Pick Your Fight

I do not care about your hybrid of any sort; your Prius, your Fit, your Leaf, your Volt, your Insight, your SmartCar.

In fact, I think the smart thing to do is to get your Fred Flintstone, Vespa-sounding, hunk of tin out of the left lane so that my gigantic steel cage on four huge wheels can get down the road at a rate faster than the apparent maximum eco-car speed of 45mph.

*glares*

I expect that this one may bring on the hate mail from the tree-huggers who will most likely stop reading right about…. here… in order to “have their say, dang it!” but frankly, I don’t care. I motor about in a big, gas guzzling, 4-wheel drive, I-can-climb-over-your-trunk-if-I-feel-like-it, gorgeous piece of imported fantastic-ness. I spent my American-made dollars on a vehicle whose manufacturer did not consider that long, skinny pedal on the right, part of an “options package.”

Don’t flip me off when I pass you at a “breathtaking” 60mph. You’re jealous. I know it. You know it. You were trying to be a part of “something bigger” most likely because your life is small, and instead your balls are now the size of raisins and the valet snickers at you when you pass the keys.

You need to save the world? How about you quit rattling on about your eco-friendly car “savings” (which statistically don’t actually exist according to the IIHS) and look into ways to put an end to puppy mills?

You need a cause? How about getting our teachers paid more and our politicians paid less?

Can’t figure out what to do with your spare time now that your kids are all in school and your live-in nanny is scrubbing your toilets? How about finding a way to support the arts in those very schools?

Itching to create a placard? Try this: Love is Love! Support marriage equality for gays and lesbians in all states!

Oh wait. You just need to rant about something to feel important? How about you do that during a regularly scheduled pedicure so that random passers-by are no longer exposed to that hot mess revealed by your nasty flip-flops, or your ridiculous opinions on my choice of vehicle.

Go ahead. Pick your fight. Just not with me. I’m in the mood to crush someone just for being stupid and I’m fairly certain the valet will point me in the right direction.

I May Not Know Jeans, But I KNOW Shoes!

I can't believe September almost got away without a single post. Please forgive me... On the upside, I've been spending more time watching and less time on random rants - which gave birth to the following!

Generally speaking, I do not speak to fashion. Not because it doesn’t interest me, it definitely does! I notice all things fashion. I’m a lover of the classic styles (think Chanel and hats and gloves), but I’m also well in touch with my inner hippie. Basically, I believe the topic spouting is best left to the trained professionals.

Now, that said, I feel there are some grossly overlooked issues surrounding footwear that should be addressed in that straight forward, no bullshit way some people might say is hurtful, while others know is just the truth as it’s meant to be told.

Ladies, and okay – gentlemen, if you cannot walk in a pair of high heels without appearing as though there are eggshells under the soles, wear flats. Seems like every time I turn around, I see some woman "walking" along in a pair of platforms like she’s terrified she’s going to fall off with the next step. So not sexy. 

Today I spied yet another of the “no knees” walker variety who stiff –legs every step like a toy soldier. Might I suggest jackboots?

Oh look! There’s the “cop a squat.” This gal has apparently never watched a beauty pageant of any kind – not even drag – otherwise she would know that no matter how expensive your footwear, clomping along with your ankles 12 inches apart makes you look like a linebacker needing to poop. 

And how can we overlook the “stick up her ass” sashay. Her stride is so miniscule you can’t help but wonder if she really does have an aspirin between her knees. Relax already! No one is going to steal your shoes if they leave the ground for more than a nanosecond. You look like a wind-up toy straight out of the McDonald's Happy Meal.

We have the “leaner” who pitches dangerously forward like her puppeteer is distracted, and the “Big Girl” who crams her size 8 feet into a size 7 for… well, I don’t know why anyone would do that, bit those appendages now look like stuffed sausages.

So here are the rules:

If they aren’t 100% comfortable in the store, they will not “break in.”

If you generally live in flip-flops, you should know that you don’t actually have a fashion sense and should not be left to your own devices in the shoe department. Oh I know you think you know… I also know that you don’t. Find yourself a friend, and good luck.

If you’ve left high school, yet just bought a “cocktail” dress in the “prom” section of a department store, don’t try to match your shoes to the dress. Return the dress. You know why.

If you can’t run, yes run, at least one-quarter mile in the shoes, you need to believe me when I tell you that you cannot walk across a room in them either. I don’t care how amazing you think you look, in truth it’s more “mommy’s closet” than “hot mama.”

Finally, for the sake of public safety and viewing,  you must ensure that both your toes and your heels are held within the confines or dimensions of the shoe. You should know better, you foul little thing...

Whether you’re stomping it out like a runway model, or elegantly cutting a swath, you have got to look and feel comfortable in those shoes! Otherwise, the impression you leave it that of a foolish little girl trying to be someone she isn’t. For the record, I don’t wear shoes with less than a three inch heel. To me, that IS a flat. And yes, I can run at least a quarter-mile in all 73 pair.

Glide ladies! Glide!

Who Are You?

Yes, I’m painfully well aware of the fact that there is no grace in giggling with delight over the prospect of watching The Universe prepare to dole out its "enough is enough" via an unexpected source. Nonetheless…

*does a little dance in front row seat*

Okay, now that I’m done acting like a child, I kind of want to look at a peculiar social phenomenon. I’m going to call it “When I Grow Up Syndrome” or WIGUS. There are really two varieties – one for men, one for women. Note that throughout my writings, I never say “men and women” but rather refer to gender specifics as “boys and girls.” I point this out because WIGUS is not a childhood affliction and I want there to be no confusion. Nope, this happens to supposed grown adults.

At its root, When I Grow Up Syndrome is all about making it past say, age 30 or so, and still having no idea who you are. It’s not about family or career; it’s about morphing in and out of personalities like Sybil! Let’s talk about the ladies first, since they’re the most entertaining.

We all know at least a few of these women. She wants to date a rocker; she becomes a rocker. She’s dating a Librarian, and suddenly she’s wearing reading glasses. Her “friends” switch from drinking martinis to drinking bourbon, and no matter how much she detests it, she switches too. She talks shit on people, or shares information she shouldn’t just to be “popular.” She has no idea who she is… so she’s just “them.”

Having never been one of these women, I’m not sure I understand the point of faking your way through relationships. Why pretend you’re someone or something you’re not, all the while declaring to everyone within earshot how different you are, when you’re so obviously the exactly the same? It’s weird to watch, yet incredibly difficult to look away! I expect some sort of nervous breakdown should anyone declare to the WIGUS woman that she is merely a lemming.

Now, because everyone loves a train wreck…

When these women “find” one another, it’s like the worst Lifetime Made for Television movie ever produced! They're like feral cats! I used to think it was just me, watching with my mouth hanging wide open in amazement and confusion, but lately I’ve discovered that the audience is huge! Some people wait for the inevitable implosion, others like myself, just stare in wonderment at the WIGUS of it all.

In men, WIGUS isn’t particularly entertaining and looks a lot like Peter Pan Syndrome. No news there! The only real difference I’ve found is that they generally don’t take their phases too seriously and are good-natured about a good ribbing. I haven't seen too many of these men make a real outward spectacle of themselves. They're infinitely more subtle most of the time. I'm not saying they never show their ass - they totally do! But it seems to manifest itself more often in drink, an awkward walking gait, or bad fashion choices.

I can only imagine how insecure, and perhaps lonely, these people are. They obviously have no real sense of self – and let’s face it, after 30, if you don’t have that, you’ve nothing. It appears as though their whole existence is based on trying to be what they think someone else wants. It’s a slippery slope when that behavior includes poor manners, or insinuating themselves where they don’t belong in an effort to feel important. Long after whatever relationship was involved is well over, people will only remember the unattractive bits of their behavior. It’s what inevitably leads to reputation demise. It’s interesting that they don’t see it coming. Perhaps it’s just too much to believe that after all the energy they put into being “someone” ultimately they’ll still be exactly who they are… or aren’t.

I would imagine the only chance these men and women have is a lot of therapy! Is it a self-esteem issue? Is it jealousy? Is it just years and years of being overshadowed by siblings or friends? I have no idea. I do have this idea about gathering them all up and putting them on the Minnow though!

Good Morning, Mourning

I may have mentioned this before, but I’ll say it again: I am not the kind of person who can be unemployed – for a number of reasons, really. First, I spend every single “free” minute stressing out over not having an income. Secondly, I’ve discovered that I can only stand my own company for six minutes. Not six minutes at a time – but total for the waking period. I don’t find myself that interesting.

It’s probably important to note that I would have less trouble with having nothing to do if there were someone in my life to support me.

So I’ve been painting during my down time. Not creatively; no this has been completely utilitarian. I’ve been painting interior doors.

[Sidebar: semi-gloss is the devil.]

The up side of this hideous chore is that, like mowing the lawn or scrubbing grout, it gives me plenty of time to think in a leisurely manner. No rush, I’m gonna be here all day anyway…

Finally! The point of that long introduction:

It occurred to me while cursing those damned fancy doors, that there are a number of things in my life I’ve been managing all “wrong” because I didn’t see them “right.”

It appears that I’ve been carrying on relationships, one in particular but several in general, only in my head. What I mean is that the relationship I thought I was having, didn’t actually exist in real life the way I insisted it did inside my little “Life Bubble.” I don’t like to see the ugly bits life doles out – I’ve seen enough, thank you very much – so I just paint them a color I like and pretend it was never ugly to begin with, employing the “if you don’t talk about it, it never happened” approach. Gee. That’s smart…*sarcasm*

Nonetheless, the up side is that since I shocked myself into reality with this revelation, I’m not paralyzed by mourning any longer. And it feels great! And brave! Like I can say all the things that have been swirling around in my head because I don’t have concern myself with the outcome. Which leads me to…

Do you ever think about the things you say to yourself before you go to sleep? The conversations you’ll never have with people you really want to set straight? Or the little lies we tell ourselves:
I’m happy.
It’s all perfectly fine.
Tomorrow, I will add on to my exercise program to lose these last five pounds.

It’s as though by whispering it late at night, it’ll stick. It will all be true in the morning. I do it all the time for whatever mad reason. Though I suppose now it’s because I never knew how bad it could hurt to lose something I never really had.

Deal With It

This morning started out with the gruesome discovery that I’d arrived about one minute too late to prevent a senseless murder.

Stepping onto the back porch for a quick weather check, I saw one of the rabbits who live under the bushes standing, frozen in the yard – eyes trained on something outside my line of vision. I ventured out to see what could possibly be so interesting that the rabbit wasn’t even going to acknowledge my proximity, only to witness one of my dogs “playing” with an infant bunny. I called her off and ran to check. The week-old baby was breathing, but paralyzed and bleeding from the nose.

Running for the house, I tucked the dog inside, grabbed the phone and a plastic gloves. I did the only thing I could think of then. I called the one person I knew would help me do, oh I don’t know, something to help?

Back in the yard again and standing over the still breathing baby bunny, I quickly explained the situation. What came next was completely unexpected. Instead of sympathy or some other sort of understanding, I was told to “get a shovel and deal with it.” What?

WHAT!

Hanging up, I threw the phone at the fence and picked up the little innocent, cooing, comforting, and apologizing until finally, it blinked once more then took its last little sigh of a breath. I felt somehow responsible for this loss of small, new life. I knew the rabbits were in the yard. I knew there was at least one newborn. And yet, I’d done nothing to protect it from the two dogs who share the same grass.

Yeah. I know, survival of the fittest, and all that.

“…deal with it.”

Life happens. Death, in all varieties, inevitably comes. People, animals, relationships... At some point the time to coddle, coo, and be hopeful passes and you’re left with the lifeless remains of something that “used to be.”

Somebody hand me my grown-up panties. If you need me, I’ll be figuring out how to “deal with it” on my own.

Weinergate... Keep it in Your Pants

Thus far it’s a pretty slow summer so I’ve been thinking a lot about Weinergate. I mean, I haven’t been thinking specifically about Weiner’s wiener; more it’s been about where we draw the line between online flirting and straight-up infidelity. And what about any associated “privacy issues?”

Now, I know we all want to stand up and wave the freedom of speech flag – even those who are completely appalled by Weiner’s behavior. Certainly none of us wants the government legislating what we do – however inappropriate – in our private time, assuming of course we’re directing this to the activities of consenting adults. Hey, I’m in the front row with a placard of my own, crawling onto some stranger’s shoulders to scream through my megaphone, “No one is going to tell ME what I can and cannot write, say, or photograph! I will not be silenced by The Man!”

Here’s the thing: that’s not really what we’re talking about – or more specifically, not talking about. The penis in the room isn’t about freedom of speech or what consenting adults can or cannot do. No, no, no. The penis in the room is about what consenting adults should or should not do.

*senses guilty people shifting uncomfortably in their chairs*

I’m sure I’m not alone when I say that the appropriateness of sexting or the exchanging nudie pics is pretty much dependent on your relationship status. If you’re single – single as in you don’t have the same person regularly sleeping next to you – I say do what you like! Go craaaazy! Sow your wild oats! Take all the photographs or sex videos, and send all the racy text messages you like! Grab life by your balls! Who cares?!?!?

[Caution: your current or future employer might care should these surface so I’d think this through without the throbbing sexual desire before proceeding. Also note that the ban on “bad naked” has not been lifted.]

Now that we’ve established I’m not from the Christian right, or any kind of prude for that matter, let’s get to the meat of this. Here’s a primer for those of you who apparently can’t function within the general confines of decency:

1.     If you are married; if you are in a “committed relationship,” or if your part-time partner thinks your liaison is monogamous, you’re just a skeevy asshole for sexting, emailing, or taking “self-portraits” with or for someone else.

2.     That’s it. Re-read number one.

I’m sure by now a few of you are mentally composing what you believe to be a compelling yet scathing argument, albeit “anonymously,” to leave in this post’s Comments. Compose away, I say! But before you click Submit ask yourself this: are you going to share it with your significant other? No? Chickenshit… What do you suppose that says about you? That, oh I dunno, maybe you shouldn’t be doing what you’re doing? If you have to hide it, you know it’s wrong. And don’t go trying to hide behind lame excuses, attempt to make it less than it is, or turn the tables on the person you’re supposed to be sharing a relationship or your life with by flinging accusations about invasion of privacy.

First, if we’ve learned nothing else from Tony Weiner, it’s that when you lie or make excuses to cover-up your behavior, you will be caught and the fallout will be even more dangerous to life, “limb” or reputation. You never really know how crazy or vindictive someone can be until they’re the last to know they’ve been being made a fool of – publically or privately.

I’ve recently heard this kind of Weiner-tastic carrying-on referred to as “flirting.” Are you fucking kidding me? I have an idea, how about we take a moment to look that word up.

According to Merriam-Webster online, flirting is:

a.     To behave amorously without serious intent

b.     To show superficial or casual interest or liking

c.     To come close to reaching or experiencing something

Behavior check, anyone?

Now, because I rarely take a position based on one resource, I pulled out my Webster’s Third New International Dictionary, and my trusty old Webster’s New World Dictionary of the American Language (college edition and yes, it’s just that old) and nowhere did I see any mention of sexting or bawdy photographs discussed or described in those additional definitions of flirting. So what have we learned? We’ve learned this: no, jackass, you do NOT get to call your behavior “flirting!”

As for the privacy portion of your wheedling, what the hell kind of “relationship” are you carrying on if you’re worried about what your spouse might uncover if he or she were to use your computer because it’s right there, or use your cell to send a text to a mutual friend? Or! Even if he or she was just being nosey, the point here is that if you’re having an honest relationship, there’d be nothing to hide and privacy would not even be an issue!

Maybe reality television has skewed the public’s definition of appropriate relationship behavior. All those loud-mouthed girls chasing after whore-boys; people sneaking around doing who knows what with it doesn’t matter who… When did it become “acceptable” to partake in extracurricular activities? And why are those who are the most hurt by it – the spouses and significant others of the offenders – be expected to get onboard with the idea that this isn’t infidelity? That no apology is necessary because there wasn’t actual sex?

I have a yardstick of sorts I use when I’m not really onboard with my own behavior. I ask myself whether my grandparents would be ashamed of me. Feel free to consider that your takeaway.

Blank Pages

I’ve recently self-determined that I’m not funny anymore. Oh sure, there are still the occasional snarky one-liners, but where anything more than that is required, there are pet shop parrots with more interesting things to say.

It occurs to me that maybe I ought to try something new. Something … exhilarating.

It’s no secret that I like to limit my physical activity to things that give me immediate results - like hauling the giant vodka bottle down from its cabinet. Don’t judge. This exercise also employs the use of extreme bicep strength in order to remove the freezer-burned ice cubes trapped in their trays.

Safe to say that there’s no situation whereby I’ll find myself jumping out of an airplane naked like my girlfriend JG, swimming with actual sharks, or freezing my ass off in an Iditarod. I thought briefly about rock climbing… the kind you do indoors with thick mats and a super hot trainer. I just worry about how my ass will look squished out the bottom of a harness. That view can’t be good from below… So where that idea is concerned, I’ve decided that perhaps the only rocks I’ll be conquering will remain those in a 4oz glass, ungraciously blocking me from the last of my liquor.

I think the problem is that I’m unbearably bored. I’ve gone from having entirely too much, to having only a moderate amount to occupy my days. I suppose I should work on The Book That Will Never Be Finished, or refresh my political point of view, but really? Why? To either. I’ve never actually finished anything – which obviously isn’t a record I plan to break this late in the game; and outside of Weinergate, the wind has left my sails now that Washington has gone home for summer vacation.

[sidebar: you can bet that given the events of this week, many a Republican and Democrat of both genders is giving their computer and cell phone a good “scrubbing.” Here’s some food for thought: if you’re hiding it, you know you shouldn’t be doing it.]

I feel a privacy rant coming on so I think I’ll collect my rocks see if that thought takes us somewhere exhilarating.