New Opportunities in the Right-Wing Era

14 years ago I spent four hours locked up in a jail cell in Idaho, because I had the nerve to take part in a protest against a militant anti-choice group who was trying to block the entrance of a Planned Parenthood. I sat there paranoid rehearsing the call to my parents, when I was thankfully bailed out by the guy who worked for the ACLU. Soon after, a law was passed that made militant anti-choicers stand a certain distance away from the clinic entrance, and all was well. Until yesterday, when the Supreme Court decided that the old law wasn’t good enough, and crazy-assed, bible bangers should be allowed to verbally abuse scared women while shoving poster boards of aborted fetuses in their face.

I could get mad about this situation given the recent ruling in South Dakota, which the religious right will inevitably use to ban all abortion in the U.S., but instead, maybe I should start thinking like a neo-con, capitalist, “my dollar is worth more to me than a family in need” Republican and see this legalized harassment as a positive move. In fact, this action, and the ones that are guaranteed to follow under Justice Alito/Scalia/Roberts will create new and exciting jobs like the following:

Dead Fetus Product Designer – After a lifetime of being fed messages that they are only worth the sex they can provide to men, a few little whores have gone and gotten themselves pregnant, and now they want to abort those precious gifts from G-d. As a Dead Fetus Product Designer, your duty is to make sure these little tramps know what they’re giving up, and that they’re going to Hell for it. Bumper stickers, t-shirts, buttons, thermal coffee mugs, and of course, the over-sized protest poster board, all need good quality, dead fetus pictures blazing across them. Search the web for a few barbaric medical photos (whether they are the result of an abortion or not), then throw them into PhotoShop, add some extra blood, maybe a tear in the dead child’s eye, and you are in business! As a Dead Fetus Product Designer, you can be creative. How ‘bout a dead fetus backpack for the kids or dead fetus gift bags for those Secret Santa clubs at church. Sky’s the limit in this new and creative career!

Clinic Snitch – Angered that some doctors might actually be giving their female patients the information they need? Then this new career as a Clinic Snitch is just what you’ve been waiting for. Spend the afternoon pretending to read the latest issue of Cosmo in a comfortable, climate controlled waiting room, while faking an appointment. As women come to the doctor, you can take their descriptions, license plate number and car information, and if you become a proficient Clinic Snitch, might even be able to strike up a conversation and get their first name. After gathering the information, you turn it over to their employer, spouse, clergy member, and anyone who you think might be interested in knowing that the tramp may have been inquiring about reproductive health care. After all, her body is only hers until she might be carrying one of G-d’s precious gifts.

Black Market Condom Dealer – It will start with abortion, Plan B, and other forms of birth control, but as soon as you can say, “The bible tells me so”, any form of sperm restriction will be outlawed in this new and improved U.S. of A. This is your golden opportunity to cash in by trading in the hottest new market; condoms. Those little suckers used to be given out at schools, then society found its “moral compass” once again, and the only people who need condoms are fornicators. Take advantage of their sin by hording condoms now, so that when they are taken away as the last form of birth control, you can charge $5 a pop! If those whores who fornicate want to throw away their virtue, they are going to have to pay heavily to do it, and you’ll be able to reap the guilt-free rewards.

I jest about all of this, but how fucking scary is it. I guess since young women have had these privileges all their life they operate under a belief that abortion and choice will never be taken away from them. To my little sisters out there who think that they will always have this freedom, welcome to this dark, new world. Abortion is going to be outlawed in the next two years in the majority of the U.S., Plan B will become increasingly unavailable, and companies will turn and look the other way when some low-level pharmacy assistant refuses to fill your prescription, because it goes against his religious beliefs.

These issues are no joking matter, but I have the feeling that it will take something as drastic as having our choices snatched away from us, before some gals figure out that the vote they cast for Bush/Cheney wasn’t such a good idea. Clinton might have fucked up here and there, but his love of pussy kept him from doing away with any sort of birth control. I can respect that way more than I can respect anyone claiming that they are doing divine will by limiting the choice for a group of people who make up 56% of the population of this country. Regime change across the board anyone?

You Can't Have it Both Ways

All my life I’ve harbored a healthy hatred of hypocrisy, particularly when it comes to politics, culture and society, so it’s disturbing to me that lately there are those who are, in power that want to have it both ways.

Recently they passed a law in South Dakota banning abortion in all cases except if the mother’s life is in danger, which means they think women are nothing more than sperm receptacles, unless of course they might die, then it be somewhat necessary to save the uterus incubator or the state will get sued. Basically, if an innocent 14 year old girl is violently thrown down on the floor of a basement bathroom, beaten bloody, and raped by a beer-swilling uncle, despite her already traumatized state, she has to carry the baby to term in middle school. Thank you legislators of South Dakota for pushing an ultra right-wing agenda that permits the cruel and unusual punishment of 14 year olds who had the nerve to be born with vaginas. I wonder when they will begin issuing burqas in South Dakota?

The thing about this law is that it is only a matter of time before South Dakota starts bitching about how embarrassed they are by their incest and rape statistics or that there are too many teens in their fine state having babies, which leads me to another “you can’t have it both ways.”

Hey geniuses in the Bush Administration, stop telling young people, especially girls, that sex is bad and abstinence is the way to go, when all you do is provide corporate welfare to companies that use sex to sell everything. You can’t have a cultural message that screams, “Girls, your only sense of worth is based on the sex you provide to men,” then demonize these girls when they act based on the messages they are overwhelmed with.

If the government was really into pushing abstinence, they would halt tax breaks for companies that used sex to sell their products. This isn’t censorship, because companies such as Calvin Klein, Abercrombie & Fitch, and Bacardi could continue to do their brand of dry hump advertising, they just wouldn’t be able to use my tax dollars to pay for the half-naked, underage looking models.

Another thing that is bugging me is something I grew up with in my former state of residence, Idaho. Idahoans would constantly vote Republican. Satan could be on the ballot in Idaho and would be elected as long as he had an (R) behind his name. Then the dumbshits would bitch about the fact that all the laws favored employers over workers, and that the rich seemed to get richer, while working folks could barely make a living. Ya think!

The whole rich getting richer in this country is another situation where you can’t have it both ways. What are the Bush families of America thinking by widening the gap between rich and poor, eliminating the middle class, and creating an enormous base of direly poor, starving people. Are those rich motherfuckers completely ignorant of world history? We’ve seen this uber-wealthy/starving class scenario played out before in Russia, China, France, you name it! The Bush family should have been shaking in their boots at the site of all of those ultra poor people gathered outside of the Superdome after Katrina went down. Did King Bush ever read about another wealthy and influential ruling dynasty family called Romanov? They wound up in the woods, murdered execution style by the fantastic Bolsheviks. You can’t create such a divide between the rich and poor, it never works, and FYI to the rich, you end up dead.

I’m not saying that I’m infallible when it comes to minor acts of hypocrisy; I’ve found myself as a mother, uttering the line “because I said so.” However, I don’t make laws that affect millions of people and set a standard in society that others are forced to live by. This entire administration seems to want to say one thing, and then do another, and it’s horrifying, especially when they have dittoheads on talk radio convincing people that the Bush regime has their best interests at heart.
I’ve been hoping for the past six years that people in this country will wake up and realize that the Bush family could give a fuck less about the average American, but I didn’t know the degree to which my fellow countrymen lacked basic knowledge. I mean, I’m just flat in awe of how fucking stupid Middle America is. These are the same people who bitch about it costing $45 to fill up their pickup or minivan, yet they have a Bush ’04 sticker in their back window.

I don’t want to completely fault the Republicans, because we all know that Republicans will always choose money and power over the well-being of people, that’s what they do. If I leave a cookie on the table, Fozzy will try to eat it, because he’s a dog and that’s what he does.

The Democrats who were supposed to be the great opposition have fallen as flaccid as a pre-Viagra penis, when it comes to standing up against the hypocrisies. Where was the fucking filibuster for Alito? I guess we should tell the Democrats that you can’t have it both ways either. You can’t present yourself as they great opposition, the party of the people, and then do nothing against laws and measures that will directly affect the people you are supposed to be protecting.

Then again, to the people, you can’t have it both ways. You can’t keep electing the same person to the same congressional or senatorial position term after term and expect them not to get caught up in the Washington D.C. pissing contest. Regime change across the board anyone?

The Vanillification of America

A few months ago I heard a neo-con radio broadcaster announce that he was not going to visit another country until he had been to every state in the U.S. It was a proud assertion on his part, and I’m sure it made him feel uber-American, but looking at the changing landscape of this country, the lameass’ statement seems absurd at best.

Tonight we hit a very mediocre Mexican restaurant chain for dinner. Normally we would go somewhere better, but we had a coupon, and much like fasting on Yom Kippur, if Jews have a coupon, they feel intensely obligated to use it. We thought we’d be able to walk into this average, ‘found in the parking lot near the mall,’ eatery and get in right away, instead there was a 30 minute wait, and a line from here to Tuesday.

All I could think was how sad this scene was. We were there to save money, because the previous night we had been out on a date and hit a posh place in Downtown Seattle that was a bit pricy. I didn’t feel too bad about trying the chain, because after all, I was the one not doing the cooking. Basically, I could justify the presence of my family, but what about the droves of other people waiting to eat extremely mild salsa, and average fajitas.

This trend of settling for average seems to have swept our culture like a bad combover. In just about every city from huge to tiny, you can find an Applebees, a Gap, and a zillion other look-alike chains that continue to make the façade of the American landscape the same. Earlier this year I visited a Podunk town in Tennessee, and found it very refreshing simply because I was able to eat at an unusual place that happened to sell deep-fried frog legs served by chain smoking waitresses.

Not all chains are bad. I like local chains like the Dick’s Drive-Ins and Kid Valley burger joints in Seattle, the In-And-Out burger joints in California, and the Moxie Java coffee houses in Idaho. I used to think it was kind of quaint that McDonalds was everywhere, but I never thought that by the time I was 30 every major store and restaurant would be like McDonalds. I’m now wondering why people are willing to accept this mediocre standard.

Jeff and I frequent locally owned businesses as much as possible for a few reasons; when it comes to food, they do it better. If I walk into a Chinese restaurant, especially in the Seattle area, and I don’t see one Asian person working or eating there, that’s like having a big, flashing neon sign that says, “Shitty Chinese right here!” The same goes for Mexican food. Tonight our waitress said her name was Juanita, but I grew up with a lot of Hispanic chicks and this was hands down the whitest looking and sounding Juanita I’ve ever met. Come to think about it, all of the waitresses had Hispanic names, yet they all sounded like they were from The Valley. I’m not accusing this chain of some sort of weird fraud, but it may be something the Seattle Weekly or The Stranger might think about looking into.

Some of the other reasons Jeff and I like local places is, because they give you a better deal. If they do raise their prices, you don’t feel so bad about paying for the increase, because your taxes just went up, too. The owners actually get to know your name, and what you like, and that’s rare. I hate having someone cut my hair who doesn’t remember me. I like calling to make my bi-monthly nail appointment and having the shop owner recognize my voice the moment I say “Hi, do you have anything available at 10:30 tomorrow morning?” I like driving around looking at something other than TGI Fridays, Wal-Mart, and Tony Roma’s; I don’t care how famous for ribs they are.

Corporations try to point out the positive side of this divide and conquer mentality claiming that it brings jobs to formerly quaint and individual towns, but those jobs are usually shitty, minimum wage, dead end jobs with no benefits. 50 people are now employed instead of 15, but no one in the big organization really gives a fuck about those 50 people no matter what the training videos say, and if those 50 people were to fall on hard times and couldn’t make it to work, they would be replaced by another 50 people.

I’m just wondering how we ended up thinking that trading our identity for a Target or Starbucks was a good idea, and how far it will go. Perhaps this is how far it will go, because there are like-minded people out there who are sick of looking at the same shit in each town. They appreciate knowing a proprietor by name, and giving their hard-earned money to someone local even if it means paying just a little more. Plus, it seems that the large corporations out there have bought out every competitor, so there’s no one left to kill.

Next time I’ve had a tough day, I don’t care if the coupon says “two entrees for one”, I’m going to skip the lure of the boring-ass chain, because I’d rather make my family eat tuna melts for the fifth night in a row then sell a little piece of my soul to Corporate America. They already own enough of my ass; they don’t need my appetite as well.

Farewell Mother Betty

Fellow readers, I have bad news. Betty Friedan, the mother of second wave feminism passed away two weeks ago on her 85th birthday. If you happen to follow feminist media, you already knew this, but unless you clicked on MSN.com shortly before midnight on Feb. 4th, this piece of news probably slipped by. It’s been two weeks, and the media attention I expected for the woman who first posed the question, “Why can’t women have a say in their own destinies?” has been absent.

Maybe it’s due to the fact that she died within a few days of Martin Luther King’s widow, who was an amazing woman in her own right. Perhaps the excitement over the Olympics overshadowed the death of the woman, who in the heyday of The Feminine Mystique caught a world of shit for stating that not all women are cool with getting married, having kids, and living their lives as suburban housewives. Either way, I’m more than a bit pissed at the lack of even just one measly CNN retrospective about Betty’s life.

I’m also surprised at the lack of attention given the fact that there are more women working in the media now than there ever has been. Maybe we should all inform our sisters in media jobs that one of the reasons they are able to collect their 401K benefits is due to Betty raising a ruckus. Nowadays it’s nothing for a woman to proclaim that she has the right to choose a career over family, or decide to be happily married, but childfree, but in the ‘60s when Betty first started voicing her opinion, it was very uncool. That uncoolness often translated into threats of violence, and public hostility.

Let me put it in perspective. Prior to Betty, women who felt unhappy about their lives or felt unfulfilled just being known as some guy’s wife and some kid’s mom were told that the feelings they had were all their own fault. If a woman was unhappy with her marriage, it was her fault. If a woman felt her life could be more than driving the kids to softball practice and making costumes for the school play, she had a mental problem. Before Mother Betty stepped in, women were pigeon-holed into a social role, and were told that if they weren’t happy in that narrow role, they were fucked up, and on top of that, should feel guilty for being fucked up.

Yet, the very act of speaking out against this social attitude and launching the entire second wave movement that allowed women to begin the fight for equal pay, advancement in the workplace, and respect in society, wasn’t worth a lousy Larry King Live featuring guests who knew Betty personally, while taking your phone calls. The Kingster, instead, thought it was more relevant to have a reunion with the cast of Growing Pains. What a crying shame!

I loved Betty for a few reasons, mainly that she was a mouthy Jewish broad who wasn’t about to back down. Even in her advanced age, I saw some sort of debate where she put one of the young, neo-con bucks from Fox right in his place, and by the look on the anti-choicer’s face, he wasn’t expecting it either. I like the fact that she chose to leave this life on her birthday, the very day she started her life 85 years prior. Like everything Betty did, coming full circle in something as basic as the lifecycle, was done so eloquently with precision and poetry.

I know there were criticisms against Betty by other feminists who claim that she didn’t champion the rights of lesbians as well as she could have, or that she seemed to soften a bit in her old age, but give Mother Betty a break; you fight the exact same fight, and only get a few yards rather than a mile, and it’s going to wear you down.

Sadly, Betty ended up passing away in a time where the highest court in the land is stacked to either overturn Roe v. Wade or restrict it so heavily that it might as well never existed. She died knowing that the majority of Bush voters were women, and those ladies who work the same jobs as their male counterparts are still being paid 12 cents less per hour. Betty had an amazing spirit, but as a fellow feminist, I wondered if during her last few years, she just got completely sick of fighting the same fucking fight. Women have so many new and different needs right now, and we can’t address any of them, because we still have to spend all of our time, energy, and financial resources keeping a woman’s right to choose legal. During the duration of my life, now going into its 33rd year, I have never known a time when abortion wasn’t in question, and that’s really pathetic.

I wish Betty could have left this world during a better time for women, when the future looked brighter, but she didn’t. However, I hope, on her deathbed, she was able to look around and realize that asking that simple question, “Why can’t women decide their own destinies?” gave all of the women who came after her amazing opportunities to make of their lives what they wanted. We are able to have a say in our own destinies, and although it’s unfortunate that I don’t speak for all women, on behalf of my like-minded sisters, I wish you a peaceful afterlife, Mother Betty. You will be missed.

Happy Valentine's Day

I’m not a fan of Valentine’s Day. It’s not because I don’t have anyone, I’ve been in a happy relationship for quite sometime. It’s not because he won’t get me anything, he would if I let him. I don’t like Valentine’s Day, because I can’t stand having my emotions marketed to me. Whether it’s love, hate, anger, or dissatisfaction; if I feel something, it should be genuine and not have a Hallmark-themed card related to it.

The first year we were together, Jeff took me to this very chic place that was expensive and located near a waterfall. The dinner was okay, and the scenery was invisible, because we were there at dark and no matter how many high-powered spotlights they tried to put out, the waterfall is still not showing up. As soon as we were back at our little apartment, I promptly informed my new husband about my adverse beliefs in Valentine’s Day.

I wasn’t spurned when I was younger, nor have some psycho-therapy bad memory association with Valentine’s Day. In fact, I’ve been known to drop a few of those grade school cards in Spongebob décor on the desks of my co-workers. What I can’t stand about Valentine’s Day is the way they seem to brand it as a “woman’s holiday,” threatening men that if they don’t produce the appropriate gifts (i.e. candy by See’s, a diamond by DeBeers, flowers by Telefloral, etc.) that their women are going to fly into a rage and make their lives a living hell.

When did all women become gift whores who are willing to torment the ones they love, because the bouquet they got at work wasn’t big enough? Confused and intimidated men flock into Victoria’s Secret completely convinced that whatever lacy pair of buttfloss they choose is going to make us happy and get them laid. Later that night, over an over-priced dinner (because all restaurants raise their prices on Valentine’s Day, even the ones that say they don’t) we are presented with said buttfloss and have to act all excited, so that we don’t offend our man. Unfortunately, hours later we are stuck wearing that uncomfortable shit when all we really wanted to do was get laid, too.

It’s all a vicious cycle that could easily be avoided if we all got back to the real meaning of Valentine’s Day, which is to express our love for the person we have the most affection for. Jeff and I celebrated Valentine’s Day by coming home from work and grilling steaks. We sat around as a family, had a nice dinner, and dove into the heart full of See’s candy that my mother-in-law sent Rachael. There’s nothing like being fed gourmet chocolate with sticky, messy toddler fingers. After dinner we put the kid to bed, and fell asleep watching the Olympics. Jeff did get me roses, but they were from Costco, so the whole Valentine’s evening cost us a whopping $15.

I know that in today’s busy world where couples barely get time to spend with their kids, let alone each other, Valentine’s Day serves as an excuse to be together. However, I don’t think that wanting to spend time with your mate should be enforced by a mass marketing idea. Jeff and I are busy people, but we go out of our way to have at least one night a month designated as a date night. We hire a babysitter, go out to dinner, catch a movie if it isn’t too late, and just have some great adult conversation. Usually, we don’t go anywhere fancy or spend tons of money, because the point of our date night is to be together, which should be the point of Valentine’s Day.

Let’s get real about Valentine’s Day, it’s a complete sham, and the best part of it is the day after when you can buy those yummy, fancy, heart-shaped boxes of chocolate for 75% off. You can also stock up on those grade school Valentines for your kids for next year’s Valentine’s Day as long as you can expertly guess which cartoon themes will still by in style 365 days from now. The dog is always happy the day after Valentine’s, too, because the heart-shaped dog treats are 90% off.

I’m making an official call for all out there to join me. Let’s boycott Valentine’s Day in exchange for a quality monthly date night. Let’s make all of our candy, flower and jewelry purchases the day or week after Valentine’s Day to get the deep discount. And for the love of G-d, let’s put an end to buttfloss permanently, because it is just too fucking uncomfortable to be anything close to romantic.

The Great Undie Hunt

It’s almost shameful to admit, but I’ve been wearing the same style of underwear since I was a teenager. I decided quite awhile ago that anything adventurous that had to do with underwear should happen when they were removed. Every year I would trek to the semi-annual Victoria’s Secret sale and get my yearly stash of panties. The patterns were different, but the style remained the same: 100% cotton, hi-cut briefs.

This past June, I decided to get my health in order and began a weight loss and exercise program. Many wonderful things have happened; I was able to dust off that pre-baby wardrobe and wear it again, my feet wouldn’t be killing me after wearing heels for an hour, and some self-esteem returned to my universe. All was well, however, I began to notice that as I shed pound after pound, my underwear was slowly making the ascent up my mid-section.

The other day I came to realize that my old standby undies had turned into granny panties. For the less educated when it comes to unmentionables, granny panties are the underwear that are worn well above the bellybutton. There are really only a few times where the donning of granny panties is acceptable; when you’re going on an all day hike and need the breathable cotton, during that time of the month, because the excess material holds your maxi perfectly, and if you are unfortunate enough to be set up on a date with a person that you know you will never want to fuck. Aside from that, granny panties are a big no-no for anyone under the age of 65.

The realization that I was wearing granny panties and not going on a trek to Mt. Rainier, and that I had been stuck in the same panty rut for more years than I cared to remember was enough for me to take my over-fabriced ass to the mall. Little did I know the cumbersome task I was about to partake in.

As a girl who has always been “a bit roomy in the hips”, covering my lower extremities has posed a challenge in our stick figure/skeletal chic-obsessed society. I don’t enjoy shopping for anything that has to cover the area from my mid-section to my ankles. Jeans, skirts, nylons, you name it, if it has to be pulled over my legs and ass; it’s not a joyous day in Mudville.

I thought underwear would be a no-brainer until I found myself staring, glassy-eyed at an enormous wall of panties. There were tons of different styles, sizes, colors, and materials. Much like a coward who feels the need to apologize for cartoons they had no part in creating, I wanted to retreat to my familiar hi-cut brief standby. I’m even ashamed to say that I grabbed three pairs of briefs decorated with bright flowers, but I stopped myself somewhere in the strapless bra aisle. I came for a new style of undie, and I wasn’t leaving until I had it!

Boy shorts have become quite popular. Basically these are underwear that hug your hips, and forego the elastic contouring around the ass. They looked really cute on the cream-colored torsos modeling the panties on the top shelf of the enormous panty wall, but when I tried to imagine them stretching across my bubble butt, the pleasantness didn’t translate all that well. I skipped past the thongs simply based on principle. As humans have evolved, we’ve modified our walk to keep our underwear out of our ass, so why would we want a thick, elastic strip riding high? This is a bridge we should have crossed years ago.

Bikinis are a consideration, but I wondered how comfortable they would be. As someone who has enjoyed the massive coverage provided by granny panties, could I transition to something cute and small with a tremendous lack of material? The bad part about choosing underwear is that it’s a crap shoot (sorry for the tasteless pun). You can’t try underwear on before you buy it, so you just have to examine it closely, be realistic about your body, and take a chance.

It took me two hours to shop for new underwear, how pathetic is that! I walked out with four new pairs, and hurried home to try them on. Jeff was there waiting with a smile, but like any woman who has to keep the façade of always looking fabulous going strong, I made him wait in the other room. The two pairs of low cut, somewhat boyshort style panties looked ridiculous. Thankfully, they were on clearance, so I relegated them to the short, top drawer of the dresser, perhaps I’ll break them out once I get down to my goal weight, or save up enough for liposuction. The bikini style looked far better and fit very well. I wore them, Jeff liked them, and this weekend, I’ll venture back to the enormous panty wall to buy a few more pair in a variety of colors.

Panty shopping is not for the weak, and although I was elated about my need for new underwear, changing styles was more than I bargained for. I’m happy I did it, because it helped break me out of a fashion rut. Of course it’s a rut no one would ever know about except my husband, and frankly the only time he ever cares about my underwear is when I’m in the process of taking them off.

Warning Labels

Since I was a young teenager I’ve made it a hobby of reading warning labels; first, because I have no life, and second, because I was once told that in order for a warning label to exist, someone actually had to do the very task for which the label warns against. When you consider that someone had to actually look at that little package of silicon beads you get in a plastic or vinyl product and think; Wow! They included a tasty snack, the “Do Not Eat” warning becomes pretty funny.

On the back of the can of spray-on whipped cream is a website called www.inhalant.org. This site has pictures of kids and warns parents about the dangers of inhalant abuse. I know huffing glue is bad, and I’m sure I’ll have to talk to Rachael about it someday when she comes home and tells me about the burnout kid in the back of the classroom who is always playing with his glue. Thankfully, inhalant.org will send parents an entire inhalant prevention kit, and gives them the warning signs of inhalant abuse. Given that the website is offered on the back of spray-on whipped cream cans, I would think a major sign of inhalant abuse would be finding a shit load of empty whipped cream cans hidden under the bunkbed.

On the back of the box of Vaginal Contraceptive Film it clearly states that it’s “For Vaginal Use Only,” which could possibly mean that at some point someone tried to eat it, stick it up their ass, or some guy tried to cover his penis with the sticky film paper mache-style. Again, this is pretty funny if you think about it.

The other things you are not supposed eat include inkjet cartridges for the printer (if you have trouble getting it off your hands imagine trying to clean your teeth), dental floss (the new spaghetti perhaps), Vaseline (less fattening than olive oil), crayons (unless you’re my crazy dog), and chapstick (I’m good on that one unless I get locked in my trunk for a week and I’m desperate). You might be able to eat a jar of Clinique’s Turnaround cream, because there isn’t a warning label against it. I guess they figure that their products are so pure that if you want an expensive topping on your cracker, go for shit, because the 20-something girl in the white lab coat at the mall will sell you as many jars as you want.

The warning label on candles tells consumers that the product will get hot, as does the warning label printed on the Starbucks coffee cup. I would put these labels in a special category called “duh,” if there wasn’t a reason for them to be there in the first place. I guess not everyone knows that a wax candle, when mixed with fire, can rise to a temperature causing it to melt. As for the coffee, it’s just a crying shame that had that woman not sued McDonalds for fulfilling her order and giving her hot coffee, Starbucks would be free to print an interesting factoid instead of the lame warning label.

One of my favorite warnings as of late is on some of the categories of personal ads on Craigslist. They are the ads that warn of “explicitly sexual content.” The webmasters are careful though, much like boarding an aircraft, they require you to answer three questions before you can see a variety of naughty bits. First, they want to know if you are at least 18, and even if you aren’t, can you lie about it for just one click. Second, they want to make sure that you understand that the next screen might contain explicitly sexual content. Why do you think I’m there in the first place! Finally, they want to make sure you are not bothered by explicitly sexual content. If I was, would I be there? And away you go, looking at a plethora of local weirdoes showing their schlongs for your amusement, and it's okay, because you’ve been thoroughly warned.

There is the good ol’ “Explicit Lyrics” warning on music, which was the music industry’s greatest new way to market music. When you were a kid you knew that buying the music with the “Explicit Lyrics” warning label was just like staring at a label that read “Buy this music, and your parents will hate it and all of the kids at school will think you’re bad ass.” What an amazing promotions tool! After that warning label became popular, I suspect that bands actually started swearing on a more frequent basis and talking about sex graphically just to get their music labeled.

I don’t think I’ll ever give up reading these warning labels, because it’s fun and interesting. Plus, imagine how that call to customer service must have gone down the day the genius with the tube of Preparation-H used it for more than topical cream.

Learn How to Take a Joke Already

Lately, it seems like people are really uptight. I realize that the world is depressing, we have a fucking moron for a president, and we just wound up with yet another rich, white male on the Supreme Court who is the embodiment of “the man”. However, the thing that separates us from dogs, aside from the inability to lick our own asses, is the fact that when everything seems desperately shitty, we can still find our wonderful sense of humor.

At the beginning of the week, some cartoons came out in a Danish newspaper depicting the Islamic prophet Mohammad wearing a bomb on his head, or something like that. When those loving people who claim to be a peaceful faith, and make a ritual practice out of cutting their daughters’ clitorises off of their bodies at puberty, got wind of some Western paper accusing their main guy of being hateful, all hell broke loose. The cartoons were trying to put a magnifying glass on the fact that Islam, the peaceful religion that still condones impaling as a punishment for crime, has been overrun by erratic extremists, while moderates are left to suffer the consequences. Apparently, the moderate Muslims then took to the streets burning embassies and American flags (like we had anything to fucking do with this), and trampling 14 fellow moderate Muslims to death in the process.

I looked all over the internet and couldn’t find one puny website with these pictures, which proves one thing: the world is made up of madmen and pussies. Did the Danes suffer from running the cartoons? Not really. The Middle East has threatened to boycott Danish products, and considering the average household income of your run-of-the-mill Muslim family in say, Iran or Pakistan, that means that the Danes will be out a whole $100 or $200 per year.

Yet the world still couldn’t wait to apologize profusely for the cartoons. Again, what a bunch of pussies! I spent a great deal of the early to mid-90s working as a journalist and learning the craft. Here’s a lesson from Journalism 101: if you go out of your way to construct a message, have the balls to stand behind it. Taking a stand pisses people off especially when it is underlined with truth, and points out a problem that desperately needs to be addressed. If it’s done in a cartoon, usually most rational people can find it funny, I guess that’s not the case with our Middle Eastern and African embassy burning friends.

Thankfully, Iran has come up with the perfect solution to this awful problem of Muslims not being able to self-examine and find their sense of humor; they are going to have a Holocaust cartoon contest. I’m not sure how that differs from the cartoon they ran only months prior in the Iranian paper, the one depicting Anne Frank in bed with Hitler that alluded to the two having just performed a sexual act, but the Danes have already said they would run the Holocaust cartoon, because fair is fair, right? Besides a sensible call for modern day, moderate Muslims to reclaim their faith from extremists is exactly the same as making fun of a 60-year-old act of genocide perpetrated by a xenophobic madman.

Now as Jews, we are used to this shit, because the world pretty much hates us. Unlike our locational adversaries, we can take a joke. Once the Danes fulfill their pussy-whipped, ass-kissing obligation to run a ridiculous cartoon to try and be “fair” you won’t see a bunch of guys in yarmulkes leaving their accounting practices to burn down all of the Ikeas in town. No Jews will be trampled to death in big protests, and no embassies will be burned.

When those hateful cartoons poking fun at the senseless death of my Jewish brethren run in the Danish papers I’ll probably be able to find them quite easily on Google. There will be no hiding those cartoons, because the world knows that the Jews are far more rational people. We can take a joke, or in this case, a hit, and still come out on top, and it’s not just the Jews, but Americans, the British, Mexicans, sometimes the Europeans, and definitely the Australians.

I’m glad I live in a society where taking a joke is a badge of honor, and relishing your sense of humor is celebrated, because when I look at the alternative, it doesn’t seem like such a fun place to be, no matter how peaceful they claim it is, while they practice drowning their own daughters for flirting with strangers or stoning their wives to death for forgetting to cover their faces in public.

Dateline Almost Got it Right

When I saw the first “To Catch a Predator” report on Dateline, I was overjoyed that finally the media was reporting on the sick-as-hell trend of older guys picking up on 12 and 13 year old kids over the internet. Last night Jeff and I sat down and watched the third installment of the ongoing Dateline sting operation with just as much joy as we experienced during the first one.

We would snicker wildly as perv after perv was caught on tape walking into the kitchen with cheap booze expecting a few hours of sex with a person who was barely out of elementary school. Unlike the first “To Catch a Predator” filmed in Virginia, where soliciting a minor for sex doesn’t come with very heavy charges, this one was shot in Riverside, California where attempting to molest a minor is a felony. The sick fucks went right from a suburban kitchen and into the hands of law enforcement. Yippee!

Besides the unfortunate realization that the cops busted 51 motherfuckers, or I should say kidfuckers, in just 72 hours, was the fact that Dateline concentrated a little too much on the legal system. I’m not saying that these guys shouldn’t do time, in fact, I was pleased to hear the D.A. guarantee that all, but one of the guys busted would do at least 18 months in prison. However, I think Dateline should have put a little self-criticism behind their well-done report and examined the larger picture.

We live in a society fueled by a media that is constantly sexualizing women at a younger and younger age. When I was in high school, the beautiful, sexy, desirable women were Cindy Crawford, Tawny Kitaen, and Kelly LeBrock. As a bright-eyed, 16-year-old, I had the desire to look like them, but realized that they were women, and I was still a girl. With the surge in popularity of Brittney Spears, Christina Aguilera, and the rest of the Cocktease Crew peddled by the media, the separation of girlhood/womanhood that I experienced in my teens no longer exists.

Coupled with the sexualization of children is society’s consistent backlash against women. We have careers, can support ourselves, are trying our best to exhibit confidence, and instead of praise, we get branded as bitchy, career-obsessed, angry, and unapproachable. Basically, after the age of 27, our culture and mainstream media says that women get so mean and bull-headed that men might as well not bother approaching us, because they will most likely get their penises bitten off. According to society, we gals go from being sweethearts to evil harpies just by aging a few years.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not giving these perverted fucks an out. Wanting to have sex with a kid is sick, wrong, and should be punishable by more than 18 months in prison. However, if we are going to keep our kids safe, we need to spend as much time figuring out how the problem started as we do concentrating on what to do once we are confronted with it. I’m a realist, so I know that if Dateline can get 51 guys in just 72 measly hours, imagine what’s going on when Chris Hansen and crew isn’t watching.

I’m not sure when 13 became the new 22 in terms of desirable age for a female, and as the mother of a little girl, it scares the hell out of me. I don’t get it at all! I look at a 13-year-old boy or girl, and to me they look like adorable little kids. Dateline helped the organization Perverted Justice catch these guys by offering pictures of their staffers at 13-years-old. Each photo was your typical “school picture day” shot and most of the kids had zits and braces. How is that sexual in any way!?! Maybe for guys it is the thought of new and untouched pussy, because beyond that, I just can’t figure out why any adult would want to be with a kid.

Dateline ended the show by calling for a change in laws and profiling a group that does presentations at middle and high school assemblies to try and warn kids about the dangers of chat rooms. While all of this is quite noble, nothing is going to change. The media is still going to glamorize younger girls and tell grown men that the little miss writhing on the floor in a Catholic school girl uniform is the best sex they could ever hope for.

Until we start calling “bullshit” on the sexualization of young teenagers, and boycott media that portrays women in their late 20s and above as unapproachable, tainted, shrews men with little self-esteem and a shitload of perversion are going to go after our kids. In the meantime, we can curtail the actions of the sick fucks by supporting Perverted Justice making the would be childfuckers paranoid, and if we’re lucky enough to see a loser with a grocery bag full of cheap beer and Trojans sheepishly approaching the house of the 14-year-old neighbor girl we can harness our inner vicious, independent, 30+, uberbitch, grab a bat, and give that fucker more of a scare than any anchor with perfect teeth and a camera crew ever could.

Big Love, Big Whatever!

On a regular basis I am both horrified and fascinated by the programming on HBO. I was a megafan of Sex and the City and Six Feet Under, and I love Bill Maher’s show, although the whole Cathouse series seems a little unsettling given its recurring message that whoring is a great way to spend the weekend.

Lately, HBO’s offerings have been a little slim. Deadwood is definitely worthy of its title, and Rome is yet another television series about Romans. Sorry, but unless the toga is wrapped around John Belushi circa Animal House, I just don’t give two shits about Romans. I was wondering what HBO would come up with next, then I saw the previews and my jaw dropped.

Big Love is the story of a polygamist and his three wives. In the preview for the series, the husband is portrayed as a good-hearted, down-to-earth guy, while his three wives are constantly bickering and trying to get one up on each other. Of course, all three women just can’t keep their hands of their uni-husband, and thankfully he has enough sperm to go around.

I’m not sure if HBO will attempt to portray polygamy in a truthful way. Most likely, all three of the wives will have married the uni-husband after they were adults, which is not typically what happens in a polygamist marriage, and since it’s HBO, they will focus on the women’s cattiness and the man’s ability to please them all sexually.

This will be a stark contrast to the reality of the majority of polygamy in which girls as young as 14 are married off to men many, many years their senior. They are never allowed to complete their educations, and end up having baby after baby while living in abject poverty under the rule of a tyrannical, extremist religious sect.

Big Love will feature a character, portrayed by Harry Dean Stanton, called the Prophet, which hints at a religious connotation, but I wonder how closely they will associate it with the real life extremist faiths that practice polygamy. Will all the wives drive minivans and dress in frumpy, handmade clothes with cheesy flower patterns? Will they all have long hair pulled back into that same banana-shaped, single burette?

When I was younger I used to wonder why in polygamy, and even bigamy, it never worked the other way. You saw these guys with all these wives, but you never saw a woman with multiple husbands. Now that I have a husband, I realize that women are smart enough to know that one man is enough! I’m even hesitant about giving Rachael a sibling, because of the 50/50 chance it will be a boy. Men are a big pain in the ass, I mean, could you imagine two guys hanging around in their underwear asking you where the TV remote is? This is the kind of stuff nightmares are made of.

HBO is premiering their new series tomorrow night, Super Bowl Sunday, after The Sopranos. I might make a half-assed attempt to watch it if I’m home in time, but I’ll be a bit skeptical and scrutinizing, which seems to be a stark contrast to the media’s examination of the polygamist fun fest. HBO’s website quotes Time magazine as claiming that the show “may prove to be…the next cool thing on TV.” I don’t know if I’d go that far in praising a series, then again it does have Tom Hanks as one of the producers. I guess he never got over the whole Bosom Buddies idea of closeness.

HBO gives big props to the show for examining marriage. If they wanted to examine a marriage that is considered outside of the mainstream, yet has a lot more relevance, they should have done a series about gay marriage and included the realistic challenges facing gay couples. Oh yeah, I forgot, Showtime picked up that cue with Queer As Folk and The L Word, so I guess this might be HBO’s sorry attempt to outdo them.

I could be wrong in assuming that I will find this show offensive, but given the fact that I’ve written countless letters on behalf of victims of polygamy and have donated to Hope for the Child Brides, a grassroots non-profit created by former polygamy survivor, Flora Jessop, I don’t think I’ll get such a big laugh watching three women catfight over the affections of a middle-aged patriarch with a bad case of swollen balls no matter how much creative direction Forrest Gump provided.

Progress Report

Kids don’t come with instruction manuals, and believe me, I’ve looked for them. There are a million books out there by authors claiming that they know how to raise kids, deal with childhood problems, and get your kid to sleep through the night. Unfortunately, nearly all of them are full of shit, and the only thing they do know how to do is make you feel like an inadequate parent.

Since Rachael was born I have been mostly confident about my parenting skills figuring that whatever I screw up on, she can work out later in therapy. However, I do admit that there are times I become terrified that I’m doing something wrong. Like my actions will end up sending her to a dangerous point in life where she does something extreme and scary like becoming a crack whore or a member of a weird cult or a neo-con Republican. Every parent watching the news must have shuttered just a bit when they interviewed Scott Peterson’s mother while she went on and on about what a normal childhood he had.

Fortunately, at the times when I’m having my most extreme doubts about my capabilities as a mother, I get some sort of cosmic progress report that lets me know I’m doing okay. Maybe it’s the Almighty’s way of saying, “Oy, quit kvetching already, you’re doing fine!”

My latest progress report happened a couple of weeks ago, while I was dropping Rachael off at daycare. They told me she had been a little sheepish about switching from the infant room to the toddler room, and being your typical, Jewish mom, I was worried about whether she would feel inadequate compared to the older kids. On this particularly uneventful day, I brought Rachael into the brightly colored room where half dozen kids were gathered around one of the craft tables cutting up magazines with safety scissors. I took Rachael’s coat off as she looked around the room taking stock of its residents. Rachael has a pink, stuffed teddy bear that accompanies her everywhere she goes. Sometimes I can get Bear to stay in the car and keep Rachael’s special seat warm, but today, Rachael insisted Bear go with her to class.

We walked over to the craft table as the teacher brought a chair over for my toddler. Although Rachael is a little on the tall side, she is only 25 lbs. and has narrow shoulders and hips. Basically, she is a delicate-looking girly girl. As we stood at the table giving each other “good bye” hugs, I watched a little, three year old, Asian boy trying to use the safety scissors on a classmate’s shirt, then on another girl’s springy braid. The teacher had reprimanded him, but he persisted with his antics.

Rachael was turned to me when the little shit focused his attention on Bear’s leg. He grabbed it lightly trying not to alert Rachael and began trying to amputate the stuffed limb with the safety scissors. Rachael turned around as he was playing surgeon and thrust her bear away quickly, then got the most heinous, warlike look on her face letting out a screaming, “NOOOOOOOOO!” The little boy dropped his scissors in shock and ran to the other side of the room.

I know you’re never supposed to laugh at another kid’s pain or embarrassment, so I muffled myself long enough to leave the room, then proceeded to lose it all the way to work. I went in and told my co-workers about my little girl’s morning and they got a kick out of it, too. My supervisor recalled an incident where she, too, had been the victim of a nasty, little boy, who kept lifting up her skirt, only when she retaliated by hitting him in the head with a carton of milk, she found herself sent home from school to an angry mother. I couldn’t imagine getting angry at my little one’s display that morning, in fact, I felt proud that I managed to raise a child who, despite her tiny frame, was fearless when it came to standing up for herself.

The little boy was nearly a year older, and bigger than Rachael, but he was trying to do harm to Bear, and no one fucks with Bear. My only hope is that Rachael doesn’t lose that amazing sense of herself in the years to come. I guess it will be my job as her mom to champion her right to be heard, and on that fateful day when the school calls me at work to tell me that Rachael just knocked some kid in the face with a carton of milk, I’ll do my duty and pick her up. Then, we’ll go shopping, have lunch, and I’ll give her a pat on the back for showing that little bastard that he can’t take advantage of women, even if they are only in the first grade.

Dealing With Divas

I first heard the term “diva” in the eighth grade and I thought it was really cool. I pictured a woman of extreme vocal talent spreading her gift and wisdom to younger women who wanted to be like her. I thought a diva was the female equivalent of the male, pop idol. Diva must have been a positive phrase, because Frank Zappa wouldn’t have named one of his daughters after something negative, thought my little 14-year-old mind.

Around the late 90s, VH1 decided to do a show called Divas, where female performers would get together for one big concert. At first it seemed that VH1 did a good job picking their divas: Aretha Franklin (most definitely), Gloria Estefan (Latina diva, mucho gusto), Tina Turner (diva who still has great legs at 70), Celine Dion (a little young, but okay, I guess), Leann Rimes (now you’re just pissing me off).

Today the term “diva” is everywhere. I see it on the side of over-priced handbags, on babydoll shirts worn by ‘tweens and most recently embroidered on a fuzzy, pink pillow that went with a toddler bed set. At this point, it’s safe to say, that the world has lost sight of the true meaning of the word “diva.” Wikipedia defines a diva as the Latin and Italian word for “goddess,” but the most common meaning refers to a female opera singer; particularly one who is fussy or pretentious. Basically, a diva is a spoiled, rotten bitch with a great set of pipes.

I no longer think a diva is someone who is inclined to spread the gift of vocal talent or wisdom to younger women; instead, I see divas with more of a negative connotation these days. In my job at The Facility, I’m forced to deal with a variety of divas, both male and female, and not a one of them can sing. They are just high maintenance and demanding. The sad part is that I’m dealing with more divas now then I did when I worked in the actual music industry!

The care and maintenance of a diva is an art form, because few people stick around to learn proper diva care. First and foremost, make sure your diva is praised constantly. Emails, sweet missives over the phone, fawning comments and swooning body language when you see them in person, praise is very important to the diva, because she/he must feel truly appreciated at all times. If you forget just one ounce of praise, you might as well kick the diva in the face, because the diva will leave the room, phone conversation, or email box feeling like they are just giving you their all with little in return.

Another important aspect of diva maintenance is to let the diva have her/his say. A diva’s time is very important, and what they have to say could be vital to achieving your goal. Besides, if you don’t let them have their say, then they will make sure that the fact that you didn’t let them have their say is well known, especially to your supervisor. Even if you’ve heard their line of complete bullshit for the 500th time, in order to let the diva have their say, you must sit through it, yet again, leaning forward while they speak nodding and listening attentively lest they think for a moment that you’re not paying attention. Sure, in your head you could be saying, I so don’t give a flying fuck about anything you have to say, just don’t let your body language or facial expressions give away your thoughts.

Finally, when the diva asks for the impossible, and you of course, being a mere mortal, you can’t make the impossible happen, you must use your tactful skills to do what you want by defying the diva’s orders and making them think that your way was what they wanted all along. Okay, let me explain. Let’s say your diva wants something done, and to please them you try to make it happen, but come up against heavy, bureaucracy. In the end, your diva’s request is not met, and for the next 30 minutes of a painful phone conversation, you have to eat shit and apologize. You want to tell your diva to “go fuck themselves” with every fiber of your being, but you need health insurance and a means to pay bills, so instead you try an approach that works with someone else who happens to have a selfish nature and short attention span; your toddler. You distract the diva from the impossible, unaccomplished task by talking about something the diva can do well, all the while heaping as much attention and praise as Paris Hilton reviewing a movie she had a part in.

Dealing with divas is a pain in the ass, but making the diva feel they are in control while you call the shots is truly a gift. I’ve often thought it would be cool to get to a point in my life where I could be the diva, but I know that will never happen. I’m too much of a realist to ever believe that anything I said or did was so important that it was worth having my ass kissed over. Despite my contempt for divas, their care and maintenance is what I do best, not to mention the fact that I enjoy fucking with people way too much to ever let anyone pull the same trip on me.

Welcoming February

February is coming soon. I know this not because I look at my calendar a million times a day, or because I get those annoying coupons in the mail for a free birthday dinner at a restaurant I don’t even normally eat at. No, I know February is coming, because I feel tired all the time, everyone around me is completely sick, depressed, or talking about going to some tropical island, and I haven’t seen the sun since late October.

There are many positives to living in the Seattle area, but the weather in February isn’t one of them. By the beginning of February it has been dark, gloomy, and raining for nearly three months straight. It’s the time of the year when Prozac should be the flavor of Starbuck’s latte of the month.

I never knew what a “sunbreak” was until I moved to Seattle. For those of you who are non-Northwest natives, a “sunbreak” occurs when you see about five to ten minutes of blue sky after 20 straight days of rain. “Sunbreaks” are very fucking cruel; because they give you hope that maybe there might be at least one precious day of non-rain. Non-rain is when the sky is just a light gray and there’s more of a light drizzle rather than the pissing downpour that has been the precipitation du jour since bidding “farewell” to Halloween.

During “sunbreaks” people swarm out of their workplaces in droves trying to soak up every last nanosecond of bright light, and are always disappointed a few minutes later when their beautiful smidgen of blue sky is replaced by something more dour and familiar. When I first moved to Seattle, I was amused by these “sunbreak” addicts. Now I have become one of them, which are about as depressing as watching someone in California laugh about Seattle’s 27th day of straight rain. Just six more days of rain to go and we’ll break the record! Sure, half the population will be gone from jumping off of that weird blue building downtown that looks like the top of an old fashion, roll on antiperspirant, but we’ll have a new record.

This year has been particularly nasty, and the only reason there aren’t more Seattleites playing the part of Courtney’s late husband after they made the move to the ritzy Medina neighborhood is because hell froze over and the Seahawks actually made it to the Superbowl. Even the most cynical asshole, namely me, is mildly excited to watch the mass marketing frenzy that is the Superbowl. What other day of the year can you gorge yourself on beer and cocktail weenies, while watching some poor bastard run his ass off for five hours, only to glom onto his victory at the end like you had something to do with it. 32 years of living, and I still don’t get the sports thing.

If the Seahawks do end up choking the way most Seattle teams end up doing in the end when it really matters, then the gloom level in the Puget Sound is likely to hit an all-time high. We didn’t end up breaking the original 33 straight days of rain record at the beginning of January, because it stopped for a whole 25 hours. Big fucking deal! We are now in the midst of working on a new rain record, but thankfully the sun is now setting at 5:00 pm instead of 4:00 pm.

By the end of February, nearly the entire area is in counseling or on anti-depressants, the rich people on the Eastside are sending their pets to animal psychiatrists, and every flight to Mexico on Alaska Airlines is oversold. About the time we are all wishing for death to just finish the job and relieve us of this gruesome existence, the sun appears bright and beautiful in the sky. We all come out of our workplaces in swarms and bask in the loveliness that we have been yearning for since the moment the department stores put the Christmas decorations on display (which was around the beginning of November).

We give up our Prozac lattes and thank our therapists for the endearing sessions claiming that we now realize all of our problems are indeed due to our parents, and we all begin preparing for the happy face of spring. Joy fills the land, and Seattleites everywhere lose their skepticism until the very moment they realize that it’s getting a little hot, and they forgot to replace the fucking fan when it broke last year.

My Illicit Affair with a Mentally Abusive Love Called Nano

Nano was everything I ever wanted. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on Nano’s sleek, hard body. I would run my hands over Nano top to bottom to show my affection. I showered Nano with gifts of music, and spent hours on end molding Nano into what I knew Nano could be. Nano enjoyed my attentions at first going everywhere with me. When I worked out, Nano was there. When I relaxed, Nano was at my side. Nano and I were happy, until one day, Nano began to spurn my attentions. I attempted to turn Nano on, but there was no response. Nano just lay there cold, ignoring me.

After a couple of days of frustration, I went to Nano again in an attempt to make things work. Finally, after many hours of begging and nearly tearing my hair out, Nano left the aloof state and once again responded to me. Immediately, I noticed a change in Nano. Nano no longer recognized all of the nice things I had done previously. I had to, once again, shower Nano with gifts of music, and attempted to mold Nano, but things were never really the same after that.

A week or so went by, and Nano would fade in and out, until, one day, Nano just stopped responding completely. I was heartbroken. I had come to rely on Nano, and I loved Nano. However, listeners of this sorted tail shouldn’t feel sorry for me, because I did the right thing. When Nano finally became completely unresponsive, ignoring every gesture of kindness and all attempts of mine to turn Nano on, I left Nano at the mall, in the Apple store to be sent back on some sorted recall.

After experiencing, first hand, this tale of woe, I now know why Apple only makes up 5% of the computer market. When I first received my iPod Nano for Hanukkah, I went into the Apple store, and they told me I could take a class on how to use it. I looked at the kid, and told him that I didn’t have the time. I wouldn’t take a class on how to use a fancy, new age, music box for the same reason I wouldn’t take a class on how to use my toaster over. Note to Apple: if you are going to make a product for mass consumption, make it so user-friendly that your customers won’t need to take a fucking class.

The first day that my Nano crapped out, I took it into the Apple store, and was told that I had to make a reservation to see the customer service agents they refer to as “geniuses”. Correct me if I’m wrong, but Albert Einstein is a genius, George Orwell is a genius, Dr. Stephen Hawking is a genius; a guy in a black t-shirt working at the Apple store in the mall is not exactly what I consider a fucking genius.

The little guys who, I guess, are not quite geniuses told me that I was next in line to speak to a genius at the Genius Bar. For the next two and a half hours, I was the next in line. I stood there in the barren, “so bright my retinas are frying” Apple store waiting to speak to my genius. When I finally made my way up to the Mt. Olympus of iPod wisdom, they informed me that my Nano wouldn’t power up. You think so, Genius!

I had attempted to power it up for two days straight, and kept getting a battery with a lighting bolt symbol. As the genius began processing my recall paperwork, there was a friendly, androgynous Asian who conversed with me pleasantly about wanting a Nano then experiencing the same disappointment when Nano also refused to respond. I realized at that moment that I had done something that I hadn’t done in quite a long time, something that made me feel like a complete ass; I had bought in to the hype.

I saw the commercials, heard the banter from the DJs on the alternative music station, read articles, and saw news reports about what a great thing this was, and I made my husband crazy telling him that I had to have it for Hanukkah. I never once stopped to think that maybe it wasn’t the technological music wonder that I had been waiting for, maybe it was just an over-hyped, expensive piece of shit.

I have a new one now, after waiting another hour in the Apple store. Apparently the “not quite geniuses” are only allowed to sell the iPod stuff; they aren’t allowed to do exchanges, because exchanges are done by the geniuses.

After I came home, I spent another 90 minutes updating my Nano software, re-programming my playlists, and adding all of the songs to the specific categories. This time, I’m stronger and wiser, and if Nano gets out of line just once, there will be no special courtship, no begging or brooding. This time, Nano will get the boot, and the geniuses will have hell to pay.

Stuff That Still Amazes Me

Fads are great, because they are usually stupid, and once they’re gone, you can make fun of them. Then again, while they’re at their peak, you can make fun of them, but less people seem to laugh with you. There are a few things recently that I’ve noticed that should have gone away, but for some reason, still haven’t. Of course, it’s not because these things contribute one iota of value to society, they just simply keep lingering like the smelly blend of patchouli and weed that seems to follow hippies everywhere they go.

My first head-cocked bewilderment is the whole bra built into the tank top phenomena. In our multi-cultural existence where we have clearly established that “one size fits all” is a myth; you would think they would have done away with the cotton spandex strip that is supposed to hold your titties into place while you attempt to don a spaghetti strap shirt. Maybe a gal with A or B cups could get away with such pittance of support, but for those of us whom the Almighty graced with larger boobs, this particular garment is out of the question.

I think the whole trend of thin strapped, beaded, tank tops isn’t half bad, but what do us bra-wearers do? At my Vietnamese nail shop, they were selling these clear, plastic bra straps that supposedly hooked onto a regular bra giving you a “no bra needed” look. This was weird, because why would a nail shop be selling bra straps, but also, because these little plastic things weren’t going to come close to holding my set in place.

I’m sure once the whole fucking Boho fashion craze is done, garments that conceal bra straps will be back in, but for now I’ll stick with short-sleeved shirts, because that built-in bra isn’t for everyone.

Another thing that has me wondering, is why the hell anyone still gives a rat’s ass about Brittney Spears. The bitch married a gold-digging, trailer trash wigger (which was confirmed by an actual black person, so don’t accuse my ass of racism), popped out a kid who will most likely become completely useless, and has lost her base amongst fans who can’t sell her CDs to the buyer at the used record store quick enough. Can’t the tabloids find someone new to stalk with perhaps a smidgen of talent? How about Lili Taylor or Peaches? Sure, they’re not blonde teenagers who like to writhe on the floor then claim to be virgins, but they’re far more interesting and definitely talented.

When it comes to Brittney everyone knows how this story is going to end. She will do something cheesy in Vegas, if her mother can rope her into it, then it will be the spread in Playboy, and onto the inevitable stint on VH1’s Celebrity Fit Club or a brief residence in The Surreal Life house. I don’t care either way, I just want to wish her a “don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out” retirement, the same way I wanted to five years ago after I saw her “Hit Me Baby One More Time” video.

I know the blending of celebrity couples’ names is fairly new, but it is so fucking annoying. Who came up with this? No, I really want to know, because I will hunt them down and punch them dead in the face! Bennifer, Bragelina, what the fuck! Imagine if you tried this in real life with your friends. I can see my husband and me sending out our next year’s Happy New Year picture cards with the message: Jeffanie and their daughter wish you the best. I can guarantee that my sister would hop a plane all the way from Tennessee just to bitch slap me, and my mother-in-law would be on the phone with her psychiatrist friends as soon as she read it.

I know celebrities have different lives than the rest of us who reside in obscurity, but do they have to make their world any stranger by coming up with fucked up shit like this. Can’t we focus on something more constructive like why there’s only been three women nominated for Best Director even though the Academy Awards are in their 78th year. None of them won, so according to the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences, women just don’t direct good movies.

I’m still amazed at the fact that Costco carries frozen yogurt instead of ice cream, and that people continue to eat only the tops off of muffins. I hope the coffee craze never goes away, because I need a tank of really dark java to get my engine running in the morning. I still can’t believe that there is actually a country in the world that trusts Iran, and that no matter how threatening North Korea is, the leaders of the U.S. will still opt to beat that Saddam drum to death.

If I sit down, I could probably come up with an extensive list of stuff that still amazes me, but my New Year’s resolution was to try and live in the now, and look towards the future, which frankly, still amazes me that January is almost over, and I’m still trying to keep that fucking resolution.

In Protest of Gay Cowboys

I’m not going to see the movie Brokeback Mountain, but not for the same reasons that those mouthpieces on Conservative, fascist radio aren’t going to see it. It’s not the gay thing I don’t like, people are what they are, and there’s nothing right or wrong about it. Nor is it the cowboy factor, sure the hats are annoying, but red meat has to be tended to by someone. I have nothing against Westerns, in fact, on a stormy day; I’ve been known to get comfortable with a bag of microwavable popcorn and a copy of Fist Full of Dollars.

The reason I’m not going to pay $10 to see Brokeback Mountain is plain and simple: I don’t like sappy, love stories. In the big scheme of things I think I would rather have a pap smear than sit through anything staring Julia Roberts, especially if there is a scene or two where they break out, spontaneously, into song. I can’t stand wishy-washy, flowery language that describes love, especially when there’s a Hollywood close-up shot to accompany it.

I’m not even completely sure if Brokeback Mountain is a sappy love story since everyone seems to be focusing on the whole gay thing. Conservatives who are all for “family values” are lambasting the film, because it’s about two gay guys, whereas artsy liberals are praising it, because it’s about two gay guys. One of my friends who saw the movie said she thought it was a little on the boring side. I was so grateful to hear this feedback from her, because it was an actual review of the film that didn’t talk about the fact that it’s about two gay guys.

In this day and age, I think most people who are pretty mainstream don’t give a flying fuck about the sexual orientation of a fictional character, just as long as they are being entertained with an interesting story. Christian conservatives have said that Brokeback Mountain is an affront to family values, but seriously, how many gay cowboys do most families know on a personal basis? I was raised in Idaho, where you couldn’t throw a rock at a beat up Chevy full-size truck without hitting a cowboy, and I would say that 98% of them were good ol’ boys who, other than wearing those awful shirts, were completely straight. Even if they weren’t, I wouldn’t have cared, like I said before, red meat has to be tended by someone.

I’ve thought about seeing Brokeback Mountain to protest against the Conservatives trying to shut it down, but with my increasingly busy schedule, the only way I’m spending two hours watching gay cowboys is if I’m given a guarantee that they lather each other up with saddle soap in at least two naked scenes. Although, going to see the film, because it’s about a gay relationship seems just as bad as boycotting it, because it’s about a gay relationship. At this point in time, we know that a certain percentage of the population is gay, so what’s the big deal.

I don’t know where these Conservatives get off telling gay people that their lifestyles are wrong, when at the end of the day, the Bible-bangers go home and tell their kids that if they forget to pray before bedtime, they are going to be tortured by demons while slowly having their flesh burned for all eternity. People are people, and life is life. If you don’t like the idea of two men riding horses, making campfire, then curling up together in one sleeping bag, don’t see the fucking movie!

If you are gay, then my guess is you have probably seen better gay-themed movies, maybe not with such glossy production or staring Heath Ledger, but definitely with faster moving plots. Hedwig anyone?

One of the right-wing nutcases said that Brokeback Mountain was evil, because it was anti-marriage. It should be anti-marriage; if you’re gay, then you shouldn’t be forced into marrying someone of the opposite sex. Unfortunately, our society still has a problem with forcing people into marriages they don’t want to be in, gay or straight. The right-wingers also claimed that the film is bad; because the end message is that you should “follow your heart.” Isn’t that exactly what they tell you to do every Sunday in church? Follow your heart, and come to Jesus? I guess when you follow your heart and it leads you to a guy in a cowboy hat, it’s bad, but when your heart leads you to an over-hyped rabbi who has long hair, a beard, wears a long tunic with sandals and hangs out with a dozen guys constantly, its okay. Hmmm. Either way, I still probably won’t see Brokeback Mountain until I can put it in my Netflix requests.

The Etiquette of an Ass-Chewing

Have you ever noticed that right before someone is really going to give you a good ass-chewing they are nicer than usual? It’s as if they are trying to say, “I’m going to ream you a new one for a minimum of 30 minutes, but don’t hold it against me.” Although I have always loathed lectures, I have an odd respect for someone who doesn’t try to candy coat it.

In addition to the person who is nice before the plowing, I can’t stand the person who is super friendly after the nag session. I had a boss once who after chewing me out for two hours straight about something that was only half my fault actually asked me out to lunch afterwards. What the hell did he expect me to say? “Absolutely! I’d love to have a little sushi and a big dessert afterwards, since I’m missing at least ten pounds of ass, because you chewed it completely off. By the way, are you hungry after such a big brunch of severed ass?”

Ass-chewings always start out the same way; someone says, “Let’s have a meeting” and at that point, you might as well get your donut pillow. The Straight-Forward Ass-Chewer is the most experienced tempering the ream session with important points, peppering it with compliments, all the while asserting the eventual and inevitable, cuts-to-the-bone comments that constitute a thorough plowing. They know how to congratulate you for past successes by pointing out present shortfalls, and warning of the consequences that will come if the trend continues. This style is popular amongst those bosses who are a bit control freaky, or have a “top-down” way of thinking (i.e. power hungry motherfuckers who can’t get over themselves).

The Manipulative Ass-Chewer is typically found in an all-female office. She doesn’t want to anger her subordinates, who she’s convinced “absolutely love” her, yet she wants to make it abundantly clear she is the H.B.I.C. (Head Bitch in Charge). Her venue for ass-chewing is usually a coffee shop or a neighborhood bistro. She very carefully constructs the reaming by asserting the word “we” into those sentences that leave you wondering just how far you need to bend over. She sighs, tilts her head from side to side, and gives you over-acted sympathy looks all the while making it perfectly clear that the problem is solely your fault, and even if you constructively point out some faults that she might have, it will still be your fault. The best public example of this was Oprah and the poor bastard from the marketing department at Hermes. If you didn’t see that episode, try to rent it or find it online, because it’s fucking priceless. The Manipulative Ass-Chewer will probably follow the plowing with an invitation to a movie or shopping, like you want to spend another minute dealing with this self-absorbed cunt.

The Psycho Ass-Chewer is always the best, because they are the ones that you could, most likely, have a hell of a lawsuit against. They cut straight to the chase and seem to keep their cool, until you begin making a reasonable argument against their line of ass-chewing then, much like Courtney Love trying to deal with someone who doesn’t know she’s a star, this ass-chewer starts screaming at you irrationally. They call you names, curse at you wildly, and in the end, are nearly reduced to tears with anger. They are always shocked when you tell them to “go fuck themselves” and don’t come to work the next day.

I try to think of the times in life that I’ve given someone an ass-chewing, and in some cases I’m a bit like all three. I’ve only had to be as harsh as the Straight-Forward Ass-Chewer a few times in life, mainly during my divorce from my first husband, who tried to put off signing the paperwork until his parents read it. I’m not joking, he really did. I’ve never been shallow enough to be the Manipulative Ass-Chewer, except at times when I’ve had to deal with a stray relative or two. Being a shallow bitch can be fun if you don’t do it too often. I’m even ashamed to say I’ve been the Psycho Ass-Chewer from time to time, but mostly during a wicked bout of post-partum depression or serious PMS.

I don’t enjoy ass-chewings, then again, who does, except some internet freak that happens to be turned on by humiliation. I can’t stand them, and with this punk attitude of mine it becomes harder and harder to sit through them the older I get. For now, I’ll put up with an occasional reaming, because I need the health insurance benefits, but if the day comes that I’m doing well regardless of my job, then I’ll wear my walking shoes and leave with a big “go fuck yourself”.

Scared of Rain!?!

Seattle is known for a few things: coffee addiction, the Space Needle, and a tremendous amount of rain. When I re-located to Seattle in the mid-90s I was keenly aware that I would encounter a decent amount of the wet stuff. Fortunately, I prefer rain to snow, so I was happy to be in my soggy, new home.

It’s over ten year later, and one thing perplexes me, the ineptness and inability of Seattle drivers to navigate cars in the rain. The first few times I encountered this I brushed it off blaming the slowdown on an accident or bad road conditions up ahead. After nearly a dozen years of stop and go in an attempt to speed up to a swift 20 miles per hour, I have now come to the realization that Seattle drivers are just fucking idiots.

You would think in a city that has one of the highest rainfalls per year, and is known for rain that its citizens would actually be comfortable driving in the rain, but this is not the case in the Jet City. As I stare out the little window of my office and watch the beads of water dangling off the shrubs, I know that the commute I will encounter in a mere few hours will be a mixture of frustration and contempt.

Tonight I was stuck behind a monster of a Lincoln Towncar that decided to navigate a hill at a brisk 10 miles per hour. I was behind him yelling for him to pull over while Fungus 53 raged on my XM satellite radio. All I wanted to do was reach the daycare in less than 45 minutes, and I was trapped behind a schmuck who was flashing his break lights every other second just because of a few raindrops on the ground.

When I’m not stuck behind assholes going way under the speed limit, I encounter the polar opposite, the douche bag in the truck who wants to peel out on rain covered streets splashing my window with muddy water. Tonight it was some guy in a truck with a bumper sticker on the left that read “Real Men Love Jesus”, while the sticker on the right had some message about re-discovering peace. Every night I battle my way up a particular hill stuffed to the gills with heavy traffic. Anyone who has ever traveled this hill knows that from 4:00-6:30 PM, this hill is packed. Peeling out when you have two car-lengths of room in front of you just makes you look like a complete ass and won’t get you up that evil hill any quicker. Yet, in a good rainstorm, this bastard is always in front of me, peeling out and slowing down then peeling out and slowing down some more, in a cruel dance that will leave my car filthy by the time I get home.

I may not be an expert driver, and I fully admit to my status as a leadfoot, but I do know that I can drive better than most of the residents of the Seattle area. I’ve driven in blizzards with a yard of visibility in front of me, but I have never slowed down to a crawl because of a little rain. If the road is slick, I’ll ease up on the gas, but tonight by the time I hit the road for my commute it had been raining for 23 days straight. The roads were well drenched, and not in the least bit slippery.

When I didn’t drive much, the ineptness of Seattleites’ abilities to drive in the rain was just something I laughed about every now and again on that rare instance when I did navigate the wheel of a car. Now that I’m in the captain’s seat more times than I care to be the laughter has turned into anger, and my snickers have become enraged screams. If I didn’t work for a non-profit, I would flip the bird far more often when I passed these morons in their large cars.

Until the glorious day when the Washington State driver’s ed program begins giving poor grades to people who can’t drive in the rain, or the Department of Transportation comes up with a “Dumbshit Only” lane, I’ll just have to plan to leave 15 minutes early to arrive at my destination on particularly wet days. My faith in humanity may falter a bit, but at least I’ll make it to my destination in a reasonable amount of time with my voice just being slightly horse from yelling at the 150-year-old man in front of me to pull his Lincoln Continental over to the side of the road and let those of us who still have another year to live pass him at the actual speed limit.

New Year's Rundown

At this time of the year, most are making their New Year’s resolutions, and trying to figure out exactly how long they have to keep them before they won’t look like a complete loser by giving them up. A good round number is six months. If you can stay on that diet for at least six months, that will take you right into summer where you won’t be eating much, because it will be too hot to eat a large meal, and by the time you fall completely off the wagon, it will be early Fall, and everyone else’s New Year’s resolutions will be history, so you’ll be in the clear.

Moving on, I prefer not to take an assessment of the previous year at this time. I don’t like the fact that every t.v. channel gives you their Top 101 list of the previous year (I guess in our bigger, faster, better, more society, a list of just 100 things was not enough). Instead, I like to know what I’ve got to look forward to in this year to come. It’s my way of being in the now, and also fulfilling my New Year’s resolution of trying to be more positive about the future.

It’s 2006 and we get to start off the year with a new Supreme Court justice, unfortunately, the man of the hour is Samuel Alito; a man who upholds the neo-con ideals as sacredly as the tenants of the Christian bible. He has said in his audition (i.e. confirmation hearing) that he will be “open minded” when it comes to issues of abortion and a woman’s right to choose. This is as credible as George W. telling Congress to give him the powers of war and he’ll pursue every means of settling Iraq peacefully first.

I don’t mind that the majority of politicians are corrupt pieces of shit, we all know that. What I hate is the fact that their territorial pissing contests end up hurting real people. For example, I don’t give two ounces of a rat’s ass that George W. and his cronies wanted better access to one of the world’s largest oil reserves, its Arab land, go for shit. However, they led us to war under false pretenses and now over 10,000 kids are coming back with missing and disfigured limbs. Most people are very middle-of-the-road despite the barrage of advertising by the conservative and liberal movements. The average American just wants to be able to do an honest day’s work, make a decent wage, live in a safe neighborhood, and engage in a pleasurable activity of choice on the weekends. They only care about abortion when it concerns someone they know who’s thinking about having one, and even then, they are hands off about the issue.

If Alito makes it in, abortion procedures will be history in 2006. They will never overturn Roe v. Wade, they will just limit the hell out of it to the point where the scalpel will be replaced by the coat hanger, the clueless best friend will be the substitute for a trained healthcare provider, and the sanitary operating room will be traded for the bathroom at the local high school.

Some of the more positive things to look forward to in 2006 will be the eventual demise of one of these talentless, anorexic, actress/celebrities, such as Lindsey Lohan, Paris Hilton, Mary Kate Olsen, Ashlee Simpson, her sister Jessica, Nicole Ritchie, the list goes on. All of these broads have hot cars that go really fast and some of them have been in or caused accidents recently, so odds are that in their dizzied state resulting from a combination of lack of food and intense amount of alcohol, they are bound to bite it in some sort of wreck. Not that I would wish something bad on anyone, but I’m so damn sick of these bitches. They do nothing, yet I see them gracing the cover of every magazine. Let’s face it, the world would be a better place if just one or two of them were out of the public eye. They don’t have to die in a car accident; they could just be slightly disfigured. In our beauty-obsessed world, this would make them a public pariah quicker than O.J. Simpson at a Speed Dating event.

With Howard Stern moving over to satellite radio, more people in 2006 will catch onto what a great technology this is. I have XM and my husband has Sirius, and they are both better than anything on free radio. Those who decide not to subscribe to satellite will inevitably benefit, since the new option will force traditional radio to step up its game. Either way, there is a possibility that in 2006 radio will get better for everyone, which is something that has needed to happen since Michael Powell became the FCC’s Darth Vader.

Finally, on the local level, Seattle tax payers may be able to enjoy a nice refund since it looks like the monorail will be nothing more than a Folklife Festival pipe dream. I’m not saying it will never happen, but if you wish for the monorail in one hand and shit in the other you know which one will get full first.

2006 will be what it will be: the good, the bad, and the very, fucking predictable. Maybe if all goes well, barring any natural disasters and terrorist attacks on U.S. soil, but including the death/disfiguring accident of a vacuous blonde or two, I’ll have my own Top 101 list at the end of the year.