Stepford Annoyances

Aside from my own mental issues living in this Stepford-like neighborhood, I am basically happy with things in my tiny pocket of the Pacific Northwest. Lately, however, my replica of Wisteria Lane has me quite annoyed with a few things.

I’ve got the most spoiled, pansy-assed garbage men in the world. When you apply for a job in the State of Washington, there is usually something within that job description that clearly gives a requirement as to the amount of weight you have to be able to lift in order to work that job. For example, as an event manager, I had to be able to lift 40 lbs. due to all of the crap I’m required to schlep during an event. One would think that a citizen who applies for a job hauling trash might deduce from the get-go that they could safely be required to lug at least 50 lbs.

This must not be the standard for the company that does the garbage for our neighborhood, because since we’ve moved into our house we get these notes claiming that our bucket is too heavy for them to haul. It’s not like we are a bunch of pigs that produce thousands of pounds of trash. We recycle avidly, breakdown our boxes, and upon eyeballing the other neighborhood cans, seem to have the same amount of garbage, but we will regularly pull up to the house after work on a Friday evening and find our full trash can hanging out, unemptied. We place our can right at the curb, and the garbage truck pulls up next to the curb, where does the hauling come in?

We had to pay an extra $7 to have a can of trash hauled away after it stunk up our backyard for a week, because the garbage company refused to take it away. At times like this, I wish I was living in New Jersey or New York where the mafia runs the garbage collection. If my full can kept appearing at the curb, I could at least take a batch of my Great Grandma Costantini’s amazing lasagna to the capo and get the trash collected properly. Here, I have to pay an extra fee after placing a half a dozen phone calls. This isn’t a big crisis issue; it’s just a slight thorn in my ass that I have to deal with.

The other thorn that happens to be costing me money is the summer wave of vandalism. I was a teenager many moons ago, and I know it’s kind of fun to do random acts of senselessness to make life in boring suburbia a bit more interesting. However, destruction of property that results in higher homeowners association fees is not cute, just obnoxious.

Since I am a good person here to fulfill a community service of some sort, I will now illustrate scenarios of appropriate summertime vandalism. Bad Vandalism: a bunch of little assholes completely trashed the sprinkler heads in the common area, and now they all have to be replaced. This won’t be cheap and will cost everyone in the neighborhood money.

Good Vandalism: the other morning when I was driving to work, I saw a house completely and quite methodically covered in toilet paper. The sprinkler head destruction was just stupid and unnecessary, but the t.p. job was a sheer work of art. They covered every inch of the front lawn with a layer of toilet paper the same way a skilled carpenter would hang wallpaper. Had I not been in a hurry to get to work, I would have snapped some pictures, because no teenage toilet papering prank that I did ever came close to this. Sure, the clean up will be a bitch, but it won’t cost the rest of the neighborhood any money. Again, a perfect example of good vandalism.

Some of the other minor irritations include fireworks, neighborhood speed driving, and removal as Social Committee Chair. The 4th of July was nearly a month ago, and almost every night my neurotic cockerdoodle freaks out, because one of the little neighborhood bastards is shooting off a ration of loud firecrackers. Of course, this happens just as I’m in that sweet moment between awake and asleep, where you’re just ready to drop off into a delightful dreamy coma.

The tweens and under 16s set off the fireworks, while their older, licensed siblings drive through the neighborhood like they’re street racing. I’m a lead foot by nature, but even I slow down in my neighborhood for fear of hitting a random kid. Jeff and I were walking the dog and the girl to the park one night, and when he saw some girly racing up the street, he stood out in the middle of the road until she came to a complete stop, then verbally abused her into slowing down, completely unaware that had she not hit the breaks, he would have been a bloody hood ornament. It’s times like these that I know exactly why I married my man.

I have officially been removed as the neighborhood Social Committee Chair, and I have no idea why. Not that I give a rat’s ass, because it’s one less thing that I have to focus my limited amount of energy on, I just wonder how that decision came about. I know I don’t fit in here, because I lack the fake social skills and proper Katie Couric hairstyle, but last year’s 4th of July BBQ was well organized. Oh well, I’m not willing to be more chipper, attend Bunko night, or get the Katie in order to be Social Committee Chair, so I’ll just have to make fun of the women who do. Life in Stepford may barely be interesting, but it is always slightly annoying.

Unleashing the Dragon

If you've ever been the little guy, you know that the moment someone fucks with you, you have two choices: you can either play the lovable clown and take the abuse all the while convincing everyone it doesn't bother you, or you can go completely psycho kicking some serious ass and laying down a precedent that if anyone fucks with you again, you will fight them to the death.

I'm a 4'11" punk who grew up on the wrong side of town, and I know this predicament quite well. I have never had the "off the cuff" sense of humor that would allow me to take advantage of option one, so that pretty much left me with kicking ass behind Door Number Two.

Right now, the world is in fervor, because Israel is pursuing Door Number Two. I guess they are completely fed up with the clowning at Door Number One. Do I like the fact that Israel is engaged in an all-out war right now? Nope. Do I rest easy with the idea that a place like Lebanon and the Lebanese people are being devastated? Not really. Do I agree with the world's call for restraint? Absolutely not!

The glaring fact, that the world, particularly the United Nations and the European Union, seems to be conveniently overlooking right now, is that Hezbollah started it. They crossed an internationally recognized border, not like one of the borders we have in the U.S. where it's just a wooden sign that says "Welcome to Nebraska", a border with armed military and fences. They kidnapped two soldiers; an act that was clearly meant to provoke a conflict. Given the end result of most Muslim extremist group kidnappings, it’s only a matter of time before we see those boys decapitated brutally on some webstream, and this is on everyone’s mind, particularly Israeli officials.

When Israel bombs a place, they go in first with leaflets, that's right, little notes that basically tell citizens when the planes will be flying by to bomb and that it would be wise for residents to haul out of there. In all of the history classes that you sat through in school, have you ever heard of another country doing this before unleashing an assload of bombage?

I genuinely feel bad for the Lebanese people, because they have been through hell for nearly 40 years. Syria has basically tied their hands in a far more brutal and nasty occupation, that oddly enough, doesn’t get as much press or attention as the other supposed occupation. I guess when Arabs brutalize, kill and conquer other Arabs it’s perfectly okay, but when Jews try to live next to Arabs, it’s bad, bad, bad. I would like to see Lebanon restored to its former glory as the “Paris of the Middle East” where art and culture are allowed to lead society, but that won’t happen until all of the extremists are gone.

There have been civilian casualties, but I blame Hezbollah for the lion's share. They put their offices and operations in apartment buildings where families with children live to use them as human shields. What a group of cowardly pieces of shit they are! Now they want to do a prisoner trade like they are some sort of recognized government. They are a terrorist group, no different than Al Qaeda, and like Al Qaeda, Hezbollah is very well funded. Iran gives Hezbollah a budget of $100 million per year to operate. Given the living conditions of the average Arab in that part of the world, wouldn't that $100 million be better spent on schools, infrastructure, and looking after the well-being of the citizenry instead of trying to take out a country that is not going to be defeated? A portion of that money is allocated for just enough humanitarian aid to keep the people loyal, but the bulk of it is spent on trying to take Israel out.

This conflict has been a long time coming and given the fact that Iran is about two years away from having nukes, and Iran funds and arms Hezbollah, then Israel has no choice but to take Hezbollah out for good this time.

Israel has the right to exist, and they want to do it without all of this conflict, but extremists like Hezbollah won't let things be. If you knock a small punk in the back of the head in the school hallway on a regular basis, eventually he will turn around and kick your ass, and if you fuck with Israel, cross the border, kill its citizens, force over one million Israelis to live in bomb shelters, kidnap its soldiers, and lob thousands of missiles at its most populated cities, then you will unleash the dragon, and it will be your own damned fault.

Less than 24 hours after posting this, on Friday afternoon in Downtown Seattle, an armed gunman, identifying himself as a Muslim angry at Israel, got past security at the Jewish Federation of Greater Seattle, and shot six women working at the Federation. One is dead, three are in critical condition, and the other three were wounded (one of the wounded is 7 mos. pregnant). They haven't released the name of the woman who was killed, but there is a good chance I've met her, since I am active in the community. Some readers may fault my hardline stance when it comes to Israel, but this situation is the reality we live with on a day to day basis. Sure, there aren't always gunmen, but one of the biggest line item expenses at any Jewish elementary school in the United States is security for bulletproof glass on the windows, security camera systems, alarms, a fireproof saferoom, and armed security to patrol the schools. On a day-to-day basis, I don't think about the fact that I'm Jewish and I go about living my life, then there are days like this, when something really bad happens and it drives home the fact that there are people out there who hate me for what I am. Fortunately, I am proud, strong, and Jewish, and those who don't like it can just go fuck themselves. I'm sure my sisters at the Federation feel the same way, the sad thing is that there is one less of us who will be able to pass that amazing outlook on to her children, because she died today, hours before the start of the Sabbath.

Melanie Defends Melanie

The biggest thing to hit the news in the world of Kidome yesterday was that the way-too-perky Melanie Martinez from the PBS Sprout channel's Good Night Show was fired for some video that she did prior to her kid show gig.

When I heard this I couldn't wait to see the webstream figuring that she was fired for some really raunchy, sex-ridden, possibly anal related piece of trash worthy of praise by Larry Flynt, the kind of video that would scare the crap out of the conservative, family values types. What I found was our cheerful Melanie doing mock public service announcements suggesting tongue-in-cheek (couldn't resist the pun) ways for girls to keep their virginity.

She remarks in one of the videos that anal sex is a great way to keep your virginity, and “sure it might hurt a bit and your may walk funny the next day,” but you will still be a virgin. She delivers the ridiculous and hilarious message with her signature Melanie blend of smiley face and sunshine, while words scroll beneath her advocating anal. Like I said, it was really funny.

In the video, Melanie was fully clothed, didn't really use fowl language, and was, of course, way too friggin' happy, but that was it. She was filmed on, what looked like a school campus, but it was all outdoors, with no sleazy dorm room girl-on-girl action going on. It was the most uneventful, slightly disappointing thing I had seen in some time. I was in the mood for pure smut, and instead got some indie film, internet gag that you would email a friend or co-worker if their workplace firewall wasn’t too strong.

On one hand, I can understand PBS's need to uphold a standard of decency, but it's not like Melanie was trying to be the new Jenna Jameson. I've seen more obscene and disgusting things on Comedy Central and network television, but the difference is that now I will have to explain to my toddler why her "Mewny" isn't there to sing the "Good Night Song" to her. In fact, I'm pissed at the moron Sprout execs, because I used the "Good Night Song" as part of our bedtime routine.

Every company's dream is to work their product or program into the emotions and lives of viewers, and I complied this once, because it made getting the kid to bed a lot easier. Now those bastards pull the rug out from under me! I guess this proves, once again, that you can't trust corporations, especially ones that make stupid decisions.

Rachael liked it when Melanie did the “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” song, and loved it when she did the cheap and messy crafts. My toddler thought it was the funniest thing in the world when I told her that my name was Melanie, too. She looked at me, then looked at the Sprout Melanie, and when she put it together mentally, laughed and grabbed my boobs, which was very strange, but made my husband keel over with laughter. Rachael loved watching Melanie sing to her fish, so much so that we bought Rachael her own fish, but now this is all history, because of one tasteless gag internet video. C’mon Sprout execs, is it really worth the trouble?

After all, who knew it wouldn’t be a matter of time before some sort of skeleton came out of Melanie's past, because you can't be that wholesome and annoyingly perky without a bag of bones lying around somewhere. I hadn't quite anticipated the mediocrity of Melanie’s action, nor could have imagined the over-reaction on the part of PBS, but now I have to come up with an explanation for my toddler, and that really pisses me off.

If I had to send one message to Melanie, it would be to hang in there. The firestorm of this controversy will lead to an all-time high in your popularity, which means you're bound to get another gig very soon. If the other kids' stations won't touch you then you'll be perfect for a new show on the Fox Network. The only request I have, Dear Melanie, is that you lay off a little on the perkiness, or next time you appear on the news it will be because your "ray of sunshine" attitude has finally sent some poor parent off the deep end, and they will have just found your body in a ravine. Seriously, Sweetie, take some Valium or something.

Adventures at the Pool

Summer has finally come to Seattle, which is nice since its mid-July, and we’ve been spending a huge amount of time at the new aquatic center in Renton. Basically, the City of Renton built this amazing outdoor water facility with a two-story, curvy slide, an aquatic play area for the kids, a lap pool, a wave simulation pool, and anything else you can imagine.

The funny thing is that all of these other cities with better reputations don’t have anything that holds a candle to this place, yet they are so quick to pooh-pooh Renton as if it was some low class, hick filled, crime-ridden shithole place to live. Classism is amusing especially when it works in your favor in terms of cheaper housing prices, and better quality of life.

The season membership we purchased to the pool has been great, and as the mother of a bonafide water baby, I’m relieved that I don’t need to join a gym or hang out in our backyard hot tub to satisfy her aquatic addiction.

After repeated visits to the pool I have noticed a few quirks about the overall experience. First off, if you give a teenager a whistle, red swim trunks, and a floatation device that says “Lifeguard” on the front, you are asking for a major powertrip attitude especially from the head lifeguard with the bullhorn. Sure they may be younger, expert swimmers, and have trim waistlines, which are a few things up on me, but they still work this summer job for a touch over minimum wage.

In fact, these lifeguards kind of remind me of a few of the shift managers I worked with at my crappy, teenage, fast food job in high school. They had jobs that were mediocre at best, yet walked around as if they were the shit on a complete power trip. Most of the time I just look at them with the desire to say, “Go for it kid! Be the man, because when you get out into the real world you’ll have to do a hell of a lot more than look authoritative in designer sunglasses.”

The pool is mainly a family facility which is a good thing, because there are tons of kids, and I’m not the worst looking person in a swimsuit. In fact, I don’t look bad in comparison, which leads me to wonder where are the women we are supposed to look like? I’ve been to the pool a few times, and I’ve seen the “ideal” body on two women, and they weren’t really women, but girls about the age of 15. Most of the ladies in my age range were like me. We could all use a few spirited days at the pool, and many of us have pasty skin (a Seattle thing), but even the women who were thinner were just average. The great thing about it is that none of us seem to care about how we look in the suit; we just want to have fun with the kids.

I’m not letting the guys off the hook either. The bulk of the men my age have the signature Seattleite pasty colored skin, and are already working on that potbelly. There are the attractive young bucks with G.Q. looks, perfectly ripped abs, and full heads of hair, but they are in their teens or early 20s, and always call me “ma’am”. Not that much of a turn-on, but they are really fun to look at.

My experience at the pool is mostly positive except for those selfish bastards who spread their crap over four or five pool chairs and don’t use them relegating my stuff to a vacant area on the grass. I also get annoyed by those bratty little boys who are about 8-10 years old and completely oblivious to little kids. They pounce through the wave simulation pool mowing over everything in their wake. Thankfully, the teenage lifeguard with the bullhorn is right on their case with a verbal reprimand that would put any teacher and most pacifist parents to shame.

My husband figured out that we would have to go to the pool at least 13 ½ times to make the purchase of the season pass worthwhile, so every weekend for the next two months, and some weekdays we will be visiting our local aquatic center, and all should be well, unless one of those lifeguards decides to turn the bullhorn on me. After that, I can’t make any promises.

Are You a Hot Mom?

The Today Show wasted five minutes of the world’s time asking the all important question: are you a hot mom. The segment featured some valley girl type who had written about book, considered the “guide to,” being a hot mom, and a hip hop fashion editor. They did some bashing of mommies who had the nerve to wear sweatpants, and talked about how moms had to step it up in terms of fashion in order to feel complete. Finally, the piece ended with the mandatory makeover of three moms, only one of which had a child over the age of two (her new look was ridiculous, by the way).

On one hand, I’m happy that our society has begun the cultural dialog of acknowledging that just because a women has children doesn’t mean she becomes asexual. However, I’m not at all comfortable with the idea that, as a mother, my sexuality is being defined by 20-something, single men. Ever since the movie American Pie brought the “MILF” (mom I’d like to fuck) concept into the social arena, it seems that us mommies are being told that raising kids, keeping a home, doing laundry, working a job, driving the carpool, maintaining a spousal relationship, and trying to find at least a half a minute to focus on ourselves, pales in comparison to us working on trying to be sexy.

Most of us do have our sexy moments, but they don’t usually coincide with grocery shopping or giving the toddler their nightly bath. One of the benefits to becoming a mother is figuring out that the world is about more than just the superficial. You give birth to a human being who you are responsible for, and whether you are religious or not, that’s pretty damn spiritual. The majority of the mothers I’ve met become deeper people when their children are born, so why do we constantly have other women telling us that the most important thing we can do for ourselves is enjoy an expensive spa makeover?

I would love to roll out of bed, and in the one hour that I have to shower, get dressed, get my toddler dressed, fix breakfast, pack my lunch, put on my makeup, dry my hair, feed the dog, and get out the door in time to get to work, look like a fashion plate, but it’s not happening. On the occasion that I go clothes shopping, I get fashionable items that look good on me. I workout regularly, keep a healthy diet, and moisturize consistently, but as a mommy I’m not willing to give up a day at the pool with my toddler, because I don’t look as good in a bathing suit as a non-mommy chicky in her early 20s.

This latest hot mom trend has women who have given birth trying to compete with women who haven’t, which doesn’t make sense. Those of us who have given birth know that with mommyhood comes stretch marks, droopy boobs, wider hips, late nights and tired days. Our bodies change, and so do our priorities. Those of us who are fortunate enough to have great partners know that they find us attractive despite the aforementioned laundry list of motherhood war wounds. In fact, as long as we’re not too tired at night to put out, they are happy overlooking the fact that we aren’t on the cover of the latest fashion magazines.

It’s sad to think that the cultural marketing spin doctors are advocating that moms should only feel sexy if they happen to be jerk-off fodder for the young teenage guys in the neighborhood. This may make for fabulous plots on Desperate Housewives, but if you think about it in terms of real life, it’s kind of creepy and unsettling. We might give a high-five to Demi for hooking that young Ashton, but personally I like someone who can hold a conversation that reaches beyond the topics of the late night menu at Taco Bell and the mastery levels of the latest X-Box game.

I am a hot mom, but not by the standards of the so-called gurus on The Today Show. Sometimes after a hard day’s work, I like settling into the old pair of sweats and a t-shirt. I may not be able to sport the latest fashions and keep up with my childfree, 20-something counterparts, but I have more depth than they do. Most of all, I have the one thing that makes any woman, no matter who she is or what she looks like, sexy: confidence. I know exactly how to please my man, and I do it quite well without the striptease dance lessons, uncomfortably trashy, stiletto heels, Botox injections, or unsolicited advice from a pretentious bitch with a book and a hip hop fashion editor.

That 30-Something Chick with Braces

There are many things I never wanted to be. I never wanted to be that stereotypical suburb dweller with a perfect husband, two kids and a dog; instead I turned out to be that a-stereotypical suburb dweller with a nicely imperfect husband, one kid and a dog. I never wanted to be a housewife, so I went back to work when Rachael was 18 months to avoid losing my mind. I never wanted to be just that normal, average person, and now I realize there is nothing normal about me whatsoever. Most of all, I never wanted to be one of those 30-something chicks with braces.

I managed to get away with this up until last Tuesday when I found myself lying down in a padded chair staring up at the grated light fixture while an orthodontist in funny glasses affixed metal brackets to each one of my pearly white teeth. Four days later, I am counting the days until these damn things come off. Right now, I’ve got 11 months and 26 days left, and it’s going to be one long year.

My teeth have never been an issue, because my top teeth, the ones that you see when I smile, were straight. It was the bottom row that was crowded and unsightly. I managed to deal with it for most of my life, and then three years ago I had my wisdom teeth pulled. Most people have their wisdom teeth pulled in their late teens/early 20s, but I was a chicken shit, and had heard too many stories about the tremendous amount of pain. I finally braved up and had them done after giving birth to Rachael, because compared to labor pains, nothing, and I mean nothing, could ever come close to that pain.

I thought the loss of four teeth in the back of my mouth would free up some extra space. I believed my lower teeth would become less crowded, because now there was room to spread out. Unfortunately, the opposite happened, and the crowding became worse. Eventually, I began to experience jaw pain and would routinely end up biting the crap out of my lower lip compliments of my left protruding canine tooth. The dentist gave the verdict: the problem would only get worse unless orthodontics were applied.

It took me a couple of years to get this done, and now I have a very sore mouth that will probably set off the metal detector the next time I attempt airport security. The first day of my brace-wearing life I tried to find a decent smile. My old smile with the toothy grin exposed a row of metal brackets, so I attempted to resort to something close-lipped, however, concealing that much metal is no easy task. I finally had to say “fuck it” and just go with the full metal jacket grin, because frankly, when I try to smile with my mouth shut and conceal the braces, my lips are stretched so thin that I look like a frog.

The volume of my complaining could only be dwarfed by one sound: the growl of my stomach from surviving on a 95% liquid diet. In the morning, it’s steel-cut oatmeal that I barely have to chew, in the afternoon, its soup, and in the evening, it’s usually more soup. I have attempted to chew a few things, but due to the placement of one pesky bracket that meets one of my top teeth the wrong way, I have yet to master a jaw-grinding move that won’t have me yearning for a morphine drip.

The good news is that I’ve dropped five pounds. Snacking has gone by the wayside, because you have to do some intense rinsing and brushing after you eat, even if it’s just a bite of something. I have found myself looking at food and thinking it just isn’t worth the effort, which is something I have never done in my life. Everyone keeps telling me that I will get back to normal eating habits soon, but I don’t mind sticking with these for at least a few more pounds.

My braces have also thrilled my toddler tremendously. I was wondering how she’d react the first time I did the full metal jacket grin, and hoped I wouldn’t scare her. Instead she just looked, laughed, and yelled, “Mommy, you teeth are pwetty!” Then after doing a bit of poking around, she said wanted some for her teeth. I don’t have the heart to tell her that with her genetics, she has a darned good chance of ending up in the same chair just a mere four or five years from now.

Although I never wanted to be the woman with a grin full of metal, I am, and for the next 10-14 months, I will have to deal with mouth pain, tooth-shifting, figuring out how to get the dental wax properly on the troublesome brackets, all of the yummy food I can’t eat, gallons of soup and over-cooked pasta, brushing, rinsing, and more brushing and rinsing, and an occasional look from a younger woman as she’s thinking, Man, I’m glad I’m not that 30-something chick with braces.

Rachael - The Instant Mood Lifter

Life with a toddler is challenging, then a moment like this comes along when her only goal is to try on Daddy's tighty-whiteys, and all of the tantrums, late nights, power struggles, etc. seem to fall by the wayside. Thank goodness this one is a natural performer who loves to have her picture taken, or moments like this would just be confined to my head. 

Time for a Reality Check

Every now and again the citizenry of my country tend to go way off kilter and it takes someone unafraid and outspoken to give them a verbal bitchslap back into reality. As a way of contributing to the greater good of society, I will now be the giver of that bitchslap with an overdue reality check.

I’m grateful to the television gods for creating home improvement shows. They gave average Americans the ability to look at their dwelling in a new light, ditch the fugly ass wallpaper, and dream of daring colors for the living room, not to mention single-handedly reviving the slipcover industry. However, just because you have watched all of the seasons of Trading Spaces, doesn’t mean you have a degree from a design school or years of interior decorating under your belt.

When I’m at Target and happen to hear one woman harshly schooling another about the types of fabric clashing with the color of wood in her bedroom, and I look over to see the know-it-all wearing hospital scrubs, indicating that she is absolutely not making her living designing home spaces, I have to say something.

This phenomenon of average Americans thinking they are experts just because they have gained a little knowledge from television is really pissing me off. Construction workers and hairstylists after hours of Food Network viewing think they have the right to rake a poor waiter over the coals about how their ahi tuna steak is prepared, all the while quoting Rachael Ray incorrectly.

I’m glad people are learning new things, and I’m all in favor of one expanding their horizons, but just because you watched the last two What Not To Wear marathons doesn’t erase the fact that two years ago your closet was filled with holiday sweatshirts and stretch pants (excuse me, I mean leggings).

These shows are nothing new in terms of educating the public as to new social norms, fashion, and public behavior. Back in the early 1900s at the height of American immigration large, city newspapers often published sections about fashion, proper language, how to set up an “American” home, and a number of so-called helpful tips to encourage new citizens to abandon their old country ways and become proper Americans.

In a way, these shows do the same thing. On one hand, they give you great advice for refreshing your room on a budget with a bunch of do-it-yourself tricks, but what if just rearranging the furniture would do the same thing? Best of all, you wouldn’t have to consume! Maybe some of the things in your closet are a bit outdated, but as long as you have some basics, then there is no need to do a major clearing, send everything to Goodwill, and start over spending hundreds of dollars on clothing that will just end up in the show's Goodwill pile next season. Perhaps a new hairstyle and different shade of lipstick is all you really need.

The other thing that irks me about these shows is that they make people into artificial experts. Just because you drink wine a few times a week, doesn’t mean you are a sommelier, it means you might have a slight drinking problem. I have a friend who has been programming computer code for at least 15+ years. He is an expert on programming, and if I had a programming question then I’d probably wonder why my life had become so boring, then I’d ask him, because he’s an expert. However, I wouldn’t ask him about child rearing, because he isn’t a parent, and just because he’s seen a few shows about kids on TLC doesn’t mean he is in any sort of position to give advice.

Most of those designers, chefs, interior decorators, and other so-called experts are people whose work the majority of us find a bit hideous. If I answered my door tomorrow, and Doug from Trading Spaces was standing there, I’d sick my fat, lazy cockerdoodle on him and look for a sharp knife while hiding my throw pillows. My bedroom may be far from perfect, but the shit he does is unforgivably bad. Sure there are times when I wouldn’t mind Trini and Susannah’s input in the dressing room, or Emeril’s beef rib rub recipe, but I’m happy doing what I do and knowing what I know. Just because I made Martha Stewart’s Six Layer Chocolate Truffle Cake doesn’t make me a pastry chef, but it was might tasty.

The Death of Originality

The millionth remake of Superman is in theaters now, only to be dwarfed by the sequel to Pirates of the Caribbean, and I have no desire whatsoever to haul my ass to the movies, spend $10 per ticket (and at least $10 more on popcorn my fat ass shouldn’t be eating) all to get an eye full of rehashed shit. What the fuck happened to originality?

I recently saw some non-CNN news channel doing this big expose on how women action heroes don’t work, because all of the films that have had women action heroes have been box office disappointments. They pointed out movies such as Elektra, Catwoman, and Aeon Flux. What they forgot to mention was all of those movies sucked ass, not because of the ladies involved, but because they lacked the one thing Hollywood hasn’t been able to come up with for a number of years: a decent plot. Jennifer Garner is a palatable actor and Charlize Theron and Halle Berry are Oscar winners, so this bullshit about them not stepping up is just an excuse for what really happened.

Lately, Hollywood execs think they can take one big successful movie and go cheap on the sequels and spin-offs. Sigourney Weaver kicked major ass in Aliens, and a fabulous pre-Brad Angelina gave a stellar performance in Tomb Raider, but those movies had a plot with originality. This lack of decent plot seems to be permeating throughout entertainment as a whole. Reality TV was cool for the first five minutes, now it’s just tired.

I’m sure that everyone out there is curious about how a real midget family lives their life and maneuvers the grocery store and soccer practice, but does it have to be an entire television series? A two-hour special on TLC or Lifetime would do the trick. People used to get sent away to fat camps or weight loss spas and it was a shameful thing that no one wanted to own up to, now it’s on primetime. I don’t care what Lil’ Kim did three weeks before she went to jail, I could give a rat’s ass about how Paris and Nicole hate each other yet still do their self-absorbed television crap, and at this point, I think a great deal of the intelligent people in this country would be in favor of kidnapping Mark Burnett, duct taping him to a chair, and beating him with a rubber hose.

Movies and reality TV are a bust at this point, and unfortunately, there is no bright light at the end of the sitcom tunnel either. I actually saw a preview for a show coming on one of the networks that follows a young bride and groom through their wedding day, for an entire season. Basically, the show from week to week will highlight nearly every hour leading up to their wedding. Who greenlighted this piece of shit! It’s called Big Day, and I predict that it will be a big flop, which is somewhat unfortunate, because I do enjoy Wendie Malick. I guess sometimes the money is just too good to pass up.

Of course there is a shitload of forensic cop, using science to solve a crime shows, they all look the same after awhile and none of them hold a candle to Law & Order, so whatever. I’m sure they will introduce plenty of comedies about a working class family with a fat, dumpy, stupid guy and his hot-looking, sharp-witted wife, and there will always be the ridiculous, mind-numbing bullshit from Fox. Thankfully, HBO exists or I’d have to consider junking the television and DVD player altogether.

Books tend to be drab these days as well. I’m bombarded with friends telling me I should check out the latest offerings in the Chick Lit genre, but I’ve never been into fiction. I’d rather read about real life, it’s far more bizarre and interesting. By the way, are there any older women out there who are a touch put off by the fact that they refer to fiction targeting women ages 45-60 as Hen Lit? It pisses me off, and I’ve got at least another decade before I’m in the Hen Lit age range.

In this world of re-hashed movies, boring television, and books that are the equivalent of pop music, I’m glad there are still independent magazines, the internet, and blogs. Creativity exists, but those who gatekeep our entertainment are looking in the wrong places. They are behaving like a bunch of pussies who are so scared of something edgy offending the masses that they continue to give us crap, add a plethora of special effects, and think we will actually be happy with it. I’m not, and I know a lot of others who aren’t content either.

For now, all us creatives and those who enjoy originality will have to do a little work to have our brains stimulated. We will have to make an effort to watch the Independent Film Channel, look to indie zines for good reading, fall back to some of the classic novels, if need be, and TiVo our favorite HBO shows. Hopefully, all of this regurgitation will disappear soon, and if not, then I’ll be hiding in my room with my copies of BUST magazine anxiously awaiting the season premier of Big Love.

Patriotism

On the eve of the annual celebration of our initial independence, I feel the need to respond to the issue of patriotism. Since September 11, 2001, we’ve had a message of patriotism shoved down our throats. Unfortunately, this message seems to be the antithesis of what patriotism is about.

Patriotism, as I see it, isn’t that guy driving a Ford or Chevy pickup truck with an American Flag (made in China) flapping out of one window with “Support Our Troops” yellow ribbon magnets (also made in China) decorating the ass of his gas guzzling vehicle with music by that dipshit, Toby Keith, blasting from the CD player. This is the image of patriotism that most Americans have been handed by the media for the past few years, and it couldn’t be more wrong.

When the founders of this country decided they were tired of dealing with someone else’s laws, they struck out on their own, and created this country based on a democratic philosophy that, even, they believed would be impossible to keep. By creating a constitution guaranteeing unprecedented freedoms, they were acting as renegades giving the finger to those who would tell them what to say or think. Sure, their motivations might have been due to legal tax evasion or property rights, but Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, and Benjamin Franklin were staunch individualists. It is ironic to think that by today’s standards, these guys would be considered political liabilities, because they said exactly what was on their minds.

Our country was founded on the principle that as long as your lifestyle was legal and didn’t hurt anyone else, that you should be able to do it without fear of persecution. On that note, it makes me sick to think of what the word “patriotism” stands for today. All of these dumbfucks, who mostly reside in the Red State Midwest, seem to think that speaking out against the government is a violation of the spirit of patriotism. However, it is our ability to speak out that makes us patriots.

I’m a better patriot than the idiot I described driving the pickup truck with the annoying fiddle music blaring, because although I criticize the country that I live in, I’m also willing to do my part to change it. Following blindly is not patriotic, it’s just stupid. I love my country, and because I love my country, I am willing to acknowledge that my country has faults, it isn’t perfect. Nothing run or established by humans is, and therefore in order to create a more perfect union, it is the obligation of all who consider themselves patriots to point out the flaws and come up with ideas for fixing this country’s shortcomings.

Any asshole who forks over $4.99 at Wal-Mart can get an American flag and hang it in the rear window of their car, but a true patriot would boycott Wal-Mart, because they take advantage of fellow Americans by paying low wages, and encourage their employees to apply for entitlement programs needed to aid families in crises rather than pay healthcare benefits.

A few days ago, the Supreme Court stepped forward to uphold the Constitution and tell the Bush Regime that they couldn’t expand executive powers and violate the fuck out of the Geneva Convention. They stood firm and upheld the Constitution’s system of checks and balances, which is an excellent way to usher in this 4th of July. Whether you are a Bush supporter, or wish that his trip to the Ford Theater would have ended the same way President Lincoln’s did, you have to appreciate the fact that our democracy; albeit on life support for the past six years, still can come up for air and make things right when it needs to.

I’m proud to live in a country where I can write whatever the hell I want to and actively protest the government with only a mild fear that after one too many dead president remarks, the feds will knock on my door or tap my phone. I’m also resolved in my ability to evoke my first amendment rights and say to those feds, “Go ahead, and tap my phones!” If they want to listen to several hours of my sister and I trading bitches about the way our mother raised us, then so be it. However, as a patriot, I will continue to shoot off my mouth, speak out against injustice and work to make this country the place I know it can be.

Camping Fantasy vs. Camping Reality

One of the reasons I write is due to the fact that I often find myself in interesting situations. I’m one of those people who happen to fall into experiences and places with very different groups of people, and instead of finding a way to bow out of these circumstances I just ride it out hoping to learn something. This weekend, we decided to go camping. Normal, right? Nothing to crow over…except we decided to go on an excursion organized by one of our Orthodox Jewish friends. Out of the 75 people camping, we were in the group of a dozen non-Orthodox. That didn’t matter to me, because I had this amazing camping fantasy where we’d all get along and be singing by the campfire, while leaving our lifestyle differences, and the stark reality of why they refer to camping as "roughing it" behind.

Of course, I’m a delusional, fucking idiot, but now that our excursion is over, I’ve learned a few things. Much like most of my experiences, the fantasy is always heads above the reality, but instead of shitting all over the weekend adventure, I will use it to pass on the knowledge I’ve gained.

Camping in Groups – I don’t like going camping by ourselves; what’s the point. If it was just going to be me, my husband and my kid, then we might as well pitch the tent in the backyard and save the gas money. Instead, we decided to join this Orthodox Jewish group who organized a yearly camping excursion. The upside was that we didn’t have to worry about food; everything had to be kosher so our $125 family fee covered everything except our personal stash of munchies.

The downside was that we were camping with Orthodox Jews, and from Friday night at sundown to Saturday night at sundown we were forbidden from doing anything that constituted work. At 8:00 PM on Friday night, after getting lost a few times, were racing against the clock, because we had to do the most important part of setting up camp: getting the air mattress blown up. Some sturdy, more experienced campers might be able to get a good night’s rest with just the sleeping bag stuffing separating them from the cold, hard Earth, but I'm so not one of those people.

Camping Accommodations – 1 small tent + 2 adults + 1 toddler + 1 dog + a queen-sized air mattress = the biggest fucking leg cramps ever. We did make it work, though, and the first night we got decent sleep and all was well. The second night was not to be as good. A sharp rock spelled the death of the air mattress and the singing around the bonfire made the neurotic dog go crazy. The toddler also decided to help the situation by telling everyone in the vicinity of our tent that she was hungry, and she wanted her star blanky, and telling Fozzy to “shut up” every time he barked, you get the picture. I spent two hours sleeping on the ground with a rock jammed into my spine, then finally resorted to the reclined front seat of the car for the rest of the evening.

Camping Buddies/Neighbors – You head out to a group camp hoping to meet great people who you’ll bond with and maybe strike up a tradition of doing yearly camping excursions together. The last people you want to meet are those obnoxious bastards who can’t shut up when you’re trying to sleep, wake up too early every morning, stay up too late every night, and just offend you every time you lay eyes on them. On this trip, we were those people!

We were kitty-corner from a tent occupied by an Orthodox rabbi, his very Orthodox wife and their five or six kids. They hated our guts, and proceeded to give us the stinkeye all weekend. The thin material that makes up the walls of the tent couldn’t quite muffle the vast amount of arguing between them about their misfortune in choosing a spot next to us. Oh well, you can’t please everyone.

Camping Attire – I packed enough clothing for Jeff, Rachael and I for four days, which was a complete waste of time, because you spend your entire camping trip wearing the same socks and jeans. Admit it! Your best intentions of keeping up normal hygiene go straight out the window the moment you realize that trying to change without getting really cold or bug bitten to death or being seen naked just isn’t possible.

A few other things I’ve learned is that taking a dog camping is a good idea, unless he’s a neurotic cockerdoodle with separation anxiety. Unless you are all 18 years old, drunk, and horny, cramming four bodies into a two-person tent just doesn’t work. I learned that pissing someone off so badly that they don’t even talk to you is still funny no matter what age you are, and mostly, I learned that the best part of camping is coming home to a nice warm shower, and a cozy bed.