Everybody Talk Talk

Yes. The rumors are true.

And?

And… if I’ve learned nothing else in this life it’s that someone else’s story is not mine to tell.

I live in “Horse Country.” That’s what the locals call it in an effort to make it sound more glamorous than it is. As far as I’m concerned you can call it Utopia, it’s still just a giant vortex of bored gossip where flip-flops are considered appropriate party footwear. I am unquestionably a Big City Girl, so you can imagine the profound effect this has had on my lifestyle… not to mention my wardrobe and my psyche…

Admittedly, Big City living can be somewhat like Small Town living, but with actual options. In a city filled with millions of people, you create several small towns of your own. You have your circle of immediate friends, your peripherals, the bars and restaurants you frequent, your health club, your workplace. Whether they overlap occasionally, or the sides touch regularly, they’re still very separate. This inspires a sense of anonymity; thus people are prone to just mind their own lives instead of interjecting themselves into the lives of others.

And you have more choices for take-away meals, which is nice.

In a Small Town there is absolutely no sense of privacy and very little to do after the beer store closes. This is a dangerous combination. A powder keg next to an open flame, I tell you!

In an effort to protect other City Girls from the horror of adapting to forced country living unprepared, I thought perhaps I’d just provide a bit more insight on what to expect.

When you’re the new girl in a Small Town, you will experience the phenomenon of being immediately Loved or Shunned for no apparent reason. Rest assured, there is a reason and it’s based on absolutely nothing more than what can be seen. This can be a little unnerving, but let it go. Ulterior motives are in play and it’s not really about you.

Should you find yourself in the position of being “Loved” by people you don’t know, acknowledge it for exactly what it is: an effort to collect all available information so They can decide whether or not you’re a threat to their little world. You know, lock up the Husbands and institute a curfew for anything with a penis.

If you’re Shunned, might I suggest staying that way and getting a hobby. I promise you that even the civic committees and organizations are never thrilled to see someone with those new-fangled, modern ideas show up to help.

Their Decision and Your Position in the “grand” hierarchy of Small Town is based on your look, your presence, and whether or not you innately possess the capacity to slip effortlessly down to a personal low of stereotyping, criticizing, abusing those of whom you’re jealous, and can employ unimaginative methods for ruining the lives of others.

Needless to say, I didn’t fare so well. I failed Busybody; I couldn’t master Ruination; and sadly I was completely inept when it came to actually giving a rat’s ass about what people did with their lives if I wasn’t directly and specifically involved.

I’ve pontificated on this topic before and people probably wonder why I don’t just collect my belongings, and head to a place where I can reclaim my privacy and a sense of civility. *sighs* Honestly, I wonder the same thing. Apparently my work here isn’t done because The Universe isn’t letting me have any part of reclaiming my life. When that day comes, I’m sure a number of the locals will relish the opportunity to help me pack.

In the meantime, might I suggest choosing your gossip wisely? You’d be surprised what people “know.”

A Brief Follow-Up

*crickets*
I'm blocked.
I can't come up with a thing to write. Well, that's not altogether true... I haven't been able to write anything appropriate to post. I know, I know. That goes against the very principle of this blog. I suppose I could...

OK. Here's something that's been on my mind. If you read "Common Denominator" (March 29) and “got it,” I applaud you. I received a lot of email and posts that completely missed the point of what I was trying to say – which is quite obviously my own fault. Apparently I was too delicate. Now I'm going to break it down:

Common Denominator is not about “someone else” or “Crazy Girl.” It’s solely about being the only constant in your own life – for good or bad. It’s about not blaming other people for your decisions or the unpleasant things that “happen” to you. You were there. You made the decision, choice, leap of faith. If you were ultimately wrong for having done it, don’t blame the person you did it to. Step up and quit acting like a little pussy. If you can’t own your actions, perhaps you should be thinking them through better before you just run off all willy-nilly trying to get attention, get laid, or be a part of something.

Let’s look at how this works with boy/girl relationships since that’s easy. Girl likes boy. Boy just wants to hook-up with Girl. Boy buys dinner and drinks a couple of times. Girl interprets this as a relationship. Now, maybe it is, maybe it’s not. Maybe it turns into something and maybe it doesn’t. Boy is holding the reins because Girl refuses to accept she may be “one of those girls” even though her history clearly delineates this as an ongoing predicament. After Boy is satisfied that he’s gotten all he’s interested in out of the situation, Boy quits calling Girl and she blames Boy’s roommate/friend/ex-girlfriend/new girlfriend/mother.

Truth: Girl just isn’t interesting enough; is too clingy; or just lousy in the rack.
Truth: Boy is a big jerk because he wouldn’t own it and just tell her the truth.

Just to be absolutely clear. This is bigger than just piddly boy/girl freak shows. This spans the width and breadth of ALL relationships. The point of Common Denominator is this: if you don’t like something about your life, blame yourself. Don’t blame me or your upbringing or the Federal government. If you don’t want to accept that your attitude or issue is your problem then might I suggest that you collect your pail and your shovel and get out of the sandbox until you learn how to play well with others.

Huh. Apparently I had something to say about that!

Really, Martha?

I resent Martha Stewart.

It’s not because she’s managed to make a career of staying at home baking cookies and making pillows; it’s the way she implies the rest of us should be finding time to do this, too.

When my alarm clock begins it’s annoying plea for me to pry myself out of the bed at 6AM, I rarely greet the day with love and creativity. No, the day is generally greeted with a heavy sigh and perhaps profanity as I shuffle to the kitchen to start the coffee. During the 36 minutes allotted for my morning toilette, which sadly is little more than a quick post-yoga shower and a ponytail suitable for work, I’ll try to remember which suits might be hiding in dry cleaning bags, coordinate footwear, and double check that I’m not wearing a black brassiere underneath a white blouse. Whatever. It happens.

Given the time constraint, it’s reasonable to assume that I will not be stripping the bed and replacing the sheets. If the bed is empty I’ll yank the comforter up to give the appearance of having been made. Next: gather anything that vaguely resembles wash and toss it into the laundry room, securing the door behind me in case of unexpected company later.

Back in the kitchen, I will not be whipping up a delicious breakfast of Eggs Benedict complete with a lovely sprig of fresh dill from my herb garden placed gingerly in repose upon a quick and easy hollandaise sauce. No, I’m thinking more along the lines of stale pop-tarts and half a carton of expired yogurt. Safe to say I will not be packing a well-balanced, nutritious lunch in a smartly decorated homemade lunch pail either. On a good day I’ll grab a handful of lunch money from the change jar, get the rest of the coffee into a mostly clean Thermos, push the dogs into the yard, then sprint barefooted to the car as that’s apparently where I left the shoes I wore home last night.

There are plenty of stoplights during my commute to concern myself with struggling into pantyhose, digging one shoe from beneath the seat, choking down that pop-tart, then re-applying lipstick. My linen dress will be a wrinkled mess by the time I arrive at work, and no Martha, I do not keep a portable steamer in my desk drawer.

Nine hours on the job, then out the door.

Pulling back into the driveway I attempt to avoid the trashcans, ignore that the recycling bin has been empty at the curb for two days, and make every effort not to make eye contact with the neighbors. Racing for the door with shoes in one hand and laptop in the other, I make a quick stop to pull the gardening clippers from my handbag and collect a lovely array of flowers from my perennial garden for the dinner table arrangement. Oh wait… I don’t have a perennial garden! If I did, I’d be curious to know who planted, watered, and weeded the thing.

Start the wash, head count for dinner, feed the dogs. I will not be keeping this pair of stockings with the new runner in the left leg for use next October when it’s time to get creative with Halloween costumes. They will go the way of aluminum foil scraps, cardboard inserts from the package of Handi-Wipes, laundry soap jugs and empty egg cartons. In my world there are no neatly organized, expensive plastic bins from an overpriced container ware store kept in seasonal order on shelves in the spare bedroom that serves as a “project space.” The only container I’m familiar with is the one under the sink with the removable plastic liner.

OK. Dinner. There will be no poached salmon with asparagus, next to a Caesar salad served on hand-painted dishes created using trendy ideas from a local craft store. I don’t even know if there is a local craft store. Tonight’s delicacy was prepared by the supermarket guy in charge of the chicken roasting oven, the lady who keeps a mindful eye on the salad bar, and may well be delivered on mismatched everyday ware – assuming I have time later to wash dishes. Paper plates are my friend not because they’re so useful when it comes time to make holiday decorations or ribbon bouquets, but because they give me back 15 minutes of my day.

Sure, sometimes I wish I could juggle house, career, and social obligations with the opportunity to grow my own Roma tomatoes and learn to use a hot glue gun for something other than fixing a loose skirt hem. But since the obvious impossibility of that is so great, I’m just gonna work on wrapping my head around who I am in real life – a harried mess without enough time or energy to find the perfect pastry tube, racing through the boring parts of life at breakneck speed, and looking for a laugh.

Hey, Martha? Kiss my découpaged ass.

Common Denominator

Situations, relationships, people, places, things – basically all your nouns – they change. They change every day. Sometimes you notice. Sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you make a choice for change, and sometimes change happens without your consent.

What I find interesting is how often it isn’t “change” at all; but rather a rerun of your life in syndication. Déjà vu, you wonder?

No. It’s just vous.

Since obviously there’s nothing crazy about you, think of that one crazy friend, ex-girlfriend, co-worker, sister, neighbor – whatever, the Crazy Girl. We all know one. Her business manager may be a psychic? She has an excuse or reason for everything bad that happens in her life and it’s all external. Someone else is responsible for her current state. She’s just trying to do the best, most right thing and she keeps getting punished for it.

*eyeroll*

Crazy Girl’s life is a dull collection of repeated “errors in judgment” which can certainly be twisted about in order to place the blame soundly on someone else. Sadly, but inevitably, the willing world can see the many iterations of the same behavior… and Crazy Girl is always in the big ole middle of it. She created it or assisted it, and was probably looking for a different outcome every time. Definition of insanity, right?

For all of the relationships, bad fashion decisions, and lost drunken weekends, there’s a common denominator. Only one person was there every time. In Crazy Girl’s life, it’s her. In your life, it’s you. That’s right. You’re your own common denominator.

I like to blame my occasionally less than stellar decision-making on the multitude of voices in my head – which at least one of whom believes is totally valid. However, when I look in the mirror, it’s just me. Since I’m not afraid to own my life, actions, or decisions it’s easier to tell the world to “piss off” if need be; apologize when I’ve actually done something hurtful (as opposed to those things I didn’t do but that are nonetheless a very real part of someone else’s imagination), and get a decent night’s sleep.

Stop pushing your retrospectively embarrassing decisions or misdeeds off on everyone else. You did it. You get to own it. If you don’t like your behavior – change it. If you don’t like my behavior, have the balls to say that to me and stop acting like a spoiled little bitch. No one is ruining your happiness but you.

[sidebar: wow… vicious. But I’ll own it. I’ll also share that after I typed it I realized it didn’t come from my usual hypothetical place, but instead was actually directed somewhere… somewhere male. Perhaps I should get off this healthy living thing to ensure I don’t see so clearly... Waiter!]

Embrace yourself before you run out of people who will. Remind yourself that not everything that happens around you is about you. Never forget that you are the only common denominator in your life, so choose your environs carefully.

“And acceptance is the answer to all of my problems today…”

Stag Nation

So in my previous post I eluded to death and the contents of my nightstand. This got me thinking about all the stuff we keep. Stuff we know we might maybe shouldn’t hold onto for posterity, and yet 15 years later, there it is, staring up at you from the bottom of a box you just pulled from your parents attic, or under your bed, or wherever you’re hiding the stuff about your past from the people in your present.

Interestingly enough, it’s been my experience that the really good stuff about people can be found in the boxes scrawled with “school” using Sharpee marker in the unmistakable male scratch.

I don’t care what anyone says about women keeping stuff, y’all men are so much worse. See, we keep everything. Romantic stuff, fun afternoon at the beach with our girlfriends stuff, first college schedule, pictures of everything and every one. Mostly we’re just holding onto lovely memories; stories for the winter of our lives. It’s a lot to sort through if you don’t know your way around, so it’s somewhat more difficult to find the “good stuff.” And of course, by “good” I mean incriminating.

But men! The stuff you keep seems to scream, “all I want in this life is to be in college again!” I get it. I do. Those were great times for all of us. But here’s the thing: You. Cannot. Live. There. Anymore. Your Stag-Nation citizenship was revoked when you left campus. You can’t just sit here reminiscing; hopelessly grappling for your glory days. Whether you’re 25, 35, or 45 you’ve got to face the facts. You’re officially accountable for your actions. Grow up. Move on.

Here are a few helpful hints for you Penis Owners who insist you cannot part with whatever it is that keeps you tied to the 22-year-old version of yourself:

If you’re single and trying to stay that way, it is absolutely unnecessary for you to do anything except continue on your merry way and prepare to die alone. You may want to look into Alumni citizenship to Stag Nation. I believe you only have to produce proof of strip club membership and your "magazine" subscriptions. And though there is no need to continue reading, I would suggest a brief perusal of the last two paragraphs here for the sake of propriety.

If you’re single but trying not to be, hire a maid. No, not the kind in the black fishnet stockings, though I’m sure she’d do a lovely job on your pipes. I mean a real cleaning lady: the kind that will de-gross your bathroom and scrub the unidentified sticky stuff out of your refrigerator. Ask her to pack your athletic trophies in a box and mark it “Mom’s House.” Deliver it on your next laundry day.

You seriously still have a beer bong? I… I… I… yeah. There are no words unless they are “Return to Frat House” with no return address.

I promise you that, as long as you have a pulse and a need, the raunchy text message you elicited from your ex last weekend is not the last bit of sexting you’ll ever experience. Delete it. It will only get you in trouble. Go ahead. We’ll wait…

As for your gentlemen’s magazines: women who don’t know about them, don’t mind that you have them. Should you discover that your extensive collection puts off the woman in your life, you’ve a decision to make. If you’re not going to leave them out on the coffee table or in the bathroom magazine rack for all to admire, you should consider getting rid of them altogether, or moving them to your gym locker with your squash racket. The other option is so obvious I’m embarrassed to type it. *deep breath* Get rid of her.

Finally, take the time to make a list and, if necessary, a treasure map or diagram outlining where all of the embarrassing bits of your life are located in your house, apartment, office – wherever you keep these things. Give said list, associated graphic documentation, all necessary keys, and disposal instructions to a trusted friend… for just in case. You do not want grief-stricken Granny opening a closet door only to be taken out by precariously piled bawdy videos of you and your girlfriend. Is that the conversation you want overheard at your wake?

To everyone I say this: Just keep your stuff, whether it’s sentimental or you plan to “use” it at a later date, in one easy to retrieve albeit concealed place with access for immediate disposal, if required. This really is for your own good, and the good of any relationship you may have with someone besides yourself.

*Blink* *Blink*

Wow. I am really struggling to find something to write about. I counted seven pieces that are more than half complete, all of which are disjointed, unfocused, and worst of all, brain-numbingly dull. I actually threw out two solely because if I should die suddenly, I would be utterly mortified if they were found. The contents of my nightstand would be far less humiliating than those were…


I’m beginning to wonder if this healthier lifestyle I’ve been test-driving has stymied my creativity. All this yoga, and breathing, and green food. I’ve always laughed at how dull people are on “that side of the fence,” but maybe like so many other stereotypes, it’s true. Take away the pink elephants, add some whole grain, clear out the smoke and suddenly life isn’t funny. It’s just… beige… and oddly regular.

*raises eyebrow meaningfully*

I’m in a state of mental atrophy and entirely too high-strung for it. Maybe it’s a case of nearly-Springtime anticipation. Could be paralyzing fear of bathing suit season. Perhaps I need a mini-holiday in a noisy city where no girl leaves her apartment without lipstick. I wonder if that would be tax deductible given it’s purely for mental health purposes... I feel like a doe in the headlights. Eyes wide but absolutely no movement. Whatever the case, I think we can all agree that the time is upon me / us / I / you to make something happen.

*sings*

“Now you're in New York
These streets will make you feel brand new
Big lights will inspire you
Let's hear it for New York”

Eureka, I’ve just had an idea! Sometimes you just have to sing a little song. We’d all better get a cocktail for what’s coming.

Next up: Stag-Nation!

Text This

I hate texting. I hate it for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which is the virtually non-existent regard for etiquette.

Texting is to phone calls what instant messaging (IM) is to email. The difference is that I’ve loved IM from the very beginning. Perhaps that’s because it’s confined to a specific location, not chiming at me from my pocketbook every 4 minutes. I can’t begin to imagine the amount of wasted time that could be repurposed into productivity – you know, living life instead of typing about it – with a campaign to be more elusive. Good dating advise as well, but that’s for someone else to write about.

My feeling is that if it takes more than two text messages to tell me whatever it is you need so desperately to say, how about you just save us both some time, unchain me from my phone so I can get on with my life instead of waiting to finish a “conversation,” and use one of those fancy applications to just ring me up? It’ll take half the time and be twice as satisfying!

Here’s another time-saver. There is absolutely no need to text me with “OK” – or worse, “K.” Unless specifically asked for confirmation, acquiescence is implied.

I get what an inconvenience it is to type full words; saying “dis” when what is meant is “disrespect” tells that story.
*sarcasm*
Nevertheless, “c u l8r”? Why? WHY? I’m not in the 6^th grade. It’s not clever. Can someone please tell me why select grown adults find it impossible to use whole words – even with that auto-word completion feature thingy turned on?

How about we don’t text while driving. I know this girl who has wrecked two new cars because she was either reading or responding to a text message. I don’t even try. You can blow that phone up trying to get my attention with a text message, it’s staying right there in the console. If it’s that urgent CALL ME!

[sidebar: yes, I’m aware that in many states it’s illegal to take or place a call while driving, but it’s certainly safer than typing.]

In New York City, most restaurants ban the use of cell phones for verbal conversation. Not only should this be instituted countrywide, I think an addendum should be inserted banning texting as well. It’s just as rude to have a text message exchange as it is to have a phone conversation at the dining table. It’s 30-90 minutes out of your day. Have a modicum of respect for your dining partner. No one is that indispensable.

I think texting should be saved for clandestine conversations in very public places, signaling a friend across the bar of impending doom, quietly getting someone’s attention unnoticed, or other situations when time is of the essence and silence is required. Under these circumstances I get that texting can be a real ass-saver.

Check your 6:00. White patent leather thigh high boots on 400 pound bleached blonde!

Your ex just rolled into the bar. Boobs up!

Bat in the cave…

What I don’t need is anyone’s traffic update when I’m not going that way. I’m not interested in your current state of sobriety – or lack thereof – if I’m not sitting next to you. If you want to know “wassup” begin by accepting that “wassup” is not an actual word, then just call me. Hours can go by before I realize I’ve missed 6 calls and 37 texts because my phone and I are easily separated. The calls I’ll check. But the text messages? I don’t have that kind of time.

*clicks Inbox*
*Erase*
*Erase All*

Speak No Evil!

“The opposite of courage in our society isn’t cowardice, it’s conformity.” ~ Rollo May

I’m not going to pretend like I don’t partake in some juicy gossip sessions with my girls from time to time. It’s true that on occasion we’ll sit about with glasses of wine and vodka, speculating about people for hours. It’s horrible and juvenile and I’ll admit, occasionally a bit mean-spirited, but have you ever laughed harder than when you’re wildly creating random conjuncture about people, situations, or hook-ups?

Believe it or not, I do actually have two rules about gossip.

1. You just don’t air people’s real life personal business on the street. If someone confided in you, you must respect that confidentiality. Only the rudest of the rude would pursue information after you've plainly stated, “It’s not my story to tell.”

There’s no power in other people’s pain. Putting the real life crisis of another person out for all the neighbors to chat over the hedge about is not just in unspeakably poor form. It speaks volumes about the person doing the telling. This is the same person who generally takes obvious delight in the unfortunate circumstances of others. Sadly, don’t we all know one of those?

*shakes head*

For me, the second rule is like telling the bartender not to waste valuable liquor space with that lime – something that must be said:

2. “He/she is my friend. I really need you not to talk ugly, spread vicious gossip, or carry on like this in front of me. And yes, it does make me wonder what you say about me behind my back. Surely you can understand that.”

This takes the courage of non-conformity because I’ll tell you what, it does not always go over well. Sure, you have the choice to just suck it up and sit quietly while others degraded your friend; to try to change the subject, or to walk away. Anyone can do that – it’s spineless. The true test of a person’s character can readily be seen in the face of adversity. Do you excuse yourself to go to the bar, or do you have the balls to speak up?

The only people who can truly speak to whatever story is on Today’s Top Ten are the people who were actually there when the gossip-inciting incident occurred. Not the best friend, not the neighbor, not the guy lurking in the bushes. You want to bounce around a theory? Who can blame you! Just don’t try to pass it off as fact.

Besides, we all know the only person who knows the whole truth about anything is your bartender!

Color Conundrum

"She's got a lip ring and five colors in her hair
Not into fashion but I love the clothes she wears,
Her tattoo's always hidden by her underwear.
She don't care." ~ McFly

It’s true that if you leaf through my writing, you’ll find more than one snarky remark about blondes. I should clarify before going any further that those always refer to women who bleach their hair blonde, and are not so much directed at those born with the soon-to-be extinct color.

Here’s the question: could coloring your hair blonde, when your natural color so obviously is not, really change your personality? Or do you just pretend to be stupid in order to fit in with the rest of the blonde pack? For no apparent reason, I got to wondering if maybe I was just buyin’ what someone was sellin’ for the sake of a laugh…

With this in mind I gathered my courage and began the 3 phases of change:

1. I decided I would take the plunge – albeit VERY temporarily – into Blondedumb…umm… Blonde-dom
2. I told a friend what I was planning
3. I made the appointment with my hairdresser

Nothing left to do but sit back, wait, and mull.

At one time or another, my hair has been every color found in nature – and some that are not. Through it all I can honestly say I’ve never, ever had any desire or even whimsical curiosity to venture into Blonde-dom. Why would I? It appears to be full already, and I understand the grammar there is abhorrent.

Ouch! See? That’s what I’m talking about... unnecessarily mean.

I remember a girlfriend’s mom saying once that, “a man looks once at a pretty blonde, but twice at a pretty brunette.” In an effort to be somewhat scientific about confirming this idea, I decided to find myself a cozy spot somewhere to watch. I was utterly intrigued. In addition to confirming the original hypothesis, some other interesting reactions were observed.

I noticed an obvious blonde-to-fake-boob ratio that held the attention of most men for an extra moment, but it was rare to catch one over the age of 18 turning around for a second look. More dark-haired women seemed to be exercising which garnered a good amount of attention; and an even higher number of brunettes seemed to be pushing strollers. Now, I don’t know if that last bit is hot or not, but I noted it as fact all the same. I couldn’t really identify what men do with the redheads among us; maybe red hair is more a fetish thing.  Nevertheless, I still thought whole experiment was very interesting, and the wine was extraordinary.

I wonder if, then how many, personality traits can truly be pinned on hair color. I have a blonde sibling who doesn’t have the sense her God gave a stump. A dear boy-friend of mine is dating this girl who is so fake blonde and acts like such a ridiculous dim-wit, I suspect one day I may actually slap her solely for perpetuating stereotype. (See! That’s me sticking up for the naturally blonde among you!) Brunettes are said to be the most sensual; redheads have a fiery disposition. Whether it’s all right or all wrong, those stereotypes started somewhere. I can live with people thinking I’m “fiery” (read: quick-tempered or sharp of tongue). Actually, I can live with people thinking just about anything based on how I look. But what I absolutely could not possibly accept, is being thought vacuous.

Pending blonde status update:

1. Came to senses
2. Cancelled hair appointment with all due speed
3. Poured cocktail

Whew. Crisis averted.

I suppose we all have a preference, for ourselves and for the opposite gender. I love to look at blonde boys, but every relationship has been with a brunette… with the notable exception of the brunette who regularly colored his hair blonde. Yeah. Don’t ask, People… just let it go.

“What gets a gal
Asked out to lunch
Is it brains, is it dough?
No, it's hairspray!”

Is Anybody Home?

No, I'm not on hiatus. I'm thinking...

I wrote something that I'd intended to elevate; however, upon further editorial review, I've decided it's too mean-spirited and snarky even for ME. To make matters worse, I've been a bit lazy lately so I've nothing left in reserve. I've disappointed you, loyal Readers. Please forgive me... or restock my vodka cabinet... either one...

I've kept up my short entries at March Madness (link to the right)... I'll be back within a couple of days with something for you here. In the meantime, if someone wants to guest blog... just throwin' it out there. Step right up!

Rejectioooon! Rejection!

It’s the bane of my very existence. It’s the reason I don’t always finish what I start. Case in point: there is a “book,” several chapters and ten’s of thousands of words long, mocking me from my desktop. I’ve worked on it off and on for longer than I’m willing to admit – and y’all know I tell you everything. Adding insult to injury, there are a number of people in my life who have finished their books, while I just sit here staring at that icon wondering if it’s worth it to double-click.

Part of the problem is that I have no idea what I want to do with the book when it’s finished. I mean, obviously I want it picked up by a major publisher who falls in love with me, my rapier wit and raucous sense of humor, and who wants to spend tons of money to promote it and ultimately, I end up on Oprah discussing it as part of her book club and reaping huge accolades for having changed the lives of people worldwide.

Since the chance of that happening is equal to that of me divesting my shoe collection, I have to look at what the outcome of sending off the completed manuscript would do to my psyche. I'm certain that in no time I’d be in the bottle doing my impression of Hemmingway without the Parisian café.

Rejection is hard. I’m fairly certain that’s why so many people just stare across a crowded bar or create a “sausage row” against the wall instead of, oh I dunno, taking the initiative to see what could happen. I figure the worst possible scenario is that you introduce yourself to someone and they turn out to be déclassé enough to scorn your effort. Upside: You found out before the first date. That’s a nice little money saver. Like getting a dating coupon for use at another venue.

I ate a gigantic pile of edamame for dinner last night, while lying on the floor and pondering this rejection thing. I started to list different types of rejection then decided it was entirely too depressing that I could come up with nine without much hesitation. Needing a new perspective, naturally I hauled my 15 pound International Dictionary out – the only one I trust since the dark day the online dictionaries decided that “dis” is a word, not a prefix.

I seriously laughed and snorted when I read these:

Re-ject’: To refuse to have, use, or take for some purpose.

Re’-ject: One rejected as not wanted, unsatisfactory, or not fulfilling standard requirements.

Yep. Standard requirements are the criteria and these are definitely the definitions I’m most familiar with. I’ve probably used one or both individually or in tandem in an effort to eliminate some newly identified unnecessary person from my life. Bottom line is that rejection, in most forms, is pretty damned funny. Aren’t most of your best stories based in that, or some variation of humiliation? Oh hell, all of mine are! If you didn’t have rejection stories to tell, you’d most likely end up like those sad-sacks on Jeopardy whose “best story” is about the time they lost a shoe in a creek then had it returned to them a week later because they’d had the foresight to write their name in Sharpie marker on the inside.

Now to appease what I’m sure is your rampant curiosity (*sarcasm*) I will tell you that I have no intention of double-clicking that icon on my desktop today. My bathroom scale already informed me I’m not allowed back until I’m willing to step on one person at a time, so my rejection quota for the day has been satisfied.

March Madness

I had this idea… The plan was to post something here every day in March. Every day. When I first dreamed up this obviously ill-conceived idea, it seemed totally plausible. After all, it’s not unusual for me to write a couple thousand words a day. All I had to do was tear these into bite-sized pieces for easy digestion.

Right. Flaws a-plenty. There are reasons I don’t post thousands of words at a time. The first is for you, Dear Reader. I figure anyone can enjoy 400-600 words in a sitting, but you find yourself staring down the barrel of losing 5+ minutes of your day, and you’re out. Hey, I’m not judging. I get it.

The second reason comes directly from my shameless ego. The stuff I cut in editing is crap. Oh sure, it seems brilliant as my fingers fly across the keyboard and I giggle along. Unfortunately, what I discover during the editing process is that about two-thirds of what goes on in my head is a big swing… and a bigger miss. Why would I subject you to that?

I always wanted to be one of those women in movies who kept a secret box filled with dusty journals hidden in the back of the attic or under the bed. She wrote in them every day of her life and her entire history was saved on those pages. I know that somewhere I have a couple of random hardcovers with the first few pages written in them from equally random years. Apparently I just don’t have the wherewithal to commit to immortalizing my life. OR…. More likely it's the memory of my sibling’s mother screeching in a drunken tirade not to ever put anything in writing.

[sidebar: Ladies and Gentlemen, this is true of texting, email, or little Post-It notes. Don’t write it if you’re not going to own it. These things have a way of resurfacing at the most inopportune moments. *blinks*]

Back to the March Madness idea. After careful mulling, I’ve decided that if I’m not interested enough to give daily insight by updating my Facebook status, I can’t possibly make this idea a success.

 I “finished” this entry – meaning I blinked several times and decided I didn’t have anything more to say – when I got distracted by a new idea! How about a separate page? Just for March. So I switched computers and quickly elevated March Madness. Click the link on the right beneath For One Month Only to get there. Let’s see if I can hold my own attention for 31 days.

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.

Judge Not Lest Ye... oh never mind.

"The problem with people who have no vices is that generally you can be sure they're going to have some pretty annoying virtues." ~ Elizabeth Taylor

I'm not judging... as long as your vices are the same as mine, of course. Now the minute you do something I wouldn't, oh yeah... I'm judging.

*snicker*

Don't go getting yourself all in a ruffle over that. You do it, too. The people who say they don't are the same people who claim not to fart.

I've always believed that you can gauge the core of a person's "true self" by the courage they show - or don't show - in their dealings and conversations with others. I can't think of a single redeeming quality to be attached to someone who hides behind anonymity. It's the worst kind of cowardice. It's easy to be sanctimonious when there is no avenue for rebuttal or retribution!

I've never been of that ilk. If I can be bothered to judge you, you can bet the effort won't be wasted by not telling you all about it! I like to do my judging directly because that's more fun - and there's no chance of anything being lost in the translation... unless it's deemed to be particularly or unnecessarily ugly. Those conversations I have alone with the voices in my head. I believe that most grown-ups appreciate that unambiguous character trait.

I'm not claiming to be above judgment. Quite the opposite, actually. If I thought I were without imperfection, I'd have no basis on which to compare the vices of others! Comparison is key, and I got me some vices, People! In no particular order - but because I'm not afraid or embarrassed to be exposed:

I drink... perhaps a lot, who's to judge?
I eat entire meals standing over the sink.
Coffee is my best friend and if it's the only one I ever have, I'm okay with that.
I prefer a Black Angus cheeseburger or a Philly Cheesesteak (with/wiz) over white meats, hands down.
I watch television programming brought to you by the CW.
I swear, I lust, sometimes I envy.
I might bring the wrath of The Universe down on your head before breakfast just because I feel like it.
I own 74 pair of shoes - none of which are flip-flops. I do not count my athletic footwear.

See! I'm nothing if not a pile of judgment opportunities. And since I'm pretty sure that's just the tip of the iceberg, Dear Readers, I feel no compunction about judging the vices of others. We all have them. Oh sure, some of y'all's are closer to fetishes if you ask me, but that's a topic for another blog altogether. Nonetheless, everybody has their "thing." Smokers, drinkers, belly-winkers. The question is, why are so many making a sport out of passing judgment or rendering opinions, then getting all shitty when someone returns the favor? It's ludicrous! And really hypocritical!

I say, be brave! Stand up and be judged! In the grand scheme of things, who really gives a shit? As I am often wont to say, not everyone you know is important. So in the recently overly repeated words of Dr. Seuss:

"Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind."

I'm a little tired of hearing and reading that, but truer words are rarely spoken!

No Praying on Our Watch!

Well! This was unexpected!

So this 17 year old orthodox Jew kid takes his tefillin onboard his flight from La Guardia to who knows where - apparently that wasn't important - and gets the flight diverted for having done it.

For those of you who aren't familiar with the tefillin or, I dunno, haven't read a newspaper, watched the news, or been online, this is a praying device that basically looks like two little boxes with leather straps attached.

A lot of people have really gotten all up in arms about this, citing that the kid should be able to pray, and freedom of religion and blah blah blah...

For some us, the most interesting thing about this incident has nothing to do with the tefillin at all, rather that the flight was diverted to Philadelphia. For those of you who don't fly often, or have been buried beneath an aviation rock, PHL gets shut down for "suspected terrorist activity" - some real, some not so much - so often that regular travelers have begun scheduling evacuation time into their departure plans.

Nonetheless, why Philadelphia? Sure, it's a bit of an armpit, but not everyone in the airport and surrounds is there by choice. Do we get the crazy planes because we have so much experience? Or because our security is just that "top notch." *sarcasm* Hardly a proud statement, or reason for that matter.

Someone with the TSA must've known what the tefillin was. They let him through with it. Are we that suspect of our airport security personnel to do their one little job that we're gonna ruin 300 people's day by forcing them into Philadelphia? An attendant or Air Marshall or someone could've just asked.

So the kid wanted to pray on the plane. I say at least two Hail Bloody Marys every time I fly and that doesn't seem to bother anyone...

Random Whatnots 1... or 3

As of late I've been suffering from a severe case of l'ennui. Not only can't I get motivated to start the process of writing, I can't even work up any enthusiasm to play with my new hair-do - that being the official ennui barometer. Adding insult to injury, no matter how hard I try I just can't work up a good outrage about anything. Perhaps I should be thankful, but the bottom line is this: life's crap is my writing fodder. Right now all I have is a head full of voices and half-baked paragraphs...

...which brings us to the first in my series of Random Whatnots for 2010. These are the things that pop into my head making some of the voices ask what the hell I'm putting in my vodka now. There were only two for 2009, which incidentally I thought was pretty reasonable. I suspect we'll see more than that this year!

[sidebar: You can get caught up on last year's Random Whatnots I and II under May and July 2009, respectively.]

The Trouble with Tissue
The bathrooms in my house have those stand-alone toilet tissue holders. For whatever reason, Mr. Man keeps moving them from the place I designed them to stand, to somewhere... I dunno... more convenient? Admittedly, I was pleased not to have an obstacle between me and the waste bin when I tossed the empty hair conditioner bottle out of the shower this morning, but that ability does not address the question. Why? Why does he move it? Is he just wandering around in there bored and looking for something to do? How about moving the bathroom scale to somewhere I can't see its patronizing digital stare? That kind of movement I could appreciate... and understand.

On Basic Decency
"No manners is worse than no money."
Remember, while some may smile and nod along side you, they're appalled by your actions or words and tend to repeat it to others at your expense. To those who smile and nod without interjection I say only this: coward.

And Speaking of Cowards
... I have a stalker of the Internet variety! Actually, she skulks about looking for, well, I don't know what she's looking for... general information and possible sightings? What I do know is that it makes me feel famous! It's really quite exciting. I never know what she's going to do or say next. Oh, the intrigue!

Now form an orderly line to my left and I'll happily sign autographs!

The GC
I do love a gift card. This may be the best idea ever! Well, except that on my desk at this very moment I have counted16 unused gift cards and gift certificates. Yeah... 16. It's not that I don't appreciate the thought that went into pulling that "just right" gift card off the selection carousel at the supermarket; it's that I don't really have time for the shopping, dining, whatever, required by these. When I do have the time, I'm inevitably caught without said GC on my person. It's not like I'm gonna tote these things around in my pocketbook. I can't even remember the Bed, Bath, and Beyond 20% off coupon that's become a permanent fixture in my glove box.

I'm not criticizing. As a matter of fact, I sometimes think I enjoy the surprise of discovering where you can purchase GCs as much as the GC itself. Who knew my local liquor purveyor issued gift certificates? I wonder, is the GC the new gift-giving cop out?

Cheater, Cheater, Peter-Eater

So I'm cleaning out my spam email box this morning - something I'm forced to do regularly since finding a note from a very old friend in there - and I see a missive from Cassandra; subject line: "Meet up with lonely cheating wives in your area."

Are you fucking kidding me? This! This is what our holistic version of marriage and a lifetime commitment have come to? Spam mail linking men to actual sites where they can hook-up with married-but-willing adulteresses? I was completely horror-struck and disgusted. So...

...obviously I felt compelled to go have a look at what Cassandra was offering. How could the writer in me resist?

What I discovered is that for the low, low price of just $1, you can read personal ads accompanied by photos of, and contact information for, lonely wives today! Some just want to "chat," which I interpret as cybersex or sexting. Others are willing to meet a man anywhere for "relations" and relationships. I also discovered that apparently there are 4,649 lonely wives in the town one over from my own. Frankly, I think that explains a LOT!

Additional site links included: How to Cheat on Your Girlfriend and Not Get Caught: How to Cheat on Your Wife and Not Get Caught; and a list of lonely wife porn sites. My favorite was definitely International House of Wives. I don't believe bacon OR sausage was an option.

Clearly the next step here was to investigate sites where women could "meet up with lonely cheating husbands in your area." It took until page 5 of my Google search to locate a single site for women to find married men to cheat with... and it's located in the U.K. The first 4 pages were completely filled with sites and forums about how to catch a cheating husband or boyfriend.

Does anyone else see the disparity - the huge inequality here?

I browsed a few more Google pages for anything that looked like a dating site where married men could post their personal ads, but alas, it was not to be found. I'm not saying it doesn't exist; I just got bored looking for it.

Steve Harvey once said, "men cheat because there are women out there who will cheat with them." If ever there was a case to be made for his argument, it's right there in the black, white, and blue of your search engine.

I worked with a man once who said he only cheated on his wife with married women since the price for getting caught would be equal. I am appalled. Maybe I'll forward him the email...

Back on the Change Train

The state of affairs of my life used to have a shorter expiration date than the milk in my refrigerator. I made decisions quickly, and though not always wisely, they were made regularly with flair and finality!

Note the past tense.

I'm not sure when the change began... the change from constantly making a change, to lack of changing I mean. What I do know is that the Change Train is coming and I've purchased my ticket.

I'm not attempting to feign surprise with the "grand revelation" that I consciously put myself in situations that I know are not in my own best interest. We all do this, and sometimes we get stuck there. See, there's always some extenuating circumstance to rationalize the behavior. Below are some of my own personal favorites. These are great:

It's not forever, it's just for now.
I'm sure I'm just misinterpreting the situation.
It looks / sounds / appears worse than it is.
Once *insert current issue here* is sorted, then I can move on.

Pathetic. Really. Who SAYS that?

Just so we're clear, I'm not advocating irrational life alterations like a change in locale (no matter where you go, there you are!), quitting your job tomorrow because you just hate it, becoming an overprocessed blonde / brunette / redhead, or abandoning all that's true in your life by making a pact with the Devil in exchange for whatever it is your life lacks. That expert level of change should be left to the Professionals - like myself. The kind of change I'm talking about now is the "personal housekeeping." Think of it as an annual cleaning for the soul.

For instance, isn't it high time you deleted those people from your cell phone you haven't heard from in months? Bear in mind, they may be doing the same to you so don't go getting all shitty if you ring up and they ask who's calling. Friendship is a two-person Tango, People!

Looking for something bigger to satisfy your New Year's Need for Change? How about taking a look at the people you surround  yourself with. You do realize that you become what people think they are. Oh, I know... you don't care what people think... *eyeroll*

Here's a good one I learned about a hundred years ago from my girlfriend Lisa (http://lisa-myinnerlifecoachisabitch.blogspot.com): Take a fucking stand and stick with the truth of what you know - even if you're standing alone. This isn't a popularity contest, and You have to live with You. Please try to remember that the rest of us don't.

I don't know what matters to you. I barely know what matters to me anymore. But when you can't look yourself in the eye long enough to apply mascara, you know that avoidance is no longer your friend. You know who you are. You're looking down the rabbit hole and if something doesn't change, you'll fall easily in and be trapped in an unforgiving place, and maybe for the rest of your life.

Go ahead. Buy your ticket. If you're looking for me, I'll be out on the platform.

*hums Change by Taylor Swift*

Daughters of the Burnt Brassiere

Miracle Bra! Ha! The only miracle here is that I can actually manage to haul my back fat high enough to secure it beneath that oh-so-comfortable underwire.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror in brassiere and panties apparently bought specifically for the woman who would play me on TV – as opposed to the woman I am in real life – it’s easy to recognize that a man looking for a cheap thrill did not design this brassiere. No, a woman with exactly zero body fat designed it; thus eliminating the thought of making any attempt to forge boobs out of overhang found elsewhere.

Same holds true for the panty. As I attempt to craft an ass where once there was one, using only the material now cleverly disguised as my upper thigh, I am quickly coming to the realization that no amount of money spent in fancy lingerie stores is going to make me look like their catalog model when the dress comes off later. My best bet is for a lights-out-quick dive into the anonymous security of duvet.

Isn’t it interesting that the very garment our mother’s burned in a stand for equality, is the one thing we search ever so diligently for, in the just right sexy size and the just right sexy color? Pull it up, push it together – I am woman, see my boobs!

Clothing designers have clearly not been much help in this area. One year it’s all boob – if you don’t have them, go get them! The next, it’s no boobs at all. If you bought them, take them out! If they’re natural, strap’em down! To the best of my knowledge, my au natural boobs did not come with the hidden zipper compartment. Perhaps I could give them a little lift and check underneath, but if it’s not there, I’m sure yet another style of brassiere is going to be required. How am I supposed to manage my wardrobe when I can’t even manage to keep up with the appropriate “in” boob size?

Unfailingly, following this ever changing size trend is the never popular but always present Dress Dart. Really, someone should enact come sort of standard for these or ban them altogether. It’s either too much boob for this dress size leaving the darts pointing to your chin, or not enough boob for the next size up and a very unbecoming flap of fabric that looks weirdly like pointed yet deflated nipples. If I buy the brassiere that flattens me out like a 12-year-old boy, I can wear the size four. The other option is to purchase the brassiere with 4 inches of padding complete with water inserts, swallow my pride, and buy the size six. I suppose the added bonus here is cleavage – even if it is false advertising.

Frankly, I think the entire garment industry is in cahoots. Irrespective of which size dress you buy, next stop: lingerie. Seems every outfit needs its own special style and color now. You might as well just secure each brassiere on the hanger with the specific ensemble and free up some space in that drawer for support pantyhose.

Life Truths: Notes for 2010

This entry originally posted New Year's Day 2008 on my previous blog site... then again July 2 of 2008... then again in January of 2009 here... and probably again about mid-year. Some things just bear repeating until it takes. Assume you'll see this again in the summer months.

It occurs to me that as we head into the new year full of our latest resolutions (aka personal promises which set us up for failure), it would be a good idea to re-arm with a few basic Life Truths on decorum and ownership. This, of course, is in effort not to repeat some of the more unsavory and sometimes tawdry moments witnessed last year.

1. You are where you are because that, my friend, is where you put yourself. Do not blame your Higher Power, The Universe, or the people around you for your ill-conceived decisions.
2. The Universe is trying to move you in the direction of your life path. Quit acting like you know everything. You don't. So how about you just go ahead and get out of your own way?
3. Life is a "Bring Your Own Water Wings" affair so stop annoying the rest of us with your bitching about how you've been done oh-so-wrong and fucking paddle already.
4. Just because you want it does not mean it's yours to have.
5. You always have a choice. Take the route that will make your grandmother proud.
6. Yes. You're fat. I think I am, too. Now can we please stop having that conversation? It creates a barrier that doesn't allow for meaningful communication.
7. Your true friends will say the things you don't want to hear because they love you... and because they have faith that you already know the truth.
8. Beware false allies and those who try too hard. Therein you will one day discover utlerior motive.
9. When saying no - to anyone for any reason - it absolutely is not necessary to offer an explanation.
10. From Image Consultant and old friend, Beth Newman: Do not participate in "big, bad, bold behavior." It's unseemly and frankly, déclassé. http://www.newmanimage.info/
11. Do not shampoo your hair every day - no matter what.
12. Stop fighting The Universe and you'll stop making stupid mistakes.
13. One minute of your time - especially when you don't "have" it - is worth hours to someone who needs it.
14. Pay attention. This will solve almost all of your "problems."
15. Take heed: a drunken man's words are a sober man's thoughts.
16. People are going to talk. Your choice is whether or not to give them something to talk about!
17. We all humilate ourselves. Get over it. These are the stories of our life's winter.
18. If you think any part of this (or my blog in general) is directed at you, it probably is... I just don't know it. Examine why you do.
19. Your behavior in all situations is 100% on you. Own it or change it. These are the only options.
20. Ladies: If a man wants to be with you, he will always find a way to make that happen. I suppose the same can be said conversely.
21. Choosing not to engage means forfeiting your right to defend yourself against what others say. Know that, ultimately, this is still the best course of action.

That's it. An updated version of the semi-annual reminder in no particular order! Now if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere else to be.