Reputations aside, I’ve always been quite skeptical when it comes to famed historians or theorists of any kind. Sigmund Freud is no exception, but lately I’m beginning to think the old goat was onto something with his “structure of the mind” principle.
As I was cleaning up, yet another mess left my destructive little munchkin, it hit me that my toddler is definitely an Id. The Id as defined by Freud is “the irrational and emotional part of the mind.” He also says that the Id is all about “want, want, want” regardless of consequence, and cares for nothing more than their own gratification, hence toddlers.
When it comes to weaving a tapestry of senseless destruction and devastation, my toddler takes first place, and earns extra marks for creativity. About a month ago Jeff and I decided to take the 2.5 hour daytrip to Vancouver, British Columbia. We were listening to the Curious George soundtrack for the millionth time (by the way, remind me to beat the fuck out of Jack Johnson if I ever see him), and enjoying the plush scenery and sunshine. Jeff had brought along some Cheetos for road munchies and Rachael became very interested in the bright, orange treats. I gave her a few anticipating messy Cheetos fingers. A few minutes later from the backseat I heard a muffled grinding. I looked back to see a smiling Rachael returning my stare. We played this back and forth exchange for at least a half dozen times, then I caught her orange-handed. Rachael was grinding a Cheeto across one of the fabric panels on the inside car door leaving ultra-fine Cheeto shavings everywhere.
Only a fucking toddler would do this! Who else, in their right mind, would look at a Cheeto and think, now is the time to create a colossal mess and I can do this by rubbing a snack food against course fabric. One of my co-workers keeps reassuring me that if I can just harness all of that creativity and energy into something positive, I’ll have a future genius or world leader in my family. The challenge, of course, is to get her from Id-dome to college without giving in to my urge to kill her as I scrub crayon murals off my family room walls at 10:00 at night.
The good news is that Rachael is making some progress. She has learned to say “please” and “thank you” and she’s not too bad when it comes to sharing thanks to daycare. I’ve also adapted to life with an Id. Now when I stroll through Toys ‘R’ Us or any other place with objects of desire for my little Id (which means every place we ever go), my thoughts of “oh this might be cute for her to play with” have been replaced with “how is she going to use this to make a mess or destroy something.” This is another thing they never tell you about in all of those pansy-assed parenting books!
Her ability to take any object, turn it around, and use it as some sort of weapon or victimize it with an existing weapon has me worried that in her two and a half year lifespan she has been exposed to too much violence. However a steady diet of Dora the Explorer and PBS’s Sprout channel shouldn’t be responsible for this level of aggression, should it? Rachael has more of an urge to attack something helpless than the current regime running our country, the difference, of course, is that she is only 2 ½ and can be taught passivity over time, those bastards, however, are too far gone. I suspect she’s also smarter than they are which is horrifying when you think about it.
I’m sure the violent behavior is as signature with an Id as the tendency to strip off her clothing and run around bare-assed naked no matter whom is present. Rachael and I went to a Passover seder a couple of weeks ago, and as with most Jewish things, it started late and ran late. Being the conscientious mom, I brought her jammies, so I could change her before the 30-minute car ride that would lull her to sleep. In one hot minute, she broke away from me and proceeded to run around my friend’s house in nothing but her diapey. Everyone got a kick out of it, including my childfree friends who were hosting the gathering, which only encouraged my little streaker to continue her show. Thankfully, I was able to wrestle her down rodeo-style and stop her from going completely buff.
In the end, we will survive the Id phase, just barely, but we will survive. True I may have more wrinkles, my husband will be completely gray, the dog will have a nervous twitch, and the solid wood table we took so much pride in buying will forever bear the marks of multiple whackings with the business end of the Dora the Explorer spoon, but we will come through this okay, far more unstable and exhausted, but okay…I hope.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Things that Were Way More Fun When I Was Younger
I’m not one of those uptight broads who spends all her time complaining about getting older. I learned at 19 that age is more about attitude rather than a calculation of the number of years you’ve spent in this world. However, I’ve noticed there are some things I used to do that were way more fun then than they seem to be now.
Hair dying. It was a great form of self-expression, and it took me all of one semester of college before I got into this little habit. It was the golden age of the riotgrrl movement, and the dark brown hair I had just wouldn’t do; I needed blonde streaks. The cool thing was that with blonde streaks, I could buy shampoo that would leave color in my hair through several washes, so one month I’d be brown with blue, another month I’d be brown with pink, and for October, I did brown with green.
I spent one of this year’s first sunny Saturdays in the salon this past weekend trying to get my color back to dark brown, because about two months ago I got a wild hair up my ass and decided to streak my hair like in the old days. Ten years ago, the blonde streaks looked cool. Two months ago, they looked brassy and cheap. My husband summed it up best that night when he looked at me and said “that’s what my mom did to her hair when she started going gray.” For the next two days, “gray” seemed to accompany every hair comment I got, whether it was a friend asking me “did you find a gray hair and go nuts or something” or my co-worker telling me that I should have skipped the Cruella De Vil thing on the front of my hair.
Unfortunately, the woman at the salon on Saturday didn’t speak such good English, so I came out with a light brown instead of a dark brown, which means another round of hair dying two months from now when my head has recovered. Then I’m done. I’m swearing off hair dying until that G-d forsaken day that I find a shitload of gray in my hair, which knowing my luck will happen by the end of the year.
Something else that used to be a blast was staying up all night. I remember spending a weekend at my friend Kori’s house. We watched the Headbanger’s Ball on Saturday night hoping to see Guns ‘N’ Roses, then on Sunday we pulled another red-eye and watched 120 Minutes praying that they would play Husker Du. To top it off, we styled our hair on Sunday night and it turned out so well that we came up with the brilliant idea of staying up all night and going to school the next morning with really great looking hair. This is why 16-year-olds should never be allowed to make any kind of important decision!
We made to about 4:00 am, and then slept in chemistry class the next day. Now when I think about 4:00 am it’s usually, because the toddler had a nightmare and wants me to rock her or she needs a refill on her bottle. Occasionally, I’ll have a bad bought of insomnia that will have me cursing the fact that I am wide awake when I should be sleeping sounder than my child.
Driving used to be a cool thing to do, until I had to start commuting regularly. I used to like it when I would get a phone call from a guy, but now that the guy happens to be my husband, who calls me to talk about things like taking the garbage out or asks me what I’m cooking for dinner the shine has fallen off that diamond for damn sure. Working used to be a blast, even though it was a small time, shitty fast food job, because I was there with my peers and the early 20-somethings were the only ones who had any responsibility. Now that I’m the one in charge, and my work provides the household healthcare and mortgage payment, it just doesn’t seem so fun.
There are a few things that are just as enjoyable now as they were back then, like finding new and creative music to listen to, which is no small task given the media buyouts and diva making that the corporate whores force on us every time we turn on a radio or television set. Sex is still great even though work schedules and the kid have greatly reduced the frequency. At least when those few passionate moments each month do roll around, they tend to be worthwhile. Drinking is still enjoyable from time to time, especially since I’m able to afford better tasting alcohol. The days of Budweiser and cheap vodka ended at that last raging frat party I went to, and now I’m thoroughly enjoying the era of Captain & Cola.
Thankfully, some of the stuff that used to be fun to do has been replaced by things that I now find way more satisfying. I can’t talk on the phone with my friends for hours, but I can email jokes at work. Making $20 babysitting for the evening is far less fun than spending $20 taking my munchkin to the Family Fun Center and watching her ride the carousel.
Oddly enough I still worry about getting caught while having sex, but instead of repercussions that involve getting grounded or being sent away to an all-girls school, I have the fear that my daughter will end up walking in on us and relaying the story to everyone during a family get together. Then again, unleashing family trauma at a holiday gathering is something timeless that is just as fun now as it used to be, and will, most likely, continue to be fun for years to come.
Hair dying. It was a great form of self-expression, and it took me all of one semester of college before I got into this little habit. It was the golden age of the riotgrrl movement, and the dark brown hair I had just wouldn’t do; I needed blonde streaks. The cool thing was that with blonde streaks, I could buy shampoo that would leave color in my hair through several washes, so one month I’d be brown with blue, another month I’d be brown with pink, and for October, I did brown with green.
I spent one of this year’s first sunny Saturdays in the salon this past weekend trying to get my color back to dark brown, because about two months ago I got a wild hair up my ass and decided to streak my hair like in the old days. Ten years ago, the blonde streaks looked cool. Two months ago, they looked brassy and cheap. My husband summed it up best that night when he looked at me and said “that’s what my mom did to her hair when she started going gray.” For the next two days, “gray” seemed to accompany every hair comment I got, whether it was a friend asking me “did you find a gray hair and go nuts or something” or my co-worker telling me that I should have skipped the Cruella De Vil thing on the front of my hair.
Unfortunately, the woman at the salon on Saturday didn’t speak such good English, so I came out with a light brown instead of a dark brown, which means another round of hair dying two months from now when my head has recovered. Then I’m done. I’m swearing off hair dying until that G-d forsaken day that I find a shitload of gray in my hair, which knowing my luck will happen by the end of the year.
Something else that used to be a blast was staying up all night. I remember spending a weekend at my friend Kori’s house. We watched the Headbanger’s Ball on Saturday night hoping to see Guns ‘N’ Roses, then on Sunday we pulled another red-eye and watched 120 Minutes praying that they would play Husker Du. To top it off, we styled our hair on Sunday night and it turned out so well that we came up with the brilliant idea of staying up all night and going to school the next morning with really great looking hair. This is why 16-year-olds should never be allowed to make any kind of important decision!
We made to about 4:00 am, and then slept in chemistry class the next day. Now when I think about 4:00 am it’s usually, because the toddler had a nightmare and wants me to rock her or she needs a refill on her bottle. Occasionally, I’ll have a bad bought of insomnia that will have me cursing the fact that I am wide awake when I should be sleeping sounder than my child.
Driving used to be a cool thing to do, until I had to start commuting regularly. I used to like it when I would get a phone call from a guy, but now that the guy happens to be my husband, who calls me to talk about things like taking the garbage out or asks me what I’m cooking for dinner the shine has fallen off that diamond for damn sure. Working used to be a blast, even though it was a small time, shitty fast food job, because I was there with my peers and the early 20-somethings were the only ones who had any responsibility. Now that I’m the one in charge, and my work provides the household healthcare and mortgage payment, it just doesn’t seem so fun.
There are a few things that are just as enjoyable now as they were back then, like finding new and creative music to listen to, which is no small task given the media buyouts and diva making that the corporate whores force on us every time we turn on a radio or television set. Sex is still great even though work schedules and the kid have greatly reduced the frequency. At least when those few passionate moments each month do roll around, they tend to be worthwhile. Drinking is still enjoyable from time to time, especially since I’m able to afford better tasting alcohol. The days of Budweiser and cheap vodka ended at that last raging frat party I went to, and now I’m thoroughly enjoying the era of Captain & Cola.
Thankfully, some of the stuff that used to be fun to do has been replaced by things that I now find way more satisfying. I can’t talk on the phone with my friends for hours, but I can email jokes at work. Making $20 babysitting for the evening is far less fun than spending $20 taking my munchkin to the Family Fun Center and watching her ride the carousel.
Oddly enough I still worry about getting caught while having sex, but instead of repercussions that involve getting grounded or being sent away to an all-girls school, I have the fear that my daughter will end up walking in on us and relaying the story to everyone during a family get together. Then again, unleashing family trauma at a holiday gathering is something timeless that is just as fun now as it used to be, and will, most likely, continue to be fun for years to come.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Time for Another Gratuitous Media Circus
Since the Scott Pedersen trial ended, our poor media has been latching onto arrogant celebrities in an attempt to avoid the job they are supposed to be doing as the watchdog over unscrupulous elected public officials. Oddly enough, having been a member of the media, I understand their avoidance given the fact that our current political state seems to be overrun with elected officials who are interested in enhancing their own wallets rather than serving the public interest. However, it was only a matter of time before the next big wife murdering, school shooting, mysterious disappearance, inappropriate behavior case would open the floodgates for a bonafide media circus resulting in months of boring news analysis, at least a half dozen book deals, and endless diatribes from Nancy Grace and Gloria Allred.
Welcome to Duke University, one of the most elitist schools in the United States where old money and a family pedigree can get you in way quicker than stellar grades and an uber-high SAT score. A few weeks ago, the snotty-assed lacrosse team held a wild party, paid a couple of strippers to come in and perform for them, then a few hours later, rape allegations surfaced. You could almost see media whores salivating at this one, because early on it had the makings for a perfect circus: power, privilege, money, sex, and the two strippers were black, so the race thing was an added bonus.
We are a good, solid month into this story, and everything is going along as predicted: the lacrosse players who were identified by the young woman hired top-notch, expensive legal representation, the other stripper who didn’t get raped has already put herself front and center into the mess in an attempt to cash in, the lefties on the Duke University campus have gone ape shit holding “solidarity vigils” and “non-denominational group prayers”, and the upper crust spin doctors are looking for any reason to prove that a rape never took place in order to save Duke’s long-standing reputation as a haven for future Wall Street robber barons.
The circus went into a full three-ring affair this past week when Jesse Jackson got involved, and Rush Limbaugh referred to the rape victim as a “ho”. I think we should make these two opportunists fight to the death Thunderdome style for our viewing pleasure, because that’s one reality TV program I would actually watch.
If you take away all of the hoopla and freakshow that the media is trying to make of this situation, this scenario is unsettling for one main reason: the elite of this country are born internalizing the separation of themselves from those they consider “lower class”, and based on that separation, believe they have the right to do whatever they want. When the media interviewed students at the other, more reasonably priced, campus near Duke University, they were resolved that even if a rape trial did happen and there was evidence against these preppy fuck lacrosse players, they would get off with no more than a slap on the wrist, if that. Although this may be a defeatist attitude, I understand where it’s coming from.
We live in a country where money and influence can buy you anything, even the presidency, so it’s no surprise that a bunch of Little Lord Fauntleroys got horny watching some sisters get their groove on, and decided to fuck them whether consent was granted or not. Apparently, even though lacrosse looks like kind of a faggy sport, it is the shiznit with the blue bloods (i.e. the earth-bound version of rowing, if you will). Ivy League lacrosse players are the big guys on campus and the desire of every white bred, future high society, Prozac addicted wife, so they’ve got tons of women offering themselves as potential pussy all of the time. When no one in your life places a barometer of what is acceptable behavior and what is deviant, and then you top that off with money, bad shit is going to happen, and it will likely happen to a woman, and that woman will likely be poor, and to this particular set, poor people don’t matter.
There are so many established, respectable people already rushing to the defense of these snot-nosed bastards talking about what fine students they are, and what good, upstanding young men they are with bright futures ahead of them. I wouldn’t be surprised if their socialite mothers were more upset at the fact their boys stuck their dicks in a black woman, rather than being pissed about the idea that they raised men with the mindset that they have the right over everything they want any time they want it.
What is bound to get lost in all of the media hype is the fact that there is a woman who was raped. She is 27 years old, and a single mother of two trying to make money stripping in order to support her kids and pay her way through college. She is an honor student who went to work one night to do a simple two-hour job and was violently beaten and forced to the ground in a bathroom while three guys did whatever they wanted to her.
Now she has to go home every night wondering whether she and her kids will be safe from the media or members of the general public who want to call her a whore and vindicate their beloved lacrosse players. She will have to try and come up with a way to explain to her kids what happened to her without scaring the shit out of them, and spend the next year or so wondering if someone is trustworthy or just wants to sell her out to make a quick buck.
There were several college students and community members holding prayer vigils after this story broke claiming that those prayers were for the victim. Although I’m well aware that a lot of it was politically motivated and staged for the media, I can only hope that at least a few of those prayers were sincere, because mine were.
Welcome to Duke University, one of the most elitist schools in the United States where old money and a family pedigree can get you in way quicker than stellar grades and an uber-high SAT score. A few weeks ago, the snotty-assed lacrosse team held a wild party, paid a couple of strippers to come in and perform for them, then a few hours later, rape allegations surfaced. You could almost see media whores salivating at this one, because early on it had the makings for a perfect circus: power, privilege, money, sex, and the two strippers were black, so the race thing was an added bonus.
We are a good, solid month into this story, and everything is going along as predicted: the lacrosse players who were identified by the young woman hired top-notch, expensive legal representation, the other stripper who didn’t get raped has already put herself front and center into the mess in an attempt to cash in, the lefties on the Duke University campus have gone ape shit holding “solidarity vigils” and “non-denominational group prayers”, and the upper crust spin doctors are looking for any reason to prove that a rape never took place in order to save Duke’s long-standing reputation as a haven for future Wall Street robber barons.
The circus went into a full three-ring affair this past week when Jesse Jackson got involved, and Rush Limbaugh referred to the rape victim as a “ho”. I think we should make these two opportunists fight to the death Thunderdome style for our viewing pleasure, because that’s one reality TV program I would actually watch.
If you take away all of the hoopla and freakshow that the media is trying to make of this situation, this scenario is unsettling for one main reason: the elite of this country are born internalizing the separation of themselves from those they consider “lower class”, and based on that separation, believe they have the right to do whatever they want. When the media interviewed students at the other, more reasonably priced, campus near Duke University, they were resolved that even if a rape trial did happen and there was evidence against these preppy fuck lacrosse players, they would get off with no more than a slap on the wrist, if that. Although this may be a defeatist attitude, I understand where it’s coming from.
We live in a country where money and influence can buy you anything, even the presidency, so it’s no surprise that a bunch of Little Lord Fauntleroys got horny watching some sisters get their groove on, and decided to fuck them whether consent was granted or not. Apparently, even though lacrosse looks like kind of a faggy sport, it is the shiznit with the blue bloods (i.e. the earth-bound version of rowing, if you will). Ivy League lacrosse players are the big guys on campus and the desire of every white bred, future high society, Prozac addicted wife, so they’ve got tons of women offering themselves as potential pussy all of the time. When no one in your life places a barometer of what is acceptable behavior and what is deviant, and then you top that off with money, bad shit is going to happen, and it will likely happen to a woman, and that woman will likely be poor, and to this particular set, poor people don’t matter.
There are so many established, respectable people already rushing to the defense of these snot-nosed bastards talking about what fine students they are, and what good, upstanding young men they are with bright futures ahead of them. I wouldn’t be surprised if their socialite mothers were more upset at the fact their boys stuck their dicks in a black woman, rather than being pissed about the idea that they raised men with the mindset that they have the right over everything they want any time they want it.
What is bound to get lost in all of the media hype is the fact that there is a woman who was raped. She is 27 years old, and a single mother of two trying to make money stripping in order to support her kids and pay her way through college. She is an honor student who went to work one night to do a simple two-hour job and was violently beaten and forced to the ground in a bathroom while three guys did whatever they wanted to her.
Now she has to go home every night wondering whether she and her kids will be safe from the media or members of the general public who want to call her a whore and vindicate their beloved lacrosse players. She will have to try and come up with a way to explain to her kids what happened to her without scaring the shit out of them, and spend the next year or so wondering if someone is trustworthy or just wants to sell her out to make a quick buck.
There were several college students and community members holding prayer vigils after this story broke claiming that those prayers were for the victim. Although I’m well aware that a lot of it was politically motivated and staged for the media, I can only hope that at least a few of those prayers were sincere, because mine were.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Tell Me Something I Don't Know
For the past two weeks, I have been out of the news loop. Between trying to catch up after recovering from an upper respiratory virus that had my head in a groggy haze and making a half-assed attempt to spend more time doing something productive other than vegging out in front of the tube, I have let my nightly viewing of the CNN headlines go by the wayside. Thankfully, I had some time this week to peruse the current events, and learned…absolutely nothing I didn’t already know.
At the beginning of the week the Bush Regime got caught in, yet another, gross injustice when it was revealed that Defensemeister/Dark Overlord Donald Rumsfeld green-lighted the torture that many of our service people have gone to prison for carrying out. The newsroom non-shock and little awe continued when Resident Bush announced today that he wouldn’t ask Rumsfeld to step down or be held accountable in any way, shape or form.
I think, at this point, the Regime should change their slogan from “Spreading Democracy Across the World” to “I Didn’t Do It, And Even If I Did, You Can’t Do Anything About It!” How is it that people in this country stand behind the Asshole-in-Chief when he talks about the evils of Saddam’s rape rooms, yet they become complacent when we all learn that Rummy thinks it’s okay to make a group of detainees (you know, guys who aren’t convicted of anything) strip down to their skin suits and do a cheerleader-like pyramid? If something tickles your nose a little weird, remember, it’s the smell of hypocrisy, and it’s making everyone in this country look like a bunch of serious, two-faced assholes. I don’t mind people thinking I’m an asshole, but the two-faced thing doesn’t set right with me.
I learned that those nut jobs in Iran have gone off the deep end, developed nukes, and are threatening to wipe Israel off the map. No Shit!?! Their leader is a complete fuckwad who wouldn’t know diplomacy if it came up and bit him in his Allah-loving ass. When Iran went on and on about developing nuclear energy two years ago as a cheaper means for powering factories claiming that they would never want to use it for the development of weapons, I knew they were completely full of shit. Every country in the Middle East has it out for Israel. Thankfully, Israel has nuclear weapons, even though that’s completely unofficial, and my other homeland doesn’t give two shits about what the UN says, so my attitude is “Fire away Moshe!” If Israel is getting threats from Iran, they better not wait for the U.S. to do some military solution, because we can’t even finish our illegal war in Iraq.
I’m just wondering; since Israel can hold their own, and the U.S. is stretched too thin militarily to be effective, do you think the Bush Regime is blowing this out of proportion to get everyone to look past the fact that gas is nearly $3.00 a gallon? When I have to think twice about making a two hour road trip, because I don’t want to have to take a second mortgage on my house to fill my gas tank, we have a problem.
The mainstream news wasn’t the only media that told me zilch, even the entertainment news didn’t have anything new. Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes aren’t going to have their kid baptized. Ya Think! They are Scientologists, not Christians. Only Christians have their kids baptized. Jeff and I didn’t have Rachael baptized, because Jewish baby girls go through a naming, and Jewish baby boys get their foreskin lopped off in a ceremony called a bris, but neither one is a baptism, because we aren’t Christians. Now, I’m not defending Scientology, because what I know from it, it’s a pretty fucked up religion, but these two vacuous and mediocre actors shouldn’t be labeled as pariahs, because they didn’t chose a Christian belief system.
Besides, who says the Scientology method of welcoming a new child isn’t fun. They probably throw a big party with colorful and warped people, perhaps some balloons for decorations, and maybe an L. Ron Hubbard book on tape playing in the background. Who knows, they might dip the kid in a vat of goat’s blood, but the point is that we live in a country where you can do that, and as long as the kid doesn’t drown and there’s a potential for a book deal when she hits 19 years old, then all is well.
Now that I’m back to checking the headlines regularly, I’m sure that they will still continue to not tell me anything I didn’t already know. Thank goodness for foreign newspapers and the internet, that way I can find out what’s really going on in my country, because I don’t give one dog fart about Brad and Angelina’s bastard child.
At the beginning of the week the Bush Regime got caught in, yet another, gross injustice when it was revealed that Defensemeister/Dark Overlord Donald Rumsfeld green-lighted the torture that many of our service people have gone to prison for carrying out. The newsroom non-shock and little awe continued when Resident Bush announced today that he wouldn’t ask Rumsfeld to step down or be held accountable in any way, shape or form.
I think, at this point, the Regime should change their slogan from “Spreading Democracy Across the World” to “I Didn’t Do It, And Even If I Did, You Can’t Do Anything About It!” How is it that people in this country stand behind the Asshole-in-Chief when he talks about the evils of Saddam’s rape rooms, yet they become complacent when we all learn that Rummy thinks it’s okay to make a group of detainees (you know, guys who aren’t convicted of anything) strip down to their skin suits and do a cheerleader-like pyramid? If something tickles your nose a little weird, remember, it’s the smell of hypocrisy, and it’s making everyone in this country look like a bunch of serious, two-faced assholes. I don’t mind people thinking I’m an asshole, but the two-faced thing doesn’t set right with me.
I learned that those nut jobs in Iran have gone off the deep end, developed nukes, and are threatening to wipe Israel off the map. No Shit!?! Their leader is a complete fuckwad who wouldn’t know diplomacy if it came up and bit him in his Allah-loving ass. When Iran went on and on about developing nuclear energy two years ago as a cheaper means for powering factories claiming that they would never want to use it for the development of weapons, I knew they were completely full of shit. Every country in the Middle East has it out for Israel. Thankfully, Israel has nuclear weapons, even though that’s completely unofficial, and my other homeland doesn’t give two shits about what the UN says, so my attitude is “Fire away Moshe!” If Israel is getting threats from Iran, they better not wait for the U.S. to do some military solution, because we can’t even finish our illegal war in Iraq.
I’m just wondering; since Israel can hold their own, and the U.S. is stretched too thin militarily to be effective, do you think the Bush Regime is blowing this out of proportion to get everyone to look past the fact that gas is nearly $3.00 a gallon? When I have to think twice about making a two hour road trip, because I don’t want to have to take a second mortgage on my house to fill my gas tank, we have a problem.
The mainstream news wasn’t the only media that told me zilch, even the entertainment news didn’t have anything new. Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes aren’t going to have their kid baptized. Ya Think! They are Scientologists, not Christians. Only Christians have their kids baptized. Jeff and I didn’t have Rachael baptized, because Jewish baby girls go through a naming, and Jewish baby boys get their foreskin lopped off in a ceremony called a bris, but neither one is a baptism, because we aren’t Christians. Now, I’m not defending Scientology, because what I know from it, it’s a pretty fucked up religion, but these two vacuous and mediocre actors shouldn’t be labeled as pariahs, because they didn’t chose a Christian belief system.
Besides, who says the Scientology method of welcoming a new child isn’t fun. They probably throw a big party with colorful and warped people, perhaps some balloons for decorations, and maybe an L. Ron Hubbard book on tape playing in the background. Who knows, they might dip the kid in a vat of goat’s blood, but the point is that we live in a country where you can do that, and as long as the kid doesn’t drown and there’s a potential for a book deal when she hits 19 years old, then all is well.
Now that I’m back to checking the headlines regularly, I’m sure that they will still continue to not tell me anything I didn’t already know. Thank goodness for foreign newspapers and the internet, that way I can find out what’s really going on in my country, because I don’t give one dog fart about Brad and Angelina’s bastard child.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Matzah Anyone?
Before Passover starts, I tell myself the same lies every year: I’m not going to overeat at the first or second night seder, I’m going to check every food item carefully to make sure that I’m not eating anything forbidden, and I’m going to throw away all of the boxes of unfinished matzah after the holiday week is over. I don’t even make it to Day Three without violating at least two of these delusions.
I always liked Passover, not because you get to have two huge meals, gather with friends, and share whispers about who in your social circle has gained the most weight this year, it’s more than that. Passover is cool, because it is the only holiday that commemorates keeping a 2,000 year old grudge. Jews could, as a people, put it behind us and move on, but we prefer to grimace about Egyptians while trying to chomp down parsley dipped in salt water. Why parsley in salt water; to remind us of the bitterness that we suffered during our years of slavery. See, what I mean! A 2,000 year old grudge, and what could be more of a “fuck you” than that.
There’s a popular joke amongst us who practice this type of faith that says something like “here’s a synopsis of every Jewish holiday: they tried to kill us, we won, let’s eat.” Funny, thoughtful, and true. We re-tell the story of release from oppression, celebrate the fact that we are prosperous now, and strap on the feedbag stuffing our faces like the one mammal we are forbidden to eat. I always end up eating way too much at the seders on both nights, and on the third day try to figure out a way I can workout like a fiend for the rest of the week to minimize the damage. However, I knew this would happen despite the lie that I told myself before baking up that first kugel, and dishing more than three ounces of brisket onto my plate.
The first and second night seders are always a lot of fun, but the rest of Passover week tends to be a bit of a bitch to deal with, which is why my second lie never works either. On Friday afternoon, I decided to forego my usual salad, because it was rainy and miserable, and I wanted something more substantial than the McDonalds California Cobb with grilled chicken. My first thought was to stop at Subway. Although their sandwiches are far from deli delicious, they are very conducive to my diet regime. I stopped in my tracks realizing that, because of Passover, bread was off limits, and I didn’t feel like wolfing down a few puny coldcuts and calling it a meal. All of the sudden, tacos came to mind, but again, the tortillas are forbidden until Thursday at sundown. I had to run errands by the mall, so I thought the Food Court would be the best place for me to find something in compliance.
I had forgotten it was Spring Break, which meant that I had to weed through a sea of teenage guys with their baseball caps on backwards and pants hanging down around their asses (when the hell is that trend going to die). Just as one of them asked me for the time, and called me “ma’am”, I looked around at all of the fine dining options, and settled with one of the staples of the mainstream Jewish diet: Chinese food. Conversely, Jeff went out for fish and chips that day, and gave me some bullshit line about how he forgot that the breading on the fish wasn’t Passover-friendly. Neither was the rice I had with my Chinese food, but again, I knew this was going to happen.
Then there’s the matzah. There’s nothing like biting into a crunchy board of the tasteless, cracker-like food known as matzah. Matzah, made of wheat flour, water, and absolutely nothing else, is supposed to replicate the food that G-d gave Jews while they wandered in the desert for 40 years. Once a year, Jews are commanded to go on an Atkins-esque diet and give up any sort of bread for Passover.
I set the box of matzah out at every meal that I prepare that week, because it doesn’t taste that bad if you top it with jam or butter or both, and because I can only hope that this year we actually finish the entire box instead of stuffing it in the back of the pantry until next Passover when I ask myself why I bothered keeping it. Every year we go through the same ordeal. I want to throw the remainder of the matzah out, and Jeff convinces me that we will eat it at some point in the year. We never do, it just sits there like that food dehydrator we were going to use to make our own beef jerky, and the breadmaker that we used for the first three months we owned it until we both gained five pounds from carb overdose.
Since Passover ends the day after tomorrow at sundown, I guess I’ll have to wait until next year to actually make an attempt at keeping the holiday commandments a little better. I never do any major violations, but I’m not exactly the most observant either. However, I give up my Tuesday night pizza, and don’t think twice about it, so that should count for something, damn it!
I always liked Passover, not because you get to have two huge meals, gather with friends, and share whispers about who in your social circle has gained the most weight this year, it’s more than that. Passover is cool, because it is the only holiday that commemorates keeping a 2,000 year old grudge. Jews could, as a people, put it behind us and move on, but we prefer to grimace about Egyptians while trying to chomp down parsley dipped in salt water. Why parsley in salt water; to remind us of the bitterness that we suffered during our years of slavery. See, what I mean! A 2,000 year old grudge, and what could be more of a “fuck you” than that.
There’s a popular joke amongst us who practice this type of faith that says something like “here’s a synopsis of every Jewish holiday: they tried to kill us, we won, let’s eat.” Funny, thoughtful, and true. We re-tell the story of release from oppression, celebrate the fact that we are prosperous now, and strap on the feedbag stuffing our faces like the one mammal we are forbidden to eat. I always end up eating way too much at the seders on both nights, and on the third day try to figure out a way I can workout like a fiend for the rest of the week to minimize the damage. However, I knew this would happen despite the lie that I told myself before baking up that first kugel, and dishing more than three ounces of brisket onto my plate.
The first and second night seders are always a lot of fun, but the rest of Passover week tends to be a bit of a bitch to deal with, which is why my second lie never works either. On Friday afternoon, I decided to forego my usual salad, because it was rainy and miserable, and I wanted something more substantial than the McDonalds California Cobb with grilled chicken. My first thought was to stop at Subway. Although their sandwiches are far from deli delicious, they are very conducive to my diet regime. I stopped in my tracks realizing that, because of Passover, bread was off limits, and I didn’t feel like wolfing down a few puny coldcuts and calling it a meal. All of the sudden, tacos came to mind, but again, the tortillas are forbidden until Thursday at sundown. I had to run errands by the mall, so I thought the Food Court would be the best place for me to find something in compliance.
I had forgotten it was Spring Break, which meant that I had to weed through a sea of teenage guys with their baseball caps on backwards and pants hanging down around their asses (when the hell is that trend going to die). Just as one of them asked me for the time, and called me “ma’am”, I looked around at all of the fine dining options, and settled with one of the staples of the mainstream Jewish diet: Chinese food. Conversely, Jeff went out for fish and chips that day, and gave me some bullshit line about how he forgot that the breading on the fish wasn’t Passover-friendly. Neither was the rice I had with my Chinese food, but again, I knew this was going to happen.
Then there’s the matzah. There’s nothing like biting into a crunchy board of the tasteless, cracker-like food known as matzah. Matzah, made of wheat flour, water, and absolutely nothing else, is supposed to replicate the food that G-d gave Jews while they wandered in the desert for 40 years. Once a year, Jews are commanded to go on an Atkins-esque diet and give up any sort of bread for Passover.
I set the box of matzah out at every meal that I prepare that week, because it doesn’t taste that bad if you top it with jam or butter or both, and because I can only hope that this year we actually finish the entire box instead of stuffing it in the back of the pantry until next Passover when I ask myself why I bothered keeping it. Every year we go through the same ordeal. I want to throw the remainder of the matzah out, and Jeff convinces me that we will eat it at some point in the year. We never do, it just sits there like that food dehydrator we were going to use to make our own beef jerky, and the breadmaker that we used for the first three months we owned it until we both gained five pounds from carb overdose.
Since Passover ends the day after tomorrow at sundown, I guess I’ll have to wait until next year to actually make an attempt at keeping the holiday commandments a little better. I never do any major violations, but I’m not exactly the most observant either. However, I give up my Tuesday night pizza, and don’t think twice about it, so that should count for something, damn it!
Sunday, April 16, 2006
A Warm Reception at the Neighborhood Egg Hunt...NOT!
Over a year ago, when Jeff and I moved into our Wisteria Lake-like neighborhood, we discovered that they held an annual Easter Egg Hunt. We made the executive parental decision that since colored, plastic eggs and pastel foil-wrapped candy had nothing to do with the whole Jesus legend, we would let Rachael participate. Besides, I know that if I hold her out of this, much like myself, she will rebel by becoming completely absorbed with everything that I define as taboo. For the record, we are telling her now that medical school is some weird, cult-like place where they make magic and voodoo happen, and we are keeping our fingers crossed.
Naturally, on the morning that I rely on my destructive little munchkin to wake us up at the usual time of 7:30/8:00ish, we ending up prodding her out of bed around 9:30 am. We hurried to the children’s park at the end of our street only to be greeted with a disgusted glance from the woman who was bestest buddies with the woman who used to own this house. I returned the glare, and walked right past her trying to avoid the small talk in which she tells me what good friends she used to be with the former owners of my house, and that she’s so sorry they moved. I think the bitch took the hint, because she left soon thereafter.
Jeff helped Rachael gather all of her eggs, while I tried to control Fozzy on the thin leash that kept him from sniffing the butts of everyone searching the park for plastic eggs. My dog might be a short guy, but he is very fat, and has the girth necessary to pull me off my feet. Jeff and I tried to smile and hoped to strike up small talk with some of the other neighbors present at the egg hunt, but they were having none of it.
The only ones who talked to us were an elderly couple that resided on the other side of the neighborhood. Everyone else ignored us like the plague. Since I’m used to not fitting in, and it doesn’t bug me that much, I focused most of my attention on helping Rachael find her plastic eggs. The best thing about hanging around the perimeter was the opportunity to be privy to some interesting conversation like the three, blonde-haired, WASPy people who were talking about one of the neighborhoods that resides adjacent to ours.
Last year, they finished construction on a new tract of about 50 homes. These homes happened to be built by a company that has the reputation for building large houses out of cheap materials. These houses are kind of plain, are a bit low on the quality meter, and usually attract buyers who are the newest citizens to our fine country. They aren’t bad people, and definitely work harder than the plethora of pampered stay-at-home moms that reside in our tract, they are the kind of people who look at their kids every night and tell them how bad they had it in their country, therefore the kids need to study hard and get good grades so that they can get a computer science degree in college.
Apparently, one of the cliques here in Wisteria Lane doesn’t like the fact that this other neighborhood exists next to our pristine tract, because I overheard a woman telling her snooty counterparts that it was like having a trailer park next to us. What a miserable cunt! The houses may not be stellar quality, but those folks have the same mortgage as the rest of us. At that point, I told Rachael it was time to cash in her plastic eggs for a prize. I had had enough of the cold shoulders and shit attitudes, and I had no desire to let my daughter socialize with the children of such shallow parents. If there’s one thing that I’ve learned in life is that the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, and if these parents were elitist snobs, then their kids are probably going to be a little on the asshole side.
Jeff and I sat there eating our breakfast wondering why we had received such a cold reception. Maybe they didn’t like the fact that Jews were participating in their holiday, which is a completely ridiculous notion, since not even the most devout Christian can tell me how Jesus and bunnies are related. Perhaps they didn’t care for our lack of participation in the prominent social circle that seems to dominate the neighborhood activities. Jeff and I usually go to everything, but neither one of us are fake people, so if we don’t like something, we say so. Maybe they are still mad that we purchased the house that their friends used to live in, and despite the fact that those people only lived here for 4 ½ months, and that they moved nearly two years ago, some people still aren’t over it.
In the end, Rachael got her little present, and a handful of candy, Fozzy got a nice walk and managed to pick a fight with a Corgi, I got to return the glare of that freaky bitch, and Jeff came to the conclusion that I was no longer going to waste any of my time planning events for the neighborhood committee.
Naturally, on the morning that I rely on my destructive little munchkin to wake us up at the usual time of 7:30/8:00ish, we ending up prodding her out of bed around 9:30 am. We hurried to the children’s park at the end of our street only to be greeted with a disgusted glance from the woman who was bestest buddies with the woman who used to own this house. I returned the glare, and walked right past her trying to avoid the small talk in which she tells me what good friends she used to be with the former owners of my house, and that she’s so sorry they moved. I think the bitch took the hint, because she left soon thereafter.
Jeff helped Rachael gather all of her eggs, while I tried to control Fozzy on the thin leash that kept him from sniffing the butts of everyone searching the park for plastic eggs. My dog might be a short guy, but he is very fat, and has the girth necessary to pull me off my feet. Jeff and I tried to smile and hoped to strike up small talk with some of the other neighbors present at the egg hunt, but they were having none of it.
The only ones who talked to us were an elderly couple that resided on the other side of the neighborhood. Everyone else ignored us like the plague. Since I’m used to not fitting in, and it doesn’t bug me that much, I focused most of my attention on helping Rachael find her plastic eggs. The best thing about hanging around the perimeter was the opportunity to be privy to some interesting conversation like the three, blonde-haired, WASPy people who were talking about one of the neighborhoods that resides adjacent to ours.
Last year, they finished construction on a new tract of about 50 homes. These homes happened to be built by a company that has the reputation for building large houses out of cheap materials. These houses are kind of plain, are a bit low on the quality meter, and usually attract buyers who are the newest citizens to our fine country. They aren’t bad people, and definitely work harder than the plethora of pampered stay-at-home moms that reside in our tract, they are the kind of people who look at their kids every night and tell them how bad they had it in their country, therefore the kids need to study hard and get good grades so that they can get a computer science degree in college.
Apparently, one of the cliques here in Wisteria Lane doesn’t like the fact that this other neighborhood exists next to our pristine tract, because I overheard a woman telling her snooty counterparts that it was like having a trailer park next to us. What a miserable cunt! The houses may not be stellar quality, but those folks have the same mortgage as the rest of us. At that point, I told Rachael it was time to cash in her plastic eggs for a prize. I had had enough of the cold shoulders and shit attitudes, and I had no desire to let my daughter socialize with the children of such shallow parents. If there’s one thing that I’ve learned in life is that the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, and if these parents were elitist snobs, then their kids are probably going to be a little on the asshole side.
Jeff and I sat there eating our breakfast wondering why we had received such a cold reception. Maybe they didn’t like the fact that Jews were participating in their holiday, which is a completely ridiculous notion, since not even the most devout Christian can tell me how Jesus and bunnies are related. Perhaps they didn’t care for our lack of participation in the prominent social circle that seems to dominate the neighborhood activities. Jeff and I usually go to everything, but neither one of us are fake people, so if we don’t like something, we say so. Maybe they are still mad that we purchased the house that their friends used to live in, and despite the fact that those people only lived here for 4 ½ months, and that they moved nearly two years ago, some people still aren’t over it.
In the end, Rachael got her little present, and a handful of candy, Fozzy got a nice walk and managed to pick a fight with a Corgi, I got to return the glare of that freaky bitch, and Jeff came to the conclusion that I was no longer going to waste any of my time planning events for the neighborhood committee.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Bad Fashion at its Finest
To say I’m sick of the latest fashion trends is an understatement. Normally I don’t give a shit about the newest thing the Olson twins are wearing, but when it begins intruding on my personal clothes shopping experience, then I have to make a stink about it.
My goal was simple: I wanted a black tank top. No special silk material or beaded emblems or decorative lace appliqués, just a plain, black, wash ‘n’ wear tank top that would go with any pair of pants, skirt, shorts, jacket, sweater, hoody, or article of clothing I owned. This wasn’t a colossal wardrobe request, so on the spare 30 minutes that ended my lunch break; I went over to the mall, walked right into the women’s section of the closest store and found…absolutely everything in brown.
Boho, which is supposed to be some sort of earthy, gypsy, bohemian revival in clothing has taken over even the simplest of wardrobe staples. From the big, floppy skirts to the tacky, plastic, chunky jewelry, if it looks like a hippy smoked up in it 30 years ago, most stores want to sell it to you for top dollar. The boring colors, lifeless patterns, and bizarre designs are eye sores.
The other big problem that this particular fashion trend poses for me is that I’m a punk, and for those of you who have little exposure to the punk movement, punks and hippies don’t exactly mix. Therefore, the idea of dressing in the kind of bra burning, peace and love, Earth Day attire that has become quite mainstream, is not only annoying, but out of the question for me.
Lest I appear to be a negative bitch, the only redeeming quality that this whole Boho trend seems to have going for it is that the clothing is getting a little less whorish. Girls who wear Boho duds aren’t going to be showing as much skin as they did back in the golden days of ultra-low, ass crack bearing jeans, or Brittney Spears bra tops.
I did eventually find my plain, black, tank top, but not before visiting at least ten (yes ten) stores, and paying $22. While I was out searching for my simple wardrobe piece, I noticed another ridiculous fashion trend that seems to have taken a bizarre hold with both women and men; the rubber, comfort clogs.
These fucking things come in all sorts of colors, some come with holes, while others look more suede-ish, but one thing is abundantly clear to me; somewhere there is a family member of an obese, geriatric, mental patient raking in a lot of cash. I’m not kidding, prior to this weird fashion trend, the only people I know who ever wore these rubber clogs were the type of mentally unstable folks who happened to be people of size. The most popular accessory to these clogs used to be one of those open-back hospital gowns and that powder blue robe made of the thinnest material known to man. However, now these clogs are all the shit, and I see guys and gals sporting them in public. One thing hasn’t changed, though; I rarely see them on anyone weighing less than 200 lbs. Note to Mario Batali: wearing shoes the same color as your sun-dried tomato pesto isn’t as cool as you think it is.
Now that I think of it, this must be a bad era for shoes, because there’s been a revival of the stiletto heel, and I am really, fucking unhappy about that! I couldn’t maneuver these damn things 15 years ago when I was younger, thinner, and more coordinated, so why the hell is it that every pair of shoes I look at have nail-like heels where a one-inch thick stack should be? Despite my short stature, I’ve never been much of a high heel wearer, so I’m not asking for much. I just want a reasonable pair of shoes that I can wear with an occasional business suit, while doing my straight-laced day job. I don’t want to have to worry about busting out both of my ankles while walking on uneven tile flooring, because I’m trying to balance my entire frame on a surface that is essentially 1/3 of an inch in diameter.
I’m not a fashionista, and I don’t pretend to be. I wear bland, run-of-the-mill, professional woman’s wear to work, jeans and average, mostly cotton-based shirts on the weekends, something a bit sassy on those rare nights that I get out of the house without the kid, and I’m happy with that. However, when Boho, rubber comfy clogs, and needly stiletto heels get in the way of me finding a simple, black tank top during my lunch break, then it’s my duty to speak out, get others on board, and begin the complaining that will hopefully lead to a boycott of this ridiculous shit. In the meantime, thank goodness for eBay, because they have tons of tank tops all under $22, and as long as you’re willing to pay for Ground shipping, you don’t have to see those lemon yellow clogs.
My goal was simple: I wanted a black tank top. No special silk material or beaded emblems or decorative lace appliqués, just a plain, black, wash ‘n’ wear tank top that would go with any pair of pants, skirt, shorts, jacket, sweater, hoody, or article of clothing I owned. This wasn’t a colossal wardrobe request, so on the spare 30 minutes that ended my lunch break; I went over to the mall, walked right into the women’s section of the closest store and found…absolutely everything in brown.
Boho, which is supposed to be some sort of earthy, gypsy, bohemian revival in clothing has taken over even the simplest of wardrobe staples. From the big, floppy skirts to the tacky, plastic, chunky jewelry, if it looks like a hippy smoked up in it 30 years ago, most stores want to sell it to you for top dollar. The boring colors, lifeless patterns, and bizarre designs are eye sores.
The other big problem that this particular fashion trend poses for me is that I’m a punk, and for those of you who have little exposure to the punk movement, punks and hippies don’t exactly mix. Therefore, the idea of dressing in the kind of bra burning, peace and love, Earth Day attire that has become quite mainstream, is not only annoying, but out of the question for me.
Lest I appear to be a negative bitch, the only redeeming quality that this whole Boho trend seems to have going for it is that the clothing is getting a little less whorish. Girls who wear Boho duds aren’t going to be showing as much skin as they did back in the golden days of ultra-low, ass crack bearing jeans, or Brittney Spears bra tops.
I did eventually find my plain, black, tank top, but not before visiting at least ten (yes ten) stores, and paying $22. While I was out searching for my simple wardrobe piece, I noticed another ridiculous fashion trend that seems to have taken a bizarre hold with both women and men; the rubber, comfort clogs.
These fucking things come in all sorts of colors, some come with holes, while others look more suede-ish, but one thing is abundantly clear to me; somewhere there is a family member of an obese, geriatric, mental patient raking in a lot of cash. I’m not kidding, prior to this weird fashion trend, the only people I know who ever wore these rubber clogs were the type of mentally unstable folks who happened to be people of size. The most popular accessory to these clogs used to be one of those open-back hospital gowns and that powder blue robe made of the thinnest material known to man. However, now these clogs are all the shit, and I see guys and gals sporting them in public. One thing hasn’t changed, though; I rarely see them on anyone weighing less than 200 lbs. Note to Mario Batali: wearing shoes the same color as your sun-dried tomato pesto isn’t as cool as you think it is.
Now that I think of it, this must be a bad era for shoes, because there’s been a revival of the stiletto heel, and I am really, fucking unhappy about that! I couldn’t maneuver these damn things 15 years ago when I was younger, thinner, and more coordinated, so why the hell is it that every pair of shoes I look at have nail-like heels where a one-inch thick stack should be? Despite my short stature, I’ve never been much of a high heel wearer, so I’m not asking for much. I just want a reasonable pair of shoes that I can wear with an occasional business suit, while doing my straight-laced day job. I don’t want to have to worry about busting out both of my ankles while walking on uneven tile flooring, because I’m trying to balance my entire frame on a surface that is essentially 1/3 of an inch in diameter.
I’m not a fashionista, and I don’t pretend to be. I wear bland, run-of-the-mill, professional woman’s wear to work, jeans and average, mostly cotton-based shirts on the weekends, something a bit sassy on those rare nights that I get out of the house without the kid, and I’m happy with that. However, when Boho, rubber comfy clogs, and needly stiletto heels get in the way of me finding a simple, black tank top during my lunch break, then it’s my duty to speak out, get others on board, and begin the complaining that will hopefully lead to a boycott of this ridiculous shit. In the meantime, thank goodness for eBay, because they have tons of tank tops all under $22, and as long as you’re willing to pay for Ground shipping, you don’t have to see those lemon yellow clogs.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Viva Las Vegas!
Since my husband believes that the musical sun rises and sets to Billy Joel, I decided to sweep him away to Sin City to see the Piano Man in concert during my hubby’s birthday weekend. One heads for Las Vegas with so much hope. You can imagine yourself tapping the button to that magical slot machine that will start dinging, and with lights flashing wildly announce that you’ve won $10,000. As you’re on that flight from the drab Pacific Northwest to the warm, sunny dessert, you close your eyes as if to save all of your vision to drink up the spectacular neon signs.
We arrived in Vegas on a Saturday evening just in time to watch the sunset and ogle the illumination of the enormous casino hotels. Jeff and I had ventured to Vegas while I was still pregnant with Rachael nearly three years ago, and we were surprised to see that the Strip had expanded at least a mile each way. The Stratosphere used to be located way at the end of the Strip away from everything, but now the hotels and construction had made its way to the base of the spire.
The Strip had also gotten wider. We stayed at the Hilton, Elvis’ former stomping ground, at least two streets away from the busy boulevard, but the traffic there was just as bad as the actual Strip. Despite the expansion, Vegas was still Vegas, and this was made crystal clear as we inched our way, transported in our rented Jeep Wrangler, up to the Bally’s hotel sign. There in front of us was an enormous ass; a thonged, female, shapely ass that stood at least ten stories tall and belonged to one of the bejeweled, feathered performers in their house burlesque shows.
We got to the sold out Billy Joel show in the nick of time taking our seats as the lights went out and the music began. He played a thorough repertoire of songs, most of which I knew by heart, because my mom had been a huge Billy Joel fan and played his albums while I was growing up. Jeff was sitting beside me having the time of his life, while the annoying hand clapping lady sat a few people away from me on the right.
If you have ever been to a concert, or any public event for that matter, there are people in the crowd who should be shot or thrown from the building, and one of them is the annoying hand clapping lady. She does a monotone clap through the entire performance, no matter what the pace of the music is, and seems to be completely unaware that she’s irritating the hell out of everyone around her. She, along with the girls in front of you who think it’s cute to make everyone in their row get up like 100 times during the show, can really make a simple concert goer pro-nuclear.
Jeff and I decided to avoid the crowd at the parking garage and went into the casino to gamble; unfortunately, everyone else had the same idea, so we waited an hour to get a drink that never came and departed the MGM Grand for a smaller establishment with better odds.
Another thing about Vegas that never seems to change is the whole Sin City thing. Back in the mid-90s they tried in vain to make Las Vegas into a family place, and failed miserably. I remember thinking back then that there should be a few vacation destinations where kids are not allowed, and now that I’m a parent, I know Vegas is definitely one of those places. Thankfully, they’ve gotten back into the business of appealing to an older demographic, but the bad thing is that they are now targeting the college student/frat brother market, and they have the sexism to prove it.
I know Vegas has never been politically correct, nor do I expect it to be. However, while I’m rolling down the street in my boxy toaster on wheels enjoying the lights, I don’t know if I can appreciate a billboard advertising a supposedly trendy new nightclub that simply reads, “Saline or Silicone.” The waitresses are still scantily clad; while the pit bosses get to wear suits and tuxes, and tits are, well, everywhere. Even the sign for the country ‘n’ western hangout, Gilly’s, had a cowgirl with the nastiest set of inflata-boobs I’ve seen in quite awhile.
Women love sin too, so how come the only thing that Vegas uses to appeal to us is a few measly cabtop signs that advertise the “Thunder from Down Under” male review show? All us gals know that anything that young, buffed, and good looking is most likely gay, and not many of us are going to pay $50 to see some guy in a thong wiggle his ass on stage, no matter how much tanning oil he has dripping off of it.
As you might have guessed, neither of us won the $10,000 we had dreamed of, but since we are a couple of cheap-assed Jews, we didn’t lose that much either. In fact, much to the amusement of our Asian friends, who have admitted to us that those of that particular ethnicity are notorious gamblers, Jeff and I took $100 each and managed to return home with 40% of it minus our meals and a gift for Rachael.
It’s nice to know that a place nicknamed Sin City is just a three hour plane ride away, and I like the fact that I can go about every four years for a couple of days and not feel the need to return any sooner. I would like to eventually win that $10,000, but I also know that the fabulous, new Wynn casino wasn’t built on average people winning fortunes, just the idiots dreaming of having a shot in hell at winning them.
We arrived in Vegas on a Saturday evening just in time to watch the sunset and ogle the illumination of the enormous casino hotels. Jeff and I had ventured to Vegas while I was still pregnant with Rachael nearly three years ago, and we were surprised to see that the Strip had expanded at least a mile each way. The Stratosphere used to be located way at the end of the Strip away from everything, but now the hotels and construction had made its way to the base of the spire.
The Strip had also gotten wider. We stayed at the Hilton, Elvis’ former stomping ground, at least two streets away from the busy boulevard, but the traffic there was just as bad as the actual Strip. Despite the expansion, Vegas was still Vegas, and this was made crystal clear as we inched our way, transported in our rented Jeep Wrangler, up to the Bally’s hotel sign. There in front of us was an enormous ass; a thonged, female, shapely ass that stood at least ten stories tall and belonged to one of the bejeweled, feathered performers in their house burlesque shows.
We got to the sold out Billy Joel show in the nick of time taking our seats as the lights went out and the music began. He played a thorough repertoire of songs, most of which I knew by heart, because my mom had been a huge Billy Joel fan and played his albums while I was growing up. Jeff was sitting beside me having the time of his life, while the annoying hand clapping lady sat a few people away from me on the right.
If you have ever been to a concert, or any public event for that matter, there are people in the crowd who should be shot or thrown from the building, and one of them is the annoying hand clapping lady. She does a monotone clap through the entire performance, no matter what the pace of the music is, and seems to be completely unaware that she’s irritating the hell out of everyone around her. She, along with the girls in front of you who think it’s cute to make everyone in their row get up like 100 times during the show, can really make a simple concert goer pro-nuclear.
Jeff and I decided to avoid the crowd at the parking garage and went into the casino to gamble; unfortunately, everyone else had the same idea, so we waited an hour to get a drink that never came and departed the MGM Grand for a smaller establishment with better odds.
Another thing about Vegas that never seems to change is the whole Sin City thing. Back in the mid-90s they tried in vain to make Las Vegas into a family place, and failed miserably. I remember thinking back then that there should be a few vacation destinations where kids are not allowed, and now that I’m a parent, I know Vegas is definitely one of those places. Thankfully, they’ve gotten back into the business of appealing to an older demographic, but the bad thing is that they are now targeting the college student/frat brother market, and they have the sexism to prove it.
I know Vegas has never been politically correct, nor do I expect it to be. However, while I’m rolling down the street in my boxy toaster on wheels enjoying the lights, I don’t know if I can appreciate a billboard advertising a supposedly trendy new nightclub that simply reads, “Saline or Silicone.” The waitresses are still scantily clad; while the pit bosses get to wear suits and tuxes, and tits are, well, everywhere. Even the sign for the country ‘n’ western hangout, Gilly’s, had a cowgirl with the nastiest set of inflata-boobs I’ve seen in quite awhile.
Women love sin too, so how come the only thing that Vegas uses to appeal to us is a few measly cabtop signs that advertise the “Thunder from Down Under” male review show? All us gals know that anything that young, buffed, and good looking is most likely gay, and not many of us are going to pay $50 to see some guy in a thong wiggle his ass on stage, no matter how much tanning oil he has dripping off of it.
As you might have guessed, neither of us won the $10,000 we had dreamed of, but since we are a couple of cheap-assed Jews, we didn’t lose that much either. In fact, much to the amusement of our Asian friends, who have admitted to us that those of that particular ethnicity are notorious gamblers, Jeff and I took $100 each and managed to return home with 40% of it minus our meals and a gift for Rachael.
It’s nice to know that a place nicknamed Sin City is just a three hour plane ride away, and I like the fact that I can go about every four years for a couple of days and not feel the need to return any sooner. I would like to eventually win that $10,000, but I also know that the fabulous, new Wynn casino wasn’t built on average people winning fortunes, just the idiots dreaming of having a shot in hell at winning them.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Suburban Thaw
Seattle begins to brighten around the time we lose an hour of sleep. The days get longer, and something bright that other places call “sun” begins to appear. During the first bright weekend, hints of the suburban thaw begin to show. Suburb dwellers peek out from their garages like gophers coming out of their holes. Suburbanites look around, scouting their neighbors’ houses, and sizing them up all in preparation for the magic that is the second bright weekend.
On the second bright weekend, the suburbs are all about business. Men emerge from their picture perfect homes with lawnmower and gardening tools in hand, ordering their children around like farm hands. Then begins the great front lawn pissing contest, where suburbanites believe that their lawn has to look Martha Stewart perfect, so that when this perfection is achieved, they can send nasty neighborhood association notices to their fellow suburbanites who choose not to participate in the yearly “my lawn is greener than your lawn” charade.
As you may have guessed, I’m not a participant, in fact, I usually opt to save my money during the winter to pay for a lawn service company to come out and get my yard ready for summer. I don’t like dirt or bugs or wasting a day digging in the dirt surrounded by bugs. This probably makes me a bad suburban dweller, but I could give a fuck.
During the suburban thaw you also begin to see the moms who take it upon themselves to monitor the safety of the neighborhood by letting you via a variety of hand signals that the 15 miles per hour you are traveling is way too fast for the delicate roads in this suburb tract. They seem to come in pairs staring at you beneath designer sunglasses with a baby strapped to the front of them and a heaping amount of judgment on their backs. These suburb moms are the kind who rudely tell you to do something, like you are one of their future spoiled asshole kids, and then end the sentence with a snide “thank you.”
As you may have guessed, I don’t fit in with this particular group either. You shouldn’t haul ass through a populated subdivision full of kids, but if you can’t come to a halt in two seconds while you are putting along at 15 mph, then you’re either on drugs or over the age of 70, which means that you should have restricted driving privileges anyways.
These moms also get very militant about the assortment of flowers that adorn their front lawn façade. They decorate themselves in the latest, most expensive gardening wear, and complete with the little foam pad to protect their knees, they huff, puff, dig and plant their blooms exchanging tips with fellow neighborhood flower mavens. They stroll along after they have completed their gardens and critique the front yards of those who live next to them. It’s quite a bitchy and petty task, but they are eager to do it.
As you may have guessed, I’m not one of these people, because I really don’t care what’s planted in my front yard, as long as I don’t have to do anything except cut it three times a year. I don’t care what color the flowers are in my yard as long as they don’t attract too many bees (again, it’s a bug thing). As long as my front yard looks half way decent, I’m a happy woman, who by the way, is perfectly within compliance with the Covenants, Codes, and Restrictions of the Neighborhood Association.
Along with lawn pissing contest dads and neighborhood safety monitor moms, I find a variety of sporting balls and poop from animals that don’t belong to me in my front yard, and the neighbor’s grass clippings near my curb. When I leave in the morning, I see the women of the Neighborhood Exercise Squad walking briskly dressed in their designer workout wear behind their exer-strollers with their small, poofy dogs following behind them. It’s at this moment that I wonder why I’m in such a bizarre area where there seems to exist a code of conduct that I didn’t get the rule book for. I smile and wave, but most of the time, they don’t return the disingenuous greeting. They have obviously figured out that I’m not one of them, unlike the broad who owned the house before I did; she fit in perfectly.
For now I exist in Suburbia, because if I told my husband I was seriously looking at moving, he would kill me, and my hope is that this will be a great neighborhood for Rachael to grow up in. If nothing else, living in this strange universe where everything appears normal, and people like me aren’t exactly welcome, provides me with the kind of daily friction I need to observe American suburb life and rip it to shreds. Viva la Suburbs!
On the second bright weekend, the suburbs are all about business. Men emerge from their picture perfect homes with lawnmower and gardening tools in hand, ordering their children around like farm hands. Then begins the great front lawn pissing contest, where suburbanites believe that their lawn has to look Martha Stewart perfect, so that when this perfection is achieved, they can send nasty neighborhood association notices to their fellow suburbanites who choose not to participate in the yearly “my lawn is greener than your lawn” charade.
As you may have guessed, I’m not a participant, in fact, I usually opt to save my money during the winter to pay for a lawn service company to come out and get my yard ready for summer. I don’t like dirt or bugs or wasting a day digging in the dirt surrounded by bugs. This probably makes me a bad suburban dweller, but I could give a fuck.
During the suburban thaw you also begin to see the moms who take it upon themselves to monitor the safety of the neighborhood by letting you via a variety of hand signals that the 15 miles per hour you are traveling is way too fast for the delicate roads in this suburb tract. They seem to come in pairs staring at you beneath designer sunglasses with a baby strapped to the front of them and a heaping amount of judgment on their backs. These suburb moms are the kind who rudely tell you to do something, like you are one of their future spoiled asshole kids, and then end the sentence with a snide “thank you.”
As you may have guessed, I don’t fit in with this particular group either. You shouldn’t haul ass through a populated subdivision full of kids, but if you can’t come to a halt in two seconds while you are putting along at 15 mph, then you’re either on drugs or over the age of 70, which means that you should have restricted driving privileges anyways.
These moms also get very militant about the assortment of flowers that adorn their front lawn façade. They decorate themselves in the latest, most expensive gardening wear, and complete with the little foam pad to protect their knees, they huff, puff, dig and plant their blooms exchanging tips with fellow neighborhood flower mavens. They stroll along after they have completed their gardens and critique the front yards of those who live next to them. It’s quite a bitchy and petty task, but they are eager to do it.
As you may have guessed, I’m not one of these people, because I really don’t care what’s planted in my front yard, as long as I don’t have to do anything except cut it three times a year. I don’t care what color the flowers are in my yard as long as they don’t attract too many bees (again, it’s a bug thing). As long as my front yard looks half way decent, I’m a happy woman, who by the way, is perfectly within compliance with the Covenants, Codes, and Restrictions of the Neighborhood Association.
Along with lawn pissing contest dads and neighborhood safety monitor moms, I find a variety of sporting balls and poop from animals that don’t belong to me in my front yard, and the neighbor’s grass clippings near my curb. When I leave in the morning, I see the women of the Neighborhood Exercise Squad walking briskly dressed in their designer workout wear behind their exer-strollers with their small, poofy dogs following behind them. It’s at this moment that I wonder why I’m in such a bizarre area where there seems to exist a code of conduct that I didn’t get the rule book for. I smile and wave, but most of the time, they don’t return the disingenuous greeting. They have obviously figured out that I’m not one of them, unlike the broad who owned the house before I did; she fit in perfectly.
For now I exist in Suburbia, because if I told my husband I was seriously looking at moving, he would kill me, and my hope is that this will be a great neighborhood for Rachael to grow up in. If nothing else, living in this strange universe where everything appears normal, and people like me aren’t exactly welcome, provides me with the kind of daily friction I need to observe American suburb life and rip it to shreds. Viva la Suburbs!
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Explaining Roadkill
“Wook Mommy, kitty sleeping!” my toddler exclaimed from her carseat as she pointed to the bloody-headed river rat lying dead in the road.
It was the perfect opportunity for me to begin introducing the vast concept of life and death, a topic that would inevitably have to be dealt with. Using something as innocent as roadkill would enable me to bring up the subject in a way that wouldn’t be detrimental or instill a sense of fear. It was the chance for me to help start the development of her analytical mind, and introduce the idea that there was a world beyond herself, but in the end, I pussed out with a pansy-assed reply that went something like, “yep, kitty sleeping.”
When you have a kid you become aware really quickly that everything they know for the first five years of life will come from you, and once you actually internalize that, it’s disturbing as hell. I watch my daughter mimicking me. When I brush my teeth, she stands next to me with her toothbrush, when I buy something at the store and get a shopping bag, she wants one as well, and when I’m cooking, she has to be perched on a stepladder completing a menial task right next to me. All of this is very sweet, because I know it won’t last. It’s only a matter of time before she’ll call me “lame” or “totally lame” or “really, fucking lame.” I know the day will come where she’ll run into the house without even as much as a “hello” and haul ass to her room to IM her friends (or whatever means of instant communication they will have around ten years from now).
In the interim, however, I have the enormous task of trying to explain difficult subjects in ways that she will find palatable without defaulting to the chicken-shit behavior I displayed while passing the furry lump of rodent guts festering in the road.
Some of the subjects I know I’ll come across in the next few years will be things like sex, particularly the first time she walks in on her parents having sex. We all did it, and no matter what your age, background, or how much you fancy yourself an open-minded person, the idea of your parents fucking is the most disgusting thought that could ever cross your mind. When that Pam Anderson/Tommy Lee sex tape was all the rage, my mother made a remark that not everyone could be okay with it, and while most of us found it amusing, I guarantee that their two sons will get nauseous whenever one of their smartass friends bring it up. I don’t care if your parents look as good as Tommy and Pam, there is no way to burn that image out of your mind once you see it, and therapy won’t help a damn bit.
Homosexuality is another topic that my daughter will undoubtedly have questions about, and that one could be a little sticky. We aren’t homophobic, right-wingers or anything like that, but it’s one of the subjects that my husband and I don’t really see eye-to-eye on. My position is that there’s nothing wrong with being gay, you are born that way, and that’s all there is to it. If you want to get married, fine by me, you have every right to spend the day pissed off because your sloppy spouse left the cap off the toothpaste, or deposited their socks on the floor instead of in the hamper. However, my husband has a more conservative view, so I guess that’s something we will have to work on the first time the little one comes home and ask why her friend has two mommies or daddies.
Bratz dolls; I fucking hate them. In fact, I would rather buy my daughter a dozen Barbies than one of those bastard Bratz. Rachael has pointed them out in the store and I’ve already started with my own version of anti-Bratz rhetoric. I tell her that those are bad dollies, and that she is too good to play with something stupid like those bad dollies. Any dolls that are supposed to replicate toddlers and include makeup, belly shirts, and big, pouty, “come hither” lips are nothing that my kid will own. Pedophiles everywhere might be jerking off with glee holding a variety of Bratz dolls in their free hand, but my hard earned dollars aren’t going to advance the cause of sexualizing little girls.
I’m sure these few things are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to topics that I’ll have to come up with a reasonable explanation for. I won’t take any of these subject matters lightly, because I know that my impressionable child will carry this opinion with her well into her 20s and possibly longer. Hopefully, I’ll do a good job and raise an independent-minded woman with the ability to think for herself, use her high esteem to make her dreams come true, and be quick to respond to those who are close-minded and oppressive with their beliefs. If not, then I’ll have to use my early retirement account to pay for her therapy, but either way, she’s covered.
It was the perfect opportunity for me to begin introducing the vast concept of life and death, a topic that would inevitably have to be dealt with. Using something as innocent as roadkill would enable me to bring up the subject in a way that wouldn’t be detrimental or instill a sense of fear. It was the chance for me to help start the development of her analytical mind, and introduce the idea that there was a world beyond herself, but in the end, I pussed out with a pansy-assed reply that went something like, “yep, kitty sleeping.”
When you have a kid you become aware really quickly that everything they know for the first five years of life will come from you, and once you actually internalize that, it’s disturbing as hell. I watch my daughter mimicking me. When I brush my teeth, she stands next to me with her toothbrush, when I buy something at the store and get a shopping bag, she wants one as well, and when I’m cooking, she has to be perched on a stepladder completing a menial task right next to me. All of this is very sweet, because I know it won’t last. It’s only a matter of time before she’ll call me “lame” or “totally lame” or “really, fucking lame.” I know the day will come where she’ll run into the house without even as much as a “hello” and haul ass to her room to IM her friends (or whatever means of instant communication they will have around ten years from now).
In the interim, however, I have the enormous task of trying to explain difficult subjects in ways that she will find palatable without defaulting to the chicken-shit behavior I displayed while passing the furry lump of rodent guts festering in the road.
Some of the subjects I know I’ll come across in the next few years will be things like sex, particularly the first time she walks in on her parents having sex. We all did it, and no matter what your age, background, or how much you fancy yourself an open-minded person, the idea of your parents fucking is the most disgusting thought that could ever cross your mind. When that Pam Anderson/Tommy Lee sex tape was all the rage, my mother made a remark that not everyone could be okay with it, and while most of us found it amusing, I guarantee that their two sons will get nauseous whenever one of their smartass friends bring it up. I don’t care if your parents look as good as Tommy and Pam, there is no way to burn that image out of your mind once you see it, and therapy won’t help a damn bit.
Homosexuality is another topic that my daughter will undoubtedly have questions about, and that one could be a little sticky. We aren’t homophobic, right-wingers or anything like that, but it’s one of the subjects that my husband and I don’t really see eye-to-eye on. My position is that there’s nothing wrong with being gay, you are born that way, and that’s all there is to it. If you want to get married, fine by me, you have every right to spend the day pissed off because your sloppy spouse left the cap off the toothpaste, or deposited their socks on the floor instead of in the hamper. However, my husband has a more conservative view, so I guess that’s something we will have to work on the first time the little one comes home and ask why her friend has two mommies or daddies.
Bratz dolls; I fucking hate them. In fact, I would rather buy my daughter a dozen Barbies than one of those bastard Bratz. Rachael has pointed them out in the store and I’ve already started with my own version of anti-Bratz rhetoric. I tell her that those are bad dollies, and that she is too good to play with something stupid like those bad dollies. Any dolls that are supposed to replicate toddlers and include makeup, belly shirts, and big, pouty, “come hither” lips are nothing that my kid will own. Pedophiles everywhere might be jerking off with glee holding a variety of Bratz dolls in their free hand, but my hard earned dollars aren’t going to advance the cause of sexualizing little girls.
I’m sure these few things are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to topics that I’ll have to come up with a reasonable explanation for. I won’t take any of these subject matters lightly, because I know that my impressionable child will carry this opinion with her well into her 20s and possibly longer. Hopefully, I’ll do a good job and raise an independent-minded woman with the ability to think for herself, use her high esteem to make her dreams come true, and be quick to respond to those who are close-minded and oppressive with their beliefs. If not, then I’ll have to use my early retirement account to pay for her therapy, but either way, she’s covered.
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