Monthly Archives: June 2009

"An American Tragedy"

Standard

I wasn’t going to say it. I was going to keep my mouth shut and move on. But after 3 straight days of constant coverage, I can’t keep it in anymore. I’m sure legions of Michael Jackson fans are going to start hunting me down for this, but I simply can’t seem to muster up much give-a-shit over his death.

Sure, I loved his music back in the 80’s. Off the Wall was one of my favorite albums ever, but after that, my interest in him started waning. Between my taste in music changing, and his freaking face changing, I started not quite feeling him like before. Don’t get me wrong, I liked him, and I certainly – still to this day – appreciate and respect his music. There is no denying that he is a music icon. That he was incredibly talented. But after 1979, he started drinking the freak kool-aid and was never the same. He was a freak. Perhaps the freakiest freak ever.

He fucked up his face. He bleached his skin. He became a recluse. He was best friends with a monkey. And little boys. And Liz Taylor. Freaking Neverland Ranch. He dangled his baby over a balcony. He made his kids wear masks and scarves over their faces. He named one “Blanket,” for Christ’s sake! He was accused (more than once) of molesting children, and giving them alcohol. An although he was found not guilty, the fact that he seemed to think that having unsupervised “sleepovers” and sharing a bed with children that were not his own was beautiful and loving screams “freak,” innocent or not (and I’ll be honest and say I’m skeptical – one of those accusers was paid 22 million, and also – court acquittal doesn’t hold a lot of weight these days – see: OJ).

But I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and say he’s innocent. Fine –he’s innocent. When the media keeps calling his death An American Tragedy, it makes me a little sick to my stomach. Because to me, the death of one celebrity – no matter how tragic it may be – isn’t An American Tragedy. I feel bad for his family. I feel bad for his kids. I feel bad that there are people out there who adore him and (to me – inexplicably) are grieving over his death. I’m not saying that people who feel the need to grieve for him are wrong in doing so, but I am just not one of them. And every time I turn on the TV, there it is. Tributes, celebrities weighing in, fans lined up outside his home, his families’ homes, his star, venues that he once performed in 20 freaking years ago. A local funeral home is having a service for him, and now another, since the fist is full. I just don’t get it. The same media that eviscerated him again and again and again over his looks, his debt, the allegations against him, are now singing his praises as loudly as they can. Yes – it’s a shocking death that came too soon. But An American Tragedy?

46 million people without health insurance? That is An American Tragedy. 13 million kids who go to bed hungry every night? That is An American Tragedy. 5000 dead soldiers? That is An American Tragedy. Hundreds of thousands of people homeless? That is An American Tragedy. 1.5 million afflicted with cancer and half a million deaths, millions of HIV/AIDS cases, 24 million people with diabetes, and no cure for any of it? That is An American Tragedy. I can’t help but to feel that calling the death of Michael Jackson An American Tragedy is a slap in the face to the real tragedies out there.

I’m sorry. I hope he is resting in peace – I really do. But I don’t need to hear any more about it. Because the fact that our country is still at war, that we are threatened by countries with nuclear missiles, that the economy is in the shitter, that our politicians are all going fucking crazy, that people still don’t have equal rights, and all we can talk about is Michael Jackson is An American Tragedy.

Advertisements

10 Horrible Secret Confessions

Standard

OK, because Swistle pointed out that I didn’t post any horrible secret confessions in my 10 honest things post, I’m going to do just that right now.

1. I say that I like kids, and kids are great, and all kids are cute, but I have to admit that I find some kids unattractive. I know people whose kids’ photos I don’t even want to look at because yikes I know – I am an asshole. note: not YOUR kids. Your kids are gorgeous!

2. Speaking of kids and assholes, I think a lot of kids are assholes. And I dream about punching them in the face. Don’t get me wrong – I would never do it – I save my face-punching for crackwhores (remind me to post the crackwhore-punching story here for my newest readers).

3. More than once, I was a self-satisfied bitch of a boyfriend-stealer. Although, in the interest of full-disclosure, the first time I did it, I didn’t actually get around to the stealing. I simply reveled in the…um…doing stuff…and not even hiding it. I once gave him hickeys just to put my mark on him. In my defense, she pulled some shady shit to get him off me in the first place. The second time, I really loved him and it turned into something. In fact, he’s my “what if” guy.

4. I am terrible with finances. Terrible. Embarrassingly, horrifyingly terrible.

5. I like to rant and rave about discrimination, but I have to be honest in that I have a bit of a judgy chip on my shoulder when it comes to certain religions. I would never treat someone differently because of it (because I do hate discrimination), but I scoff regularly.

6. I once stole. That’s all I can say because it still fills me with shame.

7. And speaking of shame, many, many years ago, I drove drunk. More than once. But then I grew a fucking clue. I hate drunk drivers, and it pains me to know that people do it. I know people who do it. And even though they are people I love, it makes me sick and makes me think much less of them. If I were around to witness it, I would probably call the police on them. Maybe it makes me a hypocrite, since I was in those shoes years ago. But I was an asshole and would have deserved the same. It’s no excuse, but I was young and stupid. But knowing grown ass people – with kids no less – who don’t see the danger in it pisses me off. I used to have a friend who once told me they drove their giant asshole-kill-the-planet-mobile when they went out drinking so if they wrecked, they would be safer. She’s not my friend anymore.

8. I know someone who illegally uses a handicapped placard and I plan on stealing it.

9. I am often irrational. Every single day, I have to fight the urge to throw something. Or run down some asshole in Hazelwood crossing the street slooooooowly in the middle of traffic and giving me a “just go ahead” look. And I use my horn. A lot.

10. I am having a hard time giving a shit about Michael Jackson (which will be my next post). I’m sick of hearing about it. I think the local memorials and services are stupid. And I told my cousin she was an ass for saying she felt the “global sadness.” I feel bad about Billy Mays, though.

10 Honest Things

Standard

I was tagged by MamaPhan to do a 10 Honest Things about me meme. Now, I am pretty damned honest, pretty much blabbing everything that ever happened, ever, so I had to think about this for a while to come up with anything new. Anyway, here goes:

1. I am barefoot 99% of the time. As soon as I get in my office, or my house, or anyone’s house for that matter, my shoes come off. If I am sitting in a restaurant or a movie, I will kick off my shoes (though in the movies I will keep my feet off the disgusting floor). In the warmer months, I pretty much wear sandals and flip flops – as close to barefoot as I can be, and I like stuff I can kick off easily. In fall, I wear no-sole moccasins, which are pretty much like wearing only socks (ugly hippie socks, of course). It’s only I the winter that I wear actual shoes, but that makes me sad, so I am not thinking about it right now. Right now – barefoot. Sadly, all the barefooting I do pretty much guarantees I will never be a foot model. My feet are calloused and permanently dirty-looking.

2. I know that smell is supposed to be the most evocative sense, but for me the sense of hearing is – more specifically, music. While certain smells evoke emotional responses for me (I once got a sample perfume in a “free gift” that smelled like my grandma – not her perfume, but her makeup/cold cream/something – and I kept it for years. And the smell of marijuana immediately sends me back to what was the both best and worst time in my life), it’s music that really does it. Certain songs can elicit very strong memories for me. They can make me feel heartbreak and sorrow and happiness. But even more – they can almost transport me in time.

Jackson Browne’s Late for the Sky – the whole album in fact – can turn my mood from happy to melancholy in an instant. I love it, but when I hear it, I am back in a 1982 Mazda trying to break away from someone I love. I hear Centerfold, and I’m sitting under a tree outside the school, wishing desperately that Timmy would like me, not knowing that in 2 short years, he and I would have a moment that Relax would always bring me back to. Stagger Lee makes me smile, because it makes me feel the love of a lost friend. But the song that hits me the hardest is Wish You Were Here. Hearing it is like a gut punch. Suddenly, I’m back in a dorm room, doing the absolutely right and absolutely wrong thing and not being able to stop myself. I can see the face that still haunts me – the face I both long to see again and almost hope I never see again because I don’t know what my reaction would be. No smell can do that to me.

3. And while I am on the topic of music, my favorite band is the Grateful Dead. But I have this weird thing where I find myself listening to them constantly in the summer and fall, but much less in the winter and spring. I can’t explain it, but I just “feel” it more in the summer and fall.

4. I may be the only person alive who feels sympathy for Kate Gosselin, but I do. I know she is a bitch and all but I have to admit, a) I’m a bitch, b) If I had 8 kids, I’d be an even bigger bitch, c) She may be a control freak, but with 8 kids (and 6 the same age), you have to control things or you will slip into chaos in 10 seconds – just imagine the mess if she let the kids leave even one toy each out of place – out of control, d) Jon is a douchebag – he seems to be a perpetual frat-boy – he doesn’t seem to take much responsibility, he doesn’t seem to have his priorities particularly in order, and I don’t care how much of a bitch Kate is, he is responsible for his own actions, and needs to man up instead of whining about shit. Also – big fat skeevy cheater.

5. I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s a huge part of me, so I am saying it again. I love being alone. I like having the house to myself, I love traveling alone, I love seeing moves alone and going to restaurants alone. But most of all, I love being in crowds of people alone. So I’m not alone, exactly, but no one is with me. I love it. I assume it’s a side effect of being an only child – you get accustomed to being alone a lot.

6. I think that being an only child is a double-edged sword. On the good side – I didn’t have to share my parents (or even one set of grandparents, aunts, etc) with anyone. I got to do a lot more than my friends with siblings. Once I was old enough, I got to take a friend on every single vacation. It helped me learn to be more self-sufficient. I am not afraid to be alone (see #5). I am (mostly) confident and strong. On the bad side – it basically comes down to one thing – missing the bond of siblings. Even as a child, I envied my friends with siblings a little, but it didn’t really hit me until I was an adult. I am close to my cousins and aunts and sisters-in-law, but I know that I will never be as close to them as they are to each other, and I am very envious of that. And as my parents age, one thing really hits me hard – that I am alone in my responsibility for them. If my mom or dad (or even my aunt) get sick, or need care, or (ew – I hate to even think it much less say it) when they die – it’s me who is responsible. I have family and friends to support and help me, but it’s not the same. It’s not the same as having someone there who knows exactly how I feel. Someone to share the sorrow and the burden and the responsibility. It scares me shitless and I’d trade all those years of privileges and taking friends on vacation for it to be different.

7. While I am young at heart, I like old-people things. Like Johnny Carson. I used to watch The Tonight Show with my Grammy and my Nana, and I loved it. I still think he was one of the funniest, wittiest people ever. If I ever had the extra money, I would buy the complete boxed set and watch it over and over. Johnny Carson was one of only three celebrity deaths that made me cry. The other two were Paul Newman and Jerry Garcia.

8. I am a Civil War history buff. I read lots of books on the Civil War, I visit battlefields, I watch documentaries. I have never been much of a history buff, but the Civil War just touches me in a way that no other historical event (except for the holocaust) does. I read about it, and learn about, and feel it. I can’t get enough. I get teary reading Walt Whitman, and hearing the music of the time, and watching reenactments, and even after reading The Gettysburg Address and the beautiful letter written by Major Sullivan Ballou to his wife a million times, they still takes my breath away. Ken Burns’ documentary is another dvd set I really, really need.

9. I have a weird memory. My short term memory sucks, but my long-term is freakish. Mt first memory is from when I was less than a year old. I am constantly bringing things up to friends and family and they are shocked that I remember them because they happened when I was so young. It drives me crazy that I will talk about some old toy (Suzy homemaker oven, Shaker-Makers, etc) or place or book or person and no one but me will remember it. I can barely remember last night, but I can remember everything from 1974. I blame college for the short-term failure.

10. You know the John Denver song, Rocky Mountain High? The lyrics He was born in the summer of his 27th year. Comin’ home to a place he’d never been before. strike a chord with me. I traveled a lot as a child, but never really to the mountains (beyond our tiny little mountains around here), the first time mr b and I took a trip to the Blue Ridge and Smoky Mountains, it truly felt like coming home. I never wanted to leave. Being in the midst of that beauty (as well as the rich history and music) was like taking a deep breath for the first time. I feel the most peace when I am there. I could drive the Blue Ridge Parkway for days and days. And I know that there are bigger, more breathtaking mountains out there, there is something about all the blue and green beauty that both lifts me up and grounds me.

Conversations with the Kids

Standard

Me: That’s a pain in the ass.

The Girl: You shouldn’t say that.

Random relative: Yeah, you should say pain in the butt.

The Girl: No – you should have said that balls thing.

Me: That’s a pain in the balls?

The Girl: Yeah, but that other word…Ssss…Scr….Scr…

Me: Scrotum?

The Girl: Yeah! You should have said, ‘That’s a pain in the scrotum!’

Random relative: Oh my God.

**********************

The Girl: There’s something I want to say.

Me: What?

The Girl: I can’t say it.

Me: What??

The Girl: Can I just say it once?

Me What??

The Girl: Asshat! Asshat, Asshat, Asshat!

Me: Are you done?

The Girl. Yeah.

**********************

The Girl: Those old men were looking at me! (talking about 2 old men sitting on a porch as we drove by)

Me: Oh yeah?

The Girl: Yep. And I heard one of them say…um…‘That little girl looks so cute.’

The Boy: What?

The Girl. OK, I totally made that up. But they were looking at me.

**********************

And one from The Boy:

The Boy (In Berkeley Springs, West Virginia): I smell the sea!

Me: Dude – we’re almost 300 miles from the sea, you don’t smell the sea.

The Boy: Yes I do! I smell the sea salt.

Me: No.

The Boy (In Winchester, Virginia): I smell the sea!

My Dad: No you don’t – we’re still 200 miles from the sea.

The Boy: Yes I do!

My Dad: No.

The Boy (In Fredericksburg, Virginia): I smell the sea!

Me: OMG – 100 miles from the sea! You do NOT smell the sea!

The Boy: Yes I do!

Me and My Dad: No – you don’t.

The Boy: Yes I do! I smell it. I know what the sea smells like and that is the smell of the sea.

Me and My Dad: No.

The Boy (coming out of the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel): What’s that smell?

Me and My Dad: THE SEA!!!!!!!!!

.

douchebags

Standard

Dear Douchebag,
First off, FUCK YOU. Second, id it make you feel like a big man to treat me that way? Do you think your two skanky girlfriends will be more likely to fuck you now? Because I don’t get it. I personally would never again speak to someone who could treat another human being the way you treated me. But I guess that’s just me.

I remember way back in grade school reading the book Blubber and crying my eyes out over what that poor little fictional girl went though. Even though I was skinny and cute, it bothered me. And now, I’m her. I’m Blubber. I’m fat.

And what I have finally learned is that when you are fat, or ugly, or disabled, or mentally challenged, or disfigured, is that you have no rights. You have no right to eat, or dance, or be happy, or sing, or do anything. You have no right to be you, be human, have feelings. I’ve learned that people have a right to put their hands on you and you should feel lucky for the attention. Even if they turn and laugh with their friends afterward about the fat/ugly/disfigured/retarded girl.

I’ve learned that even though I treat people with respect, and I work hard to help people and devote time and money to charity and I make people laugh and I love my kids and I take my grandma to bingo and I worry about the homeless and hungry and pray for peace and love and kindness every night, that I am worthless – a joke. That I am defined by my looks, my body. That I am worthless. That I am a joke.

I guess I always did like to be funny, so…thanks…i guess. I hope you all got a kick out of the fat girl.

Junk

Standard

We have big plastic pretzel jugs that we save change in. We were planning on cashing it in for our first Disney trip in 06, but never did (mainly because it’s a lot, it’s heavy and it’s a pain in the ass). Same thing with 08. So finally, since we have this Virginia Beach trip coming up and it’s falling on Broke 2009, I figured I’d finally take it and cash it in (although in the ensuing years it has become more, heavier and a bigger pain in the ass).

So on Saturday, I drive to the Giant Eagle where they have a coinstar machine, and grab a shopping cart so I can lug it into the store. As I am walking across the “street” from the parking lot, the heavy coins started pulling the cart a little because the road was sloped. So I am holding on to the cart and trying to keep it under control (it was so heavy, it was hard to steer), and I was so focused on not crashing into and killing anyone with my Changemobile of Destruction that I failed to notice the 1-inch curb. I slammed into it and one of the jugs fell over (THANK GOD it was only one). I should mention that I didn’t have the lids on them. Yeah. Change everywhere. So I spent the next 15 minutes crawling around in the street picking up change. I looked like a well-fed junkie.

***************************

Speaking of junkies, we cleaned out the van this weekend and let me tell you- it was no small task. I have a tendency to let garbage and toys and junk mail and jackets and lots of nonsense build up in the car until there isn’t an inch of space left. It’s a sickness.

Anyway, we emptied out the 200 pounds of crap, vacuumed and I got ready to start wiping down the inside. On all the doors, there are little built in “bins” where you can put maps, papers, books, etc. I cleaned out the front ones, but forgot about the back, because I never see them. Since the back doors slide, the only time I am in the back, I am getting the girl out and the door is open, so I can’t see them.

So anyway, I am sitting on the floor in the center row, and I hit the button to close the door, and in slow-motion, the nightmare comes sliding past me. Imagine you go into your older child’s room and find 250 crack vials? Well, the 5-year old version of this? 16 bajillion lollipop sticks. Oh. My. God. In addition to the lollipop paraphanalia, there were chewed chunks of gum, candy wrappers, half eaten cookies, chicken nuggets, a hash brown, crackers, some mystery sludge, a petrified string cheese, and an entire piece of cake.

Help! My daughter is a junkie.

Debauchery

Standard

Working from home days are hard when I have stuff to do. My house is a disaster, and I have laundry to do and I am leaving for Virginia Beach on Wednesday and have to get ready. So it drives me crazy to have to work when I have a million other things to do. I should have spent time last night cleaning the house, but I ended up going out to spend some time with Hedge and Rapunzel instead. Because I have my priorities.

*************************

I’m all VacationHead right now, too. The Virginia Beach trip is just a short one (Wednesday to Sunday), but I’m looking forward to it regardless. My parents and aunts and cousins will be there, so it will be a lot of fun. Also – Attention Robber, Burglars and Thieves: Between mr b and the ferocious dog, the house will not be empty while we’re away, so forget about it.

*************************

This weekend was chock full of fun. Especially Friday night, when we had a surprise party for Scabs’ 40th birthday. It was a luau theme, and since Scabs always wears a coverup over her bathing suit(and we tease her about it, calling them “mumus”), we all wore them in her honor. Or mayeb it was to mock her. One of those. Anyway, Unfortunately, Scabs’ bonehead husband was in charge of getting her there. And her 7:30 arrival time stretched to 10:00. We spent the time from 6:30 to 10:00 drinking and yelling “Where the HELL is Scabs?” and drinking and not eating and drinking and taking photos of all the guests with NotScabs. Needless to say, we were one be-mumu-ed, drunken, motley crew of birthday revelers by the time she arrived. She caught up quickly, though. And then it all went down hill.

My SIL Weenie thought it would be fun to stab mr b repeatedly with a fork. But mr b had been drinking “Angry Malkins” all night and had become Angry B and he did not particularly like being stabbed with a fork. So they were fighting and forking and yelling, and he told Scabs, Weenie and I that he hates partying with us because we “DO NOT KNOW HOW TO BEHAVE WHEN [WE] ARE DRINKING!!” See – he groups us together – we all get in trouble for the sins of one. So we figured since he was already mad, we’d all get involved and fork him some more. There was a lot of forking. Later in the night, we decided to reenact the forking with a nephew as a stand-in for mr b and Weenie pretty much scalped him with a carving fork, so we had to take it away and give her a plastic spoon instead. She was not nearly as dangerous after that.

Next up there were drinks and gag gifts and more drinks and an inferno of a cake and more drinks and a male blow-up doll. And then it really went downhill. Scabs chased everyone who didn’t willingly pose for a photo with Mr Happy (that’s what we named him). Looking at the photos, you would swear it was his birthday and not Scabs, since he appears in more photos than anyone. I posted a bunch of them on facebook and I will do the same on flickr, but I am thinking I can’t post the Mr Happy pics, because they are pretty much borderline porn.

So I’ll put some here, because you guys have learned to expect such debauchery from me.

Forking:

Forking reenactment:

Come back, mr b! Mr Happy has something for you:

Me, Mr Happy and Scabs

Weenie, NotScabs, Me:

The girl and I in our matching “mumus”

Saturday was spent cursing my fickle friend, Rum.