Joe Pa supposedly spent a life encouraging people, demanding the best from them. This is what the great coaches do, right? The motivator, the one who gets the results, the championships. The one for whom kids dream of playing.
I saw lots of this when I was an undergrad at Nebraska. Tom Osbourne was heading out and it was really amazing to watch the way students stood in reverence of him. I had the chance to meet him when I worked with the summer conference program and I found him to be a calm, warm person. I’m sure a few players witnessed a different side over the years, but since I was also someone who had been in the position of being coached, I had also been in the position of being yelled at by coaches.
The only reason I came into contact with Coach Osbourne was that he stopped by the registration area when we were checking in kids for the football camps. And the high school athletes were starstuck by him. It wasn’t the awe with which my fellow students spoke of him, but rather the cheese-out moment of seeing someone you truly admire, like when I had a convo with Dave Eggers.
The admiration of the kids was earned. They believed in the story, the magic, the tradition. They got to meet the legend and just maybe the legend would be impressed with how they worked at camp. Maybe someday they would be part of the program. I’m sure this scene played out at the big football schools all over the county, whether it was Ohio State, USC, Alabama, or Penn State.
Oh Penn State. What a firestorm you find yourself embroiled in now. The media reports of the students supporting Paterno and rioting at the announcement of his firing made me sick to my stomach. I understand that he was your hero. I get it. I’m sure some of you decided to attend the University because you wanted to be a part of the game day traditions. You could get an education many places, but being part of that football tradition was special, maybe almost sacred to you.
Time to re-evaluate what’s sacred.
I’m usually not the one to get all Nancy Grace when it comes to criminal matters, but this one got me. The NY Times website posted the grand jury transcripts from Jerry Sandusky’s indictment. For the sake of my mental health, I can’t read those right now. When morality gets tossed out the window for the sake of winning or tradition, it’s time to change.
Rick Reilly at ESPN.com wrote an excellent commentary on the 2nd of November regarding these allegations. “If these boys were molested, groped and raped by a middle-aged ex-Penn State football coach, then whatever misjudgment Paterno made will be a single lit match compared to the bonfire these boys will walk in for years to come,” he wrote.
And even if they can tame the bonfire, the shame and guilt that unfairly now follows them can be like walking on hot coals for the rest of their lives. You may learn to manage it, but it’s like a virus that stays with you. The reality of the matter is, when someone is sexually abused, molested, or raped, a part of them dies. Lots of people are victims of crime, but if your carjacked, you don’t spend 24 hours a day in the car. You can get a new car. If they store you work in is robbed, you don’t live a life behind that counter. You can find another job. When your body is violated, you can never leave the scene of the crime. And that pesky guilt and shame will make you feel like a shell of who you were, so you do whatever to numb it or fill it, whether it’s booze or drugs or food or sex or gambling.
I am proud of accusers in this case for having the courage to come forward. For a lot of victims, a part of them that dies is the ability to trust anyone or anything, so having faith in the system to bring justice would have been almost impossible. Throw in the hero worship of a college football program. I am so glad they are finding the strength to take their lives back. I also hope they are able to find the power for forgiveness since that will be a key to letting the pain go.
I don’t know what Paterno was thinking. He could have saved a lot of people a lot of pain if he had worried more about the health and safety of these children than winning football games. He has 17 grandchildren, so statistically speaking, one of them was or will be a victim of a sex crime. All of you know someone who has been a victim, whether or not it’s something that’s discussed. I can’t help but wonder what his attitude would be if one of his children or grandchildren was alleging abuse.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Strange Days
Election days always get me. Part of me loves the drama of it all, especially it there is something of interest at stake, like the personhood (spell check doesn't think it's a word either, assfaces) nonsense in Mississippi. Another part of me finds the whole thing ridiculous, with equal parts humor and agony. Maybe it’s all the leading up to the day and momentum that’s just so damned tiring. I swear people who work on campaigns must be the most sleep-deprived adrenaline junkies ever. I don’t recall whom, but somebody once said D.C. was Hollywood for ugly people. I know the hit was meant at physical imperfections, but perhaps s/he was on to something a bit deeper.
It just seems like anything emotionally charged brings out the worst in many of us. I’m included in the collective us. No free rides here. I say awful things about politicians, business leaders, athletes, well frankly, anyone in the news with whom I don’t agree or find offensive. And I say offensive things about them, albeit for humor or just plain meanness.
Remember the photo of Michele Bachmann eating the corn dog at the fair? Not so much eating it, as fellating it. And it wasn’t just any corn dog, it was a “We grow ‘em big in Iowa” fair dog. Her squinty little demon eyes formed into a mixture half pleasure, half agony as she took on that monster. Never have I been more thankful for camera phones.
All the instant media has gotten us into weird territory, where no one believes anyone without proof. One time I posted a FB status about wearing sweats with a hole in the butt and moonboots while walking the bitches. It happened and I share these things out of need for a laugh and attention, but one of my friends said he needed photos or it didn’t happen. It’s odd to think that memory, as factually flawed as it may be at times, is no longer a contract among friends.
This instant media also means that we live in a world with no missteps and since perfection isn’t selling, I guess we all get called out for the stupid things we do and say, whether it’s on a national stage and your detractors are using it against you, or whether you’re the chick whose topless, drunken antics from the party ended up as social networking gold.
So are we all just a bunch of bullies? Has the attack and react thought process that seems to sate our needs for instant gratification stunted us? So I go for a run or bake something or read and just generally try to stay as far away from the TV and internet as long as possible, until it’s time to post something…
It just seems like anything emotionally charged brings out the worst in many of us. I’m included in the collective us. No free rides here. I say awful things about politicians, business leaders, athletes, well frankly, anyone in the news with whom I don’t agree or find offensive. And I say offensive things about them, albeit for humor or just plain meanness.
Remember the photo of Michele Bachmann eating the corn dog at the fair? Not so much eating it, as fellating it. And it wasn’t just any corn dog, it was a “We grow ‘em big in Iowa” fair dog. Her squinty little demon eyes formed into a mixture half pleasure, half agony as she took on that monster. Never have I been more thankful for camera phones.
All the instant media has gotten us into weird territory, where no one believes anyone without proof. One time I posted a FB status about wearing sweats with a hole in the butt and moonboots while walking the bitches. It happened and I share these things out of need for a laugh and attention, but one of my friends said he needed photos or it didn’t happen. It’s odd to think that memory, as factually flawed as it may be at times, is no longer a contract among friends.
This instant media also means that we live in a world with no missteps and since perfection isn’t selling, I guess we all get called out for the stupid things we do and say, whether it’s on a national stage and your detractors are using it against you, or whether you’re the chick whose topless, drunken antics from the party ended up as social networking gold.
So are we all just a bunch of bullies? Has the attack and react thought process that seems to sate our needs for instant gratification stunted us? So I go for a run or bake something or read and just generally try to stay as far away from the TV and internet as long as possible, until it’s time to post something…
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Not A Pussy Amongst Us
This past Sunday I took part in a time-honored tradition, the family picture. It got me thinking about old family pictures that I’ve seen and when I say old, I mean sod house, get the kids out of the field, no one smiles because Ma’s vagina is tired from Irish twins type of picture. Always extremely posed and everyone dressed in the best clothes they had, but never a smile amongst them. Apparently, the lack of smiles wasn’t because life was hard, but rather due to the slowness of exposure time, which in early photos, was up to 10 minutes. Yeah, can you imagine the fake smile that anyone could hold for 10 minutes? (Coincidentally, I may be looking for that fakeness at the GOP debates tonight.)
But back to my current family photos, with our digital cameras and instant gratification. Since my little bro, Tiny T, is a photographer, we had access to all the equipment we would need, plus his fabulous mother-in-law agreed to come along and snap the group shot.
I should have known this would be a partial cluster fuck, just by virtue of it being an all-family activity. It’s intrinsic.
It all started when my mother sent out an email “Calling all kids and dogs.” I didn’t have to ask, I know that adding the dogs to the photo was her ploy to make me feel involved and want to be there. I am very grateful that she understands how much the bitches mean to me and that they are my children. Both of my brothers have spouses and kids, so they have their little families going on and inevitably, the big photo always turns into little group photos of the off-shoots of the family and without my bitches, I am a headshot that would probably make a good obituary photo. Don’t get me wrong, I love my life, my bitches, and Man Friend, but those solo moments are simply a reminder that I am solo. Family stuff like that is tricky. I have a tendency to believe that you make your family. Family doesn’t have to have a legal binding or shared gene pool. That doesn’t compute with a lot of people.
So I was really glad that Momma M asked for the dogs to be involved. Here’s the fun part: Logistics. The family consists of 11 humans and six dogs. Five of said humans are children aged six or less. Two of said children have not yet one year under their belts. The oldest dog would be my Alli and she’s only six. Dixon the terrier who thinks he’s a Dane is close behind her in age and what he lacks in size, he makes up for in panache. Add Joey, a third GSP named Ranger, the Lab puppy Magnum, and Buddy, the world’s biggest Golden, and you have a busy photo.
In actuality, the fun started before I even left town. The plan was to take the pics at 5:00 p.m. at the park in Dell Rapids. That’s where my mom grew up and my brother and his family live now, so there’s some history there. Anyhoo, since there is an issue of chronic lateness with us and since I was double-booked for the evening, I wanted to make sure the pics started promptly at five. So I sent out a text that said, “Can we please start promptly at five tonight cuz I have another comittment. Thx.”
I said please and thank you. But somehow it turned into a couple shitty texts in which someone told me to not come and I said I wouldn’t if it wouldn’t hurt my mother’s feelings. I wasn’t in the mood for a speech about how we haven’t had a family pic since December 1988.
So then I ended up on the phone with the other brother and then he was calling the mother and then the other brother was calling him and the first brother was calling me again. But the good part was that everyone was on the road to Dells by four, so things looked good for my start time.
The second part of the agreement was that the humans would wear jeans, or denim pants as Momma M might say, and either a brown or navy shirt or sweater. I had a fabulous pair of skinny Levi’s, some boots, and this really cute almost cowl-neck, low slung brown sweater that was super cute when I was getting ready. It wasn’t super cute when I got out of the car and the wind was gusting.
There I was, trying to walk the dogs up to the bath house, them pulling like mad cuz they wanted to go in the river and run in the park. I wasn’t interested in wet dogs since we were there for business. Then Alli slipped her leash.
At this point, I have Joey in one hand and a leash in the other, and my sweater isn’t covering anything. Everyone knows that I am wearing a gray Vicky’s push-up bra. I am Tits McGee. And I am screaming like a banshee, hoping to keep Alli out of the river.
She ran into the bath house and under the bath house, but thankfully came back dry. Then they saw Dixon and tangled me up in their leashes. I dropped about six f-bombs and threw an Oscar-worthy fit. Between the stress of the whole mess, the text fight, wind, leaves, Tits McGee, and dog leashes wrapped around my legs chaos, I had a meltdown. I think I screamed something about not wanting to fucking be there. Sigh. At least I don’t suppress my emotions anymore.
Thankfully, my dad grabbed Alli and got me untangled. And Tiny T was ready to take pics of me and the bitches. His wife had to tuck my sweater into the back of my bra to keep the pornographic element out of the shot. Somehow, in just a few clicks of the camera, Two Bitches and a Dirty Lady were captured.
The big group shot wasn’t quite as smooth. Every time the kids were set, a dog would move, or vice versa. A couple times, Joey, who was in my lap, would start licking baby Will’s face, which he thought was great, since he loves the bitches. But then they wouldn’t be looking at the camera and would be blocking me. The camera just kept clicking and I’m guessing the outtakes might be better than the actual shots. Momma M kept messing with my sweater. We certainly weren’t grumpy-faced and holding frowns for 10 minutes.
I’ll post some pics when the editing is complete. It’ll probably end up being a holiday photo or something. As we were taking the pic I realized what a dog family we truly are and think that “Not A Pussy Amongst Us” might be the perfect caption for the fiasco.
But back to my current family photos, with our digital cameras and instant gratification. Since my little bro, Tiny T, is a photographer, we had access to all the equipment we would need, plus his fabulous mother-in-law agreed to come along and snap the group shot.
I should have known this would be a partial cluster fuck, just by virtue of it being an all-family activity. It’s intrinsic.
It all started when my mother sent out an email “Calling all kids and dogs.” I didn’t have to ask, I know that adding the dogs to the photo was her ploy to make me feel involved and want to be there. I am very grateful that she understands how much the bitches mean to me and that they are my children. Both of my brothers have spouses and kids, so they have their little families going on and inevitably, the big photo always turns into little group photos of the off-shoots of the family and without my bitches, I am a headshot that would probably make a good obituary photo. Don’t get me wrong, I love my life, my bitches, and Man Friend, but those solo moments are simply a reminder that I am solo. Family stuff like that is tricky. I have a tendency to believe that you make your family. Family doesn’t have to have a legal binding or shared gene pool. That doesn’t compute with a lot of people.
So I was really glad that Momma M asked for the dogs to be involved. Here’s the fun part: Logistics. The family consists of 11 humans and six dogs. Five of said humans are children aged six or less. Two of said children have not yet one year under their belts. The oldest dog would be my Alli and she’s only six. Dixon the terrier who thinks he’s a Dane is close behind her in age and what he lacks in size, he makes up for in panache. Add Joey, a third GSP named Ranger, the Lab puppy Magnum, and Buddy, the world’s biggest Golden, and you have a busy photo.
In actuality, the fun started before I even left town. The plan was to take the pics at 5:00 p.m. at the park in Dell Rapids. That’s where my mom grew up and my brother and his family live now, so there’s some history there. Anyhoo, since there is an issue of chronic lateness with us and since I was double-booked for the evening, I wanted to make sure the pics started promptly at five. So I sent out a text that said, “Can we please start promptly at five tonight cuz I have another comittment. Thx.”
I said please and thank you. But somehow it turned into a couple shitty texts in which someone told me to not come and I said I wouldn’t if it wouldn’t hurt my mother’s feelings. I wasn’t in the mood for a speech about how we haven’t had a family pic since December 1988.
So then I ended up on the phone with the other brother and then he was calling the mother and then the other brother was calling him and the first brother was calling me again. But the good part was that everyone was on the road to Dells by four, so things looked good for my start time.
The second part of the agreement was that the humans would wear jeans, or denim pants as Momma M might say, and either a brown or navy shirt or sweater. I had a fabulous pair of skinny Levi’s, some boots, and this really cute almost cowl-neck, low slung brown sweater that was super cute when I was getting ready. It wasn’t super cute when I got out of the car and the wind was gusting.
There I was, trying to walk the dogs up to the bath house, them pulling like mad cuz they wanted to go in the river and run in the park. I wasn’t interested in wet dogs since we were there for business. Then Alli slipped her leash.
At this point, I have Joey in one hand and a leash in the other, and my sweater isn’t covering anything. Everyone knows that I am wearing a gray Vicky’s push-up bra. I am Tits McGee. And I am screaming like a banshee, hoping to keep Alli out of the river.
She ran into the bath house and under the bath house, but thankfully came back dry. Then they saw Dixon and tangled me up in their leashes. I dropped about six f-bombs and threw an Oscar-worthy fit. Between the stress of the whole mess, the text fight, wind, leaves, Tits McGee, and dog leashes wrapped around my legs chaos, I had a meltdown. I think I screamed something about not wanting to fucking be there. Sigh. At least I don’t suppress my emotions anymore.
Thankfully, my dad grabbed Alli and got me untangled. And Tiny T was ready to take pics of me and the bitches. His wife had to tuck my sweater into the back of my bra to keep the pornographic element out of the shot. Somehow, in just a few clicks of the camera, Two Bitches and a Dirty Lady were captured.
The big group shot wasn’t quite as smooth. Every time the kids were set, a dog would move, or vice versa. A couple times, Joey, who was in my lap, would start licking baby Will’s face, which he thought was great, since he loves the bitches. But then they wouldn’t be looking at the camera and would be blocking me. The camera just kept clicking and I’m guessing the outtakes might be better than the actual shots. Momma M kept messing with my sweater. We certainly weren’t grumpy-faced and holding frowns for 10 minutes.
I’ll post some pics when the editing is complete. It’ll probably end up being a holiday photo or something. As we were taking the pic I realized what a dog family we truly are and think that “Not A Pussy Amongst Us” might be the perfect caption for the fiasco.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Domestication...
I’ve been overly domesticated this week. Not a bad thing, it’s just not too often that you’ll find me on my hands and knees scrubbing the toilet with a toothbrush like a tweaker who’s run out of marbles to stack. Come to think of it, I can’t ever say I’ve actually used a toothbrush to clean anything other than my teeth. I’ve washed clothes and dishes, mopped floors, and get rid of books, CDs, and clothes that I no longer use. Shit, I even organized the shelves in the furnace room. I found a bunch of roaches and about 40 spent matches. Yeah, not critter roaches. A nice little reminder of how far I have come.
I even spent some time trying to perfect a recipe like a good little house woman. Man Friend will be getting perfect bacon-wrapped scallops on Sunday thanks to that experiment.
I don’t really think of any of it as nesting since I’ve been here for years. Part of me enjoys the element of control that I can have over my home. I’ve been feeling a little undisciplined as of late and there is something very satisfying about feeling comfortable and uncluttered in your home.
I got a little nutty recently and spent a Sunday afternoon feeling shitty about myself and ended up sitting at the back door crying. Bawling was more like it. Where your face gets all sad and messed up and you get so frustrated with yourself for being dumb and you don’t even really know why you’re crying bawling, but on some level, it is a decent release, so you just go for it bawling. So I did that for a while.
Then I kind of got it together.
Then I fell apart again.
I couldn’t really tell you why. Sometimes everything catches up with me and I’m 19 again and life is overwhelming. Maybe someday I’ll explain myself more.
But when I fell apart again, I could taste gin.
So then there was the conversation with myself about going to the Top Hat. The purpose was to drink gin.
Sigh…
So that conversation went on for a bit and Alli talked me out of it because I promised her she would never see me drink. And since everything was overwhelming and yucky and I didn’t know what to do with myself, I got on my bike.
It was one of those really hot, humid days and I rode and rode as fast as I could. I did sprints up and down the boulevards. And thankfully, I started feeling human again. Sweat is a healer. Whatever the nastiness was that was making me nuts was flowing out my pores.
And when the ride felt like it was done, I sat and faced the sun. I know you’re supposed to listen to hippy dippy music when you meditate, but Tom Petty “Wildflower” seemed appropriate. I don’t know if it was the sun or the sweat or Tom, but when it was all said and done, the thought I left with was that anything worth possessing can be carried within your heart. I think I was feeling a little crushed by my stuff.
So began the domestic journey. Getting 100 items out of the house was just the start. I kept a list to 107 just so I knew that I met my goal. I made a little bank getting rid of some stuff and brought the rest to Goodwill. The nice part was remembering to feel grateful that I had a place to clean instead of being annoyed by having to clean. The smallest shifts in my attitude seem to make the biggest difference.
I even spent some time trying to perfect a recipe like a good little house woman. Man Friend will be getting perfect bacon-wrapped scallops on Sunday thanks to that experiment.
I don’t really think of any of it as nesting since I’ve been here for years. Part of me enjoys the element of control that I can have over my home. I’ve been feeling a little undisciplined as of late and there is something very satisfying about feeling comfortable and uncluttered in your home.
I got a little nutty recently and spent a Sunday afternoon feeling shitty about myself and ended up sitting at the back door crying. Bawling was more like it. Where your face gets all sad and messed up and you get so frustrated with yourself for being dumb and you don’t even really know why you’re crying bawling, but on some level, it is a decent release, so you just go for it bawling. So I did that for a while.
Then I kind of got it together.
Then I fell apart again.
I couldn’t really tell you why. Sometimes everything catches up with me and I’m 19 again and life is overwhelming. Maybe someday I’ll explain myself more.
But when I fell apart again, I could taste gin.
So then there was the conversation with myself about going to the Top Hat. The purpose was to drink gin.
Sigh…
So that conversation went on for a bit and Alli talked me out of it because I promised her she would never see me drink. And since everything was overwhelming and yucky and I didn’t know what to do with myself, I got on my bike.
It was one of those really hot, humid days and I rode and rode as fast as I could. I did sprints up and down the boulevards. And thankfully, I started feeling human again. Sweat is a healer. Whatever the nastiness was that was making me nuts was flowing out my pores.
And when the ride felt like it was done, I sat and faced the sun. I know you’re supposed to listen to hippy dippy music when you meditate, but Tom Petty “Wildflower” seemed appropriate. I don’t know if it was the sun or the sweat or Tom, but when it was all said and done, the thought I left with was that anything worth possessing can be carried within your heart. I think I was feeling a little crushed by my stuff.
So began the domestic journey. Getting 100 items out of the house was just the start. I kept a list to 107 just so I knew that I met my goal. I made a little bank getting rid of some stuff and brought the rest to Goodwill. The nice part was remembering to feel grateful that I had a place to clean instead of being annoyed by having to clean. The smallest shifts in my attitude seem to make the biggest difference.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Codogpendence...
Maybe it's too much Elliot Smith or Nick Drake this afternoon, but I am feeling a bit lonely. I know part of me misses Man Friend terribly. He is barely in town for two days each week. And I know we're supposed to have the positive attitude about him having a job and be grateful. We are. It's just hard when you wait 33 years for someone and then he has to leave all the time. I guess five days a week is a flash in the pan when I waited 33 years.
And on some level, the loneliness is my fault. I am quite adept at the self-imposed exile. No offense intended, but I don't really like people generally. Perhaps it's from having to have my smiley face and A game on at work. Perhaps it's because my Anne Frank quality always makes me look for the best in people and time and time again those people have disappointed me. Being hurt is part of being real, so I will take my knocks. And I will still expect the best out of people. I'll take that over being one of those negative Nancy types who expects the worst and then is pisses when she gets it, or as my friend said, "You'd kill your parents and then bitch that you were an orphan."
However my relationships with my fellow humans turn out, I always have the bitches. I have been accused of having a codependent relationship with my dogs. Fuck that. I'll take codogpendence. They listen to my problems so they save me money on therapy. And try to find a shrink who would lick away your tears... Wait maybe that wouldn't be so hard. They also save me money because they are my personal trainers. Two crazy bitches are stellar motivation to get up and go for a run or walk. Plus, they are excellent cuddlers when Man Friend is away. Dogs are capable of unconditional love in a way humans aren't. They never take a bad day out on their human. Fuck even dogs that had nothing but bad days can learn to love humans again.
I know they are wired differently and can be conditioned to be good or bad. But maybe humans should work a little more on conditioning themselves to be good. Maybe I need to start asking myself "What would Alli do?" when I am having a dilemma. Perhaps it would translate into better choices and a better existence for me. I'll just have to keep the translator on so I introduce myself instead of sniff people's asses.
And on some level, the loneliness is my fault. I am quite adept at the self-imposed exile. No offense intended, but I don't really like people generally. Perhaps it's from having to have my smiley face and A game on at work. Perhaps it's because my Anne Frank quality always makes me look for the best in people and time and time again those people have disappointed me. Being hurt is part of being real, so I will take my knocks. And I will still expect the best out of people. I'll take that over being one of those negative Nancy types who expects the worst and then is pisses when she gets it, or as my friend said, "You'd kill your parents and then bitch that you were an orphan."
However my relationships with my fellow humans turn out, I always have the bitches. I have been accused of having a codependent relationship with my dogs. Fuck that. I'll take codogpendence. They listen to my problems so they save me money on therapy. And try to find a shrink who would lick away your tears... Wait maybe that wouldn't be so hard. They also save me money because they are my personal trainers. Two crazy bitches are stellar motivation to get up and go for a run or walk. Plus, they are excellent cuddlers when Man Friend is away. Dogs are capable of unconditional love in a way humans aren't. They never take a bad day out on their human. Fuck even dogs that had nothing but bad days can learn to love humans again.
I know they are wired differently and can be conditioned to be good or bad. But maybe humans should work a little more on conditioning themselves to be good. Maybe I need to start asking myself "What would Alli do?" when I am having a dilemma. Perhaps it would translate into better choices and a better existence for me. I'll just have to keep the translator on so I introduce myself instead of sniff people's asses.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Heartless Bitch with No Children
I was visiting with one of my soon to be ex- neighbors last night and it still amazes me that anything amazes me anymore. He was one half of the nice couple who moved in to one of slumlord's apartments. They each had a child from a previous relationship, his a marriage, hers possibly a Marilyn Manson concert where two chicks fucked each other with a giant double dong on stage.
Okay, I don't know if the child was actually conceived at the concert, but she did tell me that story one time.
Anyway, they also had a child together. I think they are both decent people, just that life has been filled with struggles. We all talk enough that I would know when they were fighting or he was drinking or she ran off to be with her family for a few days and left him with the kids. He has a job, she wa trying to find one that fits with the kids' schedules. It is really the same story that is being played out on different levels all over.
So I knew things hadn't been great with them for awhile and I knew they were looking for a better place so they would have more room, but I was surprised to see him moving out last night, new "roommate" in tow, go ahead and read into that, and her and the kids no where to be found.
He relayed the news of the break-up, adding a fews details I didn't need to know and ended with a sentnece that stopped me in my tracks. "We got the whole thing worked out with the baby, every other weekend, and no child support," which came out in an almost proud way, like he got away with it, since he was already paying to the ex-wife on the other child.
It's moments like these that I want to bitch slap people and explain that birth control never asks for child support. Condoms don't need your time. I wanted to ask the new roommate if she was already knocked up since he seems to have such strong swimmers, although I'm not entirely certain she would have gotten the joke.
And I wonder what will be of the ex and the kiddos? She was bewildered that I am 33 years old and have no children. I wanted to explain to her not getting pregnant was easier than getting pregnant.
I propose putting birth control in the water system and if you want to have a child, you must apply for the antedote. Condoms would still be a necessity for disease prevention, but is anyone else with me?
Okay, I don't know if the child was actually conceived at the concert, but she did tell me that story one time.
Anyway, they also had a child together. I think they are both decent people, just that life has been filled with struggles. We all talk enough that I would know when they were fighting or he was drinking or she ran off to be with her family for a few days and left him with the kids. He has a job, she wa trying to find one that fits with the kids' schedules. It is really the same story that is being played out on different levels all over.
So I knew things hadn't been great with them for awhile and I knew they were looking for a better place so they would have more room, but I was surprised to see him moving out last night, new "roommate" in tow, go ahead and read into that, and her and the kids no where to be found.
He relayed the news of the break-up, adding a fews details I didn't need to know and ended with a sentnece that stopped me in my tracks. "We got the whole thing worked out with the baby, every other weekend, and no child support," which came out in an almost proud way, like he got away with it, since he was already paying to the ex-wife on the other child.
It's moments like these that I want to bitch slap people and explain that birth control never asks for child support. Condoms don't need your time. I wanted to ask the new roommate if she was already knocked up since he seems to have such strong swimmers, although I'm not entirely certain she would have gotten the joke.
And I wonder what will be of the ex and the kiddos? She was bewildered that I am 33 years old and have no children. I wanted to explain to her not getting pregnant was easier than getting pregnant.
I propose putting birth control in the water system and if you want to have a child, you must apply for the antedote. Condoms would still be a necessity for disease prevention, but is anyone else with me?
Thursday, July 28, 2011
We're Fucked Moments...
You know how Oprah had those “a-ha moments?” The moments were the lights clicked on and some concept or idea sunk in and made perfect sense? I guess I have those from time to time, whether or not I give O-dog the naming rights. And although I am definitely a half glass full type of gal, I must say that I’ve had more “we’re fucked moments” as of late.
Perhaps it’s from watching too much cable news coverage. The high stakes game of chicken that those fuckballs in DC play. The millionaires and billionaires fighting over football money when the real losers of no season would have been the local economies on game day. The ignorance of not rationing health care when nobody wants to do anything preventative to take care of the one body s/he was given. The weather and its impact on infrastructure around the county. I could go on and on, but it gets tiresome reliving the negativity.
Sometimes it just makes me want to sell what I can and buy one of those 80 square foot houses. I could set up home somewhere quiet and live out my days with the bitches, not having to contemplate the fuckatude in this society that nearly takes my breath away on a daily basis.
I used to think that many of my peers couldn’t have the intelligent conversations regarding these issues simply because of their youth. I assumed that an active interest in news and politics at some level would have to happen as we got older and were shouldering more of the tax burden, wanting a further education, or desiring a better environment for the children we were raising.
Turns out I was the naïve one.
And apparently ignorance must be bliss.
Man Friend’s mom texted me earlier today to express her disgust that Michele Bachmann was on NPR, her sacred radio station of progressives. I got a chuckle out of it, since we are usually on the same page politically and both detest Bachmann. I made a comment to a co-worker, who I respect as a hard working, smart person. “Who’s Michele Bachmann?” she asked with a quizzical expression on her face.
And so it goes…
Dumbfounded, I made another Bachmann on NPR to a different respected co-worker. That person hadn’t heard of her either.
I found myself wondering just what do people think about all day if they aren’t aware of the biggest news stories and issues facing our society. Seriously, like what do people think about? I have had to learn to meditate so I can shut my brain down and not drive myself completely fucking crazy thinking about how much water is needed to drill for natural gas or why people who chose to have children don’t all recycle and conserve resources. Even if it’s bliss, ignorance is still ignorance.
I always figured when the ship went down and Rome was burning, there would be plenty of us dancing. Now I don’t even think many of us would hear the music. Most will probably be wandering around, looking for a Budweiser and staring at our smart phones, wondering why the status updates aren’t going through.
But fuck it. I’m glad I think about all of it. One of my professors at UNL said my greatest gift and my biggest curse was my ability to see the big picture. I am still learning how to not drive myself nuts while fitting all the pieces together.
Perhaps it’s from watching too much cable news coverage. The high stakes game of chicken that those fuckballs in DC play. The millionaires and billionaires fighting over football money when the real losers of no season would have been the local economies on game day. The ignorance of not rationing health care when nobody wants to do anything preventative to take care of the one body s/he was given. The weather and its impact on infrastructure around the county. I could go on and on, but it gets tiresome reliving the negativity.
Sometimes it just makes me want to sell what I can and buy one of those 80 square foot houses. I could set up home somewhere quiet and live out my days with the bitches, not having to contemplate the fuckatude in this society that nearly takes my breath away on a daily basis.
I used to think that many of my peers couldn’t have the intelligent conversations regarding these issues simply because of their youth. I assumed that an active interest in news and politics at some level would have to happen as we got older and were shouldering more of the tax burden, wanting a further education, or desiring a better environment for the children we were raising.
Turns out I was the naïve one.
And apparently ignorance must be bliss.
Man Friend’s mom texted me earlier today to express her disgust that Michele Bachmann was on NPR, her sacred radio station of progressives. I got a chuckle out of it, since we are usually on the same page politically and both detest Bachmann. I made a comment to a co-worker, who I respect as a hard working, smart person. “Who’s Michele Bachmann?” she asked with a quizzical expression on her face.
And so it goes…
Dumbfounded, I made another Bachmann on NPR to a different respected co-worker. That person hadn’t heard of her either.
I found myself wondering just what do people think about all day if they aren’t aware of the biggest news stories and issues facing our society. Seriously, like what do people think about? I have had to learn to meditate so I can shut my brain down and not drive myself completely fucking crazy thinking about how much water is needed to drill for natural gas or why people who chose to have children don’t all recycle and conserve resources. Even if it’s bliss, ignorance is still ignorance.
I always figured when the ship went down and Rome was burning, there would be plenty of us dancing. Now I don’t even think many of us would hear the music. Most will probably be wandering around, looking for a Budweiser and staring at our smart phones, wondering why the status updates aren’t going through.
But fuck it. I’m glad I think about all of it. One of my professors at UNL said my greatest gift and my biggest curse was my ability to see the big picture. I am still learning how to not drive myself nuts while fitting all the pieces together.
Monday, July 25, 2011
The Accusation...
I was accused of over sharing. Well, not really accused, but I was told that I share a lot and it wasn’t exactly presented to me as a compliment. The funny thing is, I don’t even talk about half of what is going on in my head and if need be, am a Fort Knox of secrets, even from family. I can provide character references to attest to that.
But yes, I took the statement as an accusation, although I do not believe that was the intent, and needed some time to reflect on exactly why. The person would felt that I share too much is probably reading this and I consider him/her to be a smart, funny individual. An individual who also shares a lot via social networking, but his/her sharing is more about music or seeing humor in the insanity of this world. So I guess s/he is a sharer in a different way.
There are parts of me that are private. There are parts of me that I only share with the bitches and my closest humans like Man Friend. But there are also parts of me, like my struggles with drinking or men that I am totally open about, whether it’s in this forum or a more personal setting. Maybe you have to get to a place where you have been stripped of everything but your stories to realize just how much power your words have.
I remember walking down the street one day with Alli in the pre-Joey days. We were strolling along 15th and I came to the conclusion that I own nothing. Part of it was being fairly fresh off of a break up in which many material possessions and one canine were taken from me. But it took losing those things to make me really understand what I valued. It didn’t matter what titles or legalities might apply, the only thing I really possessed was my sense of spirituality and self. I didn’t even own that beautiful bitch next to me, she was her own little spirit and I was somehow lucky enough to have had her dance into my life.
So “stuff” took on a new meaning and I learned that the real power in ownership is in owning your own shit. That sentence will make perfect sense to you or no sense at all. And that’s okay. Part of my owning my shit is acknowledging the validity or ridiculousness of my thoughts and feelings. Sharing them might help somebody else. I know it helps me.
But yes, I took the statement as an accusation, although I do not believe that was the intent, and needed some time to reflect on exactly why. The person would felt that I share too much is probably reading this and I consider him/her to be a smart, funny individual. An individual who also shares a lot via social networking, but his/her sharing is more about music or seeing humor in the insanity of this world. So I guess s/he is a sharer in a different way.
There are parts of me that are private. There are parts of me that I only share with the bitches and my closest humans like Man Friend. But there are also parts of me, like my struggles with drinking or men that I am totally open about, whether it’s in this forum or a more personal setting. Maybe you have to get to a place where you have been stripped of everything but your stories to realize just how much power your words have.
I remember walking down the street one day with Alli in the pre-Joey days. We were strolling along 15th and I came to the conclusion that I own nothing. Part of it was being fairly fresh off of a break up in which many material possessions and one canine were taken from me. But it took losing those things to make me really understand what I valued. It didn’t matter what titles or legalities might apply, the only thing I really possessed was my sense of spirituality and self. I didn’t even own that beautiful bitch next to me, she was her own little spirit and I was somehow lucky enough to have had her dance into my life.
So “stuff” took on a new meaning and I learned that the real power in ownership is in owning your own shit. That sentence will make perfect sense to you or no sense at all. And that’s okay. Part of my owning my shit is acknowledging the validity or ridiculousness of my thoughts and feelings. Sharing them might help somebody else. I know it helps me.
Friday, July 15, 2011
ES Adventures on the Town
Her name was Elizabeth Street and she was one of those chicks that everyone got along with. Not the coolest girl in the room, but confident enough and funny enough to never consider having to sit alone, sometimes even when she wanted to. The kind of girl that guys who knew socially described as the perfect woman, probably because they never felt her claws. A bit on the tall side, she carried her weight well, and her dark features were that of the girl next door. She’d finished college, but didn’t really go to college with the intention of a career, and it wasn’t like there was a ton to do with a sociology degree, so here she was, tending bar or working coffeehouses to pay the bills. For whatever reason these types of jobs made her feel less of a slave to the machine. Must have been the attraction to living on the margins of society. Some accused her to constantly needing to be different, or in some cases, difficult.
It would seem to almost everyone that she had her proverbial shit together. And for the most part, she did. There was one fatal flaw in her character however, and that involved men.
It wasn’t that she always dated them, or frankly even gave them a lot of attention. Sometimes she only visited with them for a laugh, like that night out at one of the local bars. She’d long considered herself a bit of a feminist and was usually opposed to the phenomena known at "Ladies' Night." Let's put a bunch of women in one place, feed them half-priced drinks, and publicize it for all the horny, recently paroled in the area to congregate and see what happens. However, since her friend, DJ Dreamboat, spun records there on Ladies’ Night and his dance parties are notoriously fabulous, she suspended her beliefs on Tuesdays to go and shake her bones with her friends.
That night started off like any other as she enjoyed a couple of drinks and chatted up friends. They hit the dance floor and the first moment she took a break, this dude came running, literally running across the floor and sat at her table. The devil in her thought it had potential for amusement, so she said hi.
She must have forgotten that she was wearing the t-shirt that read: Losers with limited cash flow, this chick wants your attention.
He began, “What you doin' girl?” in that yell-speak hybrid only necessary in a club.
“Dancing with my friends, having a drink,” she said as she tipped her bottle of O’Douls toward him.
“Isn't that some kind of non-alcohol beer?”
Wow, he’s really exceptional, she thought as she rolled her eyes and said, “Yep.”
She’d given up booze several years earlier and it had become a handicap of sorts in some social settings.
After several seconds of awkward silence, he said, “So are you gonna buy me a vodka cranberry?”
Though sometimes dumbfounded, she was rarely speechless. She looked at him blankly. “Why don't you have YOUR friends buy you a drink?”
“They ain't got no mutherfuckin' money either.”
She took a drag of her cigarette and considered all the mean things she could say, like how much fun jobs were or how her friend’s mentally challenged brother had superior social skills.
“I am higher than a mutherfuckin' kite. You smoke weed?”
She tipped her head slightly to the right and before she could muster an answer he blurted out, “You seen that movie, Me, Myself, and Irene?”
She nodded as he continued, “You know that part where he's in the police station and his face gets all...”
She totally quit listening to the douche at that point and nodded when it seemed appropriate. Then suddenly this chick came up and hit him square in the side of the head, making her think she should listen in the hopes that it would get interesting. Too bad it was really hard for her to make out anything they were saying. She was pretty sure she was called a “dumb ho” and he was a “stupid motherfucker.” She really couldn’t disagree with the latter assessment.
It would seem to almost everyone that she had her proverbial shit together. And for the most part, she did. There was one fatal flaw in her character however, and that involved men.
It wasn’t that she always dated them, or frankly even gave them a lot of attention. Sometimes she only visited with them for a laugh, like that night out at one of the local bars. She’d long considered herself a bit of a feminist and was usually opposed to the phenomena known at "Ladies' Night." Let's put a bunch of women in one place, feed them half-priced drinks, and publicize it for all the horny, recently paroled in the area to congregate and see what happens. However, since her friend, DJ Dreamboat, spun records there on Ladies’ Night and his dance parties are notoriously fabulous, she suspended her beliefs on Tuesdays to go and shake her bones with her friends.
That night started off like any other as she enjoyed a couple of drinks and chatted up friends. They hit the dance floor and the first moment she took a break, this dude came running, literally running across the floor and sat at her table. The devil in her thought it had potential for amusement, so she said hi.
She must have forgotten that she was wearing the t-shirt that read: Losers with limited cash flow, this chick wants your attention.
He began, “What you doin' girl?” in that yell-speak hybrid only necessary in a club.
“Dancing with my friends, having a drink,” she said as she tipped her bottle of O’Douls toward him.
“Isn't that some kind of non-alcohol beer?”
Wow, he’s really exceptional, she thought as she rolled her eyes and said, “Yep.”
She’d given up booze several years earlier and it had become a handicap of sorts in some social settings.
After several seconds of awkward silence, he said, “So are you gonna buy me a vodka cranberry?”
Though sometimes dumbfounded, she was rarely speechless. She looked at him blankly. “Why don't you have YOUR friends buy you a drink?”
“They ain't got no mutherfuckin' money either.”
She took a drag of her cigarette and considered all the mean things she could say, like how much fun jobs were or how her friend’s mentally challenged brother had superior social skills.
“I am higher than a mutherfuckin' kite. You smoke weed?”
She tipped her head slightly to the right and before she could muster an answer he blurted out, “You seen that movie, Me, Myself, and Irene?”
She nodded as he continued, “You know that part where he's in the police station and his face gets all...”
She totally quit listening to the douche at that point and nodded when it seemed appropriate. Then suddenly this chick came up and hit him square in the side of the head, making her think she should listen in the hopes that it would get interesting. Too bad it was really hard for her to make out anything they were saying. She was pretty sure she was called a “dumb ho” and he was a “stupid motherfucker.” She really couldn’t disagree with the latter assessment.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Tiny Trolls Heave Huge Insults...
Two little girls at my niece’s daycare hurt her feelings the other day. They told her she wasn’t pretty, which according to my brother, was quite a blow for her. Quite a blow for me, too, since she looks like a tiny me. But the part that really bugged me was that she’s only three years old.
Like I said, she looks like me, so of course I think she’s the cutest little thing ever. It’s mind bending to me that this type of nonsense starts so young. My brother said they talked about it and he assured her that she is a very pretty little girl. The good part about her being three is that she doesn’t have the life experience to know that her dad is always gonna say that. My first instinct would have not been so pretty. My first instinct was to tell those two tiny trolls to get fucked for being pre-mean girls and ask them what exactly pretty is anyway? Pageant girls made up like tiny hookers? Weak, skinny little things? One of the dumb heroines from a Disney cartoon? Short or tall? Only blondes? Just because we look like the ones Hitler forgot doesn’t mean we aren’t pretty…
One of my male friends in college gave this half drunken ramble about how girls are classified according to their looks. There were several main categories: beautiful, cute, pretty, hot, big boned, and no. No is obvious. Stop a truck, a face only a mother could love, and the like. Big boned was a nice way of saying fat and reserved for fat girls who were nice, funny, and had good attitudes. Hot was the sort of untouchable print model-like chick who was probably a bitch but you put up with it because you liked looking at her and most of your friends wanted to fuck her. Pretty is the natural, girl next door type. And cute, yes, cute. Bunnies are cute. Puppies are cute. Cute is where you clump lots of girls who aren’t super attractive, but they aren’t really unattractive either. Any of these chicks can be sexy depending on how they carry themselves and how drunk you are. But what, you say? I forgot beautiful? No, the best is always last. Beauty is manifested from within. That’s the stuff where a girl starts talking and she’s sweet and smart and kind, and maybe she laughs at your dumb joke and the whole room lights up. That pretty face you noticed is suddenly beautiful. That’s the good stuff. Man Friend echoed a similar sentiment regarding beauty years later, so I think we’re on to something here.
This whole thing really got me thinking about my definition of beauty and how long it took me to be okay with my looks. When I was growing up, I was often reminded of my intelligence. I’m sure someone probably said something affirmative about my looks along the way, but I certainly don’t remember it. I don’t remember a lot of negativity about my looks either, for that matter. I guess it really wasn’t overly important to me until junior high and high school. By then, I was more of the over-achiever or the funny one and even though the lack of shit like compliments, dates, or boyfriends was a downer, there was enough going on in my life to fill my time. I do believe, though, some of the seeds for feeling unattractive were planted then. And shit, then I was drunk and fat and then drunk for a long time, so since I was 100% uncomfortable with myself, I certainly wasn’t going to be attractive to anyone worth anything. It’s really only been the last few years that I looked in the mirror and liked what I saw.
I just want my niece to grow up being comfortable with how she looks. I hope it doesn’t take her as long as it’s taken me. I think it’s much more important to tell girls that they are smart and can do anything they want than to tell them they are pretty. I hope she doesn’t spend hours judging herself by how she thinks she is physically perceived by others. I hope she develops a sense of self that allows her inner beauty to shine. I want her to know that I had those same chubby little legs and now those legs can run further than a lot of people reading this. I want her to know that even though there will always be mean tiny troll spouting venom, there will also be people and dogs who will love you unconditionally. I want her to know that strength of mind, body, and soul together will get her through anything.
The bitches are the total package. They are smart, athletic, loyal, strong, stubborn, loving, and beautiful. I once saw a bumper sticker that read, “God let me be the person my dog thinks I am.” I just wanna be like my dogs.
Like I said, she looks like me, so of course I think she’s the cutest little thing ever. It’s mind bending to me that this type of nonsense starts so young. My brother said they talked about it and he assured her that she is a very pretty little girl. The good part about her being three is that she doesn’t have the life experience to know that her dad is always gonna say that. My first instinct would have not been so pretty. My first instinct was to tell those two tiny trolls to get fucked for being pre-mean girls and ask them what exactly pretty is anyway? Pageant girls made up like tiny hookers? Weak, skinny little things? One of the dumb heroines from a Disney cartoon? Short or tall? Only blondes? Just because we look like the ones Hitler forgot doesn’t mean we aren’t pretty…
One of my male friends in college gave this half drunken ramble about how girls are classified according to their looks. There were several main categories: beautiful, cute, pretty, hot, big boned, and no. No is obvious. Stop a truck, a face only a mother could love, and the like. Big boned was a nice way of saying fat and reserved for fat girls who were nice, funny, and had good attitudes. Hot was the sort of untouchable print model-like chick who was probably a bitch but you put up with it because you liked looking at her and most of your friends wanted to fuck her. Pretty is the natural, girl next door type. And cute, yes, cute. Bunnies are cute. Puppies are cute. Cute is where you clump lots of girls who aren’t super attractive, but they aren’t really unattractive either. Any of these chicks can be sexy depending on how they carry themselves and how drunk you are. But what, you say? I forgot beautiful? No, the best is always last. Beauty is manifested from within. That’s the stuff where a girl starts talking and she’s sweet and smart and kind, and maybe she laughs at your dumb joke and the whole room lights up. That pretty face you noticed is suddenly beautiful. That’s the good stuff. Man Friend echoed a similar sentiment regarding beauty years later, so I think we’re on to something here.
This whole thing really got me thinking about my definition of beauty and how long it took me to be okay with my looks. When I was growing up, I was often reminded of my intelligence. I’m sure someone probably said something affirmative about my looks along the way, but I certainly don’t remember it. I don’t remember a lot of negativity about my looks either, for that matter. I guess it really wasn’t overly important to me until junior high and high school. By then, I was more of the over-achiever or the funny one and even though the lack of shit like compliments, dates, or boyfriends was a downer, there was enough going on in my life to fill my time. I do believe, though, some of the seeds for feeling unattractive were planted then. And shit, then I was drunk and fat and then drunk for a long time, so since I was 100% uncomfortable with myself, I certainly wasn’t going to be attractive to anyone worth anything. It’s really only been the last few years that I looked in the mirror and liked what I saw.
I just want my niece to grow up being comfortable with how she looks. I hope it doesn’t take her as long as it’s taken me. I think it’s much more important to tell girls that they are smart and can do anything they want than to tell them they are pretty. I hope she doesn’t spend hours judging herself by how she thinks she is physically perceived by others. I hope she develops a sense of self that allows her inner beauty to shine. I want her to know that I had those same chubby little legs and now those legs can run further than a lot of people reading this. I want her to know that even though there will always be mean tiny troll spouting venom, there will also be people and dogs who will love you unconditionally. I want her to know that strength of mind, body, and soul together will get her through anything.
The bitches are the total package. They are smart, athletic, loyal, strong, stubborn, loving, and beautiful. I once saw a bumper sticker that read, “God let me be the person my dog thinks I am.” I just wanna be like my dogs.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
The End of Tot Mom...
“A stunning blow to justice.” “The devil is dancing tonight.” “A stunning blow to law enforcement.” “You don’t need to crawl inside the mind of a defendant and figure out why they commit murder.” These are the things Nancy Grace is saying right now. Maybe I’m unsure what death smells like, but I have a clue about the stank of ignorance.
I doubt Casey Anthony was mother of the year. I don’t know how involved she was with her child or if she had anything to do with the disappearance and death of her child. I do know that, thankfully, we live in a country that demands that the State must carry the burden of proof. All too often, this system fails people. I remember helping with jury selection when I worked at the PDO and there were potential jurors of the attitude that a defendant must have done something wrong simply because he or she was arrested. It’s good to hear of a case like this where the jurors understood the concept of “beyond a reasonable doubt.”
It’s the condescension of the Nancy Grace crowd that really chaps my ass. First, they convicted and vilified this woman for the past few years. The so-called legal experts grandstanding and screaming on her show are nothing but laughable. Laughable to me since I’m not the one on trial. It’s as though the media wants to pressure the defendant into accepting some type of plea.
Then there is the whole other issue of her insulting the jurors and insinuating that they had their minds made up before the evidence was completely presented. She’s blasting one for a DUI arrest, another for a paraphernalia conviction, and another for fiddling with her pen and seeming uninterested. Had they issued a conviction on all counts, she’d probably be championing them as the salt of the earth, the everyday working people of our society who aren’t afraid to dole out justice.
Perhaps it’s time to go toast a grapefruit Izzy to justice. And I must say kudos to the prosecutor and sheriff for being class acts during the post-trial press conferences.
I have to quit watching this nonsense for the sake of my blood pressure. It’s hard to decide whether Nancy’s face or voice is more abrasive.
And P.S., Nancy, “Tot Mom” was didn’t catch because it’s stupid. My dogs, though less articulate, are smarter than you. They lick their own assholes.
I doubt Casey Anthony was mother of the year. I don’t know how involved she was with her child or if she had anything to do with the disappearance and death of her child. I do know that, thankfully, we live in a country that demands that the State must carry the burden of proof. All too often, this system fails people. I remember helping with jury selection when I worked at the PDO and there were potential jurors of the attitude that a defendant must have done something wrong simply because he or she was arrested. It’s good to hear of a case like this where the jurors understood the concept of “beyond a reasonable doubt.”
It’s the condescension of the Nancy Grace crowd that really chaps my ass. First, they convicted and vilified this woman for the past few years. The so-called legal experts grandstanding and screaming on her show are nothing but laughable. Laughable to me since I’m not the one on trial. It’s as though the media wants to pressure the defendant into accepting some type of plea.
Then there is the whole other issue of her insulting the jurors and insinuating that they had their minds made up before the evidence was completely presented. She’s blasting one for a DUI arrest, another for a paraphernalia conviction, and another for fiddling with her pen and seeming uninterested. Had they issued a conviction on all counts, she’d probably be championing them as the salt of the earth, the everyday working people of our society who aren’t afraid to dole out justice.
Perhaps it’s time to go toast a grapefruit Izzy to justice. And I must say kudos to the prosecutor and sheriff for being class acts during the post-trial press conferences.
I have to quit watching this nonsense for the sake of my blood pressure. It’s hard to decide whether Nancy’s face or voice is more abrasive.
And P.S., Nancy, “Tot Mom” was didn’t catch because it’s stupid. My dogs, though less articulate, are smarter than you. They lick their own assholes.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
It's Been A Good Run, Dr. Drew...
I am officially breaking up with Dr. Drew. Sigh… it’s been a good run. I remember falling for him in the Loveline days. It seemed like he really cared, probably because Corolla came off as such an asshole, but nevertheless, there was something about the combination of empathy and smarts that was incredibly attractive. It carried right through the first few seasons of Celebrity Rehab. Something about the way he tipped his head and made a sad face really made me want Brigitte Neilsen to get sober. Do it for your kids, you crazy bitch! He made me get past some of my dry drunk judgment and be thankful that things didn’t have to get all Jeff Conaway in my life. I wanted to slap that beauty queen princess for calling him a fake tv doctor who didn’t really care about his patients. But sadly, she may have been on to something.
Yes, I am guilty of watching way too much reality programming with Dr. Drew. I have no issue in admitting it. But the guilty pleasures of 16 & Pregnant and Teen Mom have finally pushed me over the edge. I say guilty pleasures as there is a part of me that can’t help but watch the train wreck. The most fascinating part is the follow-up shows. This one kid, Aubrey, was knocked up at 16, had a quicky marriage, and is already getting divorced a couple years later. And now she’s doing the pseudo-lesbian thing, partying, and saying things like, “Maybe I would strip to support my son. It’s good money,” and making allusions that someday her son would be proud if she stripped because it would prove she was a MILF. And so it goes…
Let’s reward this bullshit behavior with a television show and a large sum of money. Just more appealing to the lowest common denominator, I guess. Everybody’s capable when we set the bar low enough. Don’t get me wrong, some of these kids get it. Some of them make sacrifices, work hard, finish school, and learn to parent. There are parts of these series that need to be aired. There is one where a girl chose to have an abortion and others who chose adoption. It’s not sugar-coated. There are the fights, the problems with the daddies, and issues with custody and child support. And of course they pick some of the most messed-up situations one can imagine, like girls who had absent fathers or the boy whose mom was a drug addict. I know they want drama to get viewers to sell ad time. I guess I just feel bad for the babies and the fucked up video diaries that are left behind. The moms are in People and US Weekly magazines and gossip websites. It’s an extension of the Paris Hilton and Kardashian model of fame, these girls get famous for doing nothing. Or I should say famous for getting knocked up.
I work with a girl who is 20 and almost all of her friends have babies or have been pregnant. I’m 33 and have never been pregnant. I guess it just always seemed pretty easy to not get pregnant. Lots of friends my age don’t have children or are just starting families. So I look at these 20 year olds and have to think that growing up in a state with no comprehensive sex education sure did them a lot of fucking good. Yes, I blame the abstinence-based and abstinence only bullshit of the Bush years. And yes, I know teenagers are gonna get pregnant regardless of the political situation. It just seems to be a bit of an epidemic right now, or at least it seems that way when I see really young moms pushing their kids around the downtown area, usually after I get off work at night.
So I have decided that as long as Dr. Drew supports and profits from this he will no longer be my mature boyfriend. I hope on some level, kids watch the show and realize that being a parent is the hardest job in the world. My fear is that some kids watch the show and think it’s a great way to get famous and make money. Want money? Work. Wanna be famous? Do something worth fame. Create something. Play something. Solve a problem. Lots of us want fame and money when we are young. But if you grow up a bit, you realize who you want to be and for nearly all of us, that has nothing to do with how many people recognize us or know our names. It’s about connecting with other people and having the love of family and friends in your life. And for some people, part of that is creating another life when they feel more capable.
Yes, I am guilty of watching way too much reality programming with Dr. Drew. I have no issue in admitting it. But the guilty pleasures of 16 & Pregnant and Teen Mom have finally pushed me over the edge. I say guilty pleasures as there is a part of me that can’t help but watch the train wreck. The most fascinating part is the follow-up shows. This one kid, Aubrey, was knocked up at 16, had a quicky marriage, and is already getting divorced a couple years later. And now she’s doing the pseudo-lesbian thing, partying, and saying things like, “Maybe I would strip to support my son. It’s good money,” and making allusions that someday her son would be proud if she stripped because it would prove she was a MILF. And so it goes…
Let’s reward this bullshit behavior with a television show and a large sum of money. Just more appealing to the lowest common denominator, I guess. Everybody’s capable when we set the bar low enough. Don’t get me wrong, some of these kids get it. Some of them make sacrifices, work hard, finish school, and learn to parent. There are parts of these series that need to be aired. There is one where a girl chose to have an abortion and others who chose adoption. It’s not sugar-coated. There are the fights, the problems with the daddies, and issues with custody and child support. And of course they pick some of the most messed-up situations one can imagine, like girls who had absent fathers or the boy whose mom was a drug addict. I know they want drama to get viewers to sell ad time. I guess I just feel bad for the babies and the fucked up video diaries that are left behind. The moms are in People and US Weekly magazines and gossip websites. It’s an extension of the Paris Hilton and Kardashian model of fame, these girls get famous for doing nothing. Or I should say famous for getting knocked up.
I work with a girl who is 20 and almost all of her friends have babies or have been pregnant. I’m 33 and have never been pregnant. I guess it just always seemed pretty easy to not get pregnant. Lots of friends my age don’t have children or are just starting families. So I look at these 20 year olds and have to think that growing up in a state with no comprehensive sex education sure did them a lot of fucking good. Yes, I blame the abstinence-based and abstinence only bullshit of the Bush years. And yes, I know teenagers are gonna get pregnant regardless of the political situation. It just seems to be a bit of an epidemic right now, or at least it seems that way when I see really young moms pushing their kids around the downtown area, usually after I get off work at night.
So I have decided that as long as Dr. Drew supports and profits from this he will no longer be my mature boyfriend. I hope on some level, kids watch the show and realize that being a parent is the hardest job in the world. My fear is that some kids watch the show and think it’s a great way to get famous and make money. Want money? Work. Wanna be famous? Do something worth fame. Create something. Play something. Solve a problem. Lots of us want fame and money when we are young. But if you grow up a bit, you realize who you want to be and for nearly all of us, that has nothing to do with how many people recognize us or know our names. It’s about connecting with other people and having the love of family and friends in your life. And for some people, part of that is creating another life when they feel more capable.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Lessons from Dad
The third Sunday in June is recognized as Father’s Day here in the US and in many countries around the world. I guess the tradition of Father’s Day started in the early 20th century in West Virginia to honor a couple hundred men who passed in a mining accident. Perhaps fitting to start the tradition in a state where you were likely to have more than one familial reference for your pappy? I like killing two birds with one stone. And we certainly don’t have an Uncle’s Day…
Anyway, I hit the cosmic jackpot with my dad, who I started calling Lar Bear for some odd reason. One of the coolest cats I’ve ever met, so today I dedicate this to writing about the most important lessons I’ve learned from my father.
I remember one time when a guy had upset me and I was being a pissy pants. I was the type of young person that couldn’t understand why I never had a boyfriend or why guys weren’t interested in me. (I now know it was because I was too awesome.) Lar Bear’s advice, “Let him take a running fuck at a rolling doughnut.” I probably still think about that at least once a week and laugh out loud. I took that as my dad’s version of “don’t sweat the small stuff.” Laugh and get on with it. Duly noted.
My dad’s patience is one of my favorite things about him. Don’t get me wrong, he’s got that Schooly stubborn streak, but he taught me that retribution or revenge isn’t necessary. Let God or god or the universe or whatever you believe in sort that out in the end. It might not come on your time or in a way that you easily understand or even realize, but everyone really does get what’s coming to him or her in the end.
Lar Bear also taught me that silence is gratifying. Never talk just to hear your own voice. Your words have more power when they really mean something. Whether you’re watching a game, fishing, singing, or whatever, the space between the sounds is sometimes more important.
Being a hunter and fisherman, my dad has a respect for the Earth. He isn’t some hippie dippy PETA environmentalist, but I had a great example in him to not litter, to recycle, and to appreciate the beauty and gifts that this planet provides us. I may take it a few steps further to the left, but he planted those seeds.
If you know me at all, you know how much I love cursing. Fuck, shit, and cocksucker are the brightest crayons in my language box. Of course, you can go over board and sound ignorant, but I did get some of my fabulous cursing skills from my dad. When I was little, I thought cursing helped him put things together. Just ask him about the grill at Grandpa Muller’s. The big lesson as far as dirty words was that it’s okay to curse at things, just don’t curse at people.
He also taught me that there is always time for a game of HORSE. I used to sit on the step and wait for him to get home from work so we could shoot some baskets. He was probably tired and his knees probably hurt, but he never said a word about it. I was just a little munchkin not even half the height of the basket, but he would let me win and I felt taller than the trees.
The best thing about my dad is that he probably doesn’t even realize that he taught me all these things. He just does. There’s something to be said about someone who is a quiet example and never feels the need to get preachy or rant and rave about his ideas or opinions on leading a good life. He might not have been the flashiest or loudest guy at the party, but he was probably the best one, so good grab, Mom.
Alli’s one experience with a papa resulted in the bitchnapping of her sister, so she’s a little leary of Father’s Day. That said, the bitches would like to send HFD wishes to their dogfathers, Man Friend and Chef Boy.
Anyway, I hit the cosmic jackpot with my dad, who I started calling Lar Bear for some odd reason. One of the coolest cats I’ve ever met, so today I dedicate this to writing about the most important lessons I’ve learned from my father.
I remember one time when a guy had upset me and I was being a pissy pants. I was the type of young person that couldn’t understand why I never had a boyfriend or why guys weren’t interested in me. (I now know it was because I was too awesome.) Lar Bear’s advice, “Let him take a running fuck at a rolling doughnut.” I probably still think about that at least once a week and laugh out loud. I took that as my dad’s version of “don’t sweat the small stuff.” Laugh and get on with it. Duly noted.
My dad’s patience is one of my favorite things about him. Don’t get me wrong, he’s got that Schooly stubborn streak, but he taught me that retribution or revenge isn’t necessary. Let God or god or the universe or whatever you believe in sort that out in the end. It might not come on your time or in a way that you easily understand or even realize, but everyone really does get what’s coming to him or her in the end.
Lar Bear also taught me that silence is gratifying. Never talk just to hear your own voice. Your words have more power when they really mean something. Whether you’re watching a game, fishing, singing, or whatever, the space between the sounds is sometimes more important.
Being a hunter and fisherman, my dad has a respect for the Earth. He isn’t some hippie dippy PETA environmentalist, but I had a great example in him to not litter, to recycle, and to appreciate the beauty and gifts that this planet provides us. I may take it a few steps further to the left, but he planted those seeds.
If you know me at all, you know how much I love cursing. Fuck, shit, and cocksucker are the brightest crayons in my language box. Of course, you can go over board and sound ignorant, but I did get some of my fabulous cursing skills from my dad. When I was little, I thought cursing helped him put things together. Just ask him about the grill at Grandpa Muller’s. The big lesson as far as dirty words was that it’s okay to curse at things, just don’t curse at people.
He also taught me that there is always time for a game of HORSE. I used to sit on the step and wait for him to get home from work so we could shoot some baskets. He was probably tired and his knees probably hurt, but he never said a word about it. I was just a little munchkin not even half the height of the basket, but he would let me win and I felt taller than the trees.
The best thing about my dad is that he probably doesn’t even realize that he taught me all these things. He just does. There’s something to be said about someone who is a quiet example and never feels the need to get preachy or rant and rave about his ideas or opinions on leading a good life. He might not have been the flashiest or loudest guy at the party, but he was probably the best one, so good grab, Mom.
Alli’s one experience with a papa resulted in the bitchnapping of her sister, so she’s a little leary of Father’s Day. That said, the bitches would like to send HFD wishes to their dogfathers, Man Friend and Chef Boy.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Let Them Eat Cake
Sweets. I could eat sweets everyday. I would pick sugar over salt every time and sugar is best with fat. I've always been that way; it's not that I dislike chips or fries, it's just that sugar, in all is delicious, make my brain happy glory, is soooo much more delightful.
I remember helping both of my grandmas and both of my parents make cookies when I was little. Chocolate chip was paramount. Peanut butter on occasion. Personally, I like a good oatmeal raisin or monster cookie, but apparently we were cookie purists in my family. Even the California Raisin craze couldn't get Tiny T to eat one. Christmas cookie baking and decorating was a huge production each year, with mom patrolling to make sure we didn't overload on the colored sugar or sprinkles.
My first pie was apple and I made it at my Grandma Mil's house. It had something to do with earning a badge for Brownie scouts. I was eight and I still remember how important I felt slicing the apples and rolling the crust. It seemed like such a monumental task for my tiny hands. Now I can turn out a crust like it's nobody's business.
The cakes, though, are what has really become a lot of fun. There are hits and misses, hell sometimes there are near catastrophes. Like the time I was asked to make a red velvet vampire cake. Cool, right? Red velvet, black and white frosting, fondant vamp teeth, and lots of red food coloring blood spatters. Sounded great. Except the cream cheese frosting you need for red velvet doesn't set up great for decorating and doesn't hold food coloring all that well. So they got a droopy vampire and black mouths. Like really black. But apparently it made for funny pics at the party. Or the time I tried to make a pug using my lamb pan and it looked like a deranged racoon. But I guess the kid loved it and I'll say thanks for the non-judgmental nature of a two-year old.
But then there are the times where I just get in a creative groove. I put on some music, apron up, and something just clicks. Sometimes the ideas I've drawn up or have floating in my head actually end up right before my eyes. In sugar! And fat! Like my Scrabble cakes or the Woody from Toy Story. Looking into my refrigerator can be really funny at time since there could be anything from a chocolate beaver to two dozen Cletus the Fetus cupcakes staring back at you.
Alli got into a cake once. It was supposed to be a 2010 end of the year cake for my friends Brian and Veronica. I didn't close the door to the spare room and as I was laying in bed, I heard Alli eating something. I lept out of bed and found her, guilty with her face in the cake. Bitches do like chocolate apparently. It was late at night, I was tired and out of eggs and couldn't bear the thought of driving to HyVee for more supplies. So I emailed B&V my apology/excuse for why I couldn't have their cake done in the morning. Defeated, I went to bed. They showed up at my work with a HyVee cake, decorated with a dog and "My Dog Ate the Cake" excuse on it. Alli couldn't have picked a better cake to ruin.
I remember helping both of my grandmas and both of my parents make cookies when I was little. Chocolate chip was paramount. Peanut butter on occasion. Personally, I like a good oatmeal raisin or monster cookie, but apparently we were cookie purists in my family. Even the California Raisin craze couldn't get Tiny T to eat one. Christmas cookie baking and decorating was a huge production each year, with mom patrolling to make sure we didn't overload on the colored sugar or sprinkles.
My first pie was apple and I made it at my Grandma Mil's house. It had something to do with earning a badge for Brownie scouts. I was eight and I still remember how important I felt slicing the apples and rolling the crust. It seemed like such a monumental task for my tiny hands. Now I can turn out a crust like it's nobody's business.
The cakes, though, are what has really become a lot of fun. There are hits and misses, hell sometimes there are near catastrophes. Like the time I was asked to make a red velvet vampire cake. Cool, right? Red velvet, black and white frosting, fondant vamp teeth, and lots of red food coloring blood spatters. Sounded great. Except the cream cheese frosting you need for red velvet doesn't set up great for decorating and doesn't hold food coloring all that well. So they got a droopy vampire and black mouths. Like really black. But apparently it made for funny pics at the party. Or the time I tried to make a pug using my lamb pan and it looked like a deranged racoon. But I guess the kid loved it and I'll say thanks for the non-judgmental nature of a two-year old.
But then there are the times where I just get in a creative groove. I put on some music, apron up, and something just clicks. Sometimes the ideas I've drawn up or have floating in my head actually end up right before my eyes. In sugar! And fat! Like my Scrabble cakes or the Woody from Toy Story. Looking into my refrigerator can be really funny at time since there could be anything from a chocolate beaver to two dozen Cletus the Fetus cupcakes staring back at you.
Alli got into a cake once. It was supposed to be a 2010 end of the year cake for my friends Brian and Veronica. I didn't close the door to the spare room and as I was laying in bed, I heard Alli eating something. I lept out of bed and found her, guilty with her face in the cake. Bitches do like chocolate apparently. It was late at night, I was tired and out of eggs and couldn't bear the thought of driving to HyVee for more supplies. So I emailed B&V my apology/excuse for why I couldn't have their cake done in the morning. Defeated, I went to bed. They showed up at my work with a HyVee cake, decorated with a dog and "My Dog Ate the Cake" excuse on it. Alli couldn't have picked a better cake to ruin.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
A Guest Blog by Alli
I am not a pit bull. Not a hard concept for anyone vaguely familiar with various canine breeds. I'm a fairly calm, middle-aged German Shorthair Pointer. In human years, I'm more mature than my human momma. I enjoy a good run and a fine bowl of kibble, crunchy brown lamb kibble, and a nice drink of water. I am smart, athletic, and love my humans. Really, I am exactly what you would expect of a good GSP. Check out my photograph, I have big, floppy ears and the long, regal face of a sport dog. My fur is almost all liver-colored, minus the white spot on my chest that Uncle Chef Boy calls my royalty mark. My eyes are almond shaped. My point is that I really couldn't look less like a pit bull. Yet several humans have mistaken me for one. One human even snatched her little punt puppy out of the yard while yelling, "Keep the pit bull away.". I'd like her to know that not all pit bulls are mean. Any type of dog can be kind and any type of dog can be mean. That has a lot to do with how many of you treat us. Momma just stopped and stared at that dumb human, then shook her head.
Like humans, our backgrounds are part of our identity. I'm sure a Korean human would probably get tired of another human calling him Chinese. So humans, since you don't speak dog, please ask the other humans what breed their dogs are. Or otherwise, just say Lab mix or Shepherd mix like they do with every poor dog at the shelter. I have to go sleep for awhile. Morning kibble will be here before I know it.
Like humans, our backgrounds are part of our identity. I'm sure a Korean human would probably get tired of another human calling him Chinese. So humans, since you don't speak dog, please ask the other humans what breed their dogs are. Or otherwise, just say Lab mix or Shepherd mix like they do with every poor dog at the shelter. I have to go sleep for awhile. Morning kibble will be here before I know it.
Monday, June 13, 2011
It's All Good In This 'Hood
He’s baaaaaaa-aaack. The sweet heat brought the return of our ass-bearing son. I was sitting out in the yard, getting my daily fix of Bust-A-Marble on the iPad, when I noticed the top of his head bobbing along my fence line. I cut the game short and called in the bitches. The viewpoint is from the kitchen. It’s the only place to really appreciate the spectacle since I put in the privacy fence. It was an orange and yellow string number that night. The Thongman cometh.
My weird voyeuristic fascination with Thongman is strange. We’ve been neighbors for six years and he’s really only pissed me off once. His family is nice. I still think Alli ate one of his kids’ pet rabbits, but that’s a whole other story. The entertainment factor of my neighborhood is fairly high and for my money, he is king.
I gotta give the guy props for confidence. I don’t think I know many people, let alone men, who would wear a thong with pride while doing the yardwork. It’s slightly amazing to me how he never seems to get much of a tan. Plus, it’s his yard, do what ya gotta do. I like to steal the Moto Cat summer fashion sense and run around in a sports bra or bikini top and shorts while I do yard work or hang out at home. Maybe someone calls me Bra Lady and has a weird interest in my activities.
Speaking of Moto Cat, she is linked my favorite Thongman memory. The mail carrier accidentally delivered his men’s underwear catalogue to my house. Since it was bulk mail and had things like latex boy shorts in it, I kept it, taped the pages together, and wrapped Moto Cat’s wedding present in it. “It’s a long story,” I said to the aunt collecting gifts at the reception. Her depanned reply? “I’m sure it is, honey.”
The funny part thing about Thongman is that when it comes to this neighborhood, he really is just the beginning. Okay, like I said, he’s king. He’s the magical center of the central SF universe, but there is a fabulous cast of supporting players around him. Like the guy I see walking his coon. Not a racist remark. Not a dick joke. Homey actually has a housebroken, leash-trained raccoon. You don’t see that kind of shit south of 26th Street.
My new personal favorite is a fella I call Curses A Lot. I like the fact that he watches his kids while they are outside playing. That’s a good thng since there are like seven of them and they are all tiny. Seriously, there are seven of them, like diapered little dwarves running barefoot through the alley. They leave naked dolls in the mud puddles after it rains. The cynic in me can’t decide if they are playing CSI or swimming pool. Or maybe they are playing drown daddy’s bad words since I’ve lost count of the times I’ve heard him yelling GD or fuck at them. It’s sad in a way. Part of me wants to ask him if he wishes he would have bought some fuckin’ condoms and part of me is sad for the kids. They look at me with a longing that is 30% please save me and 70% I know I’ll be pregnant in middle school anyway and Teen Mom is gonna be paying mad by then, so whatever.
It’s not all weirdness and housing vouchers, though. Take out a few slumlords and there are actually some pretty cool properties around here. There are old people, young people, and families. There are people of every color and profession. And I think many of no profession, but what do I really know…
I like the fact that there are always kids playing outside and the trees are so mature and varied. Plus it’s fun to live somewhere that lets me forget that I live in one of the whitest states in the country. I guess I’ve always gravitated to places that aren’t cookie cutter and this is as good as it gets for now.
The bitches dig the ‘hood. There are plenty of other dogs around, although Alli is tired of being mistaken for a pit bull. We’ve only had trouble a couple of times, once early on a Sunday morning when a very drunk man started yelling at us in Arabic and stuck his finger in Alli’s face. She took a swipe at him, but held back and didn’t connect. Not too long ago, a couple of dudes were yelling, “You got a husband?” at me and Al’s hair on her neck stood up instantly. I think that was her way of saying, “No, but she has Man Friend and I love him, so get fucked loser.”
My weird voyeuristic fascination with Thongman is strange. We’ve been neighbors for six years and he’s really only pissed me off once. His family is nice. I still think Alli ate one of his kids’ pet rabbits, but that’s a whole other story. The entertainment factor of my neighborhood is fairly high and for my money, he is king.
I gotta give the guy props for confidence. I don’t think I know many people, let alone men, who would wear a thong with pride while doing the yardwork. It’s slightly amazing to me how he never seems to get much of a tan. Plus, it’s his yard, do what ya gotta do. I like to steal the Moto Cat summer fashion sense and run around in a sports bra or bikini top and shorts while I do yard work or hang out at home. Maybe someone calls me Bra Lady and has a weird interest in my activities.
Speaking of Moto Cat, she is linked my favorite Thongman memory. The mail carrier accidentally delivered his men’s underwear catalogue to my house. Since it was bulk mail and had things like latex boy shorts in it, I kept it, taped the pages together, and wrapped Moto Cat’s wedding present in it. “It’s a long story,” I said to the aunt collecting gifts at the reception. Her depanned reply? “I’m sure it is, honey.”
The funny part thing about Thongman is that when it comes to this neighborhood, he really is just the beginning. Okay, like I said, he’s king. He’s the magical center of the central SF universe, but there is a fabulous cast of supporting players around him. Like the guy I see walking his coon. Not a racist remark. Not a dick joke. Homey actually has a housebroken, leash-trained raccoon. You don’t see that kind of shit south of 26th Street.
My new personal favorite is a fella I call Curses A Lot. I like the fact that he watches his kids while they are outside playing. That’s a good thng since there are like seven of them and they are all tiny. Seriously, there are seven of them, like diapered little dwarves running barefoot through the alley. They leave naked dolls in the mud puddles after it rains. The cynic in me can’t decide if they are playing CSI or swimming pool. Or maybe they are playing drown daddy’s bad words since I’ve lost count of the times I’ve heard him yelling GD or fuck at them. It’s sad in a way. Part of me wants to ask him if he wishes he would have bought some fuckin’ condoms and part of me is sad for the kids. They look at me with a longing that is 30% please save me and 70% I know I’ll be pregnant in middle school anyway and Teen Mom is gonna be paying mad by then, so whatever.
It’s not all weirdness and housing vouchers, though. Take out a few slumlords and there are actually some pretty cool properties around here. There are old people, young people, and families. There are people of every color and profession. And I think many of no profession, but what do I really know…
I like the fact that there are always kids playing outside and the trees are so mature and varied. Plus it’s fun to live somewhere that lets me forget that I live in one of the whitest states in the country. I guess I’ve always gravitated to places that aren’t cookie cutter and this is as good as it gets for now.
The bitches dig the ‘hood. There are plenty of other dogs around, although Alli is tired of being mistaken for a pit bull. We’ve only had trouble a couple of times, once early on a Sunday morning when a very drunk man started yelling at us in Arabic and stuck his finger in Alli’s face. She took a swipe at him, but held back and didn’t connect. Not too long ago, a couple of dudes were yelling, “You got a husband?” at me and Al’s hair on her neck stood up instantly. I think that was her way of saying, “No, but she has Man Friend and I love him, so get fucked loser.”
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Old Yeller Schooly Style
I had to get Old Yeller on a bird this afternoon. I was Travis, but my gun was a shovel. The bitches and I had just returned from a walk and since I had a poop bag to dispose of, we went directly to the back yard. I didn't even see the little guy at first, but on my way back through the yard, I noticed the bitches were both hovering over something in front of the bush.
Its tail feathers were mangled, who knows what happened to get it in that condition. The bitches were interested, but they weren't touching it. Stupidly, I decided it must be dead, gloved up, and grabbed its leg for a proper Target bag burial with the poop. That's when things got a nutty.
The robin was not dead and my grabbing it caused its heart to nearly beat out of its chest. What was left its feathers began flying everywhere. It looked like Ryan Seacrest had a pillow fight in my yard.
Of course, once the feathers flew and the squaking began, the bitches wanted the bird. Let's remember that they are sporting dogs, so they have soft mouths. They took turns carrying it around the yard; they didn't want to kill it or eat it, but really took some pride in the parade. Our bird friend wasn't giving up, though, it wriggles around enough for them to drop it. And let's not forget the friend or family robin that began dive bombing the bitches as soon as the little bird was in their clutches.
I was hoping the little dude would have passed on by this point, but it just wasn't to be. So I grabbed a shovel and called off the bitches. I stared at its chest for a minute, then looked at its face. So much pain and fear in such a little face. It only took one soft blow.
I was already crying by the time I put it in the bag. Fuck, I am crying while I'm typing this.
I've always loved animals. When I was a kid, I would have funerals for dead birds I found. "You're in a better place now, earth isn't forever," the whole nine. I grew up with a Chessie Lab mix named Blacky. My brother and I would run outside to watch the geese migrating. That turned out to be a real mindfuck in middle school when he brought home a Canadian goose he'd shot. I held that dead bird in my lap and cried for the monster that my brother had become. That also led to a fairly long stint as a vegetarian, which eventually settled into being a flexitarian who is passionate about raising animals in an ethically and environmentally conscious way.
But I think today was the time I was responsible for the death of an animal. I never actually cut up a fish that I kept. And one time I hit a cat on the interstate, but I decided it was suicidal because it literally jumped out in front of the car. Plus it lived in Iowa. I know I did the right thing today, because I helped it and it wasn't scared anymore. But that certainly didn't make it any easier.
Its tail feathers were mangled, who knows what happened to get it in that condition. The bitches were interested, but they weren't touching it. Stupidly, I decided it must be dead, gloved up, and grabbed its leg for a proper Target bag burial with the poop. That's when things got a nutty.
The robin was not dead and my grabbing it caused its heart to nearly beat out of its chest. What was left its feathers began flying everywhere. It looked like Ryan Seacrest had a pillow fight in my yard.
Of course, once the feathers flew and the squaking began, the bitches wanted the bird. Let's remember that they are sporting dogs, so they have soft mouths. They took turns carrying it around the yard; they didn't want to kill it or eat it, but really took some pride in the parade. Our bird friend wasn't giving up, though, it wriggles around enough for them to drop it. And let's not forget the friend or family robin that began dive bombing the bitches as soon as the little bird was in their clutches.
I was hoping the little dude would have passed on by this point, but it just wasn't to be. So I grabbed a shovel and called off the bitches. I stared at its chest for a minute, then looked at its face. So much pain and fear in such a little face. It only took one soft blow.
I was already crying by the time I put it in the bag. Fuck, I am crying while I'm typing this.
I've always loved animals. When I was a kid, I would have funerals for dead birds I found. "You're in a better place now, earth isn't forever," the whole nine. I grew up with a Chessie Lab mix named Blacky. My brother and I would run outside to watch the geese migrating. That turned out to be a real mindfuck in middle school when he brought home a Canadian goose he'd shot. I held that dead bird in my lap and cried for the monster that my brother had become. That also led to a fairly long stint as a vegetarian, which eventually settled into being a flexitarian who is passionate about raising animals in an ethically and environmentally conscious way.
But I think today was the time I was responsible for the death of an animal. I never actually cut up a fish that I kept. And one time I hit a cat on the interstate, but I decided it was suicidal because it literally jumped out in front of the car. Plus it lived in Iowa. I know I did the right thing today, because I helped it and it wasn't scared anymore. But that certainly didn't make it any easier.
Monday, June 6, 2011
A Grateful Heart
One of the best parts of quitting drinking was learning to be grateful. The victim mentality that most alcoholics have was such a drag and I was the queen. It might boil down to the old misery loves company cliché for some people. Personally, I was just so mad at the world and people in general, I didn’t really even care if anyone wanted to ride the pity train with me. I didn’t need people; gin and whisky were my friends.
Bleh. What selfish way to live. I spent a lot of time being a jerk, but I did manage to learn one lesson from a Nebraska friend, OmaLaw. OmaLaw was one of the coolest, smartest women I’d ever met and she was the type who’d packed a lot of living into the first 20 years of her life, some of it courtesy of her family situation and some of it due to a healthy bit of feminist rebellion flowing through her veins. She had a great ear, a kind heart, and I am thankful to call her friend. She was the type who would hold your hair back when you puked. One time she sat with me in a theater after a movie really got to me and I just cried and cried and cried. She didn’t need to say a word. While careers, babies, and life in general might seem to have diminished our friendship, she planted the seed for my grateful heart.
I was having another bad day, which was pretty much everyday back then and I enlisted OmaLaw for another therapy session. It may have been drinks at the gay bar or a capp at the coffeehouse, the details escape me. After I complained about whatever was bugging me, she asked if I was ever happy. Now that was the question. Of course I got a little defensive, of course I was happy sometimes. I was happy when I could ride my bike. I was happy when I was partying (ha). On and on. But she stopped me and said, “The next time you are happy, write a list of all the things that you love. Then when you’re sad, you can read the list and you’ll feel better.”
Smart lady, right? I have been making those lists ever since. The frequency of the lists doesn’t really matter much to me anymore. I just like finding one here and there in a notebook, checking the date, and realizing that with all the ridiculousness and insanity in the world, there is still love, beauty, and humor to be found all around us.
Here’s a recent list:
Phone calls with my dad
Watching the bitches play
Man Friend
The sound of a basketball swishing through the net
How my mom says, “And stuff,” eighty times a day
Coffee with hazelnut creamer
Sushi
Watching “Jeopardy” or “Cash Cab” with Chef Boy
The painting DJ Extra Chromosome gave me
Getting a pedicure
Making one of my tables laugh
Laughing like a monkey
Warm enough weather to go running with Al and Jo
Queen and Al Green
Tattoos
Knowing that words and actions only have the power I give them
AMC’S Week of Oscar movies
When the bitches snuggle in for the evening and sigh in their sleep
Doctor Kracker crackers
iPod karaoke
Bob Dylan
Yoga pants
I hope I would make the bitches’ lists… Me, kibble, walks, treats, outside, Man Friend, drinks, kibble, Uncle Chef Boy, and probably more outside. My lists change with my moods and the seasons, I’m sure they would be steadfast in their devotion to their lists. As long as it comes from a grateful heart, human or canine, it doesn’t matter.
Bleh. What selfish way to live. I spent a lot of time being a jerk, but I did manage to learn one lesson from a Nebraska friend, OmaLaw. OmaLaw was one of the coolest, smartest women I’d ever met and she was the type who’d packed a lot of living into the first 20 years of her life, some of it courtesy of her family situation and some of it due to a healthy bit of feminist rebellion flowing through her veins. She had a great ear, a kind heart, and I am thankful to call her friend. She was the type who would hold your hair back when you puked. One time she sat with me in a theater after a movie really got to me and I just cried and cried and cried. She didn’t need to say a word. While careers, babies, and life in general might seem to have diminished our friendship, she planted the seed for my grateful heart.
I was having another bad day, which was pretty much everyday back then and I enlisted OmaLaw for another therapy session. It may have been drinks at the gay bar or a capp at the coffeehouse, the details escape me. After I complained about whatever was bugging me, she asked if I was ever happy. Now that was the question. Of course I got a little defensive, of course I was happy sometimes. I was happy when I could ride my bike. I was happy when I was partying (ha). On and on. But she stopped me and said, “The next time you are happy, write a list of all the things that you love. Then when you’re sad, you can read the list and you’ll feel better.”
Smart lady, right? I have been making those lists ever since. The frequency of the lists doesn’t really matter much to me anymore. I just like finding one here and there in a notebook, checking the date, and realizing that with all the ridiculousness and insanity in the world, there is still love, beauty, and humor to be found all around us.
Here’s a recent list:
Phone calls with my dad
Watching the bitches play
Man Friend
The sound of a basketball swishing through the net
How my mom says, “And stuff,” eighty times a day
Coffee with hazelnut creamer
Sushi
Watching “Jeopardy” or “Cash Cab” with Chef Boy
The painting DJ Extra Chromosome gave me
Getting a pedicure
Making one of my tables laugh
Laughing like a monkey
Warm enough weather to go running with Al and Jo
Queen and Al Green
Tattoos
Knowing that words and actions only have the power I give them
AMC’S Week of Oscar movies
When the bitches snuggle in for the evening and sigh in their sleep
Doctor Kracker crackers
iPod karaoke
Bob Dylan
Yoga pants
I hope I would make the bitches’ lists… Me, kibble, walks, treats, outside, Man Friend, drinks, kibble, Uncle Chef Boy, and probably more outside. My lists change with my moods and the seasons, I’m sure they would be steadfast in their devotion to their lists. As long as it comes from a grateful heart, human or canine, it doesn’t matter.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
I Loves My Internets...
I steal internet. I'm stealing one's internet right now. Apparently people in Spink don't lock down the internet like people in Sioux Falls. Some nice Norwegians are providing me decent speed and uploading down here in Union County. I can't hack into the Four Princesses or BudSmokersOnly back home. Yeah, BudSmokersOnly. Personally, I strive to be more clever than obvious, but different strokes.
I guess I probably don't steal internet in a sense that would hold up in a court of law, but I refuse to pay Midcontinent or Bridgemaxx or Qwest or whoever the latest provider that wants my money happens to be. I just find that so many places I frequent offer Wi-Fi, which I should clarify by saying that some places I frequent include the dining rooms and decks of various relatives. I've scared the hell out of the cleaning lady on more than one occasion coming into my aunt's house. Tip for anyone planning to steal internet from my aunt: the cleaning lady puts FAUX News on the TV. Loud. Bring your ear buds.
I also have my Droid rigged up so I can tether to my iPad or laptop. Gotta get my full use outta that smartphone media charge. But I swear this isn't as much about being cheap as it might sound.
Every classroom I grew up in had a computer. You remember the old Apple green screen computers back in the day? Oregon Trail? Number Munchers? Yeah, totally pimp for the time and we couldn't get enough of it. Technology wasn't the totality of our education by any stretch of the word, but rather a rad complement and important component. What blows my mind is how much and how fast technology has changed over the course of my life. I barely had an email in high school. Now I rarely send a snail mail letter. We bank online, rent movies online, socialize with our friends online, and some of us even have avatars and entire lives online. I am totally guilty of over-Facebooking on my phone. It's a little scary to think how much you can become part of the machine.
Sometimes I feel a little dependent on technology. As much as I love my techie toys, I wonder if I am losing some bit of human connection. And thinking of some people I know, I am not much of a techie nerd. Tip of the hat to Tiny T and the 40 Year Old Virgin. So I wondered how many people in this world don't even use the internet. There are probably a two billion people who have never even used a phone, much less a computer. Yikes, so in March of this year, there were basically 2.1 billion internet users. And there are almost seven billion of us. I'm sure economics is the root of the non-users. I don't care what anyone says, technology usually increases the gap between the haves and the have nots.
What are they doing? No Angry Birds? I can't believe all of them are bartering sugar for boar down at the general store. How do they pay their light bill? No xCel. Wow... fat American alert here. I just don't see me weening myself from the sweet, sweet teet of Mother Firefox or Sister Safari. And what would we do without each other here on blogger? I spend most of my day at work talking to people, so something about the internet and sharing without a physical human connection sates the misanthrope in me.
The bitches do help keep me off the phone and internet too much. They get all weird and jealous. Alli will bark and bark and bark till I put down the technology and give her some attention. Or maybe she just wants me to go to the PetSmart site and order her some new toys?
I guess I probably don't steal internet in a sense that would hold up in a court of law, but I refuse to pay Midcontinent or Bridgemaxx or Qwest or whoever the latest provider that wants my money happens to be. I just find that so many places I frequent offer Wi-Fi, which I should clarify by saying that some places I frequent include the dining rooms and decks of various relatives. I've scared the hell out of the cleaning lady on more than one occasion coming into my aunt's house. Tip for anyone planning to steal internet from my aunt: the cleaning lady puts FAUX News on the TV. Loud. Bring your ear buds.
I also have my Droid rigged up so I can tether to my iPad or laptop. Gotta get my full use outta that smartphone media charge. But I swear this isn't as much about being cheap as it might sound.
Every classroom I grew up in had a computer. You remember the old Apple green screen computers back in the day? Oregon Trail? Number Munchers? Yeah, totally pimp for the time and we couldn't get enough of it. Technology wasn't the totality of our education by any stretch of the word, but rather a rad complement and important component. What blows my mind is how much and how fast technology has changed over the course of my life. I barely had an email in high school. Now I rarely send a snail mail letter. We bank online, rent movies online, socialize with our friends online, and some of us even have avatars and entire lives online. I am totally guilty of over-Facebooking on my phone. It's a little scary to think how much you can become part of the machine.
Sometimes I feel a little dependent on technology. As much as I love my techie toys, I wonder if I am losing some bit of human connection. And thinking of some people I know, I am not much of a techie nerd. Tip of the hat to Tiny T and the 40 Year Old Virgin. So I wondered how many people in this world don't even use the internet. There are probably a two billion people who have never even used a phone, much less a computer. Yikes, so in March of this year, there were basically 2.1 billion internet users. And there are almost seven billion of us. I'm sure economics is the root of the non-users. I don't care what anyone says, technology usually increases the gap between the haves and the have nots.
What are they doing? No Angry Birds? I can't believe all of them are bartering sugar for boar down at the general store. How do they pay their light bill? No xCel. Wow... fat American alert here. I just don't see me weening myself from the sweet, sweet teet of Mother Firefox or Sister Safari. And what would we do without each other here on blogger? I spend most of my day at work talking to people, so something about the internet and sharing without a physical human connection sates the misanthrope in me.
The bitches do help keep me off the phone and internet too much. They get all weird and jealous. Alli will bark and bark and bark till I put down the technology and give her some attention. Or maybe she just wants me to go to the PetSmart site and order her some new toys?
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Coupon This
“Extreme Couponers” is on and I find the show absolutely fascinating in such a weird way. It’s turned into a guilty pleasure of mine for so many reasons, partly because the whole concept is so incredible to me. I can’t lie, it also makes me feel good about myself. I love things that make me feel good about myself. Sweet self-righteousness…
Kelly, who was featured tonight, called out the viewers by saying that extreme couponers aren’t hoarders who buy things just to get a deal. Um, okay. In the same segment, her husband talked about the rush she gets from her couponing trips, not to mention the fact that she looked like she just took a hit off a crack pipe as she walked out of the store. So maybe you’re an addict, not a hoarder? Don’t get me wrong, getting 31 cents back from the store and filling your minivan with 1,300 dollars worth of shit is quite an accomplishment, but you still drive a minivan and have turned your spare room into something akin to a fallout shelter. Then again I’m not sure what good 100 tubes of Colgate or 55 containers of BBQ sauce would do after a nuclear holocaust. After the bomb drops, I’d want to be with Rebecca, who has boxes of something called “beef chunks” in her garage. Yes, I said boxes. Not sure how the tortured cows ended up in boxes that don’t require refrigeration and frankly, it isn’t something I want to think about for long.
It’s not that I don’t want to use coupons, it’s just that I don’t tend to see coupons for the things I buy. Ever see a coupon for fresh produce? Organic milk? Ethically-raised meat? You see what I’m getting at here. Plus, I couple of years ago, I drank the Melalueca Kool-Aid, so I buy all my cleaning and household products that way. The less chemicals in this house and in our bodies, the better. You’ll never find 40 gallons of bleach in this basement.
I know one of the big arguments for this stockpiling behavior is the cost of raising a family. Granted, I have no experience there. The bitches aren’t so fussy about their kibble or treats. I get their food for about a dollar a pound. I’m sure that’s expensive to the coupon ladies, but Alli has a few allergies and the wrong food gave new meaning to “the shits.” My kitchen looked like, well, let’s just say there were shitty paw prints on the backdoor and it’s probably the closest thing I’ve ever experienced to ‘Nam. But back to the kid thing, I guess what I don’t understand is that no one ever said raising kids was cheap. And why feed these kids that you love all that cheap, processed crap? You’re feeding them cancer, heart disease, and obesity.
I do wanna punch this Rebecca in the face for one thing. One of her amazing deals was on travel-sized shampoo. She bought 77 containers. What a fucking waste of plastic. I would like to know if she recycles all that plastic. And back at her compound, she even said it was often cheaper to buy new air fresheners instead of the refills. Could these chicks be half as concerned about saving the planet as they are about saving money?
I guess my idea of a super consumer is one who consumes as little as possible. All these ladies I see on the show drive vans and trucks and have houses large enough to store hundred and sometimes thousands of extra items. What a wasteful existence. It just seems like another example of putting stuff and money before people and when that’s out of balance, good luck finding a coupon for happiness.
Maybe I’m just full of myself, but I think the bitches would always put me first. And it’s bigger than the fact that I give them food and water. They stay right next to me when I’m sick. They lick my tears away when I’m sad. They tell me which people are trustworthy. And they’re the best running buddies I’ve ever had.
Kelly, who was featured tonight, called out the viewers by saying that extreme couponers aren’t hoarders who buy things just to get a deal. Um, okay. In the same segment, her husband talked about the rush she gets from her couponing trips, not to mention the fact that she looked like she just took a hit off a crack pipe as she walked out of the store. So maybe you’re an addict, not a hoarder? Don’t get me wrong, getting 31 cents back from the store and filling your minivan with 1,300 dollars worth of shit is quite an accomplishment, but you still drive a minivan and have turned your spare room into something akin to a fallout shelter. Then again I’m not sure what good 100 tubes of Colgate or 55 containers of BBQ sauce would do after a nuclear holocaust. After the bomb drops, I’d want to be with Rebecca, who has boxes of something called “beef chunks” in her garage. Yes, I said boxes. Not sure how the tortured cows ended up in boxes that don’t require refrigeration and frankly, it isn’t something I want to think about for long.
It’s not that I don’t want to use coupons, it’s just that I don’t tend to see coupons for the things I buy. Ever see a coupon for fresh produce? Organic milk? Ethically-raised meat? You see what I’m getting at here. Plus, I couple of years ago, I drank the Melalueca Kool-Aid, so I buy all my cleaning and household products that way. The less chemicals in this house and in our bodies, the better. You’ll never find 40 gallons of bleach in this basement.
I know one of the big arguments for this stockpiling behavior is the cost of raising a family. Granted, I have no experience there. The bitches aren’t so fussy about their kibble or treats. I get their food for about a dollar a pound. I’m sure that’s expensive to the coupon ladies, but Alli has a few allergies and the wrong food gave new meaning to “the shits.” My kitchen looked like, well, let’s just say there were shitty paw prints on the backdoor and it’s probably the closest thing I’ve ever experienced to ‘Nam. But back to the kid thing, I guess what I don’t understand is that no one ever said raising kids was cheap. And why feed these kids that you love all that cheap, processed crap? You’re feeding them cancer, heart disease, and obesity.
I do wanna punch this Rebecca in the face for one thing. One of her amazing deals was on travel-sized shampoo. She bought 77 containers. What a fucking waste of plastic. I would like to know if she recycles all that plastic. And back at her compound, she even said it was often cheaper to buy new air fresheners instead of the refills. Could these chicks be half as concerned about saving the planet as they are about saving money?
I guess my idea of a super consumer is one who consumes as little as possible. All these ladies I see on the show drive vans and trucks and have houses large enough to store hundred and sometimes thousands of extra items. What a wasteful existence. It just seems like another example of putting stuff and money before people and when that’s out of balance, good luck finding a coupon for happiness.
Maybe I’m just full of myself, but I think the bitches would always put me first. And it’s bigger than the fact that I give them food and water. They stay right next to me when I’m sick. They lick my tears away when I’m sad. They tell me which people are trustworthy. And they’re the best running buddies I’ve ever had.
Monday, May 30, 2011
TIme
As I pulled into the Freedom station on Minnesota Avenue this morning to get gas, things seemed a little off. The two other guys filling their tanks were looking around and a third man jumped out of his truck and ran towards a cop car that was pulling into the lot. Three more city cops and a sheriff quickly followed so I asked the guy ahead of me if he knew what was going on.
“Not sure,” he said. But then another fella quickly brought everything into perspective.
“She just got robbed at gunpoint,” he said.
The gas station I always go to in Sioux Falls was robbed at gunpoint on a Monday morning not long before nine. I had to process that for a minute. I wondered which of the gals was working. I wondered if anyone had gotten hurt. I wondered if the jackoff who robbed the place got away. I wondered what would have happened if I had gotten to the store a few minutes quicker. And as I walked into the store and saw Renee, the gal working, with tears in her eyes, I got a little mad. All I could do was pay for my gas and give her a hug. But I was a little mad because why the hell would someone rob anyone, especially for the piddly amount of cash that would be on hand at that time on a Monday morning and scare the hell out of the nice lady who is just working to get by. It was probably the same jackoff who robbed the pizza delivery driver a few blocks from there on a few days ago.
The irony that he (yes, the suspect is male) robbed a gas station named Freedom on Memorial Day wasn’t lost on me. I’m sure there are many ways to explain away why he did what he did; that was a desperate act. Maybe I’ve watched too many movies, but I expect any robbery, with the exception of a mugging, to be a big heist or something. Make the payoff more worth the risk? Who knows. Two customers took off after the guy and there were tons of cops looking for him. Maybe he’s been apprehended. What a stupid way to risk your own freedom.
It got me thinking about my days working as a paralegal for criminal defense attorneys and thinking about how for punishment, people get time. Time is all they have on the inside. I hear people talk about not having enough time or wishing they had more time, well, at the time. Maybe time means more when we have the freedom to choose what we want to do with it. But then so many of us overschedule and overbreed ourselves out of having any time for ourselves. Which made me think of something my friend, Minnesota Hoops, posted on Facebook: The more time I spend doing things, the less I think about the things I wish I was doing.
Had Hoops tricked himself into happiness? Or was keeping himself busy with his family, work, and hobbies the way to a fulfilling and contented life?
The bitches live a life of simple pleasures, just water, some kibble, play, and a run. Hell, they sleep half the day. If bitches run free, why can’t we?
“Not sure,” he said. But then another fella quickly brought everything into perspective.
“She just got robbed at gunpoint,” he said.
The gas station I always go to in Sioux Falls was robbed at gunpoint on a Monday morning not long before nine. I had to process that for a minute. I wondered which of the gals was working. I wondered if anyone had gotten hurt. I wondered if the jackoff who robbed the place got away. I wondered what would have happened if I had gotten to the store a few minutes quicker. And as I walked into the store and saw Renee, the gal working, with tears in her eyes, I got a little mad. All I could do was pay for my gas and give her a hug. But I was a little mad because why the hell would someone rob anyone, especially for the piddly amount of cash that would be on hand at that time on a Monday morning and scare the hell out of the nice lady who is just working to get by. It was probably the same jackoff who robbed the pizza delivery driver a few blocks from there on a few days ago.
The irony that he (yes, the suspect is male) robbed a gas station named Freedom on Memorial Day wasn’t lost on me. I’m sure there are many ways to explain away why he did what he did; that was a desperate act. Maybe I’ve watched too many movies, but I expect any robbery, with the exception of a mugging, to be a big heist or something. Make the payoff more worth the risk? Who knows. Two customers took off after the guy and there were tons of cops looking for him. Maybe he’s been apprehended. What a stupid way to risk your own freedom.
It got me thinking about my days working as a paralegal for criminal defense attorneys and thinking about how for punishment, people get time. Time is all they have on the inside. I hear people talk about not having enough time or wishing they had more time, well, at the time. Maybe time means more when we have the freedom to choose what we want to do with it. But then so many of us overschedule and overbreed ourselves out of having any time for ourselves. Which made me think of something my friend, Minnesota Hoops, posted on Facebook: The more time I spend doing things, the less I think about the things I wish I was doing.
Had Hoops tricked himself into happiness? Or was keeping himself busy with his family, work, and hobbies the way to a fulfilling and contented life?
The bitches live a life of simple pleasures, just water, some kibble, play, and a run. Hell, they sleep half the day. If bitches run free, why can’t we?
Saturday, May 28, 2011
SEE RED
So my Bulls lost. Sigh… such a fun season to watch it was. I write like Yoda when I am reflecting whimsically. I became a Bulls fan back in the 90s. Six championships in eight years. Da Bulls. Between the SNL skits, Wheaties boxes, and Starter jacket I was legit.
I’ll admit that I fell off the face of NBA watching for a bit. I always liked KG, so I followed the Wolves and then became a bandwagon Boston fan. For the record, Rondo is the only good thing that ever came out of Kentucky. Beast.
Then this year, the Bulls caught my eye again. Maybe it’s WGN televising the games or some sort of reminiscing for my youth, but I started Seeing Red again and a big part of that was the play of Derrick Rose.
Rose deserved the MVP, whatever any of you may think. Of course, I cannot be impartial when it comes to my boy, but he is exactly what basketball needed. He is a hometown boy, a smart player, a team leader, and a good shooter who also knows when to pass and make electrifying plays. With all the Big Three nonsense, yes I said nonsense ‘cuz to hell with ‘em, and too many years of Kobesque bullshit, we basketball fans longed for a hero. I know there was an academic issue at Memphis, so we don’t need to fight that out. I never said he was completely without fault. I’m only looking for Rose to be a basketball messiah.
And what a great band of disciples he has, I mean, Jesus named brothers James and John “bo-aner’ges,” which means “sons of thunder.” Sons of thunder? Hello? Noah and Boozer. I think so. Deng’s gotta be right up there as Peter and let’s call Korver Matthew since he looks the most like an accountant. A dumb accountant, but an accountant none the less. However, there is no Judas here. These guys play so well together and are young. I know they’ll be back to get theirs.
But now I guess I have to be some sort of bandwagon fan. I’ve already told Miami to suck it. It’s like watching the Yankees play anyone or seeing results from Republican primaries. I’m cheering against someone, not for anyone…
However, the bitches are always up for supporting a fellow Kraut, so Go Dirk. It’s like some sort of Nazi dream, pinning my hopes on the white German basketball player… I should quit now before I offend anyone else…
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Tiny Seacrest
I watched the American Idol finale tonight. Go ahead, make fun if you want. I can take it. I used to consider myself a bit of a music snob. I was never one of those hipster kids who listened to indie music exclusively, but I was of the opinion that everything on the Top 40 radio was total and complete bullshit. I was an occasional closeted Idol watcher throughout the years. Kelly Clarkston was great. My ex was locked up during the Carrie Underwood season, so I could watch without getting a pop music died in the 80s lecture.
I barely watched this season. After the Colombian chick was kicked off, I decided the 12 year olds who spend the night jamming up the voting lines could have the champion. I knew where the real talent was. Some kid named Scotty won. I remembered seeing him earlier in the season. He was the assembly line country guy, but since he held his own with Tim McGraw tonight, the assembly line will be gold-plated. The whole thing was a little weird, really. The other finalist was a girl named Lauren and they were both very chicken-friend Southern types. Maybe that’s who votes the most. Mouth breathers must love Idol. Maybe next year some banjo playin’ Deliverance kid will audition.
I love how any super star out pimping a new album or tour makes an appearance on the show. Beyonce, Gaga, Tim McGraw, Tom Jones, and my personal favorite, Tony Bennett. He was the cutest thing ever. The TLC thing got a little weird, very left field. And I’m not sure if Left Eye actually died in a car wreck or if T-Boz ate her.
That was really mean. Sorry.
It was going to the finale two years ago that helped me mend my relationship with pop music and realize that just because something is mass marketed or on the radio doesn’t mean it is terrible.
In May 2009, I received the awesome early birthday present of tickets to the American Idol finale and after party. I hadn’t watched any of that season, but sort of knew what was going on thanks to co-workers and general media coverage. I needed a vacation and a few days in LA sounded perfect. The tickets were in the 20th row and the buzz was that there would be amazing star performances. My travel companion and partner in crime for the trip was Tim, a super fun family friend. My roommate, Chef Boy, made some joke about taking care of Alli if I died in an earthquake. We actually landed during a small earthquake. Chef Boy felt kinda bad about that.
It was Paula Abdul’s last season so Tim and I were praying that Paula would be fall off the chair loaded. She was not. Sigh. Ryan Seacrest was tiny. Adam Lambert was brilliant. The whole night was brilliant really. We saw Jason Mraz, Black Eyed Peas, Queen Latifah, Lionel Richie, Cindi Lauper, Rod Stewart, and KISS perform. Now, seeing KISS almost put me over the edge. I was screaming like it was 1979. And then, during the commercial break, a large banner dropped and covered most of the stage. Tim and I were having a, “Oh my lord, can you believe we just saw KISS” moment and experiencing general bliss, when I saw him. I wouldn’t mistake the skinny man with the big black hair. Brian May walked on stage. I started pounding on the arm of the man sitting next to me and said something unholy about just seeing Brian FUCKING May. Sigh. Lambert killed “We Are The Champions” with Queen.
The after party was great, too. We were able to meet a bunch of the finalists, we danced, we ate great food. Tim enjoyed the open bar. The whole energy of the show and the party was amazing. I hadn’t been to a major live show in over a year, so it had been a while since I had had that type of joyful crowd experience. I couldn’t believe I had so much fun. Really, I couldn’t. It was such a good lesson about not being cool or worrying about what other people think. If ya like something, ya like it. Period. It’s funny how rigid I used to be in my open-mindedness…
The bitches like all types of music. They are the chosen audience when I play iPod karaoke. The current favorite is Bohemian Rhapsody or anything Michael Jackson. Joey also likes dancing to Single Ladies. I grab her front paws and sing, “You’re a stinky pubin, you’re a brown head bubbin.”
I really need to pitch my life as a reality show. There is definitely an hour a week of entertainment here…
I barely watched this season. After the Colombian chick was kicked off, I decided the 12 year olds who spend the night jamming up the voting lines could have the champion. I knew where the real talent was. Some kid named Scotty won. I remembered seeing him earlier in the season. He was the assembly line country guy, but since he held his own with Tim McGraw tonight, the assembly line will be gold-plated. The whole thing was a little weird, really. The other finalist was a girl named Lauren and they were both very chicken-friend Southern types. Maybe that’s who votes the most. Mouth breathers must love Idol. Maybe next year some banjo playin’ Deliverance kid will audition.
I love how any super star out pimping a new album or tour makes an appearance on the show. Beyonce, Gaga, Tim McGraw, Tom Jones, and my personal favorite, Tony Bennett. He was the cutest thing ever. The TLC thing got a little weird, very left field. And I’m not sure if Left Eye actually died in a car wreck or if T-Boz ate her.
That was really mean. Sorry.
It was going to the finale two years ago that helped me mend my relationship with pop music and realize that just because something is mass marketed or on the radio doesn’t mean it is terrible.
In May 2009, I received the awesome early birthday present of tickets to the American Idol finale and after party. I hadn’t watched any of that season, but sort of knew what was going on thanks to co-workers and general media coverage. I needed a vacation and a few days in LA sounded perfect. The tickets were in the 20th row and the buzz was that there would be amazing star performances. My travel companion and partner in crime for the trip was Tim, a super fun family friend. My roommate, Chef Boy, made some joke about taking care of Alli if I died in an earthquake. We actually landed during a small earthquake. Chef Boy felt kinda bad about that.
It was Paula Abdul’s last season so Tim and I were praying that Paula would be fall off the chair loaded. She was not. Sigh. Ryan Seacrest was tiny. Adam Lambert was brilliant. The whole night was brilliant really. We saw Jason Mraz, Black Eyed Peas, Queen Latifah, Lionel Richie, Cindi Lauper, Rod Stewart, and KISS perform. Now, seeing KISS almost put me over the edge. I was screaming like it was 1979. And then, during the commercial break, a large banner dropped and covered most of the stage. Tim and I were having a, “Oh my lord, can you believe we just saw KISS” moment and experiencing general bliss, when I saw him. I wouldn’t mistake the skinny man with the big black hair. Brian May walked on stage. I started pounding on the arm of the man sitting next to me and said something unholy about just seeing Brian FUCKING May. Sigh. Lambert killed “We Are The Champions” with Queen.
The after party was great, too. We were able to meet a bunch of the finalists, we danced, we ate great food. Tim enjoyed the open bar. The whole energy of the show and the party was amazing. I hadn’t been to a major live show in over a year, so it had been a while since I had had that type of joyful crowd experience. I couldn’t believe I had so much fun. Really, I couldn’t. It was such a good lesson about not being cool or worrying about what other people think. If ya like something, ya like it. Period. It’s funny how rigid I used to be in my open-mindedness…
The bitches like all types of music. They are the chosen audience when I play iPod karaoke. The current favorite is Bohemian Rhapsody or anything Michael Jackson. Joey also likes dancing to Single Ladies. I grab her front paws and sing, “You’re a stinky pubin, you’re a brown head bubbin.”
I really need to pitch my life as a reality show. There is definitely an hour a week of entertainment here…
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Play It Fucking Loud
For anyone living under a rock, May 24th was the 70th birthday of Mr. Robert Allen Zimmerman, better known to the world as Bob Dylan. My Facebook status for over 22 hours was a birthday greeting to him. I love him. He is my favorite person I have never met. I see him as the father of my imaginary rock and roll family. The love is obvious to anyone who knows me or spends any time at my house. From the stacks of books, CDs, and bootlegs, to the concert posters and t-shirts, this chick is officially a Dylan nerd. I even have the eye logo that is the backdrop of every tour show I’ve seen tattooed on my back. George was my favorite Beatle because he quoted Bobby the way some people quote the Bible. This could go on in an epic form Isis would appreciate.
I didn’t really get into Bob until I was in college. Sure, I’d heard the big songs on the radio and understood that he had an important place in the musical history of the 1960’s, but if I am going to be completely honest, the young me thought he sounded like a bug and I never really gave him a good listen. Then I one of my writing workshops introduced me to the nuttiest poet professor I’d met. To this day, I don’t know if he had a Ph.D., we never called him anything but Greg. I don’t know how many classes he taught or how he fit into the faculty, but he left an impression. There was no syllabus or rubric. It was about creativity and brainstorming and doing away with the rules. We just wrote and talked and disagreed and wrote more. The group had a weird synergy that fed off this oddball, ragtag leader and it was one of those classes that no one wanted to skip. To this day, I still have a folder full of scribbles and workshop notes from that class.
All this thinking about Bob today naturally led me to think about Greg since he was the one that turned me on to Bobby. I went digging in my files, found the folder, and dug out the first poem I brought to that workshop, the one Greg dubbed my “Positively 4th Street.”
The Poem I Forgot to Share with My Old Roommate
You acted like you were so deep,
a true intellectual,
the last great philosopher.
More like a hippie wannabe for my tastes
but you were my slacker,
the chain-smoking, caffeine swilling man
of my 1993 dreams. The one
who quit working so he would have
the perfect spot on the couch
when the parents’ monthly allowance
was delivered. Your lack of hygiene
wasn’t alternative, if cleanliness is next to godliness,
you were Satan.
Your drug stories and dirty t-shirts
might have been interesting
last summer, but your big words
never were, the way they
lack… a… dais… i… cal… ly
rolled off off your
con… de… scen… ding
tongue made me want to vomit.
I can now say,
without the slightest trace of guilt,
how happy I am
that you moved to Idaho.
I know it’s not Dylan, it’s not even that great, but the feedback was laced with Dylan references and I left the workshop wondering what this 4th Street nonsense was all about since that Dylan guy was impossible to comprehend and only sang about rolling stones and shit blowing in the wind.
Thus began the first great Bob overdose of my life. I started going to live shows almost immediately and realized that being moved like that must be the way church made other people feel. I was blown away by this tiny Jew from Minnesota and started to see his influence everywhere. I contend that “Subterranean Homesick Blues” was the first rap song. And I will forever fight the battle that if there had been no Bob Dylan, there would have been no punk music. He couldn’t sing, wasn’t pretty, and gave them the musical finger at Albert Hall when all those people were pissed he went electric. “Play it fucking loud.” If that wasn’t punk, what the hell is?
Bob going electric is such a great example of someone following his gut and doing what he felt was right as an artist. I will always admire him for that. He’s been making music for decades, so of course there is some shit in the vault. Personally, I am not a huge fan of his late 70’s or early 90’s stuff. But I love the fact that he keeps going. He’s written some great stuff in the last 15 years. Sure, some may say that the voice of their generation has lost his hero status because he isn’t so political or whatever anymore. I like the old man Bob who is a bit more country but still rocks it out live. He’s just a song and dance man, after all. I love how he tells the truth without trying. I love that he’s on a never-ending tour. I love how the more I have tried to learn about him as a person, the more mysterious he became to me. He’s taught me that the art should be more interesting than the artist.
In another Dylan nerd move, I named Joey after a Dylan song. She is really “Visions of Johanna.” Show bitches shouldn’t be the only bitches to get the fun names.
HBD, BOB! XXXOOO
I didn’t really get into Bob until I was in college. Sure, I’d heard the big songs on the radio and understood that he had an important place in the musical history of the 1960’s, but if I am going to be completely honest, the young me thought he sounded like a bug and I never really gave him a good listen. Then I one of my writing workshops introduced me to the nuttiest poet professor I’d met. To this day, I don’t know if he had a Ph.D., we never called him anything but Greg. I don’t know how many classes he taught or how he fit into the faculty, but he left an impression. There was no syllabus or rubric. It was about creativity and brainstorming and doing away with the rules. We just wrote and talked and disagreed and wrote more. The group had a weird synergy that fed off this oddball, ragtag leader and it was one of those classes that no one wanted to skip. To this day, I still have a folder full of scribbles and workshop notes from that class.
All this thinking about Bob today naturally led me to think about Greg since he was the one that turned me on to Bobby. I went digging in my files, found the folder, and dug out the first poem I brought to that workshop, the one Greg dubbed my “Positively 4th Street.”
The Poem I Forgot to Share with My Old Roommate
You acted like you were so deep,
a true intellectual,
the last great philosopher.
More like a hippie wannabe for my tastes
but you were my slacker,
the chain-smoking, caffeine swilling man
of my 1993 dreams. The one
who quit working so he would have
the perfect spot on the couch
when the parents’ monthly allowance
was delivered. Your lack of hygiene
wasn’t alternative, if cleanliness is next to godliness,
you were Satan.
Your drug stories and dirty t-shirts
might have been interesting
last summer, but your big words
never were, the way they
lack… a… dais… i… cal… ly
rolled off off your
con… de… scen… ding
tongue made me want to vomit.
I can now say,
without the slightest trace of guilt,
how happy I am
that you moved to Idaho.
I know it’s not Dylan, it’s not even that great, but the feedback was laced with Dylan references and I left the workshop wondering what this 4th Street nonsense was all about since that Dylan guy was impossible to comprehend and only sang about rolling stones and shit blowing in the wind.
Thus began the first great Bob overdose of my life. I started going to live shows almost immediately and realized that being moved like that must be the way church made other people feel. I was blown away by this tiny Jew from Minnesota and started to see his influence everywhere. I contend that “Subterranean Homesick Blues” was the first rap song. And I will forever fight the battle that if there had been no Bob Dylan, there would have been no punk music. He couldn’t sing, wasn’t pretty, and gave them the musical finger at Albert Hall when all those people were pissed he went electric. “Play it fucking loud.” If that wasn’t punk, what the hell is?
Bob going electric is such a great example of someone following his gut and doing what he felt was right as an artist. I will always admire him for that. He’s been making music for decades, so of course there is some shit in the vault. Personally, I am not a huge fan of his late 70’s or early 90’s stuff. But I love the fact that he keeps going. He’s written some great stuff in the last 15 years. Sure, some may say that the voice of their generation has lost his hero status because he isn’t so political or whatever anymore. I like the old man Bob who is a bit more country but still rocks it out live. He’s just a song and dance man, after all. I love how he tells the truth without trying. I love that he’s on a never-ending tour. I love how the more I have tried to learn about him as a person, the more mysterious he became to me. He’s taught me that the art should be more interesting than the artist.
In another Dylan nerd move, I named Joey after a Dylan song. She is really “Visions of Johanna.” Show bitches shouldn’t be the only bitches to get the fun names.
HBD, BOB! XXXOOO
Monday, May 23, 2011
Werds, Schmerds...
Women. We talk and we talk and we talk. Of course there are men who speak just to hear their own voices but they are called lawyers and get paid for it. Verbal diarrhea seems to generally afflict more women than men. Maybe we are just more verbal naturally or maybe we are raised to communicate that way. At any rate, words can be a gift or a curse. It’s all about what is coming out of our mouths.
Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t some high and mighty sermon here where I judge all the gossipers. I do it, too. We all gossip and talk about other people sometimes. Whether it’s whatever the latest celebrity rag is hocking or what the neighbors or co-workers are up to, we are all in the glass house.
I have the good fortune to work and hang out in places where I can do a lot of evesdropping. I say good fortune because a lot of times, I just hear odd snippets of conversation that are really funny out of context, like a group of doctors talking about poop. Yes, they were enjoying a meal. Or half of a cell phone conversation at a coffeehouse. And being one of the few sober persons in a bar is always a good time. “Don’t eat that. It’ll make your butthole burn,” is a new classic. One of my favorite evesdrops was a convo with no words. A deaf family was fighting. Angry faces and gestures. I still wanna know what pissed that kid off. Probably the most memorable thing I have ever overheard was, “It’s almost my birthday and I’d like another diamond, but I don’t know where I’d put it,” as she flashed enough bling around her hands, neck, and face to match the GDP of a small country.
It’s the people like that who tend to stick with me. Lots of material but not a lot of substance. (Ah, the sweet sound of judgment.) There was a group of several women I overheard the other day who didn’t seem to have anything nice to say. Granted, they had had a few drinks, it was the weekend, and they were blowing off steam with friends. They were well-mannered and well-dressed. But one had to wonder about the well-being of people who participated in that unbridled bitchfest. Husbands, family, friends not there… no one was safe from the venom.
One of my favorite books is “The Four Agreements.” It is one of the reasons that I am still walking this earth and able to do it sober. One of the most important lessons I took from that book is that everything that is communicated is a reflection of the communicator. If someone says something nasty to me or about me, it was never really about me. It’s so easy to internalize everyone else’s crap and judgments and just get right on the negative train.
I really do make the effort to find the good in situations. I make a lot of jokes, can be sarcastic, and gossip. I just hope that I do it all for fun and not at the expense of others. I’m trying to adopt the “Bark Less, Wag More” platform of the bitches.
Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t some high and mighty sermon here where I judge all the gossipers. I do it, too. We all gossip and talk about other people sometimes. Whether it’s whatever the latest celebrity rag is hocking or what the neighbors or co-workers are up to, we are all in the glass house.
I have the good fortune to work and hang out in places where I can do a lot of evesdropping. I say good fortune because a lot of times, I just hear odd snippets of conversation that are really funny out of context, like a group of doctors talking about poop. Yes, they were enjoying a meal. Or half of a cell phone conversation at a coffeehouse. And being one of the few sober persons in a bar is always a good time. “Don’t eat that. It’ll make your butthole burn,” is a new classic. One of my favorite evesdrops was a convo with no words. A deaf family was fighting. Angry faces and gestures. I still wanna know what pissed that kid off. Probably the most memorable thing I have ever overheard was, “It’s almost my birthday and I’d like another diamond, but I don’t know where I’d put it,” as she flashed enough bling around her hands, neck, and face to match the GDP of a small country.
It’s the people like that who tend to stick with me. Lots of material but not a lot of substance. (Ah, the sweet sound of judgment.) There was a group of several women I overheard the other day who didn’t seem to have anything nice to say. Granted, they had had a few drinks, it was the weekend, and they were blowing off steam with friends. They were well-mannered and well-dressed. But one had to wonder about the well-being of people who participated in that unbridled bitchfest. Husbands, family, friends not there… no one was safe from the venom.
One of my favorite books is “The Four Agreements.” It is one of the reasons that I am still walking this earth and able to do it sober. One of the most important lessons I took from that book is that everything that is communicated is a reflection of the communicator. If someone says something nasty to me or about me, it was never really about me. It’s so easy to internalize everyone else’s crap and judgments and just get right on the negative train.
I really do make the effort to find the good in situations. I make a lot of jokes, can be sarcastic, and gossip. I just hope that I do it all for fun and not at the expense of others. I’m trying to adopt the “Bark Less, Wag More” platform of the bitches.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
The Match Nine
This is another repeat that was posted on Facebook around a year ago. Enjoy...
Since my Match.com subscription was scheduled to run out any minute, I decided I should really try and get the maximum use out of it. Maximum use is code for equal parts looking for losers and/or freaks and genuinely looking for decent guys. It wasn’t that I thought I was going to meet someone through the site, but more of a restoration in the concept that there are good men out there. Good men who are really single and not possibly bait for To Catch A Predator. There was a lawyer who lived near Des Moines who, upon only a few emails suggested that he come up to Sioux Falls for a weekend to visit. I politely responded that I would like to get to know him better before any plans like that were made. Of course I couldn’t leave it at that, so I wrote, “Besides, how do I know you’re not really a 14 year-old and this is an elaborate set-up to catch a predator? ‘I made iced tea!’”
He never wrote back.
No sense of humor or 14 year-old boy? You make the call.
As for the looking for losers part, I usually needed to look no further than the “Who Has Viewed Your Profile” section. Who I attracted on that site was a bit disturbing to me. Of course I think my profile is Classic Schooly, meaning funny, no bullshit, and utterly fabulous. Then again, who am I kidding as who I attract in general mystifies me. Alcoholics, drug addicts, the former hobo, those not fond of working, and the last fellow who asked me out was recently arrested for an allegation of child molestation. How many of you gals can claim that delight? I did not accept the date. I don’t like Chucky Cheese. KIDDING. About the Chucky Cheese. I did not go out with him.
The search for a good egg on Match was interesting. The site sent a whole bunch of matches to my email almost everyday. They were clustered in San Francisco, Boston, and Portland. Sigh…
Since I decided to make my search genuine, I explored the site a bit more. I never realized you could really tailor your searches, adding every requirement from physical features to income to education. Want kids? Got kids? Do you like baseball? It was kind of neat. So I went to town. Minimum 6-1, minimum bachelor’s degree, you gotta make at least as much money as I do. I don’t want any kids, but if you already have them, fine. Similar interests, check. Any religion was fine. Smoke or drink, it’s okay if you do or you don’t. Since my Matches via email were always from so far away, I gave myself 2,000 miles from my zip code. And finally, since there were millions of members on the site, I thought it was important to keep the age range really narrow, 32 to 35, just so I didn’t have to many hits through which to sort.
Now, as I was hitting send, I was a little excited. I just built the perfect man. Fun. Then I was a little scared since my old idea of a perfect man was Ethan Hawke circa “Reality Bites” and arrest records tended to be part of the resume. Hope always beats experience though, and excited beat scared. I didn’t shut down the browser and BAM, there they were. All nine of them. NINE. OUT OF MILLIONS OF PEOPLE, ONLY NINE DUDES FIT MY NEW AND IMPROVED STANDARDS. Balls.
It was shocking at first. I thought I’d get at least a couple hundred hits, but NINE. Out of millions, I could barely get enough to field a baseball team. Four of them were atheists. Six of them were pretty cute. They all knew how to spell. Some divorced fathers. Some never married and never want kids. One hit out of Madison, Wisconsin, otherwise they were California, Brooklyn, Portland, or oddly enough, Texas. I didn’t see that one coming.
The strange thing was, the more I read, the more my little experiment worked. It was pretty cool to find out that they do exist. They might not exist in my world, now or ever, but they exist. I said a long time ago that I would be perfectly happy with Alli, and now Joey, being the loves of this life.
I didn’t sign on to the site for a while for a few weeks after that. I’d get the emails of a new “wink,” which is the way to get someone’s attention if you’re too scared or stupid to write an email. All the winks and emails were the usual suspects, like the guy older than my mother, the single father of three with the epic mullet, or the race fan who couldn’t punctuate. Commas are precious, people. Learn how to use them. I had emailed a few of the Match Nine and the typical response was, “You sound great, but you live so far away.”
Then Match thought it was a good idea to auto-renew my subscription without so much as an email notification. They charged my VISA. And there’s one thing that never happens in my relationships anymore. You don’t fuck with my money.
The time had come. Match and I had been together for a long time, too long. We were really only together out of some faint hope. I didn’t get mad when Match used my profile photo for advertising and one of the line cooks at work was like, “What up schooly77? Wanna meet singles in your area? I saw you when I was checking my email!” Match had burned me with a few dates, like the guy who told me about the lady he wanted to “kick in the vagina.” Match tempted me with The Nine. But then Match took my money. It was time to break-up.
I deleted all my photos. I deleted that delicious profile. Since the site insisted that I have a short description of myself, I wrote something along the lines of, “Dear Match, before I only thought that the single men in my area were uneducated alcoholic racing fans, now I know this much is true. Thanks!” Then a bunch of the word, “blah,” until I reached the required 200 characters. I couldn’t find a way to cancel my account on the site, so I had to call customer care. I was glad to know that Match preferred to care about me rather than service me.
Apparently you have to check your sense of humor at the door when you work at Match’s customer care. There was a terse discussion of how I agreed to a renewal when I initially signed up, I wasn’t getting any money back, all the usual run around. So at that point the only way to get my money’s worth was to mess with him.
“I just want my account cancelled.”
“I can’t do that. You are renewed until August.”
“I don’t want anymore of these NASCAR hobbits that are older than my mother looking at my profile. I deleted my pictures and made my profile snappy. You should check it out. It’s good.”
“You are renewed until…”
I had to interrupt him, “WOW, so I’m signed in right now and I just got an email from ‘harderfaster69’. That’s so classy. He spells ‘you’ with one letter and wants me to text him. I have his number if you want it.”
“Miss, I am going to block all users from looking at your account.”
“Excellent,” I replied, “and please make sure that my subscription does NOT get renewed in August. It’s just not funny anymore.”
“So Miss, you’re account will not be renewed. May I ask why you’re leaving Match?”
I didn’t wait an instant and deadpanned it.
“It doesn’t work.”
There was silence for a moment and he said, “Well let me sign on to your account and see what’s not working.”
“It doesn’t work.” I could hear him breathing. “It doesn’t work.”
“Just let me sign on to your account and I’m sure I can fix whatever isn’t working.”
“IT doesn’t work.”
Suddenly he got the joke and couldn’t wait to get me off the phone as he said harshly, “Your account is blocked from all users and will not be renewed. You can still sign on if you choose. Is there anything else?”
I thought about asking for his number, but decided to leave well enough alone.
Since my Match.com subscription was scheduled to run out any minute, I decided I should really try and get the maximum use out of it. Maximum use is code for equal parts looking for losers and/or freaks and genuinely looking for decent guys. It wasn’t that I thought I was going to meet someone through the site, but more of a restoration in the concept that there are good men out there. Good men who are really single and not possibly bait for To Catch A Predator. There was a lawyer who lived near Des Moines who, upon only a few emails suggested that he come up to Sioux Falls for a weekend to visit. I politely responded that I would like to get to know him better before any plans like that were made. Of course I couldn’t leave it at that, so I wrote, “Besides, how do I know you’re not really a 14 year-old and this is an elaborate set-up to catch a predator? ‘I made iced tea!’”
He never wrote back.
No sense of humor or 14 year-old boy? You make the call.
As for the looking for losers part, I usually needed to look no further than the “Who Has Viewed Your Profile” section. Who I attracted on that site was a bit disturbing to me. Of course I think my profile is Classic Schooly, meaning funny, no bullshit, and utterly fabulous. Then again, who am I kidding as who I attract in general mystifies me. Alcoholics, drug addicts, the former hobo, those not fond of working, and the last fellow who asked me out was recently arrested for an allegation of child molestation. How many of you gals can claim that delight? I did not accept the date. I don’t like Chucky Cheese. KIDDING. About the Chucky Cheese. I did not go out with him.
The search for a good egg on Match was interesting. The site sent a whole bunch of matches to my email almost everyday. They were clustered in San Francisco, Boston, and Portland. Sigh…
Since I decided to make my search genuine, I explored the site a bit more. I never realized you could really tailor your searches, adding every requirement from physical features to income to education. Want kids? Got kids? Do you like baseball? It was kind of neat. So I went to town. Minimum 6-1, minimum bachelor’s degree, you gotta make at least as much money as I do. I don’t want any kids, but if you already have them, fine. Similar interests, check. Any religion was fine. Smoke or drink, it’s okay if you do or you don’t. Since my Matches via email were always from so far away, I gave myself 2,000 miles from my zip code. And finally, since there were millions of members on the site, I thought it was important to keep the age range really narrow, 32 to 35, just so I didn’t have to many hits through which to sort.
Now, as I was hitting send, I was a little excited. I just built the perfect man. Fun. Then I was a little scared since my old idea of a perfect man was Ethan Hawke circa “Reality Bites” and arrest records tended to be part of the resume. Hope always beats experience though, and excited beat scared. I didn’t shut down the browser and BAM, there they were. All nine of them. NINE. OUT OF MILLIONS OF PEOPLE, ONLY NINE DUDES FIT MY NEW AND IMPROVED STANDARDS. Balls.
It was shocking at first. I thought I’d get at least a couple hundred hits, but NINE. Out of millions, I could barely get enough to field a baseball team. Four of them were atheists. Six of them were pretty cute. They all knew how to spell. Some divorced fathers. Some never married and never want kids. One hit out of Madison, Wisconsin, otherwise they were California, Brooklyn, Portland, or oddly enough, Texas. I didn’t see that one coming.
The strange thing was, the more I read, the more my little experiment worked. It was pretty cool to find out that they do exist. They might not exist in my world, now or ever, but they exist. I said a long time ago that I would be perfectly happy with Alli, and now Joey, being the loves of this life.
I didn’t sign on to the site for a while for a few weeks after that. I’d get the emails of a new “wink,” which is the way to get someone’s attention if you’re too scared or stupid to write an email. All the winks and emails were the usual suspects, like the guy older than my mother, the single father of three with the epic mullet, or the race fan who couldn’t punctuate. Commas are precious, people. Learn how to use them. I had emailed a few of the Match Nine and the typical response was, “You sound great, but you live so far away.”
Then Match thought it was a good idea to auto-renew my subscription without so much as an email notification. They charged my VISA. And there’s one thing that never happens in my relationships anymore. You don’t fuck with my money.
The time had come. Match and I had been together for a long time, too long. We were really only together out of some faint hope. I didn’t get mad when Match used my profile photo for advertising and one of the line cooks at work was like, “What up schooly77? Wanna meet singles in your area? I saw you when I was checking my email!” Match had burned me with a few dates, like the guy who told me about the lady he wanted to “kick in the vagina.” Match tempted me with The Nine. But then Match took my money. It was time to break-up.
I deleted all my photos. I deleted that delicious profile. Since the site insisted that I have a short description of myself, I wrote something along the lines of, “Dear Match, before I only thought that the single men in my area were uneducated alcoholic racing fans, now I know this much is true. Thanks!” Then a bunch of the word, “blah,” until I reached the required 200 characters. I couldn’t find a way to cancel my account on the site, so I had to call customer care. I was glad to know that Match preferred to care about me rather than service me.
Apparently you have to check your sense of humor at the door when you work at Match’s customer care. There was a terse discussion of how I agreed to a renewal when I initially signed up, I wasn’t getting any money back, all the usual run around. So at that point the only way to get my money’s worth was to mess with him.
“I just want my account cancelled.”
“I can’t do that. You are renewed until August.”
“I don’t want anymore of these NASCAR hobbits that are older than my mother looking at my profile. I deleted my pictures and made my profile snappy. You should check it out. It’s good.”
“You are renewed until…”
I had to interrupt him, “WOW, so I’m signed in right now and I just got an email from ‘harderfaster69’. That’s so classy. He spells ‘you’ with one letter and wants me to text him. I have his number if you want it.”
“Miss, I am going to block all users from looking at your account.”
“Excellent,” I replied, “and please make sure that my subscription does NOT get renewed in August. It’s just not funny anymore.”
“So Miss, you’re account will not be renewed. May I ask why you’re leaving Match?”
I didn’t wait an instant and deadpanned it.
“It doesn’t work.”
There was silence for a moment and he said, “Well let me sign on to your account and see what’s not working.”
“It doesn’t work.” I could hear him breathing. “It doesn’t work.”
“Just let me sign on to your account and I’m sure I can fix whatever isn’t working.”
“IT doesn’t work.”
Suddenly he got the joke and couldn’t wait to get me off the phone as he said harshly, “Your account is blocked from all users and will not be renewed. You can still sign on if you choose. Is there anything else?”
I thought about asking for his number, but decided to leave well enough alone.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Balls...
One of my Facebook friends, who happens to be a reader of this blog, posted a status update regarding getting her dog neutered today. Cool Lit Chick, since she posts things by great writers, joked about taking Henry to the vet to be castrated, or deprived of his vigor. I contemplated whether or not to post a comment on the status due to the fact that I would be notified if anyone else commented.
Both of the bitches are technically “altered females.” We won’t be birthin’ no babies here. Seeing animal shelters full of fur babies needing homes and knowing that lots of babies are euthanized simply because of lack of room at shelters and lack of forever families breaks my heart. So I am firmly in the spay and neuter your pet camp. Bless your heart, Bob.
After a bit of contemplation, I decided to give props to Cool Lit Chick for being a good parent. And then I prayed that a whole bunch of guys wouldn’t get on the “poor dog needs nut implants” bandwagon. They do make nut implants for neutered dogs. And so it goes…
Happily, there were only a couple of people concerned about Henry’s junk and it was in a playful way. But I have noticed that men seem to be more sympathetic to a dog being castrated than women are to a spayed bitch. I’ve known men who practically mourned the loss of their dog’s balls. These are the type of men who bring their Chessie Retriever with grapefruit-sized testicles swinging about to the park and then wonder why toddlers run in fear. The kids aren’t afraid of the pooch, they are afraid of knockout by scrotum.
Women, on the other hand, seem totally okay with getting a hound fixed. Whether it’s snip and rest for a dog or surgery, stitches, and rest for a bitch, for whatever reason, women don’t seem to define ourselves as much below the belt. Internal versus external? Would I have an issue, or at least more sympathy, about spaying my bitches if I could touch my own ovaries? Or if I spent a good part of my life adjusting them when I thought no one was looking?
Until the dogs evolve enough to demand reproductive rights, I guess it will be up to the pet parents. By then they should be evolved enough to have jobs and buy their own houses and kibble, so I will be totally okay with it.
All this thinking about cojones and what’s the first thing I see when I hop on the internet? An article that Mother Jones posted today regarding San Francisco’s proposed ban on male circumcision. First stop, family jewels, next stop wieners, I guess.
According to the article, only 32.9% of male babies born in the US in 2009 were circumcised. That number surprised me. Personally, I have never run into an uncircumcised Richard, so it would probably scare the hell out of me and I would run the other way screaming. Friends that I know who’ve had baby boys had them circumcised like the day after the baby was born. A friend who is pregnant said they’ve talked about it with her doctor, who quoted the same stat as Mother Jones, but said nearly everyone in this area (Midwest) has the child circumcised.
I understand the ban on female circumcision is where is whole thing started. We’ve all heard the horror stories of young women being circumcised in unhygienic situations. And the reasoning behind the female circumcision is all about controlling those young women’s sexuality.
I guess the argument against male circumcision has a basis in sex for the uncircumcised male being more pleasurable and that due to better hygiene practices, it is no longer an issue of cleanliness. The other side of the coin is that circumcised men are less likely to transmit STDs. Those were just little bits I gleaned from the article and the chatter on it. Frankly, I have been thinking about cocks and balls way too much today because of all this and the thought of Goggling anything to do with a dude’s junk just makes me tired. Plus, blogs aren’t about facts, they are about spewing opinions. I don’t see how the San Francisco ban could pass; it seems like a pretty cut (pun intended) and dry First Amendment issue since circumcision has a religious basis.
I guess we should be able to do as we wish with our bodies and if we are minors, our parents get a say. Oh, this territory is getting so familiar. Keep your hands off my uterus and I’ll keep mine off your foreskin or lack of foreskin… whatever, I am going to bed. Balls…
Both of the bitches are technically “altered females.” We won’t be birthin’ no babies here. Seeing animal shelters full of fur babies needing homes and knowing that lots of babies are euthanized simply because of lack of room at shelters and lack of forever families breaks my heart. So I am firmly in the spay and neuter your pet camp. Bless your heart, Bob.
After a bit of contemplation, I decided to give props to Cool Lit Chick for being a good parent. And then I prayed that a whole bunch of guys wouldn’t get on the “poor dog needs nut implants” bandwagon. They do make nut implants for neutered dogs. And so it goes…
Happily, there were only a couple of people concerned about Henry’s junk and it was in a playful way. But I have noticed that men seem to be more sympathetic to a dog being castrated than women are to a spayed bitch. I’ve known men who practically mourned the loss of their dog’s balls. These are the type of men who bring their Chessie Retriever with grapefruit-sized testicles swinging about to the park and then wonder why toddlers run in fear. The kids aren’t afraid of the pooch, they are afraid of knockout by scrotum.
Women, on the other hand, seem totally okay with getting a hound fixed. Whether it’s snip and rest for a dog or surgery, stitches, and rest for a bitch, for whatever reason, women don’t seem to define ourselves as much below the belt. Internal versus external? Would I have an issue, or at least more sympathy, about spaying my bitches if I could touch my own ovaries? Or if I spent a good part of my life adjusting them when I thought no one was looking?
Until the dogs evolve enough to demand reproductive rights, I guess it will be up to the pet parents. By then they should be evolved enough to have jobs and buy their own houses and kibble, so I will be totally okay with it.
All this thinking about cojones and what’s the first thing I see when I hop on the internet? An article that Mother Jones posted today regarding San Francisco’s proposed ban on male circumcision. First stop, family jewels, next stop wieners, I guess.
According to the article, only 32.9% of male babies born in the US in 2009 were circumcised. That number surprised me. Personally, I have never run into an uncircumcised Richard, so it would probably scare the hell out of me and I would run the other way screaming. Friends that I know who’ve had baby boys had them circumcised like the day after the baby was born. A friend who is pregnant said they’ve talked about it with her doctor, who quoted the same stat as Mother Jones, but said nearly everyone in this area (Midwest) has the child circumcised.
I understand the ban on female circumcision is where is whole thing started. We’ve all heard the horror stories of young women being circumcised in unhygienic situations. And the reasoning behind the female circumcision is all about controlling those young women’s sexuality.
I guess the argument against male circumcision has a basis in sex for the uncircumcised male being more pleasurable and that due to better hygiene practices, it is no longer an issue of cleanliness. The other side of the coin is that circumcised men are less likely to transmit STDs. Those were just little bits I gleaned from the article and the chatter on it. Frankly, I have been thinking about cocks and balls way too much today because of all this and the thought of Goggling anything to do with a dude’s junk just makes me tired. Plus, blogs aren’t about facts, they are about spewing opinions. I don’t see how the San Francisco ban could pass; it seems like a pretty cut (pun intended) and dry First Amendment issue since circumcision has a religious basis.
I guess we should be able to do as we wish with our bodies and if we are minors, our parents get a say. Oh, this territory is getting so familiar. Keep your hands off my uterus and I’ll keep mine off your foreskin or lack of foreskin… whatever, I am going to bed. Balls…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)