Competitions and Comparisons.
My father brought up to me today that he would like to compete with me in the annual Thanksgiving-morning 5k out at the lake. He's been training for months and wants to prove to me (and by me, I mean himself) that he can still beat me.
I think I'll pretend to sprain my ankle a mile in. Partly because I don't think my getaway sticks can run more than a mile, and my dad's sure as shit can't, and that way, we're all winners.
Or something like that.
Why do parents do that? ..Compare.
It's quite unhealthy to compare your children to siblings, cousins, neighbors, friends, or scarily precocious child actors. For example, "Congratulations at coming in second in high jump on your class Field Day! Did you know that Anna Paquin just won an Oscar for her role in The Piano and she's your age?"
This does nothing to help my, eh-hem, your child's personal growth. Rather than stirring up a competitive spirit, it will likely make them anxious, and later, resentful that you didn't appreciate them for who they were, and much later, morbidly pleased when the formerly precocious child star turns into a drug-addled failure. This has not yet happened, and probably will never happen, to Anna Paquin, as her career seems to be going quite well. Not that I care.
You know how you could always tell that your parent was comparing you to your much more successful cousin Kenneth? No? Just me? Okay. Well, Kenneth is captain of the soccer team, played first cello in the orchestra, served as president of the student council, and got into Princeton as an early-decision admission. While, I on the other hand, was cut from JV soccer my senior year, and referred to the school orchestra as "dorkestra", which although funny and true, did not help my resume.
Maybe you had those parents that took it a little overboard, drawing up elaborate charts directly comparing your life to the "Kenneth" in your family tree. And perhaps you experienced that awkward moment when you stumbled upon them and they hastily explained how the charts were part of something top secret, and to keep it remaining top secret, you must never speak of it to a soul again! (Sorry, I'm getting dramatic and imaginitive) Fortunately, being not very precocious, you were satisfied with this answer. Had you been Kenneth or Anna Paquin, they'd have a little more explaining to do.
Now look at you! You're out of college, and a nice, normal, well-adjusted person. Unlike Kenneth, who is now addicted to porn and his old-school Sega gaming system. I bet your charts didn't see that coming!
As parents now see their children in their mid-twenties as adults, instead of dropping the comparisons all together, they switch from comparing their child from Kenneth, to comparing them with themselves. This is where suggested annual Thanksgiving-day 5k's make birth, and it is a vicious cycle.
For one, it proves nothing. In 90 percent of the sports a parent tries to engage in with a child in their mid-twenties, and they are God knows how old (but surely really old)....they will lose. Not even by a little, outright crushed. Remember when you were a small child and you picked on an even smaller child by placing your palm on their head and telling them to try to hit you and they would swing with all their might and never touch you and they'd be all like "Gee whiz, what's the big idea?" It's like that.
If you consider chess or backgammon to a sport, these would fall into the 10 percent that a parent may, and is socially allowed to, excel in.
Just never resort to an even more insidious comparison. Namely, your weight. When someone who is much older says "I'm the same weight that I was in high school", there is no one that is impressed by this or happy for them. In fact, this is one of the most annoying sentences ever uttered, along with "You look tired" or, "You remind me of a late-career Beverly D'Angelo".However, the proper response to latter two remarks is "What the f*** is that supposed to mean?...the proper response to the weight comment is "Shut the f*** up".
The kinds of people that make remarks about how tired you seem or how much you look like Beverly D'Angelo, although an asshole, holds all the power. Because subconsciously, you now feel bad about yourself. However, when someone states that they are the same weight that they were in high school, that person is merely an anorexic beggart and a pathological liar. They have nothing to gain by uttering such an insipid phrase. What did you say!? You're not the same weight you were in high school!? Oh, fatty.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Crarents, Croms, and Kralae's
Being a hairstylist, in a partially ritzy part of town, I meet a lot of young successful individuals. I enjoy meeting these individuals, given they can carry on a conversation about the upcoming election, their gammy's upcoming 90th birthday, or how crummy their day has been; and tip well. If you can't afford to tip, go to Gr**t Cl**s. You get what you pay for. Anywhoos - I have noticed a trend lately that said individuals are going into the same profession that their parents are.
Sure, stick to what you know.
Or are all these individuals getting a shoe-in?
Parents are ridiculous these days.
If I messed up as a kid..especially in the last few years, and boy have I, my parents took the tough love route and made me figure out a solution on my own, only stepping in if need be to avoid any serious consequences. But I for sure don't do what my parents do, nor what my parents wanted me to do, which is not what they do. Kapish?
I understand all parents and families are different, sure, go ahead and put in a good word for your offspring at your law firm. That's one thing; actively creating your child's resume, setting up interviews, even going on these interviews; is another.
Ridiculous, right? But it's true. Some parents think it best for their child if they never let them deal with their own life, always having a hand in their every move. I believe the term is "helicopter parents," and I see how that would make sense, but it would imply something far cooler, like they are half-person half-helicopter and have the ability of flight, or at least to hover. So I prefer to call them "Overbearing Parents," as it is much more to the point and implies nothing remotely cool at all. Listen, my own mother is an Overbearing Parent.
Once, when I was in junior high school, she called up my ceramics teacher to protest my deserved B instead of an A, which would have been very clearly undeserved. I tried to tell her not to, but she was intent on sticking up for me, in that she wanted me to get into a good college. So, she had good intentions, but ultimately the teacher hated me, and rightly so. But that was the extent of her Overbearing Parent-ness, and she learned to let me take care of myself, and I have learned that if I ever take an adult ceramic class, I will not talk to Susie the whole time about our mutual crush on Johnny, and I will make that pinch pot in the allotted amount of time.
If you're an Overbearing Parent, let's have a one-on-one convo, right now. Pretend like I'm doing that hand gesture thing where I point two fingers to my eyes and then point them at your eyes. Yeah, that's how serious I am about this right now. Since I can't hear you, I will make up your dialogue as I assume you would respond. So, I'll play me, and you play Overbearing Parent (OBP).
Sure, stick to what you know.
Or are all these individuals getting a shoe-in?
Parents are ridiculous these days.
If I messed up as a kid..especially in the last few years, and boy have I, my parents took the tough love route and made me figure out a solution on my own, only stepping in if need be to avoid any serious consequences. But I for sure don't do what my parents do, nor what my parents wanted me to do, which is not what they do. Kapish?
I understand all parents and families are different, sure, go ahead and put in a good word for your offspring at your law firm. That's one thing; actively creating your child's resume, setting up interviews, even going on these interviews; is another.
Ridiculous, right? But it's true. Some parents think it best for their child if they never let them deal with their own life, always having a hand in their every move. I believe the term is "helicopter parents," and I see how that would make sense, but it would imply something far cooler, like they are half-person half-helicopter and have the ability of flight, or at least to hover. So I prefer to call them "Overbearing Parents," as it is much more to the point and implies nothing remotely cool at all. Listen, my own mother is an Overbearing Parent.
Once, when I was in junior high school, she called up my ceramics teacher to protest my deserved B instead of an A, which would have been very clearly undeserved. I tried to tell her not to, but she was intent on sticking up for me, in that she wanted me to get into a good college. So, she had good intentions, but ultimately the teacher hated me, and rightly so. But that was the extent of her Overbearing Parent-ness, and she learned to let me take care of myself, and I have learned that if I ever take an adult ceramic class, I will not talk to Susie the whole time about our mutual crush on Johnny, and I will make that pinch pot in the allotted amount of time.
If you're an Overbearing Parent, let's have a one-on-one convo, right now. Pretend like I'm doing that hand gesture thing where I point two fingers to my eyes and then point them at your eyes. Yeah, that's how serious I am about this right now. Since I can't hear you, I will make up your dialogue as I assume you would respond. So, I'll play me, and you play Overbearing Parent (OBP).
Me: You have to stop being overbearing and let your child find their way in this world using the tools with which you've provided them.
OBP: Sometimes I can hear the ocean in my shoe.
Me: Hey, that's a good idea! Maybe it's time you took a vacation! You are stressing yourself out with taking on all your child's responsibilities.
OBP: Want to hear my Ray Charles impression? La la la la.
Me: That sounds nothing like Ray Charles. Listen, the point is to do as much as you can until your child leaves, and then to provide support, but let them lead their own....
OBP: Sometimes I eat nothing but cranberries!
Me: Well, that can't be too healthy. You are a crazy parent.
OBP: I am Crarent, hear me roar!
Me: I am glad we had this talk.
Well, that was certainly an informative conversation. I find it appropriate to now drop the term "Overbearing Parent" and adopt "Crarent". It's catchy and also sounds like some sort of delicious dried fruit. Also, the Crarents thought of it themselves, so they may take full ownership of it and not be offended.
Welp...I've just gotten word that the Crarents are offended, and by "Crarents" I mean "my mother". I've agreed to let her share her side of the story, as she disagrees with my views on the ceramics teacher phone call. Okay, Mom, you have the floor. Don't embarrass me.
A Memo From Kym Loudenslager
Mother to Kalae Loudenslager, and non-crarent
Hello everyone, I am not used to writing in this type of format. I'm far more comfortable with legal briefs, which I write frequently so that I may support my children, specifically, Kalae, as she wastes her time writing in an online diary about how her parents mucked her up and continue to do so. Except she doesn't use the word "mucked," does she? She prefers to be vulgar. She certainly did not learn that language from me. She probably picked it up at one of the many taverns she frequents. Oh please, don't misunderstand me; I appreciate the irony of writing a blog post complaining about one's parents as one types on a brushed-steel $3,000 dollar lap top that my 100 hour work weeks bought for a certain someone. Anyway, as far as the ceramics incident goes, I called up Kalae's ceramics teacher Kalae's SENIOR year of high school. This seems to have slipped Kalae's mind conveniently, as she has failed to remember that she came down with a case of senioritis that rendered her unable to fulfill her pinch-pot requirements in the slacker/hippie class she thought she could just coast through and get an easy A. Kalae tearfully complained to me that her teacher was being unfair, and that having a B on her transcript would seriously impede her from getting into the college of her choice. So, at KALAE'S REQUEST, I made a call to her art teacher, who calmly explained to me that Kalae had not completed her assignments, and could but only give her a B, and that was being generous. When I informed Kalae of my call, she yelled at me for making her look like a spoiled brat to her teacher. Like she needed any help from me. But now, because of that one incident, I'm a "crarent." Well, let me tell you something little miss my-parent's-mucked-me-up.....
Okay, thanks Mom!
Wow, it's amazing how different people have different perspectives on history, isn't it!?
By the way, I have a new, adorable name for my mom...she can be called "crom"! It sounds like something a bird would screech. When said bird is angry and not thinking rationally about past events...Crom! Crom! Anyways, thanks Crom!
A Memo from Kym Loudenslager: My name is not Crom
It seems as though my daughter has thought up a new nickname for me, "Crom." However, my name is not Crom, it is Kym Loudenslager. I find it incredibly disrespectful that she would find it appropriate to call me "Crazy Mom" after all I have done for her. What if I started calling her Kralae? Hey everybody, it's Crazy Kalae, let's call her Kralae! How would she like that? Not at all, I'm sure.
And I'm seriously considering not placing the phone call she asked me to make to her neighbor that sometimes makes soup that smells weird and gives her nightmares. You can just go ahead and have those nightmares, Kalae. See what I care! Okay, fine, I'll make the call, but I will not be referred to as Crom!
A message from Me to Crom:
Dear Crom,
I never said that "Crom" stood for "Crazy Mom." I should have specified, actually it stands for "Crikey, Mom!" As in, "Crikey, Mom, you've done so much for me!" Also, Kralae doesn't have the same ring to it as Crarent or Crom. I'm sorry, it just doesn't quite roll off the tongue the same. No matter, let's put these differences behind us. I am just trying to find an equilibrium for our relationship and along the way help others to do the same. So, if you could, for like, two minutes, stay out of my business, that would be great. Well, stay out of my business after you make that call to my neighbor. I think it's a Curry Soup or something. Thanks, Crom.
Love,
Kalae
A message from Me to everyone besides Crom:
It appears my mother has cut me off. Great. Just great. Now I can't afford enough diet coke to keep me hydrated as I suffer from sleep deprivation due to my inhalation-of-curry-soup-caused nightmares!
However, I am a selfless person. So I will soldier on, despite certain hardships ahead.
****
Believe it or not, this is not my first foray into philanthropy. I have for a long time lent my talents and support to other organizations and peoples who need my help. I would like to now provide you with my resume of philanthropic work:
YMCA
Fargo, North Dakota 1996-1998
When I was 6 I participated in a youth basketball league in which I shot at hoops that were 6 feet high (as opposed to 10ft regulation) and I never complained. A complaint would have surely shut down the YMCA, depriving many children of after-school activities, so I effectively saved the YMCA of Cass County at age 6.
Bonnie Haney School of Dance
Fargo, North Dakota 1999-2012
I was enrolled in dance class, where I learned such steps as the fox trot, the waltz, and the cha-cha-cha. I danced with boys whom were much shorter than myself, which made them feel incredibly uncomfortable, and I made them feel this acutely, telling them repeatedly to stop staring at my rack. They carried this lesson of humility with them, so that when they were old they harkened back to the ballroom-dancing days of shame whenever they were about to be a jerk to a girl. This resulted in many boys in the FM-Area being very respectful to girls.
Moorhead Youth Soccer
Moorhead, MN 2007-2008
As a senior in high school I coached tiny five-year-olds
in the art of soccer. Tiny five-year-olds play soccer with a
pack mentality, with no regard for spacing or strategy. It’s
quite adorable to see twenty little kids frantically move
from one side of the field to the other as one … until you
realize that that is no way to play soccer and if they continue
to move as a pack they will never have a sense of individuality.
So, I started a series of rumors about each of
the children that turned them against each other (“Lila
says that Matty smells”), and this lead them to want to stay
far away from each other, especially Matty, since everyone
thought that he smelled. As a result, we had the best spacing
of the entire league and went on to win at least two
more games than we had anticipated. Yes, no one was in a
celebratory mood because they had all been turned against
each other, but the important thing is that we won and the
kids learned to look out for number one.
in the art of soccer. Tiny five-year-olds play soccer with a
pack mentality, with no regard for spacing or strategy. It’s
quite adorable to see twenty little kids frantically move
from one side of the field to the other as one … until you
realize that that is no way to play soccer and if they continue
to move as a pack they will never have a sense of individuality.
So, I started a series of rumors about each of
the children that turned them against each other (“Lila
says that Matty smells”), and this lead them to want to stay
far away from each other, especially Matty, since everyone
thought that he smelled. As a result, we had the best spacing
of the entire league and went on to win at least two
more games than we had anticipated. Yes, no one was in a
celebratory mood because they had all been turned against
each other, but the important thing is that we won and the
kids learned to look out for number one.
Boom.
Make your children earn their place in this world.
Make your children earn their place in this world.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
John Smith is...
If I never saw these ten things on a Facebook status again, I wouldn't be upset.
1) The Boyfriend Report.
"John Smith is...thinking about my boyfriend CONSTANTLY!!! <333 XOXOXOXO"
Every time you write something like this, you make it that much harder for me to be sympathetic when you're "HEART</3BROKEN :(((((((" two days later.
2) The Vague Expression of Passive Aggression
"John Smith is...wonders why in someone's darkest times I help them, but when things are going rough for me, that someone is no where to be seen!"
Gee, why don't you just tag the person you got in a fight with two hours ago. Are you hoping to make all your friends worry that you're mad at them? The comment section on these is even better:
Jane Doe: OMG, you're not mad at me, are you!?
John Smith: Oh no, hunny. OMG, I love you! Someone just doing something they shouldn't. Just someone.
Susie Johnson: It's not me, is it!?
John Smith: ROFL...no...someone else...
..It's just a process of elimination after this point.
3) The Inside Joke
"John Smith is...Koala Bears in the what what? Hahaha"
You know, they have this new thing where you can edit what groups of people see your status. Why not do that rather than make everyone other than the two peoples who know what the hell you're talking about read this and have their heads explode while they try to figure out how you came in contact with a koala bear and just what your "what what" is.
4) The Ode To Life
"John Smith is...Crazy pancakes after a fan-freaking-tastic party at Henry's! I love my liiiiife!"
I don't care.
5) The Cursed Life
"John Smith is..I just found out that I'm adopted and my real parents are Bavarian gypsies! FML!"
FML = TMI...brah..
6) The Declaration Of Love To A Really Bad Pop Culture Phenomenon As If You're The Only Moron That Likes It
"John Smith is...BATMAN is AMAZING! Everyone should see it!"
I'm confused, are you talking to the four people that haven't seen it? Thank you for exposing us to this hidden gem. Aside from the record-breaking gross and the Oscar nominations, I never would have heard about it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go back under my rock and see if I have enough change for a movie ticket. Those cost a few nickels more now, right?
7) The Song Lyrics Dedicated To Whomever You Just Had Sex With
"John Smith is...And your body is/My Ferris wheel/I loved getting stuck/At the top ;)"
Just so we're clear, it's 2am, your soul mate of the week just blitzed you a "text ya tomorrow" line and bailed. This declaration of love, and/or orgasm, doesn't make your hookup any less trashy.
8) The Compliment Fisher
"John Smith is...I'm the worst person ever. Someone just shoot me."
Am I the only one who sees statuses like this and wants to comment with, "Yeah, you really are. You should find a bottle of something, anything, and drink the whole thing. So glad you realized this without any of the rest of us having to tell you, what a load off!"
9) The Bar Tab
"John Smith is...Still soooo wasted from last night. Threw up on myself. Hahaha..who wants to go out tonight?"
If I wanted to know how your inevitable alcoholism was going, I'd ask. I'll just wait and catch ya on the new season of Intervention in a few years.
10) The Awesome Vacation That Only You're On
"John Smith is...Watching a tropical sunset on a beautiful island in the Pacific. Life is glorious, isn't it?
Fuck you.
..I realize Facebook no longer defaults your status' to "John Smith is..", but I think it should. That was a good deal the old Zuckerberg had goin...along with the old format....Timeline..pfft.
1) The Boyfriend Report.
"John Smith is...thinking about my boyfriend CONSTANTLY!!! <333 XOXOXOXO"
Every time you write something like this, you make it that much harder for me to be sympathetic when you're "HEART</3BROKEN :(((((((" two days later.
2) The Vague Expression of Passive Aggression
"John Smith is...wonders why in someone's darkest times I help them, but when things are going rough for me, that someone is no where to be seen!"
Gee, why don't you just tag the person you got in a fight with two hours ago. Are you hoping to make all your friends worry that you're mad at them? The comment section on these is even better:
Jane Doe: OMG, you're not mad at me, are you!?
John Smith: Oh no, hunny. OMG, I love you! Someone just doing something they shouldn't. Just someone.
Susie Johnson: It's not me, is it!?
John Smith: ROFL...no...someone else...
..It's just a process of elimination after this point.
3) The Inside Joke
"John Smith is...Koala Bears in the what what? Hahaha"
You know, they have this new thing where you can edit what groups of people see your status. Why not do that rather than make everyone other than the two peoples who know what the hell you're talking about read this and have their heads explode while they try to figure out how you came in contact with a koala bear and just what your "what what" is.
4) The Ode To Life
"John Smith is...Crazy pancakes after a fan-freaking-tastic party at Henry's! I love my liiiiife!"
I don't care.
5) The Cursed Life
"John Smith is..I just found out that I'm adopted and my real parents are Bavarian gypsies! FML!"
FML = TMI...brah..
6) The Declaration Of Love To A Really Bad Pop Culture Phenomenon As If You're The Only Moron That Likes It
"John Smith is...BATMAN is AMAZING! Everyone should see it!"
I'm confused, are you talking to the four people that haven't seen it? Thank you for exposing us to this hidden gem. Aside from the record-breaking gross and the Oscar nominations, I never would have heard about it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go back under my rock and see if I have enough change for a movie ticket. Those cost a few nickels more now, right?
7) The Song Lyrics Dedicated To Whomever You Just Had Sex With
"John Smith is...And your body is/My Ferris wheel/I loved getting stuck/At the top ;)"
Just so we're clear, it's 2am, your soul mate of the week just blitzed you a "text ya tomorrow" line and bailed. This declaration of love, and/or orgasm, doesn't make your hookup any less trashy.
8) The Compliment Fisher
"John Smith is...I'm the worst person ever. Someone just shoot me."
Am I the only one who sees statuses like this and wants to comment with, "Yeah, you really are. You should find a bottle of something, anything, and drink the whole thing. So glad you realized this without any of the rest of us having to tell you, what a load off!"
9) The Bar Tab
"John Smith is...Still soooo wasted from last night. Threw up on myself. Hahaha..who wants to go out tonight?"
If I wanted to know how your inevitable alcoholism was going, I'd ask. I'll just wait and catch ya on the new season of Intervention in a few years.
10) The Awesome Vacation That Only You're On
"John Smith is...Watching a tropical sunset on a beautiful island in the Pacific. Life is glorious, isn't it?
Fuck you.
..I realize Facebook no longer defaults your status' to "John Smith is..", but I think it should. That was a good deal the old Zuckerberg had goin...along with the old format....Timeline..pfft.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Vagina jokes aren't funny. Period.
And what, you ask, happened to piss me off to such an extent?
Well, now, that’s the fun part. Because nothing happened. Nothing at all. Nada.
Unless you count THAT THING.
That thing that happens once a month.
That thing that turns me, within seconds, into a stark raving mad
specimen of humanity – a walking nutjob.
I’m fine. And then OMG I’M NOT.
That thing that makes me want to punch strangers in the throat for
chewing too loudly, cry, scream, and eat all simple carbohydrates in a
five-mile radius. That thing that makes me question the meaning of life
while weeping at a car commercial and screaming at my roommate's son to STOP MAKING NOISE.
Oh yeah. You know what I’m talking about. They call it “PMS.”
For the record, I think that is the stupidest name IN THE WORLD for such a thing.
I have some better ones. More descriptive. Accurate.
Such as: “Pissed off, Maniacal and Starving” or “Pending Marital
Separation” or “Psychotic, Melodramatic, and Seething,” or “Pardon My
Satanic-nature.”
Those are just some ideas.
You think I’m kidding? You think I’m exaggerating? I’m not.
“Pre-menstrual Syndrome…” Bullshit. That sounds so innocuous, like it
ain’t that big of a deal.
Well I’m here to speak for those of us women
who TURN INTO MONSTERS for a few days each month and pretty much have no
capacity to change it. I’m always slightly amazed my boyfriend hasn't broken up with me after this "special time".
Men, listen up. This shit applies to you too.
At any rate, check it out: once a month, about a week before my
period, I’m sitting there minding my own business when all the sudden,
out of freaking nowhere, drifts into my reality a dark, cold haze. It
enters every cell of my skin, right through to my bones. I feel it
sinking in, a discomfort. An irritation. Like a fly buzzing just outside
my ear. I feel it course through my veins. An anxiety. An angst. And I
want to break things.
When it hits my ears they become more sensitive. When it hits my
brain it becomes confused, scattered, anxious. When it hits my eyes they
begin to only see the shit that annoys me. They see only negative.
And when it hits my heart, my heart gets heavy. It becomes a thousand
pounds. My emotions burst from it in quick flashes of pain and agony
and existential contemplation. What IS the meaning of life? Why AM I
here? WHY didn't that motherfucker tip me more than two dollars for a phenomenal haircut?
But mostly…WHY IS MY BEST FRIEND/ROOMMATE SO FUCKING ANNOYING?
Why am I cohabitating in the first place?
Why don't I make more money so I can afford a 1 bedroom with all the amenities?
Why don't I have kids?
Would I like my kids?
Why am I so fat?
I wish I were 18 again.
Why aren’t I 18?
I need a scone.
And there’s that FUCKING FLY.
SHUUUUUUT UP!
It’s never shutting up.
It’s here. “People Must Surrender,” because I’m fucking insane. For a
few days, I am insane. Women who get PMS like me should get a break
from their lives. We should get a handicapped parking spot. We should
get special pills and massages and a camp or something with nothing but
silent people, trees and hot tubs.
Why? Well, I’ll tell you why. Because once a month:
- I am not responsible for the shit that comes out of my mouth. I don’t even know who the fuck is saying it but I KNOW IT AIN’T ME. That bitch is crazy.
- I am not responsible for the shit I put into my mouth (Yes, I just said I am not responsible for the stuff going in or out of my mouth.)
- I want to crawl in a hole and weep and die, though it’s unclear to me exactly why.
- I cannot recall why anything in my life is the way it is and I’m pretty sure it’s ALL WRONG. (But there’s nothing you can do to fix it so don’t even try because it’s never getting better and that’s just the way it is you fucktard.)
- I am no use to my boyfriend (because it’s all his fault).
- I am no use to my friends (because they’re so irritating I can’t spend more than 5 minutes near them).
- I am no use to my coworkers (because everyone's face is irritating me somehow).
- I am bloated. And nobody likes that. But I can't drink water or get to the gym or do anything other than eat chocolate and caffeine because I'm comforting myself with food and beverage even though I'm going to regret it and I'm getting fatter by the fucking minute but OMG there's that FLY and IT WON'T STOP BUZZING
Some medical site describes the emotional PMS symptoms as follows: “tension, irritability, mood swings or crying spells, anxiety, depression.”
Summarization:
Fuck you.
You irritate me.
Please don't ever leave me.
My GOD why are you so annoying?
No wait, I'm sorry I'm such a bitch.
I want to move to Freemont, West Virginia.
Holy shit, I'm fucking hungry.
It’s good to be back. In more ways than one.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Family Reunions. Double the family, double the...not fun.
Every five years or so, usually in the summertime, some nutso aunt sees it customary to host a Family Reunion, where all of your extended family gather for an extended weekend. So to prepare you for the 1 in 5 chance that you must endure one of these abominable experiences, jump on in.
Now, everyone getting together may sound amazing in concept, but has the potential to go horribly awry in practice. The Family Reunion only happens once every five years for a reason. It's like the Family Olympics. Even though the Olympics only happen every four years.
Look, just forget about the Olympics, okay?
The point is, you train for years to get to the point where you can be the best that you can be, so that when you see that hot second cousin of yours, even though you would never consummate your lust, you can make them seriously rationalize in their heads that making out with a second cousin wouldn't be nearly as bad as making out with a first cousin.
When we were younger, Family Reunions were great! They provided us the opportunity to bond with our cousins and meet that second cousin that one day we would have a totally inappropriate, but nonetheless hot, crush on. It was good, clean family fun.
Now that everyone's grown, but not old enough to have kids, and all the cousins are good friends and of drinking age, oh my God, do people get wasted.
Especially Nana.
And that's okay.
Yes, I just said it's okay to get wasted with family, which goes against my previous teachings, (Previous Teachings) but --listen carefully-- Family Reunions involve enough people and enough stress, that it would be wrong not to drink.
Unless you're an alcoholic. Then you most definitely should not drink. However, drinking adds to the experience.
For example, when your brother's perfect wife is taking pictures with her perfect kids, who are all wearing perfectly matching plaid outfits, you can act like you're at one of those interactive Sound of Music screenings where you get to drink and yell at the film. You can demand they all sing "So Long, Farewell", and when the children look confused and a bit frightened, and your brother gently suggests that you stop drinking, you can get up and start sprinting and pretending you're running to Switzerland.
Now to me, that's hilarious, only because The Sound of Music was one of my mother's favorite videos, and I watched it enough as a child that I have it memorized. To you, probably not so much. Brush up on your Julie Andrews days of yore, then we'll talk.
If you weren't drunk, you might not think it's amusing when your eighty-four-year-old uncle hits on your twenty-two-year-old daughter. With the benefits of alcohol, however, you find him humorously reminiscent. It sort-of reminds you of when he hit on you when you were twenty-two, but it was a little more serious because he was only fifty-four and now he can blame it on Maker's Mark and being senile. No matter. It's nostalgic to see your little girl has grown up so fast. Your daughter, however, does not find this incident particularly funny or sentimental. But when her second cousin sees her great-uncle hitting on her, maybe he'll get jealous, so she'll deal with it.
God. What drives me extra banana sandwich is when you get that great-aunt that is asking all about what you're doing in life, but they ask your parents instead of you.
I can field all sorts of questions from aunts, uncles, second aunts, third uncles twice removed, great aunts about what I'm doing with my life by myself.
This should be like a hay day for parents, cause they don't have to be constantly giving updates on their children. If someone asks how I'm doing, Mom and Dad, point to my general direction to where I'm smoking pot in a field, and go back to sipping your margarita.
Now, everyone getting together may sound amazing in concept, but has the potential to go horribly awry in practice. The Family Reunion only happens once every five years for a reason. It's like the Family Olympics. Even though the Olympics only happen every four years.
Look, just forget about the Olympics, okay?
The point is, you train for years to get to the point where you can be the best that you can be, so that when you see that hot second cousin of yours, even though you would never consummate your lust, you can make them seriously rationalize in their heads that making out with a second cousin wouldn't be nearly as bad as making out with a first cousin.
When we were younger, Family Reunions were great! They provided us the opportunity to bond with our cousins and meet that second cousin that one day we would have a totally inappropriate, but nonetheless hot, crush on. It was good, clean family fun.
Now that everyone's grown, but not old enough to have kids, and all the cousins are good friends and of drinking age, oh my God, do people get wasted.
Especially Nana.
And that's okay.
Yes, I just said it's okay to get wasted with family, which goes against my previous teachings, (Previous Teachings) but --listen carefully-- Family Reunions involve enough people and enough stress, that it would be wrong not to drink.
Unless you're an alcoholic. Then you most definitely should not drink. However, drinking adds to the experience.
For example, when your brother's perfect wife is taking pictures with her perfect kids, who are all wearing perfectly matching plaid outfits, you can act like you're at one of those interactive Sound of Music screenings where you get to drink and yell at the film. You can demand they all sing "So Long, Farewell", and when the children look confused and a bit frightened, and your brother gently suggests that you stop drinking, you can get up and start sprinting and pretending you're running to Switzerland.
Now to me, that's hilarious, only because The Sound of Music was one of my mother's favorite videos, and I watched it enough as a child that I have it memorized. To you, probably not so much. Brush up on your Julie Andrews days of yore, then we'll talk.
If you weren't drunk, you might not think it's amusing when your eighty-four-year-old uncle hits on your twenty-two-year-old daughter. With the benefits of alcohol, however, you find him humorously reminiscent. It sort-of reminds you of when he hit on you when you were twenty-two, but it was a little more serious because he was only fifty-four and now he can blame it on Maker's Mark and being senile. No matter. It's nostalgic to see your little girl has grown up so fast. Your daughter, however, does not find this incident particularly funny or sentimental. But when her second cousin sees her great-uncle hitting on her, maybe he'll get jealous, so she'll deal with it.
God. What drives me extra banana sandwich is when you get that great-aunt that is asking all about what you're doing in life, but they ask your parents instead of you.
I can field all sorts of questions from aunts, uncles, second aunts, third uncles twice removed, great aunts about what I'm doing with my life by myself.
This should be like a hay day for parents, cause they don't have to be constantly giving updates on their children. If someone asks how I'm doing, Mom and Dad, point to my general direction to where I'm smoking pot in a field, and go back to sipping your margarita.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Sex. I've already said too much.
I have my best friend's computer for a couple days while she's out of town, since mine isn't an Apple and took a gigantic shit on me and I'm in the midst of getting it fixed. So my apologies for the back-to-back blog posts, but I've got a lot that's built up over the last month that I need to just get out. One experience, in particular, has stood out apart from the rest. Perhaps something I should share, and in turn, you share with your parents...so that this never has to happen to you.
This shit is about to get real.
~
I walked in on my parents having sex.
Friggin. Gross.
I believe it was standard missionary position, though I can't be certain, as I immediately suffered from hysterical blindness. I ran back downstairs to my bedroom, crying, and soon after my mom ventured into my room and I demanded to know why her and dad would be having sex if they already had two children. Was I not good enough? (PS, I'm adopted, there's no excuse for my parents to EVER be having sex. Ever.) She assured me that I was good enough, and I'm pretty sure she said some other crap about two people and loving each other but I chose not to listen. So that sort-of made me feel better. Besides the fact that the image has stayed with me and the last 15 years of my life have been torture.
~
So, I am going to write this blog [while peeking out from my covered eyes - because the topic is that scary,] to all parents, everywhere. Consequently the writing process with be arduous and take three times as long as usual, mostly because I'll be typing with my elbows. This does not necessarily effect you as a reader, but I hope it gives you a lot more appreciation for the pain and suffering I'm about to endure on your behalf. I even had to TiVo my favorite show, Dogs With Jobs. Don't worry about me, I'll see Dogs With Jobs another time. I'll be left with the heart-warming feeling of seeing a dog with a job, which will help me to ease into the recovery process of post-parent-sex-writing....although then I will sink into a subsequent depression wondering, "If a dog can have a job, why is the unemployment rate so high?"
Now I'm just stalling.
In anticipation, I'm keeping an air sickness bag I stole from my last flight by my side, along with Gatorade and saltine crackers to help restore my electrolytes from the parent-sex-writing-induced vomiting. This will be unpleasant, much like a root canal or a pap smear.
You see? Even writing "pap smear" was gross.
Here goes nothin'...
Parents, you probably had a sex talk with your child when they were about eleven, not because you wanted to, but because your son started screaming uncontrollably at the sight of his giant erection, which he sustained while riding shotgun in the family Volvo on the way to Disney World. Whether it was the heat, the bumpiness of the road, his half-asleep state in which he was thinking about The Little Mermaid, or any combination of the three, you'll both never know. All you know is that stretch of road between Myrtle Beach and Orlando will always be seared in both of your minds as a turning point in your relationship.
The moment when there was such a thing as too much information exchanged between a parent and a child.
You have had plenty of conversations since then. Let's not forget the "I think about what my life would be like if I hadn't married your mother" talk. Or the, "I had my share of gay experiences when I was your age" conversation. However, since this was your first, it holds a special resonance.
Consequently for the rest of your trip, your son shied away from Cinderella and Belle for fear of a repeat incident, and has since beheld Disney cartoon heroines with a mixture of lust and fear. Actually, that's how all men view all women.
And never forget the conversation you and your spouse had later that night: "Honey, at least he's not gay." Not that you would have a problem with that, you'd love him the same, but there is some relief in knowing that in twenty years later he won't be visiting Disney World with his partner on "Gay Day". Because let's face it, that's just gay.
Or perhaps, your daughter walked in on you two doing it like no ones business, (Oh, God. I just got that feeling where your mouth starts to water before you puke. Okay, it's gone.) and out of guilt, you went downstairs to assure your weeping daughter that you weren't trying to have more babies because she wasn't good enough.
Either way, there's no mature or normal way to talk to your kids about sex. Maybe you think someday they'll just come to accept it?
No.
And from my personal experience, do not book adjacent hotel rooms with your kids and think you'll get away with mounting like jack rabbits. Your kids aren't eight anymore, they're twenty-one, and completely able to comprehend what's going on. That's disturbing enough in and of itself, but then your kids get to thinking it's not very fair that you're having sex and they're not, so you're footed with a $200 minibar bill the next morning. Really, you deserved it.
Yes, it's good for you that you're super freaking old and still having sex. Huzzah! I hope you feel like Pierce Brosnan and Rene Russo in The Thomas Crown Affair. Just keep your personal relations around your kids under the deepest of covers.
Soundproof covers.
Neither you nor your child should ever awcknowledge that the former or the latter has had any involvement in coitus
Please also refrain from telling your child the story of how they were conceived. Yes, you may have taken the entire family to St. Croix, (which children really appreciate cause we can't afford such luxuries!) but that does not mean you can recount the story, over a couple of pina coladas, of how twenty-two years ago you and your spouse engaged in crazy, tropical, island intercourse...that eventually resulted in your child.
In conclusion, please never mention the act of sex, nor utter the word "sex," even in the most sex-less of contexts, like, "the amoeba has no sex organs," or "Grandma hasn't had sex in forty years!" -Oh, wait.
Oh, God. Excuse me.
Cue projectile vomit into stolen airline receptacle.
This shit is about to get real.
~
I walked in on my parents having sex.
Friggin. Gross.
I believe it was standard missionary position, though I can't be certain, as I immediately suffered from hysterical blindness. I ran back downstairs to my bedroom, crying, and soon after my mom ventured into my room and I demanded to know why her and dad would be having sex if they already had two children. Was I not good enough? (PS, I'm adopted, there's no excuse for my parents to EVER be having sex. Ever.) She assured me that I was good enough, and I'm pretty sure she said some other crap about two people and loving each other but I chose not to listen. So that sort-of made me feel better. Besides the fact that the image has stayed with me and the last 15 years of my life have been torture.
~
So, I am going to write this blog [while peeking out from my covered eyes - because the topic is that scary,] to all parents, everywhere. Consequently the writing process with be arduous and take three times as long as usual, mostly because I'll be typing with my elbows. This does not necessarily effect you as a reader, but I hope it gives you a lot more appreciation for the pain and suffering I'm about to endure on your behalf. I even had to TiVo my favorite show, Dogs With Jobs. Don't worry about me, I'll see Dogs With Jobs another time. I'll be left with the heart-warming feeling of seeing a dog with a job, which will help me to ease into the recovery process of post-parent-sex-writing....although then I will sink into a subsequent depression wondering, "If a dog can have a job, why is the unemployment rate so high?"
Now I'm just stalling.
In anticipation, I'm keeping an air sickness bag I stole from my last flight by my side, along with Gatorade and saltine crackers to help restore my electrolytes from the parent-sex-writing-induced vomiting. This will be unpleasant, much like a root canal or a pap smear.
You see? Even writing "pap smear" was gross.
Here goes nothin'...
Parents, you probably had a sex talk with your child when they were about eleven, not because you wanted to, but because your son started screaming uncontrollably at the sight of his giant erection, which he sustained while riding shotgun in the family Volvo on the way to Disney World. Whether it was the heat, the bumpiness of the road, his half-asleep state in which he was thinking about The Little Mermaid, or any combination of the three, you'll both never know. All you know is that stretch of road between Myrtle Beach and Orlando will always be seared in both of your minds as a turning point in your relationship.
The moment when there was such a thing as too much information exchanged between a parent and a child.
You have had plenty of conversations since then. Let's not forget the "I think about what my life would be like if I hadn't married your mother" talk. Or the, "I had my share of gay experiences when I was your age" conversation. However, since this was your first, it holds a special resonance.
Consequently for the rest of your trip, your son shied away from Cinderella and Belle for fear of a repeat incident, and has since beheld Disney cartoon heroines with a mixture of lust and fear. Actually, that's how all men view all women.
And never forget the conversation you and your spouse had later that night: "Honey, at least he's not gay." Not that you would have a problem with that, you'd love him the same, but there is some relief in knowing that in twenty years later he won't be visiting Disney World with his partner on "Gay Day". Because let's face it, that's just gay.
Or perhaps, your daughter walked in on you two doing it like no ones business, (Oh, God. I just got that feeling where your mouth starts to water before you puke. Okay, it's gone.) and out of guilt, you went downstairs to assure your weeping daughter that you weren't trying to have more babies because she wasn't good enough.
Either way, there's no mature or normal way to talk to your kids about sex. Maybe you think someday they'll just come to accept it?
No.
And from my personal experience, do not book adjacent hotel rooms with your kids and think you'll get away with mounting like jack rabbits. Your kids aren't eight anymore, they're twenty-one, and completely able to comprehend what's going on. That's disturbing enough in and of itself, but then your kids get to thinking it's not very fair that you're having sex and they're not, so you're footed with a $200 minibar bill the next morning. Really, you deserved it.
Yes, it's good for you that you're super freaking old and still having sex. Huzzah! I hope you feel like Pierce Brosnan and Rene Russo in The Thomas Crown Affair. Just keep your personal relations around your kids under the deepest of covers.
Soundproof covers.
Neither you nor your child should ever awcknowledge that the former or the latter has had any involvement in coitus
Please also refrain from telling your child the story of how they were conceived. Yes, you may have taken the entire family to St. Croix, (which children really appreciate cause we can't afford such luxuries!) but that does not mean you can recount the story, over a couple of pina coladas, of how twenty-two years ago you and your spouse engaged in crazy, tropical, island intercourse...that eventually resulted in your child.
In conclusion, please never mention the act of sex, nor utter the word "sex," even in the most sex-less of contexts, like, "the amoeba has no sex organs," or "Grandma hasn't had sex in forty years!" -Oh, wait.
Oh, God. Excuse me.
Cue projectile vomit into stolen airline receptacle.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
How Jessica Simpson Became My New Hero
Well, now, that's not a sentence you hear, well, ever. Even 'ol Daisy Duke herself might be surprised to see that one.
Anywhoo. The other day bored at work I was reading my trusty trashy magazine and I saw a picture of Jessica Simpson during her baby shower. And as I saw her I thought to myself.. "Wow. She's gained some WEIGHT."
And then I read that she served deep-fried Twinkies at her shower, which triggered in my vague little brain a recalling of a few months ago about how she said on Jay Leno that she was craving some ungodly brownie creation involving cookie dough and Oreos.
And all of the sudden, I started to like her.
I mean she's not up there with say, Chelsea Handler or my grandma, but she's farther up than most famous pop singers.
Sure, I have never actually listened to a song she's sung. (She does make music, right?)
And I don't think I've ever finished a full movie she's been in. One I started just because Dane Cook was on the cover, then it wasn't funny at all, and then there was that one with the car and water and super short shorts that never held my attention.
And she doesn't strike me as the sharpest tool in the shed.
And I'm guessing we have slightly different approaches to life, considering she sold her baby shower to People Magazine.
However, despite all of this, she is my new hero - say, for the week - because she's a Hollywood icon finally acting like a REAL human being during pregnancy by eating too much.
FINALLY someone who doesn't look like they've placed a small basketball in their Gucci dress and called it a baby, with perfectly toned arms/legs/ass happily announcing, "I'm due any day!"
I mean, SHIT, Angelina...EAT!
Finally, a superstar that gets fat like a normal person.
Oh, yeah. Blah, blah, blah, I know. Health.
My point is that pregnancy is inevitably disgusting. That's why I'm on birth control....and abstinent.... So that I don't stuff my ex-butt-cheek-hanging-out-of-jean-shorts self with fried Twinkies. Yeah, I get it, pregnancy is beautiful, yackity, yackity, yack....as long as you don't ask your husband if that dress makes you look fat.
I'm just glad someone in Hollywood is embracing pregnancy for what it IS and not trying to make it seem like some perfect fairytale with 7% body fat and airbrushed skin.
And so, I commend you, Jessica Simpson for representing the poor choices women make during that special time, and every month during THAT special time, and for a week after every breakup. And for discussing it on television. And for publishing it in a magazine. Even if you did get paid millions for it.
Of course, now I hear you've already sold your post-baby-weight-loss journey to Jenny Craig or some crap, which means we've already suddenly lost touch with one another.
We had some good times, you and I.
It was good while it lasted.
But no matter how thin you get, no matter how many 5k's you run four months after your delivery, no matter how soon you divorce your latest flavor, and no matter how BAD your next entertainment endeavor is....I'll always remember you as the Actual Hollywood Human Female who ate horrible things during pregnancy, got fat, and admitted it. And for still being BEAUTIFUL and rocking high heels doing it.
So cheers to my new hero - Gooooooo Jessica!
Did I just write a blog about Jessica Simpson being my hero? God, help me.
Anywhoo. The other day bored at work I was reading my trusty trashy magazine and I saw a picture of Jessica Simpson during her baby shower. And as I saw her I thought to myself.. "Wow. She's gained some WEIGHT."
And then I read that she served deep-fried Twinkies at her shower, which triggered in my vague little brain a recalling of a few months ago about how she said on Jay Leno that she was craving some ungodly brownie creation involving cookie dough and Oreos.
And all of the sudden, I started to like her.
I mean she's not up there with say, Chelsea Handler or my grandma, but she's farther up than most famous pop singers.
Sure, I have never actually listened to a song she's sung. (She does make music, right?)
And I don't think I've ever finished a full movie she's been in. One I started just because Dane Cook was on the cover, then it wasn't funny at all, and then there was that one with the car and water and super short shorts that never held my attention.
And she doesn't strike me as the sharpest tool in the shed.
And I'm guessing we have slightly different approaches to life, considering she sold her baby shower to People Magazine.
However, despite all of this, she is my new hero - say, for the week - because she's a Hollywood icon finally acting like a REAL human being during pregnancy by eating too much.
FINALLY someone who doesn't look like they've placed a small basketball in their Gucci dress and called it a baby, with perfectly toned arms/legs/ass happily announcing, "I'm due any day!"
I mean, SHIT, Angelina...EAT!
Finally, a superstar that gets fat like a normal person.
Oh, yeah. Blah, blah, blah, I know. Health.
My point is that pregnancy is inevitably disgusting. That's why I'm on birth control....and abstinent.... So that I don't stuff my ex-butt-cheek-hanging-out-of-jean-shorts self with fried Twinkies. Yeah, I get it, pregnancy is beautiful, yackity, yackity, yack....as long as you don't ask your husband if that dress makes you look fat.
I'm just glad someone in Hollywood is embracing pregnancy for what it IS and not trying to make it seem like some perfect fairytale with 7% body fat and airbrushed skin.
And so, I commend you, Jessica Simpson for representing the poor choices women make during that special time, and every month during THAT special time, and for a week after every breakup. And for discussing it on television. And for publishing it in a magazine. Even if you did get paid millions for it.
Of course, now I hear you've already sold your post-baby-weight-loss journey to Jenny Craig or some crap, which means we've already suddenly lost touch with one another.
We had some good times, you and I.
It was good while it lasted.
But no matter how thin you get, no matter how many 5k's you run four months after your delivery, no matter how soon you divorce your latest flavor, and no matter how BAD your next entertainment endeavor is....I'll always remember you as the Actual Hollywood Human Female who ate horrible things during pregnancy, got fat, and admitted it. And for still being BEAUTIFUL and rocking high heels doing it.
So cheers to my new hero - Gooooooo Jessica!
Did I just write a blog about Jessica Simpson being my hero? God, help me.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
This week....I am 22 and still sarcastic.
Everyone has that person in your life that annoys the crap out of them but they're not actually a big enough of a dick to call them out on it. Well, this week, my birthday week, I got the pleasure of "bitching" this buddy of mine out, if you will. My rule of thumb as a person...don't bitch. I am usually very mellow. In fact, so mellow my friends and family are more likely to be offended by something offensive that I just laughed my ass off at. I guess my first response is to just laugh -- who knows. It's probably because I was really bullied in junior high. Seriously, I was. The start of my freshman year my parents began to offer me 20 dollars for every day I successfully did my hair and managed to not wear an article of AndOne clothing. Not joking. I got picked before half the boys in gym class for dodgeball. You think this made me very many girlfriends? No. I am, however, proud to admit the girls in my class invited me over for a sleepover and had a burping contest that I refused to participate in because I thought it was "gross". Manners, bitches, manners. So who knows the origin of my instinct to laugh things off, but either way, this gem of a friend of mine really knocked it out of the park with a comment he made about my car accident and I went completely Casey Anthony on him. I felt like a segment of Jersey Shore. And now I feel so bad about it that I have to blogvent...blent...vent via blog. Even though I was the one that very well should have been offended. Oh, the repercussions of being raised by kind parents. So if this one tiny incident caused me stress in my life and caused me to feel bad, I can't imagine how people who actually enjoy drama stay sane. No wonder all these people on reality TV act crazy...they ARE crazy.
On a happier note, I turned 22 on Saturday and even though I worked, it was a wonderful day full of birthday surprises and I felt incredibly special. I was struck by the love.
Yesterday, I helped a friend of mine grade midterm essay exams. Since when can't kids spell? I'm going to go back to school for my PhD in English Literature and start pulling jocks out of sports until they can successfully spell "basketball" and use it in a sentence. Oh, and as long as I live I'll never again be able to use the words "therefore", "clearly", and "significantly" ever again.
Clearly, I'm full of crap.
Speaking of full of crap, I want to be the inventor of the "Sarcasm Font" and patent that biz. Therefore, all the Section 8's that read my blog and get their panties all knotted up thinking I'm serious will have access to that fun little thing the rest of us call a "sense of humor".
Damnit. I also used "therefore".
On a happier note, I turned 22 on Saturday and even though I worked, it was a wonderful day full of birthday surprises and I felt incredibly special. I was struck by the love.
Yesterday, I helped a friend of mine grade midterm essay exams. Since when can't kids spell? I'm going to go back to school for my PhD in English Literature and start pulling jocks out of sports until they can successfully spell "basketball" and use it in a sentence. Oh, and as long as I live I'll never again be able to use the words "therefore", "clearly", and "significantly" ever again.
Clearly, I'm full of crap.
Speaking of full of crap, I want to be the inventor of the "Sarcasm Font" and patent that biz. Therefore, all the Section 8's that read my blog and get their panties all knotted up thinking I'm serious will have access to that fun little thing the rest of us call a "sense of humor".
Damnit. I also used "therefore".
Thursday, March 15, 2012
How To Get Unfriended On Facebook
I'm writing this post because I'm a bad person.
This list is not comprehensive.
Now that we've cleared that up, let's get to it..
How to get unfriended on Facebook, or at least how to annoy the living shit out of people.
*Post more than five times a day. (Five + tweets a day is acceptable...Facebook, not so much.) If possible, give us a run-down of where you're going, especially if it involves running errands - that's really interesting stuff that people want to read: "Going to post office", "headed to the park!", "getting my nails done", "leaving work! TGIF".
*Write about your cat. Sorry, but nobody gives a shit. If your cat dies, that's sad, you should post that. If your cat vomits on your face, that's interesting, and you should definitely post that. But if your cat is just cute and you feel like sharing, or it has feline behavioral problems (oh yeah, they exist), you should not write about that, I am pretty sure <1% of the population gives a corn puff, and to be honest, those aren't the best odds.
*Make a Facebook page for your pet. Your pet is not an actual human being, although I would support your cause because when I have a child I doggon' guarantee I'll leave it sitting outside for an hour on a leash with a bowl of water and a scratching post.
*Try to sound smart. Say profound stuff. Talk about your graduate degrees, impress us with your stunning intellect and piercing creativity by dropping quotes of obscure philosophers, and applying them to your daily life. Because we are impressed. Because everyone appreciates your insights. Fucktard.
*Post inspirational quotes and cute, happy little sayings about friendship, flowers, love, looking on the bright side, new doors opening, and feel-good crap. Use smiley faces and exclamation points. A lot! :D
*Play Farmville and send requests to people who don't play.
*Use your relationship status as a retaliatory tool against your partner. Perhaps you don't think we notice that you go from "in a relationship" to "single" 5-7 times a year. But we notice. We do. And every time we see it, we think you're an idiot and wish you'd figure your crap out once and for all so we can stop reading about it.
*Post a lot of pictures of yourself. Make sure you're the only one in each photo. In each photo, make the exact same "I'm hot" face and show cleavage. Tilt your head down and slightly to the left. Have a small piece of hair fall strategically over one eye. Pout those lips. Look coy. Repeat.
*Post politically charged, highly controversial statements that trigger raging arguments between 300 idiots and their mothers on your status. Say things like "keep your laws out of my uterus", "It's Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve", "Go Yankees!", and "I think breastfeeding in public should be a felony".
*Whine. Tell us how much your life sucks. Go on and on about it. Lay it on thick. Include sad faces for some real sympathy. Use Facebook as a virtual, one-sided therapist. Don't bother changing things in your life since you're so unhappy.
I must admit, I've put an adorable picture or 7 up of my puddy tat. Will you unfriend me? I hope not. Cause that would really hurt my feelings, and then I'd have to whine, and we all know how that goes...
HAPPY THURSDAY!
LIVE EVERY MOMENT LIKE IT'S YOUR LAST!
KISSES! XOXOX :D
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Whiplash. And Stuff.
Since mention of my car accident seemed to cause a great deal of stress for some of you, I thought I'd take a moment to explain this before your blood pressure rises to unprecedented levels.
It was two weeks ago. The air was cold. And as I went to turn...[[unconsciousness]]
I got t-boned on my driver's side by a Ford Excursion.
I got t-boned on my driver's side by a Ford Excursion.
[[back to consciousness]] The next thing I remember was lying on a stretcher and staring up into the morning sky, thinking, "is this a dream? Why can't I feel my body? Crap. I'm about to die. Or maybe I did drugs? No, I'm dying. Here we go.." [[back to unconsciousness]]
I was in two car accidents over the last 3 months. The first one was my fault. The second one wasn't. Needless to say, I'm an irresponsible driver- I text, sing my heart out to the radio, pick my boogers at stop lights and eat them, etc. Alas, both car accidents happened when I wasn't under the influence (of Justin Bieber's latest hit) - so suffice it to say i'ts a little scary to get back on the road. Plus, my dad's really mad at me now and I'm stuck buying a car for myself and it will probably be a stick shift, which is a horrible idea considering I can hardly drive a lawn mower.
[[back to consciousness]] I open my eyes, I'm in an ambulance with 6, possibly 7 very hot paramedics.
Hot paramedics: "Do you have any pets?"
Me: "I have a Mr. Kitty."
Hot paramedics: "Uhmm...you were in an accident."
Me: "You're kidding!?!! Was it my fault? My dad is going to KILL ME!" [[back to unconsciousness]]
My doctor was a complete twatknuckle. (Again, with the Blogger dictionary, back OFF! I know it's not a real word!) I've never gone to medical school, but just to take a stab in the dark it's not the best idea for the first thing that comes out of your mouth when a patient is wheeled in to be "What was her time of death?" Uhh...I'm not dead asshole! Get this glass out of my face! So after I may or may not have scared him away, they brought in a nice lady that was actually useful and got all the glass out of my face and gave me unattractive, yet comfortable, hospital sweats (they had cut all my clothes off in the ambulance...yes, I was naked with a bunch of hot paramedics and failed to check off how I wish that would have gone down on my bucket list...dammit).
[[back to consciousness]] I awoke in the ICU wearing a neck brace, and...that's about it. Apparently I had been struck by a massive SUV on my driver side. The impact was so hard that it had caused me to get stuck in my vehicle and they called for the jaws of life to get me out. (It was at this point my EMT informed me that when I heard the phrase "jaws of life" I muttered something that sounded like "fuck that noise" and promptly kicked myself out of my drivers seat.) Oops.
They discharged me with a major concussion, minor internal bleeding, and ointment for my face, which looked at the time like someone tried to make a human smoothie. I have healed up quite amazingly, the doctor said I was the luckiest girl he's ever seen. So I'm just happy to be here.
What doesn't kill ya makes ya stronger,
Enjoy the little things life has to offer,
And NEVER take life for granted..
They also mentioned I might "feel a little sore tomorrow"...a little sore, you've got to be kidding me. It feels like I got hit by a truck - oh wait.....
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
I have a list too now, gosh darn it!
So I've been noticing that a lot of people have an "about me" list - you know, little fun-facts about philosophies, approaches, overarching beliefs, etc. Some of them are really serious. These lists include but are not limited to: "I'm a natural childbirth advocate", "I am not a Democrat or a Republican, I'm an American", "I'm a vegetarian", "I kill animals for fun", and "I am a radical Muslim - convert or die". After reading these lists, I decided that I need one - a nice, clear, honest, list.
So here are a few things you should know about me.
1) I always practice patience and honesty with people. And when that doesn't work, I yell, bribe, and make empty yet intimidating threats until I get my way.
2) I am a staunch, unswerving advocate of high court.
3) My dream is to get a PhD in English Literature so I can sit in classrooms discussing deconstructionist theory with a bunch of hungover 19-year-olds acting wildly interested, dropping Derrida quotes they really don't understand, solely to earn class participation points.
4) I eat organic and healthy foods. I also drink - a lot.
5) For reasons still unclear, I am still straight.
6) If I had my way, I'd be a rampant cigarette smoker. But I don't have my way. Apparently they cause cancer. I know they're disgusting, but I love them. I feel James Dean cool when I smoke them. These are not facts I share with my parents, and if they ask me, I will lie.
7) When my computer stalls, I bang on it.
8) When my boyfriend stalls, I bang him longer.
9) I love tattoos. That way when I'm 80 it will look like I stuck my lower back, ankle, inner wrist, and rib cage in a garbage disposal. I hate tattoos.
10) When I'm in a good mood I do interpretive dance moves around the house and listen to 90's music (usually the first on my playlist is Call On Me - Eric Prydz). When I'm in a bad mood I sit on the couch and yell at people.
11) I freakin' love my cat. He's the biz.
12) My roommate has a toy-sized chee-wa-wa. It's like a miniature devil. She has the hops of Michael Jordan and the speed of my dad's fart trajectory. I love her.
13) My idea of getting "dressed up" is looking incredibly sophisticated or incredibly slutty.
14) If you have a child or are a rapist that spends lots of time at the dinosaur land at West Acres, take note of the cloud around the (as Little Foot would say) long neck's neck...which I proudly take full responsibility for. When I was 10, I may or may not have shimmied my way up onto his head, cried my eyes out, and had a fireman come get me down.
15) I am very pro-life. Don't get an abortion, that's not very nice.
16) I watch enough CSI: Miami to frame a Unicorn for your death. I also have a perverted crush on Horatio.
17) I am a girly-girl. Seriously, I am.
18) When I hear things like "radical unschooling" the first thought that crosses my mind is: How is that radical? White trash meth addicts have been doing that for years. I can't help these thoughts, they just come. Sorry I'm not sorry.
19) I HATE when people say "sorry I'm not sorry".
.
20) When I attempt to summarize myself in a list, the whole experience immediately degenerates into random tid-bits of useless information and I find myself reminded of why I don't try to summarize myself ever. How can a person be bullet-listed; characterized by nice, neat one-liners? I'm confused. I hate about me lists, but now I have one. So I'm going back to unpacking.
PS. I'm home :) And I could. not. be. happier! Friends and Family make a place what it is, and I love this place right here, just how it is. :)
So here are a few things you should know about me.
1) I always practice patience and honesty with people. And when that doesn't work, I yell, bribe, and make empty yet intimidating threats until I get my way.
2) I am a staunch, unswerving advocate of high court.
3) My dream is to get a PhD in English Literature so I can sit in classrooms discussing deconstructionist theory with a bunch of hungover 19-year-olds acting wildly interested, dropping Derrida quotes they really don't understand, solely to earn class participation points.
4) I eat organic and healthy foods. I also drink - a lot.
5) For reasons still unclear, I am still straight.
6) If I had my way, I'd be a rampant cigarette smoker. But I don't have my way. Apparently they cause cancer. I know they're disgusting, but I love them. I feel James Dean cool when I smoke them. These are not facts I share with my parents, and if they ask me, I will lie.
7) When my computer stalls, I bang on it.
8) When my boyfriend stalls, I bang him longer.
9) I love tattoos. That way when I'm 80 it will look like I stuck my lower back, ankle, inner wrist, and rib cage in a garbage disposal. I hate tattoos.
10) When I'm in a good mood I do interpretive dance moves around the house and listen to 90's music (usually the first on my playlist is Call On Me - Eric Prydz). When I'm in a bad mood I sit on the couch and yell at people.
11) I freakin' love my cat. He's the biz.
12) My roommate has a toy-sized chee-wa-wa. It's like a miniature devil. She has the hops of Michael Jordan and the speed of my dad's fart trajectory. I love her.
13) My idea of getting "dressed up" is looking incredibly sophisticated or incredibly slutty.
14) If you have a child or are a rapist that spends lots of time at the dinosaur land at West Acres, take note of the cloud around the (as Little Foot would say) long neck's neck...which I proudly take full responsibility for. When I was 10, I may or may not have shimmied my way up onto his head, cried my eyes out, and had a fireman come get me down.
15) I am very pro-life. Don't get an abortion, that's not very nice.
16) I watch enough CSI: Miami to frame a Unicorn for your death. I also have a perverted crush on Horatio.
17) I am a girly-girl. Seriously, I am.
18) When I hear things like "radical unschooling" the first thought that crosses my mind is: How is that radical? White trash meth addicts have been doing that for years. I can't help these thoughts, they just come. Sorry I'm not sorry.
19) I HATE when people say "sorry I'm not sorry".
.
20) When I attempt to summarize myself in a list, the whole experience immediately degenerates into random tid-bits of useless information and I find myself reminded of why I don't try to summarize myself ever. How can a person be bullet-listed; characterized by nice, neat one-liners? I'm confused. I hate about me lists, but now I have one. So I'm going back to unpacking.
PS. I'm home :) And I could. not. be. happier! Friends and Family make a place what it is, and I love this place right here, just how it is. :)
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Hold The Phone.
I am sitting at Caribou right now and I feel the need to blog. Strap in cause it's gonna be a whiny one too - mostly because it's Saturday morning and I'm upset that I'm being productive and not disgustingly hungover.
Dear dudes who check out chick's butt's and think we don't notice,
You know who you are. Don't deny it. I see you, and despite my glares and mouth agape at your inconspicuousness and lack of class, you just keep on staring, which compels me to write this letter, you dirty old man.
Here's what you did.
You're over at the end of the counter waiting for your drink and a young girl in jeans was standing at the register ordering. Evidently, her curves didn't suck. You also noticed this and decided to get a better look. So you backed up and took a few steps to the right to get an unobstructed view, and stared. Just STARED. Your eyes did not move from her ass. I stared at you. I kept staring at you. You didn't notice.
I felt for this girl, she was just standing here in jeans and a sweatshirt, a senior in high school, ordering some coffee, and she became the object of whatever sick fantasy was going on in your dirty old man mind. And you didn't have any decency to hide it.
She walked over closer to you. You kept staring. I kept glaring.
Truth is, I wanted to smack you and tell you you're a sleazebag dill hole, to so obviously lust after a woman that is a solid 30 years younger than you, somebody's daughter, and by the looks of that ass, most likely somebody's mother.
And maybe you think we didn't notice. Maybe you think we can't see what you're doing as you undress her with your eyes and bestow them upon the beauty that will never be yours.
I was once the chick you dirt bags stared at, as most of us were, when I was young and thin and, well, perky. And now, I feel this weird motherly-like protective instinct for women who aren't asking for it and yet become sex objects under the power of a masochistic gaze.
I have a feeling you don't get it very often.
I have a feeling you have a very small wee-wee.
I have a feeling you aren't much of a man at all. You probably pay for it. You probably pay women to meet the expectations of your self-centered apparitions. It was clear you thought nothing more of her than what she could offer you sexually.
Well dude, we all saw you gawk. And we all know you're a L-7 WEENIE. So, bug off. Perv.
Sincerely,
Early Bird Angry Lady
Dear dudes who check out chick's butt's and think we don't notice,
You know who you are. Don't deny it. I see you, and despite my glares and mouth agape at your inconspicuousness and lack of class, you just keep on staring, which compels me to write this letter, you dirty old man.
Here's what you did.
You're over at the end of the counter waiting for your drink and a young girl in jeans was standing at the register ordering. Evidently, her curves didn't suck. You also noticed this and decided to get a better look. So you backed up and took a few steps to the right to get an unobstructed view, and stared. Just STARED. Your eyes did not move from her ass. I stared at you. I kept staring at you. You didn't notice.
I felt for this girl, she was just standing here in jeans and a sweatshirt, a senior in high school, ordering some coffee, and she became the object of whatever sick fantasy was going on in your dirty old man mind. And you didn't have any decency to hide it.
She walked over closer to you. You kept staring. I kept glaring.
Truth is, I wanted to smack you and tell you you're a sleazebag dill hole, to so obviously lust after a woman that is a solid 30 years younger than you, somebody's daughter, and by the looks of that ass, most likely somebody's mother.
And maybe you think we didn't notice. Maybe you think we can't see what you're doing as you undress her with your eyes and bestow them upon the beauty that will never be yours.
I was once the chick you dirt bags stared at, as most of us were, when I was young and thin and, well, perky. And now, I feel this weird motherly-like protective instinct for women who aren't asking for it and yet become sex objects under the power of a masochistic gaze.
I have a feeling you don't get it very often.
I have a feeling you have a very small wee-wee.
I have a feeling you aren't much of a man at all. You probably pay for it. You probably pay women to meet the expectations of your self-centered apparitions. It was clear you thought nothing more of her than what she could offer you sexually.
Well dude, we all saw you gawk. And we all know you're a L-7 WEENIE. So, bug off. Perv.
Sincerely,
Early Bird Angry Lady
Monday, February 13, 2012
Valentine's Day. Because Love Isn't Complicated Enough.
All I want for Valentine's day is to spend the evening with someone whose himself, and by "himself", I mean perfect. Come on guys, is it that hard to pick out my favorite restaurant, my favorite movie, spritz on some Fierce, say all the right things, and fuck my brains out? Didn't think so. And don't bring chocolate - I hate chocolate. And don't bother asking me out if you are sloppy. I don't care how adorable you are, if you can't take a shower and dry off on the conveniently provided mat, we're done. On that note, is it that difficult to wash your hands without turning my bathroom into a goddamn slip'n'slide? Also, I don't care how gay you think it is, get a pedicure. I'm not exactly sure what happens here, but why does every man between the ages of 18 and 80 have at least one deformed toenail? It's either yellow, crusty, or infested with some mystery fungus that is impervious to all over-the-counter treatments. And when we're on our lame date, don't be that douche that tries to play the hero, even if it means making up situations. For instance..
Man: Did you see that guy? He totally just checked you out! Who does he think he is?
Me: I didn't see anything..
Man: Stay right here, I'm going to go take care of this.
Yeah, let's go Hercules, I'm starving. When we get to the restaurant, don't park in the farthest away possible parking space to avoid getting a scratch on your door. As far as etiquette goes, don't chew and drink at the same time, please take an obnoxious dose of Gas-X pre-date, don't eye-fuck the shit out of our waitress, and stay off your iphone for the night.
That being said, guys, you know I love you. You fill the world with muscles, sweat, problem-solving skills, a wealth of useless facts and movie trivia, the ability to vaguely determine the general origin of a scary car noise, and an endless supply of "it's going to be okay's" But sometimes, I just want to strangle you with that loosely-fitted metro sexual tie.
So on a serious note, I don't have plans tomorrow - so who wants to be my Valentine, grab some wings and a couple beers and nestle in on the couch and divulge in Dave Chapelle re-runs? It's a date!
Monday, February 6, 2012
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