For Shame

On April 11th, there was a protest in New York City of media bias I this campaign. The main issue was the misogynistic treatment of Hillary Clinton by the mainstream media. The folks who organized it also put together a video of some examples of this treatment. The video is at the bottom of this post, but I though I’d transcribe the main parts:


CNN
“The question is, which Hillary Clinton is going to show up. The last few days, we’ve just about seen it all. At Thursday’s debate, in Austin Texas, Clinton showed a softer side. A couple of days later she morphed into a scolding mother, talking down to a child. She wasn’t finished – resembling someone with multiple personality disorder.”

Yes – portray her as mentally ill – that’s respectable. But I guess it goes in keeping with the old, misogynisitic favorite, "crazy woman" that gets pulled out every time a strong, outspoken woman has her say.


Headline News (with the headline, “Crying Game”)
Big news from new Hampshire – tonight is “It Cries”. After spending decades stripping away all trace of emotion, femininity and humanity, Hillary Clinton actually broke down and actually cried yesterday on the campaign trail. (leaning into the camera, wincing in disgust as he says it)

Let’s not forget that she (as most women in powerful positions) has not been allowed to be emotional or feminine – for fear of being criticize as a “weak woman” – as you are now basically pointing out. So she’s damned wither way. She’s either weak, emotional woman, or a hard, inhuman bitch. If a male candidate showed his emotion, we’d all be talking about how “sensitive” and kind and caring he is.


Fox News (with the headline, Clintons “nagging voice” is reason she lost the male vote)
Men won’t vote for Hillary Clinton because she reminds them of their nagging wives.

Oh My God

And. . .

And when Hillary Clinton speaks, men hear, “Take out the garbage!” (said in a high pitched, whiny voice)

Oh. My. God.


MSNBC
Let me tell you how short Hillary’s leash is. [garbled] you’re a guy going door to door trying to sell something and she said, you’ll have to wait for my husband to get home (men laughing).

Again with the flopping around to whatever suits your porposes at the moment. Now she goes from being a ball breaker to being a timid housewife. Please. Also? This doesn’t even make any sense.


MSNBC
Whenever she appears tough I think it’s good for her. I actually think she is tough. But the one thing we learned from the Lorena Bobbitt case is that there’s a great deal of resentment among women, aimed at men.

What the fuck??? Seriously? You’re bringing up a 15 year old case to make the point that. . .er. . .I don’t even know WHAT your point is. Because Lorena Bobbitt has nothing to do with anything. If you feel that Hillary has resentment towards men, then show me some examples. Lorena Bobbitt doesn’t! fucking! count! as one!!!

And don’t lump me into this either, with your “among women”, you fuck. Lorena Bobbitt’s case only proved that there was resentment on ONE woman aimed at ONE man.


Fox News
About the only people for Hillary Clinton are the democratic establishment and white women – white women are [garbled] - we all live with that pain (men laugh)

I couldn’t even understand what the hell he was saying – but I got the point – yet another joke at the expense of women. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Not.


MSNBC
Doesn’t it seem like Chelsea’s being pimped out in some weird sort of way (men laugh)

Ummm. . .I don’t get it. People campaign for other people. People that they respect, believe in and/or love. I’ve never heard it referred to “pimping” before. But then, I guess I haven’t seen one woman campaigning for another woman before, so I guess that explains it.


MSNBC
When she reacts the way she reacts to Obama with just the look – the look to him -looking like everyone’s first wife standing outside of probate court. (men laugh).

Bitter about your divorce settlement much? I hope your first wife got it all, you asshole.


Fox News
She’s trying to run away from this tough, kind of bitchy image

Again with the flip-flopping.


Headline news (with the headline, “Does Hillary Shave?”)
I can see her in there (mimics shaving face, in gravelly voice) gimme a pack of Kool cigarettes, will you. (men laugh)

This is getting tiresome.

Seriously? This is anactual topic of conversation? Does Hillary Shave? How can I not find this offensive??


MSNBC
Let’s not forget, and I’ll be brutal, the reason she’s a US senator – and the reason she’s a candidate for president, the reason she may be a front runner, is because her husband messed around. That’s how she got to be senator for New York. We keep forgetting it. She didn’t win it on her merits, she won because everybody felt “my god this woman stood up under humiliation”. Right? That’s what happened. That’s how it happened.

Wrong. Ass.


MSNBC
I think it’s outrageous that Chris Matthews has to apologize for saying something – inartfully perhaps. . .

Inartfully? Is that even a word? Also – ass.

Fox news
You know, I think someone’s gonna have to go out there and take her behind the barn. You know, I grew up in Lancaster Pennsylvania and yeah that’s kind of the term you use for that.

Yes dear, that’s a very cute, country way of saying “beat her ass until she learns her place.” Your mama must be so proud of your burning misogyny and violent tendencies.


MSNBC
And thus these advisors give congresswoman Ferraro nearly a week in which to send senator Clinton’s campaign back into the vocabulary of David Duke.

Yes – David Duke. Hillary Clinton is just like the fucking Grand Wizard of the motherfucking Ku Klux Klan! Exactly like him. Her history of fighting for equal rights and statements on how far we still have to go on race relations prove it. Except not.


And finally, over shots of the Hillary nutcracker, and bumper stickers calling her ugly, a bitch and a cunt, we hear Obama’s minister preaching that “Hillary ain’t never been called a n*@@#r. Hillary ain’t had to work twice as hard to get accepted by the rich white folk who run everything”

Ok, he’s got me on the first one, but I think this video (which is just the tip of the iceberg of the media’s treatment of Hillary) proves the second one wrong. And to drive that point home, we are then shown images of a Hillary voodoo doll, signs that say to “take her out”, a KFC with a “Hillary specials (2 fat thighs with a small breast and a left wing), a hangman game with Fuck Hillary spelled out, Hillary as a witch, a shirt that says, “Bros before Hoes” with corresponding pics of Obama and Clinton, Hillary with duct tape over her mouth, articles in Newsweek saying that “Hillary should get out now” and of course, the asinine, offensive “blue dress” articles.

Look, I have said it before and I’m sure I’ll say it again. But we are better than this. Sire, I know, freedom of speech. But how about a little balance and fairness. If you don’t like Hillary – fine. If you tell me why in terms of her stats and intelligence – fine – I’ll listen. But just as being critical of Obama based on his race would sicken me, the characterization of Hillary Clinton as a nagging, man-hating harpy, while picking on her looks, her age and her voice sickens me. Take the KFC sign – dare I ask if we would see a dark meat only “Obama special”. I think not. And if we did – hoo boy, there would be an uproar – marches and boycotts and major news stories. And rightfully so! But what does it say about us that we don’t show the same outrage over this type of treatment when it is targeting a woman? If you ask me, it says a hell of a lot. And it is saying the exact opposite of what we should want for our country and our society. The world is watching – let’s behave.

Not a Moment Too Soon

Well, I went to Weight Watchers tonight and let me tell you – it was not a single minute too soon!! Because, damn, I’m a disgrace. Not only have I gained back all the weight I lost, I gained an extra six and a half. Because I’m an overachiever, you know. But I went, so it’s a start. Not a great start, mind you, but a start nonetheless.

As always, I stayed fore the meeting, even though I hate it. Not since my very first group back in 1995 have I ever really benefited from the “support” of the meetings. That group and leader were awesome. Since then, the meetings have been sometimes interesting, but mostly irritating. The main thing that I get from Weight Watchers is getting my fat ass on a scale that someone else is looking at. But even though I really don’t get the “support” part of the meeting, somehow they help me. Maybe it’s like giving myself a time out: “young lady, until you lose this weight, you are going to sit through a session of fatasses anonymous every single week!” Or maybe having 30 whole minutes of doing something that doesn’t involve picking someone up, dropping someone off, cleaning, working, or wiping someone’s ass just helps me recharge a little. Or maybe I’m just waiting for the day that the know-it-all gets in a kung-fu fight with the loud talker so I can snap some photos and share them with you.

Anyway, as predicted, the meeting was full of mental rejects and jackholes. The leader is less than charismatic; devoid of any personality whatsoever. There are the women that talk during the entire meeting (not that I am really paying all that much attention anyway but it’s rude). There is the woman who is making excuses, which is annoying because we are at weight watchers for Christ’s sake – we’re fat - we have heard – and implemented - every single excuse you could come up with. I really don’t care one way or another if you lose weight. I care if I lose weight, so whether you are “pulled in so many directions” is of absolutely no consequence to me. And also? Spare me. You’re young, unmarried, working part-time and without kids. Let some of us old, tired, married mothers with full-time jobs and 2 hours of commuting talk to you about “being pulled.”

And there is always at least one “educator.” You often see educators at sporting event, where they talk loudly about their superior knowledge of the game, in order to share the wealth of their great and deep encyclopedic (and often incorrect) mind. But an educator at weight watchers is far more painful. Because at a sporting event, you can get away with saying, “shut the fuck up, douchebag.” But at Weight Watchers? Not so much. So you have to listen to them drone on and on about everything there is to know about weight loss and exercise, ever, while only dreaming about kicking their ass. And as a bonus, many times more than one educator are BFFs and come together and they love to casually mention their BFF escapades so that everyone knows that they are BFFs (in addition to being brilliant). Like we give a rat’s ass!

Then, there is the woman who Will. Not. Shut. Up. And this is coming from one of the all-time greatest talking talkers, so believe me – she is long fucking winded. And stupid. It’s a super combo that leads to fascinating conversation. Except for the “super” part. And the “fascinating” part. And the “conversation” part, since she’s just flapping and yapping about honey mustard and some fucking cake and how she only ate two pieces (????) and honey mustard and daddy and honey mustard and honey mustard and honey mustard! And it’s kind of the opposite of “conversation.” And she seems like she might just be a few card short of a deck, and you know people who are a few cards short of a deck don’t give a shit about social norms and self-awareness and don’t even fucking notice the eye-rolling and death stares being thrown their way and the just keep on talking about the god-forsaken honey mustard, and the house plant of a leader is no match for this mental giant and Oh My God, why couldn’t I just keep the damned weight off and save myself from this horror?????

Good times.

Oh – and I almost forgot the best part. I walked in and was quite happy to see a rather short line at the scales. But then I saw something that made my blood run cold. A man. There was a man working the scales! I’d rather have a man examine my cervix than weigh my fat ass in a weight watchers. And yes, I know that everyone who works there is a member, so they’ll know what it is like. Whatever. But let me tell you this – they should never let a man work the WW scales unless it’s an all-male meting. Because men are clueless? And they do not know how to act. Case in point – in the past, hen I have lapsed and gone back to weight watchers (sadly, yes, it has been more than once), the women at the scales are extremely reassuring. They see the terror in your eyes and they cheer you on and let you know that getting there is the fist step and that you shod be proud for taking that step. A man? Acts like you have informed him you will be dining on his testicle when you explain to him that you are back after a long absence. And when you try to break the tension by joking, “I’m up a few pounds since last time” (hahaha), a man will raise his eyebrows and say, (I fucking shit you not) “You have a lot of work ahead of you.” Weight Watchers apparently fails to realize that:

Man working scales + Cranky fat bitch = someone is getting punched in the face.

If you run into Florene Marks, let her know for me, mkay?

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After that barrel of monkeys, I was almost killed in a fiery death crash by a phenomenon known as “Two Assholes Having An Asshole Contest”

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But then I came home and was cheered up by a funny comment (and let’s be honest here, any comment cheers me up, given the dearth of them that I usually face, so one that makes me laugh? Gravy).

And then I got cheerier when I checked the mail and found a letter informing me that my little photographer has won an award at the regional level.

And then the little photographer came home from his karate testing night and informed me that I was looking at a newly crowned blue belt. Yay for the boy!

"Oh, Gyoza, I Think I’ll Miss YOU Most of All"

I have finally gotten disgusted enough with myself that I decided to go back to Weight Watchers. It has worked for me in the past and I know it will work again. Losing it has never been the biggest problem – it’s maintaining that gets me every time. I know – lifestyle changes – what the fuck ever. It’s a diet. And it’s all psychological for me. Last time, I lost 35 pounds and then hit a plateau. For months I couldn’t lose any more. But I was happy, since I was still 35 pounds less than when I started. Then I took two trips in a row and gained seven pounds. And that seven pounds got inside my head and killed me. So here I am right back where I started (or even worse off, probably) and I could kick myself for being such an asshole. I can deal with being a little overweight and still looking attractive. But I have once again reached that point where not only my body disgusts me, but my face does, too. I have gone from being a “such a pretty face” girl (you know – she has such a pretty face for a fat girl), to being an old, haggard, puffy, scaly, droopy, pig-faced beast. So weight watchers it is.

I’m going tonight and hoping that it’s a small, empty meeting. That’s one of the things that got me last time – the meeting I went to (the only one I could make) started getting so crowded. And it was full of know-it-alls and loud talkers and morons and snobs and fucking idiots. So not heading back after my seven pound gain was pretty easy. Of course, ever since I decided lat last week that I would join the Wednesday meeting, I have made the very wise and mature decision to eat like a fucking asshole. I have been shoving everything not nailed down into my piehole for days now. Bagels? Check. Easter chocolate? Check. Gyros and chips and wings and chitos and gyoza? Check, check, check, check, check. Way to stretch out the stomach just in time to start a new diet. But I refuse to head into my forties looking like Jabba the Hut. Wish me luck.

Oh, gyoza, I think I’ll miss YOU most of all.

For the Children

One of the radio stations I listen to does a weekly “soldier salute”, where they talk to a relative of a soldier about them. It’s a nice feature – solders deserve recognition – and they usually send a care package as well. All in all – great. But one thing that annoys me is that, occasionally, they talk to a person who feels the need to preach about how great it is that we are in Iraq. They’ll go on about all the wonderful work we are doing there.

The main thing you hear from these people is about the kids of Iraq – how happy they are to see the soldiers and how we’re helping them. OK, that’s probably true. It’s great that we are helping kids. But I can’t help but think that much of the reason that these kids need help is based on the direct effects of the US having invaded their country, leaving 500,000 of them orphaned, and many more without homes or schools or churches, which have all been bombed. And I may sound callous about this next part, but while I do care about the Iraqi children (and children all around the world), I have a hard time justifying our occupation of a country, based on false claims of weapons and warfare, by saying “the kids need help.” Because here in the US? Lots of kids need help, too. We have 13,000,000 children who do not get enough food. There are 3,300,000 children who are being abused or neglected, with close to 2,000 of them dying each year. There are 100,000 children each night who sleep in a shelter, or a park bench or a car, since they are without a home. There are approximately 3,000 children a year being killed by gun violence. There are more than 8.7 million children without health care. And there are the ones without adequate schooling – in 2005, the majority of 4th graders in the US could not read or do math at their grade level. The majority! (I’ll bet they could take the fucking PSSA, though). There are thousands of children still displaced by Katrina. Or should I say, by Katrina and the completely unacceptable and morally offensive lack of giving a shit by our government. So don’t tell me about what we’re doing “for the children.”

Today, they talked to a woman who, in addition to mentioning the children, talked about the wonderful work her soldier was doing building Christian churches. Not churches - Christian churches – she made that distinction. And I couldn’t help but thinking, yet again, how egocentric we are. This country is predominately Christian (80-90%), so we automatically assume that everyone else should be. So we go into a country that we have bombed and ravaged, leaving many, many mosques in rubble – a country with a Christian population of about 2%, and we build Christian churches. What about the other 98%? I’m sure Jesus would allow us to forgive them for being underwhelmed. Look – I can sign on to the helping kids and the building schools and safe living quarters. But the building of churches, no so much. I mean, if we bombed one – then rebuild it. but to attack and invade and bomb a country, then attempt to rebuild it in our image is not only ego-centric, but offensive. Offensive to me and probably to the hundreds of thousands of Muslims that have nowhere to worship. If you want to give something back - give exactly what you took, not something else entirely. It’s like someone knocking down your house and then saying, it’s OK, here’s a swimming pool, a shovel, and some cheese.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t help other countries – we should. But we should help our own, too. And we need to stop patting ourselves on the back for helping rebuild a country that we ourselves demolished. And we need to take our damned blinders off and decide that if want to help people, we need to help them with their actual needs and not what we think they should need. And we damned well need to stop telling ourselves that “we are there for the children,” just because it sounds prettier than “we are there as a distraction and because our president is a scrotum.”

40 Years and We Still Have So Far to Go

Yesterday’s post on crap email was perfect timing. This morning I decided to check it and delete the bajillions of forwards that I had no doubt gotten since the last time I logged in. Most of the time, I don’t even read them anymore, but for some reason, I just randomly picked one to read. And what I saw made me absolutely sick.

The subject was something about Barack Obama and I thought I’d take a look. I’m so sorry I did. It was a terribly racist joke. I won’t repeat it here, because knowing what it said serves no purpose. The fact that it even exists in this day and age is what is important. Especially today – the 40th anniversary of the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. One would hope that the death of this incredible, peaceful, inspiring, loving man would have served to change this country. That in 40 years, we could be far enough ahead of the kind of thinking that creates and sends forth hateful, hurtful, racist messages. One would be wrong.

I got this email from someone I am close to, someone I love. This person would never intentionally hurt someone. This person would tell you (and believe it) that they are not a racist. Sadly this kind of quiet racism is everywhere. We all know about the overt racists. Everyone has seen photos and videos and news stories about the kl@n or the crazy, gun-toting, white-p0wer militants. We’ve all heard the stories of the black man being dragged by a truck, and we’ve all seen the videos of black men being beaten by police. We’ve seen shooting rampages targeting Asians, Indians & Muslims. We watched Reginald Denny get dragged from his truck and nearly killed. We’ve seen churches and synagogues and mosques looted and burned. We know about Matthew Shepard. The point is – we all know about these people. And most of us want to distance ourselves from that sort of hate.

But the other type of prejudice is just as dangerous (and prejudice comes in many forms, but I am using racism as an example in light if this email). They are the folks who would vehemently deny any sort of racism, and really believe that they are not racist, and yet, like this sweet, caring, loving persona that I know, perpetuate it by telling a racist joke or crossing the street because a black man walking towards them, or hiring someone else, or voting for someone else because they “just aren’t ready for a black manager/doctor/president”.

A few weeks ago, an acquaintance told me they she would not be voting for Barack Obama. Her exact words were, “I am not a racist. Really, I’m not. But I don’t think I want a black president.” I hate to break it to you, pal, but you are a racist. It couldn’t be clearer to me. And really, if you feel the need to start your sentences with “I’m not a racist, but…” then it should be clear to you, too.

I have another friend who has done some of the things I have mentioned and yet goes out of her way to “not be racist”. She is very proud when she tells you that they are colorblind in their house. She gave me an example of trying to point out a person to her daughter and that she was using all these different adjectives to describe them, but never once did she say that the person was black. And her daughter had no freaking idea who she was talking about. She didn’t seem to understand that it’s OK to describe an African American person as such. She felt that since she didn’t refer tot neh person as black or African American, she must not be racist. And yet, she’ll laugh at a racist joke.

I can remember a day many years ago when I was with a relative in a restaurant and we were meeting my friend TD, who happened to be black. We were looking for her and my mom asked what she looked like. I said she’s black, about my height, long hair, etc And she cut me off at “black”, with a ssshhhhh and a slight head nod to the black man sitting nearby. I said, “it’s ok, he knows he’s black” (I knew him - he heard me and laughed), and she looked like she swallowed a cat. I told TD about it afterward and her thoughts on the subject were “White people are crazy.” I think she was right. Because I could never understand the need to be “visually” colorblind – you can’t be. Just like you can’t help but notice someone’s bright red hair, or their wheelchair, or my fat ass. You can’t not see it – it’s there. Who cares about “visual” colorblindness. It’s the internal, emotional, intellectual colorblindness that is important.

It’s OK to notice that someone is black or white or female or male or gay or Muslim or whatever. It’s OK to mention it, if it important to the story or situation. When you mention it when it isn’t, though, then maybe there’s something behind that. I was on a message board the other day and a woman was telling a story about how her husband tried to help a woman and child being abused by a man and how the man and a bystander turned on him. Sucks, right? But her story went like this: We saw an African American man yelling and manhandling a woman and child and he stepped in and the man turned and came at him and then another African American man was walking by and he started in on him, too.” See - it’s the same story, but she felt like she had to make the point of the participants’ races. My version still told you the same story – good Samaritan, man abusive to woman and child, bystander jumps in, Samaritan hurt. What does race add to that story? Not a thing that I can see except to make a point that the “bad guys” were black. Who care I they were black? I only care that they were bad. Guess what else appeared further along in this post? You guessed it “I’m not racist”.

These are just a few examples of many that come across all the time. Basically good people who really don’t believe they are doing anything wrong. Who don’t see the harm in making hurtful comments, or making judgments based on race (or sex or religion or whatever), or perpetuating hateful and incorrect stereotypes for the sake of being “funny”. They just don’t think they are doing anything wrong. But I am reminded that slave owners didn’t think they were doing anything wrong, either. Neither did Hitler.

It makes me sad that a man like Martin Luther King, Jr – an amazing, beautiful man - devoted his life to fixing this problem in America and died in vain. Sure, we have come a long way, but not long enough to say that we’ve fulfilled his dream. I’m sorry, Dr. King. Some of us are still dreaming.

Somthing is not quite right

This is from an article on MSN. One question - see the bold type - why the disparity?

LITTLE ROCK, Ark. - Arkansas' marriage-age crisis is over. A law that mistakenly allowed anyone — even toddlers — to marry with parental permission was repealed by a measure signed Wednesday by Gov. Mike Beebe, ending months of embarrassment for the state and confusion for county clerks.

Lawmakers didn't realize until after the end of last year's regular session that a law they approved, intended to establish 18 as the minimum age for marriage, instead removed the minimum age to marry entirely. An extraneous "not" in the bill allowed anyone who was not pregnant to marry at any age with permission.

The bill read: "In order for a person who is younger than eighteen (18) years of age and who is not pregnant to obtain a marriage license, the person must provide the county clerk with evidence of parental consent to the marriage."

Legislators, however, had the chance for a do-over this week when Beebe convened a special session to consider a hike in the state's severance tax on natural gas. They repealed the botched law, and reinstated 17 as the minimum age to marry for boys and 16 for girls.

Rep. Will Bond, the sponsor of the botched 2007 law and its correction, apologized for the error and asked his colleagues to "throw me a rope and bail me out here."

Email Hell

I hate crap email. Not spam, but the endlessly forwarded trite, stupid, untrue, bigoted crap. I don’t mind the jokes, as long as I don’t get too many at one time. I enjoy a good laugh, but if there are enough that I can’t get through them in the 7 minutes that constitutes my attention span, they will wind up in the trash without me ever having looked at them. And I won’t feel bad about it, either. I sit at this computer all day long, dealing with a buttload of email between all my other responsibilities. The bloom is off the rose, my friends. But like I said, a joke or two is fine. It’s the other stuff that warrants disdain and possible punishment (perhaps caning) of the sender. The stuff that should be subject to a 2 second google search to make sure it’s not outdated or a hoax or just plain bullshit before it gets sent to anyone. They fall into a few distinct groups:


The “Safety” Squad

These are the emails that are sent by people who care about you, with only good intentions. They tell you how to best avoid becoming a victim. They educate you on safety. They give you safe driving tips. They tell you how to protect your credit and your identity. They plead for your help finding lost children. They teach you self-defense. They alert you to health hazards in your medicine, deodorant and air freshener. They are For Your Own Good. But Gah! I realize that *77 is a good thing to know about and the first time I heard about it, I thought, “hmm. Good to know”. The 11,469,379th time I heard about it, I thought something more like, “Fuck!” And that girl? The missing one? She’s 29 now. She’s a brain surgeon in Topeka. Stop it. I know you mean well, but before you send me one of these, look at the list of recipients in the forwarded emails. If there are more than…say…two, assume that they each told two friends, and they told two and so on and so on…and I ALREADY FUCKING SAW IT ELEVENTY MILLION TIMES!


The Heartstring-Pullers

These are all about sick kids and little old ladies and poor little urchins whose mothers are dying and need some pretty shoes to wear to their sister’s funerals when they take the beautiful doll they bought with the money they made selling their hair which they cut off to show support for their sick teammate who was born in the projects but stayed out of trouble because his mentor priest who is only alive today because someone helped him pick up his books on the way home from school where there was only one teacher who ever showed and interest in him and made him what he is today.

Here is what I say to that: Yes, in fact, I have stopped to watch kids on a merry-go-round. And I’ve followed a butterfly’s erratic flight. And then I went home because the little screaming fuckers were giving me a headache and the damned butterfly turned out to be a moth and it flew near me and I freaked out and whacked it and it left a smudge on the wall and it was flapping around on the carpet and the dog starting spazzing out and the cat came over to see what was going on and I stepped on his tail and he hissed ran and the dog took a big anxiety shit on the carpet and, wait - let me just wipe away this tear, because it’s all so beeeeeaaaauuutifuuuulllll?..(sob)


Civic Duty

I don’t care about some kid’s class project. In fact, that kid has long since flunked out of school because he was stupid enough to depend on assholes like me for a school project. As for the endless petitions - yeah, that’s effective. It’s not like the internet could be used to (gasp) fabricate anything. No, those ?signatures? are all legitimate. And my congressman? If I am unhappy with something, I’ll write him all by myself, thank you. Anyone who knows me can tell you that if there’s one thing I am not afraid to do and that’s stand up for myself. I write letters all the time. I’ll continue to do so without signing my name after Mickey Mouse and before Charles Manson and forwarding it to everyone I know.


The Chain Gang

“Pass this on to 10 people”? I hate those words. Look, I don’t believe in that crap. I know that sending an email to ten people will not bring me fame or fortune. Failing to do so will not ensure that my fiancé or best friend or prized bull will be struck by lightning or gunned down by Uzi-sporting rabid hedgehogs. But if I did believe in it, I would be wondering why someone who supposedly cares about me would put me in a situation that would possibly result in my spontaneously combusting. Besides, the rabid hedgehogs have much more important things to worry about than my sending an email. They’re busy waiting for the Taco bell dog to run across the screen.


Something for Nothing

Walt Disney and Bill Gates and the folks at Coca-Cola and Gerber are rich. RICH. They know that people will actually buy their products and thus will not be giving anything away. Even if I did sent an email to ten people and gave birth between 1986 and 1998.


BFFs

I love you. I truly do. But I will not be sending you any poems about my love. I will not be giving e-hugs or kisses. I hate cutesy cartoon duckies and bunnies and bouncing smiley faces. I hated it in my 7th grade yearbook and I hate it 24 years later. ?A ring goes round and never ends and that’s how long that we’ll be friends.? Ugh. How about ?A ring goes round and never ends and hey bitch, when are you going to give me my black blouse back? Where’s the beer?? See? That’s much better. That’s how my friends and I talk to each other, except for the ring part, because a) we don’t give a shit, b) If my friend started babbling in rhymes about rings I’d have her committed and c) my friends are not idiots and they know what shape a ring is, since they watched Sesame Street and Electric Company and they’re not - I don’t know - retarded, so they don’t need a little poem to remind them.


Chocolate or Vanilla?

OK, sometimes the surveys can be fun, but only if I am really bored or if they ask interesting questions. Most don’t. I have to be honest, I never once thought about whether C likes bacon bits or croutons. I don’t give a shit if Tee eats a chocolate cone or a vanilla one. As long as I get my twist cone dipped in chocolate she could be eating frozen shit for all I care. And who decided that bits and croutons are mutually exclusive? We used to do this in grade school. It was the boring, benign cousin of slam books. I may act like I’m seven sometimes, but no. And WHY do you need to know if I still have my appendix and tonsils? Do you need them for some kid's science project? And I don’t care what A’s favorite smell is. It could be dog farts and dead buffalo and I would still love her.


The Patriot Act

The most hated of all the e-shit. I love this country. I am an American. I AM AN AMERICAN. I don’t have to love the federal government to love America. I don’t have to love the president to love America. I would love to buy all American products, but I sure as hell can’t afford an American car and everything else is shipped out to me manufactured by a 4 year old in a third world country for 3 cents a day and then shipped back here to have a “Made in the USA” tag slapped on it anyway. I support our troops. I respect each and every one of the people who are willing to die for me. For my right to buy a foreign car and gas on a Tuesday and a Muslim stamp if I damned well please.

I hate the assumption that my political views match yours. I hate that you make it clear that my choice of political party makes me unpatriotic. I hate that you equate patriotism with blindly following what someone tells me. Someone who can’t pronounce nuclear. I AM patriotic. I am an American. And I am proud. And I am patriotic. And I don’t need your thinly disguised bigotry to tell me I’m not. Stop it.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to check my email.

A Crack, Crackful Things and Things in the Sky

I recently noticed a chip and small crack in my windshield, but I have no idea where it came from. I had an appointment to get it fixed next Saturday, but this weekend, I was driving and it got bigger right before my eyes, so I had to get an earlier appointment. The good thing is that they come to you. The bad thing is that my office had a private valet-parked garage (normally a very, very good thing), that won’t allow the glass company come in and fix it. So I am working from homer and waiting for them to arrive. They've given me a convenient appointment time window of “the buttcrack of dawn – the stroke of midnight”. So consider me unshowered for the duration, since I chose to sleep in an extra 45 minutes this morning (woo-HOO – six AM!!).

===================================

I went to a Tastefully Simple party the other day. They should call them Crackfully Spendy parties, because that shit is expensive. The “crackfully” part comes in when (after you see the prices and swear to Tom Cruise that there is no way you’re buying that shit) you start tasting stuff and the money magically starts flying out of your wallet.

Their big spiel is that “everybody eats” and that “all the products are affordable – between $5 and $10.” It’s true – everything (except for the multi-packs) was between $5 and $10. Sounds good, right? Sure, until you realize that a 10-ounce bottle of barbeque sauce is $8.99. Sure, it’s delicious, but not seven dollars more delicious than Sweet Baby Ray’s (that you get almost twice as much of).

I did stick to my guns about buying stuff I could elsewhere, but I went a little overboard with the Prickly Pear Cooler. But oh my Jebus, that stuff is the nectar of the gods. And apparently it has nicotine or crack or Prozac in it because I bought four canisters. And I haven’t even gotten them yet, but I am thinking I should get some more. Crack, I tell you.

(update –I just checked the website and found out it will only be available until September. Note to self: Start stockpiling immediately!!)

===================================

I would have posted this yesterday, but being April Fool’s Day, you would have all thought was joking. But it was really windy on my drive home and there were all kinds of things flying around past the goofwagon’s windows. I saw, among other things, many garbage cans and lids, plastic bags (oh my Al Gore, those pissed me off), newspapers (ditto), a huge black tarp flying around completely unfurled, a flag with the pole still attached, and a trampoline. Now, I know – except for the trampoline, those are all pretty believable. But about a mile or so from home, hurtling across my windshield and around the side of my car – inches from the window - was a full grown, live, flapping about, male TURKEY. I shit you not.

===================================

So, I saw a UFO on Monday night. Ok, not really. But I saw something weird in the sky. I was driving home from the crack party and I happened to look up at the sky and what looked like a firework ember. It was green and it was coming down at a step angle, then it just faded out. My first thought was that some fool was setting off fireworks, but it was only one ember – not a bunch like there would be with fireworks. I know there are smaller ones, like bottle rockets, etc, but they still have more than one spark or ember and besides – this was too big to be that.

It looked more like a shooting star, except a) it was much larger and closer, b) it was angling down instead of across the sky and c) it was green. I just assumed it was some sort of strange astronomical/atmospheric combination – a meteorite that looked green because of atmospheric conditions, maybe. I checked the news and the papers and didn‘t see anything about such an occurrence, though (and in fact – there have been such things before). I sent an email to a local astronomy society because I’m geeky like that and plus – its driving me crazy. I expect the Men in Black to show up at my door at any moment.

No – I really don’t. Even though it’s more fun to tell people I saw a UFO, I know there is probably a reasonable explanation. Although. . .

Movies

This weekend, mr b got the kids’ closets done. I was thrilled, thinking that it was the best weekend ever, since I could finally get the seven bajillion loads of laundry put away. That is, until about the 3rd load, at which time “the best weekend ever” involved having finished closets, plus some sort of laundry elves or gnomes or fairies who would actually do it for me. So, it didn’t all get done, but I am making steady progress.

In between making 12 billion trips up and down the stairs and calling my washing machine a bitch, I watched movies.

I took the kids to see Horton Hears a Who. It was pretty cute. I love Dr. Seuss, so I was hoping to love the movie. Not quite loved, but I liked it. It just seemed like there was something missing for me – that special quality you see in a Dinsey or Pixar movie that makes you want to see it again. Or maybe it was just that Dr. Seuss is more charming in book form. I don’t know. But at least it wasn’t the flaming ass that is the live action Seuss films, so I’ll still give a B. It was cute. And speaking of cute – after the movie was over, the girl told me that she thought Jojo Who was “handsome”:


Great – that kid looks like trouble. I’m sure her dad will be thrilled when she brings home some moody little emo punk. Oh, and also – between admission, lunch, drinks and popcorn, I spent approximately 17 thousand dollars


We also watched August Rush, which the boy has been wanting to see. Meh. I know I was supposed to find it heartwarming, but to be honest I thought that kid was creepy. Actually, for the first 30 minutes, I was sure he was mentally challenged. After I figured out that he was not, I found him creepy, what with the weird-ass “conducting” of buses and garbage and subway exhaust. And while I can buy musical genius and being able to immediately play instruments by ear, I was totally not buying the 45 seconds from “these are notes” to the Rain Man symphony writing. The preposterousness of the forged adoption papers thing was just too much. And the whole thing with his mother and the “I hear him” crap – bleh. Maybe it would have been a little more believable if they had shown a little of it, but of course then it would have been nine hours long and I already want at least 30 minutes of it back, so no. The only really good part was that it had some cool music and that Jonathan Rhys Meyers is sexy. Mmm.

By far, the best movie I watched this weekend was on cable – Can’t Stop the Music. Disco with a side of cheese, topped with gay sauce. Who wouldn’t love that?

And I’ve decided - I’m totally going to live out this movie. I plan on writing songs about the Days Inn in Asheville, Coke Zero and my dog’s ass and I will head out into the streets to throw together a “band”. But since a) the construction worker and cop are cliché, b) I just can’t abuse a soldier in that fashion, c) peta wouldn’t approve of the leather guy, d) Trace Adkins and Kix Brooks are already taken, so the cowboy is out, and e) you just don’t see too many full headdress-wearing Native Americans on Forbes Avenue these days, I’m thinking:

- UPS delivery man
- Priest
- Former dotcom bigwig now working as administrative assistant
- Homeless guy
- Podiatrist
- Fidel Castro (since he’s free and all)

What do you think? Is this not the perfect plan?

Because seriously. Who wouldn’t want to recreate the genius that gave us this:

And this:

And this:

And this:

And this:

Hey – what do you expect from a girl who wore velvet knickers and headbands...

The Reason No One Asks Me for Fashion Tips...

For a while now, I have been planning on humiliating myself once I drag my old photos out of storage. And there are so many options: The plaid taffeta, the tuxedo, the neon bandanna, the backwards collar dress, the femullet. It's really hard to narrow down, so I will most likely embarrass myself again and again once I have the chance. But digging through a drawer this morning, I found something to give you a little taste of what will (eventually) come. Ladies and Gentlemen, I am sadly proud to present....

Junior High Christmas Dance, circa 1980

(click on the photo to see it in it's full glory)

Thursday Thirteen

I’m jumping on the Thursday Thirteen train, since I can barely think of anything to say Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday…you get the picture. Anyway:

Thirteen Things I was thinking about my senior year of high school

1. Acid Rain. Remember that? I mean, I know it still exists and all, but back in the 70s and 80s, it was a hot topic. It was my teenaged generation’s global warming. And since I was all about the environment (you know, like, as long as I didn’t have to like stop driving my ‘vette [it was of the “che-“ variety], or eating Quarter Pounders in their Styrofoam containers, or stop burning a giant hole in the ozone layer with my daily half-can of Aqua-net) and wanted to save the Earth, my senior chemistry project was on acid rain. My partner and I got three plants and three goldfish and used distilled water, tap water and rain water for each. It was pretty cool, but I started feeling bad for acidfish and saved him. And “extrapolated” his condition for the last two weeks.

2. How awesome my rack looked. Except for in my swim team bathing suit. NOT flattering. Also not flattering? A diver being made to swim and almost drowning.

3. How unique (and not at all pretentious) I was by singing Papa Can You Hear Me in the spring concert, and Gesu Bambino in the Christmas concert. Entirely in Italian.

4. I can drink in Europe. Legally!! When do we leave?

5. What toiletries can I replace with booze and go unnoticed on the band Disney trip.

6. I am not in the band. I’m a majorette. Big difference. And my uniform is so gay.

7. Sex!!

8. Steve Perry is a genius.

9. Getting the best prom gown, ever. Because if I have to sing that crap, Ice Castles, I’m damned well going to look good. Of course, if my jackass boyfriend would listen to me and realize that white tuxes are what jackasses wear, I’d look even better.

10. Tom Selleck is a FOX. See – I haven’t changed that much.

11. I wonder what Old Grandad tastes like mixed with kool-aid. Hedge?

12. I’m so glad I can eat anything I want and not get fat.

13. College is gonna be a breeze!

How To...

How to feel old:

Watch American Idol on “Songs from the Year You Were Born” Night. Nothing makes you feel like an old geezer quite like being reminded that some of these people (All but one of whom are chronological adults. And several of whom are married) were just being born while you were out drinking and smoking and having sex. Well, expect for that one guy. You may have only been ten when he was born. You know, if you were telling your age (which everybody knows anyway).



How to be a diva. Or perhaps, Mrs. Howell:





How to be the next Mickey Hart*:

*OK, clearly, I don’t know many drummers and I narrowed it down from Phil Collins (who makes me want to stab myself), Rick Allen (who only has one arm and who wants to wish that on their kid?) and Tommy Lee (and speaking of things one doesn’t want to wish on their kid: Pam Anderson, Hepatitis and crabs)




How to crack you mother up (and simultaneously make her feel guilty for her vocabulary):

“Bean – why is the dog barking? Can you look and see if someone is coming”

“OK, Mom. Stop barking! There’s no one coming, you jackass


How to put your foot in your mouth while watching a commercial for Moment of Truth:

“Asking a question like ‘have you ever regretted marring your spouse is unfair.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a rock/hard place question. No one wants to admit it, but everyone has thought that at some point in their marriage”

“I haven’t”

Jeez – next you’ll be telling me that not everyone has plotted their spouse’s death. And set up their BFF as an alibi (Hi, Hedge!)

(For the record, I think he’s lying. I know I’m a bitch.)



How to be the world’s worst photographer:
Take Easter photo with “Cops” on in the background…

Because nothing says, “Jesus Lives” quite like a televised drunk driving arrest.



How to look insane:

Chocolate Bunnies Everywhere Fear for Their Lives

Today is my first day back in the office after a busy and somewhat stressful weekend. I can always gauge how stressful my weekend was by the feeling I get when I walk through the office door. Most Mondays are the “ewwww, work” variety – that means it was a pretty normal weekend – some fun, some relaxing, with a touch of sibling annoyance and husband pain mixed in. but after weekend like this one, I walk through the office door and my blood pressure actually goes down. Because even though I have to work and even though I have to deal with a pain in the ass coworker and even though I have my fat ass crammed into pantyhose, by God, I will not hear, “He’s touching my stuff!”, “I just wanna see it!”, “Stop it!”, “You’re mean!”, “I’m telling!”, “Go AWAY!”, or “STOP TOUCHING ME!!!!!!” SO, yay, work!

Plus, when I got in this morning, I saw a package on the front counter for me and who doesn’t like a surprise mystery package, assuming it’s not filed with dog shit and snakes? And it was most certainly not filled with dog shit and snakes, but with two cool cds and some delicious-smelling chocolate soap. YAY!! But I have to say:

Dear Stacy,
You rock. Especially the part where you put the note in telling me not to eat the soap. Because I read it at the last minute and was very near shoving it all into my big, gaping piehole. Love and kisses,
Gina

======================================

Friday I worked from home and we had an extra child in the house – our nephew, Dil (great nephew actually, but I didn’t say that since it makes me sound as old as dirt, when in actuality, though I am as old as dirt, it’s mr b who is three days older than turpentine and can say he has a great nephew. Also – did anyone get the turpentine reference? If so, I will love you forever)

Anyway, having an extra child in the house can be both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it keeps the kids busy having someone else to play with. A curse because – hello – it’s an extra kid in the house. The girl was thrilled to have him there, since they are close in age and she adores him. The boy, I figured would ignore the presence of another rugrat and play wii or something. But no, even though he won’t play with his sister and probably wouldn’t play with Dil if were actually his brother, he thought it was great fun playing with him on Friday, much to the dismay of the girl, who wanted Dil to herself. I suspect this added to the boy’s enjoyment. At one point, they were playing light sabers and she was pissed off at being left out and she kept telling them “it’s time for another game now”. When that didn’t work, she came over tot where I was working asked me for a pencil. I gave it to her and went on working. Then she asked for some paper. Again, I gave it to her and went back to working. Then she asked if I could write something for her. I was distracted since I was working, but I took the paper and pencil and asked her what she needed me to write. The answer? "This game is over. Mom said."

=======================================

Saturday and Easter were pretty uneventful, but busy. There was shopping and cooking and ironing and cleaning and visiting and chocolate and wine. And I made this salad, which you should go home and make right now because it is fantastic.

Then yesterday, I had to work from home again, since school and daycare were closed. And as with Friday, there was lots of “He’s touching my stuff!”, “I just wanna see it!”, “Stop it!”, “You’re mean!”, “I’m telling!”, “Go AWAY!”, or “STOP TOUCHING ME!!!!!!” So, by the time the girl started screaming bloody murder, I pretty much was all boy who cried wolf-ed out and I responded with a frustrated, “What?!? What is it now?” And then I saw her clutching her face and staggering around the room. Turns out she had sprayed perfume in her face and eyes. I grabbed her and threw her I the tub and started spraying and rinsing her eyes as best as I could, with he fighting and kicking and screaming. And you know how hard it is to open your eyes when they are burning, so I’m not sure how effective it was. I also tried to wash the perfume off her face since she reeked. I had her in the tub, rinsing her eyes for about 15 minutes, then got her out and called the doctor. They said she would probably be fine, but to call poison control. They also thought she would be fine, but damn did she give me scare. Herself too. The poor thing was in pain and crying and she couldn’t open her eyes for a good while. And her face got red and blotchy from the perfume, with her left eye, especially swelled up and looked like a red plum. Good times.

I intend to heal myself psychologically by gnawing the head off a chocolate bunny and celebrating my few hours of quiet and data management.

Not Your Sweetie

Mr b and the kids and I recently went out to Eat n Park for dinner and the waitress kept calling me sweetie and honey and babe. This is something that has always pissed me off. I’m not a particularly formal person, but I don’t care for terms f endearment from someone not sear to me. I find it patronizing and insulting. But I generally keep my mouth shut, because I don’t want to come off as a pompous bitch. Instead, I usually come off as a juvenile, since I tend to answer questions like “how’s your salad, Honey?” with a big smile and a cheery, “It’s great, Sweetcheeks!” or, “Awesome, Lovemuffin” (I’m saving up Sugartits for when I really need it). Anyway, this usually does the trick.

On this particular night, though, I was planning my “Can I get some ketchup, Schmoopy?”, but never got a chance, since the next time she came by, she spoke with mr b – “Do you need more iced tea, Sir?”

Cue needle on record sound…

Excuse me, but Sir? Sir??

I’m Sweetie, Honey and Babe and he is Sir?

You know, if she had been an elderly man, I may be a little less bothered by it. I almost expect it – the concept of “the little woman”, but I have been finding that women are often just as, if not more, sexist than men. I’m tired of giving the check pointedly handed to him. I’m tired of salespeople speaking more to him than me. I’m tired of arguing with customer service people to no avail while he can get results in minutes. I can order my own tires, thank you very much. I can pick out the paint colors all by myself. Don’t tell me about how my husband “has a wife and kids to take care of”, because it’s I who does most of the taking care. Don’t try to sell me credit card insurance so we’re covered if “my husband should lose his job”. I don’t need a pink hammer or (god help me) a pink Steelers jersey. If I’m going to be driving it, tell me about the gas mileage in that model of car, and not the makeup mirrors. No – I don’t want a white zinfandel, I’ll have a Guiness, please. Hard as it may be to believe, I make more money, I have more education and I deserve the same respect, regardless of what parts I have. And if you aren’t married to me, and you’re not my grandma, then goddamit, I am not your Sweetie, Honey or Babe.

I’m not sure why I still find myself amazed at some of the comments I hear from people who are not voting for Hillary Clinton. Don’t get me wrong – many people have legitimate, intelligent opinions on the candidates’ policies and ideas. But I’m talking about the other ones. The ones who – no matter how vehemently deny it – will not be voting for Hillary simply because she has a vagina. The “I don’t think the country is ready for a female president (translation: I don’t want a woman in office) or the “She’s not nurturing enough” (translation: she’s hard and manly, and should be more feminine, like a real woman who should be at home and not in office), or the “She couldn’t even control her husband, how can she run a country (translation: I don’t even know how to translate this one, but it sure has a whiff of honor killing, doesn’t it? I mean – it surely is her fault he cheated, right? So let’s keep her out of office for being so ugly and sucky) and the “we can’t have a woman president because Middle Eastern countries wouldn’t deal with it well (translation: I am a fucking idiot. I mean, good-ole boy petroleum lobby much? Because first off – way to endorse a way of life that not only oppresses women, but completely dismisses them and often enslaves and harms them in ways both physically and psychologically. And as for them not liking it? Fuck them. They can either deal with it or not, but the last time I checked, citizens of the middle eat do not get to vote in our elections. Besides, maybe having a leader that they “won’t deal with” will give us the push we need to get the hell out from under the suffocating control of all things oil. If having a woman in office will leads to some serious thinking and action regarding alternative energy, count me the fuck in.)

And this ? Is this how low we are sinking? Are we so afraid of having a woman in a position of power that we are willing to ignore her viewpoints and ideas and instead focus on humiliating her over her husband’s inability to keep his dick in his pant while he balanced the budget, raised employment rates, reduced poverty and signed the Family and Medical Leave Act?

Look – I’m not saying that you should vote for Hillary because she is a woman – that’s as bad as saying you won’t vote for her because she is a woman. I’m not even saying you should vote for Hillary at all. What I’m saying is that you should vote for a candidate and not their gentials. We’re too good for that.

Hilarious

I hope you all saw the original crazypants Tom Cruise vidoe, because it makes this one even funnier:

Three Trillion Dollars, Four Thousand Dead, Five Years, One Man

3,000,000,000,000 = Projected dollars we will have spent on the war by the time we get out of Iraq.

20,000,000,000 = Dollars paid to KBR, a former Halliburton division, to supply U.S. military in Iraq with food, fuel, housing and other items.

9,000,000,000 = Dollars lost and unaccounted for in Iraq.

3,200,000,000 = Dollars of the $20 billion paid to KBR that were deemed “questionable or supportable."

1,000,000,000 = Dollars in missing tractor trailers, tank recovery vehicles, machine guns, rocket-propelled grenades and other equipment and services provided to the Iraqi security forces.

303,664,728 = People in the US who are affected directly and indirectly by the Iraq war.

270,000,000 = Dollars the U.S. spends each day in Iraq ($12 billion in 2008).

5,000,000 = Iraqi children orphaned since the US invasion.

2,630,880 = Minutes that mothers of soldiers have spent worrying and praying about their children’s safety.

1,189,173 = Iraqis killed since the US invasion.

190,000 = US guns in Iraq, including 110,000 AK-47 rifles.

180,000+ = Private contractors currently in Iraq, working in support of US army troops.

166,895 = Troops in Iraq.

157,000 = US troops in Iraq.

70,000 = Single parents deployed between June 06 and March 07, leaving their children without them.

43,848 = Hours that soldiers have been at risk in Iraq.

29,395 = US soldiers seriously wounded in the Iraq War (many more with less serious injuries).

20,000+ = Number of soldiers with traumatic brain injuries who were not classified as wounded during combat.

3990 = US soldiers killed in the Iraq War.

1,827 = Days that husbands and wives have been alone while their spouses have served in the Iraq war.

1783 = Days since Bush stood on the deck of an aircraft carrier and declared "Mission Accomplished."

1600 = US children who have lost a parent in the war, as of 2006.

1,150 = Active-duty troops that were deployed at the same time as a spouse in December 2006 only.

308 = US non-troop casualties.

202.7 = Cents that the average cost of a gallon of gas has increased since before the Iraq War began.

127 = Journalists killed (84 by murder and 43 by acts of war).

68 = US military helicopters downed in Iraq.

64 = Percentage of Americans who oppose the war in Iraq.

57 = Percentage of Iraqis who think it is acceptable to attack American soldiers.

30 = Percentage of US soldiers who develop serious mental health problems within 3 to 4 months of returning home.

28 = Percent of Iraqi children suffering from chronic malnutrition.

14 = Journalists killed by US forces.

5 = Years since we invaded Iraq on the word of our current administration – one with ties to the oil community.

1 = Man that put us there, claiming the need to protect the US from Iraq’s Weapons of Mass Destruction.

0 = Number of WMDs found in Iraq.







*If you have any stats that I missed, let me know (with citations) and I’ll add them to the list

"Stand Up Like a Man!"

Mother’s Day is coming up and in case you’re fretting about what to get mom, I found the answer. Are you ready? OK, then. This year for Mother’s Day, forget the boring flowers and stupid photo frames. Instead, get mom and grandma the ability to pee standing up. That’s right, folks – the P-Mate is in the house!

Now we women – once a fair, clean and considerate gender – can now defile public buildings, parks and alleys with our urine. Just like men!!! Because if there’s anything I had ever hoped for in this life, it was to be more like a man. Next, I’ll be spitting on sidewalks and leaving my underwear on the bathroom floor. I CAN'T WAIT!!!



And speaking of men, here’s what getting ready is like in my house:

Say we have an event to go to – a scout banquet for instance. About four hours before we have to leave (and after getting home from hours of preparation at the hall), I have clothes picked out for myself and the kids.

Next - make sure everyone is fed and ready to start getting themselves prepared.

Clean the tub and get the girl’s bath ready.

Ten minutes later - drain the tub and refill it, since mr b was asked to check the water and somehow he failed to notice that the hose came loose and water was spraying into the un-caulked edge (the one from 9 years ago that is still waiting for attention) and knocking wall-insides debris into the water.

Get the girl bathed and get her set up on the couch, all cozy, and then go rinse out the tub.

Next up – get the boy’s shower going. Coerce the boy into getting his shower. Now. Now. NowNowNOW!

Back to the girl – get her hair combed and dried.

Oh look - a patch I forgot to sew on the boy’s short.

Find needle and matching thread. There’s got to be some matching thread. Does this match? Close enough.

Look at clock. AAAGH – we only have two hours left.

Hear mr b say we have plenty of time.

Laugh knowingly (and bitterly).

Get sewing, hoping that four stitches will holds the patch through the banquet.

The boy’s out of the shower – comb your hair. Comb your hair. COMB! YOUR! HAIR!

Next up – ironing!

Did you both brush your teeth? With toothpaste?

Who left this mess in the bathroom?

Ironing…ironing…ironing…

Alright – time for my shower. Whoever left these clothes in the bathroom better come get them right now and put them where they belong!

Jump in and out of shower.

Look at clock.

Commence panicking.

Slap on makeup.

Barely fix hair.

Get the kids dressed.

Fight with the girl about which shoes to wear.

Fight with the boy about tucking in his shirt.

Oh My God, DID YOU NOT comb your hair when I asked you to????

You clearly DID NOT!

Try to fix the boy’s hair.

Gather purses, bags, cameras, banners, cards and gifts.

Sigh in relief – everyone’s ready.

Except…

30 minutes before it’s time to go, mr b waltzes into the bathroom and finally starts getting ready.

10 minutes before it’s time to go, he’s looking for something to wear.

5 minutes before it’s time to go, he’s changing his clothes. Again.

Time to go. Mr b is now fretting about his hair.

2 minutes late. He’s asking about his clothes again.

4 minutes late – checking the hair one more time.

Finally 10 minutes after we were supposed to leave, he’s ready.

On the way, he turns to look at me, sitting stone-faced in my seat, running late, exhausted form getting three people ready to go, with 2 feet of stuff piled on my lap and says, “What’s wrong with you?”

Only an Idiot Would Neglect to Check the Camera Battery...

Yep – that would be me. The idiot who went to see Hillary Clinton, had a great seat, got to shake hands and get an autograph, and did not have a working camera!! And since my phone’s camera is a dick, the only photos I got looked like this:

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I could have kicked myself. I was excited to go and hear her speak, but I was most excited to come back here and show you the photos. So since I don’t want to disappoint, I give you:
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It was a pretty cool experience. I found her to be engaging and intelligent. The camera do NOT do her justice (and also – I suspect that often times those in charge don’t use the most flattering photos), because she is far more attractive and even thinner in person than how she looks on TV and in photos. Nor do the media give her enough credit for her personality and sense of humor. I’m really glad I decided to go.

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This weekend was the boy’s scout banquet. We had a nice time and I (of course) cried when he pinned the mother’s pin on me. I’m such a weenie.

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Sunday, the girl had a birthday party to go to. She was very excited, since it was her first birthday party for a daycare friend, and her best pal to boot. In honor of the momentous occasion, she wore her best tiara.

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Also this weekend was the taping shut of the dog's snout, because he could not keep his stupid ball-licker shut during the Pitt game (Yeah Pitt!).

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And don't go all peta on me - it was painter's tape and didn't hurt him one bit (same goes for the cat who was pelted with my sock, a stuffed dog, and my pillow when he would not SHUT HIS DAMNED MOUSEHOLE AT 3:00 am). And we felt bad for him the next day, so we played a rousing game of balloon with him.

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In between all this activity, I shopped for a birthday present, bought gifts for the scout leader, went to get cards, did the grocery shopping, cooked several meals, and did 5 loads of laundry. And yet Sunday night, I still found myself saying, “Damn, I didn’t get anything done this weekend.” Why do we women do that to ourselves?

How NOT to Get the Job

Hedge sent me an email yesterday telling me that she was sitting at her desk, looking at a man who was waiting for an interview with her company. Sitting beside him was his wife. On her lap was their dog. Who does that?? What on earth would have made this guy think that bringing his wife and dog on an interview would be a good thing.

You know, I can almost forgive the dog. Because although bringing your dog on the interview is clearly a sign of batshittery, there’s always the possibility of you actually being able to function in the job. But bringing your wife? This says to me that you may or may not be batshit crazy, but your wife is most definitely batshit crazy and the only thing worse than a batshit crazy employee is an employee with a batshit crazy wife. And a wife who feels it’s appropriate to accompany her husband right into the office on a job interview, dog in tow, is the poster child for the Batshit Crazy Wives Association of America.

I can tell you from experience (not that I have or have been a batshit crazy wife, but I have witnessed it), that a batshit crazy wife will result in the employee getting 238 calls a day, 197 of which will be dire emergencies like “I can’t find the coffee filters” or “How do you work the DVD player?” The other 41 will just be plain old batshit crazy conversation. Also – batshit crazy wives will result in the employee being late or absent often, because of emergencies such as the one I mentioned, as well as rampant hypochondria, paranoia, and the inability to function as an adult.

Needless to say, this man will not be getting the job. So, just in case you were on your way out the door for an interview and your wife or husband or dog thinks it’s a good idea to come along – it’s not.

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In other news, the boy has his crossover ceremony from cub scouts to boy scouts on Saturday and I know that I am going to cry and look like a blubbering fool in all the photos. I had a hard time deciding to let him join scouts because their policy on gays makes me want to vomit. But he really wanted to join, plus the fact that he’s not a huge athlete and the fact that there’s not a whole lot of options in a small town made me rethink it. The biggest deciding factor was a conversation I had with an openly gay woman who was a scout leader, who encouraged me to let him join.

I decided that the benefits of joining scouts were many, in that he would be learning outdoor skills, leadership and citizenship. I figured that I could teach him about acceptance and you never know – maybe someday he would be involved in helping to make a change in an offensive and ridiculous policy. In the meantime, he’s participated on activities that have honored and helped veterans, the mentally challenged, the hungry, the elderly and the environment. And that is always a good thing. In a few years, he’ll have to do his Eagle Scout project and since his won personal “cause” has always seemed to be homelessness and hunger, maybe he’ll have a chance to make a real impact. So while I still feel a little like a hypocrite for participating in an organization that has some views that I can’t get behind, I am also very proud of my son for sticking with it for five years and achieving what he has.

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And in super good happy news, Weenie came down this weekend and we worked like working dogs who work for 34,926 hours (OK, we actually drank lots of rum for some of thse hours, but still), and I am happy to announce that my kids finally have rooms. There are still a few odds and ends to be tied up, but thank Jeebus, we finally, finally, can all get a little space. It feel as good as you would expect it to feel when three people, a dog and a cat and crawl out of each your ass.
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I Miss My Friend

I had a dream about an old friend last night, and I can’t get it out of my mind. I’m not generally much on dreams and their interpretation, but I can’t figure out why this one is so vivid in my mind and why I jus can’t seem to shake the feeling that it means something. I know that reading about other people dreams is boooooorrrrring, so I’ll keep it short (the dream part anyway).

I dreamt that I was at a Dead show (I remember when I only had to say “a show” and everyone around knew what I was talking about – I’m old). Anyway, I was there alone and I wanted to find my friend, Dave (I started to use a pseudonym, but why bother). I knew he’d be there because – duh – it was “a show”. I decided that the best way to find him would just be to walk around in the parking lot’s carnival-like atmosphere calling his name. And lo and behold, it worked (this is not that far-fetched – it’s actually worked in the past). He was sitting at a picnic table with a group pf people that seemed awfully surprised that some strange person was yelling their friend’s name and he jumped up and hugged me. We ended up hanging out together and doing various bizarre things (like when you’re in a dream and one minute you’re at a concert and the next, you’re on a roller coaster and then suddenly, you’re climbing a porch). And then – just like that - he was gone.

I woke up then and felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I don’t know if it was just “seeing” him again or what. But I felt like I needed to drop everything and find him. I have searched for him many times in the past unsuccessfully. Once, I found an email for someone with his name and I sent them a couple emails over a period of time, but never received a reply. I tell myself that the email was outdated because I can’t imagine that he wouldn’t reply to me, but there’s always that chance. I guess I could probably find some phone listings to try I tried really hard, but I am not sure what I want out of it. Finding an email address is one thing. I could write and if it’s him, he could write back and we could start up a nice, no pressure friendship again. But finding a phone number is a little daunting. The idea of calling him up and talking after all these years. What if it’s not him? What if it is? What do I say? What if he’s married and his wife answers? What if he doesn’t want to hear from me?

It might sound weird, but the phone thing is threatening to me for some reason. Maybe its because I called him once at his apartment and his roommate gave me some very vague deal about him not being there anymore. So I called his parents and they brushed me off as well. I can’t remember exactly what was said, but the basic just of it was that he was in some trouble and that he needed to cut off ties with his past. I cried for days after that, wondering if he hated me, wondering if he was OK. A few years later, I ran into a mutual acquaintance who told me he heard that Dave had some serious drug problems and ended up in rehab. This could very well be true – he had a history and it would fit with his roommate’s and parents’ odd reactions.

A little background on Dave. I met him my freshman year of college. He was a philosophy major. I met him during a class - at my 1st college, we had a month long semester where you took one intensive, all day, non-traditional class. I took physics classes both times (I know – huge geek), but they were cool classes - in one, I learned to fly a plane! That’s cool physics. Anyway, Dave was in my class and he was always trying to talk to me about “deep” shit. And I didn’t care about deep shit. He used to give me all these deep philosophy/science/math theory books to read and then want to discuss them. It drove me crazy for a while, but eventually, he started to grow on me.

He was rumpled and messy and crazy and fun. He introduced me to a lot of thing (some good, some bad) that I wouldn’t have found on my own. He was a great guy. We spent all our time together and he ended up being one of the best friends I have ever had. We were always out hiking and talking and reading and learning (just not the stuff we were supposed to be learning). It sounds corny, but at a time when I was really searching for something, he helped me find out who I was. I truly loved him.

But I could see it in his eyes. He liked me. He was a good friend and I wanted to keep it that way, so I ignored it and he ignored it and we went on for a long time like that. My roomie and I even moved into his suite (in the boy’s dorm) for a while, because he was the only one in a 4-person and there was no shared bathroom and lots of fun. He knew my deepest secrets, my favorite songs and what I liked on my pizza.

One night, when he was walking me back to my dorm, he brought it up. He stated his case very logically about how it made sense for us to be a couple (it did) and how we had the perfect relationship (we did) and how we had everything except the intimacy (true). But he just couldn’t understand that for me, the physical attraction wasn’t there. I explained it the best I could, and to his credit he accepted it. We agreed to remain friends and we really did. But he asked for just one kiss and I agreed. I guess I thought it wouldn’t hurt and hell, you never know which sparks might fly. Well, none did. It was a chaste kiss and then it was over. We stayed friends and had a lot of fun together in the years to come. (Although I found out later from a guy that went to the very small school with us that someone saw us kiss and everyone thought we were and item and that there were several non-asshole guys who would have asked me out if not for that. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. It didn’t stop the fucking assholes from wining and dining and treating me like shit, though.)

Anyway, Dave and I stayed friend for a few years, calling and writing after we both left college and visiting each when we could (we lived about 4 hours apart – me in Pittsburgh and him in Gaithersburg). We sent each other care packages – he would send bootleg tapes and other “goodies” my way. I sent him care packages for his Grateful Dead touring trips, filled with munchies and visine and trippy toys, and one year on his birthday I sent him scarlet begonias and signed the card with only “you knew right away I was not like other girls.” Of course, he knew who they were from immediately. This long-distance, yet still rewarding friendship went on for a few years – right up until the time I finally couldn’t reach him anymore. I’m not sure what I want out of finding him now, but since last night, every few minutes I think about him. I think about the loss of a friend. And suddenly after 18 years, I am feeling that loss as if it were yesterday and it takes my breath away.

He was a part of the most bittersweet time of my life. A time when I found myself and then lost myself. When I laughed more than I ever had and cried harder than ever before. A time when I really lived out loud. Maybe it’s my impending 40th birthday and the feelings of mortality setting in. Maybe I want to feel a little of that freedom and joy again. All I know is in that dream when he hugged me, I felt so good and safe and like I had found my way home. At that – though imaginary – moment, I couldn’t think of anywhere I would rather be.

I don’t know if I will ever see or speak to him again, but wherever he is, I hope he is happy.

More Wastefulness and Some Creepy Thrown in for Fun

Once again, I watched Big Brother and once again I was sickened by the wastefulness. This time, they had at least 600 pounds of asparagus that they used for a stupid game. I thought that maybe, since it was still fresh that they could donate it, but noooooo. After the game was over, those fucking morons started throwing it at each other. God, I hate those people. Just once, I’d like to hear someone express concern over the terrible waste. They’d be my new reality TV hero. Oh - and making this competition even more vomit inducing? The fact that the women had to be weighed and the comment was made about the one being a “whopping” 130 pounds. Dear god, we are an obscenely fucked up country.

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And speaking of things obscene, it’s only been one day and I am already sick to death of hearing about Ben Rothlesberger’s new deal. Anyone who knows me knows that I am a huge fan of all the Pittsburgh sports teams (though the Pirates are seriously testing my ability to give a shit). That said, it absolutely sickens me to hear about the money that athletes make. 102 million dollars? Even after the agent gets a cut and taxes come out, he’ll still pull in over $100,000 a week. A week! And yet, I had a conversation with someone the other day who is living with an injury because she can’t afford to get the surgery to fix it. And driving into work, I see an elderly man in a wheelchair getting soaked in the rain. And on the way to mr b’s office, I pass a little camp of cardboard boxes, with sad, lonely hungry people inside.

You know who should make 102 million dollars? She should. And the other people who do what she does every day. And you know what they would do with all that money? They’d most likely start feeding people. And building houses. Not running immediately to the luxury car dealership and driving away in a planet-destroying Hummer or penis-waving Maserati (that mr b saw Ben driving away from the dealer at just about the same time they made the announcement of his deal).

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In other news, this renovation is killing me. It’s almost done. We’re thisclose (of you don’t count the entire “old side” of the house that will have to be updated next). Unfortunately, I have experiences years of thisclose before. Neither mr b nor I are particular go-getters. It’s hard – you work, you have kids and their schedules to deal with, family, housework, dinners, etc. The last thing you feel like doing is working some more when that’s all done. Add to it that the house is in such disarray all the time and it sucks what little motivation we have right down the drain. It’s a vicious cycle – you can’t do A because B isn’t done, and B can’t be done until C is done, but C can’t be done until the giant mess gets cleaned and you make room for D, but the giant mess doesn’t have anywhere to go unless A gets done and so on and so one and sofuckingon.

Two bits of good progress are that mr b and his nephew got the wood floor installed this weekend and the carpet for the kid’s bedrooms was installed yesterday. The girl’s furniture is coming on Saturday and I have my SIL Weenie coming that day to help me get the boy’s room moved. So there IS progress. Of course, I am stressing about Weenie’s help, since I feel like I need to do some pre-cleaning prep work beforehand and there is just no time to do it. Also – there are things that need to be done in those rooms (like installing lights and some trim painting) and I am afraid that they will never get done. Because I have met my husband before. I have lived in a half finished place for so long and I am nervous about it going on forever. My biggest fears when I signed on to do this were 1) not finishing things, and 2) finishing the “new” part and not the “old”, and living in a half nice/half crappy house. Sigh.

Anyway, the guy that installed my carpet yesterday freaked me out a little. On one hand, I felt a little bad for him – he was talking a bit about his health problems and lack of health insurance (hear that, GW?), but on the other hand? I think he was batshit crazy. In the short time I spent talking with him, he asked me how we were paying for the addition (did you hit the lottery? Um, no, we lived in squalor for 10n years and saved) and made two “jokes” that were a little uncomfortable – calling me selfish and spoiled (comments that from your friends would be funny, but not from a stranger). He expressed concern over his money problems (which I sympathized with, but was uncomfortable given the fact that I was paying him). He then mentioned his bad temper and problems controlling it (I wondered if perhaps I should don my bat mask*). And finally, the dog was thoroughly suspicious of him. He usually loves everyone - at least after he barks his fool head off for a while. I have to say, I was glad when he was gone and I locked the door before he was even off the porch.

* For those of you who didn’t read me at the old place and don’t know what I mean about the “bat mask”, here’s a link to the weird, yet somewhat hilarious, crackhead hooker-punching story.

I love my floor. And my carpet. And even my stupid dog that hid behind me when the creepy carpet guy was there: