As of this morning, IT refuses to let me look at my own other blog because of pr0n content. Apparently pictures of me in my underwear WITH ALL MY PARTS COVERED are too hawt for Partners Healthcare. And this is probably going on my permanent record somewhere. I can't even tell you how amused/appalled this makes me. Should I appeal it?!??
I will of course have to write a post on it over there, ranting about how some computer dweebs are sexualizing totally non-sexual pictures that are meant to show my muscular development, muscular development which is a hard-won product of many hours at the gym working my ass off, and which is done for me, not for "the male gaze." Fuckers. I bet I could out-deadlift every one of them.
Um, hi, kids. How are you all? I finally got almost all of my Christmas shopping done. This is what my son asked for: a multi-pack of the fish oils he likes, two pairs of Champion (so not even expensive) basketball shorts, and a $50 amazon gift card. It is a far cry from the days when I would have to hit up every Toys R Us and discount store in eastern Massachusetts, looking for some illusive action figure that everyone was sold out of, lest my kid's Christmas be totally ruined. On the one hand, yeah, a much more pleasant shopping experience. On the other? It's kind of sad to me that he really wants nothing--sad for reasons that are hard for me to explain. But I don't wanna get all holiday-melancholy here, because you know this time of year is hard for me and I've been doing pretty good staving off those feelings. Better just to channel them into rage against those IT bastards.
xoxo
Showing posts with label rants. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rants. Show all posts
Friday, December 16, 2011
Monday, October 31, 2011
more media ranting and other topics
On Saturday evening when I got home, 6:45-ish, it was just starting to change between rain and snow/sleet. I walked into the house, and D had channel 7 news on his TV, so I went to look at what the weather was saying. The douche on there (Pete Bouchard? I think)--who by the way, was the same douche who on the Sunday of the hurricane kept saying all morning and all afternoon, with a barely disguised glee under his veneer of concerned face, that NO MATTER HOW HOPEFUL IT LOOKED OUT THERE, don't be complacent, because a tree was still probably going to fall on your house, and here's why--was saying that this October storm was going to be as bad as the great ice storm of 2008 or Irene, and you, viewer, were going to probably lose your power, so this might well be the last TV weather report you'd be hearing, maybe for days. Seriously. And again, with this kind of barely-disguised sadistic glee, like wasn't this fun that you, viewer, were screwed, and he got to tell you about it. I can't even. I understand TV meteorologists being excited by big storms. Back in the good old days, Dicky Albert used to be like a five year old who got into the Halloween candy and followed it up with three Pepsis and maybe a Red Bull, but it was more, "Well, this model is telling us *this* and this model is telling us *that*, and OMFG, isn't it fascinating? let's see which way this baby goes!" Never, "Dudes, you're all probably gonna die, so start worrying now!" Sigh.
I pretty much gave up watching the local news in the early 90s because every morning when I was getting dressed for work, it was a never ending parade of stories about horrific abuse cases, rapes, kidnappings, grisly murders--basically the more sordid, disgusting, and soul-killing the crime, the more they gleefully covered it, and it made me start every day off in a bad, bad mood. Apparently, this journalistic bent now applies to the weather forecast as well. Sensationalize it as much as you can and never look at the upside. If I was more of a conspiracy theorist, I'd suggest they're in cahoots with BigPharma to sell more antidepressants and anti-anxiety drugs. But, really, the whole consumer culture we're living in is driven by various forms of anxiety, isn't it? People who are calm and content and at peace with themselves aren't the ones who can be convinced that they really need objects and services they don't really need.
And that's my smooth segue to asking all y'all how long a water heater usually lasts. Lulz. Just over the last week or so, my water isn't getting as hot and is running out sooner. Like, when I'm rinsing off dishes, usually if I have the hot water turned on all the way, it gets hot enough that it's difficult for me to keep my hands under it. Now, no. Or, if I try to take a bath, there isn't enough hot water to fill it up as deep as I want to the temperature I want, and that's never been a problem. So yesterday when I was down the basement cleaning and purging again, I took a look at the water heater, and while there was nothing visibly wrong with it, the sticker on it said it was installed in 1997. That's almost 15 years (yeah, I did the math for you--you're welcome). Do you think it's just reaching the end of its natural life and needs to be replaced? How much is that gonna run me? I don't remember how much it cost in 1997, yo. You'll be happy to know I'm conserving money by, as I resolved, not cracking and putting the heat on yet. It was 58 in the downstairs and 54 in the upstairs yesterday. Ha! (And, WTF, doesn't heat *rise*? Shouldn't the sun on the roof make the upstairs warmer, all other things considered?)
And finally, I did put out another metal chair with my trash this week, along with a couple plastic table thingies and an old lawn chair, but, alas, I slept too late this morning to see whether anyone collected any of it off my curb before the trash guys showed up.
Happy Halloween!
xoxo
I pretty much gave up watching the local news in the early 90s because every morning when I was getting dressed for work, it was a never ending parade of stories about horrific abuse cases, rapes, kidnappings, grisly murders--basically the more sordid, disgusting, and soul-killing the crime, the more they gleefully covered it, and it made me start every day off in a bad, bad mood. Apparently, this journalistic bent now applies to the weather forecast as well. Sensationalize it as much as you can and never look at the upside. If I was more of a conspiracy theorist, I'd suggest they're in cahoots with BigPharma to sell more antidepressants and anti-anxiety drugs. But, really, the whole consumer culture we're living in is driven by various forms of anxiety, isn't it? People who are calm and content and at peace with themselves aren't the ones who can be convinced that they really need objects and services they don't really need.
And that's my smooth segue to asking all y'all how long a water heater usually lasts. Lulz. Just over the last week or so, my water isn't getting as hot and is running out sooner. Like, when I'm rinsing off dishes, usually if I have the hot water turned on all the way, it gets hot enough that it's difficult for me to keep my hands under it. Now, no. Or, if I try to take a bath, there isn't enough hot water to fill it up as deep as I want to the temperature I want, and that's never been a problem. So yesterday when I was down the basement cleaning and purging again, I took a look at the water heater, and while there was nothing visibly wrong with it, the sticker on it said it was installed in 1997. That's almost 15 years (yeah, I did the math for you--you're welcome). Do you think it's just reaching the end of its natural life and needs to be replaced? How much is that gonna run me? I don't remember how much it cost in 1997, yo. You'll be happy to know I'm conserving money by, as I resolved, not cracking and putting the heat on yet. It was 58 in the downstairs and 54 in the upstairs yesterday. Ha! (And, WTF, doesn't heat *rise*? Shouldn't the sun on the roof make the upstairs warmer, all other things considered?)
And finally, I did put out another metal chair with my trash this week, along with a couple plastic table thingies and an old lawn chair, but, alas, I slept too late this morning to see whether anyone collected any of it off my curb before the trash guys showed up.
Happy Halloween!
xoxo
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
electronic CHAOS
Saturday in work, my Pelco video camera just decided to stop working for no apparent reason. I assumed it was a hardware, not software, problem because when you turn on the computer and the whole system boots up, the camera rotates, and it didn't. So yesterday we called clinical engineering and they sent over "Pierre". I'm not sure they have Pelco cameras in Haiti (is that cruel to say? racist? xenophobic? sorry, Pierre) but he knew about as much as what could be causing the problem as I did, which is nothing. Nevertheless, I logged him into my computer and he gamely took down as much information as he could about the video system and repaired back to his office to call the company that makes my system. You may or may not remember, but I could not do my job for weeks in July while the hospital and the company dicked around with replacing the computer part of my system. And then last month the monitor stopped working for reasons that were unclear, though clinical engineering did manage to fix that mysteriously at a time I was not here. My point being, I'm sick of things on this system just randomly failing. Well, Pierre called me back and asked if he could come take the system back to his office. Sure, no problem, I didn't have patients scheduled yesterday afternoon anyway. Cut to the chase, the company is sending us a whole new camera, but it missed the overnight deadline, so it'll come tomorrow while I'm not here. That's okay. Pierre and his cohorts will install it and I'll have video capability again by Thursday. RIGHT??!?
Meanwhile my laptop at home, which has been limping along with no display for months and months and which I've had to keep connected to the TV in my room (which kinda defeats the purpose of a laptop), has of Sunday failed to register there's a battery in it. I guess the battery's time is up. I was kinda debating about whether I should buy a new battery for it or not, whether it was worth it. Then this morning the TV it is connected to lost video. I thought it was the computer, but no. If I turn the TV to DVD mode, I still don't get any display, just sound. So the freaking TV is broken? Seriously? It's not that old.
My point being in all this, I think it's ME. I must have some kind of electromagnetic field around my body that is killing electronic devices left and right. Or else all this cheap ass Chinese-made garbage is just coincidentally failing at once. I think it's me, though.
Sigh.
xoxo
Meanwhile my laptop at home, which has been limping along with no display for months and months and which I've had to keep connected to the TV in my room (which kinda defeats the purpose of a laptop), has of Sunday failed to register there's a battery in it. I guess the battery's time is up. I was kinda debating about whether I should buy a new battery for it or not, whether it was worth it. Then this morning the TV it is connected to lost video. I thought it was the computer, but no. If I turn the TV to DVD mode, I still don't get any display, just sound. So the freaking TV is broken? Seriously? It's not that old.
My point being in all this, I think it's ME. I must have some kind of electromagnetic field around my body that is killing electronic devices left and right. Or else all this cheap ass Chinese-made garbage is just coincidentally failing at once. I think it's me, though.
Sigh.
xoxo
Saturday, August 20, 2011
jaw-breaking peanut brittle in the ice cream of life
Evocative Images 101, y'all. Shut up. What I mean to say is, nothing ever goes smoothly.
When I was explaining to Marcy the other day *why* I had to take a nap on Wednesday morning after my electrician dropped by and gave me the bad news, I expressed that I am being worn down by the fact that every fucking thing is a problem. There was the fiasco with my equipment at work, and the pain in the ass with D and MassHealth, and the simple little stove thing turning out to be a big, relatively expensive thing. Things have not been on an upswing since then.
Wednesday after my electrician visit and my nap but before ancient Chinese medicine fucked with my hormones, I got my Rue La La Boston daily email. The deal for the day was a 45 minute soak for two at Inman Oasis for $25, $50 value. I like Inman Oasis. I had a $20 Rue La La credit that I've been holding onto for probably a year and a half, that I got for completing some survey or other. Do the math. It would be stupid not to take the deal. I bought the soak for 5 bucks, woohoo. And then yesterday I realized I hadn't gotten my voucher in email, even though it was supposed to come within 24 hours. I emailed Rue La La. My "concierge" emailed back that he was resending the voucher, to check my spam folder, and to call the 888 number if I didn't get it by today. Guess where I had to call today? And sit on hold? Uh, yeah. Today's concierge told me she had another call about this yesterday. Apparently there was a problem inputting the codes or something and thus the vouchers were not sent in their usual timely manner. But she is positive I will get it by tomorrow. My hopes are not, y'know, high. Grr. This is the most work I have ever had to do for a fucking $5 purchase, lemme tell you that.
Then yesterday, going to leave work. It's pouring! I am not going to walk the fifteen minutes from work to the gym in that, so I retreat to my office to wait for it to let up. It does. About half way there, it starts thundering really loudly again. However, the sky is actually lighter in the direction in which I am walking. I feel safe that I will make it to the Y before storming recommences. Wrong. Three blacks away and the sky opens up and, despite my emergency umbrella, the sideways force of rain ensures that I am completely soaked from the waist down. I walk into the Y looking much like someone who has taken a shower while wearing their clothes and the new girl at the front desk takes that opportunity to inform me that my payment for July did not go through. WTF. It's mid-August and I'm at the gym 5 days a week on average. I'm fairly sure it's that my debit card expired the end of June and they just need the new expiration date. I dry myself off with my complementary towel, change, workout, and when I am going to leave, my dress I wore to work is still so wet, it's impossible to put back on. So I take myself home on public transport wearing yoga shorts that I am vaguely aware might possibly give me camel toe. Because apparently I have no shame, I don't really give a fuck. (But, seriously, what would you do? Put back on soaking wet clothes just in order to preserve some semblance of modesty? Just, no.)
Today I get to work (7:15, Saturday morning) to find that the monitor attached to the piece of equipment we just spent all that money replacing is dead. I place a frantic call to my 8am patient, but they have already left. Luckily, I manage to steal a monitor off another computer that my MDs use and get up and running by the time they arrive, but seriously? When they were telling us the computer on the equipment was so damn old and needed to be replaced, not fixed, why didn't they replace the equally aged monitor too? But I'm sure the adrenaline rush at 7:30am was good for me.
And just a bit ago, I got an email from my son with a video link in it, but, um, no, it's not really from him, so apparently he's got a virus on his netbook. Son of a bitch.
On the plus side, in case you didn't already hear, I won a hundred bucks and some miscellaneous stuff yesterday, and as of last night the money is supposed to be in my Paypal account. I'm kinda scared to check whether it's really there or not, because with the way things have been going, I wouldn't count on it. Sigh.
Is Mercury in retrograde or something?
xoxo
When I was explaining to Marcy the other day *why* I had to take a nap on Wednesday morning after my electrician dropped by and gave me the bad news, I expressed that I am being worn down by the fact that every fucking thing is a problem. There was the fiasco with my equipment at work, and the pain in the ass with D and MassHealth, and the simple little stove thing turning out to be a big, relatively expensive thing. Things have not been on an upswing since then.
Wednesday after my electrician visit and my nap but before ancient Chinese medicine fucked with my hormones, I got my Rue La La Boston daily email. The deal for the day was a 45 minute soak for two at Inman Oasis for $25, $50 value. I like Inman Oasis. I had a $20 Rue La La credit that I've been holding onto for probably a year and a half, that I got for completing some survey or other. Do the math. It would be stupid not to take the deal. I bought the soak for 5 bucks, woohoo. And then yesterday I realized I hadn't gotten my voucher in email, even though it was supposed to come within 24 hours. I emailed Rue La La. My "concierge" emailed back that he was resending the voucher, to check my spam folder, and to call the 888 number if I didn't get it by today. Guess where I had to call today? And sit on hold? Uh, yeah. Today's concierge told me she had another call about this yesterday. Apparently there was a problem inputting the codes or something and thus the vouchers were not sent in their usual timely manner. But she is positive I will get it by tomorrow. My hopes are not, y'know, high. Grr. This is the most work I have ever had to do for a fucking $5 purchase, lemme tell you that.
Then yesterday, going to leave work. It's pouring! I am not going to walk the fifteen minutes from work to the gym in that, so I retreat to my office to wait for it to let up. It does. About half way there, it starts thundering really loudly again. However, the sky is actually lighter in the direction in which I am walking. I feel safe that I will make it to the Y before storming recommences. Wrong. Three blacks away and the sky opens up and, despite my emergency umbrella, the sideways force of rain ensures that I am completely soaked from the waist down. I walk into the Y looking much like someone who has taken a shower while wearing their clothes and the new girl at the front desk takes that opportunity to inform me that my payment for July did not go through. WTF. It's mid-August and I'm at the gym 5 days a week on average. I'm fairly sure it's that my debit card expired the end of June and they just need the new expiration date. I dry myself off with my complementary towel, change, workout, and when I am going to leave, my dress I wore to work is still so wet, it's impossible to put back on. So I take myself home on public transport wearing yoga shorts that I am vaguely aware might possibly give me camel toe. Because apparently I have no shame, I don't really give a fuck. (But, seriously, what would you do? Put back on soaking wet clothes just in order to preserve some semblance of modesty? Just, no.)
Today I get to work (7:15, Saturday morning) to find that the monitor attached to the piece of equipment we just spent all that money replacing is dead. I place a frantic call to my 8am patient, but they have already left. Luckily, I manage to steal a monitor off another computer that my MDs use and get up and running by the time they arrive, but seriously? When they were telling us the computer on the equipment was so damn old and needed to be replaced, not fixed, why didn't they replace the equally aged monitor too? But I'm sure the adrenaline rush at 7:30am was good for me.
And just a bit ago, I got an email from my son with a video link in it, but, um, no, it's not really from him, so apparently he's got a virus on his netbook. Son of a bitch.
On the plus side, in case you didn't already hear, I won a hundred bucks and some miscellaneous stuff yesterday, and as of last night the money is supposed to be in my Paypal account. I'm kinda scared to check whether it's really there or not, because with the way things have been going, I wouldn't count on it. Sigh.
Is Mercury in retrograde or something?
xoxo
Thursday, December 30, 2010
no no nicky
I mentioned our old (both in the senses of previous and elderly) cat Nicky in yesterday's comments. And it occurred to me that I should explain that the reason our very female cat had a boy's name (unisex naming being a topic that seems to be in the air this week!) was because my then two year old son named her such. Why? Because his very very favorite book at the time was No No Nicky, the story of a cute little kitteh who gets in trouble for all the things a toddler might be told "no" about. Going too close to the stove: "No, no, Nicky! Hot!" Getting into things that don't belong to him: "No, no, Nicky! That's not yours!" It was adorable, and D loved it. (And so naturally, Nicky was what you should call a cat who doesn't have another name.)
I was wondering if it were still in print, hence my trip to amazon, but alas, no. If you click on the link however, you'll see I could get a used copy for $33. Which is, coincidentally, how much it costs for a cat cremation. Huh. Anyway, my nostalgia for 1988 and my child's preschool days isn't strong enough to consider that. But the editorial review on amazon from the School Library Journal? Did you read that?
Parents may be troubled by how the concepts of friendship and safety are explored in these full-color board books for very young children. The cat Nicky has friends that include a baby, other kittens, two children, a man on a park bench, an elderly woman who feeds him from her porch, and a puppy. Although each character falls under the umbrella of friend, the relationships are not clearly defined, and the book will not hold children's interest. In No, No Nicky, the cat is pictured near a hot stove, an electrical outlet, spilled paint, and a cupboard full of cleaning supplies, but there are no clues as to why the situation is dangerous. Much adult interpretation will be required to help children understand the dangerous scenarios. The book itself fails to help children discern what is safe.
Are you fucking kidding me? I thought that in 1987 our society hadn't yet devolved into the over-protective hand-wringing idiocy that parenting is today, but apparently I remember wrongly! I will not buy a $33 copy of this book, but that doesn't mean I want my fond memories of it shit all over. Fucking children's librarians from Newark. God. (Plus? It held my kid's interest, bitch. So what do you know?)
xoxo
I was wondering if it were still in print, hence my trip to amazon, but alas, no. If you click on the link however, you'll see I could get a used copy for $33. Which is, coincidentally, how much it costs for a cat cremation. Huh. Anyway, my nostalgia for 1988 and my child's preschool days isn't strong enough to consider that. But the editorial review on amazon from the School Library Journal? Did you read that?
Parents may be troubled by how the concepts of friendship and safety are explored in these full-color board books for very young children. The cat Nicky has friends that include a baby, other kittens, two children, a man on a park bench, an elderly woman who feeds him from her porch, and a puppy. Although each character falls under the umbrella of friend, the relationships are not clearly defined, and the book will not hold children's interest. In No, No Nicky, the cat is pictured near a hot stove, an electrical outlet, spilled paint, and a cupboard full of cleaning supplies, but there are no clues as to why the situation is dangerous. Much adult interpretation will be required to help children understand the dangerous scenarios. The book itself fails to help children discern what is safe.
Are you fucking kidding me? I thought that in 1987 our society hadn't yet devolved into the over-protective hand-wringing idiocy that parenting is today, but apparently I remember wrongly! I will not buy a $33 copy of this book, but that doesn't mean I want my fond memories of it shit all over. Fucking children's librarians from Newark. God. (Plus? It held my kid's interest, bitch. So what do you know?)
xoxo
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
my head's gonna explode today
Really, reading or watching the news is just an exercise in masochism. It is better for one's mental health, never mind blood pressure, to just remain blissfully ignorant of what is going on in the world outside one's own little sphere. I mean, I get enough agita from my own life. However and be that as it may, have you all heard what's going on down in the Oklahoma legislature? Lemme quote from the NYT for you!
"The second measure passed into law Tuesday protects doctors from malpractice suits if they decide not to inform the parents of a unborn baby that the fetus has birth defects. The intent of the bill is to prevent parents from later suing doctors who withhold information to try to influence them against having an abortion." The Governor, Brad Henry, vetoed this measure last week (along with another misguided piece of legislation we won't go into) but the Republican majority overrode the veto.
Alrighty! Let's all move to Oklahoma where it is now legal for your doctor to lie to you about your test results! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Oh, wait. It's only legal to lie to pregnant women (and their partners) about their test results. They still have to give you the straight dope on your prostate exams and your cardiac stress tests. I am reassured. Those (probably white, probably male, probably middle-aged) legislators will still be able to make informed decisions about their own medical care. Whew. That's a relief.
Governor Henry said this: “It is unconscionable to grant a physician legal protection to mislead or misinform pregnant women in an effort to impose his or her personal beliefs on a patient."
I myself can't argue with that. Unconscionable is a great word for it. Excuse me while I go look at lolcats and calm myself.
xoxo
"The second measure passed into law Tuesday protects doctors from malpractice suits if they decide not to inform the parents of a unborn baby that the fetus has birth defects. The intent of the bill is to prevent parents from later suing doctors who withhold information to try to influence them against having an abortion." The Governor, Brad Henry, vetoed this measure last week (along with another misguided piece of legislation we won't go into) but the Republican majority overrode the veto.
Alrighty! Let's all move to Oklahoma where it is now legal for your doctor to lie to you about your test results! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Oh, wait. It's only legal to lie to pregnant women (and their partners) about their test results. They still have to give you the straight dope on your prostate exams and your cardiac stress tests. I am reassured. Those (probably white, probably male, probably middle-aged) legislators will still be able to make informed decisions about their own medical care. Whew. That's a relief.
Governor Henry said this: “It is unconscionable to grant a physician legal protection to mislead or misinform pregnant women in an effort to impose his or her personal beliefs on a patient."
I myself can't argue with that. Unconscionable is a great word for it. Excuse me while I go look at lolcats and calm myself.
xoxo
neurology in the news
Have you heard the latest? Some, um, expert has opined that Ben Roethlisberger's repeated concussions may have led to his "socially undesirable" behaviors.
Is that what we're calling raping women now? Socially undesirable behavior? That would seem to be perhaps the mildest possible descriptor in my view, but being as I'm a chick, not a male forensic pathologist, maybe I'm overly sensitive to these things! Maybe if I were a male forensic pathologist I'd consider sexually assaulting people as of equal weight with not showering often enough or asking inappropriate personal questions! Who knows?
Let me give you my personal professional opinion, gleaned from 25 years of working in the wonderful world of neurology. Frontal lobe head trauma does sometimes lead to unfortunate behavioral and personality changes. Anger and, especially, inability to control anger is a big one. Impulsivity is another. If you told me that Roethlisberger (sorry, this douchebag is *not* getting a "Mr" in my blog) was randomly beating the crap out of people who cut him off in traffic or making rash and unwise statements at press conferences or even pulling a Tiger Woods and screwing every big-boobed blond that comes along without consideration of the consequences, I'd say, yeah, okay, being hit in the head over and over and over again could conceivably lead to that sort of thing. Having your posse "drag" an extremely drunk young woman back to you, bringing her into a bathroom and locking the door behind you so can't be interrupted, then forcing yourself on her as she says no, uh, not so much. That's just sociopathic douchebaggery (with an element of planning that would belie impulsivity) from some entitled asshole without a shred of empathy who gets paid a lot of money to throw a fucking football and therefore thinks he is ever so much more important than you, I, or some woman in a bar.
Why, yes, I am starting with PMS week. Thanks for asking!
xoxo
Is that what we're calling raping women now? Socially undesirable behavior? That would seem to be perhaps the mildest possible descriptor in my view, but being as I'm a chick, not a male forensic pathologist, maybe I'm overly sensitive to these things! Maybe if I were a male forensic pathologist I'd consider sexually assaulting people as of equal weight with not showering often enough or asking inappropriate personal questions! Who knows?
Let me give you my personal professional opinion, gleaned from 25 years of working in the wonderful world of neurology. Frontal lobe head trauma does sometimes lead to unfortunate behavioral and personality changes. Anger and, especially, inability to control anger is a big one. Impulsivity is another. If you told me that Roethlisberger (sorry, this douchebag is *not* getting a "Mr" in my blog) was randomly beating the crap out of people who cut him off in traffic or making rash and unwise statements at press conferences or even pulling a Tiger Woods and screwing every big-boobed blond that comes along without consideration of the consequences, I'd say, yeah, okay, being hit in the head over and over and over again could conceivably lead to that sort of thing. Having your posse "drag" an extremely drunk young woman back to you, bringing her into a bathroom and locking the door behind you so can't be interrupted, then forcing yourself on her as she says no, uh, not so much. That's just sociopathic douchebaggery (with an element of planning that would belie impulsivity) from some entitled asshole without a shred of empathy who gets paid a lot of money to throw a fucking football and therefore thinks he is ever so much more important than you, I, or some woman in a bar.
Why, yes, I am starting with PMS week. Thanks for asking!
xoxo
Friday, April 9, 2010
glamour grammy
Oh, yeah, so the other day while I was getting my pedi, I was perusing this magazine I'd never seen or heard of before. I couldn't even begin to tell you its name. No idea. But it was a big, thick tome, like "the September Issue". You could chuck it at an intruder and they'd get hurt, is what I'm saying. And it was organized into sections, like skin, hair, teeth, etc. Each one of those sections would tell you what's wrong with you and what product you should buy or what procedure you should get to fix it. Now, frankly, that's not much different than any other magazine aimed at chicks. It was just a little bit more blatant, which I guess is refreshing.
But the last section, and perhaps the thickest, was all about plastic surgery. There was this feature wherein they showed a before and an after, and it'd say something like "Emily, age 53, before looks 61, after looks 48." Which was hilarious all on its own, because why 48, not 47 or 49? They were totally just pulling numbers out of their asses. So that was, as I say, amusing, no matter how much of a pro- or anti- facelift or botox kind of person you are. But then I came to the woman who was 77, looked 87 before and 70 after.
The mind boggles. Really, isn't there any point at which we are allowed to just give up? Am I, as a woman, supposed to fret about looking pretty, and not just pretty but young, until the day I croak? I.don't.think.so. When I am 77, I'm going to be really happy with myself if I am just alive and still walking and able to remember my name, thanks. And I'm sure that by the time I'm 77, my doctors will probably be wanting to do enough various necessary surgeries on me that I won't need to have any elective procedures to play chicken with the anesthesia death.
Just say no.
Besides which, I saw this episode of Rachael Ray (her talk show, not her cooking show, obs) recently in which they showed how just tweezing your eyebrows correctly makes it look like you've had an eye job. It was remarkable. Also, hair in your face=good. (If Carla had just kept the bangs, she coulda skipped the botox entirely, yo.) Magazines don't want to tell you these things, 'cause how can you sell product that way? But Rachael just wants to sell me cookbooks and overpriced pots and pans. Anyway, there are work-arounds that'll do you just fine till you do reach the age where you can confidently say, I just don't give a fuck anymore.
If someone wanted to buy me a booblift, though, I probably wouldn't say no. Ha!
xoxo
P.S. Blogger spellcheck wanted to turn tweezing into tweeting, which is just sad.
But the last section, and perhaps the thickest, was all about plastic surgery. There was this feature wherein they showed a before and an after, and it'd say something like "Emily, age 53, before looks 61, after looks 48." Which was hilarious all on its own, because why 48, not 47 or 49? They were totally just pulling numbers out of their asses. So that was, as I say, amusing, no matter how much of a pro- or anti- facelift or botox kind of person you are. But then I came to the woman who was 77, looked 87 before and 70 after.
The mind boggles. Really, isn't there any point at which we are allowed to just give up? Am I, as a woman, supposed to fret about looking pretty, and not just pretty but young, until the day I croak? I.don't.think.so. When I am 77, I'm going to be really happy with myself if I am just alive and still walking and able to remember my name, thanks. And I'm sure that by the time I'm 77, my doctors will probably be wanting to do enough various necessary surgeries on me that I won't need to have any elective procedures to play chicken with the anesthesia death.
Just say no.
Besides which, I saw this episode of Rachael Ray (her talk show, not her cooking show, obs) recently in which they showed how just tweezing your eyebrows correctly makes it look like you've had an eye job. It was remarkable. Also, hair in your face=good. (If Carla had just kept the bangs, she coulda skipped the botox entirely, yo.) Magazines don't want to tell you these things, 'cause how can you sell product that way? But Rachael just wants to sell me cookbooks and overpriced pots and pans. Anyway, there are work-arounds that'll do you just fine till you do reach the age where you can confidently say, I just don't give a fuck anymore.
If someone wanted to buy me a booblift, though, I probably wouldn't say no. Ha!
xoxo
P.S. Blogger spellcheck wanted to turn tweezing into tweeting, which is just sad.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
in which i express my disgruntlement
Kiss my big fat blinding white Polish ass, Red Sox.
After "winning" the chance to buy (ooo, aren't you lucky! we might even take your money!) green monster tickets, and logging in promptly at noon when sales were to open, I stayed in the virtual waiting room for over 90 minutes. And there weren't even any good magazines. No, seriously, I was a good little obedient Red Sox slave and patiently I waited, not refreshing my browser, as I was cautioned not to do. And when my devotion was rewarded at 1:30-something and I was ushered out of the waiting room and into the ticket buying queue, what did I find?
Well, I'll tell you. All the really in-demand games, Yankees, Dodgers, etc, were totally sold out already, and every single other game I tried--and I tried for almost half an hour--had only standing room green monster seats. I am so, so sorry but no, I will not pay over eighty bucks to stand at a ballgame, and especially, I will not pay over eighty bucks to stand at a ballgame when it's the beginning of April and likely to be 40 degrees at game time nor will I pay over eighty bucks to stand and watch the Sox play Kansas City. You have got to be fucking kidding me.
And the next time I should be on the Green Line when Fenway is letting out, and I pitch a little fit because those idiotic suburban yahoos don't know how to move into the fucking train, you can all feel smug in knowing it's just insane jealousy.
xoxo
After "winning" the chance to buy (ooo, aren't you lucky! we might even take your money!) green monster tickets, and logging in promptly at noon when sales were to open, I stayed in the virtual waiting room for over 90 minutes. And there weren't even any good magazines. No, seriously, I was a good little obedient Red Sox slave and patiently I waited, not refreshing my browser, as I was cautioned not to do. And when my devotion was rewarded at 1:30-something and I was ushered out of the waiting room and into the ticket buying queue, what did I find?
Well, I'll tell you. All the really in-demand games, Yankees, Dodgers, etc, were totally sold out already, and every single other game I tried--and I tried for almost half an hour--had only standing room green monster seats. I am so, so sorry but no, I will not pay over eighty bucks to stand at a ballgame, and especially, I will not pay over eighty bucks to stand at a ballgame when it's the beginning of April and likely to be 40 degrees at game time nor will I pay over eighty bucks to stand and watch the Sox play Kansas City. You have got to be fucking kidding me.
And the next time I should be on the Green Line when Fenway is letting out, and I pitch a little fit because those idiotic suburban yahoos don't know how to move into the fucking train, you can all feel smug in knowing it's just insane jealousy.
xoxo
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
in which i think everyone should be interested in my bullshit
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Friday, February 5, 2010
find my logic FAIL
If I have one. I'd really like to know if what I'm saying is not supported by reason, leaving emotion out of it. I can't actually leave emotion out of the argument, because I'm going to talk about the Tim Tebow bullshit again, and it pisses me off to no end that public policy in this country is being influenced by one group's religious beliefs, when supposedly there's a separation of church and state built into the whole concept of America. (See that? I'm foaming at the mouth already.) Be that as it may, all y'all who are way smarter than I am can tell me where exactly my logic runs out.
I gather the gist of Mr Tebow's commercial is that if his mother hadn't gone against medical advice and continued her pregnancy with him, he wouldn't have been born and grown up to win a Heisman trophy, and that makes him sad, 'cause he's happy to have been born and had a wonderful life full of things like Heisman trophies. And we're supposed to be sad over his possible abortion too, because, y'know, America needs quarterbacks! (See? Sarcastic as hell already.)
You know what I think? Imagine if his parents hadn't had sex the night he was conceived. Imagine if his mother had had a headache or his father was too involved in some project or other to be interested in booty or one of the other kids was sick and climbing in bed with mom and dad. Imagine if his dad just couldn't get it up. There'd be no Tim Tebow.
You know what else I think? Imagine if one of his father's sperm had swum a little bit faster than the sperm that made Tim Tebow. The Tebows would have had a whole different child. Maybe that one would have been a violin virtuoso or maybe it would have been just solidly average at everything or maybe it would have been a sociopath. Hell, if the faster swimmer was carrying an X chromosome, it would have been a girl. There'd be no Tim Tebow.
You know another thing I think? Imagine if none of the sperm made it to the egg that night or that month. Imagine if Mrs Tebow didn't conceive until the following month. Whole different egg as well as a whole different sperm. Once again, totally different kid. There'd be no Tim Tebow.
You know the fourth thing I think? Imagine if Tim Tebow's parents had never met. Imagine if they'd disliked each other. Imagine if they'd liked each other but they'd had some horrible misunderstanding before the wedding and broken up. There'd be no Tim Tebow.
You know yet another thing I think? Imagine if his mother's doctors had been right. Imagine if her placenta had abrupted completely. There'd be no Tim Tebow. (And perhaps no Mrs Tebow.)
You know the final thing I think? There are a lot of occurrences that have to happen and others that need to not happen for any one of us to be born and to be *us*. Whether it's god or fate or karma or just chance, if we're here and we're us, we were meant to be here and us. The whole infinite number of other people who could have been born and lived instead of us weren't meant to be here. (Maybe they're alive in some parallel universe. I don't know my quantum physics but I'm not ignorant of science fiction, yo.)
So for us to buy into "oh, if Mrs Tebow had been weak and sinful and selfish and followed her doctor's advice and aborted fetus Tim, the world would have missed out on him and he would have missed out on his wonderful life" and mourn that possibility, we also have to mourn the possibility of all the infinite number of possible human beings who were never born because their parents didn't meet, didn't mate, didn't have sex on one particular night, would have resulted from an egg or a sperm that was "wasted", were miscarried early before the possible mother even knew she was pregnant, or were miscarried at some later point. Any one of those possible human beings could have been another Tim Tebow, Gandhi, Pol Pot, Albert Einstein, Barack Obama, Paris Hilton, or Jeffery Dahmer. Any one of them could have had the most blessed or most cursed or most average life. But they're not. They were never born and they never grew up and that's just the reality of this particular universe you and I are living in.
I think I'm done now.
xoxo
I gather the gist of Mr Tebow's commercial is that if his mother hadn't gone against medical advice and continued her pregnancy with him, he wouldn't have been born and grown up to win a Heisman trophy, and that makes him sad, 'cause he's happy to have been born and had a wonderful life full of things like Heisman trophies. And we're supposed to be sad over his possible abortion too, because, y'know, America needs quarterbacks! (See? Sarcastic as hell already.)
You know what I think? Imagine if his parents hadn't had sex the night he was conceived. Imagine if his mother had had a headache or his father was too involved in some project or other to be interested in booty or one of the other kids was sick and climbing in bed with mom and dad. Imagine if his dad just couldn't get it up. There'd be no Tim Tebow.
You know what else I think? Imagine if one of his father's sperm had swum a little bit faster than the sperm that made Tim Tebow. The Tebows would have had a whole different child. Maybe that one would have been a violin virtuoso or maybe it would have been just solidly average at everything or maybe it would have been a sociopath. Hell, if the faster swimmer was carrying an X chromosome, it would have been a girl. There'd be no Tim Tebow.
You know another thing I think? Imagine if none of the sperm made it to the egg that night or that month. Imagine if Mrs Tebow didn't conceive until the following month. Whole different egg as well as a whole different sperm. Once again, totally different kid. There'd be no Tim Tebow.
You know the fourth thing I think? Imagine if Tim Tebow's parents had never met. Imagine if they'd disliked each other. Imagine if they'd liked each other but they'd had some horrible misunderstanding before the wedding and broken up. There'd be no Tim Tebow.
You know yet another thing I think? Imagine if his mother's doctors had been right. Imagine if her placenta had abrupted completely. There'd be no Tim Tebow. (And perhaps no Mrs Tebow.)
You know the final thing I think? There are a lot of occurrences that have to happen and others that need to not happen for any one of us to be born and to be *us*. Whether it's god or fate or karma or just chance, if we're here and we're us, we were meant to be here and us. The whole infinite number of other people who could have been born and lived instead of us weren't meant to be here. (Maybe they're alive in some parallel universe. I don't know my quantum physics but I'm not ignorant of science fiction, yo.)
So for us to buy into "oh, if Mrs Tebow had been weak and sinful and selfish and followed her doctor's advice and aborted fetus Tim, the world would have missed out on him and he would have missed out on his wonderful life" and mourn that possibility, we also have to mourn the possibility of all the infinite number of possible human beings who were never born because their parents didn't meet, didn't mate, didn't have sex on one particular night, would have resulted from an egg or a sperm that was "wasted", were miscarried early before the possible mother even knew she was pregnant, or were miscarried at some later point. Any one of those possible human beings could have been another Tim Tebow, Gandhi, Pol Pot, Albert Einstein, Barack Obama, Paris Hilton, or Jeffery Dahmer. Any one of them could have had the most blessed or most cursed or most average life. But they're not. They were never born and they never grew up and that's just the reality of this particular universe you and I are living in.
I think I'm done now.
xoxo
Friday, January 15, 2010
free association friday
1.) I was all about to write a rantilicious post deploring the state of society, my place in said society, how all men are apparently scum even if the ones *I* know are pretty much cool, and blah blah blah, predicated entirely upon a jezebel article I read at lunch. But then I read the original article linked to in the jezebel piece and realized they (i.e. the jezzie blogger) were sensationalizing and referring to only small parts of the study the original article referenced. In other words, just another example of how the media exists entirely to get people worried or pissed off about stuff they wouldn't be worried or pissed off about otherwise.
2.) I had a little teenaged patient today, just about to turn 16, and her father was torturing her by trying to take a picture of her with his cell phone camera while she was set up for testing. "Noooo, dad!" she said, blocking her face with her arms. "Not with all this stuff on me, and I'm not even wearing makeup!" Well, you know what I wanted to say. Oh, sweetie, you're so pretty, you don't *need* makeup; you can wear it for fun, but you're beautiful without it. And then I'd have to go on and reassure her that she's not fat, because I'm sure she thinks that too, being a curvaceous kind of girl. Okay. Maybe that's my societal rant right there, non-media-prompted.
3.) How bad is it of me that as soon as I realize I have more money than I thought I would, I start thinking of how to spend it? Plus, I may very well be doing a little side job for someone, completely under the table (don't tell the feds on me!***), soon and I'm thinking, oh, yeah, then you can buy this and this and get that looked at and that fixed. Why is not my first impulse to save the extra money for six months or whatever, in case I need it for an emergency? God, I suck. That's my personal rant right there, non-media-prompted (but, yeah, maybe I'm picturing my friend Suze Orman smacking me.)
4.) I'm procrastinating on making a phone call I'm supposed to make, purely because I know it's going to be one of those bureaucratic calls that makes me so frustrated and anxious that it will totally make the week end on a sour note. Monday is another day and I will deal with this crap then! And that's my little gift to myself right there. (But if I don't do it Monday, you all are free to smack me. Hard. Because there's no excuse for that.)
5.) Okay, I'm going to go finish my work, because I should really feel guilty for getting paid to do *this*. Not that I do, but I should.
Peace!
xoxo
***never gets old
2.) I had a little teenaged patient today, just about to turn 16, and her father was torturing her by trying to take a picture of her with his cell phone camera while she was set up for testing. "Noooo, dad!" she said, blocking her face with her arms. "Not with all this stuff on me, and I'm not even wearing makeup!" Well, you know what I wanted to say. Oh, sweetie, you're so pretty, you don't *need* makeup; you can wear it for fun, but you're beautiful without it. And then I'd have to go on and reassure her that she's not fat, because I'm sure she thinks that too, being a curvaceous kind of girl. Okay. Maybe that's my societal rant right there, non-media-prompted.
3.) How bad is it of me that as soon as I realize I have more money than I thought I would, I start thinking of how to spend it? Plus, I may very well be doing a little side job for someone, completely under the table (don't tell the feds on me!***), soon and I'm thinking, oh, yeah, then you can buy this and this and get that looked at and that fixed. Why is not my first impulse to save the extra money for six months or whatever, in case I need it for an emergency? God, I suck. That's my personal rant right there, non-media-prompted (but, yeah, maybe I'm picturing my friend Suze Orman smacking me.)
4.) I'm procrastinating on making a phone call I'm supposed to make, purely because I know it's going to be one of those bureaucratic calls that makes me so frustrated and anxious that it will totally make the week end on a sour note. Monday is another day and I will deal with this crap then! And that's my little gift to myself right there. (But if I don't do it Monday, you all are free to smack me. Hard. Because there's no excuse for that.)
5.) Okay, I'm going to go finish my work, because I should really feel guilty for getting paid to do *this*. Not that I do, but I should.
Peace!
xoxo
***never gets old
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
last night
I had a lot of errands last night after work, some of which I did on the way home and some of which I went back out for. So after I was done with all that--oh, and being aggravated by the Surgicenter--I really had no energy to do a goddamn thing in my house. This is unfortunate, since I have not wrapped any presents yet. I keep looking at them and thinking about it, but that's as far as it goes. I did, however, stay up to watch Hoarders.
But before we get to that, let's explore why I was pissed at the day surg people, shall we? As I knew from when I had my own surgery in September, they do a phone screen two days before your procedure. But a few days before *that* they call you and tell you they're going to do the phone screen. Anyway, the nice secretary at the surgeon's office who has been going strictly through me (since talking to my dad on the phone involves, y'know, shouting) told me she would have the phone screen people also call me, on Monday. We even got a paper in the mail stating just that. Well, the end of last week, the hospital called my dad while I was at work and told him about the phone screen. "Can you talk to my daughter?" he asked. No, they told him, they were not allowed to do that. When he told me that, I was like, that's not what Kathy told me, but nevertheless he insisted they were adamant. So I was expecting him to get the call yesterday, not me.
So naturally, they did call me. And my cell was in my purse in the "back room", not with me in my office. Because I wasn't expecting an important call. By the time I realized I had voicemail, I had already left work and was in the midst of one of my errands. The voicemail said I could call them back until 5. The woman leaving the voicemail also helpfully slurred the phone number. I tried to call back--from a public place--and apparently had misheard the extension. So they transferred me. To another wrong number who transferred me to someone else. In pediatrics, because they thought it was my child I was doing the screen for. Arghhh. It was now 4:32. The pedi surgicenter woman transferred me to the right number, but warned me beforehand that the secretary down there was already gone and no one was gonna answer. Even though they specifically had told me I could call until 5pm. This is, I will mention, the fucking hospital at which I myself work. It reinforces my belief that I am one of the few people in this organization who knows what the hell they are doing and actually does it.
(Anyway, I called them first thing this morning from work. Since I stupidly left my phone home in the charger, it's a damn good thing I remembered what the correct extension was. Oh, Andrea.)
So, really, all I wanted last night was a glass of wine, some olives, and my Hoarders. And there were no human feces this week. Just a couple of people with waaayyyy too much stuff. One of them was a black gay man from Boston who was of the artistic persuasion and loved to dumpster dive. Apparently he knew where all the good dumpsters were, because his apartment was jam-packed with absolutely beautiful things. I mean, this guy was a collector of stuff that was actually collectible. But he was being threatened with losing his government housing subsidy because his apartment was a fire hazard. Also, because there was suspicion amongst the neighbors that his dumpster diving had introduced roaches into the building.
And, oh, they mentioned those neighbors paid $3000 a month for their places. It was kind of unclear if this was one of those mixed-income buildings, or since the guy mentioned he had lived there 30 years, whether he lived there before it was gentrified and was still there under some kind of loophole. It was a beautiful apartment and the outside of the building was spiffy. I was trying to figure out where it was--it didn't look familiar, but it had to be the South End or maybe the Fens. Actually, probably the Fens, the more I think about it. Anyway, I liked the local color and the gentleman was a hoot. But the feces and flattened dead cat episodes are more interesting. I think they should have entertained me more since I had such a hard day!
That's all I have to say about that. (I think that's gonna be my new sign off. Maybe, y'know, for the new decade.)
xoxo
But before we get to that, let's explore why I was pissed at the day surg people, shall we? As I knew from when I had my own surgery in September, they do a phone screen two days before your procedure. But a few days before *that* they call you and tell you they're going to do the phone screen. Anyway, the nice secretary at the surgeon's office who has been going strictly through me (since talking to my dad on the phone involves, y'know, shouting) told me she would have the phone screen people also call me, on Monday. We even got a paper in the mail stating just that. Well, the end of last week, the hospital called my dad while I was at work and told him about the phone screen. "Can you talk to my daughter?" he asked. No, they told him, they were not allowed to do that. When he told me that, I was like, that's not what Kathy told me, but nevertheless he insisted they were adamant. So I was expecting him to get the call yesterday, not me.
So naturally, they did call me. And my cell was in my purse in the "back room", not with me in my office. Because I wasn't expecting an important call. By the time I realized I had voicemail, I had already left work and was in the midst of one of my errands. The voicemail said I could call them back until 5. The woman leaving the voicemail also helpfully slurred the phone number. I tried to call back--from a public place--and apparently had misheard the extension. So they transferred me. To another wrong number who transferred me to someone else. In pediatrics, because they thought it was my child I was doing the screen for. Arghhh. It was now 4:32. The pedi surgicenter woman transferred me to the right number, but warned me beforehand that the secretary down there was already gone and no one was gonna answer. Even though they specifically had told me I could call until 5pm. This is, I will mention, the fucking hospital at which I myself work. It reinforces my belief that I am one of the few people in this organization who knows what the hell they are doing and actually does it.
(Anyway, I called them first thing this morning from work. Since I stupidly left my phone home in the charger, it's a damn good thing I remembered what the correct extension was. Oh, Andrea.)
So, really, all I wanted last night was a glass of wine, some olives, and my Hoarders. And there were no human feces this week. Just a couple of people with waaayyyy too much stuff. One of them was a black gay man from Boston who was of the artistic persuasion and loved to dumpster dive. Apparently he knew where all the good dumpsters were, because his apartment was jam-packed with absolutely beautiful things. I mean, this guy was a collector of stuff that was actually collectible. But he was being threatened with losing his government housing subsidy because his apartment was a fire hazard. Also, because there was suspicion amongst the neighbors that his dumpster diving had introduced roaches into the building.
And, oh, they mentioned those neighbors paid $3000 a month for their places. It was kind of unclear if this was one of those mixed-income buildings, or since the guy mentioned he had lived there 30 years, whether he lived there before it was gentrified and was still there under some kind of loophole. It was a beautiful apartment and the outside of the building was spiffy. I was trying to figure out where it was--it didn't look familiar, but it had to be the South End or maybe the Fens. Actually, probably the Fens, the more I think about it. Anyway, I liked the local color and the gentleman was a hoot. But the feces and flattened dead cat episodes are more interesting. I think they should have entertained me more since I had such a hard day!
That's all I have to say about that. (I think that's gonna be my new sign off. Maybe, y'know, for the new decade.)
xoxo
Thursday, November 26, 2009
adam lambert
Have you been following this, or have you been too busy baking pies or attempting to drive to the airport or some such shit? If you have been following, I'm sure you can surmise that this has made me mad enough to spit. If you haven't, let me sum up for you.
Adam Lambert was first runner-up on American Idol last season and was notable for being the first Idol finalist to openly admit to being gay (rather than come out five years after being on the show.) Last Sunday Mr Lambert, who has his first CD out, performed live at the American Music Awards wherein he caused controversy by a.) kissing his (male) keyboard player onstage and b.) grabbing the head of one of his (male) backup dancers who was kneeling in front of him and pushing it in the general direction of his crotch. [Meanwhile, Janet Jackson grabbed the crotch of one of her (male) dancers onstage at the same event and no one blinked.]
Because of this controversy, Mr Lambert was disinvited from performing on Good Morning America. The Early Show stepped up and invited him to perform for them instead. However, when Mr Lambert again kissed his bandmate on their stage, they blurred it out. Yes, two guys kissing is so offensive that it needs to be censored completely. Meanwhile, as has been pointed out many times by better people than me, that fucking calculated publicity stunt of a kiss between fucking Madonna and fucking Britney has been shown over and over and over on network TV. Because two bleached blond chicks kissing each other is hawwwwt for network executives and their frat boy audience members, so that same-sex spit-swapping isn't indecent at all. The litmus test for whether something gets censored or not is whether it makes your typical het male uncomfortable. We're not protecting the "innocent children." We're protecting their scared-to-death-of-any-gay-impulses dads.
See? I'm getting all upset already. Ha!
Unlike an old friend of mine, a middle-aged long-married heterosexual female who *loved* guy-on-guy hardcore porn, I am not particularly interested in or excited by two guys doing each other. (But, then again, I'm not particularly interested in watching anyone do anyone. I'm apparently missing the voyeuristic gene.) But I will say this. I can't tell the story behind this on this blog, but the hottest pda I have ever seen was a kiss between two guys. The energy between them, the passion and the worship, was palpable from even twenty feet away and when they finally kissed...wow. It was the kind of thing that made me simultaneously want to look because it was so sexy and beautiful and want to look away because it was so intimate. (Not that they were paying attention to anyone besides each other.) That someone in this fucked-up society in which we live could find that gross while meanwhile approving of that fake-ass girl-on-girl titillation kissing of the Britney-Madonna variety makes me weep for our culture.
I despise Madonna. Have I mentioned that?
Anyway, Andrea says all expressions of true desire, passion, devotion, and lust are awesome. It's sex as a fake commodity selling whatever that's obscene. As is pandering to the patriarchy's fear of male homosexuality.
Happy Thanksgiving! Go eat that pie you baked.
xoxo
Adam Lambert was first runner-up on American Idol last season and was notable for being the first Idol finalist to openly admit to being gay (rather than come out five years after being on the show.) Last Sunday Mr Lambert, who has his first CD out, performed live at the American Music Awards wherein he caused controversy by a.) kissing his (male) keyboard player onstage and b.) grabbing the head of one of his (male) backup dancers who was kneeling in front of him and pushing it in the general direction of his crotch. [Meanwhile, Janet Jackson grabbed the crotch of one of her (male) dancers onstage at the same event and no one blinked.]
Because of this controversy, Mr Lambert was disinvited from performing on Good Morning America. The Early Show stepped up and invited him to perform for them instead. However, when Mr Lambert again kissed his bandmate on their stage, they blurred it out. Yes, two guys kissing is so offensive that it needs to be censored completely. Meanwhile, as has been pointed out many times by better people than me, that fucking calculated publicity stunt of a kiss between fucking Madonna and fucking Britney has been shown over and over and over on network TV. Because two bleached blond chicks kissing each other is hawwwwt for network executives and their frat boy audience members, so that same-sex spit-swapping isn't indecent at all. The litmus test for whether something gets censored or not is whether it makes your typical het male uncomfortable. We're not protecting the "innocent children." We're protecting their scared-to-death-of-any-gay-impulses dads.
See? I'm getting all upset already. Ha!
Unlike an old friend of mine, a middle-aged long-married heterosexual female who *loved* guy-on-guy hardcore porn, I am not particularly interested in or excited by two guys doing each other. (But, then again, I'm not particularly interested in watching anyone do anyone. I'm apparently missing the voyeuristic gene.) But I will say this. I can't tell the story behind this on this blog, but the hottest pda I have ever seen was a kiss between two guys. The energy between them, the passion and the worship, was palpable from even twenty feet away and when they finally kissed...wow. It was the kind of thing that made me simultaneously want to look because it was so sexy and beautiful and want to look away because it was so intimate. (Not that they were paying attention to anyone besides each other.) That someone in this fucked-up society in which we live could find that gross while meanwhile approving of that fake-ass girl-on-girl titillation kissing of the Britney-Madonna variety makes me weep for our culture.
I despise Madonna. Have I mentioned that?
Anyway, Andrea says all expressions of true desire, passion, devotion, and lust are awesome. It's sex as a fake commodity selling whatever that's obscene. As is pandering to the patriarchy's fear of male homosexuality.
Happy Thanksgiving! Go eat that pie you baked.
xoxo
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
you would think
...that someone who went to two grocery stores yesterday would have everything they need for
Thanksgiving. But you would be wrong. (Can I bitch about the holidays again, or is it too soon after the last bitchfest?)
And last night I scrubbed the kitchen floor on my hands and knees, like a little Polish washerwoman, even though I just did that eight days ago. Why? I'll tell you why. Because someone spilled something sticky in front of the sink, did not clean it up properly (if they attempted to clean it at all), and then they or someone else tracked it through the kitchen. Naturally all the menfolk deny any knowledge of any of this occurring***. Okay. But if I come home tonight and there are any sticky spots in there at all, someone will die.
That's the problem with all this cleaning business (um, other than the *other* problem where cleaning leads you to getting caustic chemicals in your eye, and other safety hazards that just aren't a concern when you sit on your sofa in a state of sloth): it's always immediately dirty again. It is a thankless and ceaseless task. Now, things like laundry and dishes, okay. You wear clothes, they get dirty, you need to clean them. You cook and eat, the pots and dishes are dirty, you need to clean them. There's some payoff there. But actual cleaning? You vacuum and you dust and you turn around and it needs to be done again, even in rooms you hardly use. There's no payoff. It's enough to turn a person into one of those *real* old skool Polish ladies who kept their furniture covered in plastic and only let you sit on it grudgingly.
I hate all this marginally less since I'm on the Mrs Meyer's bandwagon, because at least my cleaning stuff smells nice, doesn't give me a headache, and might possibly not be made in China. The Dyson helps too. But only marginally. Even with cool cleaning products and tools, it all still sucks.
The End.
xoxo
***But I'm betting on Mr D after watching him feed Evil Kitty the other day. He spills some of the "juice" from the catfood can onto the counter when he's putting it on her plate. So he takes a paper towel and wipes at it. Not a damp paper towel, mind you. Just a paper towel. All this does is smear it around. Then he cheerfully deposits the paper towel in the trash and goes about his business. It's like, dude, I know you made a half-assed attempt to clean up after yourself, but you might not as well have bothered. I'm sure that sticky mess on my floor was similar. Despite denials.
Thanksgiving. But you would be wrong. (Can I bitch about the holidays again, or is it too soon after the last bitchfest?)
And last night I scrubbed the kitchen floor on my hands and knees, like a little Polish washerwoman, even though I just did that eight days ago. Why? I'll tell you why. Because someone spilled something sticky in front of the sink, did not clean it up properly (if they attempted to clean it at all), and then they or someone else tracked it through the kitchen. Naturally all the menfolk deny any knowledge of any of this occurring***. Okay. But if I come home tonight and there are any sticky spots in there at all, someone will die.
That's the problem with all this cleaning business (um, other than the *other* problem where cleaning leads you to getting caustic chemicals in your eye, and other safety hazards that just aren't a concern when you sit on your sofa in a state of sloth): it's always immediately dirty again. It is a thankless and ceaseless task. Now, things like laundry and dishes, okay. You wear clothes, they get dirty, you need to clean them. You cook and eat, the pots and dishes are dirty, you need to clean them. There's some payoff there. But actual cleaning? You vacuum and you dust and you turn around and it needs to be done again, even in rooms you hardly use. There's no payoff. It's enough to turn a person into one of those *real* old skool Polish ladies who kept their furniture covered in plastic and only let you sit on it grudgingly.
I hate all this marginally less since I'm on the Mrs Meyer's bandwagon, because at least my cleaning stuff smells nice, doesn't give me a headache, and might possibly not be made in China. The Dyson helps too. But only marginally. Even with cool cleaning products and tools, it all still sucks.
The End.
xoxo
***But I'm betting on Mr D after watching him feed Evil Kitty the other day. He spills some of the "juice" from the catfood can onto the counter when he's putting it on her plate. So he takes a paper towel and wipes at it. Not a damp paper towel, mind you. Just a paper towel. All this does is smear it around. Then he cheerfully deposits the paper towel in the trash and goes about his business. It's like, dude, I know you made a half-assed attempt to clean up after yourself, but you might not as well have bothered. I'm sure that sticky mess on my floor was similar. Despite denials.
Friday, November 20, 2009
registering complaints
1.) I was kinda thinking this morning, in mentally rehashing my week, that I have been condescended to more in the last three months than at any time since probably 1989. I'm angry about that. I mean, you people know why this is one of the buttons that is easily pushable in me, my having detailed it ad nauseum. However, just because I'm aware it's one of my buttons doesn't make me deal with it any better. I feel waves of rage if I consider it too much.
2.) Someone at work today told me that I've been looking skinny, which is further proof that I look good in my pants. Ha! Except I'm not wearing pants today. And I wasn't wearing pants on the day that she referenced as having noticed my putative weight loss. I was wearing a skirt and a particular green and white shirt. Why are you complaining about a compliment, Andrea? I'm not! What I'm complaining about is that the reason my co-worker thought I looked thin in that shirt has nothing to do with me; it has to do with the shirt, which is ridiculously flattering to my body type. And, specifically, the reason I'm complaining is that when I wore that shirt the other day, I noticed it has some small holes in it around the bottom and can't really be worn to work anymore. The black shirt I had that was just like it that also was ridiculously flattering and that I wore more often (since black is a more unobtrusive color than green-n-white) already gave up the ghost a month or two ago. So! My complaint is that this super thin cotton they are making t-shirty shirts out of these days, while draping beautifully, doesn't last, even when you wash and dry on gentle. I think you should be able to get more than a year and a half's wear out of a forty dollar shirt. Especially one that makes you look fabulous.
3.) It's fucking 85 degrees in our offices today, even with the back door propped open, and even with my cardigan off, I am dying. I can take no more garments off and remain decent. I mean, I could take my tights off, because I'm wearing boots, but I don't have underwear on (is that TMI?) and not having tights OR underwear on at work seems indecent.
That's all.
xoxo
2.) Someone at work today told me that I've been looking skinny, which is further proof that I look good in my pants. Ha! Except I'm not wearing pants today. And I wasn't wearing pants on the day that she referenced as having noticed my putative weight loss. I was wearing a skirt and a particular green and white shirt. Why are you complaining about a compliment, Andrea? I'm not! What I'm complaining about is that the reason my co-worker thought I looked thin in that shirt has nothing to do with me; it has to do with the shirt, which is ridiculously flattering to my body type. And, specifically, the reason I'm complaining is that when I wore that shirt the other day, I noticed it has some small holes in it around the bottom and can't really be worn to work anymore. The black shirt I had that was just like it that also was ridiculously flattering and that I wore more often (since black is a more unobtrusive color than green-n-white) already gave up the ghost a month or two ago. So! My complaint is that this super thin cotton they are making t-shirty shirts out of these days, while draping beautifully, doesn't last, even when you wash and dry on gentle. I think you should be able to get more than a year and a half's wear out of a forty dollar shirt. Especially one that makes you look fabulous.
3.) It's fucking 85 degrees in our offices today, even with the back door propped open, and even with my cardigan off, I am dying. I can take no more garments off and remain decent. I mean, I could take my tights off, because I'm wearing boots, but I don't have underwear on (is that TMI?) and not having tights OR underwear on at work seems indecent.
That's all.
xoxo
Thursday, September 17, 2009
*more* well-meaning, but...
Though I'm not really sure this is all that well-meaning, frankly. As I was cooking dinner tonight, I heard, from the other room, the local news telling me that schools in Massachusetts will now be required to give out BMI report cards to their students. (You can imagine me getting rageful already, right?)
First of all, the BMI is meaningless bullshit. For many reasons. But let's just take me, for one example. I was sitting in one of the many medical visits I've had recently, waiting, and I was perusing a BMI chart. And I was sorta surprised to see that I am about three pounds away from a BMI of 25 and that 25 is "overweight." (I'd thought that anything over 25 was classified overweight, meaning 26 and up, when actually it's anything 25 and up.) Well, I'm very sorry, but despite my bitching about my bulgy Polish catcher's thighs and my middle-aged no-longer-flat belly, I am only cosmetically fat. There is no way in fucking hell that I am three pounds away from omg! obesity epidemic! health-problem! fat. And I am a woman, and small-boned--if pretty muscular and as you all know big-boobed--so that a man or a larger-boned woman my height could be considered hovering on the cusp of OVERWEIGHT! FAT AMERICAN! is even more ridiculous. But it points up yet another point in how ridiculous using the BMI is: in 1998, they changed it, lowering the criteria for "overweight" from 27 to 25, and overnight, 25 million Americans (I looked it up)became officially overweight overnight. That's some crazy shit right there.
Second of all, even if they were using a measure of overweight for these poor schoolchildren that *was* valid, how exactly is giving them a report card about it supposed to change their weight in any way? How is it supposed to be anything but humiliating for the kids who "fail"? And how is it the business of the schools to "mark" children on anything other than their schoolwork and their effort towards their schoolwork? (Okay, I'll admit I personally am still traumatized by the fact that *I* got a bad grade on my report card in second grade for having a messy desk. Talk about humiliating. That messy desk did not impede my ability to get my work done, thankyouverymuch. Fuckers! Ha!) And do we think any of the little fat kids' parents can't look at them and *see* that they're overweight? And do we think that these children do not have PCPs who weigh and measure them at every visit and keep those handy-dandy growth charts in their files, and discuss what percentiles they are in with their parents? This is some more crazy shit right there.
How about instead of worrying about these kids' weights, we instead worry about their fitness? How about this? How about we mandate that they take 45 minutes out of every school day that it isn't pouring rain or snowing--they can give up 45 minutes of MCAS prep, because frankly the children of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts ain't gonna end up smarter than those little Chinese kids across the globe, no matter how much standardized testing we torture them with, so we may as well give it up--and take those elementary school kids out of the school building for a nice forty minute walk. Rope 'em together, like the lil daycare kids, if you're worried about them wandering off or getting abducted.
Oh, that won't fly. Why? Well, for one reason, it would require the teachers and teaching assistants to take a daily 40 minute walk. Some of them would be happy to, yeah, of course. But the lazy-ass others? On the phone to the union, baby!
The other day Mr Indemnity forwarded the following link to me:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/13/fashion/13kids.html
thinking it might be something I'd like to blog about. Well, can I tell you the thing about it that horrified me the most? The little story at the end about the woman who allowed her child to walk five houses down the street to visit a friend, and then was nonplussed and kind of worried about her own perceived parenting judgment when the playmate's parent drove her kid back, worrying about the child's safety walking for those five house lengths. No, nothing to do with the actual point of the article: the fact that the other mother *drove* five fucking houses. Are you serious? What.the.fuck.is.wrong.with.people? Who is so very lazy they need to drive the length of a block? A BMI report card ain't gonna help in a society where anyone thinks that's a reasonable thing to do, I'll tell you what.
xoxo
First of all, the BMI is meaningless bullshit. For many reasons. But let's just take me, for one example. I was sitting in one of the many medical visits I've had recently, waiting, and I was perusing a BMI chart. And I was sorta surprised to see that I am about three pounds away from a BMI of 25 and that 25 is "overweight." (I'd thought that anything over 25 was classified overweight, meaning 26 and up, when actually it's anything 25 and up.) Well, I'm very sorry, but despite my bitching about my bulgy Polish catcher's thighs and my middle-aged no-longer-flat belly, I am only cosmetically fat. There is no way in fucking hell that I am three pounds away from omg! obesity epidemic! health-problem! fat. And I am a woman, and small-boned--if pretty muscular and as you all know big-boobed--so that a man or a larger-boned woman my height could be considered hovering on the cusp of OVERWEIGHT! FAT AMERICAN! is even more ridiculous. But it points up yet another point in how ridiculous using the BMI is: in 1998, they changed it, lowering the criteria for "overweight" from 27 to 25, and overnight, 25 million Americans (I looked it up)became officially overweight overnight. That's some crazy shit right there.
Second of all, even if they were using a measure of overweight for these poor schoolchildren that *was* valid, how exactly is giving them a report card about it supposed to change their weight in any way? How is it supposed to be anything but humiliating for the kids who "fail"? And how is it the business of the schools to "mark" children on anything other than their schoolwork and their effort towards their schoolwork? (Okay, I'll admit I personally am still traumatized by the fact that *I* got a bad grade on my report card in second grade for having a messy desk. Talk about humiliating. That messy desk did not impede my ability to get my work done, thankyouverymuch. Fuckers! Ha!) And do we think any of the little fat kids' parents can't look at them and *see* that they're overweight? And do we think that these children do not have PCPs who weigh and measure them at every visit and keep those handy-dandy growth charts in their files, and discuss what percentiles they are in with their parents? This is some more crazy shit right there.
How about instead of worrying about these kids' weights, we instead worry about their fitness? How about this? How about we mandate that they take 45 minutes out of every school day that it isn't pouring rain or snowing--they can give up 45 minutes of MCAS prep, because frankly the children of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts ain't gonna end up smarter than those little Chinese kids across the globe, no matter how much standardized testing we torture them with, so we may as well give it up--and take those elementary school kids out of the school building for a nice forty minute walk. Rope 'em together, like the lil daycare kids, if you're worried about them wandering off or getting abducted.
Oh, that won't fly. Why? Well, for one reason, it would require the teachers and teaching assistants to take a daily 40 minute walk. Some of them would be happy to, yeah, of course. But the lazy-ass others? On the phone to the union, baby!
The other day Mr Indemnity forwarded the following link to me:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/13/fashion/13kids.html
thinking it might be something I'd like to blog about. Well, can I tell you the thing about it that horrified me the most? The little story at the end about the woman who allowed her child to walk five houses down the street to visit a friend, and then was nonplussed and kind of worried about her own perceived parenting judgment when the playmate's parent drove her kid back, worrying about the child's safety walking for those five house lengths. No, nothing to do with the actual point of the article: the fact that the other mother *drove* five fucking houses. Are you serious? What.the.fuck.is.wrong.with.people? Who is so very lazy they need to drive the length of a block? A BMI report card ain't gonna help in a society where anyone thinks that's a reasonable thing to do, I'll tell you what.
xoxo
Monday, August 10, 2009
i h8 ppl who txt
Let me tell you the story of the cell phone and me in my professional capacity.
Back in the mid-late 90s when regular people were just beginning to have cell phones, most of them (if you'll remember) didn't keep their phones on 24/7 and pretty much all of them, cowed by the NO CELLULAR PHONES signs in the hospital, were convinced that if they so much stepped into the lobby with their phones on, they'd kill everyone in the cardiac cath lab. So, people's mobiles were not a problem for me.
As the years went on, people started to use their phones more and most of them came to realize that, indeed, having your phone on wasn't likely to short out some old lady's pacemaker or interrupt the telemetry. (Though even to this day, I get the occasional inquiry about whether I would prefer someone's phone off in case it should interfere with my equipment.) But, in any case, most people were also smart enough to realize that if they were coming to see me, I was going to need their kid asleep at some point and so either turning off their phone or putting it on silent was the thing to do. I never felt the need to post a sign about this. On infrequent occasions, someone will forget to silence their ring and their phone will go off at an inopportune moment. Rarely is it at the worst possible moment, so I accept their embarrassed apologies with good grace and let their own humiliation be their punishment, so to speak. Again, in general, people's mobiles are not a problem for me.
However, in just the last year--I swear it *never* happened before then--I have come across a new phenomenon: parents who are unable to spend 45 minutes or an hour in a quiet room without constantly texting or playing with their iPhone/Blackberry. It is absolutely infuriating. I had, a few weeks ago, a young couple bring their little toddler in. The mother and I spent half an hour or more trying to settle the absolutely hysterical baby with no success while the dad sat there and played on his Blackberry (answering *absolutely critical work emails that could not wait*, I am sure [she said with an eyeroll].) I kept looking at him and thinking, "Douche! Why are you even here if you aren't going to help? Why didn't you stay the fuck at work?" But it isn't my place to say that. Finally his wife *asked* him to please come help. He got that kid to sleep in like ten minutes. Once he was forced to put away his precious phone, that is.
Today I had a mother who spent a good forty minutes in a dim quiet room texting (probably her boyfriend or BFF) continually--I mean continually--instead of paying any attention to her six year old. Or, y'know, zoning out. Taptaptaptaptaptaptap. TAP. After the first fifteen minutes of that, I swear to god, I wanted to take that fucking phone out of her hand, throw it on the ground, and stomp on it. Repeatedly. The noise was like water torture, it's rude, and c'mon now. Nobody ever texts anybody anything that's important. It's fucking inane chitchat or plan-making that can wait till you leave your kid's medical appointment, thankyouverymuch.
So for the very first time since the cell phone era began, I am seriously considering putting up a sign on the interior door of my office that says IF THIS DOOR IS CLOSED, YOUR PHONE SHOULD BE OFF! Because you all don't want me to join the horrendous unemployment statistics in this country when I go mental and smash someone's electronic device, right? Right?
xoxo
Back in the mid-late 90s when regular people were just beginning to have cell phones, most of them (if you'll remember) didn't keep their phones on 24/7 and pretty much all of them, cowed by the NO CELLULAR PHONES signs in the hospital, were convinced that if they so much stepped into the lobby with their phones on, they'd kill everyone in the cardiac cath lab. So, people's mobiles were not a problem for me.
As the years went on, people started to use their phones more and most of them came to realize that, indeed, having your phone on wasn't likely to short out some old lady's pacemaker or interrupt the telemetry. (Though even to this day, I get the occasional inquiry about whether I would prefer someone's phone off in case it should interfere with my equipment.) But, in any case, most people were also smart enough to realize that if they were coming to see me, I was going to need their kid asleep at some point and so either turning off their phone or putting it on silent was the thing to do. I never felt the need to post a sign about this. On infrequent occasions, someone will forget to silence their ring and their phone will go off at an inopportune moment. Rarely is it at the worst possible moment, so I accept their embarrassed apologies with good grace and let their own humiliation be their punishment, so to speak. Again, in general, people's mobiles are not a problem for me.
However, in just the last year--I swear it *never* happened before then--I have come across a new phenomenon: parents who are unable to spend 45 minutes or an hour in a quiet room without constantly texting or playing with their iPhone/Blackberry. It is absolutely infuriating. I had, a few weeks ago, a young couple bring their little toddler in. The mother and I spent half an hour or more trying to settle the absolutely hysterical baby with no success while the dad sat there and played on his Blackberry (answering *absolutely critical work emails that could not wait*, I am sure [she said with an eyeroll].) I kept looking at him and thinking, "Douche! Why are you even here if you aren't going to help? Why didn't you stay the fuck at work?" But it isn't my place to say that. Finally his wife *asked* him to please come help. He got that kid to sleep in like ten minutes. Once he was forced to put away his precious phone, that is.
Today I had a mother who spent a good forty minutes in a dim quiet room texting (probably her boyfriend or BFF) continually--I mean continually--instead of paying any attention to her six year old. Or, y'know, zoning out. Taptaptaptaptaptaptap. TAP. After the first fifteen minutes of that, I swear to god, I wanted to take that fucking phone out of her hand, throw it on the ground, and stomp on it. Repeatedly. The noise was like water torture, it's rude, and c'mon now. Nobody ever texts anybody anything that's important. It's fucking inane chitchat or plan-making that can wait till you leave your kid's medical appointment, thankyouverymuch.
So for the very first time since the cell phone era began, I am seriously considering putting up a sign on the interior door of my office that says IF THIS DOOR IS CLOSED, YOUR PHONE SHOULD BE OFF! Because you all don't want me to join the horrendous unemployment statistics in this country when I go mental and smash someone's electronic device, right? Right?
xoxo
Thursday, July 30, 2009
i know you all hate when i do this
Does that violate this blog's anti-disclaimer policy? Am I breaking my own damn rules here? But anyway. I've got to go off on another feminist/our-culture-is-so-fucked rant here. Feel free not to read it if my frothing at the mouth is boring.
So, yeah, after my little appointment with the gynecologist yesterday, besides consoling myself with food and shoes (Andrea! you feel the need to insert that in an anti-women-stereotyping post? Why, yes, yes I do. Just because I am a cliche, does not mean I cannot get excised about being reduced to one), I went home and looked up on the interwebz what they claim is wrong with me and how they are going to fix it. Yeah, I know, I'm not supposed to be doing that either. I didn't find what one might call a plethora of information. Maybe there *isn't* a plethora information. Maybe everything that needs to be said can in fact be said in two paragraphs.
But, just in my ongoing quest for knowledge, I thought I would go on Amazon just now and see if there were any books that seem pertinent. I go to the "women's health section". The top result (of over 26,000) is a little tome called Master Your Metabolism: The 3 Diet Secrets to Naturally Balancing Your Hormones for a Hot and Healthy Body! Oh, yes. Do you like the ordering there? Being "hot" is obviously more important than being healthy. Duh. (Do we even need to go into the conflation of "hot" with skinny? Probably not.)
But obviously, the most important "health" concern we chicks have is being skinny. I mean, looking hot. In fact 5 of the top 12 results are diet books. (Another four are about child-raising, which I kinda think is more about the child's health than the mother's, but wtf do I know?) There are two about pregnancy (fair enough!) and one about mental health (also fair enough, though nothing about a quick perusal of it suggests it's aimed solely at women). There's actually nothing on the first two pages that has anything to do with gynecology other than pregnancy or fertility. Now, this is sorted by bestselling, so obviously, it's the female American reading public that is at least partially at fault. I'll give you that. Apparently we are not interested in what's going on inside our own bodies. We'd rather read wacky diet books that promise to make us "hot" so we can, I dunno, snag a man, who will then, I dunno, knock us up with children who will then, I dunno, prove to be impossible to discipline or get to sleep.
Apparently.
Okay. I'm done now. But just the existence of a book called Master Your Metabolism: The 3 Diet Secrets to Naturally Balancing Your Hormones for a Hot and Healthy Body! makes me want to throw things.
xoxo
So, yeah, after my little appointment with the gynecologist yesterday, besides consoling myself with food and shoes (Andrea! you feel the need to insert that in an anti-women-stereotyping post? Why, yes, yes I do. Just because I am a cliche, does not mean I cannot get excised about being reduced to one), I went home and looked up on the interwebz what they claim is wrong with me and how they are going to fix it. Yeah, I know, I'm not supposed to be doing that either. I didn't find what one might call a plethora of information. Maybe there *isn't* a plethora information. Maybe everything that needs to be said can in fact be said in two paragraphs.
But, just in my ongoing quest for knowledge, I thought I would go on Amazon just now and see if there were any books that seem pertinent. I go to the "women's health section". The top result (of over 26,000) is a little tome called Master Your Metabolism: The 3 Diet Secrets to Naturally Balancing Your Hormones for a Hot and Healthy Body! Oh, yes. Do you like the ordering there? Being "hot" is obviously more important than being healthy. Duh. (Do we even need to go into the conflation of "hot" with skinny? Probably not.)
But obviously, the most important "health" concern we chicks have is being skinny. I mean, looking hot. In fact 5 of the top 12 results are diet books. (Another four are about child-raising, which I kinda think is more about the child's health than the mother's, but wtf do I know?) There are two about pregnancy (fair enough!) and one about mental health (also fair enough, though nothing about a quick perusal of it suggests it's aimed solely at women). There's actually nothing on the first two pages that has anything to do with gynecology other than pregnancy or fertility. Now, this is sorted by bestselling, so obviously, it's the female American reading public that is at least partially at fault. I'll give you that. Apparently we are not interested in what's going on inside our own bodies. We'd rather read wacky diet books that promise to make us "hot" so we can, I dunno, snag a man, who will then, I dunno, knock us up with children who will then, I dunno, prove to be impossible to discipline or get to sleep.
Apparently.
Okay. I'm done now. But just the existence of a book called Master Your Metabolism: The 3 Diet Secrets to Naturally Balancing Your Hormones for a Hot and Healthy Body! makes me want to throw things.
xoxo
Friday, July 17, 2009
again, i hate everyone
Presented for your edification:
http://tinyurl.com/kvc2mz
How many layers of wrong do we have here? That there should be photographic evidence of a rape and the DA still refuses to pursue the case? That the DA then shows the evidence to people who have no right to look at it, because...why exactly?...he decides to purposely humiliate a 17 year old who has already been assaulted? That his "punishment" for this was being suspended for, OMG, a whole six months? And then, that in reporting this heinous bit of news, the perp is described as "having sex" with the victim while she pleads with him to stop? (Hint: if the person you are having sex with is pleading for you to NOT DO THAT, you aren't having sex, you're raping someone. Really, journalists, use the right terminology.)
In comments I read on this elsewhere, someone made the remark that there are, apparently, men who don't really get that rape is a crime, or that if they acknowledge that it is, classify it as somewhere near jaywalking in the hierarchy of seriousness. Um, yeah. That can be the only explanation for this shit.
xoxo
http://tinyurl.com/kvc2mz
How many layers of wrong do we have here? That there should be photographic evidence of a rape and the DA still refuses to pursue the case? That the DA then shows the evidence to people who have no right to look at it, because...why exactly?...he decides to purposely humiliate a 17 year old who has already been assaulted? That his "punishment" for this was being suspended for, OMG, a whole six months? And then, that in reporting this heinous bit of news, the perp is described as "having sex" with the victim while she pleads with him to stop? (Hint: if the person you are having sex with is pleading for you to NOT DO THAT, you aren't having sex, you're raping someone. Really, journalists, use the right terminology.)
In comments I read on this elsewhere, someone made the remark that there are, apparently, men who don't really get that rape is a crime, or that if they acknowledge that it is, classify it as somewhere near jaywalking in the hierarchy of seriousness. Um, yeah. That can be the only explanation for this shit.
xoxo
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