Monthly Archives: February 2009

Are You Fucking Kidding Me Friday

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Have you seen the story about the host of a British children’s show who was born with only part of one arm? Apparently, a group of parents are having a shit fit because they say this woman has no business being on the show. Their reason? She scares kids.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME??

Now, I’ll admit, the first sight of someone with such a disability can be jarring. Our mind tells us that there should be two eyes, two ears, two arms, two legs,etc, and when one of those is missing, it’s a bit of a shock. But it is at this point that normal people think, Oh, she’s missing an arm, then they go back to reading their book, or walking the dog or cleaning the toilet or whatever. Unfortunately, it is also at this point that the fucking crazies come out.

Some of these parents comments have been brutal, but even the mild ones are disturbing to me. They refuse to allow their kids to watch the show. They worry about their kids getting nightmares. You know what gives me nightmares? Fucking Lazytown. I would rather watch the Miss Missing Limb Universe Pageant every single day than watch 10 minutes of that show. That is scary – not a sweet, smart, attractive woman who happens to have a disability.

I seriously hope that the BBC sticks to it’s guns about this woman, because the day we start giving in to the Different = Scary theory is a sad, sad day indeed. Whatever happened to teaching our kids about kindness and acceptance? Whatever happened to teaching them that people are different? Do we need to lock away our physically handicapped people for fear of scaring someone? I guess that mean we need to lock up the mentally challenged as well. And the fat people. And those with bad teeth. Bad dye job? I’m scared! Lock her up!

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME??

Make no mistake, this isn’t about scared kids, this is about scared adults. I saw one comment that asked, “How do you explain a missing arm to a child?” Ummm, how about this: “She was born looking different from you and me. And even though she looks different than we do she is a person just like us and there is nothing to be scared of. It like how you have light skin and your friend Thomas has brown skin. You look different, but it doesn’t matter.” There’s one option and there are only about a million more – pick one.

If you can’t handle explaining something as simple as a disability to your children, how in the blue fuck are you ever going to be able to deal with penises and vaginas and matters involving them? These parents scare me more than a whole army of one-armed women ever could.

Old Boxes of Crap Are Dangerous

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In an effort to embarrass myself even more than I do on a regular basis, I have been on a quest to find old photos of myself. This new obsession driving me insane, because I have found a few, but the rest seem to be missing. I have a big plastic storage box of older photos here, but most of them are post-mr b. There are a few from my senior trip to Europe, and a few random odds and ends, but there seems to be a whole section of my life missing – namely jr high. And jr high, my friends, is a giant, bubbling spring or embarrassment. I’m talking knickers, headbands, (you’ve already seen photographic evidence of that one), neon, painters hats, ugly, ugly blouses, taffeta, tuxedos, and…

No, I can’t say it.

But I’m an oversharer and so I have to: femullet.

Why, oh why can’t I find this stuff? It’s not like there weren’t a lot of photos – I’m an only child with a shutterbug dad – there were thousands and I can’t find them. I’ve spent a little time looking at my parents’ house, but I may have to head back down there this weekend. I need those photos.

Tonight, though, I did find a few other treasures. Letters from an old boyfriend who left me brokenhearted (Who I coincidentally came across shortly afterward in someone’s friend list on facebook. I am now officially the creepy ex who friends you on FB. Pity me). Funny notes and letters from Hedge, referring to boyfriends I can’t even remember. A journal I wrote in on the Europe trip. Apparently all I did in Europe was drink and meet/kiss Italian boys. No really. London? Abbio. Innsbruck? Paolo. On the train to Paris? Alonzo. Paris? Fabio. Munich? Sandro (sigh). Venice? Davide (Captain of rugby team? Check. Serenaded me from outside my hotel window? Check. Proposed to me? Check. Siiiiighhhhh).

I also came across the strangest piece of mail I have ever gotten. It was a letter from an ex-boyfriend’s father. One Valentine’s Day – completely out of the blue – I got a card from a longtime on/off boyfriend’s dad. Inside was a 3 page letter which first made small talk, then moved on to the real meat – asking me to get in touch with his son again and try to be friends again. On one hand, it wasn’t all that weird, since I knew him forever and I was really close to the family. But on the other, I was kind of creeped out about it. Strangely, all these years later, reading it with the eyes of a mother, I sort of understood. While he didn’t come out and say it, I got the impression that he and his son were drifting apart – that his son was changing – maybe making some bad decisions, or at least ones that dad didn’t agree with. And he reached out to the only person he could think of who could maybe make a difference. Back then, I read creepy dad, now I read desperate dad. It made me kind of sad, because I never did get in touch with his son. He had a new girlfriend, I had moved on, it was just too weird. Maybe if he had been more direct, I would have done it. I really did care about this boy – he was one of those that leave a little piece with you forever. But I didn’t, because at 17 I just didn’t get it. Now, I do.

Anyway, I will keep looking for those horrible photos (and you will thank me if I find them). Otherwise, I will be stuck embarrassing myself with volumes of angsty, bad poetry that involves heartbreak, betrayal, and giving myself to someone. And really, no one wants that.

Baby!

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My office flooded over the weekend and is now totally disgusting. I had to go in yesterday to check out the damage. Luckily, most of my personal stuff was OK, and my computer still seems to be working. I was surprised, because there were splash marks on it and my monitor, but so far, so good. My space heater was destroyed, along with some sweaters I had in the office and there are tons of wet papers all over. But all in all, not too bad. The worst thing is that the ceiling tiles got soaked and fell down, which made a huge mess. And the office stinks to high heaven like nasty, wet ceiling tiles. I don’t know if they have fiberglass or (god forbid) asbestos in them, but after breathing the air in there for about 30 minutes, my throat was scratchy and irritated and I had a headache. Awesome.

However, yesterday also brought some happy things. First off – the ladies that provide childcare for me each got a new puppy. And puppies are always a good thing. Plus, my cousin had her baby and we got to see him. The girl was thrilled to get to hold him:

And finally, my aunt bought the girl some art supplies at the dollar store:

FAIL!

Trashy

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Dear Mayor Luke Ravenstahl,

You are so awesome! I mean, like, you have the best ideas and stuff! I totally think you are super cool and like young and hip and stuff. And like, I totally want to be just like you when I grow up. Because like, everyone knows that private jets are the way to go. I mean, who wants to sit in steerage where the, like, regular dirty people sit. Besides, you are like totally on top of things, making sure you always have the money to pay for it, right? So it’s not like it’s anyone’s business.

Seriously, Lukey, you are SO COOL. And that time you snuck into the private golf thingy to meet Tiger Woods? OMG, I totally tried to do that at a Jack Wagner concert in 1984!!! Of course, I’m not the mayor, so they kicked me out, but still – we’re like totally the same! We should SO be BFFs now!

I think we’d be like, awesome BFFs, too, because I totally blew off Memorial Day, too! I can SO understand being hungover and not wanting to deal with a bunch of old farts. I mean, like, God! And hello? Stanley Cup Finals or boring ceremony? Please.

And – oh my God, I love Toby Keith, too! And like, I totally don’t get why people were so uptight about you borrowing a little old car to take to the concert. I would totally have done the same thing. And really – Pittsburgh is your homeland, right? And like, you totally had to be there because you’re the mayor and you had to welcome Mr. Keith and make him feel secure, right? So, DUH – Homeland Security

And like, since when it is wrong to help out your friends? I mean, like, just because someone gave you campaign money doesn’t mean you should stop doing little favors for them, right? God! What’s the benefit of being mayor if not hookers and blow parties? And I can’t wait to be just like you and have rich friends who will fly me places that I can lie about. So cool!

And dude! I totally understand how boooooooring meetings are. Ugh! That is like totally the downside of being mayor, so I’m like so glad that you sometimes blow them off to do other, fun stuff. I don’t get what the big deal is. I would totally rather play golf (or maybe get a mani-pedi) than go to some dumb meeting about domestic violence. Like, duh – only the poor, ugly girls get beat, anyway, right? Like, hello? That’s what you get to do when you are the boss!

And like, it’s such a waste to spend money on thinks like…I don’t know…hungry kids or like homeless people or battered women or whatever. That’s what shelters are for, right? Duh! Anyway, since your latest idea like So! Totally! Rules! I decided to show the world that I am just like you! See:

But guess what? It totally didn’t cost anyone $252,500. Isn’t that great?

Love,
Totally Your Biggest Fan. Squee!

The Bad Word

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Given the way I swear like a sailor, it might surprise you to find that there is one “bad word” that I really hate. A word that I feel should be expunged from the English language completely. A word that when directed at me, makes me want to punch the speaker in the face seventy-thousand times. That word?

Nag.

I can damnshitassholedickheadmotherfucker with the best of them, but that one word makes steam come out my ears and sends me into fits of rage.

It’s a word that may have started off somewhat innocuously, but over the years, has turned into a word absolutely dripping in misogyny. Men have been trained for generations to use this word to immediately invalidate any concern or request that a woman has, and I for one am damned sick of it.

Because if it has been weeks, or months, or years since the storm door has been broken, the trim has gone unfinished or – God Help Me – the smoke alarms have not been working properly, it is very much not nagging. It is negligence. And yet, as soon as you hear a woman’s voice talking (Or asking. Or begging) about a project or job that needs to be done, that very special man thing kicks in and the VERY BAD WORD comes out and then the women, though completely correct and justified in her request or observation is now nothing more than irrational, nagging harpy, and mr. poor pitiful me can go back to his hockey game or guitar playing or magazine reading.

It’s time to stop accepting this word. The next person who uses it in my presence is in BIG TROUBLE.

Breasts!

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I’m pissed off at yet another example of discrimination against a nursing mom.

Dear America, What The Fuck???

This is a teeny, tiny fraction of ads that are out there. Ads that we see every day. That our children see. Ads for products that rarely have anything to do with breasts. And yet there they are, everywhere. Oiled and pushed up and smooshed together and fairy-dusted and tanned and thrust into your face. And it’s all OK, apparently.

But let someone see a tiny sliver of a breast being used for the very thing they were created for, and hoo-boy! Instead of admiring looks and rich ad execs slapping each other on the back for their “genius”, we have insults and accusations and removals from property and threats of criminal charges. CRIMINAL CHARGES, people!

For this:

I am sick to death of people sexualizing and criminalizing it and turning something beautiful and natural into something dirty or gross.

People are having a fit because Salma Hayek nursed a baby that is not her own on a recent UNICEF trip to Africa. I don’t get the big damned deal. She was feeding a starving infant (STARVING INFANT) with the very substance that is best for him. I would have done it myself without a second thought.

Many, many years ago, my Nana (great-grandma) did the very same thing. A neighbor’s milk had dried up and her baby was not thriving. Just a couple short decades after slavery ended, my Nana took a tiny, hungry, African baby in her arms and did the one thing she could do. And my Nana was a beautiful woman. It wasn’t gross and it wasn’t sexual.

And yet, even all the way across the world, breasts are so sexualized that babies are starving over it. Because the men in Sierra Leone are forcing their wives to quit breastfeeding their babies because of social mores that say it’s wrong to have sex with a nursing women. Nothing keeps a woman down like declaring her unclean and rendering her helpless to save her own children’s lives.

Now, I realize that Sierra Leone is a far cry from the United States, both in distance and in culture. Here, no one says we’re not allowed to breastfeed our children. No, here, we just have to hide to do it so as not to offend anyone.

I don’t happen to have any breastfeeding photos, but if I did, you could be damned sure I’d post one. But I am so damned sick and tired of this shit that instead, I give you my big, baby-feeding-created, besaggified rack. Go ahead, America, GET OFFENDED:

I Can Count to Six

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1 thing I am jealous of:

Friends who are going to Disney World soon. Disney World is my crack. And I nnneeeeeeeeeeed some soon. Sadly, I won’t be getting it. I was hoping for the every other year plan, which started with October 06 and 08. but we have been thinking that even thought October is the bestest time to go (great weather, lower crowds, Halloween party, Food and Wine Festival), it’s getting really hard to take the boy out of school for it. So we will now be going in the hellish, horrible summer, which is more crowed, hotter, and more expensive. And also harder to get mr b convinced it’s time. If I had it my way, if we have to go in summer, we’d go for two weeks instead of one (OK, if I had it my way, we’d go for two months)


2 things I am waiting for:

News that my brand new baby cousin is on the way. My cousin Lala is approximately 37 months pregnant right now and every time the phone rings, I think it’s time. It’s been almost five years since there’s been a new baby in the family and I can not wait to get my hands on the little pumpkin who, despite my constant harassment polite requests, they are not naming Gina. I don’t get it. I think he’d like the name.

Lunchtime


3 things I am looking for:

A suitable replacement for my favorite and long since discontinued eye cream. I am death to products – makeup, hair products, food items – you name it. If I love something, it is almost guaranteed to be discontinued. And if not discontinued, then changed enough that it is not the same thing and may as well be discontinued (I’m looking at you sugared maple lipstick). And I can’t even begin to express my love for the former Mary Kay Triple Action Eye Enhancer. This was the best stuff, ever. I don’t know why they discontinued it, given that I am constantly talking to people who also loved it and lament its disappearance. There are a few tubes online, but considering that it had been years since they took it off the market, I’m not sure how safe, or at least, fresh it would be. But I might be willing to take a chance, since it was awesome. It brightened and sort of lifted the eyelids and made shadows and liners go on smoothly and stay on well. I have tried about a million new brands but never found anything as good. I have no idea what was in the stuff, but between the deep love I had for it and the fact that it is no longer on the market despite sales, I am guessing mercury, BPA, plutonium, and crack.

Dragon’s Song. Years ago, some clients gave mr b a small book that a friend of theirs had had published. It was an epic poem about Pittsburgh called Dragon’s Song. It talked about growing up in the city and how the mills looked like giant dragons. I loved it. And now I can’t find it. Since it was self-published, I can’t find it anywhere –even the Carnegie, and it’s pissing me off. I found an email for the author, but haven’t gotten a reply. On the off chance that any of you have it, let me know – I really want a copy.

Love in all the wrong places (OK, not really, but I needed one more thing here for this to work).

4 things making me happy:

Spending the day at the Carnegie Library with the girl on Saturday. Sure, we have a small library in my hometown, but it doesn’t thrill me the way the Carnegie does. I’m like a kid in a candy store in there. We spent hours reading in the children’s section, reading and picking out books to take home with us (of those we took, best title: Skippyjon Jones, best book: The Library Lion, most giggles: The End). Then I did a mad dash & grab in the newer fiction (it really almost doesn’t matter what I grab – I’m happy to read it). I was in such a good mood, I even got a few books for mr b and the boy. Mr b got a couple books on blues music, and I reserved a dvd of Buddy Guy for him. The boy got a huge illustrated encyclopedia of Star Wars vehicles. Which I knew held love. Of course all the book-induced endorphins made me black out the part where he would spent he next three weeks excitedly telling me about each and every vehicle. At length. But still: books! Best part of the day? When I asked the children’s librarian where the Cornelia Funke books were located (I need Inkspell now), and she asked me what grade/reading level I was looking for and I had to say, “Um..it’s for me.” Awesome.

The girl now sharing my love for bubble drinks (though not that milky sweet nastiness). Oh, black tapioca pearls, how I love you.

This study is ending today and I can go back to my normal working schedule.

The little wedgie move she does after finishing her “floor routine”:

5 things pissing me off:

Speaking of Cornelia Funke, I was all excited way back when I saw the trailer for Inkheart. And then I ran out and read the book, as I like to do. And when I read it, I discovered that almost nothing in the trailers is actually from the book. No Toto, no flying monkeys, no unicorns. What the fuck?

This bullshit. I can’t even put into words how I feel, other than What. The. Fuck?

The fact that , like every other year, we have been hearing the annual “Oh No, We’re running out of salt for the roads” song of whining, and yet on a 60 degree day, I was behind a truck spreading salt. What the fuck?

As much as I love Spice Island, I really hate those stupid takeout containers they use. The plastic lids get hot, then they pile them on top of each other, and then I end up with shattered plastic in my now inedible Kway Teow. I’m seriously craving it, but won’t bother again until I can eat in. What the fuck, Spice Island?

The fact that I just found out that Kindergarten registration is coming up. When did my baby get so old??? She’s a teeny, tiny baby! And her impending kindergarten is making me yearn for more babies. What the fuck?

6 things the dog has crapped on:

A preface: We got the dog when he was a few months old. We had recently lost our beloved Golden Retriever, and mr b came across an elderly woman who recently lost a dog and replaced him with a brand new, cute as a button black lab. Well, she soon realized that a new puppy was too much for her (and her remaining old dog) to take, so she gave him up for adoption. I wasn’t thrilled when mr b and the boy came home with him (surprise – we got a dog!), but I fell for him quickly. He is a sweet, friendly, loving dog, who is also a fantastic watch dog. And he points at squirrels and chickens. But he’s guilty. He’s guilty for everything he ever did, ever. He sounds like Cujo when someone is approaching, but a quivering, snarling, white hot ball of canine terror, he is not (Family Dog, anyone?) All you have to do is look at him with The Look and the ears go down, the eyelids start fluttering, the tail tucks under and Ferocious Watchdog becomes Sissy Wussy Dog. And what does Dog do when he’s nervous and guilty? He shits. He shits Big.

Twister: The boy had a friend over one weekend. When the friend’s dad came to pick him up, he brought along the friends’ sister and they hung out and played for a while and the adults visited. Pretty soon, the kids start playing Twister. The dog is nervous about games and shits on Twister.

Christmas: It’s Christmas morning. There is much squealing and yelling and wrapping paper being strewn about. Dog is nervous about the excitement and shits on Christmas. The living room is now a minefield as we pick through piles of paper while trying to locate/avoid the pile of shit.

Taxes. A few years back, we (by which I mean mr b) waited until the very last second to do out taxes. While we were dealing with the stress of taxes, I someone spilled beer into the keyboard and it died. So now we had added the added stress of running out to get a new keyboard to finish the taxes. We had papers everywhere, keyboards on the floor, and a general crazy mess. And apparently taxes make the dog nervous. Because he shit on them. And then he sent his post-poo celebration time barfing. Yes, he followed up the shit with a nice big pile of yack on my living room carpet. This is the life.

The driver’s seat. Mr b was picking up the boy from daycare and decided to take the dog along to surprise him. He stops at the ATM machine and gets back in the van. While he is out, Dog, nervous about being alone in the van, ignores the 3000 square feet of floor space in the giant van, and instead somehow balances himself and shits on the driver’s seat. Mr b does not notice as he gets in, and sits on the driver’s seat. Then he smells it. Then cranes his neck, looking all around the van trying to find the source of the smell. Then he realizes he can’t see it anywhere and it becomes clear. Then he contemplates dog murder.

The passenger seat. When I was 9 months pregnant, I was driving Dog to the groomer. This is already a trauma, since Dog is not a Car Dog. He is flailing about, falling down, hitting the dashboard and being a general pain in the ass. In the middle of a call to the office, I got the “who farted?” look. Apparently, Dog is nervous about automobile travel and shits on the passenger seat. Dog is suddenly in the backseat, crying softly. Being in my ninth month of a barfarific pregnancy (seriously, I lost 25+ lbs from the barfing), I contemplate barfing. I decided barfing is a fine idea and do so. While cleaning my car of dog shit and barf, I call mr b and tell him of my dog-murder plans.

On my cousins’ feet. I was 7 months pregnant (and in high-gagging mode). My two cousins came over to visit me one night. They pet and love Dog. When he walks away, all present get the “who farted?” look. Dog, nervous about the stock market, shits on said cousins’ feet. Cousins contemplate murder. I contemplate barfing.

I think this is why Lala refuses to name her baby (boy) Gina.