An opportunity like this doesn't come along every day, you know!
"OPEN CASTING CALL FOR NEW SPIKE TV REALITY SHOW: "AMERICA'S BIGGEST A**HOLE:
Monday, July 13, 10 AM- 4 PM at Boston Casting
and Wednesday, July 15, 6 PM - 9PM at Red Sky, Faneuil Hall
Can you irritate a perfect stranger? Are you quick on your feet? Can you handle a very strong personality? Are you a practical joker?
Do your friends tell you that you have all the charm of Vince Vaughn, Denis Leary, and Stiffler rolled into one?
EVEN THOUGH SOME PEOPLE THINK YOU ARE HYSTERICAL, DO YOU HAPPEN TO PISS A LOT OF PEOPLE OFF?
Win cash, fame, and respect for your ability to say what mere mortals could only dream of saying! Audition for the new reality show 'America's Biggest A**Hole'!
Come to one of the Open Calls, bring a photo and bio, and tell us your story!
Open Call Information:
Date: Monday, July 13, 2009
Time: 10AM - 4PM
Location: Boston Casting, 129 Braintree Street, Boston
Date: Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Time: 6 PM - 9 PM
Location: Red Sky
16 North Street, Boston (Faneuil Hall)
In conjunction with Boston's "A" List!
If you are unable to attend an Open Call, e-mail a photo, contact information and a few lines about why you should be on the show to Julie@bostoncasting.com.
Must be 18 years or older.
Tell your friends, family, everyone! Post this on Facebook, Twitter, MySpace!"
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
rem disasters
Do you dream about natural disasters?
I had a dream this morning about flooding (um, big surprise, huh?) Namely, that I went out on my second-floor deck to pick some basil out of the pots I'd checked just before--true! I'd checked them yesterday afternoon--and since the last time I'd looked, the rain had destroyed them and the dirt was all washed out of the pots. Puzzled, I looked down into the yard and it was totally filled with waist-deep, or more, water.
When I woke up out of that dream, I realized that whenever I dream about any kind of weather-related catastrophe, it's always either a dramatic flood or a tornado, neither of which I've ever really seen in real life. I never dream about blizzards or hurricanes, which obviously, living here, I have experienced, nor do I dream about earthquakes or tidal waves or wild fires or any of the other nasty things Mother Nature can throw at us that I haven't lived through. I find that kind of interesting...why floods? why tornados?
I used to always also have a recurring dream about an airplane falling out of the sky onto my house, but I know why that is: I grew up under a flight path to Logan in the summer time and there were often planes pretty low overhead.
Tell me about your recurring dream themes and why you think you have them, if you know.
xoxo
I had a dream this morning about flooding (um, big surprise, huh?) Namely, that I went out on my second-floor deck to pick some basil out of the pots I'd checked just before--true! I'd checked them yesterday afternoon--and since the last time I'd looked, the rain had destroyed them and the dirt was all washed out of the pots. Puzzled, I looked down into the yard and it was totally filled with waist-deep, or more, water.
When I woke up out of that dream, I realized that whenever I dream about any kind of weather-related catastrophe, it's always either a dramatic flood or a tornado, neither of which I've ever really seen in real life. I never dream about blizzards or hurricanes, which obviously, living here, I have experienced, nor do I dream about earthquakes or tidal waves or wild fires or any of the other nasty things Mother Nature can throw at us that I haven't lived through. I find that kind of interesting...why floods? why tornados?
I used to always also have a recurring dream about an airplane falling out of the sky onto my house, but I know why that is: I grew up under a flight path to Logan in the summer time and there were often planes pretty low overhead.
Tell me about your recurring dream themes and why you think you have them, if you know.
xoxo
Sunday, June 28, 2009
review: five guys
For your edification, I made the supreme sacrifice and ate a bacon cheeseburger and fries yesterday (and then, later, for my own edification, a beer and a brownie, but we won't talk about that.)
The fries were really, really good, I thought. However, I could not finish a whole order. Five Guys give you a lot of fries. The burger was also pretty good (I chose lettuce, tomato, chopped onion and ketchup as my toppings) but I had the same problem I usually have when I get a burger out, especially one where I don't get a choice of how it's cooked. I like my meat rare. Like r-a-r-e. So the Five Guys burger was definitely more done than I prefer. If you like your beef medium, medium-well, you will be more satisfied than I, I suspect.
I'll give them a four out of five.
xoxo
The fries were really, really good, I thought. However, I could not finish a whole order. Five Guys give you a lot of fries. The burger was also pretty good (I chose lettuce, tomato, chopped onion and ketchup as my toppings) but I had the same problem I usually have when I get a burger out, especially one where I don't get a choice of how it's cooked. I like my meat rare. Like r-a-r-e. So the Five Guys burger was definitely more done than I prefer. If you like your beef medium, medium-well, you will be more satisfied than I, I suspect.
I'll give them a four out of five.
xoxo
Saturday, June 27, 2009
i wanna live here
Or at least be friends with the people who live here. These images are stolen from Apartment Therapy. It's someone's place in NYC. (Edit: Sorry, I got so excited looking at it, I didn't read everything. It's actually the apartment of the guy who was the leader of the CrashTest Dummies and his wife!) Doesn't it fit my aesthetic perfectly? Except for the gross fake or taxidermied birds, that is.
xoxo
xoxo
Friday, June 26, 2009
the good news and the bad news
Good news:
1.) The estimate for my roof is about half what I was afraid it was going to be. (Oh, yeah, if you're not on the shortlist for my whining--it's the roofer that I was calling and begging to take my money.) In fact, I think my roof is going to cost me about what Mr Indemnity's dentist wants to charge him to fix *one* tooth, and is his tooth gonna keep the rain off his head? I think not!)
2.) Sit down before you read this. Okay? You comfortable? Secure? Good. I am going to praise the MBTA. I know!
They switched the schedule of the prison bus, as well as the other bus that runs past my place of employment, and the new schedule went into effect this week. And the new schedule reflects the time it actually takes to get from point A to point B, instead of some theoretical time that could only be achieved with an actual flying bus, or one that did not ever stop to pick up passengers or, indeed, obey traffic lights. Since this change went into effect, the bus has been within 5 minutes of being on time every single time I've taken it this week. It's like a miracle. I can't even tell you.
The bad news:
1.) In my ongoing war with my uterus, my PCP's office is referring me to a gynecologist to do a certain test on me, sooner rather than later, and assuming the test is negative, as they expect it will be, to discuss a cease fire. Well, I went to the PCP on Wednesday, earlier afternoon. It is now Friday, late afternoon. Have they or the gynecologist's office called me with this mythical appointment yet? No. How long does it take for one receptionist to pick up a phone, call another receptionist, write down a date, and call back a patient? Oh, wait. I work in a medical office. I know the answer to this one.
2.) My stove keeps blowing the circuit breaker if I use too many burners at once or, just today for the first time, if I try to preheat the oven above 400 degrees apparently. Sigh. I am sure the electrician will be happy to relieve me of some of the money the roofer is letting me keep.
xoxo
1.) The estimate for my roof is about half what I was afraid it was going to be. (Oh, yeah, if you're not on the shortlist for my whining--it's the roofer that I was calling and begging to take my money.) In fact, I think my roof is going to cost me about what Mr Indemnity's dentist wants to charge him to fix *one* tooth, and is his tooth gonna keep the rain off his head? I think not!)
2.) Sit down before you read this. Okay? You comfortable? Secure? Good. I am going to praise the MBTA. I know!
They switched the schedule of the prison bus, as well as the other bus that runs past my place of employment, and the new schedule went into effect this week. And the new schedule reflects the time it actually takes to get from point A to point B, instead of some theoretical time that could only be achieved with an actual flying bus, or one that did not ever stop to pick up passengers or, indeed, obey traffic lights. Since this change went into effect, the bus has been within 5 minutes of being on time every single time I've taken it this week. It's like a miracle. I can't even tell you.
The bad news:
1.) In my ongoing war with my uterus, my PCP's office is referring me to a gynecologist to do a certain test on me, sooner rather than later, and assuming the test is negative, as they expect it will be, to discuss a cease fire. Well, I went to the PCP on Wednesday, earlier afternoon. It is now Friday, late afternoon. Have they or the gynecologist's office called me with this mythical appointment yet? No. How long does it take for one receptionist to pick up a phone, call another receptionist, write down a date, and call back a patient? Oh, wait. I work in a medical office. I know the answer to this one.
2.) My stove keeps blowing the circuit breaker if I use too many burners at once or, just today for the first time, if I try to preheat the oven above 400 degrees apparently. Sigh. I am sure the electrician will be happy to relieve me of some of the money the roofer is letting me keep.
xoxo
you can't be
...an official part of the blogosphere unless you comment on MJ's death. So.
I myself have lately been listening to Eminem's Relapse, which is his own inimitable take on his recovery from prescription drug addiction. (That's where the slow jam came from. C'mon now.) I say "inimitable" because, for example, the album starts out with a spoken word skit called "Dr West" in which Dominic West--not speaking like Jimmy McNulty but in fact in his native accent--plays the psychiatrist discharging Mr Mathers from rehab:
DW: Steps? There's a lot of them, aren't there?
MM: Well...twelve.
DW: Christ. I don't even know them all.
Yeah. If you're gonna write a whole CD worth of music mostly about your recovery, you bet your ass you better be making fun of it, and yourself, throughout, or you are going to sound even more like a self-absorbed, self-pitying douche than you already do. Not that self-pitying douches don't sell a lot of CDs.
Anyway, Mr Mathers also namechecks Heath Ledger a couple times, since that situation must have hit pretty damn close to home. But perhaps his most cogent remark on the whole album is "what would Elvis do?"
Maybe MJ asked himself that.
xoxo
I myself have lately been listening to Eminem's Relapse, which is his own inimitable take on his recovery from prescription drug addiction. (That's where the slow jam came from. C'mon now.) I say "inimitable" because, for example, the album starts out with a spoken word skit called "Dr West" in which Dominic West--not speaking like Jimmy McNulty but in fact in his native accent--plays the psychiatrist discharging Mr Mathers from rehab:
DW: Steps? There's a lot of them, aren't there?
MM: Well...twelve.
DW: Christ. I don't even know them all.
Yeah. If you're gonna write a whole CD worth of music mostly about your recovery, you bet your ass you better be making fun of it, and yourself, throughout, or you are going to sound even more like a self-absorbed, self-pitying douche than you already do. Not that self-pitying douches don't sell a lot of CDs.
Anyway, Mr Mathers also namechecks Heath Ledger a couple times, since that situation must have hit pretty damn close to home. But perhaps his most cogent remark on the whole album is "what would Elvis do?"
Maybe MJ asked himself that.
xoxo
Thursday, June 25, 2009
i am not a cheater
The last bit of infidelity on my part occurred when I was in 11th grade and I cheated on my future ex-husband S by making out with my previous boyfriend G in the backseat of someone's car while I was drunk. I was so guilty about this that I can tell you what song was playing on the radio while our tongues were in each other's mouth: "Three Times a Lady" by the Commodores. I was also so guilty about this that I went home while I was still buzzed (not my usual modus operandi) because S was going to call me at 10 pm when he was on his break at work and I wanted to be there to take his call. This led me to getting bagged by my mom for drinking for the first and only time in my high school career. Since that occasion circa 1979, not only have I never cheated on anyone I have ever been with, I have never been tempted. At all. I don't say that as a mark of my moral superiority--in fact, it's the people who *are* tempted but don't do it who are morally superior from my POV--but just to point out that when I say what I'm going to say, it's not because I myself have problems in this area.
But before we get to that, let's just take a little side trip and discuss G. (Because I know you people *love* to hear boring stories of my youth, featuring people you don't know.) G broke up with me and then spent the rest of our high school years (we went to different schools, however) occasionally feeling the need to tell me how it was the biggest mistake he ever made. Since our whole relationship, such as it was, was based solely on watching the Red Sox together and kissing, (okay, yeah, two of my favorite things admittedly), I don't see why G thought I really was his soulmate whom he stoopidly threw away, but hey. The last time I saw G was when we ran into each other at Liberty Tree Mall in 1995. He told me what he was doing and where he was living, and because I was single at the time and so was he, he gave me his phone number. I never called. G was a very sweet guy, but--how shall I put this?--not terribly terribly bright. He also was well on his way to a drinking problem when he was 16, so there was that. But G was in one of the trades (I can't remember which exactly!) so if only I had played my cards right in 1995, I *could* have had a contractor second husband and I'd probably have beautiful crown molding even as we speak. And maybe I'd be able to write a paragraph without four sets of parentheses in it.
Okay, enough about short, skinny, sweet Irish boys. I want to talk about my favorite news story of 2009, Mr Mark Sanford and Argentine Maria. Wasn't I just going on in here last week about how I could not care less about the sexual behavior of my political leaders? In fact, if Mr Sanford had not been stupid enough to apparently leave the country without informing the proper people, leaving his state ungoverned, and then stupid or callous enough to make up outrageously ridiculous excuses for himself, my reaction to being told that his wife threw him out because he was having an affair would be, "Um, yeah, tell me something that doesn't happen 3 million times a day." I honestly wouldn't see any reason why someone would have to resign from office because of it.
Now I know part of Mr Sanford's problem is that, as a Republican, he supposed to be all about the Family Values, and that if his party would stop sticking their collective noses into other people's sex lives, they wouldn't look like such a bunch of hypocritical idiots when they are shown to be less than chaste and upright, as they inevitably are. I saw all the pundits on the cable news this morning while I was getting dressed frothing at the mouth about how the Republican Party can't find anyone to serve as their "face" because every time someone comes along who looks promising, they, like Sanford, shoot themselves in the foot. But *my* point is, if we didn't care about someone like Sanford proving to be a cheating cheater and instead focused on their actual job qualifications, maybe there'd be lots of fabulous potential candidates for higher office.
I mean, c'mon now. I myself could straighten this country right the fuck out but I'll never get the chance because, god knows, I've got email correspondence that would make Sanford's letters to Maria look like a Sunday school lesson. And then there's this blog!
There was probably another point I was supposed to make in this post, but that's another reason I'll never hold higher office. I go off track a lot.
xoxo
But before we get to that, let's just take a little side trip and discuss G. (Because I know you people *love* to hear boring stories of my youth, featuring people you don't know.) G broke up with me and then spent the rest of our high school years (we went to different schools, however) occasionally feeling the need to tell me how it was the biggest mistake he ever made. Since our whole relationship, such as it was, was based solely on watching the Red Sox together and kissing, (okay, yeah, two of my favorite things admittedly), I don't see why G thought I really was his soulmate whom he stoopidly threw away, but hey. The last time I saw G was when we ran into each other at Liberty Tree Mall in 1995. He told me what he was doing and where he was living, and because I was single at the time and so was he, he gave me his phone number. I never called. G was a very sweet guy, but--how shall I put this?--not terribly terribly bright. He also was well on his way to a drinking problem when he was 16, so there was that. But G was in one of the trades (I can't remember which exactly!) so if only I had played my cards right in 1995, I *could* have had a contractor second husband and I'd probably have beautiful crown molding even as we speak. And maybe I'd be able to write a paragraph without four sets of parentheses in it.
Okay, enough about short, skinny, sweet Irish boys. I want to talk about my favorite news story of 2009, Mr Mark Sanford and Argentine Maria. Wasn't I just going on in here last week about how I could not care less about the sexual behavior of my political leaders? In fact, if Mr Sanford had not been stupid enough to apparently leave the country without informing the proper people, leaving his state ungoverned, and then stupid or callous enough to make up outrageously ridiculous excuses for himself, my reaction to being told that his wife threw him out because he was having an affair would be, "Um, yeah, tell me something that doesn't happen 3 million times a day." I honestly wouldn't see any reason why someone would have to resign from office because of it.
Now I know part of Mr Sanford's problem is that, as a Republican, he supposed to be all about the Family Values, and that if his party would stop sticking their collective noses into other people's sex lives, they wouldn't look like such a bunch of hypocritical idiots when they are shown to be less than chaste and upright, as they inevitably are. I saw all the pundits on the cable news this morning while I was getting dressed frothing at the mouth about how the Republican Party can't find anyone to serve as their "face" because every time someone comes along who looks promising, they, like Sanford, shoot themselves in the foot. But *my* point is, if we didn't care about someone like Sanford proving to be a cheating cheater and instead focused on their actual job qualifications, maybe there'd be lots of fabulous potential candidates for higher office.
I mean, c'mon now. I myself could straighten this country right the fuck out but I'll never get the chance because, god knows, I've got email correspondence that would make Sanford's letters to Maria look like a Sunday school lesson. And then there's this blog!
There was probably another point I was supposed to make in this post, but that's another reason I'll never hold higher office. I go off track a lot.
xoxo
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
customer service/consumer complaints, edition #436
1.) What do you think of businesses or offices that never have anyone actually answering the phone, but instead just voicemail? I think it's JUST FINE, as long as, y'know, someone actually listens to the messages and returns them. Are we not in a recession? Do businesspeople not want business? WILL YOU TAKE MY MONEY, PLEASE?
2.) I'm sure I've bitched and moaned about this before, but why oh why do companies discontinue or change every product I actually like and am satisfied with? This weekend/week in my little cleaning fit, I scrubbed my kitchen floor on my hands and knees with Mr Clean, because, frankly, it was gross and disgusting. I mean, really really gross. But being as (as you know) I am lazy, I do not wish to do that every time I wash the kitchen floor. Usually I just wanna swiffer to keep it halfway presentable. Well. There used to be these wipey things for the swiffer that contained vinegar. I forget what company made them, but they were great. I haven't been able to find them in any of the stores I go to for probably two years. So, I try other inferior products. The last ones I got, "swiffer sweeper wet mopping cloths", not only suck, but they actually leave the floor sticky, as if it needs to be rinsed. Forgive me, but isn't the whole point of the swiffer that it's a lazy person's one step process? BIG FAIL.
Okay, that's it for now.
xoxo
2.) I'm sure I've bitched and moaned about this before, but why oh why do companies discontinue or change every product I actually like and am satisfied with? This weekend/week in my little cleaning fit, I scrubbed my kitchen floor on my hands and knees with Mr Clean, because, frankly, it was gross and disgusting. I mean, really really gross. But being as (as you know) I am lazy, I do not wish to do that every time I wash the kitchen floor. Usually I just wanna swiffer to keep it halfway presentable. Well. There used to be these wipey things for the swiffer that contained vinegar. I forget what company made them, but they were great. I haven't been able to find them in any of the stores I go to for probably two years. So, I try other inferior products. The last ones I got, "swiffer sweeper wet mopping cloths", not only suck, but they actually leave the floor sticky, as if it needs to be rinsed. Forgive me, but isn't the whole point of the swiffer that it's a lazy person's one step process? BIG FAIL.
Okay, that's it for now.
xoxo
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
and on a more serious (nonlinguistic) note
I just read a little blog/blurb about how parents in some Chicago suburb are protesting one of the books on their ninth graders' summer reading list because of strong language and sexual content. Commenters on the story were some for, some against, this censorship, but one comment in particular about whether or not a 14 year old could "handle" reading such a book got me thinking.
When I was in 8th grade, I read Lord of the Flies in school. Not a "vulgar" book and a classic, and I don't think the kind of book anyone objects to being taught to schoolchildren. But I could not "handle" it. It was so upsetting to me, because the message I took from it was that people, all people, are, at their core, bad. That was not a message I wanted to think about when I was 12 or 13. (D had to read it in school, too, though I think not till sophomore year, and I reread it when he had it in the house. Let me say, my reading was a bit more nuanced the second time around.) Reading something with sexual content or OMG bad words wouldn't have bothered me a bit as a young teenager--in fact, it was a plus--but something with an exceedingly dark view of human nature? No. I was a sensitive little girl, you know.
So then I was thinking about the two books I remember reading the summer after ninth grade when I was fourteen. It was a very tough summer for me, my first bout of real clinical depression, and I read *a lot*. And I read two books that were absolutely my favorites for years after: Dune and The Persian Boy. Both books I reread many years later in adulthood, and lemme say, Dune disappointed, The Persian Boy did not. But what was absolutely mindblowing when reading them as an adult was realizing how certain things in my psyche had to have been implanted there from those two books, and I never would have realized if I hadn't reread. I mean, The Persian Boy, besides being absolutely a classic historical novel, is also an extremely touching gay male love story, and you wouldn't have thought that would have shaped my romantic and psychosexual wiring in any way, but um, yeah. In retrospect, you betcha.
I guess my point being, yeah, what your kids read (or watch or listen to) as young teenagers probably *will* subconsciously influence them in certain ways, but those ways are totally unpredictable and idiosyncratic, and trying to shield them *or* shape them is probably doomed to failure. So feh on censorship.
Oh, yeah. The other book I clearly remember reading the summer I was 14? My Secret Garden. I'm guessing no one gets that one on their summer reading list.
xoxo
When I was in 8th grade, I read Lord of the Flies in school. Not a "vulgar" book and a classic, and I don't think the kind of book anyone objects to being taught to schoolchildren. But I could not "handle" it. It was so upsetting to me, because the message I took from it was that people, all people, are, at their core, bad. That was not a message I wanted to think about when I was 12 or 13. (D had to read it in school, too, though I think not till sophomore year, and I reread it when he had it in the house. Let me say, my reading was a bit more nuanced the second time around.) Reading something with sexual content or OMG bad words wouldn't have bothered me a bit as a young teenager--in fact, it was a plus--but something with an exceedingly dark view of human nature? No. I was a sensitive little girl, you know.
So then I was thinking about the two books I remember reading the summer after ninth grade when I was fourteen. It was a very tough summer for me, my first bout of real clinical depression, and I read *a lot*. And I read two books that were absolutely my favorites for years after: Dune and The Persian Boy. Both books I reread many years later in adulthood, and lemme say, Dune disappointed, The Persian Boy did not. But what was absolutely mindblowing when reading them as an adult was realizing how certain things in my psyche had to have been implanted there from those two books, and I never would have realized if I hadn't reread. I mean, The Persian Boy, besides being absolutely a classic historical novel, is also an extremely touching gay male love story, and you wouldn't have thought that would have shaped my romantic and psychosexual wiring in any way, but um, yeah. In retrospect, you betcha.
I guess my point being, yeah, what your kids read (or watch or listen to) as young teenagers probably *will* subconsciously influence them in certain ways, but those ways are totally unpredictable and idiosyncratic, and trying to shield them *or* shape them is probably doomed to failure. So feh on censorship.
Oh, yeah. The other book I clearly remember reading the summer I was 14? My Secret Garden. I'm guessing no one gets that one on their summer reading list.
xoxo
Monday, June 22, 2009
y'know...
Earlier today I was remarking that with what was going on in my life this week, I really needed cheesecake and wine to restore my mental equilibrium. Well. I'm upgrading that to Jamesons and ativan. (Or klonopin or xanax. I'm not picky. Any benzo will do at this point.)
On the plus side, and there's always a plus side, right, kids?, this is the kind of stress that totally makes me stop eating, so I'm sure I can knock off five pounds of excess fat like *that*. I mean, I do not even want cheesecake now.
There will be baseball tonight, right? Or is it raining in Washington too? Baseball usually distracts me from bad thoughts. Maybe playing with my bumpits would help as well. Or maybe youtube. I dunno. I've done productive stuff all afternoon since I realized this situation is gonna cost me more money than I originally feared and being productive has done crap in the way of distraction. So slovenly time-wasting is obviously the way to go. That, and benzos. Ha!
Once again, those of you who do not have anxiety disorders and thus do not make yourself sick over things you cannot fix or help, please call your parents and thank them for the good genetics. Because, seriously, you've got no idea.
I should have a tag for this. Should I go back and retroactively tag all the gazillion old ones?
xoxo
On the plus side, and there's always a plus side, right, kids?, this is the kind of stress that totally makes me stop eating, so I'm sure I can knock off five pounds of excess fat like *that*. I mean, I do not even want cheesecake now.
There will be baseball tonight, right? Or is it raining in Washington too? Baseball usually distracts me from bad thoughts. Maybe playing with my bumpits would help as well. Or maybe youtube. I dunno. I've done productive stuff all afternoon since I realized this situation is gonna cost me more money than I originally feared and being productive has done crap in the way of distraction. So slovenly time-wasting is obviously the way to go. That, and benzos. Ha!
Once again, those of you who do not have anxiety disorders and thus do not make yourself sick over things you cannot fix or help, please call your parents and thank them for the good genetics. Because, seriously, you've got no idea.
I should have a tag for this. Should I go back and retroactively tag all the gazillion old ones?
xoxo
Sunday, June 21, 2009
more self humiliation for your reading pleasure
So, yeah. I downloaded some STP last night. "Sex Type Thing"? Correct me if I'm wrong, but there's no other way to interpret those lyrics than that they're about rape, right? I mean, just because you can totally air guitar to it and rock out doesn't mean it's not about sexual assault. Kinda puts me in mind of that free download I got from Starbucks, The Decemberists "The Rake's Song" which has got to be the poppiest, most cheerful song about serial murder I've heard to date. (Not saying you can't dance around your living room in your underwear to "Psycho Killer" by the Talking Heads, too, because, yeah, goes without saying.) So, is part of the reason Stone Temple Pilots are so reviled by the cool peeps and critics not just because they were a derivative mid-level-talented band that could write hooks, but because their lyrics were distasteful? Somehow I missed that back in the 90s.
Anyway. While I was downloading that, I had to download some of the other tunes I heard on "lithium" whilst cleaning. Can I just get a shoutout for "Your Woman" by White Town? You guys remember this, doncha? Think back through the misty sands of time to 1997, that brief moment in American music when it looked like electronica/techno might actually hit big here, like in Europe. C'mon. You can do it. You remember The Prodigy. (Me and Whatever He Was to Me, we lurved "Smack My Bitch Up" and not just for the irony potential. We used to blast it in the car is what I'm saying. There may have been head bobbing involved.) Well, one of the other big electronica mainstream hits in '97 was "Your Woman."
The lyrics start out like every other "you done me wrong" pop song you've ever heard.
Just tell me what you've come to say to me
I've been waiting for so long to hear the truth
It comes as no surprise at all you see
So cut the crap and tell me that we're through
Now I know your heart, I know your mind
You don't even know you're being unkind
So much for all your highbrow, Marxist ways
Just use me up and then you walk away
Oh you can't play me that way
Pretty standard, right? Then we come to the chorus.
Well, I guess what you say is true
I could never be the right kind of girl for you
I could never be your woman
This is being sung by a dude. Okay, I didn't quite get what I was supposed to make of that in 1997, and I don't know what I'm supposed to make of it now, twelve extra years of sophistication later. (Oh, who'm I kidding? I had a lot more alternative lifestylish friends in 1997 than I do now. These days not only couldn't I get anyone to go down and get a tattoo with me, I'm betting I couldn't even round up anyone who wanted to watch. When I'm the freakiest weirdo in the group, it's a pretty tame group, yo.) So, yeah, the mindfuck of this song carries it right over from "yeah, I'd dance to it on the sat radio while I'm vacuuming" to "oh, shit, that needs to be on the iPod." So it shall be written, so it shall be done.
Moving on from musical to sartorial humiliating admissions, I bought Bumpits today. As I have threatened to do. I may just have one in my hair right now. It may just make me look less like Brigit Bardot and more like one of the Coneheads or someone with a sad skull deformity than I might have been expecting. Perhaps I need more practice. Or perhaps I need a few crossdressing friends who can both explain those lyrics to me and give me teasing comb tutorials. That'd be cool. Or maybe my hair is just too fine and layered for optimum Bumpit usage. That'd be not so cool.
xoxo
Anyway. While I was downloading that, I had to download some of the other tunes I heard on "lithium" whilst cleaning. Can I just get a shoutout for "Your Woman" by White Town? You guys remember this, doncha? Think back through the misty sands of time to 1997, that brief moment in American music when it looked like electronica/techno might actually hit big here, like in Europe. C'mon. You can do it. You remember The Prodigy. (Me and Whatever He Was to Me, we lurved "Smack My Bitch Up" and not just for the irony potential. We used to blast it in the car is what I'm saying. There may have been head bobbing involved.) Well, one of the other big electronica mainstream hits in '97 was "Your Woman."
The lyrics start out like every other "you done me wrong" pop song you've ever heard.
Just tell me what you've come to say to me
I've been waiting for so long to hear the truth
It comes as no surprise at all you see
So cut the crap and tell me that we're through
Now I know your heart, I know your mind
You don't even know you're being unkind
So much for all your highbrow, Marxist ways
Just use me up and then you walk away
Oh you can't play me that way
Pretty standard, right? Then we come to the chorus.
Well, I guess what you say is true
I could never be the right kind of girl for you
I could never be your woman
This is being sung by a dude. Okay, I didn't quite get what I was supposed to make of that in 1997, and I don't know what I'm supposed to make of it now, twelve extra years of sophistication later. (Oh, who'm I kidding? I had a lot more alternative lifestylish friends in 1997 than I do now. These days not only couldn't I get anyone to go down and get a tattoo with me, I'm betting I couldn't even round up anyone who wanted to watch. When I'm the freakiest weirdo in the group, it's a pretty tame group, yo.) So, yeah, the mindfuck of this song carries it right over from "yeah, I'd dance to it on the sat radio while I'm vacuuming" to "oh, shit, that needs to be on the iPod." So it shall be written, so it shall be done.
Moving on from musical to sartorial humiliating admissions, I bought Bumpits today. As I have threatened to do. I may just have one in my hair right now. It may just make me look less like Brigit Bardot and more like one of the Coneheads or someone with a sad skull deformity than I might have been expecting. Perhaps I need more practice. Or perhaps I need a few crossdressing friends who can both explain those lyrics to me and give me teasing comb tutorials. That'd be cool. Or maybe my hair is just too fine and layered for optimum Bumpit usage. That'd be not so cool.
xoxo
Saturday, June 20, 2009
weekend misc
1.) My herbs are doing well! I picked and used some basil today for [this shrimp/rotini/garlic/grape tomato stuff I make which we will call] scampi and I was inordinately proud of myself, like I had invented a cure for swine flu or brokered peace between the Crips and the Latin Kings. Or something. I felt accomplished. (Shut up.) I also have enough mint to probably make *a* mojito, but fuck all if I'm buying a bottle of rum for just that. But, see, here's my problem: being a very inexperienced gardener--by which I mean to say, as I've told you before, I've killed most of my past experiments with my deadly black thumb--I kind of didn't remember I should mark what is what. The basil I can tell by how it looks. The mint I know because I picked a leaf and experimentally chewed it. I'm pretty sure I planted lavender, but I threw away the package, so I dunno what it's supposed to look like. And the stuff that I know is in the pot that's supposed to be catnip does not look like the picture on that package, which I still have. So maybe it's an extraneous weed. I swear to god, I was on the Dean's list in college. I used to be intelligent. Sigh.
2.) So, as soon as I got home from work today, I started ripping apart my living room and dining room, because I'm cleaning the (at least) downstairs, which was what I was supposed to do yesterday, except yesterday I opted to take a three hour nap instead. I had an easy day at work yesterday, too, but I dunno, my uterus and I still are in a fight and I didn't feel so well. Today I'm much perkier though, so yeah, started cleaning right away. And because I like music to clean by and I didn't feel like bringing my iPod speakers downstairs, I put on satellite radio on my Directv. Specifically "lithium" which is the channel that plays 90s alternative, i.e. the best music evah, ha! And maybe I've inhaled too much Pledge Clean and Dust, but I have a couple confessions to make. I like the Stone Temple Pilots. I do. I never bought any of their CDs in the actual 90s, having at least a little shame left back in those days, but I'm seriously thinking of downloading at least Sex Type Thing. Second confession: I also like Mr Gwen Stefani and his crappy 90s band, whose CDs I did buy (or in one case, have gifted to me), and his handsome face and his ability to knock Gwen up with extremely adorable babies whom she then spits out of her incredibly stylish pregnant body and proceeds to dress them adorably and stylishly as well. By which I mean to say, Mr Rossdale, you obviously rule. The fact that you apparently could give a shit that you are in fact Mr Gwen Stefani and no one cares about your crappy 90s band anymore also endears you further to me. Keep sexing up that pretty wife of yours, count her piles o' money for her, and provide more of that stellar genetic material. It's not a bad life, is it, dude? And I did so sing along to Glycerine while I was vacuuming.
3.) Seriously, I haven't been huffing furniture polish. I'm blaming this on my evil uterus. Now I must go clean more. Peace!
xoxo
2.) So, as soon as I got home from work today, I started ripping apart my living room and dining room, because I'm cleaning the (at least) downstairs, which was what I was supposed to do yesterday, except yesterday I opted to take a three hour nap instead. I had an easy day at work yesterday, too, but I dunno, my uterus and I still are in a fight and I didn't feel so well. Today I'm much perkier though, so yeah, started cleaning right away. And because I like music to clean by and I didn't feel like bringing my iPod speakers downstairs, I put on satellite radio on my Directv. Specifically "lithium" which is the channel that plays 90s alternative, i.e. the best music evah, ha! And maybe I've inhaled too much Pledge Clean and Dust, but I have a couple confessions to make. I like the Stone Temple Pilots. I do. I never bought any of their CDs in the actual 90s, having at least a little shame left back in those days, but I'm seriously thinking of downloading at least Sex Type Thing. Second confession: I also like Mr Gwen Stefani and his crappy 90s band, whose CDs I did buy (or in one case, have gifted to me), and his handsome face and his ability to knock Gwen up with extremely adorable babies whom she then spits out of her incredibly stylish pregnant body and proceeds to dress them adorably and stylishly as well. By which I mean to say, Mr Rossdale, you obviously rule. The fact that you apparently could give a shit that you are in fact Mr Gwen Stefani and no one cares about your crappy 90s band anymore also endears you further to me. Keep sexing up that pretty wife of yours, count her piles o' money for her, and provide more of that stellar genetic material. It's not a bad life, is it, dude? And I did so sing along to Glycerine while I was vacuuming.
3.) Seriously, I haven't been huffing furniture polish. I'm blaming this on my evil uterus. Now I must go clean more. Peace!
xoxo
Friday, June 19, 2009
carla bruni: it's all connected
I've half-written and then discarded at least a couple of blog entries this week. Apparently my attention span is not what it could be. But now, now I am trying again, because I realize I can cover all the things I want to if only I use the first lady of France as the nexus. (Shut up.)
In between my posting of her coiffure on here and my hearing her CD for the first time, I took the opportunity to wikipedia Ms Bruni. I was delighted--delighted, I tell you--to read that she has said in published interviews that she is easily bored by monogamy and that while she practices it "from time to time", she prefers an alternate arrangement. So in my discussions of Carla, her haircut, and her music with my friends, I've made a point of bringing that up. And when I brought it up to Mr Indemnity, I said, paraphrased, "Can you imagine what would have happened if, say, Michelle Obama had made a public statement in which she mentioned that she likes screwing around? You'd have Sarah Palin as your VP right now, that's what!" And we kinda agreed that those Europeans are so much cooler and less uptight about that kind of thing than we repressed Americans, as a culture.
Okay, now just keep that conversational tidbit in the back of your mind as we move on here, 'k?
So then, like the next day after I had that conversation, I came across a couple of articles linking back to a Maureen Dowd op-ed in the NYT and a Politico article, both of which take the Obamas to task for ::gasp:: eating french fries and burgers and other "bad" foods at times, along with their organic garden veggies and other "good" foods, because OMG THE OBESITY CRISIS and they have to be role models and "it's confusing the public! how can someone look like Barack and Michelle do and still eat fries sometimes?!?" (Because obviously one order of fries=400 pounds and an early death which requires a special coffin custom made from a piano case, eye roll.) If you've been reading along, campers, you'll already know how I personally feel about the concept of "good" foods and "bad" foods and assigning moral weight to eating. Tying down and force-feeding chocolate ganache to one of those joyless nutritionists who are always going on in the media about half a baked potato being a serving and such is still one of my most cherished sick fantasies. But really, what I mean to say is this: American society is so fucking uptight and prudish and Puritan that not only do we expect our political leaders (and their spouses, apparently) to hew to a certain strict sexual morality, and act shocked! shocked, I tell you! when they all end up *not* doing so, now we're expecting them to hew to a certain strict eating morality. To which I say, are you fucking kidding me? Also, I don't care who my president sexes up, whether he goes to church or not, or what he has for dinner. I just want him to not screw up the country. Be good at his job. That's all I care about, personally.
Next. I also found myself really amused, bemused, and pleased by Ms Bruni's matter-of-fact comment about non-monogamy. Not because I care whether anyone else in the world is monogamous or non-monogamous themselves, mind you. I am so a "do whatever makes you happy" kinda girl. It's just that I know--not to tell tales out of school or anything--but I know, from personal experience, that the idea that you can be in a relationship with someone and not care that they are having sex with other people just makes most people's heads explode. People who are cool and blase about heterosexuality, homosexuality, bisexuality, every sexual act, fetish, and kink you can think of and a few you (and by which I mean, me) probably can't without help, will still, at a deep gut level, flip the fuck out at the idea of non-monogamy. (And I have very little idea why at *my* gut level, so whatev.) Anyway, in my eyes, Carla Bruni is not badass primarily because she likes to sleep with lots of guys or whatever; she's badass because she'll say it in public probably knowing it's gonna freak people out and she does not care.
Or maybe she really isn't badass. Maybe she's just Italian/French. I dunno. In any case, Team Carla. And I'm still getting her haircut.
The end. For now.
xoxo
In between my posting of her coiffure on here and my hearing her CD for the first time, I took the opportunity to wikipedia Ms Bruni. I was delighted--delighted, I tell you--to read that she has said in published interviews that she is easily bored by monogamy and that while she practices it "from time to time", she prefers an alternate arrangement. So in my discussions of Carla, her haircut, and her music with my friends, I've made a point of bringing that up. And when I brought it up to Mr Indemnity, I said, paraphrased, "Can you imagine what would have happened if, say, Michelle Obama had made a public statement in which she mentioned that she likes screwing around? You'd have Sarah Palin as your VP right now, that's what!" And we kinda agreed that those Europeans are so much cooler and less uptight about that kind of thing than we repressed Americans, as a culture.
Okay, now just keep that conversational tidbit in the back of your mind as we move on here, 'k?
So then, like the next day after I had that conversation, I came across a couple of articles linking back to a Maureen Dowd op-ed in the NYT and a Politico article, both of which take the Obamas to task for ::gasp:: eating french fries and burgers and other "bad" foods at times, along with their organic garden veggies and other "good" foods, because OMG THE OBESITY CRISIS and they have to be role models and "it's confusing the public! how can someone look like Barack and Michelle do and still eat fries sometimes?!?" (Because obviously one order of fries=400 pounds and an early death which requires a special coffin custom made from a piano case, eye roll.) If you've been reading along, campers, you'll already know how I personally feel about the concept of "good" foods and "bad" foods and assigning moral weight to eating. Tying down and force-feeding chocolate ganache to one of those joyless nutritionists who are always going on in the media about half a baked potato being a serving and such is still one of my most cherished sick fantasies. But really, what I mean to say is this: American society is so fucking uptight and prudish and Puritan that not only do we expect our political leaders (and their spouses, apparently) to hew to a certain strict sexual morality, and act shocked! shocked, I tell you! when they all end up *not* doing so, now we're expecting them to hew to a certain strict eating morality. To which I say, are you fucking kidding me? Also, I don't care who my president sexes up, whether he goes to church or not, or what he has for dinner. I just want him to not screw up the country. Be good at his job. That's all I care about, personally.
Next. I also found myself really amused, bemused, and pleased by Ms Bruni's matter-of-fact comment about non-monogamy. Not because I care whether anyone else in the world is monogamous or non-monogamous themselves, mind you. I am so a "do whatever makes you happy" kinda girl. It's just that I know--not to tell tales out of school or anything--but I know, from personal experience, that the idea that you can be in a relationship with someone and not care that they are having sex with other people just makes most people's heads explode. People who are cool and blase about heterosexuality, homosexuality, bisexuality, every sexual act, fetish, and kink you can think of and a few you (and by which I mean, me) probably can't without help, will still, at a deep gut level, flip the fuck out at the idea of non-monogamy. (And I have very little idea why at *my* gut level, so whatev.) Anyway, in my eyes, Carla Bruni is not badass primarily because she likes to sleep with lots of guys or whatever; she's badass because she'll say it in public probably knowing it's gonna freak people out and she does not care.
Or maybe she really isn't badass. Maybe she's just Italian/French. I dunno. In any case, Team Carla. And I'm still getting her haircut.
The end. For now.
xoxo
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
new favorite inspirational lyrics
don't let them say you ain't beautiful
they can all get fucked
just stay true to you
Now imagine that sung as a slow jam. Fabulous, right?
xoxo
***This is not, I hasten to add, from Carla Bruni's album.
****As far as I know. That's mostly in French (and perhaps other languages) which I don't speak. She could be crooning "they can all get fucked" and I would never know. Damn being an ignorant monolingual American.
they can all get fucked
just stay true to you
Now imagine that sung as a slow jam. Fabulous, right?
xoxo
***This is not, I hasten to add, from Carla Bruni's album.
****As far as I know. That's mostly in French (and perhaps other languages) which I don't speak. She could be crooning "they can all get fucked" and I would never know. Damn being an ignorant monolingual American.
Monday, June 15, 2009
and i have an announcement
So, you've been listening to me whining about the perimenopause, my hormonal imbalances, and my periods or lack thereof for, like, a year now, right? Well, I must therefore tell you that it's now official: I hate my uterus and it hates me. We're not even frenemies anymore. It's all out war.
Carry on.
xoxo
Carry on.
xoxo
Sunday, June 14, 2009
sunday night's alright for fighting
Hey, kids! I have no idea what that title means. But get a little action in!
Today was a nice day. My toenails are a new color. Also, I had Original Sin cider for the first time and it gets a thumbs up. Along with my alcohol, I also had an omelet that I got so many items in that my little alterna-waitress who was going to just memorize the order had to whip out her pen and actually write it down for accuracy (for the record: feta, spinach, broccoli, peppers, and tomatoes.) Also for the record? I was eating this omelet at 4:30 pm, not sucking down cider before noon. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Just wanted to clarify. Plus, I bought two candles and a kit to clean this filthy, filthy laptop. And I saw those dishes I wanted to buy online in person and they're even prettier. So I'm still thinking on it.
Well, that was freaking fascinating to hear about, wasn't it? I hope you too all had nice days full of people pampering you, yummy food, delicious drinks, little treats for yourself, fresh air and nice walks, and all the other good things Sundays are meant for.
And if you had all those good things plus sex plus a nap, don't tell me, 'k? Because no one, not even you, dear blog readers, deserves that perfect of a day. Peace!
xoxo
Today was a nice day. My toenails are a new color. Also, I had Original Sin cider for the first time and it gets a thumbs up. Along with my alcohol, I also had an omelet that I got so many items in that my little alterna-waitress who was going to just memorize the order had to whip out her pen and actually write it down for accuracy (for the record: feta, spinach, broccoli, peppers, and tomatoes.) Also for the record? I was eating this omelet at 4:30 pm, not sucking down cider before noon. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Just wanted to clarify. Plus, I bought two candles and a kit to clean this filthy, filthy laptop. And I saw those dishes I wanted to buy online in person and they're even prettier. So I'm still thinking on it.
Well, that was freaking fascinating to hear about, wasn't it? I hope you too all had nice days full of people pampering you, yummy food, delicious drinks, little treats for yourself, fresh air and nice walks, and all the other good things Sundays are meant for.
And if you had all those good things plus sex plus a nap, don't tell me, 'k? Because no one, not even you, dear blog readers, deserves that perfect of a day. Peace!
xoxo
Saturday, June 13, 2009
hair!
So, really, I've got to do something about my horrible, horrible dry ends soon. My hair's been in a ponytail for like 10 weeks straight. But you know my hairdresser issues. They're all rude and scary or prone to randomly hacking off an extra five inches or unable to comprehend what you want even if you speak in short phrases and bring audio-visual aids, and then when I find one I actually like, they move to Borneo or somewhere in two years or less. Yes, I have issues.
That being said, do you think that if I find one who doesn't frighten me too much, these pictures of first lady Carla Bruni are straight-forward enough that I could show them to him/her, say "that's what my hair is supposed to look like," and, y'know, have my hair cut successfully?
That being said, do you think that if I find one who doesn't frighten me too much, these pictures of first lady Carla Bruni are straight-forward enough that I could show them to him/her, say "that's what my hair is supposed to look like," and, y'know, have my hair cut successfully?
I can see it now. I'll come out with my hair looking like Mrs Obama's.
"Ohhhhhh, you meant the other first lady? My bad."
xoxopresented for your viewing pleasure
Forgive me if you've seen this already, 'cause I think it's spreading all over the interwebs. But if you haven't, enjoy! (My favorite part's at about 3:40.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4T1RMuoQnKo
I'm trying to think what the MA equivalent is, and I'm guessing it's Newton. But I'll entertain other suggestions.
xoxo
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4T1RMuoQnKo
I'm trying to think what the MA equivalent is, and I'm guessing it's Newton. But I'll entertain other suggestions.
xoxo
Friday, June 12, 2009
the sweepstakes
Is it National Objectify a Woman Month or something? No, wait, that's every month. Sorry. I misspoke. Anyway...
I have this co-worker. I don't know whether I've ever given her a cute nickname or an anonymous initial in here before, but let's call her TG, for Townie Girl. Why? Because TG was born, raised, and still lives in one of those local places that is famous, or perhaps infamous, for its townies, and she has not broken the mold. I mean to say, TG, much like your humble correspondent, though intelligent, attractive, and hard-working as well as possessed of at least a modicum of education, a middle-class income, and a designer purse, is not, and probably will not ever be, free from her essentially white trash roots.
And so it came to pass that yesterday one of TG's relatives came to our hospital with his young daughter for an appointment and, whilst in the building, decided to drop by and visit with TG. Fair enough. Well, he's apparently a talker. The visit went on and on, while his little girl, set up at someone else's workspace, colored or did her homework (or maybe both, because like I said: on and on). And it also came to pass that this gentleman, ahem, saw our little faux-MILF and, specifically, her ass, and felt the desire, indeed the need, to comment approvingly on it, and her, to TG. Who was properly exasperated, half-amused, and horrified, and hissed, "Stop that! That's my co-worker."
And I, a room over, but clearly able to hear all of this, thought, "Wow. This guy just won three gold medals in the Douchebag Olympics. He ought to be on a Douchebag Wheaties box." Because, c'mon now. Feeling the need to say something and not just think it? To another woman? Who happens to be a blood relative of yours? And--this is the best one--within earshot of your preteen daughter? Are you *kidding* me?
I do not think that even in [name of town redacted] this passes for polite and civilized behavior. But, you know, it fits right in with a world in which women are brainwashed into hating their breasts and thinking they are a sign of slutiness, and doing things that do not involve sex for money still qualifies one as a ho, and middle aged women cannot walk to the convenience store in a hoodie without being harassed. Yes, yes, indeed.
Drink the koolaid.
xoxo
I have this co-worker. I don't know whether I've ever given her a cute nickname or an anonymous initial in here before, but let's call her TG, for Townie Girl. Why? Because TG was born, raised, and still lives in one of those local places that is famous, or perhaps infamous, for its townies, and she has not broken the mold. I mean to say, TG, much like your humble correspondent, though intelligent, attractive, and hard-working as well as possessed of at least a modicum of education, a middle-class income, and a designer purse, is not, and probably will not ever be, free from her essentially white trash roots.
And so it came to pass that yesterday one of TG's relatives came to our hospital with his young daughter for an appointment and, whilst in the building, decided to drop by and visit with TG. Fair enough. Well, he's apparently a talker. The visit went on and on, while his little girl, set up at someone else's workspace, colored or did her homework (or maybe both, because like I said: on and on). And it also came to pass that this gentleman, ahem, saw our little faux-MILF and, specifically, her ass, and felt the desire, indeed the need, to comment approvingly on it, and her, to TG. Who was properly exasperated, half-amused, and horrified, and hissed, "Stop that! That's my co-worker."
And I, a room over, but clearly able to hear all of this, thought, "Wow. This guy just won three gold medals in the Douchebag Olympics. He ought to be on a Douchebag Wheaties box." Because, c'mon now. Feeling the need to say something and not just think it? To another woman? Who happens to be a blood relative of yours? And--this is the best one--within earshot of your preteen daughter? Are you *kidding* me?
I do not think that even in [name of town redacted] this passes for polite and civilized behavior. But, you know, it fits right in with a world in which women are brainwashed into hating their breasts and thinking they are a sign of slutiness, and doing things that do not involve sex for money still qualifies one as a ho, and middle aged women cannot walk to the convenience store in a hoodie without being harassed. Yes, yes, indeed.
Drink the koolaid.
xoxo
Thursday, June 11, 2009
"preventable diseases"
D had the cable news on this morning while I was getting ready for work. I wasn't watching it, or really listening to it, until they said something that caught my attention, so you'll excuse me for not getting all the details. But apparently one of the weekly mags is doing an issue on preventative healthcare and how this is all gonna save us all, and Society, tons o' money. Tons, I tell you.
What caught my attention was some (science, I assume) writer on there pimping out his article and maintaining that schizophrenia is now preventable. According to him, there are now "very accurate" tests that they can give to young children that will predict which ones are going to grow up to have serious mental illnesses like bipolar disease and schizophrenia, and--I think he was implying--if you put them on meds when they're little children, then they don't get fullblown whatever.
Two things. First of all, I work in a very respected pediatric neurology clinic, just downstairs from an also very respected pediatric psychiatry clinic, so I think if this were an accepted medical fact and the current standard of care, *I would have fucking heard about it by now and not on CNBC for the first time.* Secondly, science writers in general? Let me just say, what I have done in my non-massage job for the past almost 25 years is an extremely specialized field. I know *a lot* about a few things, rather than a little about many things, is what I am saying. And I have almost never read an article in the popular media, not in a newspaper, not in a popular magazine, that touched upon my little specialized base of knowledge and presented it in such a way that wasn't so dumbed-down that it was, basically, inaccurate. It's made me realize that these people who write these medical articles for the most part don't really understand what they are writing about on other than a very surface level. (That's also led me to realize that, oh, yeah, that means that most of what I read in the media about stuff that I don't know about or understand is also probably, y'know, being written about by journalists who don't really understand it either. It's made me take a whole bunch of things I might have formerly taken at face value with a grain of salt.)
Oh, third thing: this journalist on TV didn't use the term "serious mental illness." He said "psychological problems." Bipolar disorder and schizophrenia are not psychological problems; they're organic brain diseases. So, there's proof of journalistic FAIL right there.
So, then the panel moves onto other "preventable diseases" covered in this article or series of articles. Like, for instance, obesity, according to, y'know, Mika. Or how ever you spell her name. Um, obesity isn't a fucking *disease*, either, you morons, you.
Luckily I had to jump in the shower before I threw something through the TV screen. But it was close.
xoxo
What caught my attention was some (science, I assume) writer on there pimping out his article and maintaining that schizophrenia is now preventable. According to him, there are now "very accurate" tests that they can give to young children that will predict which ones are going to grow up to have serious mental illnesses like bipolar disease and schizophrenia, and--I think he was implying--if you put them on meds when they're little children, then they don't get fullblown whatever.
Two things. First of all, I work in a very respected pediatric neurology clinic, just downstairs from an also very respected pediatric psychiatry clinic, so I think if this were an accepted medical fact and the current standard of care, *I would have fucking heard about it by now and not on CNBC for the first time.* Secondly, science writers in general? Let me just say, what I have done in my non-massage job for the past almost 25 years is an extremely specialized field. I know *a lot* about a few things, rather than a little about many things, is what I am saying. And I have almost never read an article in the popular media, not in a newspaper, not in a popular magazine, that touched upon my little specialized base of knowledge and presented it in such a way that wasn't so dumbed-down that it was, basically, inaccurate. It's made me realize that these people who write these medical articles for the most part don't really understand what they are writing about on other than a very surface level. (That's also led me to realize that, oh, yeah, that means that most of what I read in the media about stuff that I don't know about or understand is also probably, y'know, being written about by journalists who don't really understand it either. It's made me take a whole bunch of things I might have formerly taken at face value with a grain of salt.)
Oh, third thing: this journalist on TV didn't use the term "serious mental illness." He said "psychological problems." Bipolar disorder and schizophrenia are not psychological problems; they're organic brain diseases. So, there's proof of journalistic FAIL right there.
So, then the panel moves onto other "preventable diseases" covered in this article or series of articles. Like, for instance, obesity, according to, y'know, Mika. Or how ever you spell her name. Um, obesity isn't a fucking *disease*, either, you morons, you.
Luckily I had to jump in the shower before I threw something through the TV screen. But it was close.
xoxo
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
it's debatable
...what the best part of watching a baseball game is. Some people like to see home runs or diving catches. Others prefer perfectly placed bunts or smart and gutty base running. My dad is fond of the double play.
Me, I like to see a pitcher strike a guy or two out right when it counts. By which I mean to say, Mr Okajima, I will gladly have your little Japanese babies.
Okay, not really. But good job!
xoxo
Me, I like to see a pitcher strike a guy or two out right when it counts. By which I mean to say, Mr Okajima, I will gladly have your little Japanese babies.
Okay, not really. But good job!
xoxo
so here's the thing
I am, once again, stealing topics from elsewhere. I can't help it. I read things, my head wants to explode, I must tell you all. That's the way it works. Also, this touches on something I was going on about awhile ago, so you know I don't want to pass up my chance to present corroborating evidence.
Now, I don't know nothin bout no Twitter, except for my relatively-uninformed opinion that it is the pinnacle of complete narcissism, and thus, another one of the signs of the downfall of Western civilization or the Apocalypse or both. I am old, cranky, and a Luddite. I was therefore unaware that there are "trending topics" where people at random could add to the tweet(?). But now I know. And now I know that there is one called #urahoe, wherein some fine brilliant young (I'm assuming) people can discuss what makes a woman (mostly) a "hoe".
Literacy, yur doin it rong. But whatevs. I would like to discuss the insightful conversation about what makes a ho. For instance, did you know that wanting sex with someone you've known less than a week makes you a ho? Not even, I guess, actually doing it, but wanting it. Good to know. Purity of thought is apparently important. Also? Having sex while you are menstruating makes you a ho. If you get a lot of phone calls and have a lot of friends, you are also apparently a ho. My goodness. The things you learn on the interwebs.
Remember when we were having the slut-shaming talk in here and I maintained things are worse for young women these days than in my day? I would like to offer this up as evidence. I mean, I have known some guys who did not want/like to have sex with a menstruating partner, and I have likewise known some women who preferred to abstain at that time of the month, but as far as I know, that has always been an aesthetic or (misguided) health decision, without any moral component. But apparently for some young people these days, squeamishness has led to moral condemnation, perhaps because a woman who does something "disgusting" must *be* disgusting. Likewise, in my day, I can't remember anyone ever condemning anyone for lusty thoughts or having an appetite. Sating that appetite indiscriminately, especially with other women's boyfriends or when you had promised fidelity to someone yourself, might get you called a slut but merely liking and wanting sex was not a negative in 1979 or 1985. In my experience.
And, okay, maybe the "in my experience" is the key there, because we didn't have the interwebs and Twitter in my day, so really, I did not get to, or need to, hear the innermost thoughts and deeply held opinions of a bunch of morons and douches I did not know. Perhaps 1979 was chock full o' guys and girls who thought that being sexually attracted to someone meant you were irredeemably loose, that sex on your period branded you as a whore, and that if people were calling you, obviously you were fucking them all, no questions asked. But if so, I, thank god, never knew because I never had to talk or listen to them.
See why I'm a Luddite?
xoxo
Now, I don't know nothin bout no Twitter, except for my relatively-uninformed opinion that it is the pinnacle of complete narcissism, and thus, another one of the signs of the downfall of Western civilization or the Apocalypse or both. I am old, cranky, and a Luddite. I was therefore unaware that there are "trending topics" where people at random could add to the tweet(?). But now I know. And now I know that there is one called #urahoe, wherein some fine brilliant young (I'm assuming) people can discuss what makes a woman (mostly) a "hoe".
Literacy, yur doin it rong. But whatevs. I would like to discuss the insightful conversation about what makes a ho. For instance, did you know that wanting sex with someone you've known less than a week makes you a ho? Not even, I guess, actually doing it, but wanting it. Good to know. Purity of thought is apparently important. Also? Having sex while you are menstruating makes you a ho. If you get a lot of phone calls and have a lot of friends, you are also apparently a ho. My goodness. The things you learn on the interwebs.
Remember when we were having the slut-shaming talk in here and I maintained things are worse for young women these days than in my day? I would like to offer this up as evidence. I mean, I have known some guys who did not want/like to have sex with a menstruating partner, and I have likewise known some women who preferred to abstain at that time of the month, but as far as I know, that has always been an aesthetic or (misguided) health decision, without any moral component. But apparently for some young people these days, squeamishness has led to moral condemnation, perhaps because a woman who does something "disgusting" must *be* disgusting. Likewise, in my day, I can't remember anyone ever condemning anyone for lusty thoughts or having an appetite. Sating that appetite indiscriminately, especially with other women's boyfriends or when you had promised fidelity to someone yourself, might get you called a slut but merely liking and wanting sex was not a negative in 1979 or 1985. In my experience.
And, okay, maybe the "in my experience" is the key there, because we didn't have the interwebs and Twitter in my day, so really, I did not get to, or need to, hear the innermost thoughts and deeply held opinions of a bunch of morons and douches I did not know. Perhaps 1979 was chock full o' guys and girls who thought that being sexually attracted to someone meant you were irredeemably loose, that sex on your period branded you as a whore, and that if people were calling you, obviously you were fucking them all, no questions asked. But if so, I, thank god, never knew because I never had to talk or listen to them.
See why I'm a Luddite?
xoxo
Monday, June 8, 2009
one more boob post
Okay, no more bitchin about my unvitation and my cheap-ass relatives. Let's return instead to the ever popular topic of breasts. The Real Life episode I brought up in here yesterday was also addressed on jezebel today. Cue four pages of comments (and probably counting) from women who hatehatehate their big boobs.
I'll admit this surprised me a bit. Women whose breasts are my size or smaller (cupwise) filled with loathing for them. Huh. Wow. Because you know that, despite their disadvantages, of which there are a few, I lurve mine. They're right up there with my wrists, calves, ribcage, and crow's feet as my favorite bodily feature, and for someone with the degree of body hatred/borderline dysmorphia I have, that's saying something. In fact, TO MY SHAME, a few months ago, I came across one of those body-positive sites where people send their un-photoshopped pics (in this case, of their breasts) so others can see what "real" people actually look like as opposed to the unrealistic standard force fed us by the media, and (again, I emphasize TO MY SHAME) I was looking at all these photos of other women's natural breasts going, "yeah, mine are prettier than hers, and hers, and hers, and..." Which is totally against the spirit, and lesson intended, of such sites, but I am a bad person. In fact, I can't believe I just admitted that publicly.
Anyway. Enough about my character flaws. So, the reasons all these women gave for hating their breasts were interesting to me. One big one was they make you look heavier/fatter than you are. I agree, and it goes double for photos. The solution for this is to always wearing fairly fitted tops, so that it's obvious that you aren't huge all over. (The solution for the photo thing is to just accept the fact that you will never look as good in pics as you do in real life and that's why all models are super emaciated and flat chested.)
Which leads to big complaint number two: that if you wear fitted clothing, which doesn't make you look obese, you look, instead, "slutty." Okay, this one I categorically object to. My breasts do not, by their mere presence *beneath clothing*, make me look slutty. When I choose, rarely, to display a copious amount of cleavage in public...maybe. (Even then, I think there is little to nothing about me that screams "skank" but, on the other hand, skeevy foreign guys do offer me rides even when I'm wearing a hoodie and flipflops, so maybe I'm just deluding myself badly.) But, no, I reject the idea that just having breasts under a t-shirt or a sweater makes a woman look like a whore. That's ridiculous.
Leading to big complaint #3: that having big breasts garners you unwanted attention from skeevy men. My perspective, born of 30+ years of being leered at, is thus: skeevy men will always give you unwanted attention. If it's not your breasts, it's your ass or your legs or the mere fact that they're positive there's a vag there under your clothing. Trust me, if skeevy men are offering me rides at my advanced age, your average twenty year old girl is going to be harassed occasionally no matter whether she's got big boobs or not. The boobs just give the douches something to focus on; if they aren't there, they'll find something else. Blame the fact that they're douches, instead of hating your own poor innocent body. Srsly.
The other big complaints are ones that, unfortunately, I have to say are best solved by age or rather, the fact that age usually brings more disposable income: that there aren't any pretty bras in big sizes and that big boobs cause back pain. My perspective as someone with a very small back and proportionately huge breasts (i.e. someone whom you'd think would be a poster child for back pain) is this: if you have good, comfortable, well-engineered bras that keep your breasts supported the right way and that actually fit, your back will not hurt and you will not dread putting your bra on. These bras do not, however, come cheap. But if you are able to spend $50+ for one, you can get them and your breasts will not cause you pain. And if you are spending $50+ for this magical bra, you can also get a very pretty one. When I was in in my twenties, there is no way I could do this, having hundreds of dollars tied up in my lingerie drawer, so I understand the young women who are complaining. But really, the right underwear goes a long way towards tolerating, or even lurving, your big boobs.
And thus ends today's seminar. Peace!
xoxo
I'll admit this surprised me a bit. Women whose breasts are my size or smaller (cupwise) filled with loathing for them. Huh. Wow. Because you know that, despite their disadvantages, of which there are a few, I lurve mine. They're right up there with my wrists, calves, ribcage, and crow's feet as my favorite bodily feature, and for someone with the degree of body hatred/borderline dysmorphia I have, that's saying something. In fact, TO MY SHAME, a few months ago, I came across one of those body-positive sites where people send their un-photoshopped pics (in this case, of their breasts) so others can see what "real" people actually look like as opposed to the unrealistic standard force fed us by the media, and (again, I emphasize TO MY SHAME) I was looking at all these photos of other women's natural breasts going, "yeah, mine are prettier than hers, and hers, and hers, and..." Which is totally against the spirit, and lesson intended, of such sites, but I am a bad person. In fact, I can't believe I just admitted that publicly.
Anyway. Enough about my character flaws. So, the reasons all these women gave for hating their breasts were interesting to me. One big one was they make you look heavier/fatter than you are. I agree, and it goes double for photos. The solution for this is to always wearing fairly fitted tops, so that it's obvious that you aren't huge all over. (The solution for the photo thing is to just accept the fact that you will never look as good in pics as you do in real life and that's why all models are super emaciated and flat chested.)
Which leads to big complaint number two: that if you wear fitted clothing, which doesn't make you look obese, you look, instead, "slutty." Okay, this one I categorically object to. My breasts do not, by their mere presence *beneath clothing*, make me look slutty. When I choose, rarely, to display a copious amount of cleavage in public...maybe. (Even then, I think there is little to nothing about me that screams "skank" but, on the other hand, skeevy foreign guys do offer me rides even when I'm wearing a hoodie and flipflops, so maybe I'm just deluding myself badly.) But, no, I reject the idea that just having breasts under a t-shirt or a sweater makes a woman look like a whore. That's ridiculous.
Leading to big complaint #3: that having big breasts garners you unwanted attention from skeevy men. My perspective, born of 30+ years of being leered at, is thus: skeevy men will always give you unwanted attention. If it's not your breasts, it's your ass or your legs or the mere fact that they're positive there's a vag there under your clothing. Trust me, if skeevy men are offering me rides at my advanced age, your average twenty year old girl is going to be harassed occasionally no matter whether she's got big boobs or not. The boobs just give the douches something to focus on; if they aren't there, they'll find something else. Blame the fact that they're douches, instead of hating your own poor innocent body. Srsly.
The other big complaints are ones that, unfortunately, I have to say are best solved by age or rather, the fact that age usually brings more disposable income: that there aren't any pretty bras in big sizes and that big boobs cause back pain. My perspective as someone with a very small back and proportionately huge breasts (i.e. someone whom you'd think would be a poster child for back pain) is this: if you have good, comfortable, well-engineered bras that keep your breasts supported the right way and that actually fit, your back will not hurt and you will not dread putting your bra on. These bras do not, however, come cheap. But if you are able to spend $50+ for one, you can get them and your breasts will not cause you pain. And if you are spending $50+ for this magical bra, you can also get a very pretty one. When I was in in my twenties, there is no way I could do this, having hundreds of dollars tied up in my lingerie drawer, so I understand the young women who are complaining. But really, the right underwear goes a long way towards tolerating, or even lurving, your big boobs.
And thus ends today's seminar. Peace!
xoxo
hahaha
Today's mail: an invitation to my cousin's wedding *in Monongahela* addressed to Ms Andrea Lastname + guest.
Oh, how fucking incredibly generous of them to invite the black sheep divorced person to bring a date to a wedding they know damn well I will not attend. (When said cousin's sister got married here on the North Shore four years ago, was I invited to bring a guest? Why, no! No, of course not!) It makes me want to start looking up airfares to Pennsylvania, I'll tell you what. But, alas, even spite is not a good enough reason to spend that money nor suffer through a tedious wedding reception. Or go to Monongahela for that matter.
For a person as full of the milk of human kindness as I am (remember: love is free, love me, say HELL YES), I really do dislike most of my extended family. It's a sad conundrum.
Help me see this in a more generous light.
xoxo
Oh, how fucking incredibly generous of them to invite the black sheep divorced person to bring a date to a wedding they know damn well I will not attend. (When said cousin's sister got married here on the North Shore four years ago, was I invited to bring a guest? Why, no! No, of course not!) It makes me want to start looking up airfares to Pennsylvania, I'll tell you what. But, alas, even spite is not a good enough reason to spend that money nor suffer through a tedious wedding reception. Or go to Monongahela for that matter.
For a person as full of the milk of human kindness as I am (remember: love is free, love me, say HELL YES), I really do dislike most of my extended family. It's a sad conundrum.
Help me see this in a more generous light.
xoxo
Sunday, June 7, 2009
girl power
Oh, fuck. I just realized I am sitting here in Boho Paradise with candles burning, drinking wine, about to go get a piece of cheesecake, listening to music which is mostly Tori, and thinking about doing some online shopping. In other words, I am every bad female stereotype you could imagine.
I think I need to scratch myself impolitely, switch the iPod to some really misogynistic rap, and/or at least read some sports blogs to pull myself out of this.
I'm eating the cheesecake first, though.
xoxo
I think I need to scratch myself impolitely, switch the iPod to some really misogynistic rap, and/or at least read some sports blogs to pull myself out of this.
I'm eating the cheesecake first, though.
xoxo
where i get needlessly excited
Okay, so I'm half watching the "I want a breast reduction" episode of True Life while I drink my coffee and check my email, and one of the profilees goes to a fancy specialty lingerie store to get a bra that actually fits and they put her in *my bra*. The exact black and cream Wacoal that I have four of in that color combo, plus one nude and one green. If this is not outside confirmation that this is in fact The Best Bra Evah, I dunno what is.
Just thought you all needed and wanted to know.
xoxo
Just thought you all needed and wanted to know.
xoxo
Saturday, June 6, 2009
more wonders
...from the historical shoeboxes of shredding!
Last night? An envelope of pictures from the time I climbed Mt Marcy (highest peak in the Adirondacks! ha!). That was August 1998. I remember being not pleased with the photographs at the time. I mean, I was wearing an oversized bright orange--like crossing guard orange--windbreaker in them, which I suppose might have come in handy had I needed to be airlifted out of there, but it was not the most attractive or flattering of all possible garments. Now I look at those eleven year old pictures and think how young and cute I was then. Sigh. Also, there I am at the top of that freaking mountain, and I am smiling at the camera as if my quads were not totally destroyed. That's another wonderment. There's also a (rare) photo of me and my ex-whatever-he-was together at the peak, so apparently we suckered some other poor fool with destroyed quads to take one while we posed.
Blast from the proverbial past, dudes!
xoxo
Last night? An envelope of pictures from the time I climbed Mt Marcy (highest peak in the Adirondacks! ha!). That was August 1998. I remember being not pleased with the photographs at the time. I mean, I was wearing an oversized bright orange--like crossing guard orange--windbreaker in them, which I suppose might have come in handy had I needed to be airlifted out of there, but it was not the most attractive or flattering of all possible garments. Now I look at those eleven year old pictures and think how young and cute I was then. Sigh. Also, there I am at the top of that freaking mountain, and I am smiling at the camera as if my quads were not totally destroyed. That's another wonderment. There's also a (rare) photo of me and my ex-whatever-he-was together at the peak, so apparently we suckered some other poor fool with destroyed quads to take one while we posed.
Blast from the proverbial past, dudes!
xoxo
Friday, June 5, 2009
the glass half full contingent
The genesis of this is complicated. Bear with me.
There's a link on jezebel this afternoon to a medical blog in which the author excoriates Dr Christine Northrup (aka Oprah's Favorite GYN) for some of her more woo-woo New Age-y theories, such as uterine fibroids being caused by a woman's negative emotions (I don't have to argue any of my readers into realizing that's ridiculous, do I? thought not). The blog author goes as far as calling Dr Northrop misogynistic, because at the base one could claim that she is saying women's gyn problems are their own fault, that if they were just more spiritually evolved, they wouldn't be ill.
I admit I'm little bit touchy about this subject. A very very dear and very sweet friend (who is far more New Age-y than my massage-therapist-acupuncture-getting-yin-yoga-doing ass is), has been dabbling in so-called metaphysics, which includes the idea of drawing the energy you want to yourself with affirmations and positive thinking and so forth and so on. Which is all very well so far as it goes and if it helps her or anyone else, far be for me to scoff. But when she starts to veer into that health-problems-are-caused-by-your-negativity line of thought, I've had to politely but firmly tell her not to go there in front of me. As the mother of a son with a serious neuropsychiatric illness, the idea that he is somehow to blame for his own illness is deeply enraging to me. Now, my friend, of course, would never say, or think, that, but she also doesn't quite see, I don't think, how that is the logical conclusion to be taken if you extend the idea she *is* espousing. So we just agree not to go there with each other. I have a feeling that's how I'd have to approach a social engagement with Dr Northrup as well.
Anyway. So this led me to thinking about the whole concept of positive thinking and how other of my friends are also firmly in that camp. The glass half full contingent, we'll call them. I will admit that I myself, mired in a life-long mood- and anxiety disorder, might well be a candidate for Learning to Look on the Bright Side. However? I honestly--and I'm not making excuses here, I truly believe this--can make a case for the glass half empty being more healthy for me. I was raised with a certain set of expectations, as I guess we all are. Our parents imbue various attitudes in us, whether they intend to or not, and whether we want them to or not. And, basically, I was brought up to be very realistic, if by realistic we mean a believer in the whole-life-sucks-then-you-die aesthetic. No one ever told me life would be fair or that it wouldn't be hard. I was taught--by implication if not outright--that bad shit happens, you deal with it, and you go on. Perhaps that makes me more prone to depression or anxiety (or uterine fucking fibroids) than the normal person, but also? When things go well--because my default thinking is that they will not--I am the most delighted person you'd ever want to meet. And when I am presented with one of those transcendent little moments of joy that the universe sometimes drops into our laps, I treasure it in a way that I think people who just expect happiness do not.
One more tangent. A different very very dear friend recently said that I liked being unhappy which, when I disagreed, he ammended to my *not minding* when I'm unhappy. And that I very much agreed with. I have a full range of human emotions: sometimes I'm happy and sometimes I'm sad and sometimes I'm angry and sometimes I'm content and sometimes I'm wistful and sometimes I'm lonely and sometimes I'm envious and sometimes I'm giddy, along with hundreds of other shades of feeling, and I don't have any problem with feeling any of those things. The anti-negativity people would probably want me to think my way past any of the adjectives above that our culture tells us are bad feelings, but I don't necessarily want to. I don't want to behave in toxic, unwise, or inappropriate ways because of any of those "bad" (or good!) feelings, but I don't have any problem with feeling them. I like having emotions.
In summary, Oprah sucks. You're welcome.
xoxo
There's a link on jezebel this afternoon to a medical blog in which the author excoriates Dr Christine Northrup (aka Oprah's Favorite GYN) for some of her more woo-woo New Age-y theories, such as uterine fibroids being caused by a woman's negative emotions (I don't have to argue any of my readers into realizing that's ridiculous, do I? thought not). The blog author goes as far as calling Dr Northrop misogynistic, because at the base one could claim that she is saying women's gyn problems are their own fault, that if they were just more spiritually evolved, they wouldn't be ill.
I admit I'm little bit touchy about this subject. A very very dear and very sweet friend (who is far more New Age-y than my massage-therapist-acupuncture-getting-yin-yoga-doing ass is), has been dabbling in so-called metaphysics, which includes the idea of drawing the energy you want to yourself with affirmations and positive thinking and so forth and so on. Which is all very well so far as it goes and if it helps her or anyone else, far be for me to scoff. But when she starts to veer into that health-problems-are-caused-by-your-negativity line of thought, I've had to politely but firmly tell her not to go there in front of me. As the mother of a son with a serious neuropsychiatric illness, the idea that he is somehow to blame for his own illness is deeply enraging to me. Now, my friend, of course, would never say, or think, that, but she also doesn't quite see, I don't think, how that is the logical conclusion to be taken if you extend the idea she *is* espousing. So we just agree not to go there with each other. I have a feeling that's how I'd have to approach a social engagement with Dr Northrup as well.
Anyway. So this led me to thinking about the whole concept of positive thinking and how other of my friends are also firmly in that camp. The glass half full contingent, we'll call them. I will admit that I myself, mired in a life-long mood- and anxiety disorder, might well be a candidate for Learning to Look on the Bright Side. However? I honestly--and I'm not making excuses here, I truly believe this--can make a case for the glass half empty being more healthy for me. I was raised with a certain set of expectations, as I guess we all are. Our parents imbue various attitudes in us, whether they intend to or not, and whether we want them to or not. And, basically, I was brought up to be very realistic, if by realistic we mean a believer in the whole-life-sucks-then-you-die aesthetic. No one ever told me life would be fair or that it wouldn't be hard. I was taught--by implication if not outright--that bad shit happens, you deal with it, and you go on. Perhaps that makes me more prone to depression or anxiety (or uterine fucking fibroids) than the normal person, but also? When things go well--because my default thinking is that they will not--I am the most delighted person you'd ever want to meet. And when I am presented with one of those transcendent little moments of joy that the universe sometimes drops into our laps, I treasure it in a way that I think people who just expect happiness do not.
One more tangent. A different very very dear friend recently said that I liked being unhappy which, when I disagreed, he ammended to my *not minding* when I'm unhappy. And that I very much agreed with. I have a full range of human emotions: sometimes I'm happy and sometimes I'm sad and sometimes I'm angry and sometimes I'm content and sometimes I'm wistful and sometimes I'm lonely and sometimes I'm envious and sometimes I'm giddy, along with hundreds of other shades of feeling, and I don't have any problem with feeling any of those things. The anti-negativity people would probably want me to think my way past any of the adjectives above that our culture tells us are bad feelings, but I don't necessarily want to. I don't want to behave in toxic, unwise, or inappropriate ways because of any of those "bad" (or good!) feelings, but I don't have any problem with feeling them. I like having emotions.
In summary, Oprah sucks. You're welcome.
xoxo
oh hai, kids, June edition
How's everyone? Your humble correspondent is just chock full o' blog topics she can't touch with a ten foot pole, or five foot Pole (ha! see what I did there?), but yet still, she would like to touch base with you all. She would also like to stop talking about herself in the third person. Hold on.
Okay! As you might ascertain, I am still in a stellar mood for reasons that are totally unclear for the most part. But let's just roll with it. My first two patients cancelled today, and I knew that yesterday, so I came in a bit later than I usually do on a Friday. This caused me to pass by one of the several--yes, several--Dunkin Donuts that are on route to my place of employment later, or earlier, than I usually ever do. This treated me to the spectacle of, and I am not making this up, approximately 15 cars in the drive-through line, such that they snaked all the way out of the parking lot and onto the side of the main road. First of all? In the time you sit in that line, you'd have had time to make coffee at home. Secondly? Park and get out. How the hell lazy are you people? Not that I'm judging. Ahem.
Next topic. I want these dishes.
Okay! As you might ascertain, I am still in a stellar mood for reasons that are totally unclear for the most part. But let's just roll with it. My first two patients cancelled today, and I knew that yesterday, so I came in a bit later than I usually do on a Friday. This caused me to pass by one of the several--yes, several--Dunkin Donuts that are on route to my place of employment later, or earlier, than I usually ever do. This treated me to the spectacle of, and I am not making this up, approximately 15 cars in the drive-through line, such that they snaked all the way out of the parking lot and onto the side of the main road. First of all? In the time you sit in that line, you'd have had time to make coffee at home. Secondly? Park and get out. How the hell lazy are you people? Not that I'm judging. Ahem.
Next topic. I want these dishes.
I almost ordered them the other day. Really, my finger was on the submit button, and then I cleared my shopping cart. They're full price. The colors, while absolutely gorgeous in my opinion, don't really match my dining room (but does that matter?). And I don't know who the hell I'd be trying to impress with the nice tableware. And that money could/should go towards stuff that is more a need than a want, like, oh, new living room furniture or having the whole upstairs recarpeted. But I want. It kind of bothers me that you can have a bridal registry or a baby registry and then people will just buy you shit because you want it. Why can't I have an Andrea.wants.this. registry, where friends and distant relatives will feel obligated to get me stuff? Oh, life, she is not fair.
Finally, I must tell you, I have bought Great Works of Literature (i.e. F Scott Fitzgerald) and I have looked at the cover and I have read the first page. That's as far as it's gone so far. I did, however, watch three episodes of Real Housewives of New Jersey the other night when Dice K was making me nervous. So at least my priorities are straight.
xoxo
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
mouth o' babes
I had this little patient in work the other day, ten years old. Her parents were going to take her shopping for a new bike later in the day, but her mom was explaining that they couldn't go as soon as they got home because her dad, who is apparently an electrician, had to do a side job at Joe's [place of business] first.
Little girl: "Oh, yeah. He said I could go with him."
Little girl's mom: "No, you can't go with him. He's going to be up on ladders, going on the roof..."
Little girl: "That's okay. I can sit in the bar and eat. I'll talk to the bikers. I'll be like, 'So, what brings you in here? Stress?"
Andrea: ::loses it::
Little girl's mom: "There's no bikers--" ::loses it too::
I wanted to adopt her on the spot and bring her home with me, if only for the entertainment value.
It reminded me of the time when D was about 11 and they had a new kid at school. When they were going around introducing themselves, my son stands up and says, totally deadpan, "Hi. I'm D. And I'm an alcoholic." Oh, he got in so much trouble for that. But both I and his teacher literally had to bite the insides of our cheeks to keep from cracking up while we lectured him on how inappropriate it was to make jokes like that in class. And he could tell.
xoxo
Little girl: "Oh, yeah. He said I could go with him."
Little girl's mom: "No, you can't go with him. He's going to be up on ladders, going on the roof..."
Little girl: "That's okay. I can sit in the bar and eat. I'll talk to the bikers. I'll be like, 'So, what brings you in here? Stress?"
Andrea: ::loses it::
Little girl's mom: "There's no bikers--" ::loses it too::
I wanted to adopt her on the spot and bring her home with me, if only for the entertainment value.
It reminded me of the time when D was about 11 and they had a new kid at school. When they were going around introducing themselves, my son stands up and says, totally deadpan, "Hi. I'm D. And I'm an alcoholic." Oh, he got in so much trouble for that. But both I and his teacher literally had to bite the insides of our cheeks to keep from cracking up while we lectured him on how inappropriate it was to make jokes like that in class. And he could tell.
xoxo
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