I first heard the term “diva” in the eighth grade and I thought it was really cool. I pictured a woman of extreme vocal talent spreading her gift and wisdom to younger women who wanted to be like her. I thought a diva was the female equivalent of the male, pop idol. Diva must have been a positive phrase, because Frank Zappa wouldn’t have named one of his daughters after something negative, thought my little 14-year-old mind.
Around the late 90s, VH1 decided to do a show called Divas, where female performers would get together for one big concert. At first it seemed that VH1 did a good job picking their divas: Aretha Franklin (most definitely), Gloria Estefan (Latina diva, mucho gusto), Tina Turner (diva who still has great legs at 70), Celine Dion (a little young, but okay, I guess), Leann Rimes (now you’re just pissing me off).
Today the term “diva” is everywhere. I see it on the side of over-priced handbags, on babydoll shirts worn by ‘tweens and most recently embroidered on a fuzzy, pink pillow that went with a toddler bed set. At this point, it’s safe to say, that the world has lost sight of the true meaning of the word “diva.” Wikipedia defines a diva as the Latin and Italian word for “goddess,” but the most common meaning refers to a female opera singer; particularly one who is fussy or pretentious. Basically, a diva is a spoiled, rotten bitch with a great set of pipes.
I no longer think a diva is someone who is inclined to spread the gift of vocal talent or wisdom to younger women; instead, I see divas with more of a negative connotation these days. In my job at The Facility, I’m forced to deal with a variety of divas, both male and female, and not a one of them can sing. They are just high maintenance and demanding. The sad part is that I’m dealing with more divas now then I did when I worked in the actual music industry!
The care and maintenance of a diva is an art form, because few people stick around to learn proper diva care. First and foremost, make sure your diva is praised constantly. Emails, sweet missives over the phone, fawning comments and swooning body language when you see them in person, praise is very important to the diva, because she/he must feel truly appreciated at all times. If you forget just one ounce of praise, you might as well kick the diva in the face, because the diva will leave the room, phone conversation, or email box feeling like they are just giving you their all with little in return.
Another important aspect of diva maintenance is to let the diva have her/his say. A diva’s time is very important, and what they have to say could be vital to achieving your goal. Besides, if you don’t let them have their say, then they will make sure that the fact that you didn’t let them have their say is well known, especially to your supervisor. Even if you’ve heard their line of complete bullshit for the 500th time, in order to let the diva have their say, you must sit through it, yet again, leaning forward while they speak nodding and listening attentively lest they think for a moment that you’re not paying attention. Sure, in your head you could be saying, I so don’t give a flying fuck about anything you have to say, just don’t let your body language or facial expressions give away your thoughts.
Finally, when the diva asks for the impossible, and you of course, being a mere mortal, you can’t make the impossible happen, you must use your tactful skills to do what you want by defying the diva’s orders and making them think that your way was what they wanted all along. Okay, let me explain. Let’s say your diva wants something done, and to please them you try to make it happen, but come up against heavy, bureaucracy. In the end, your diva’s request is not met, and for the next 30 minutes of a painful phone conversation, you have to eat shit and apologize. You want to tell your diva to “go fuck themselves” with every fiber of your being, but you need health insurance and a means to pay bills, so instead you try an approach that works with someone else who happens to have a selfish nature and short attention span; your toddler. You distract the diva from the impossible, unaccomplished task by talking about something the diva can do well, all the while heaping as much attention and praise as Paris Hilton reviewing a movie she had a part in.
Dealing with divas is a pain in the ass, but making the diva feel they are in control while you call the shots is truly a gift. I’ve often thought it would be cool to get to a point in my life where I could be the diva, but I know that will never happen. I’m too much of a realist to ever believe that anything I said or did was so important that it was worth having my ass kissed over. Despite my contempt for divas, their care and maintenance is what I do best, not to mention the fact that I enjoy fucking with people way too much to ever let anyone pull the same trip on me.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Monday, January 30, 2006
Welcoming February
February is coming soon. I know this not because I look at my calendar a million times a day, or because I get those annoying coupons in the mail for a free birthday dinner at a restaurant I don’t even normally eat at. No, I know February is coming, because I feel tired all the time, everyone around me is completely sick, depressed, or talking about going to some tropical island, and I haven’t seen the sun since late October.
There are many positives to living in the Seattle area, but the weather in February isn’t one of them. By the beginning of February it has been dark, gloomy, and raining for nearly three months straight. It’s the time of the year when Prozac should be the flavor of Starbuck’s latte of the month.
I never knew what a “sunbreak” was until I moved to Seattle. For those of you who are non-Northwest natives, a “sunbreak” occurs when you see about five to ten minutes of blue sky after 20 straight days of rain. “Sunbreaks” are very fucking cruel; because they give you hope that maybe there might be at least one precious day of non-rain. Non-rain is when the sky is just a light gray and there’s more of a light drizzle rather than the pissing downpour that has been the precipitation du jour since bidding “farewell” to Halloween.
During “sunbreaks” people swarm out of their workplaces in droves trying to soak up every last nanosecond of bright light, and are always disappointed a few minutes later when their beautiful smidgen of blue sky is replaced by something more dour and familiar. When I first moved to Seattle, I was amused by these “sunbreak” addicts. Now I have become one of them, which are about as depressing as watching someone in California laugh about Seattle’s 27th day of straight rain. Just six more days of rain to go and we’ll break the record! Sure, half the population will be gone from jumping off of that weird blue building downtown that looks like the top of an old fashion, roll on antiperspirant, but we’ll have a new record.
This year has been particularly nasty, and the only reason there aren’t more Seattleites playing the part of Courtney’s late husband after they made the move to the ritzy Medina neighborhood is because hell froze over and the Seahawks actually made it to the Superbowl. Even the most cynical asshole, namely me, is mildly excited to watch the mass marketing frenzy that is the Superbowl. What other day of the year can you gorge yourself on beer and cocktail weenies, while watching some poor bastard run his ass off for five hours, only to glom onto his victory at the end like you had something to do with it. 32 years of living, and I still don’t get the sports thing.
If the Seahawks do end up choking the way most Seattle teams end up doing in the end when it really matters, then the gloom level in the Puget Sound is likely to hit an all-time high. We didn’t end up breaking the original 33 straight days of rain record at the beginning of January, because it stopped for a whole 25 hours. Big fucking deal! We are now in the midst of working on a new rain record, but thankfully the sun is now setting at 5:00 pm instead of 4:00 pm.
By the end of February, nearly the entire area is in counseling or on anti-depressants, the rich people on the Eastside are sending their pets to animal psychiatrists, and every flight to Mexico on Alaska Airlines is oversold. About the time we are all wishing for death to just finish the job and relieve us of this gruesome existence, the sun appears bright and beautiful in the sky. We all come out of our workplaces in swarms and bask in the loveliness that we have been yearning for since the moment the department stores put the Christmas decorations on display (which was around the beginning of November).
We give up our Prozac lattes and thank our therapists for the endearing sessions claiming that we now realize all of our problems are indeed due to our parents, and we all begin preparing for the happy face of spring. Joy fills the land, and Seattleites everywhere lose their skepticism until the very moment they realize that it’s getting a little hot, and they forgot to replace the fucking fan when it broke last year.
There are many positives to living in the Seattle area, but the weather in February isn’t one of them. By the beginning of February it has been dark, gloomy, and raining for nearly three months straight. It’s the time of the year when Prozac should be the flavor of Starbuck’s latte of the month.
I never knew what a “sunbreak” was until I moved to Seattle. For those of you who are non-Northwest natives, a “sunbreak” occurs when you see about five to ten minutes of blue sky after 20 straight days of rain. “Sunbreaks” are very fucking cruel; because they give you hope that maybe there might be at least one precious day of non-rain. Non-rain is when the sky is just a light gray and there’s more of a light drizzle rather than the pissing downpour that has been the precipitation du jour since bidding “farewell” to Halloween.
During “sunbreaks” people swarm out of their workplaces in droves trying to soak up every last nanosecond of bright light, and are always disappointed a few minutes later when their beautiful smidgen of blue sky is replaced by something more dour and familiar. When I first moved to Seattle, I was amused by these “sunbreak” addicts. Now I have become one of them, which are about as depressing as watching someone in California laugh about Seattle’s 27th day of straight rain. Just six more days of rain to go and we’ll break the record! Sure, half the population will be gone from jumping off of that weird blue building downtown that looks like the top of an old fashion, roll on antiperspirant, but we’ll have a new record.
This year has been particularly nasty, and the only reason there aren’t more Seattleites playing the part of Courtney’s late husband after they made the move to the ritzy Medina neighborhood is because hell froze over and the Seahawks actually made it to the Superbowl. Even the most cynical asshole, namely me, is mildly excited to watch the mass marketing frenzy that is the Superbowl. What other day of the year can you gorge yourself on beer and cocktail weenies, while watching some poor bastard run his ass off for five hours, only to glom onto his victory at the end like you had something to do with it. 32 years of living, and I still don’t get the sports thing.
If the Seahawks do end up choking the way most Seattle teams end up doing in the end when it really matters, then the gloom level in the Puget Sound is likely to hit an all-time high. We didn’t end up breaking the original 33 straight days of rain record at the beginning of January, because it stopped for a whole 25 hours. Big fucking deal! We are now in the midst of working on a new rain record, but thankfully the sun is now setting at 5:00 pm instead of 4:00 pm.
By the end of February, nearly the entire area is in counseling or on anti-depressants, the rich people on the Eastside are sending their pets to animal psychiatrists, and every flight to Mexico on Alaska Airlines is oversold. About the time we are all wishing for death to just finish the job and relieve us of this gruesome existence, the sun appears bright and beautiful in the sky. We all come out of our workplaces in swarms and bask in the loveliness that we have been yearning for since the moment the department stores put the Christmas decorations on display (which was around the beginning of November).
We give up our Prozac lattes and thank our therapists for the endearing sessions claiming that we now realize all of our problems are indeed due to our parents, and we all begin preparing for the happy face of spring. Joy fills the land, and Seattleites everywhere lose their skepticism until the very moment they realize that it’s getting a little hot, and they forgot to replace the fucking fan when it broke last year.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
My Illicit Affair with a Mentally Abusive Love Called Nano
Nano was everything I ever wanted. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on Nano’s sleek, hard body. I would run my hands over Nano top to bottom to show my affection. I showered Nano with gifts of music, and spent hours on end molding Nano into what I knew Nano could be. Nano enjoyed my attentions at first going everywhere with me. When I worked out, Nano was there. When I relaxed, Nano was at my side. Nano and I were happy, until one day, Nano began to spurn my attentions. I attempted to turn Nano on, but there was no response. Nano just lay there cold, ignoring me.
After a couple of days of frustration, I went to Nano again in an attempt to make things work. Finally, after many hours of begging and nearly tearing my hair out, Nano left the aloof state and once again responded to me. Immediately, I noticed a change in Nano. Nano no longer recognized all of the nice things I had done previously. I had to, once again, shower Nano with gifts of music, and attempted to mold Nano, but things were never really the same after that.
A week or so went by, and Nano would fade in and out, until, one day, Nano just stopped responding completely. I was heartbroken. I had come to rely on Nano, and I loved Nano. However, listeners of this sorted tail shouldn’t feel sorry for me, because I did the right thing. When Nano finally became completely unresponsive, ignoring every gesture of kindness and all attempts of mine to turn Nano on, I left Nano at the mall, in the Apple store to be sent back on some sorted recall.
After experiencing, first hand, this tale of woe, I now know why Apple only makes up 5% of the computer market. When I first received my iPod Nano for Hanukkah, I went into the Apple store, and they told me I could take a class on how to use it. I looked at the kid, and told him that I didn’t have the time. I wouldn’t take a class on how to use a fancy, new age, music box for the same reason I wouldn’t take a class on how to use my toaster over. Note to Apple: if you are going to make a product for mass consumption, make it so user-friendly that your customers won’t need to take a fucking class.
The first day that my Nano crapped out, I took it into the Apple store, and was told that I had to make a reservation to see the customer service agents they refer to as “geniuses”. Correct me if I’m wrong, but Albert Einstein is a genius, George Orwell is a genius, Dr. Stephen Hawking is a genius; a guy in a black t-shirt working at the Apple store in the mall is not exactly what I consider a fucking genius.
The little guys who, I guess, are not quite geniuses told me that I was next in line to speak to a genius at the Genius Bar. For the next two and a half hours, I was the next in line. I stood there in the barren, “so bright my retinas are frying” Apple store waiting to speak to my genius. When I finally made my way up to the Mt. Olympus of iPod wisdom, they informed me that my Nano wouldn’t power up. You think so, Genius!
I had attempted to power it up for two days straight, and kept getting a battery with a lighting bolt symbol. As the genius began processing my recall paperwork, there was a friendly, androgynous Asian who conversed with me pleasantly about wanting a Nano then experiencing the same disappointment when Nano also refused to respond. I realized at that moment that I had done something that I hadn’t done in quite a long time, something that made me feel like a complete ass; I had bought in to the hype.
I saw the commercials, heard the banter from the DJs on the alternative music station, read articles, and saw news reports about what a great thing this was, and I made my husband crazy telling him that I had to have it for Hanukkah. I never once stopped to think that maybe it wasn’t the technological music wonder that I had been waiting for, maybe it was just an over-hyped, expensive piece of shit.
I have a new one now, after waiting another hour in the Apple store. Apparently the “not quite geniuses” are only allowed to sell the iPod stuff; they aren’t allowed to do exchanges, because exchanges are done by the geniuses.
After I came home, I spent another 90 minutes updating my Nano software, re-programming my playlists, and adding all of the songs to the specific categories. This time, I’m stronger and wiser, and if Nano gets out of line just once, there will be no special courtship, no begging or brooding. This time, Nano will get the boot, and the geniuses will have hell to pay.
After a couple of days of frustration, I went to Nano again in an attempt to make things work. Finally, after many hours of begging and nearly tearing my hair out, Nano left the aloof state and once again responded to me. Immediately, I noticed a change in Nano. Nano no longer recognized all of the nice things I had done previously. I had to, once again, shower Nano with gifts of music, and attempted to mold Nano, but things were never really the same after that.
A week or so went by, and Nano would fade in and out, until, one day, Nano just stopped responding completely. I was heartbroken. I had come to rely on Nano, and I loved Nano. However, listeners of this sorted tail shouldn’t feel sorry for me, because I did the right thing. When Nano finally became completely unresponsive, ignoring every gesture of kindness and all attempts of mine to turn Nano on, I left Nano at the mall, in the Apple store to be sent back on some sorted recall.
After experiencing, first hand, this tale of woe, I now know why Apple only makes up 5% of the computer market. When I first received my iPod Nano for Hanukkah, I went into the Apple store, and they told me I could take a class on how to use it. I looked at the kid, and told him that I didn’t have the time. I wouldn’t take a class on how to use a fancy, new age, music box for the same reason I wouldn’t take a class on how to use my toaster over. Note to Apple: if you are going to make a product for mass consumption, make it so user-friendly that your customers won’t need to take a fucking class.
The first day that my Nano crapped out, I took it into the Apple store, and was told that I had to make a reservation to see the customer service agents they refer to as “geniuses”. Correct me if I’m wrong, but Albert Einstein is a genius, George Orwell is a genius, Dr. Stephen Hawking is a genius; a guy in a black t-shirt working at the Apple store in the mall is not exactly what I consider a fucking genius.
The little guys who, I guess, are not quite geniuses told me that I was next in line to speak to a genius at the Genius Bar. For the next two and a half hours, I was the next in line. I stood there in the barren, “so bright my retinas are frying” Apple store waiting to speak to my genius. When I finally made my way up to the Mt. Olympus of iPod wisdom, they informed me that my Nano wouldn’t power up. You think so, Genius!
I had attempted to power it up for two days straight, and kept getting a battery with a lighting bolt symbol. As the genius began processing my recall paperwork, there was a friendly, androgynous Asian who conversed with me pleasantly about wanting a Nano then experiencing the same disappointment when Nano also refused to respond. I realized at that moment that I had done something that I hadn’t done in quite a long time, something that made me feel like a complete ass; I had bought in to the hype.
I saw the commercials, heard the banter from the DJs on the alternative music station, read articles, and saw news reports about what a great thing this was, and I made my husband crazy telling him that I had to have it for Hanukkah. I never once stopped to think that maybe it wasn’t the technological music wonder that I had been waiting for, maybe it was just an over-hyped, expensive piece of shit.
I have a new one now, after waiting another hour in the Apple store. Apparently the “not quite geniuses” are only allowed to sell the iPod stuff; they aren’t allowed to do exchanges, because exchanges are done by the geniuses.
After I came home, I spent another 90 minutes updating my Nano software, re-programming my playlists, and adding all of the songs to the specific categories. This time, I’m stronger and wiser, and if Nano gets out of line just once, there will be no special courtship, no begging or brooding. This time, Nano will get the boot, and the geniuses will have hell to pay.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Stuff That Still Amazes Me
Fads are great, because they are usually stupid, and once they’re gone, you can make fun of them. Then again, while they’re at their peak, you can make fun of them, but less people seem to laugh with you. There are a few things recently that I’ve noticed that should have gone away, but for some reason, still haven’t. Of course, it’s not because these things contribute one iota of value to society, they just simply keep lingering like the smelly blend of patchouli and weed that seems to follow hippies everywhere they go.
My first head-cocked bewilderment is the whole bra built into the tank top phenomena. In our multi-cultural existence where we have clearly established that “one size fits all” is a myth; you would think they would have done away with the cotton spandex strip that is supposed to hold your titties into place while you attempt to don a spaghetti strap shirt. Maybe a gal with A or B cups could get away with such pittance of support, but for those of us whom the Almighty graced with larger boobs, this particular garment is out of the question.
I think the whole trend of thin strapped, beaded, tank tops isn’t half bad, but what do us bra-wearers do? At my Vietnamese nail shop, they were selling these clear, plastic bra straps that supposedly hooked onto a regular bra giving you a “no bra needed” look. This was weird, because why would a nail shop be selling bra straps, but also, because these little plastic things weren’t going to come close to holding my set in place.
I’m sure once the whole fucking Boho fashion craze is done, garments that conceal bra straps will be back in, but for now I’ll stick with short-sleeved shirts, because that built-in bra isn’t for everyone.
Another thing that has me wondering, is why the hell anyone still gives a rat’s ass about Brittney Spears. The bitch married a gold-digging, trailer trash wigger (which was confirmed by an actual black person, so don’t accuse my ass of racism), popped out a kid who will most likely become completely useless, and has lost her base amongst fans who can’t sell her CDs to the buyer at the used record store quick enough. Can’t the tabloids find someone new to stalk with perhaps a smidgen of talent? How about Lili Taylor or Peaches? Sure, they’re not blonde teenagers who like to writhe on the floor then claim to be virgins, but they’re far more interesting and definitely talented.
When it comes to Brittney everyone knows how this story is going to end. She will do something cheesy in Vegas, if her mother can rope her into it, then it will be the spread in Playboy, and onto the inevitable stint on VH1’s Celebrity Fit Club or a brief residence in The Surreal Life house. I don’t care either way, I just want to wish her a “don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out” retirement, the same way I wanted to five years ago after I saw her “Hit Me Baby One More Time” video.
I know the blending of celebrity couples’ names is fairly new, but it is so fucking annoying. Who came up with this? No, I really want to know, because I will hunt them down and punch them dead in the face! Bennifer, Bragelina, what the fuck! Imagine if you tried this in real life with your friends. I can see my husband and me sending out our next year’s Happy New Year picture cards with the message: Jeffanie and their daughter wish you the best. I can guarantee that my sister would hop a plane all the way from Tennessee just to bitch slap me, and my mother-in-law would be on the phone with her psychiatrist friends as soon as she read it.
I know celebrities have different lives than the rest of us who reside in obscurity, but do they have to make their world any stranger by coming up with fucked up shit like this. Can’t we focus on something more constructive like why there’s only been three women nominated for Best Director even though the Academy Awards are in their 78th year. None of them won, so according to the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences, women just don’t direct good movies.
I’m still amazed at the fact that Costco carries frozen yogurt instead of ice cream, and that people continue to eat only the tops off of muffins. I hope the coffee craze never goes away, because I need a tank of really dark java to get my engine running in the morning. I still can’t believe that there is actually a country in the world that trusts Iran, and that no matter how threatening North Korea is, the leaders of the U.S. will still opt to beat that Saddam drum to death.
If I sit down, I could probably come up with an extensive list of stuff that still amazes me, but my New Year’s resolution was to try and live in the now, and look towards the future, which frankly, still amazes me that January is almost over, and I’m still trying to keep that fucking resolution.
My first head-cocked bewilderment is the whole bra built into the tank top phenomena. In our multi-cultural existence where we have clearly established that “one size fits all” is a myth; you would think they would have done away with the cotton spandex strip that is supposed to hold your titties into place while you attempt to don a spaghetti strap shirt. Maybe a gal with A or B cups could get away with such pittance of support, but for those of us whom the Almighty graced with larger boobs, this particular garment is out of the question.
I think the whole trend of thin strapped, beaded, tank tops isn’t half bad, but what do us bra-wearers do? At my Vietnamese nail shop, they were selling these clear, plastic bra straps that supposedly hooked onto a regular bra giving you a “no bra needed” look. This was weird, because why would a nail shop be selling bra straps, but also, because these little plastic things weren’t going to come close to holding my set in place.
I’m sure once the whole fucking Boho fashion craze is done, garments that conceal bra straps will be back in, but for now I’ll stick with short-sleeved shirts, because that built-in bra isn’t for everyone.
Another thing that has me wondering, is why the hell anyone still gives a rat’s ass about Brittney Spears. The bitch married a gold-digging, trailer trash wigger (which was confirmed by an actual black person, so don’t accuse my ass of racism), popped out a kid who will most likely become completely useless, and has lost her base amongst fans who can’t sell her CDs to the buyer at the used record store quick enough. Can’t the tabloids find someone new to stalk with perhaps a smidgen of talent? How about Lili Taylor or Peaches? Sure, they’re not blonde teenagers who like to writhe on the floor then claim to be virgins, but they’re far more interesting and definitely talented.
When it comes to Brittney everyone knows how this story is going to end. She will do something cheesy in Vegas, if her mother can rope her into it, then it will be the spread in Playboy, and onto the inevitable stint on VH1’s Celebrity Fit Club or a brief residence in The Surreal Life house. I don’t care either way, I just want to wish her a “don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out” retirement, the same way I wanted to five years ago after I saw her “Hit Me Baby One More Time” video.
I know the blending of celebrity couples’ names is fairly new, but it is so fucking annoying. Who came up with this? No, I really want to know, because I will hunt them down and punch them dead in the face! Bennifer, Bragelina, what the fuck! Imagine if you tried this in real life with your friends. I can see my husband and me sending out our next year’s Happy New Year picture cards with the message: Jeffanie and their daughter wish you the best. I can guarantee that my sister would hop a plane all the way from Tennessee just to bitch slap me, and my mother-in-law would be on the phone with her psychiatrist friends as soon as she read it.
I know celebrities have different lives than the rest of us who reside in obscurity, but do they have to make their world any stranger by coming up with fucked up shit like this. Can’t we focus on something more constructive like why there’s only been three women nominated for Best Director even though the Academy Awards are in their 78th year. None of them won, so according to the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences, women just don’t direct good movies.
I’m still amazed at the fact that Costco carries frozen yogurt instead of ice cream, and that people continue to eat only the tops off of muffins. I hope the coffee craze never goes away, because I need a tank of really dark java to get my engine running in the morning. I still can’t believe that there is actually a country in the world that trusts Iran, and that no matter how threatening North Korea is, the leaders of the U.S. will still opt to beat that Saddam drum to death.
If I sit down, I could probably come up with an extensive list of stuff that still amazes me, but my New Year’s resolution was to try and live in the now, and look towards the future, which frankly, still amazes me that January is almost over, and I’m still trying to keep that fucking resolution.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
In Protest of Gay Cowboys
I’m not going to see the movie Brokeback Mountain, but not for the same reasons that those mouthpieces on Conservative, fascist radio aren’t going to see it. It’s not the gay thing I don’t like, people are what they are, and there’s nothing right or wrong about it. Nor is it the cowboy factor, sure the hats are annoying, but red meat has to be tended to by someone. I have nothing against Westerns, in fact, on a stormy day; I’ve been known to get comfortable with a bag of microwavable popcorn and a copy of Fist Full of Dollars.
The reason I’m not going to pay $10 to see Brokeback Mountain is plain and simple: I don’t like sappy, love stories. In the big scheme of things I think I would rather have a pap smear than sit through anything staring Julia Roberts, especially if there is a scene or two where they break out, spontaneously, into song. I can’t stand wishy-washy, flowery language that describes love, especially when there’s a Hollywood close-up shot to accompany it.
I’m not even completely sure if Brokeback Mountain is a sappy love story since everyone seems to be focusing on the whole gay thing. Conservatives who are all for “family values” are lambasting the film, because it’s about two gay guys, whereas artsy liberals are praising it, because it’s about two gay guys. One of my friends who saw the movie said she thought it was a little on the boring side. I was so grateful to hear this feedback from her, because it was an actual review of the film that didn’t talk about the fact that it’s about two gay guys.
In this day and age, I think most people who are pretty mainstream don’t give a flying fuck about the sexual orientation of a fictional character, just as long as they are being entertained with an interesting story. Christian conservatives have said that Brokeback Mountain is an affront to family values, but seriously, how many gay cowboys do most families know on a personal basis? I was raised in Idaho, where you couldn’t throw a rock at a beat up Chevy full-size truck without hitting a cowboy, and I would say that 98% of them were good ol’ boys who, other than wearing those awful shirts, were completely straight. Even if they weren’t, I wouldn’t have cared, like I said before, red meat has to be tended by someone.
I’ve thought about seeing Brokeback Mountain to protest against the Conservatives trying to shut it down, but with my increasingly busy schedule, the only way I’m spending two hours watching gay cowboys is if I’m given a guarantee that they lather each other up with saddle soap in at least two naked scenes. Although, going to see the film, because it’s about a gay relationship seems just as bad as boycotting it, because it’s about a gay relationship. At this point in time, we know that a certain percentage of the population is gay, so what’s the big deal.
I don’t know where these Conservatives get off telling gay people that their lifestyles are wrong, when at the end of the day, the Bible-bangers go home and tell their kids that if they forget to pray before bedtime, they are going to be tortured by demons while slowly having their flesh burned for all eternity. People are people, and life is life. If you don’t like the idea of two men riding horses, making campfire, then curling up together in one sleeping bag, don’t see the fucking movie!
If you are gay, then my guess is you have probably seen better gay-themed movies, maybe not with such glossy production or staring Heath Ledger, but definitely with faster moving plots. Hedwig anyone?
One of the right-wing nutcases said that Brokeback Mountain was evil, because it was anti-marriage. It should be anti-marriage; if you’re gay, then you shouldn’t be forced into marrying someone of the opposite sex. Unfortunately, our society still has a problem with forcing people into marriages they don’t want to be in, gay or straight. The right-wingers also claimed that the film is bad; because the end message is that you should “follow your heart.” Isn’t that exactly what they tell you to do every Sunday in church? Follow your heart, and come to Jesus? I guess when you follow your heart and it leads you to a guy in a cowboy hat, it’s bad, but when your heart leads you to an over-hyped rabbi who has long hair, a beard, wears a long tunic with sandals and hangs out with a dozen guys constantly, its okay. Hmmm. Either way, I still probably won’t see Brokeback Mountain until I can put it in my Netflix requests.
The reason I’m not going to pay $10 to see Brokeback Mountain is plain and simple: I don’t like sappy, love stories. In the big scheme of things I think I would rather have a pap smear than sit through anything staring Julia Roberts, especially if there is a scene or two where they break out, spontaneously, into song. I can’t stand wishy-washy, flowery language that describes love, especially when there’s a Hollywood close-up shot to accompany it.
I’m not even completely sure if Brokeback Mountain is a sappy love story since everyone seems to be focusing on the whole gay thing. Conservatives who are all for “family values” are lambasting the film, because it’s about two gay guys, whereas artsy liberals are praising it, because it’s about two gay guys. One of my friends who saw the movie said she thought it was a little on the boring side. I was so grateful to hear this feedback from her, because it was an actual review of the film that didn’t talk about the fact that it’s about two gay guys.
In this day and age, I think most people who are pretty mainstream don’t give a flying fuck about the sexual orientation of a fictional character, just as long as they are being entertained with an interesting story. Christian conservatives have said that Brokeback Mountain is an affront to family values, but seriously, how many gay cowboys do most families know on a personal basis? I was raised in Idaho, where you couldn’t throw a rock at a beat up Chevy full-size truck without hitting a cowboy, and I would say that 98% of them were good ol’ boys who, other than wearing those awful shirts, were completely straight. Even if they weren’t, I wouldn’t have cared, like I said before, red meat has to be tended by someone.
I’ve thought about seeing Brokeback Mountain to protest against the Conservatives trying to shut it down, but with my increasingly busy schedule, the only way I’m spending two hours watching gay cowboys is if I’m given a guarantee that they lather each other up with saddle soap in at least two naked scenes. Although, going to see the film, because it’s about a gay relationship seems just as bad as boycotting it, because it’s about a gay relationship. At this point in time, we know that a certain percentage of the population is gay, so what’s the big deal.
I don’t know where these Conservatives get off telling gay people that their lifestyles are wrong, when at the end of the day, the Bible-bangers go home and tell their kids that if they forget to pray before bedtime, they are going to be tortured by demons while slowly having their flesh burned for all eternity. People are people, and life is life. If you don’t like the idea of two men riding horses, making campfire, then curling up together in one sleeping bag, don’t see the fucking movie!
If you are gay, then my guess is you have probably seen better gay-themed movies, maybe not with such glossy production or staring Heath Ledger, but definitely with faster moving plots. Hedwig anyone?
One of the right-wing nutcases said that Brokeback Mountain was evil, because it was anti-marriage. It should be anti-marriage; if you’re gay, then you shouldn’t be forced into marrying someone of the opposite sex. Unfortunately, our society still has a problem with forcing people into marriages they don’t want to be in, gay or straight. The right-wingers also claimed that the film is bad; because the end message is that you should “follow your heart.” Isn’t that exactly what they tell you to do every Sunday in church? Follow your heart, and come to Jesus? I guess when you follow your heart and it leads you to a guy in a cowboy hat, it’s bad, but when your heart leads you to an over-hyped rabbi who has long hair, a beard, wears a long tunic with sandals and hangs out with a dozen guys constantly, its okay. Hmmm. Either way, I still probably won’t see Brokeback Mountain until I can put it in my Netflix requests.
Monday, January 16, 2006
The Etiquette of an Ass-Chewing
Have you ever noticed that right before someone is really going to give you a good ass-chewing they are nicer than usual? It’s as if they are trying to say, “I’m going to ream you a new one for a minimum of 30 minutes, but don’t hold it against me.” Although I have always loathed lectures, I have an odd respect for someone who doesn’t try to candy coat it.
In addition to the person who is nice before the plowing, I can’t stand the person who is super friendly after the nag session. I had a boss once who after chewing me out for two hours straight about something that was only half my fault actually asked me out to lunch afterwards. What the hell did he expect me to say? “Absolutely! I’d love to have a little sushi and a big dessert afterwards, since I’m missing at least ten pounds of ass, because you chewed it completely off. By the way, are you hungry after such a big brunch of severed ass?”
Ass-chewings always start out the same way; someone says, “Let’s have a meeting” and at that point, you might as well get your donut pillow. The Straight-Forward Ass-Chewer is the most experienced tempering the ream session with important points, peppering it with compliments, all the while asserting the eventual and inevitable, cuts-to-the-bone comments that constitute a thorough plowing. They know how to congratulate you for past successes by pointing out present shortfalls, and warning of the consequences that will come if the trend continues. This style is popular amongst those bosses who are a bit control freaky, or have a “top-down” way of thinking (i.e. power hungry motherfuckers who can’t get over themselves).
The Manipulative Ass-Chewer is typically found in an all-female office. She doesn’t want to anger her subordinates, who she’s convinced “absolutely love” her, yet she wants to make it abundantly clear she is the H.B.I.C. (Head Bitch in Charge). Her venue for ass-chewing is usually a coffee shop or a neighborhood bistro. She very carefully constructs the reaming by asserting the word “we” into those sentences that leave you wondering just how far you need to bend over. She sighs, tilts her head from side to side, and gives you over-acted sympathy looks all the while making it perfectly clear that the problem is solely your fault, and even if you constructively point out some faults that she might have, it will still be your fault. The best public example of this was Oprah and the poor bastard from the marketing department at Hermes. If you didn’t see that episode, try to rent it or find it online, because it’s fucking priceless. The Manipulative Ass-Chewer will probably follow the plowing with an invitation to a movie or shopping, like you want to spend another minute dealing with this self-absorbed cunt.
The Psycho Ass-Chewer is always the best, because they are the ones that you could, most likely, have a hell of a lawsuit against. They cut straight to the chase and seem to keep their cool, until you begin making a reasonable argument against their line of ass-chewing then, much like Courtney Love trying to deal with someone who doesn’t know she’s a star, this ass-chewer starts screaming at you irrationally. They call you names, curse at you wildly, and in the end, are nearly reduced to tears with anger. They are always shocked when you tell them to “go fuck themselves” and don’t come to work the next day.
I try to think of the times in life that I’ve given someone an ass-chewing, and in some cases I’m a bit like all three. I’ve only had to be as harsh as the Straight-Forward Ass-Chewer a few times in life, mainly during my divorce from my first husband, who tried to put off signing the paperwork until his parents read it. I’m not joking, he really did. I’ve never been shallow enough to be the Manipulative Ass-Chewer, except at times when I’ve had to deal with a stray relative or two. Being a shallow bitch can be fun if you don’t do it too often. I’m even ashamed to say I’ve been the Psycho Ass-Chewer from time to time, but mostly during a wicked bout of post-partum depression or serious PMS.
I don’t enjoy ass-chewings, then again, who does, except some internet freak that happens to be turned on by humiliation. I can’t stand them, and with this punk attitude of mine it becomes harder and harder to sit through them the older I get. For now, I’ll put up with an occasional reaming, because I need the health insurance benefits, but if the day comes that I’m doing well regardless of my job, then I’ll wear my walking shoes and leave with a big “go fuck yourself”.
In addition to the person who is nice before the plowing, I can’t stand the person who is super friendly after the nag session. I had a boss once who after chewing me out for two hours straight about something that was only half my fault actually asked me out to lunch afterwards. What the hell did he expect me to say? “Absolutely! I’d love to have a little sushi and a big dessert afterwards, since I’m missing at least ten pounds of ass, because you chewed it completely off. By the way, are you hungry after such a big brunch of severed ass?”
Ass-chewings always start out the same way; someone says, “Let’s have a meeting” and at that point, you might as well get your donut pillow. The Straight-Forward Ass-Chewer is the most experienced tempering the ream session with important points, peppering it with compliments, all the while asserting the eventual and inevitable, cuts-to-the-bone comments that constitute a thorough plowing. They know how to congratulate you for past successes by pointing out present shortfalls, and warning of the consequences that will come if the trend continues. This style is popular amongst those bosses who are a bit control freaky, or have a “top-down” way of thinking (i.e. power hungry motherfuckers who can’t get over themselves).
The Manipulative Ass-Chewer is typically found in an all-female office. She doesn’t want to anger her subordinates, who she’s convinced “absolutely love” her, yet she wants to make it abundantly clear she is the H.B.I.C. (Head Bitch in Charge). Her venue for ass-chewing is usually a coffee shop or a neighborhood bistro. She very carefully constructs the reaming by asserting the word “we” into those sentences that leave you wondering just how far you need to bend over. She sighs, tilts her head from side to side, and gives you over-acted sympathy looks all the while making it perfectly clear that the problem is solely your fault, and even if you constructively point out some faults that she might have, it will still be your fault. The best public example of this was Oprah and the poor bastard from the marketing department at Hermes. If you didn’t see that episode, try to rent it or find it online, because it’s fucking priceless. The Manipulative Ass-Chewer will probably follow the plowing with an invitation to a movie or shopping, like you want to spend another minute dealing with this self-absorbed cunt.
The Psycho Ass-Chewer is always the best, because they are the ones that you could, most likely, have a hell of a lawsuit against. They cut straight to the chase and seem to keep their cool, until you begin making a reasonable argument against their line of ass-chewing then, much like Courtney Love trying to deal with someone who doesn’t know she’s a star, this ass-chewer starts screaming at you irrationally. They call you names, curse at you wildly, and in the end, are nearly reduced to tears with anger. They are always shocked when you tell them to “go fuck themselves” and don’t come to work the next day.
I try to think of the times in life that I’ve given someone an ass-chewing, and in some cases I’m a bit like all three. I’ve only had to be as harsh as the Straight-Forward Ass-Chewer a few times in life, mainly during my divorce from my first husband, who tried to put off signing the paperwork until his parents read it. I’m not joking, he really did. I’ve never been shallow enough to be the Manipulative Ass-Chewer, except at times when I’ve had to deal with a stray relative or two. Being a shallow bitch can be fun if you don’t do it too often. I’m even ashamed to say I’ve been the Psycho Ass-Chewer from time to time, but mostly during a wicked bout of post-partum depression or serious PMS.
I don’t enjoy ass-chewings, then again, who does, except some internet freak that happens to be turned on by humiliation. I can’t stand them, and with this punk attitude of mine it becomes harder and harder to sit through them the older I get. For now, I’ll put up with an occasional reaming, because I need the health insurance benefits, but if the day comes that I’m doing well regardless of my job, then I’ll wear my walking shoes and leave with a big “go fuck yourself”.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Scared of Rain!?!
Seattle is known for a few things: coffee addiction, the Space Needle, and a tremendous amount of rain. When I re-located to Seattle in the mid-90s I was keenly aware that I would encounter a decent amount of the wet stuff. Fortunately, I prefer rain to snow, so I was happy to be in my soggy, new home.
It’s over ten year later, and one thing perplexes me, the ineptness and inability of Seattle drivers to navigate cars in the rain. The first few times I encountered this I brushed it off blaming the slowdown on an accident or bad road conditions up ahead. After nearly a dozen years of stop and go in an attempt to speed up to a swift 20 miles per hour, I have now come to the realization that Seattle drivers are just fucking idiots.
You would think in a city that has one of the highest rainfalls per year, and is known for rain that its citizens would actually be comfortable driving in the rain, but this is not the case in the Jet City. As I stare out the little window of my office and watch the beads of water dangling off the shrubs, I know that the commute I will encounter in a mere few hours will be a mixture of frustration and contempt.
Tonight I was stuck behind a monster of a Lincoln Towncar that decided to navigate a hill at a brisk 10 miles per hour. I was behind him yelling for him to pull over while Fungus 53 raged on my XM satellite radio. All I wanted to do was reach the daycare in less than 45 minutes, and I was trapped behind a schmuck who was flashing his break lights every other second just because of a few raindrops on the ground.
When I’m not stuck behind assholes going way under the speed limit, I encounter the polar opposite, the douche bag in the truck who wants to peel out on rain covered streets splashing my window with muddy water. Tonight it was some guy in a truck with a bumper sticker on the left that read “Real Men Love Jesus”, while the sticker on the right had some message about re-discovering peace. Every night I battle my way up a particular hill stuffed to the gills with heavy traffic. Anyone who has ever traveled this hill knows that from 4:00-6:30 PM, this hill is packed. Peeling out when you have two car-lengths of room in front of you just makes you look like a complete ass and won’t get you up that evil hill any quicker. Yet, in a good rainstorm, this bastard is always in front of me, peeling out and slowing down then peeling out and slowing down some more, in a cruel dance that will leave my car filthy by the time I get home.
I may not be an expert driver, and I fully admit to my status as a leadfoot, but I do know that I can drive better than most of the residents of the Seattle area. I’ve driven in blizzards with a yard of visibility in front of me, but I have never slowed down to a crawl because of a little rain. If the road is slick, I’ll ease up on the gas, but tonight by the time I hit the road for my commute it had been raining for 23 days straight. The roads were well drenched, and not in the least bit slippery.
When I didn’t drive much, the ineptness of Seattleites’ abilities to drive in the rain was just something I laughed about every now and again on that rare instance when I did navigate the wheel of a car. Now that I’m in the captain’s seat more times than I care to be the laughter has turned into anger, and my snickers have become enraged screams. If I didn’t work for a non-profit, I would flip the bird far more often when I passed these morons in their large cars.
Until the glorious day when the Washington State driver’s ed program begins giving poor grades to people who can’t drive in the rain, or the Department of Transportation comes up with a “Dumbshit Only” lane, I’ll just have to plan to leave 15 minutes early to arrive at my destination on particularly wet days. My faith in humanity may falter a bit, but at least I’ll make it to my destination in a reasonable amount of time with my voice just being slightly horse from yelling at the 150-year-old man in front of me to pull his Lincoln Continental over to the side of the road and let those of us who still have another year to live pass him at the actual speed limit.
It’s over ten year later, and one thing perplexes me, the ineptness and inability of Seattle drivers to navigate cars in the rain. The first few times I encountered this I brushed it off blaming the slowdown on an accident or bad road conditions up ahead. After nearly a dozen years of stop and go in an attempt to speed up to a swift 20 miles per hour, I have now come to the realization that Seattle drivers are just fucking idiots.
You would think in a city that has one of the highest rainfalls per year, and is known for rain that its citizens would actually be comfortable driving in the rain, but this is not the case in the Jet City. As I stare out the little window of my office and watch the beads of water dangling off the shrubs, I know that the commute I will encounter in a mere few hours will be a mixture of frustration and contempt.
Tonight I was stuck behind a monster of a Lincoln Towncar that decided to navigate a hill at a brisk 10 miles per hour. I was behind him yelling for him to pull over while Fungus 53 raged on my XM satellite radio. All I wanted to do was reach the daycare in less than 45 minutes, and I was trapped behind a schmuck who was flashing his break lights every other second just because of a few raindrops on the ground.
When I’m not stuck behind assholes going way under the speed limit, I encounter the polar opposite, the douche bag in the truck who wants to peel out on rain covered streets splashing my window with muddy water. Tonight it was some guy in a truck with a bumper sticker on the left that read “Real Men Love Jesus”, while the sticker on the right had some message about re-discovering peace. Every night I battle my way up a particular hill stuffed to the gills with heavy traffic. Anyone who has ever traveled this hill knows that from 4:00-6:30 PM, this hill is packed. Peeling out when you have two car-lengths of room in front of you just makes you look like a complete ass and won’t get you up that evil hill any quicker. Yet, in a good rainstorm, this bastard is always in front of me, peeling out and slowing down then peeling out and slowing down some more, in a cruel dance that will leave my car filthy by the time I get home.
I may not be an expert driver, and I fully admit to my status as a leadfoot, but I do know that I can drive better than most of the residents of the Seattle area. I’ve driven in blizzards with a yard of visibility in front of me, but I have never slowed down to a crawl because of a little rain. If the road is slick, I’ll ease up on the gas, but tonight by the time I hit the road for my commute it had been raining for 23 days straight. The roads were well drenched, and not in the least bit slippery.
When I didn’t drive much, the ineptness of Seattleites’ abilities to drive in the rain was just something I laughed about every now and again on that rare instance when I did navigate the wheel of a car. Now that I’m in the captain’s seat more times than I care to be the laughter has turned into anger, and my snickers have become enraged screams. If I didn’t work for a non-profit, I would flip the bird far more often when I passed these morons in their large cars.
Until the glorious day when the Washington State driver’s ed program begins giving poor grades to people who can’t drive in the rain, or the Department of Transportation comes up with a “Dumbshit Only” lane, I’ll just have to plan to leave 15 minutes early to arrive at my destination on particularly wet days. My faith in humanity may falter a bit, but at least I’ll make it to my destination in a reasonable amount of time with my voice just being slightly horse from yelling at the 150-year-old man in front of me to pull his Lincoln Continental over to the side of the road and let those of us who still have another year to live pass him at the actual speed limit.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
New Year's Rundown
At this time of the year, most are making their New Year’s resolutions, and trying to figure out exactly how long they have to keep them before they won’t look like a complete loser by giving them up. A good round number is six months. If you can stay on that diet for at least six months, that will take you right into summer where you won’t be eating much, because it will be too hot to eat a large meal, and by the time you fall completely off the wagon, it will be early Fall, and everyone else’s New Year’s resolutions will be history, so you’ll be in the clear.
Moving on, I prefer not to take an assessment of the previous year at this time. I don’t like the fact that every t.v. channel gives you their Top 101 list of the previous year (I guess in our bigger, faster, better, more society, a list of just 100 things was not enough). Instead, I like to know what I’ve got to look forward to in this year to come. It’s my way of being in the now, and also fulfilling my New Year’s resolution of trying to be more positive about the future.
It’s 2006 and we get to start off the year with a new Supreme Court justice, unfortunately, the man of the hour is Samuel Alito; a man who upholds the neo-con ideals as sacredly as the tenants of the Christian bible. He has said in his audition (i.e. confirmation hearing) that he will be “open minded” when it comes to issues of abortion and a woman’s right to choose. This is as credible as George W. telling Congress to give him the powers of war and he’ll pursue every means of settling Iraq peacefully first.
I don’t mind that the majority of politicians are corrupt pieces of shit, we all know that. What I hate is the fact that their territorial pissing contests end up hurting real people. For example, I don’t give two ounces of a rat’s ass that George W. and his cronies wanted better access to one of the world’s largest oil reserves, its Arab land, go for shit. However, they led us to war under false pretenses and now over 10,000 kids are coming back with missing and disfigured limbs. Most people are very middle-of-the-road despite the barrage of advertising by the conservative and liberal movements. The average American just wants to be able to do an honest day’s work, make a decent wage, live in a safe neighborhood, and engage in a pleasurable activity of choice on the weekends. They only care about abortion when it concerns someone they know who’s thinking about having one, and even then, they are hands off about the issue.
If Alito makes it in, abortion procedures will be history in 2006. They will never overturn Roe v. Wade, they will just limit the hell out of it to the point where the scalpel will be replaced by the coat hanger, the clueless best friend will be the substitute for a trained healthcare provider, and the sanitary operating room will be traded for the bathroom at the local high school.
Some of the more positive things to look forward to in 2006 will be the eventual demise of one of these talentless, anorexic, actress/celebrities, such as Lindsey Lohan, Paris Hilton, Mary Kate Olsen, Ashlee Simpson, her sister Jessica, Nicole Ritchie, the list goes on. All of these broads have hot cars that go really fast and some of them have been in or caused accidents recently, so odds are that in their dizzied state resulting from a combination of lack of food and intense amount of alcohol, they are bound to bite it in some sort of wreck. Not that I would wish something bad on anyone, but I’m so damn sick of these bitches. They do nothing, yet I see them gracing the cover of every magazine. Let’s face it, the world would be a better place if just one or two of them were out of the public eye. They don’t have to die in a car accident; they could just be slightly disfigured. In our beauty-obsessed world, this would make them a public pariah quicker than O.J. Simpson at a Speed Dating event.
With Howard Stern moving over to satellite radio, more people in 2006 will catch onto what a great technology this is. I have XM and my husband has Sirius, and they are both better than anything on free radio. Those who decide not to subscribe to satellite will inevitably benefit, since the new option will force traditional radio to step up its game. Either way, there is a possibility that in 2006 radio will get better for everyone, which is something that has needed to happen since Michael Powell became the FCC’s Darth Vader.
Finally, on the local level, Seattle tax payers may be able to enjoy a nice refund since it looks like the monorail will be nothing more than a Folklife Festival pipe dream. I’m not saying it will never happen, but if you wish for the monorail in one hand and shit in the other you know which one will get full first.
2006 will be what it will be: the good, the bad, and the very, fucking predictable. Maybe if all goes well, barring any natural disasters and terrorist attacks on U.S. soil, but including the death/disfiguring accident of a vacuous blonde or two, I’ll have my own Top 101 list at the end of the year.
Moving on, I prefer not to take an assessment of the previous year at this time. I don’t like the fact that every t.v. channel gives you their Top 101 list of the previous year (I guess in our bigger, faster, better, more society, a list of just 100 things was not enough). Instead, I like to know what I’ve got to look forward to in this year to come. It’s my way of being in the now, and also fulfilling my New Year’s resolution of trying to be more positive about the future.
It’s 2006 and we get to start off the year with a new Supreme Court justice, unfortunately, the man of the hour is Samuel Alito; a man who upholds the neo-con ideals as sacredly as the tenants of the Christian bible. He has said in his audition (i.e. confirmation hearing) that he will be “open minded” when it comes to issues of abortion and a woman’s right to choose. This is as credible as George W. telling Congress to give him the powers of war and he’ll pursue every means of settling Iraq peacefully first.
I don’t mind that the majority of politicians are corrupt pieces of shit, we all know that. What I hate is the fact that their territorial pissing contests end up hurting real people. For example, I don’t give two ounces of a rat’s ass that George W. and his cronies wanted better access to one of the world’s largest oil reserves, its Arab land, go for shit. However, they led us to war under false pretenses and now over 10,000 kids are coming back with missing and disfigured limbs. Most people are very middle-of-the-road despite the barrage of advertising by the conservative and liberal movements. The average American just wants to be able to do an honest day’s work, make a decent wage, live in a safe neighborhood, and engage in a pleasurable activity of choice on the weekends. They only care about abortion when it concerns someone they know who’s thinking about having one, and even then, they are hands off about the issue.
If Alito makes it in, abortion procedures will be history in 2006. They will never overturn Roe v. Wade, they will just limit the hell out of it to the point where the scalpel will be replaced by the coat hanger, the clueless best friend will be the substitute for a trained healthcare provider, and the sanitary operating room will be traded for the bathroom at the local high school.
Some of the more positive things to look forward to in 2006 will be the eventual demise of one of these talentless, anorexic, actress/celebrities, such as Lindsey Lohan, Paris Hilton, Mary Kate Olsen, Ashlee Simpson, her sister Jessica, Nicole Ritchie, the list goes on. All of these broads have hot cars that go really fast and some of them have been in or caused accidents recently, so odds are that in their dizzied state resulting from a combination of lack of food and intense amount of alcohol, they are bound to bite it in some sort of wreck. Not that I would wish something bad on anyone, but I’m so damn sick of these bitches. They do nothing, yet I see them gracing the cover of every magazine. Let’s face it, the world would be a better place if just one or two of them were out of the public eye. They don’t have to die in a car accident; they could just be slightly disfigured. In our beauty-obsessed world, this would make them a public pariah quicker than O.J. Simpson at a Speed Dating event.
With Howard Stern moving over to satellite radio, more people in 2006 will catch onto what a great technology this is. I have XM and my husband has Sirius, and they are both better than anything on free radio. Those who decide not to subscribe to satellite will inevitably benefit, since the new option will force traditional radio to step up its game. Either way, there is a possibility that in 2006 radio will get better for everyone, which is something that has needed to happen since Michael Powell became the FCC’s Darth Vader.
Finally, on the local level, Seattle tax payers may be able to enjoy a nice refund since it looks like the monorail will be nothing more than a Folklife Festival pipe dream. I’m not saying it will never happen, but if you wish for the monorail in one hand and shit in the other you know which one will get full first.
2006 will be what it will be: the good, the bad, and the very, fucking predictable. Maybe if all goes well, barring any natural disasters and terrorist attacks on U.S. soil, but including the death/disfiguring accident of a vacuous blonde or two, I’ll have my own Top 101 list at the end of the year.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Fisher Family Redux
Several months ago Jeff and I got into watching Six Feet Under on HBO. We enjoyed the quirky antics of the mortician family and their strange associates. We would actually make an effort on Wednesday nights to put Rachael to bed and watch this show. The majority of our usual television viewing is relegated to catching the headlines during that random 15 minutes before we go to bed.
We were thrilled to have a new mutual obsession, until we got the terrible news that our beloved melodrama was coming to an end in just six more episodes. We ended up riding out the rest of the series and watching the well-put-together finale, but there were so many unanswered questions. How did Brenda and Nate hook up? Why didn’t Ruth figure out that George was crazy before she married him? How did Nathaniel die?
We had to know the answers, so we put Netflix on the case. Each night in the mail for the next couple of months we would get two to three episodes of Six Feet Under. We watched as Nathaniel bit it in a car accident in the first episode launching his family into the conundrum of having to run the mortuary without him. We reveled in Claire’s annoying and bitchy angst, while watching David struggle with coming out of the closet (as if his gayness wasn’t blatantly obvious in the first place). We were particularly amused by Nate’s bed-hopping, and I was delighted when Lili Taylor signed on to play Nate’s first wife, Lisa, since I’m a huge fan of hers.
I’ve watched many a series over my young lifetime, but Six Feet Under is hands down one of the best I’ve seen. The Fishers appear to be a train wreck, but I never thought they were anymore fucked up than the average clan of kin; they just have a creepier family business. True, they weren’t as normal as Vanessa and Federico Diaz, but they were no where near as fucked up as the Chenowiths.
No matter how tired Jeff and I were, we’d come home and get a little bit closer to the embalming ensemble. We gained a newfound appreciation for our Judaism, because once a Jew dies, they are thrown in a pine box and sent into the ground as soon as possible. There’s no preservation, no colored chiffon padding in a casket, and most of the time, the only viewing that takes place comes from the bitchy, old yentas sitting in the back of the room talking about who had the nerve to dress like a whore at their uncle’s funeral.
We made our way through season after season, and finally ended with the last episode of season four. The final season is not out on DVD yet, but we have it on reserve. We plan to watch the whole thing, even the episodes we’ve already seen, partially to gain a new understanding and appreciation, but also because I miss the Fisher family.
It’s been at least a month since I’ve watched a Six Feet Under episode, and I can honestly say that I wish like hell the series was still going. I feel kind of like how you do when a family member gets divorced and it’s no longer appropriate to contact their former spouse, but you really liked them. You know if you make that phone call, your whole family will be pissed at you, but you really want to know how their life is going.
It’s not that my own life is so boring or that I don’t have fucked up family members of my own, believe me, my pot is boiling over with them; I just liked watching this good show. We pay quite a bit for satellite television and have a good deal of movie channels, but the majority of our television operations are limited to Noggin, Sprout, CNN and Comedy Central. This was one of the first adult, non-news, non-comedy shows that we both liked watching, which is a bit of a miracle considering that Jeff and I are as opposite as can be.
We enjoyed our stint as the Fishers’ armchair psychiatrists. We both yelled at David not to pick up the hitchhiker, wagged a finger at Nate for having sex with random women before he knew for sure that his wife was dead, and we both gagged a little every time Brenda and Billy got a little too close than a brother and sister should get.I’m sure, over time, I’ll find another series to get into, and if I’m lucky Jeff will actually be into it, too. Until then, I’ll check my mailbox with a hint of anticipation for the first disc marking the beginning of season five. I may know how everything ends, but getting there is where the real action is.
We were thrilled to have a new mutual obsession, until we got the terrible news that our beloved melodrama was coming to an end in just six more episodes. We ended up riding out the rest of the series and watching the well-put-together finale, but there were so many unanswered questions. How did Brenda and Nate hook up? Why didn’t Ruth figure out that George was crazy before she married him? How did Nathaniel die?
We had to know the answers, so we put Netflix on the case. Each night in the mail for the next couple of months we would get two to three episodes of Six Feet Under. We watched as Nathaniel bit it in a car accident in the first episode launching his family into the conundrum of having to run the mortuary without him. We reveled in Claire’s annoying and bitchy angst, while watching David struggle with coming out of the closet (as if his gayness wasn’t blatantly obvious in the first place). We were particularly amused by Nate’s bed-hopping, and I was delighted when Lili Taylor signed on to play Nate’s first wife, Lisa, since I’m a huge fan of hers.
I’ve watched many a series over my young lifetime, but Six Feet Under is hands down one of the best I’ve seen. The Fishers appear to be a train wreck, but I never thought they were anymore fucked up than the average clan of kin; they just have a creepier family business. True, they weren’t as normal as Vanessa and Federico Diaz, but they were no where near as fucked up as the Chenowiths.
No matter how tired Jeff and I were, we’d come home and get a little bit closer to the embalming ensemble. We gained a newfound appreciation for our Judaism, because once a Jew dies, they are thrown in a pine box and sent into the ground as soon as possible. There’s no preservation, no colored chiffon padding in a casket, and most of the time, the only viewing that takes place comes from the bitchy, old yentas sitting in the back of the room talking about who had the nerve to dress like a whore at their uncle’s funeral.
We made our way through season after season, and finally ended with the last episode of season four. The final season is not out on DVD yet, but we have it on reserve. We plan to watch the whole thing, even the episodes we’ve already seen, partially to gain a new understanding and appreciation, but also because I miss the Fisher family.
It’s been at least a month since I’ve watched a Six Feet Under episode, and I can honestly say that I wish like hell the series was still going. I feel kind of like how you do when a family member gets divorced and it’s no longer appropriate to contact their former spouse, but you really liked them. You know if you make that phone call, your whole family will be pissed at you, but you really want to know how their life is going.
It’s not that my own life is so boring or that I don’t have fucked up family members of my own, believe me, my pot is boiling over with them; I just liked watching this good show. We pay quite a bit for satellite television and have a good deal of movie channels, but the majority of our television operations are limited to Noggin, Sprout, CNN and Comedy Central. This was one of the first adult, non-news, non-comedy shows that we both liked watching, which is a bit of a miracle considering that Jeff and I are as opposite as can be.
We enjoyed our stint as the Fishers’ armchair psychiatrists. We both yelled at David not to pick up the hitchhiker, wagged a finger at Nate for having sex with random women before he knew for sure that his wife was dead, and we both gagged a little every time Brenda and Billy got a little too close than a brother and sister should get.I’m sure, over time, I’ll find another series to get into, and if I’m lucky Jeff will actually be into it, too. Until then, I’ll check my mailbox with a hint of anticipation for the first disc marking the beginning of season five. I may know how everything ends, but getting there is where the real action is.
Friday, January 06, 2006
Killing the Messenger
I’ve made it my duty in life to inform others of points of interest that they may not be aware of. Sometimes this is a pleasurable job that is met with a great deal of enthusiasm, other times I just end up pissing off a lot of people, either way, I accept my heavy responsibility for the sole purpose of raising awareness. After all, if one is not aware of something, and are taken by surprise in a social situation they may not be able to respond appropriately, which would leave them with an uneasy feeling. Basically, I’m here to make your life better, so let the love begin.
A couple of weeks ago, I informed my readers that Tennessee was one of the last three states in the union where first cousins could legally marry. This was one of those points that were met with a great deal of anger and trepidation. After a bit of research I found out I was mistaken about the number of states that allowed first cousins to marry. There are actually 18 states that still give consent to legally fucking your first cousin, and two of them include California and New York. Vermont will let you cousin fuck if you reside in their state or another state that permits marriage between two first cousins, and if you marry your mom’s sister’s daughter in Utah, you just have to promise you won’t have any kids. There you go, Tennessee, you aren’t in such a narrow minority after all.
Keeping the love flowing, I want to inform everyone about a new find I happened upon recently. For those of you who are into porn, and don’t want to pay for it, I was flipping through some personals, which I happen to read for fun and amusement, and came upon a cornucopia of naughty bits on Craig’s List.
I’ve been a fan of the Seattle Weekly and The Stranger’s personal ads for quite awhile and during art school used to sit with a group of other students during our 30 minute class break perusing the ads. There were the usual: Men Seeking Women, Women Seeking Men, Men Seeking Men, Women Seeking Women, then there was always a category called, Other, or something catchy to indicate that there were some weird people wanting to do sexual acts that most therapists would never be able to figure out. Those ads were our favorite.
When I ventured onto Craig’s List looking for some used office furniture, I noticed they had personal ads. Little did I know I would spend the next two hours glued to my flat screen! The Craig’s List folks are not shy, and the queers who are looking for love or something messier, are really not shy. I have never seen a selection of interesting photos in my life. I also find the printed wording on the ads amusing as well.
I always smile at the contrast of the Men Seeking Men personals as opposed to the Women Seeking Women. The ladies usually will tell you about how interesting or worthy they are of your attention, and what they can do for you either emotionally, sexually or both. Sometimes you see clichés like “long walks on the beach” or “looking for that special someone”, not so with the Men Seeking Men ads. A very typical Men Seeking Men ad on Craig’s List reads something like this: “I’m in great shape and want to fuck. Looking for someone who wants to do the same. Scroll down the page to see my cock.” This is followed by a picture of a torso and a schlong, unless they don’t write the bullshit about being in great shape, then it’s just a picture of a semi-erect penis.
Sometimes the gals post sexy pictures, but all of those ads contain the words, “no men please,” so sorry boys, but unless you’re willing to trade in your manhood for some quality girly parts then the Rainier Valley Dreamer doesn’t want you.
The negative thing about the Craig’s List personals is that you never know what picture you are going to come upon. My retinas were burning for awhile the night I happened upon a guy who looked very similar to Gollum from Lord of the Rings showing off his stubby family jewels. My warning: enjoy the photos, have fun reading the text, but proceed with caution.
Another important item I would like to point out is that Burt’s Bees makes a facial scrub that tops anything those skinny broads at Clinique have at their department store counter. Best of all, it smells like honey and is about $20 cheaper per bottle. Sure, you may have to deal with the overwhelming smell of patchouli and b.o. from the clerk at the health food store who has decided to liberate herself by not shaving her pits, but it’s worth saving the money and not splashing chemicals all over your face. For those of you, who have pit hair and are offended by my last comment, please remember, I’m just trying to help others. Plus, I’m a punk, and what the fuck did your hippie ass expect coming to my site, now go eat your vegan bran muffins and leave me to my Craig’s List porn.
A couple of weeks ago, I informed my readers that Tennessee was one of the last three states in the union where first cousins could legally marry. This was one of those points that were met with a great deal of anger and trepidation. After a bit of research I found out I was mistaken about the number of states that allowed first cousins to marry. There are actually 18 states that still give consent to legally fucking your first cousin, and two of them include California and New York. Vermont will let you cousin fuck if you reside in their state or another state that permits marriage between two first cousins, and if you marry your mom’s sister’s daughter in Utah, you just have to promise you won’t have any kids. There you go, Tennessee, you aren’t in such a narrow minority after all.
Keeping the love flowing, I want to inform everyone about a new find I happened upon recently. For those of you who are into porn, and don’t want to pay for it, I was flipping through some personals, which I happen to read for fun and amusement, and came upon a cornucopia of naughty bits on Craig’s List.
I’ve been a fan of the Seattle Weekly and The Stranger’s personal ads for quite awhile and during art school used to sit with a group of other students during our 30 minute class break perusing the ads. There were the usual: Men Seeking Women, Women Seeking Men, Men Seeking Men, Women Seeking Women, then there was always a category called, Other, or something catchy to indicate that there were some weird people wanting to do sexual acts that most therapists would never be able to figure out. Those ads were our favorite.
When I ventured onto Craig’s List looking for some used office furniture, I noticed they had personal ads. Little did I know I would spend the next two hours glued to my flat screen! The Craig’s List folks are not shy, and the queers who are looking for love or something messier, are really not shy. I have never seen a selection of interesting photos in my life. I also find the printed wording on the ads amusing as well.
I always smile at the contrast of the Men Seeking Men personals as opposed to the Women Seeking Women. The ladies usually will tell you about how interesting or worthy they are of your attention, and what they can do for you either emotionally, sexually or both. Sometimes you see clichés like “long walks on the beach” or “looking for that special someone”, not so with the Men Seeking Men ads. A very typical Men Seeking Men ad on Craig’s List reads something like this: “I’m in great shape and want to fuck. Looking for someone who wants to do the same. Scroll down the page to see my cock.” This is followed by a picture of a torso and a schlong, unless they don’t write the bullshit about being in great shape, then it’s just a picture of a semi-erect penis.
Sometimes the gals post sexy pictures, but all of those ads contain the words, “no men please,” so sorry boys, but unless you’re willing to trade in your manhood for some quality girly parts then the Rainier Valley Dreamer doesn’t want you.
The negative thing about the Craig’s List personals is that you never know what picture you are going to come upon. My retinas were burning for awhile the night I happened upon a guy who looked very similar to Gollum from Lord of the Rings showing off his stubby family jewels. My warning: enjoy the photos, have fun reading the text, but proceed with caution.
Another important item I would like to point out is that Burt’s Bees makes a facial scrub that tops anything those skinny broads at Clinique have at their department store counter. Best of all, it smells like honey and is about $20 cheaper per bottle. Sure, you may have to deal with the overwhelming smell of patchouli and b.o. from the clerk at the health food store who has decided to liberate herself by not shaving her pits, but it’s worth saving the money and not splashing chemicals all over your face. For those of you, who have pit hair and are offended by my last comment, please remember, I’m just trying to help others. Plus, I’m a punk, and what the fuck did your hippie ass expect coming to my site, now go eat your vegan bran muffins and leave me to my Craig’s List porn.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Guys Gone Wild
I often appreciate half-assed attempts by our sexist, pop culture driven society to level the playing field and offer up something as equally degrading to men. For example, the talk shows that discuss young men’s bulimic troubles or the MTV profile of the male slut who no one wants to socialize with, or the latest sickly, wilting olive branch, Guys Gone Wild.
From the smut meisters that brought you those $19.99 DVDs of college girls “willing to bare it all” for a t-shirt comes the male version. When I first saw this commercial I was expecting the Geico tagline to come up at any second, after all, they parodied the Old Navy ads, so why not corner the market on young, drunken, college drivers in need of insurance. However, this was actually a series of DVDs showing young, buffed college guys flashing their schlongs for, you guessed it, $19.99 per video.
After realizing that these were legitimate and probably some sort of strange offering to get the feds off the back of the guinea running the “flash your tits” empire, I laughed for at least 30 minutes about the potential customer base. Unlike the Girls Gone Wild discs, their male counterpart tapes will not be purchased largely by members of the opposite sex wanting to see young, hot bodies, because most women can see dick whenever they want to. That’s right, we may not run the world, or control the wealth, but nearly all of us can see naked male genitalia without even asking twice.
I’ll never forget an experience I had in college during the weekly event known as “Porno Night on the 5th Floor.” About a dozen women and nearly two dozen men would cram into a small dorm room watch porn, eat chips, and then go back to doing homework. One night, after an intense lesbian scene, us gals began bitching about the lack of cock in the evening’s movie selection. We turned around to find a row of naked male members aligned like faucets in a group shower all attached to the same smiling, young college studs featured in the Guys Gone Wild tapes.
Now, being older and married, my exposure to the male member is far less glamorous, and is mainly limited to catching my husband during his morning shower, but again, I see penis without having to pay for it.
Sorry, young, hot college guys, but the bulk of the people getting off to your naked antics won’t be the girls at the Pi Delta Pi house; they will be the boys on Christopher Street. All I could think of as I watched this commercial was how excited gay men everywhere must be to have something new to look at. In fact, if I was a gay man, I would have had my credit card ready, because these young men were indeed hot, and men, gay or straight, obviously don’t mind paying to look at something sexy or the first Gone Wild series would have tanked.
I wonder though, if the creator of these discs of college-age exploits will truly level the playing field and continue to do more Guys Gone Wild tapes. Will he take the boys to a tropical island and have them competing naked on the beach in front of a midget dressed in a referee uniform? Will he take it further and tap into the queer audience with Gays Gone Wild (as if the Guys Gone Wild weren’t gay enough)? How long before the Italian Stallion of reality porn gets his own Apprentice show?
Over the next few months, I’ll be curious to see how long these commercials run. With the natural Italian male tendency towards homophobia, it will be interesting to see if Joe Francis continues to expose the raw side of frat boys after he figures out who his customer base for the DVD series actually is. Until then, I’ll be like every other girl out there; I’ll look at these beefcake commercials, smile when they show the boys dropping trou with an oversized Bahama Mama drink in one hand and a Guys Gone Wild hat atop their young heads, and forego the opportunity to squander away $19.99. After all, if I can’t have any real political power in the country I live in while being continually exploited sexually in the media, and go to an equally hard day’s work for just 70 cents on the dollar of my male co-worker, then I’d better be able to see as much naked dick at will as humanly possible without having to shell out a dime.
From the smut meisters that brought you those $19.99 DVDs of college girls “willing to bare it all” for a t-shirt comes the male version. When I first saw this commercial I was expecting the Geico tagline to come up at any second, after all, they parodied the Old Navy ads, so why not corner the market on young, drunken, college drivers in need of insurance. However, this was actually a series of DVDs showing young, buffed college guys flashing their schlongs for, you guessed it, $19.99 per video.
After realizing that these were legitimate and probably some sort of strange offering to get the feds off the back of the guinea running the “flash your tits” empire, I laughed for at least 30 minutes about the potential customer base. Unlike the Girls Gone Wild discs, their male counterpart tapes will not be purchased largely by members of the opposite sex wanting to see young, hot bodies, because most women can see dick whenever they want to. That’s right, we may not run the world, or control the wealth, but nearly all of us can see naked male genitalia without even asking twice.
I’ll never forget an experience I had in college during the weekly event known as “Porno Night on the 5th Floor.” About a dozen women and nearly two dozen men would cram into a small dorm room watch porn, eat chips, and then go back to doing homework. One night, after an intense lesbian scene, us gals began bitching about the lack of cock in the evening’s movie selection. We turned around to find a row of naked male members aligned like faucets in a group shower all attached to the same smiling, young college studs featured in the Guys Gone Wild tapes.
Now, being older and married, my exposure to the male member is far less glamorous, and is mainly limited to catching my husband during his morning shower, but again, I see penis without having to pay for it.
Sorry, young, hot college guys, but the bulk of the people getting off to your naked antics won’t be the girls at the Pi Delta Pi house; they will be the boys on Christopher Street. All I could think of as I watched this commercial was how excited gay men everywhere must be to have something new to look at. In fact, if I was a gay man, I would have had my credit card ready, because these young men were indeed hot, and men, gay or straight, obviously don’t mind paying to look at something sexy or the first Gone Wild series would have tanked.
I wonder though, if the creator of these discs of college-age exploits will truly level the playing field and continue to do more Guys Gone Wild tapes. Will he take the boys to a tropical island and have them competing naked on the beach in front of a midget dressed in a referee uniform? Will he take it further and tap into the queer audience with Gays Gone Wild (as if the Guys Gone Wild weren’t gay enough)? How long before the Italian Stallion of reality porn gets his own Apprentice show?
Over the next few months, I’ll be curious to see how long these commercials run. With the natural Italian male tendency towards homophobia, it will be interesting to see if Joe Francis continues to expose the raw side of frat boys after he figures out who his customer base for the DVD series actually is. Until then, I’ll be like every other girl out there; I’ll look at these beefcake commercials, smile when they show the boys dropping trou with an oversized Bahama Mama drink in one hand and a Guys Gone Wild hat atop their young heads, and forego the opportunity to squander away $19.99. After all, if I can’t have any real political power in the country I live in while being continually exploited sexually in the media, and go to an equally hard day’s work for just 70 cents on the dollar of my male co-worker, then I’d better be able to see as much naked dick at will as humanly possible without having to shell out a dime.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Funny Smelling Pee and Other Weird Medical Things
I love asparagus, but I hate what it does to my body. Within a matter of hours I have funny smelling pee, and I’m not sure why. I sat through years and years of science classes, but they never addressed this bizarre phenomenon. Once I was sitting at a party in college next to a hippie who was telling me that he had recently smoked an entire bong full of a foreign brand of ganj that gave his pee the asparagus smell. I listened, smiled, and kept thinking, foreign my ass, someone sold you skunk weed that was probably dried, crushed asparagus.
My husband was recently complaining about his yearly physical. He went on and on about the whole finger up the ass thing to check for colon cancer. I listened with little sympathy, because obviously my darling love has never heard of a speculum. Sorry boys, but any regular procedure you receive on a yearly or regular basis doesn’t really compare to what us ladies have to, and should, go through at least once a year. When you are laying there staring up at the ceiling with your heels firmly planted in stirrups, all you can hope is that your doctor keeps the latex examination gloves in some sort of warmer, and that when they say, “this will just be a minute,” it will truly be 60 seconds.
A few years ago, a science teacher put out a book explaining gross things like snot, bellybutton lint, farts, and other medical things that kids wonder about. I read it, and it was amusing, but I think this teacher needs to take it a step further and perhaps entertain questions from adults. Right now, I’d like to know why my dog’s gas seems to have gotten far worse despite little to no change in his diet.
The older my dog gets, the more he reminds me of an elderly uncle. Fozzy sleeps a lot, has a pot belly, has little tolerance for kids, and basically concentrates all of his energy on eating, taking an occasional walk and farting. The only time he ever comes close to scrambling is when Rachael drops food on the floor. Then again, elderly uncles sure do move their butts at family gatherings when mom announces that dinner is ready.
As for my own physicality, I keep wondering why I live in one of the dampest states in America, yet I still have to lotion my legs like a beauty contestant in order to avoid becoming alligator scaly. I used to laugh at the thought that men come into their sexual peak at 18, while women come into theirs at 35, but now that I’m closer to 35, it’s not that fucking funny anymore. Why is it that waxing has now become a dire necessity instead of something to do occasionally?
I used to joke about getting a tummy tuck and breast lift once I was sure that I was done having children. Although I’m not into the whole plastic beauty race that society wants to keep women on, I look at my own body and know that I will feel better once my stomach doesn’t look like a shar pei’s face. I’ve met lots of women who have had little procedures done, and unlike the broads featured on tabloid news shows that have had a dozen surgeries, most have little things taken care of and feel good about it. I recently sat in the waiting room with a woman who had just recovered from facial resurfacing. This is where they take lasers and burn off the dead top layer of the skin on your face. How Texas Chainsaw Massacre does that sound!
I listened to the details of her procedure, which she explained with an odd amount of enthusiasm, and then I asked her why she decided to do it. She told me that she had weathered the stress of a professional career, raised fraternal twins by herself after her husband left her for his secretary, and managed to recently pay off the mortgage to on her home. After celebrating her financial independence just in time for her twins to head off to college, she looked in the mirror, and at 53 realized she looked closer to 63. She is very pleased with her resurfacing, and said it inspired her to dye the gray out of her hair, and acquire a new wardrobe. This made far more sense to me than the plastic surgery bitches we see on tv, you know, the porn star who talks about how she can make $1,000 more per sex scene if her tits go from a DD to a EEE.
I know as I get older, and especially now since I have a child, I’ll have many more weird medical things such as funny smelling pee that I’ll wonder about. Thankfully, there is the internet, but that’s a double-edged sword. You can look up medical information about pee, but you have to weed through tons of porn websites that talk about piss fetishes, which seems to be the case when it comes to anything else of a bodily nature. Damn, people are sick and strange.
My husband was recently complaining about his yearly physical. He went on and on about the whole finger up the ass thing to check for colon cancer. I listened with little sympathy, because obviously my darling love has never heard of a speculum. Sorry boys, but any regular procedure you receive on a yearly or regular basis doesn’t really compare to what us ladies have to, and should, go through at least once a year. When you are laying there staring up at the ceiling with your heels firmly planted in stirrups, all you can hope is that your doctor keeps the latex examination gloves in some sort of warmer, and that when they say, “this will just be a minute,” it will truly be 60 seconds.
A few years ago, a science teacher put out a book explaining gross things like snot, bellybutton lint, farts, and other medical things that kids wonder about. I read it, and it was amusing, but I think this teacher needs to take it a step further and perhaps entertain questions from adults. Right now, I’d like to know why my dog’s gas seems to have gotten far worse despite little to no change in his diet.
The older my dog gets, the more he reminds me of an elderly uncle. Fozzy sleeps a lot, has a pot belly, has little tolerance for kids, and basically concentrates all of his energy on eating, taking an occasional walk and farting. The only time he ever comes close to scrambling is when Rachael drops food on the floor. Then again, elderly uncles sure do move their butts at family gatherings when mom announces that dinner is ready.
As for my own physicality, I keep wondering why I live in one of the dampest states in America, yet I still have to lotion my legs like a beauty contestant in order to avoid becoming alligator scaly. I used to laugh at the thought that men come into their sexual peak at 18, while women come into theirs at 35, but now that I’m closer to 35, it’s not that fucking funny anymore. Why is it that waxing has now become a dire necessity instead of something to do occasionally?
I used to joke about getting a tummy tuck and breast lift once I was sure that I was done having children. Although I’m not into the whole plastic beauty race that society wants to keep women on, I look at my own body and know that I will feel better once my stomach doesn’t look like a shar pei’s face. I’ve met lots of women who have had little procedures done, and unlike the broads featured on tabloid news shows that have had a dozen surgeries, most have little things taken care of and feel good about it. I recently sat in the waiting room with a woman who had just recovered from facial resurfacing. This is where they take lasers and burn off the dead top layer of the skin on your face. How Texas Chainsaw Massacre does that sound!
I listened to the details of her procedure, which she explained with an odd amount of enthusiasm, and then I asked her why she decided to do it. She told me that she had weathered the stress of a professional career, raised fraternal twins by herself after her husband left her for his secretary, and managed to recently pay off the mortgage to on her home. After celebrating her financial independence just in time for her twins to head off to college, she looked in the mirror, and at 53 realized she looked closer to 63. She is very pleased with her resurfacing, and said it inspired her to dye the gray out of her hair, and acquire a new wardrobe. This made far more sense to me than the plastic surgery bitches we see on tv, you know, the porn star who talks about how she can make $1,000 more per sex scene if her tits go from a DD to a EEE.
I know as I get older, and especially now since I have a child, I’ll have many more weird medical things such as funny smelling pee that I’ll wonder about. Thankfully, there is the internet, but that’s a double-edged sword. You can look up medical information about pee, but you have to weed through tons of porn websites that talk about piss fetishes, which seems to be the case when it comes to anything else of a bodily nature. Damn, people are sick and strange.
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