma myself, if I were you.
Also in the asshole files – did you hear about the Rachel Ray ad that got pulled? Apparently, in her latest commercial for Dunkin Donuts, she wore a scarf that Michelle Malkin and other crazy assholes thought looks like a kaffiyeh. So Dunkin Donuts won’t be airing the ad. Now, I don’t give a rat’s ass about Dunkin Donuts or Rachel Ray, so I don’t really care one way or another about the ad. But I do know that the reaction of some people over a scarf - a scarf - is way the hell overboard. It’s a scarf! And to decide that it represents all thing evil and anti-American and demand that it not be shown to the American public for fear we will all be killed in some sort of Dunkin Donuts Terrorist Uprising, is a little on the ultra-sensitive batshit crazy side. I mean, if you really want something to be offended by, here are a few no-brainers: George Bush, Racism, 46 million without health insurance, the boy who was voted out of his class by an asshole teacher, Iraq, the price of gas, the fact that women still only make about 77 cents to a mans dollar, the lack of affordable and acceptable care for the elderly, the earthquake victims, the still displaced Katrina victims, the 13 million American children going to bed hungry every night, the 300 million worldwide doing the same, the economy, the hundreds of thousands of people living in shelters or on the streets of one of the richest nations in the world, global warming, and once more for good measure – George Bush.
Tomorrow is my first short Friday – yay! Actually, it will be even shorter, since I am taking off at 9:30 to go to the boy’s 5th grade awards ceremony. I wasn’t really planning on going, since – to be honest – I didn’t think he’d be getting anything. Because I am an awesome low expectations-having mom like that. So pony up that Super Supportive Mom of the Year Award right away, bitches! Actually, I really didn’t want to figure out how to swing work and getting there on time. But now that I have been offered the opportunity to work from home on summer Fridays, it’s a lot easier. As it turns out, he will actually get some awards – don’t get excited – most likely the generic, participation type and not the 5th Grade Genius kind. But I will be happy and proud anyway. Because I still display my Class Clown, Most Likely to Drive a College Professor Crazy and Most Talkative awards proudly.
This weekend, my mom and aunt are having a yard sale. They do it every year and every year, my mom tries to get me to go and get rid of stuff, and every year, my laziness, pack-ratty-ness, and busy schedule prevent me from doing so. But this year, I have decided to gather up some stuff and go. I have some baby-type items, like a stroller and a toddler bed that are just taking up space and I have about a hundred billion books. My problem with books is that I don’t want to sell them cheap and people don’t want to pay more than $1. I mean – I love to read, so if I saw a $12 book for $5, I’d be all over that shit. But most folks aren’t like me (irrational and crazy). So, I’ll have to give in a little just to get my household out from under the mountain of books. The funny thing is that I have no problem giving them away. I’m just cheap if I try and sell them. I plan on taking my camera, because yard sales are a virtual weirdo carnival.
Besides, if I make a few bucks, it will help with a little vacation I have coming up. I am going to Virginia Beach for abut 5 days for my cousin’s graduation. And God help me – my mother is riding with me. And staying in the room with me. And I can definitely use some extra money for drinks.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Anonymous Can Go Suck It (aka the one where I say some very bad words and then move on to blather about nothing of consequence)
Hey – I got another hate comment! This time, instead of racist garbage, it was this gem:
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
This is my second day of summer hours and – as I fully expected – it’s killing me. My company does this wonderful/horrible thing in the summer. They give us the option of keeping “summer hours” where we work longer hours Monday –Thursday and half days on Friday. The wonderful part? Friday. The horrible part? Monday-Thursday. Normally I work 8:00 – 4:30, but in the summer, I’m 7:30 – 5:00 M-TH and 7:30 – 11:30. This means I have to get out of the house earlier, as if getting out in time to be here by 8:00 isn’t difficult enough.
My morning obstacles:
The boy. Because, you see, eleven year old boys are slow. Horribly, achingly, watch paint dry kind of slow. For those of you who have never had an eleven year old boy, let me present you with this mathematical equation to help you understand:
Eleven year old boy minutes ≠ real minutes
You see, eleven year old boy minutes are more like football minutes – they last much longer than actual minutes. How long does it take you to put on your socks and shoes? 3 minutes, tops? Well, in eleven year old boy minutes, that’s seventeen and a half minutes. There’s two minutes of sitting and doing nothing, two minutes of “looking for his shoes” (aka more doing nothing), there’s 30 seconds of “Put your socks and shoes on” “I am”. Then the next two minutes involve you leaving the room to get his sister’s stuff together and coming back in to discover that he has one sock on. Halfway.
Then there’s some more “Shoes and socks” “I am!. Then another two minutes of getting the other sock on. Next up comes “where are your shoes?” “I’m looking for them” “I thought you just looked for them” “that was my socks” “what do you mean – your socks were right next to you” “I’m sorry, mom” The tone on that last one implies that he is sorry not that he is so slow, but that he has an evil mother who makes him do terrible things like put his socks and shoes on. This takes another three and a half minutes.
The next five minutes involve leaving and entering the room several times, being dismayed about the lack of shoes being on feet, threats, acting put-upon, and finally, blessedly some shoes.
Add this to the fact that we have to go through this same routine with clothes, backpack, instruments, homework and karate gear, and you have Getting Ready With An Eleven Year Old Boy.
Next up – the girl. Now she’s a little easier, since she is usually sleeping when it’s time to go and I can pick her up and carry her out to the car. However, if she wakes up and notices that I have deigned to pack clothes for her (or shoes – oh God – especially the shoes) that do not live up to her standards for that day (which change daily, of course – what good is a predictable diva?), all hell will be breaking loose forthwith. A little fashion obsessed, stubborn, screamy princess bomb will be going off and you will be hit with the shrapnel. Watch out. This is where mind reading would come in handy.
Today, there was extra added fun, since my earlier days mean that mr b and I are getting ready at the same time. This would be fun on it’s own, but it’s super bonus fun because he watches me stress out over the morning routine (and I haven’t; even mentioned the disaster of a mess I found the boy’s room to be, after I washed and folded all of his clothes) and then tell me that I shouldn’t get stressed and upset, which is totally awesome of him, considering that he is not the one wrangling kids at the buttcrack of dawn, getting everyone ready and dropping them off at my parents’ house. And I especially love when I complain about running late and then he leaves, rather than perhaps take an extra five minutes and help me out. That’s my favorite. But I wouldn’t want him to miss his morning stop for coffee or cigarettes now would I?
The loser in all of this is me, because I always end up with either my hair or makeup in disarray or my clothes looking like an eleven year old boy dressed me. Today, for instance, I am wearing a dress that – when standing – looks OK. But since I have lost weight, it turns out that when I sit, the cleavage drops a good two inches. So I am spending the day looking like Boobula Von SagginHooters, Crown Princess of Titswana. Hot!
And since I already get up at StillLastNight O’Clock, the first person that tells me to just get up earlier gets punched in the face.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
I love holiday weekends, but they always seem to fly by. This year, no one had any picnics or parties that we had to go to and that’s jus the way I like it. I’m so busy all the time that when a weekend or holiday rolls around, I really like to spend it relaxing and/or getting all the things done that I have been neglecting since I’m so busy. The last thing I feel like doing is driving all the way to some far-off relative’s house with two kids playing a rousing game of Who Is More Annoying in the back seat. And then you have to make something to bring – ugh. I don’t know why, but I can make food at home and it costs a normal amount of money. But anytime I make something to take to a party, it’s like the grocery store replaced all the potatoes and peppers with diamonds and crude oil. And then either 1) no one eats it and I feel bad, or b) everyone eats it and then they ask me to bring it for every future party ever, at which point I wish they had all hated it, so next time I can bring chips.
But not this year, baby. This year, I honored America’s veterans by doing my laundry. And laying in the hammock (and flipping surreptitious birds at the neighbors). We also went to see Prince Caspian Sunday night. It was pretty good. But the best thing in the movie? Pierfrancesco Favino. Mmmmmmm. . .
After the movie, we had planned on going to eat, but the movie was thirty-four thousand hours long, so we settled for Steak and Shake drive through. I may have cried actual tears over the smell of those tiny little fries, but I didn’t partake. I got a grilled chicken sandwich, since I have to get back on the Weight Watchers track (19 lbs so far). I don’t generally like the way sandwiched come in fast food places, so I ordered it with pickles and lettuce only. And when I got it, it had mayo and tomatoes and onions, too. I walked back to the drive through window and told them it was wrong (if it hadn’t been for the mayo, I would have just picked the stuff off, but mayo makes me puke). Anyway, I told the guy that I ordered pickles and lettuce, but that it had mayo and tomatoes and onions. And he looked at me in all seriousness and said, “But that’s how it comes.” I understand that. That’s why I specifically ordered it with lettuce and pickles ONLY, you jackass! (the jackass part was said silently, since I would prefer my chicken sandwich also without saliva). It only took two more rounds of “that’s how it comes/that’s why I special ordered it” before the mental giant understood. So that was fun.
Oh – and to my future wives – regarding my beach brawl story? I can’t belive I forgot the bets part – I was wearing a batgirl mask during the whole thing. Here’s the tale in it’s entirety, if you’re interested. And the aftermath.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
We met at a local restaurant/brewery (Dear Beer – Oh how I have missed you – Love, Gina). Here’s how each of our arrivals went:
Hostess (after she talked to her girlfriend for 3 minutes while ignoring customers): “Can I help you?”
Burgh mom: “Yes – I'm meeting a group of people, but I don’t know the name on the reservation.”
Hostess: “Hmmpphh…the person making the reservation should really tell you these things.”
Burgh Mom: (thinking) Bite me.
Happily, we all managed to find each other, despite having never met, not remembering names and only seeing sad little photos on each other’s profiles. Dinner was great and the company was even better. Our waiter, bless his heart [this is where those of you who have ever a) had a grandma, b) met a grandma, or c) are from the south know that something is coming, since you can say anything about a person as long as you preface it with “bless his heart”]. Anyway, our waiter - bless his heart – was an idiot. He spilled every drink he brought to the table. The first being a glass of wine that he actually dropped on the floor, soaking several people in the process. After that, he splashed every drink he set down, forgot things, disappeared for ages, screwed up checks, and actually fell down at one point. Sadly, the latter was done out of our photographic reaches. Because you know that would have totally been my new page header.
It was a great time and I can’t wait to do it again. Everyone was really nice and at least a couple of them didn’t even find me entirely trashy and repulsive. I think – for all I know, they went home and cried themselves to sleep over the horribleness that was me and my big mouth and my bad language and my completely batshit crazy confusions of Japanese and Spanish. Ladies, I swear, I’m not as redneck as that made me sound (“All a them dang foreigners is the same – pass the pork rinds, Bubba”). Really, I’m just stupid.
Here are the Burgh moms (also known as the future Mrs. Ginas):
Here are the Burgh moms with really creepy baby eyes:
Two of my future wives ordered carrot cake and were served scary, giant, freak show sized slabs of it. I didn’t get photos, because who wants a photo of themselves shoveling scary, giant, freak show sized slabs of cake in their face? But I did preserve it in this incredibly lifelike drawing:
Then I came home to discover that my previously unmentioned “ant situation” had reached Terror Alert: Orange
Also - the stupid cat spent the next 2 hours refusing to shut his stupid mousehole!
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Because the George Michael I know – the Former Future I Don’t Care If He’s Gay Mr. Gina looked like this:
And yet last night, someone obviously pretending to be George Michael because he did not look like that showed up on American Idol, hoping we’d all believe that it was the real George Michael. Well, I’ll tell you this, Mr. Pretend Former Future I Don’t Care If He’s Gay Mr. Gina – I am on to you. You’re not fooling me. I am hip to your jive! (and clearly, very, very old, because “hip to your jive?”). But even though I am very, very old, I am still not falling for your bad impersonation. You can sound like him all you want, but I know you have the real Former Future I Don’t Care If He’s Gay Mr. Gina locked in your basement. And to that I say, “Free George Michael!” In the meantime, I’ll be over at Bravo watching the new Future I Don’t Care If He’s a Prick Mr. Gina Bourdain:
Dear Miss Carrie Underwood,
Seriously? That is what you’re wearing tonight? No, seriously? For real? Are you taking advice from Paula? Because she’s about one gin and oxycontin smoothie away from the nuthouse. So you should really get some help with that wardrobe. I’ll bet George Michael could help you.
P.S. The real George Michael, not that fake one that was there last night.
Last night they showed a couple of girls in the audience wearing “Team David” shirts. You tell me: Playing Both Sides or Not The Brightest Bulbs In The Chandelier?
As for the American Idol results, I think the right guy won. Little David has a lovely voice, but I can’t imagine actually buying anything he records. Or leaving the radio on when they play something he records. Or listening to a radio station that would actually play something he recorded. But to each his own. Mr. Archuleta, meet Mr. Aiken.
Giant Head David, however, I could actually listen to. But he creeps me out a little. He reminds me of someone I used to date. A guy who was a on and off boyfriend for years – on because I had deep feelings for him and had a great time with him. Off because the sexual attraction wasn’t all there and always felt a little creepy and just wrong. That’s how David Cook affects me – one minute I think, he’s kind of sexy, and the next, I throw up a little in my mouth and feel dirty and ashamed. But then I get over it because – let’s be honest – I went to college and I’m used to that by now.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
But they’re also very cute when they want to be, so maybe I should mention it now and then. Ever since the girl could talk, she’s been singing. She sings every song she knows and many she doesn’t. but the best songs are the ones she writes herself. We’ve had The Grass Song (“It’s a song about grass, it’s the grass song. . .”), The I Love Mom Song (“I love Mom, she’s the best, I love her, I love her hair. . .”), The Poop Song (“Poop, poop, poop, poop, Rocky poops, Angus poops, everybody poops, poop, poop, poop. . .”), and may more soon to be classics. But lately her songs have been changing to All Love Songs All the Time.
She now sings heart wrenching love ballads that have lots of “Baby” and “Oh Baby” and “I love you, Baby” in them. Since mr b and I are more likely to call each other “Scrotum” than “Baby”, I’m not sure where all the “Baby” is coming from. But she loves nothing more than to sit with her guitar and sing about “her baby.” Her most recent songwriting effort was called “I Want it Back”. It went, “I want my life back, Oh Baby, I want it back, I want everything back since you broke my heart. . .”
I’ve mentioned before that she is a little boy crazy. And she loves the older men. Like 8 year old Roman. And 11 year old Luke (to whom she recently wrote a love letter), and Troy. And Sayid (I can’t blame her on that one). I guess she gets the older men thing (along with a lot of other things) from me. Which is how I know that my mother’s “I Hope You Have Kids Just Like You” curse worked. Oh baby. We're alike in a lot of ways - looks ebing right on top. . .
My girl (and boy – I didn’t forget about him – I’ll talk about “11 year old boy minutes” another day):
The Girl: Mom – when is Disney?
Gina: In October.
The Girl: I can’t wait.
Gina: Me either. What are you looking forward to?
The Girl: Belle! And Ariel!
Gina: What about rides? You’ll be big enough to ride some cool stuff this year, like Soarin’
The Girl: I don’t wan to ride that.
Gina: Why not?
The Girl: I don’t like Whorin’.
Gina: Soarin’. And how do you jnow you dont like it if you haven't done it? It’s not scary.
The Girl: No – you can ride Whorin’. I’ll wait.
Gina: But I want you to ride with me.
The Girl: No. Whorin’ in your favorite, so you can do it. I’m not doing it. You can.
Gina: Well, I used to, anyway. . .
Monday, May 19, 2008
Dear Mother Nature,
I’m all set with the rain, thanks.
So very sick of rain. The boy had a campout this weekend and I am studiously avoiding the pile of dirty, muddy, wet clothes he brought home with him. The campout was in conjunction with a civil war reenactment & encampment. The kids spent weeks building replica guns, since they were getting a chance to be a part of the reenactment battle. Sadly, it wasn’t to be, as the Confederate Army did not show up. Damned dirty rebs.
Note in the photo above the very authentic Kool-Aid mustache, circa 1863
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Bleh – that about sums up how I’m feeling. Bleh blah blech.
I was home sick for the past few days which always gets me down – more for the use of precious vacation days than the actual sickness. Then, this morning, I watched as my paycheck was direct-deposited, then immediately shuttled out to every bill imaginable, leaving me with nary a cent. I have a reimbursement check coming which was supposed to be deposited on Monday, but a mistake was made (they say mine, I say theirs) and the damned thing got mailed instead of deposited. So now I’m fucked until the check comes, gets deposited, and clears. So bleh.
Also pissing me off today:
The asshole with the following assortment of delightful stickers on his asshole-mobile: “Give war a chance”, “You want my guns? Come get em”, “Peace brought to you through superior firepower”, “F the UN”, and my own personal favorite: “Kill 'em all - Let God sort it out”
My neighbors. I am surrounded by assholes. We have the stuck-up assholes on one side you literally don’t speak to us. They walk around doing yard work and manage to always have their backs turned to us, so they don’t have to acknowledge our existence. And they have been known to completely ignore a sweet toddler saying hi. Also – they once told us we were not allowed to be friends with their dog.
Then we have the dickheads on the other side who let their dickhead dog run free and shit all over our yard and tear up our garbage like a dickhead. And she steals things off our porch and then they act all put out when our stuff ends up in their yard and they have to bring it back. once, they found a doll that they assumed was oours (it wasn't) and she brought it up and stuck it head first in a bucket of water that was on our proch. If that had been my baby's doll, I would have cut a bitch. They suck. He’s a dick and she’s a closet drunk. And one day when they cut through my yard to talk to the assholes, I’m going to shoot them. OK, not really. But I might throw rocks. Or poo. Their dog leaves enough of it. The first thing I will do when I win the powerball is get a big-ass fence around my entire property all the way down into the woods so drunky can’t walk through my yard.
Then there are the people across the street. They are actually nice people – the only ones out of all my neighbors that were kind me when mr b was in the hospital/nursing home/wheelchair. However, they currently have a dog that would love to kill and eat you. And it gets loose all the time. It’s obviously tied up, because it will be running around with a collar and rope still attached. But clearly, whoever is doing the tying is either a) a double hand-amputee, b) Johnny Tremain, c) retarded, or d) subconsciously trying to rid themselves of the beast (understandable). My last encounter with Lord Voldemort involved him chasing me around my tree while I distracted him from my terrified children, protecting myself with the only thing nearby – a garbage can lid – and screaming like a banshee. In the past, I have also warded him off with Mr. Clean, bleach, and a 10-foot tree trimmer. Normally, I’d be stirring up all kinds of shit. But folks? These are the good neighbors.
The Standoff – see, mr b and I are having a standoff in our house right now. Four weeks and four days ago, he made chili to take into the office for the weekly staff meeting (they take turns). Why do I know exactly how long it has been., you ask? That would be because the chili that overflowed onto my nice stove is still on my nice stove. I asked him to clean it up and he said he would. And I didn’t push it because I know it’s a pain (I did the same thing the week before). But then a few days went by. And then a week. I mentioned it to him again. He’ll do it. Another week. Pleaded. He’ll do it. After three weeks, I told him that under no circumstances was I ever going to be cleaning that chili off the stove. Ever!
At this point, his defense was along the lines of “I’m doing the best I can” (no – he’s not – at least when it comes to that chili) and “You know, I have so much work to do in this house” (yes – he does. There’s trim and painting and beams and staining and a million other things. But none of them have even the slightest thing to do with the fact that hot chili all over the stove and didn’t clean it. For three weeks). So now, here we are at almost five weeks and still my stove looks like a frat house stove. I have cleaned the kitchen many times in the interim, scouring everything but the stovetop. I refuse.
Does anyone remember the Everybody Loves Raymond episode with the suitcase*? Please tell me you do. Because this is my life right now. Except not funny. Part of me would love to just clean it and be done, already. But I can not. I am not the maid and I refuse to behave like I am. If he doesn’t care about it, then I will pretend like I don’t either. Like my kids, he has become accustomed to me giving in and doing it myself and I have news, kids – those days are over. And he sure as hell needs to realize that saying you will do something does not count as actually doing it.
*Oh – and speaking of suitcases, we have three in our bedroom that are taking up space, but haven’t been unpacked (his stuff). They’ve been there for months. And he keeps saying “We need to put those suitcases away.” Riiiiight. . .we. I’m getting the cheese.
I could go on and on about the pissed-off-ed-ness, but I realized that I haven’t shared my one tiny bit of good news: I am down 18 pounds! Woo-hoo. Only 53.4 more to go! Woo. . . . bleh.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Conversation in my house, while watching Neil Diamond story on CBS Sunday morning:
Gina: “You know, Neil Diamond is coming to Pittsburgh.”
Mr b: “Hmm”
Gina: “I wouldn’t mind seeing him.”
Mr b: “Hmm”
Gina: “I’m serious.”
Mr b: “Really?”
Gina: “Yeah. I mean – it’s Neil Diamond”
Mr b: “. . . . . . . . . . . ”
Gina: “Come on! You know it would be fun.”
Mr b: “. . . . . . . . . . . ”
Gina: “You’d know the words to all the songs.”
Mr b: “. . . . . . . . . . . ”
Gina: “Except for the new stuff, but I could buy the cd.”
Mr b: “. . . . . . . . . . . ”
Gina: “Dude! It’s Neil Freaking Diamond!”
Mr b: “. . . . . . . . . . . ”
Gina: “Baby loves me, yes, yes she does. Ah, the girl's outta sight, yeah. . .”
Mr b: “. . . . . . . . . . . ”
Gina: “Hey! She got the way to move me, Cherry. She got the way to groove me, Cherry, baby”
Mr b: “. . . . . . . . . . . ”
Gina: “Well, I'm New York City born and raised. . .”
Mr b: “. . . . . . . . . . . ”
Gina: “Kentucky woman, she shines with her own kind of light…”
Mr b: “. . . . . . . . . . . ”
Gina: “Hands, touching hands. . .”
Mr b: “Seriously. Last week you were talking about Dead shows and now Neil Diamond?”
Gina” “. . .reaching out, touching me. . .”
Mr b: “Do you know hoe old you are. . .”
Gina: “. . .touching YOUUUUUUUUUU. . .”
Mr b: “If you are talking about going to a Neil Diamond concert?”
Gina: “Sweet Caroline. . .”
Mr b: “You’re serious.”
Gina: “BUH, BUH, BUUUUH!!”
Mr b: “Oh my God”
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Things I hate that everyone loves
Sex and the City – I have never, ever watched an entire episode. I have occasionally seen a few minutes, at which point, I stabbed myself in the eyeballs and threw up my spleen. I hate every single one of these women, hate the characters, hate the clothes, hate, hate, HATE! The commercial that I keep seeing for the movie may end up being used as part of my defense after I have seen it for the thirty-seven thousandth time and had to stab someone.
CSI – Miami, Las Vegas, New York – whatever. I hate them all. You can take it with a grain of salt, given my reality TV affliction, but I hate CSI with a passion. In what bizarro alternate universe do lab techs interrogate witnesses? And get week-long tests results in 10 minutes? And work in fancy, dark-ass rooms? (Turn on some damned lights, will ya?) Not only is this show ridiculous and stupid, it’s killing our justice system. If I want a show about forensics, I’ll stick with Dexter. I don't know how realistic it is, but Dex is sexaaay!
Flavored “Martinis” – Because they are not martinis! Don’t get me wrong – I don’t like real martinis, either – I hate gin. And green olives. And I might taste a fake-tini and thinks it’s pretty good. It’s not the drinks themselves – it’s the mixing of vodka with something else and putting “tini” on the end. It makes me want to stab someone (I do a lot of wanting to stab someone, don’t I?)
Crocs clogs – That shit is ugly. And I like clogs. Just not those horrible Crocs ones. They are cute on kids - little kids. But after the grade school years, they make you look like you have flippers. And brain damage. I feel I must disclose here that I do own a cute pair of Crocs sandals.
Dancing with the Stars – I know tons of young(ish) people watch it, but I can’t help but feel that this is the Lawrence Welk of the 21st century. Grandmas watch this show (not my grandma, though. She likes westerns and hot wings and bars). I’ve tried to give a shit, but I just can’t. I will go dancing (badly – I even screw up the two-step, but it’s fun), but I can’t watch dancing (unless it’s the old folks at a wedding – I love them). Nor do I give a rat’s ass about these “stars”. Maybe, just maybe if it were George Clooney, Gorin Visnjic, Henry Simmons, Tom Selleck, Kix Brooks and Dion-the-waiter-last-week-from-the-Capital-Grill I would watch. If they danced naked. Yeah, I’d definitely watch it then.
Spiders – Ok, I know that they aren’t necessarily loved by most people, but if I have to hear, “But they take care of other bugs” one more time in response to my hatefulness, I will scream (and - let's be honest - probably want to stab someone). I don’t care if they eat other bugs. I don’t care if they write and perform their own folk music. I don’t care if they clean my house. I. Hate. Them. The only way I will (begrudgingly) give them even the slightest break is if they suddenly gain magical ass-shrinking powers which I can harness and use for my own gain. But for now? HATE. When I look at even the tiniest spider, I see Aragog . And then I throw up. And then I cry. And then I completely lose my mind. And if no one else is home to kill it – hoo-boy. Because there are two options – 1) kill it myself and possibly suffer a nervous breakdown, and 2) move out, because if I don’t kill it and it disappears somewhere, I will not be able to live in my house again, ever. I used to sic Pussty on them, because he was the world’s greatest spider-mouser, but since he has gone on to greener pastures, I am shit out of luck. The current dog and cat get a big fat F-minus at Spider. So if I want to keep the house, I am forced to grab the vacuum attachment, suck the vile beast up, spray hairspray, Tilex and spider-killer spray directly into the hose, take the vacuum outside, douse it in gasoline, and light it on fire. Then throw up. While I cry.
Things I love that everyone hates
Reality TV – Ok, there are some people who really hate it. And then there are a whole bunch of people that pretend to hate it. And then there is me. I shamelessly revel in my trashy TV love. All the drama (“but I love him”) and hypocrisy (“wahhh – she’s playing for herself”) and hilarity (“the 10th person voted off: Ozzy”) (HAHAHAHA). There is nothing more entertaining to me than a bunch of attention whoring dumbasses having an Attention Whore Dumbass Tournament. Also – Reality TV had Anderson Cooper, and hello? Anderson Cooper. Smart? Check. Smokin’ ass? Check. (Anderson – call me!) (Yes – I know he’s gay, but I don’t care)
Hippie men – I’m sorry, but while you see dirty, stinky, no good hippies, I see potential sex partners (you know, if I were single and gave a shit about finding sex partners) While I appreciate a good Clooney or Pitt, this also gets me going:
Moccasins – I know!!! How on Earth can I hate Crocs when I wear these:
It’s a mystery – it really is. But I love them with all my old dirty hippy heart. I’m shamelessly in love with their soft-sole goodness.
Moustaches – I don’t know why, but I am a sucker for some facial hair (and I don’t want to think about it too deeply because I might think about how my dad has facial hair, and LA LA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR YOU LA LA LA LA! What do you think I am – some kind of sicko? Besides, my dad is the anti-hippie, so it evens out).
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
I am as irritated as Lindsay Lohan over the USA Today ad for ignition interlocks. If you aren’t familiar with the story, USA today ran an ad for ignition interlocks and used Lindsay Lohan’s mug shot. Ignition interlocks are the devices that are installed in cars after the driver gets a DUI that requires them to periodically blow into a breathalyzer which control the ignition. In the past, these were used only for repeat offenders, but now some states are trying to make them a requirement for all DUI offenders.
USA Today’s reads, "Ignition interlocks - A good idea for," and shows the Lohan mug shot. The next line reads, "But a bad idea for us," and shows photos of a happy bride and groom toasting, some folks drinking beer and martinis, and a group of friends clinking glasses at a meal.
Lindsay Lohan is mad because they used her mug shot. I am mad because I hate the whole concept of degrees of severity of DUIs being portrayed by this ad. I don’t know that the ignition interlocks help or work or do any good. I don’t claim to. What I do know is that drunk driving is drunk driving. I hate that this ad makes it look like it’s OK to drink and drive if you were at a wedding, or out with friends or having dinner. That it’s only wrong if you are a whacked out, crazy-ass drunk. Sorry – but neither is acceptable. The BACs are in place for a reason. To protect people. Innocent people. Children.
Make no mistake – I like to drink. I go to parties and on vacation and I tie one on. But the one thing I will not do is drive. In fact, I don’t even like being on the roads late night on the weekends, simply because of the other people out there who may not feel the same way about it. I do my best to make good decisions to keep my kids safe, but I can’t control everyone else’s bad decisions. The laws are there to try and do so.
And as for the people who came up with this ad - you can be damned sure that if a drunk driver killed someone in their family, you wouldn’t hear them say, “Oh, it’s OK – they were at a wedding.”
Friday, May 2, 2008
Sometimes I am envious of the “popular” bloggers – I wonder what it would be like to have lots of readers, to get lots of comments, to be admired by people you respect. But there is one good side to not being popular, and that is the lack of hate mail. I truly don’t know how people deal with it – being called names, being accused of horrible things, etc. That I don’t envy at all.
I’ve been blogging for four years now and I have received a few snotty comments here and there, but nothing particularly hateful. Well, today, that changed and I received my very first hateful comment. It was in response to this entry. An entry about NOT hating each other, ironically. I didn’t publish the comment, because I felt like it would be a big, ugly smear on what was truly meant from the heart. But I’ll tell you here what it said: “Fuck you nigger! Get the fuck out of my country!” Isn’t that precious? The commenter chose to remain anonymous, though I’m not surprised – most trolls usually do.
In the post, I was trying to express the sheer, sickening, ugliness of racism and I think he just did that in 10 words. So thanks, anonymous.
I also had a whole slew of things to say to anonymous about his character and intelligence – I was all set to express my moral outrage at such a comment. But again, I think those words tell you everything you need to know about him (or her).
Call me what you want - I really don’t care. It’s not the word. It’s the use of the word, if that makes sense. The word is just that – a word. Six letters that mean absolutely nothing if we don’t let them. It didn’t hurt me or scare or intimidate me or humiliate me in any way. But the fact that there are people out there who think it’s appropriate to use those six letters in an attempt to hurt or scare or intimidate or humiliate their fellow man. That is what bothers me. The fact that there are people out there like this, people whose words and actions and prejudices and hateful, horrible lives may actually have the effect that they want? That hurts. That there are people like this who may have an influence on our children? That is scary. That there are people like this who may be responsible for our laws or our safety or our employment or our way of life? That is intimidating. That the whole world in watching the actions of the people of this country and sadly, it’s these types of actions that get notice and reflect on us all? That is humiliating.
But still, anonymous? You fail. You fail at your pathetic attempt to wound. There may be others like you, but there are a lot more like me, and we’re better than that. We’re better than you.