TMZ

I think TMZ is unquestionably the most entertaining show on the television.

Nothing makes me happier on a Sunday morning than a pot of coffee, an hour with Bill Maher, followed by an hour of celebrity mishaps and the associated commentary delivered by the correspondents of TMZ who say things like “be-queef” instead of bequeath… which was being used incorrectly in the first place!

I take a lot of guilty pleasure from this weekly reminder that no matter how many times your face appears on a magazine cover or the silver screen, falling, butt picking, cellulite, and horrendously poor judgment still happen… and are captured for posterity!

I swear if I could have any job in the world it would be that of a TMZ correspondent. I could be as snarky as I want ALL THE TIME. I wouldn’t have to concern myself with grammar or research. I could abandon all semblance of grown-up, responsible Me and revert to the unpredictable, gypsy Me of yore.

*sighs*

I wonder if President Obama has ever been on TMZ? I wouldn’t be surprised to discover he has and that he, himself, “leaked” the appearance; emerging from ballet class with his daughters or some equally saccharine, family-man duty in order to get himself some positive television face time.

Here’s the thing… I don’t want my President to be a TV star. Someone should tell him that there’s this big house with an oval room in it where people expect him to do more than make angry, poorly written speeches. What about the red phone? If it rings, what are the chances he’ll be there! I’d venture to say he’s on the tube more often than season one reruns of Jersey Shore – another inexplicable phenomenon.  He’s one step away from exiting his vehicle without panties.

The only real hole I see in my quest for TMZ employment dominance is that I don’t read enough celebrity magazines to know who anyone is. Robert Pattison could sidle up next to me in front of the mag-rag stand while waiting on line at the supermarket and I wouldn’t recognize him. Sure, McDreamy, McSteamy, or any of America’s Sweethearts I could totally stalk. But this whole new crop of actors that look like every kid exiting the local high school make no impression on me whatsoever. Nonetheless, I’m pretty sure I’m a value-add.

Dear TMZ:

I have absolutely no experience chasing down celebrities – but I’m super snarky and know the difference between “queef” and “queath” so that should fill the obvious hole on your staff. I can start immediately. Please send a car.

Material World

Is there a parallel Universe where performing repetitive Sun Salutation sequences at 7am will make my woozy boozy head stop backstroking through last night’s martinis? If so, I’ll be needing directions there, please.

*breathe*

Chaturanga? Are you kidding?!? Chat this…

*flips imaginary bird*

*exits yoga*

Luckily, I have a meeting of the minds at the local coffeehouse this morning, which coincidentally, is where I am now. I’m early; I always am. I don’t know if it’s because I need to stake out my space, or because I think being late is truly the rudest and most avoidable of all behaviors.

*casually looks around for points of interest*

It’s the usual morning crowd of singles with nowhere to be and no one to miss where they aren’t; the pompous politicos spouting Obama rhetoric loud enough to ensure everyone can hear how analytical and superior they are; the obligatory family of four trying to look hip instead of desperate – which makes them the saddest of  the table hoarders.

Ah, there’s my date.

Later. No material collected at the coffeehouse. Moving on…

Hopped up on 3 espressos, I’ve completed my weekly shopping and am now heading to meet another girlfriend for mani/pedis. The salon should prove to be a good source of material.

*looks around*

Yep. It’s suburban housewife day at the nail salon. Pretty sure my girlfriend and I are the only two here who have ever used Fuck as either an exclamation OR a verb.

*sips pinot grigio*

These women are forking over $45 for their 5-11year olds to get a pedicure. Apparently there’s no recession happening in beauty! Cripes, no show here, people. Let’s move along. Luckily there are still friends to meet up with for cocktails later, and interim places to gather material before the end of the day. Surely something will present itself.

Later...

This is one mighty dark bar. I’m okay with that; I like a dark bar with a low ceiling. I arrived very early in hopes of squeezing in a few minutes of observation time. I’m trying to look past the quintessential stereotypes automatically created by the location of this establishment. I wonder what I look like typing away and sipping my vodka in the corner. 

There is a full compliment of patrons at the rail. Small clusters of men holding bottles of beer who “casually” scan the room for eligible women, and laugh in that jocular way they do after someone just tells a bawdy joke. On the corner are four older, more weathered men who I would guess are either hiding from their wives, or have sat on those stools every Saturday night for 50 years discussing whatever it is that old men discuss over their short glasses of brown liquor. Maybe both.

*sips vodka, eats olive, calls that dinner*

When did it get so loud? Ah, it’s started to rain outside. Is that woman a hooker!!! Outstanding! Things like that never happen in this neighborhood. Okay... who else do we have here... The single but coupled contingency include the standard first date couple; last EVER date couple; and the “why am I on this date” varieties. There are tables of four paired-off; girls chatting with girls, boys, boys. Why does nothing besides the hooker strike me as interesting?

*turns attention to Those Girls*

Often overly made-up, sporting reality TV hair-dos and generally inappropriate attire, as the evening progresses they’re going to be a mess. I love Those Girls. They have no idea how they present. They are not bound by age or martial status. Those Girls run the gamut from One Night Stand Girl, to Desperately Seeking Marriage before the Eggs Dry Up Girl; Supportive Married Friend of Singles, to Loud-Mouthed Tired of Being Married So Pretending Not to Be for a Night. Those Girls are the same everywhere with the only real variation being in their regional sense or fashion… or lack thereof. Normally I could find some material to mock here, but tonight I just feel… bored with them.

It’s hard to believe that I’ve gone through an entire day with no real material to show for it. Sure, there are still a few hours left in the night for something of interest to spark a rant. Maybe a boy will do something stupid, or one of Those Girls will fall off her thigh-high platform boots and chain reaction of events will unfold. If not, I'm going to be forced to reevaluate my definition of interesting.

*waves to friends*

Guess I’m going to have to take this night into my own hands. Oh crap! That hooker is actually my neighbor!

*closes laptop*

Goin' Fishin'

I love to hear carbon-copied people actually proclaim they're unique; somehow different from everyone else, as though saying it will make it true. Cripes, look around. Dress alike, talk alike, walk alike.

I'm not wrong. Sure, that stupid hitch-strut with the underdrawers showing started with one guy, but I'd bet it wasn't intentional. More likely the fallout from wearing his bigger brother's pants. And now! Now we're apparently stuck with a freakish number of "unique" men and boys doing it until such time as some mishap overtakes a celebrity gait.

And while I'm thinking about it, the cocked gimme-cap? That came from some kid's mom slapping him up the back of his head.

Human herd instinct reminds me of schools of fish... and smells just as bad. What? Everyone is going this way? I'd better go, too! Hems up; hems down; fancy tights; bare legs; she hates him so everyone else follows suit; I think I might be blonde this summer!

It makes my head visibly reel. In an effort to purge this Dramamine-required topic from my brain, I did some mulling and determined that ultimately, we can break this down into two distinct fishy follower schools:

Salmon.
They're planning to "do" something so they've identified the purpose of running with a crowd. Their single-mindedness should be considered suspect at all times. The good news here is that, percentage-wise, 40% of those upstream spawning slippery fish are eaten by the predatory bear or killed off in some other natural way. You'll occasionally find "school leaders" (people version identified readily as just the loudest-not-the-smartest in what is still a crowd) who perform around their own personal agenda, always acutely aware that there's safety in numbers...

Cavefish.
They're just the spineless, blind followers... literally. They lack eyes of their own so they rely wholly on the sounds, or talk, around them to survive. They just swim along in an effort to be a part of something - anything - and are an excellent example of regressive evolution. The people version of the cavefish was probably chosen last for whatever and still takes it as a personal affront. They'll go, do, or say anything to be included. Luckily the cavefish is harmless and appears to serve no real purpose.

There're plenty of pack-mentality analogies to be made here, but I'm already bored. I suppose the point is that it's not difficult to actually be who you are, instead of one of them. Here's the list as I see it:

1. The "in crowd" isn't really in. Popularity is gained and retained by individuality.
2. It's only okay to be "loud" if you have something to say. Otherwise, you're just... loud. *cringe*
3. Make one statement every day. I chose a crazy combination of orange shirt, purple sweats, and a yellow cardigan because I DO have a choice!
4. Don't be afraid that others won't understand your truths. They don't need to get it; just respect it.
5. Let your heart, not the thoughts, ideas, or the fish stories of others guide your behavior.

Salmon, cavefish, or something else altogether; if it looks like a fish and swims like a fish, it will most likely smell like a fish. Be a bear today!

Postscript:
I know you could normally come here on a Sunday and find a new post; however, I'm taking this weekend off to go in search of new material. I don't know exactly where this will take place, but the calendar is full so if the planets align, I'm golden. If not, may The Universe save us all from whatever my fingers have to say.

Us... and Them

It occurs to me that for probably the first time in recorded history, adults and children are listening to the same music. Mr. Man thinks this is fantastic. I think it's weird and probably at the root of the evil currently possessing teens and tweens... well, that and red dye #5.

Excuse me? You don't think they're evil? Have you listened to them? Have you observed them in their natural habitat?

Definition of "natural habitat": Planted solidly in front of the television, glued to some "reality" program created solely to rot the mind and ensure this nation never produces another world leader who doesn't run about half-naked on a stage or spout ghetto rhetoric to the unwashed masses.

Optional habitat: same as above employing the use of electronic communication media which has sapped their ability to form cohesive thought or sentence structure.

I don't have any mini-me replicas so I feel like this puts me in a more objective place to make these observations. (Don't judge - sometimes you just have to trust The Universe and that was a good call!) It's unnatural to look around a wedding reception or some other function where children were inadvertently admitted, to see 10-year olds singing along while their parents are on the dance floor fist pumpin' their beat.

I suppose an argument could be made that this is a good thing given that very soon we'll no longer be subjected to that tired "car radio fight scene" in the movies. Nonetheless, I think I have to stand by my original hypothesis that this will be the downfall of Western Civilization. We need that definitive, unblurred line drawn in the sand! The line that says, "I get to both have, and voice, opinions because I'm all grown up and you're still a know-nothing fetus so shut your ignorant mouth until you're old enough to order me a martini. And pull up your pants. You look ridiculous"

So back to the dance floor. This brings me to my next Us/Them observation. Why is it that adults are getting way more exercise now than their offspring?

"Back when we were kids..."
We couldn't get out of the house fast enough. If we sat still longer than it took to eat dinner, someone would inevitably come up with a chore for us to do. Now, near as I can tell from the shockingly ill-mannered mini-masses I hear in the supermarket, chores are something a child gets paid to do (*outrage*), and the Great Out-of-Doors is reserved for cocktail parties.

There is a point of interest here in that some childhood activities seem to have carried over into adulthood - only with a different outcome in mind. For instance, I may or may not have recently been in a tree with a 12-pack, two friends, and binoculars.

Seriously though, am I the only one who remembers that the worst possible punishment in the world was being grounded to the indoors? Being in high school and knowing that even if you did shimmy down the bedsheet to freedom, there was no possible chance of getting back in without being caught... and doing it anyway because it was totally worth it not to be inside. We walked to school until we could drive ourselves because that's where most of the fun happened in our day anyway, and it was kind of embarrassing to be seen getting dropped off if you didn't just come from the dentist. So maybe this exercise thing is all a matter of habit.

Here's my long awaited advice on how the entire world could be changed in one simple step:

Dear Owners: Yank your lazy-assed kids off the sofa and send them outside until the street lights come on. Oh! And introduce them to a vegetable. It's time they learn there are options available that aren't handed out a drive-thru window in a paper bag. Maybe if they weren't so fat they wouldn't be so loud and lazy.

So Not Interested...

*stares at keyboard*
*stares at blank page*
*stares out window*
*changes streaming radio station*
*lays on floor staring at ceiling*
*pulls keyboard onto floor*

Does anyone really want to hear my rant on Fashion Week? My opinion on Diane VonFurstenberg and her amazingly wearable collection for Fall/Winter 2010? How fashion hates me because I'm only 5' tall? Seems unlikely...

*raspberries*
*checks email*
*reads New York Times*

The whole Jersey shore thing is as played out as Lady Gaga's wigs and latest release; I was over the Winter Olympics before they started; I have no care to skulk about in search of the newest app to download or getting to the bottom of the scandal du jour.

Isn't anything actually interesting happening out there?!?! Admittedly, "interesting" might be subjective, but come on! My attention span is so short I can usually get sucked into any distraction for at least 15 minutes...

*blinks*
*stares out window*
*opens diet coke*

Downward facing dog has brought me to the conclusion that the reason I'm more interesting on paper than in person is because face-to-face I have to shush all the voices in my head and pick just one to work with. On paper I can let the free-for-all run rampant in there. What with the shouting and the snarky conversations, everyone gets to join in. Maybe I need to determine which voice is the interesting one and start channeling it in person.

*sighs*
Is there anything interesting going on out there? Comment here. Does anyone have a website or blog they read every day? Yes? No? What drives you there? That's what I want to know. I think THAT would be interesting!

My Funny Little Valentine

Ahh, Valentine's Day.

Cupids, flowers, singing telegrams, dinner reservations, last minute gifts, and sex. If ever a holiday were invented solely to make people feel bad about their relationship status, this is it.

From my single friend's perspective, I'm a traitor and a rat. For one day I am no longer "one of them." Men and women alike get that resentful glare/smile that makes me feel worse than the hours leading up to midnight on New Year's Eve. It's not my fault! If you're single perhaps you should assess your "bar!" Or, find a new bar...

As for my "marrieds" - it becomes a competition. Who go what "little gift" from the Husband. They flit about showing off new diamonds or other precious gems and gushing about whatever else "the most wonderful man in the world" did.

*eyeroll*
Me thinks thou overstates...

Last year Mr. Man skipped this particular celebration. He claimed that he never believed in the Hallmark holidays. WHAT? Since when? This declaration forced me to my brassiere drawer where I'd stashed 7 years worth of Valentine's Day cards.

Factoid: approximately 1 billion Valentine's Day cards are exchanged annually worldwide. You'd think I coulda gotten at least one.

I'm still not sure why I got all riled up about it unless it was because once again the gold crown of Hallmark made sure that no matter how little regard I gave the date, I inevitably set myself up for disappointment. Admittedly, not as disappointed as the significant others of the victims of the St. Valentine's Day massacre, but frankly I blame prohibition for that mess. They shoulda seen it coming.

There are as many legends around the beginning of this painfully forced celebration as there are trashy lingerie stores in Las Vegas. Still, after significant contemplation, I've decided to continue blaming the Greeting Card Association. I think they should appease those of us who are apparently no longer acknowledging the celebration by bringing back the "vinegar valentine." Come on... who doesn't love an opportunity to "politely tell someone how you really feel"?

To Her:
"From girls of these fast modern days
A little boldness we expect,
And when due bounds it's kept
Not every one will object.
But o'er all bounds you go so far
With your loud ways and saucy face,
We simply feel disgust and scorn
To see such lack of womanly grace."

(circa 1858)

To Him:

"A monkey in the jungle

Is looking for his face,

That someone must have wished upon you

And gave him yours in place."

(circa 1860)

Is it as satisfying as sending a dozen dead roses in a gold box to the he/she who broke your heart? Probably not... but add a rat to the package and now we're talkin'!

Postscript:

You should know that in June, I received two Valentine's Day cards from Mr. Man. Awww, isn't he the most wonderful man in the world! Maybe this year I'll get that singing telegram...

Grammar Snob

Can somebody please tell me why, if enough people mispronounce a word, everyone decides that it must be right? I'm kicking-off this longish rant by taking exception with the word "template."

This is not now, nor has it ever been correctly pronounced: tem-plate. Check your Merriam-Webster, your Cambridge, your Free Dictionary - hell, I'll even pull my 12-pound International Dictionary off the shelf. Nowhere will you find any pronunciation other than: "tem-plit." Even the Chinese to English dictionary got this one right! It's not serving dish, People!

Moving on...

I don't care how many times you hear it on the television, "Where you at?" cannot possibly be construed as proper grammar. Assuming you're older than a 3-year old, the question is: "Where are you?" You want to know where I am? Ask me using your grown up words.

When did people start taking their grammatical cures from reality television? The phrase "are you kidding me right now?" made famous by Heidi Montag, begs to be answered thus: "No. I'm not kidding you right now. I may have been kidding earlier and I may kid again later; however, the information I just provided was not included in the aforementioned realm of jocularity."

[sidebar: Yes, yes I am mortified that I knew who first uttered that tragic phrase on television. Please leave me alone with the shame and disgrace without comment.]

While we're on the topic of education via mass media, how exactly does someone "defriend" or "unfriend" someone? Yes, I understand the mechanics of clicking Delete. What isn't clear is this: if you're going to partake in this non-word verb, how do you handle post-non-word interaction, say, in the supermarket? Since it's not a word, did it really happen? If a tree falls in the woods...

If I had to choose the one bit of language bastardization I find most appalling, I would go with "dis." People, it's not a word; it's a prefix. For those who require additional edification, that means we use it in front of another word to change its meaning to the opposite. Yes, I'm aware that in some neighborhoods it's considered slang for the word "disrespect." Gee... that IS a mouthful. I see why people would need an abbreviated version. (*sarcasm*) The use of this word has gotten so distorted that even when all three syllables are applied, they're generally used incorrectly. For example:

Incorrect: Don't disrespect me!
Correct: Don't be disrespectful.
Correct: Don't speak disrespectfully to me.
Correct: Your disrespect of authority is inexcusable.

Some might argue that the first example is, in fact, correct. I stand steadfastly alongside notable historians and linguists when I say, "no, it's not. It's slang." Now don't get me wrong! I'll slang alongside the best. I call people "cats" and will breathlessly declare a man "hot." The difference is that the slang or euphemism is painfully obvious and in no way bastardizes the existing word - only uses it in a way I find infinitely more interesting. It's plainly evident that there are no cats in the room, and the man is observably of normal temperature.

There was a time when immigrants could learn the English language by watching the television. As Americans, it's clear that few are interested in maintaining a high level of language skill when non-English speaking viewers are faced with translating sentences such as, "Don't be hatin' on my shorty or I'll FN cap ya." I'm fairly certain that if you're not a relatively native speaker, the only thing you're going to get out of that sentence is the promise of a new hat.

My good friend and fellow blogger, Paul (http://pjcostello.blogspot.com/)  takes issue with word contractions. Talk about your tough audience! Being from the South, contractions, like pronouncing words as though they have twice as many vowels than appear on paper, is a way of life. (I nearly typed "kinda a way of life" but I'm concerned for his health and didn't want to send him over the edge.) I can excuse contractions and long sounding vowels on the grounds that:

1. It's pure colloquialism,
2. It's crazily adorable, and
3. I'm capable of both proper grammar and precise sentence structure.

Now before y'all get your feathers ruffled and start sending me hate mail again, I've said it a million times: I'M NOT PERFECT. Who would want to be? My point, Dear Readers, is that some of us, some of your children, will want to grow up to be something more than a reality television celebrity. When that happens, I promise you that people around the world will expect said grown-up to have a scholastically solid grasp on their own native tongue.

I'm beginning to think it's too late to save our ailing language... even the American English version of it. Maybe all the English teachers should just start looking for a sport to coach. This isn't evolution; it's degeneration.

Coming Next: The much-requested snarky Valentine's Day rant.

It's My Party...

Here it comes again. My annual reminder that time is marching down the road and I’ve scampered off for coffee or the like. I’m not going to wax poetic over this, or bore us all endlessly with the horror of discovering that I’m no longer in my twenties.

What?!?!?

Instead I’m just going to remind one and all that those fine lines around the eyes and the crazy laugh wrinkles are the evidence of living our lives with abandon! I feel like I should leave this short post with a bit of advice...

*ponders*

OK. Here it is: Don’t let other people determine your happiness or your success. The naysayers are nothing more than those who wish they had your courage!

L’ chaim tovim!

Slainte!

I Will Survive... Will You?

Whatever happened to survival of the fittest? Who, specifically, decided that we had to take pity on the stupid and give them a leg-up? Burt Prelutsky recently shared this quote from a "friend" in his blog: "The problem with America is stupidity. I'm not saying there should be capital punishment for stupidity, but why don't we just take the warning labels off of everything and let the problem solve itself?"

Brilliant! Brilliant, I say!

How about we start with the peroxide bottle? The deep end of the gene pool will double in size once we rid ourselves of the oxygen-deprived female masses who think that bleached white is a natural hair color. Those aren't roots, dear. Those are the last of your active brain cells desperately attempting to flee.

Warning labels on flammables: nix! If you aren't smart enough to know that smoking or using an open flame in, over, or near flammable liquids is a danger to your face and limbs, you've got no business breathing deeply. Just so I'm clear, that includes hair color and nail polish remover.

I'd like to see how many power outages removing the warning that tells folks not to use things like hairdryers in the shower could cause. I kinda wanna meet the person who is trying to... what... save time?... by drying their hair with one hand and brandishing an electric shaver with the other, all while rinsing. There's a story!

CAUTION! Contents are HOT!
Well, for the love of all that's caffeine-filled I would certainly hope so. Let's not rehash the polyester-clad woman at the McDonald's drive-thru. Instead, let's consider her a cautionary tale for the really stupid and fashion-challenged.

Let's also remove instructions for the obvious, such as, "Open package before consuming contents," or "Take 2 tablets by mouth" on a bottle of aspirin. Here's a personal favorite: "The appliance is switched on by setting the On/Off switch to the On position." Eureka! And finally, feel free to remove this one seen on the front of the triple load washing machine: "No small children." I guess those go in the regular washer and only teens are allowed in the bigger one.

While we're on a roll, let's remove all the "nutrition" labels from foodstuffs, too. I am beyond irritated with maneuvering around people reading the label on a 72-ounce can of Hormel chili or a box of Hostess snack cakes. Since you're going to eat it anyway, do the rest of us a favor and don't bother reading about how quickly it's going to kill you. Drop it in your basket and get out of my way. Rule of thumb: if it didn't go from farm to market, don't put it in your mouth.

[sidebar: obvious exception here for non-food items meant to be inserted in the mouth. The foot does not qualify for this exclusion so your continued effort to keep said foot out of your mouth is appreciated.]

I'm not saying I don't enjoy a Lean Cuisine from time to time, but look what pre-packaged food did to Kirstie Ally. Yet another cautionary tale.

While we're rearranging warning labels, how about we just go ahead and tag the stupid people - or even better, hang cowbells from their necks! It would just be a lot easier for me if I knew going into a situation that I'd be dealing with the terminally dim-witted. Then I would be prepared to use smaller words. And speak slower. Maybe draw pictures and learn how to say "like" and "I was all..." in every sentence.

Survival of the fittest, People! I say we campaign for this as part of the new Healthcare Reform Bill, shall we? It feels like a winner.


shout out to Burt: www.burtprelutsky.com
"Some Carbon Footprints Don't Count"


Addendum: Yes, I know what history lesson was conjured up by the idea of tagging anyone, so don't bring your friends with placards into my yard. It's not like we can actually tag stupid people, People! Besides, they kinda find a way of doing that on their own.