Category Archives: assholes

Shameful Excess

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Last night, I was flipping through channels and came across a show called Outrageous Kid Parties. This show is just another in a long list of TV shows whose sole purpose seems to be to celebrate greed and selfishness and brattiness in both children and their parents. We’ve all seen or heard of (and most likely been disgusted by) shows like Toddlers & Tiaras, Dance Moms, and My Super Sweet Sixteen. And while some of the kids in these shows are pretty unappealing, it’s the parents who are truly heinous.

Outrageous Kid Parties is no exception. The basic premise is that the parents (usually the mother) of a child decide to throw a party for their child’s special day – whether that be a birthday, bar mitzvah, whatever. But the one that I found the most disturbing was a preschool graduation. No, really – preschool graduation party! Perhaps I’m a negligent mother for taking my preschool “graduates” to McDonalds & the like, because this mother spent almost $32,000 on a “Candy Fantasy Party” for her little 5 year old genius. He must be a genius, right? I mean – he graduated preschool! Only the super smart hard workers accomplish that and therefore deserve a party that costs more than most weddings.

I mean – it’s a tough job, that preschool. There’s coloring and circle time and songs and snack time! Oh wait – even the stupidest kid in the preschool gets to graduate. But they still deserve a party for their 300 closest friends! And don’t forget the $8,500 rock climbing wall as a “graduation” gift – every five year old you passes not shitting their pants 101 needs that, right? And professional dancers and an original song and multiple bouncy houses and $1000 of candy and circus acts and a mother that dresses in fishnets and a whore skirt & climbs the rock wall. Or in the case of the 6 year old’s birthday party, horses and petting zoos and a dog show and a specially designed tattoo and a monster truck limo and more professional dancers and a goddamned ferris wheel!

People – this is why the world hates us! I know there are times when I go too far and spend too much on my kids. I think we all do. But a trip to Build-a-Bear or a new Xbox game is a world different from what amounts to more than the median individual income. And in some of these examples, more than the median household income. The excess seen in these shows is disturbing and shameful. So very shameful.

The US economy is in the shitter. The unemployment rate is out of hand. People are losing their houses, their cars, the lives due to poverty. And around the world, famine is killing children – babies! And these people having $30,000+ parties because Junior graduated from preschool is like a slap in the face to all those people.









Commemorative, My Ass

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There is a commercial I keep seeing more and more lately that is really bothering me. Or actually – it’s not the commercial that’s bothering me; it’s the product that is being advertised. It’s an ad for a commemorative September 11 coin.

Admittedly, I’m not really into collectibles or “commemorative” items, but even if I were, I think I would still be bothered by this particular one. It’s a gold(ish) coin with little silver(ish) cutout pieces that can be pulled out and “stood up” on the gold coin base. And supposedly, it is made from silver recovered from ground zero. WTF? Why would I want that? First off – where did that silver come from? Or actually, never mind – I don’t even want to know. Regardless of where it came from, I really don’t want a piece of anything pulled out from the site of thousands of horrible deaths.

And all this “commemorative” shit. I’m sure I’d be called unpatriotic by those behind this (or actually, not so much those behind it – they are just insensitive money grubbers, but by those who are actually buying this stuff), but I just don’t feel the need to commemorate 9/11. Or not commemorate it exactly, but commemorate it in this way. I believe that tragedies like this one should be commemorated with meditation or prayer. Or through education, so new generations can learn our country’s history. Or by kindness and good will for our fellow man, so we can move on and be a better human race for it. NOT by opening our wallets and spending money on some bullshit commemorative product. A product possibly made from materials that were looted ”recovered” from the very place where nearly 3,000 human beings were brutally murdered. And if you’re falling for the “approved” and “official” FBI insignia line, then have I ever got a bridge to sell you.

I don’t need a coin to commemorate 9/11. I even watched it all from the safety of my own office and home, 350 miles away and yet almost 10 years later, I can close my eyes and still see those planes crashing into the towers. I can still see the impossible happening and they collapsed in on themselves. I can see the people hanging out the windows in terror.

I can hear it, too. I can still hear the screaming, the crying, the groaning of burning, melting steel getting ready to give in. I can still hear the horrible, unthinkable sound of bodies hitting against nearby rooftops and pavement.

But mostly, I can still feel it. I can feel the way my pulse raced and my stomach churned and my heart broke. I don’t need a coin.

I think the most offensive part of it is that it is a fully “for profit” venture. None of the money is helping families of victims, or memorial funds, or the rescue workers who are suffering with medical problems after giving their time, their blood, their strength, their tears, and now their health to try to save as many lives as they could. No, instead, the company behind this crap is happily fleecing anyone willing to pay $20 for “a piece of history”. Meanwhile, people are carrying on about how building a Muslim-based community center near (not on as the misinformed are wont to believe) Ground Zero is a sacrilege, while this sacrilege is going on right before our eyes. Wake up, America.

Just call me Sherlock Holmes

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I saw a story on the news today that said, “Police are investigating to find out why a woman left her young child home alone. Neighbors called the authorities after they saw the two-year old playing in the hallway with crack.”

Um…OK. I didn’t realize the police were so hard up for detectives, but I’ll be glad to help them out:

Dear police: She left her child home alone because SHE IS A CRACKHEAD.

I should totally be a detective.

RSVfreakingP!

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When did RSVP-ing become optional? I mean – I didn’t know that it did, so someone needs to educate me. Here I am, still calling and letting people know I will (or won’t) be in attendance and I had NO IDEA that I am so out of touch! But clearly – based on approximately ten years of throwing kids’ parties – either a) RSVP is totally optional, or b) people are TOTAL FUCKERS.

Go ahead and guess which one I am going with.

Every year I go through this. I invite a bunch of kids to a party. I practically beg people to PLEASE RSVP (seriously, I actually put the word “please” on the invitation in a larger font, bold, underlined, you name it), I give multiple contact options – phone, text, email, and then I wait. And people prove to me that they are – as I said – total fuckers.

And since I never know how many are coming, I have to plan for the maximum number of kids. Which means more food, more cake, more treat bags, and MORE GODDAMNED MONEY!!

And then people don’t show up and I am left with too much cake, too much food, too many treat bags and an empty wallet. Oh – and a delightfully bitter, spiteful, judgmental attitude that I have a hard time keeping in check.

So educate me – when did RSVP stop meaning Répondez S‘il Vous Plaît and become RIYFLIOBIOSICSABOMBIHTPFTMNOPSIDKFSBDWAMALAYHBTATMYSF (Respond If You Feel Like It Otherwise Blow It Off So I Can Spend A Buttload Of Money Because I Have To Be Prepared For The Maximum Number Of People Since I Don’t Know For Sure But Don’t Worry About Me As Long As You’re Happy Because That’s All That Matters You Stupid Fuck)?

People? Total fuckers.

Halloween is scary for many reasons

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Last night, we went to our small town’s Halloween Parade. Before it starts, the local businesses hold a Trick or Treat and the library has activities, so my friend and I headed down early to the girls could enjoy themselves before meeting up with their cheer squad to ride along in the float.

There is nothing like Halloween to bring out the crazy. We saw our fair share of skanky costumes, pushy parents, misbehaving kids, and general impoliteness, of course, but the kids had fun. At one point, as we were making our way down a crowded sidewalk, we noticed a woman standing there wearing the most hideous, pants that you have ever seen – they were possibly pajamas – pink and furry and tight. We saw her a few times over the course of the evening and every time, she looked crazier and nastier than the last. But when we passed her on the sidewalk, she was talking – both to the person on her cell phone and a person standing next to her and taking up valuable space on the already crowded walk. I remember thinking that people without kids should really try to get the hell out of the way and let the kids through.

Shortly after we passed her, I noticed a little boy walking very close to me. It was so crowded that I didn’t really think anything of it – just assumed his parents were behind me. That is, until we walked about a block further and away from the main area. We went to sit down on a bench and noticed that Buzz Lightyear had joined us. I realized that this little boy had just sort of attached himself to me. I asked him if he was lost and he said yes. He told me his name was Andrew. He seemed a little vacant, but I assumed it was because he was scared. So I asked him who he was there with and he didn’t answer. I asked if he was with his mom and he said no. The same for his dad. I asked who he was with again and he said his dad. It became clear pretty quickly that this little boy was special needs. So I took his hand and led him back into the fray, hoping to find a frantic parent looking for him. Otherwise, I figured I’d pass him on to the first police officer I came across.

He wasn’t afraid of me at all – he willingly took my hand as we walked around. Because he wasn’t able to communicate much, I had no idea of a last name, who we were looking for, what they looked like. I tried to jest walk slowly to give the parents a chance to spot him. And hoo-boy, did they. I heard a screeching, “Where were you!?! “ and looked up to see none other than Miss Crazy Playboy Bunny Pants heading towards us.

I could tell that she was CRAZY AS SHIT a little upset, so I tried to greet her kindly and say that he got mixed up with our group, but she cut me off by screaming at the poor thing about how he’s “not supposed to run away.” I spoke up and tried to shoulder the blame, claiming that we had stepped between him and her as we walked by and he got pulled along with the crowd (which isn’t really what happened, but I was trying to divert her ire a little). But it took everything in my power to not scream right back at her and tell her 1) that he ended up separated from her while she was completely distracted and talking on the phone, 2) that while we teach our kids not to wander off, when they are that little, their safety is ultimately OUR responsibility, and 3) that as a special needs child, he obviously needs even more supervision, especially given his trusting and willingness to take a strangers hand and walk away with them. Not that I would have had a chance to say all that anyway, since she grabbed his hand from me (the poor thing was hanging on to me for dear life) and dragged him away, still yelling. People really suck sometimes.

Oh – and totally unrelated, but I have to share: When I went to meet up with the boy after the parade (he marched with the band), he was holding hands with a girl!!!! And I don’t care how much burghbaby hates multiple exclamation points – sometimes they are needed. Like when your baby boy is HOLDING HANDS WITH A GIRL!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Vagina!

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I can’t stand Leah Remini. I was never a fan, and then a few years back when she jumped into the Tom Cruise Crazy Scientology Postpartum Kerfuffle, I decided she was an idiot. Or an asshole. Or both. Her unkind and downright nasty criticism of Brooke Shields was insulting and dangerous, not just to Brooke Shields, but to all women. But like any other annoying gnat flying around your face, I soon forgot what and irritating idiot asshole she is. Then this week, she reminded me again.

On Monday, I got a call from the school nurse to pick up the girl. I brought her home, got her settled, and the sat down with my computer to finish my work for the day. The TV was on in the background, and the annoying new show – The Talk – was on. Think The View with more (and more annoying) hosts, one of whom is Leah Remini. They were discussing using the correct anatomical terms for genitalia with children (which, truly, I thought was an issue we figured out sometime back in the 80s). And as soon as the word “vagina” was spoken, Leah Remini opened her big annoying mouth and started screaming. She wouldn’t let anyone else talk, and every time they tried to defend their reasons for not using cutesy little words (she prefers “cupcake.” WTF?!?!), she yelled, “That’s DISGUSTING!”

Personally, I think Leah Remini is disgusting. But I do know that she is not alone in her demeaning, sexist opinion.

Vagina. Why is that word so intimidating to people? Nobody flinches when they hear penis. But vagina? Wooo, that can set some folks off. I’m getting so tired of people reacting to that word like it’s something dirty. It’s degrading to those of us who actually have them. Vaginas, that is. I mean, when it comes to the male anatomy, penis is pretty acceptable. In the mid-eighties or so, when popular opinion changed about using the proper terms for our genitalia, we all felt a little silly at first, but soon penis became a household word. A non-offensive, easy to say, completely correct term. But vagina? Vagina never totally caught on. It was definitely used more, but penis went mainstream and vagina kind of stayed indy. Thus, it’s 2010 and the same person who could work “penis” into a sentence without flinching would blush and stammer and get all tongue-tied at the mere thought of the word vagina.

I was in the hair salon recently (my friend Tee’s place), and a few of us were talking about childbirth and teaching hospitals. I was saying that I don’t mind letting students, etc, in, because they have to learn somewhere (of course, as soon as they find out that I am pro-student, they had half the medical school in with me. It was like a big party that had the bonus of freaking my mother the hell out. Anyway, a few of the women were saying no way, they don’t want all those people in there. In typical fashion, I said, “eh, what’s the difference? By the time you make it to labor, you don’t even care anymore. I let them all in, like ’welcome to my vagina.’” Well, one woman in there got a look on her face like she just smelled shit. The word vagina was so distasteful to her that she looked liked she was about to choke. So of course I said it as many times as possible after that. Vagina. Vagina. VaginaVaginaVaginaVagina. I know, I’m non-confrontational and sensitive to people’s needs like that.

I just don’t get the VaginaFear. I think it stems from the bajillions of years of female inferiority. Before men caught on to their part in conception, women were revered for our childbearing ability. The vagina was a magical, a life giving, mysterious treasure. But as soon as the cat was out of the bag that we didn’t do it alone, the vagina became dirty and shameful, something we didn’t talk about. Back in biblical times, women had to live outside the group in the red tent (if you haven’t read The Red Tent, you should) when menstruating. It was unclean. The bible, written by men (after the realization of their part in conception, of course), has passages about the uncleanliness of women, based on what makes them women: in Leviticus, we are told that menstruating women are unclean, as is anything they touch, and anyone that touches them. In particular, one verse tells us that on the day after her bleeding ends, a woman must take a sacrifice as a SIN OFFERING, so the priest can make an atonement for her.

So, the bible, this book that so many folks use as a guide to life, is telling me that I am a sinner simply because I am a woman (and I know, supposedly, we are all born sinners – whatever. But I have a problem with being somehow more of a sinner simply because I was born with a vagina). And then we have another passage in Leviticus which tells us that after childbirth women are dirty. And if she has a boy, she is unclean for 7 days and must purify for 33 days. But if she has a girl, oh boy, she is unclean for 14 days and must purify for 66 days. And again, a sin offering must be given. Of course, Leviticus is also cited by the crazies when they carry their “God Hates F*gs” Picket Signs of Idiocy and Hate, so you know what? Fuck that noise. And you know what else? Vagina. VaginaVaginaVAGINA!!

And so here we are, thousands of years later, throwing out “cock” and “dick” and “wang” and “schwartz” and “dong” and “prick” and “schlong” like nobody’s business, but let someone utter “vagina” and Aaaccckkk! For Pete’s sake, we’re women. Not demons, not aliens, and certainly not second-class citizens. We’re not dirty or nasty by nature. There’s nothing inherently dirty about a vagina. If a vagina is in fact nasty, it’s directly proportional to the nastiness of its owner. It’s not nasty simply because it is a vagina. And I’m sure there are eleventy-million or so skanky penises out there, too, so shut it.

I’m not saying we have to talk about our vaginas ad nauseam. We don’t have to share vagina stories with everyone we meet. I have elbows and toes and armpits too, but I don’t talk about them constantly either. But we should be able to say the word – “Vagina” – without someone blushing or cringing or wrinkling their nose. It’s not a bad word and yet there are people out there who would rather their kids say shit or damn or fuck than vagina.

And tell me – what are we suppose to say instead? Genitals? Too clinical and non-specific. Pee-pee? I think not. Forget about the cutesy shit – cupcake? Come ON – it’s ridiculous. Somehow I don’t think that the people that are offended by vagina want to hear pussy, cunt or twat, either. It’s a vagina and all women have one and it’s not dirty and it’s just as special and important as your penis and I will be calling it by its true name and GET OVER IT, VAGINA-FEARERS!!

As for male vagina-fearers, suck it up, bitches. It’s the thing you want over all others and you can’t even fucking say it? But somehow, I don’t really expect much more from you. But female vagina fearers (like Leah the asshole Remini)? What in the hell is wrong with you? It’s just a word. A name for something that you and every other woman have. It gives you pleasure, it brings life. It makes you special and you still can’t speak its name?

IT’S A VAGINA, NOT VOLDEMORT!!

Jackhammersasses

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You know what can ruin a perfectly delightful evening at the theater? A shitload of jackhammers that’s what!

I took The Girl to see The Wizard of Oz at Heinz Hall last night. She had no idea what we were doing, but she was thrilled to just go to Lulu’s for dinner. Then to follow it up with her favorite movie live on stage? Wooo, was she a happy girl. We had a great “girl’s night” as she calls them.

After the show was over, we made our way down to the lobby and as soon as we got near the front door, we heard it. TETETETETETETETETETETETETET!! (I don’t know how to represent the sound of a jackhammer in text – that’s the best I can do. But you know what I mean). And it was LOUD. Louder than any jackhammer I had ever heard. Not only could you hear it, you could feel it. It was so loud that you couldn’t hear each other talking. So loud that people were looking around for the mysterious invisible jackhammers and covering their ears. We couldn’t wait to get to the car and get our of there.

We got into the parking garage and headed fore the stairs, since we didn’t want to wait for the elevator. It became immediately clear that the horrible, terrible, no-good, very bad noise was coming from inside the garage. And it got worse as we neared our floor. And wouldn’t you know it, we opened the door to discover the loudest, most horrifying construction site ever. Right there on the floor where we were parked, right near our car where six (SIX!) guys running jackhammers.

It was, by far, the loudest, most annoying sound I have ever heard. The girl immediately started crying because it was hurting her ears (even though she had them covered). And the other charming effect of jackhammering? The dust. The nasty, thick, not-exactly-healthy cement dust was so thick, you could hardly see. Even though a parking garage is technically open-air, without any type of exhaust system, that dust just hung there in the air.

I wrapped my sweater around The Girl’s face to keep her from breathing it in, but I didn’t have any way to protect myself. It not only burned my eyes and my throat – I could actually taste it and feel it in my mouth and nose as I breathed. It was gritty and nasty. We were both coughing, trying to hold out ears, and she was crying, and the douchebags just kept on with their TETETETETETETETETETETETETET!!

We finally got to the car (it took longer than it should have because carrying a bunch of stuff, including a six year old while coughing, blinking, and trying to hold your ears will slow you down), only to find that it was completely covered in a thick layer of the devil dust. By the time we pulled out of our spot, The Girl was complaining of a headache and a stomachache. I had a headache. And since I have been suffering from asthma-like issues ever since I had the flu, I woke up this morning feeling like there was a cinderblock on my chest. My throat and chest hurt and I have a terrible cough/irritation in my lungs. Isn’t that nice?

I can’t being to tell you how pissed off I am about this. I understand that they need to get this type of work done and it can’t be done during working hours. But considering that this is the closest garage to Heinz hall, perhaps they should rethink the idea of doing it just as a show is letting out. Especially a show that will attract a lot of children. If they have to do it, they should have at least stopped for 30 minutes or an hour after the show was over to give people a chance to get out of there without putting their health at risk.

At the very least, there should have been signs before you entered the garage letting you know that this was going to be happening. And why in the HOLY BLUE FUCK wouldn’t they shut down parking on the floor it was happening on? FUCKING IDIOTS!
Thanks a lot, Alco Parking, for being the Douchebag of the Day!

Ten Things Tuesday

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Ten Eleven Twelve Things That Are Currently Pissing Me Off.

1. The media reports about Ben Roethlessberger’s accuser. OK, look – I don’t know who is telling the truth. This girl may have been assaulted or she may big a big lying liar who lies. But the media repeatedly talking about her blood alcohol level just smacks of blaming the victim and it is unacceptable. UNACCEPTABLE! I had been drinking way back in 1985 when it almost happened to me. And you know what? Having a blood alcohol level below the legal limit would not have changed his intentions. It would not have made me capable of fighting off a larger, stronger person. It would not have given me eyes in the back of my head to see him silently stalking me, grabbing me, and trying to force himself on me. So, FUCK YOU, MEDIA!

2. Santonio Holmes and his stupid behavior and his even more stupid twittering.

3. The health care debate. I support health care reform, but I know there are many who don’t. And that is their right. But if you are going to oppose it, oppose it for intelligent reasons. In the past couple of days, I have heard so much nonsense. One person in particular is vocally opposed to HCR not because it affects him in any way shape or form – he won’t lose coverage or pay more money. No – he opposes it basically because it will be helping people NOT LIKE HIM. He doesn’t like the idea of health care being provided for poor people. Or sick people. Or immigrants. Nice, asshole.

4. And while we’re on the topic of health care reform – can’t we all play nice? How on earth people can call themselves “pro-life” and then call for the killing of children of those who voted for the bill, or throwing out racial slurs, or any other number of horrible, vile things? I read this recently and my head exploded.

5. A soda tax. That’s what the city is considering. A two cents per ounce tax on beverages sweetened with sugar. That would add 40 cents to a typical 20 ounce bottle and almost DOUBLE the cost of a 2-liter. This is the stupidest idea since the bajillion dollar trash cans.

6. My six year old daughter asked me if she was fat the other day. I can be self-deprecating, but I don’t do it in front of her. I don’t talk about being fat, I don’t call people fat, I don’t ask if I am fat. I blame our fucked up society.

7. People who don’t stop at stop signs. What? The? Fuck? Every single day, I see someone cruise right through, or slow down, but not stop. Seriously – how much of an effect are those four seconds really going to have on your day? And what makes you feel you are entitled to just ignore the laws that are there to protect me and my children? I swear, if any of these assholes cause me or my family any harm (or even near-harm), I will be dragging them from their car and beating the living shot out of them. I hope I can count on one of you to bail me out.

8. And while we’re on the subject of entitled assholes, what on earth makes people feel they have the right to litter? I can’t even grasp the train of thought that tells someone it is OK to just throw their trash wherever they want. When I see someone do it, I will pick up their litter and stop them, pretending to be helpful: “Excuse me – you dropped something.” I generally keep the “asshole” part in my head, so I don’t get MY ass kicked.

9. Re: Number 8 – this goes for cigarette butts, too! Why do people who wouldn’t consider throwing their (potentially highly taxed) Coke bottle out the car window not hesitate to throw their cigarette butts out? Ignoring the huge risk of fires, if every single one of the approximately 45 million smokers in the US threw out even one single butt (probably a low estimate) every day for a year, there would be a pile of them the size of over 11,000 (potentially highly taxed) 2 liter pop bottles. And since they don’t easily degrade, that pile would grow and grow. Stop it, people!

10. Facebook. I like facebook for a number of reasons. I want to punch it in the nads for even more reasons. I am sick to death of fan pages. I mean – there are a few that I find humorous, interesting and/or useful. But most fall into the categories of either a teenage fan girl (OMG, I LOVE whatever thing/person/band/etc sooooo much) or mean girl (so and so is a douche). I’m sick of looking at them.

11. And while we’re on the topic of facebook and mean girls, those fucking QUESTIONS! You now the ones – you get a notification that someone has answered a question about you and then you need to earn “coins” to see who. I hate those. For the record, friends: I have never, EVER skipped on a check, I am not tone deaf, I am aware that I need to lose weight, ditto on the shitty clothes I wear, I don’t think boxed wine is classy but that doesn’t mean I won’t drink it, I’d never pull a fire alarm as a prank, and I don’t want to hook up with YOU, either! If you are wondering about something, formspring me.

12. I was going to bitch about education (yet again) but I think that warrants its own post. I know, you’re all a-tremble with anticipation.

So – what’s pissing YOU off?

Census Schmensus

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It’s Census time! Are you excited? Yeah, me neither. Not that we have received our census form or anything. I think we’re on the census shit list since the last time around. I refused to answer a question, and they sent the Census Police to my house. If that conjures up images of a big, scary, official in a suit, let me pain a clearer picture for you – it was an old lady. An old, frail, persistent little bugger.

The question in…um…question was ethnicity. And I refused to answer it. Because there is no need for it. I’ll answer sex and race and income and education, but not ethnicity. We’re a long way off from Ellis Island and I can’t see why anyone needs this information. Or even how most anyone can answer it correctly. Mainly because they only give you one option – you have to pick ONE. And while there are some people out there whose entire family tree may have come from only one country. But most of us? Heinz 57.

And while I respect my heritage, I don’t identify with it strongly enough to pick any one over another. Do I say Italian because my maiden name ends in “-ini?” I loved my pap and his Italian swear words. But then I am turning my back on my Welsh grandfather. And my English relatives and a bunch of other ethnicities I don’t even know about. And my Argentinean grandma. OK, she wasn’t really from Argentina, but my Pap told me she was when I was little and I believed everything he ever said. So I spent years of my life telling everyone my Gram was from Argentina – using it in school assignments and everything. And I got really mad when someone didn’t believe it – being from a small town where everyone knows everything – and I complained to Gram that no one believed that she was from Argentina. And she said, “That’s terrible. But I’m from Louisiana.”

But aside from the fact that I could never in a million years narrow it down, I consider myself to be American. Not Italian-American or Welsh-American or Belgian-American or fucking Venution-American. AMERICAN. So the little old lady census police came to my house because they wanted an answer. I refused. I am an American, I said. American Indian?, she asked me. No, American. Honey, we just want to know what your background is, what your parents are, she whined. They’re American. Well, where did your grandparents come from? Same place all babies come from. And then they lived their lives in America. And my grandfathers went to war. For America. They were American. I don’t care if somewhere along the line a Scottish sperm met and Irish egg or a Spanish X met an Inuit Y. I am American. So SUCK IT, Census Police!

Random Crap

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Patience may be a virtue, but it is a virtue that I have never quite managed to master. Case in point: This morning, I got in the car and my windshield was frosted over. The wipers didn’t help and being decidedly impatient, waiting five minutes for the defroster to do its job just wasn’t an option (in my head). Also not my strong suit? Resisting the allure of blaming mr b for things. I was using mr b’s car today. And a couple of months ago, I had bought some de-icer wiper fluid about for both cars. I took care of mine, but he failed to fill his. And somehow the entire bottle has turned up missing. I know! So anyway, clearly, this was ALL HIS FAULT.

So I’m all irritated, blaming him, looking for something to scrape the windshield, which I can’t find because we don’t have an actual scraper (see: de-icer), and we no longer have cd cases in the car (which work great) since it’s mp3 capable. And even though a couple of minutes had passed and it wouldn’t be long before the defroster did its thing, I COULD! NOT! WAIT! So I did what any calm, patient, totally not-crazy person would do – I opened the door and stood next to the windshield, grabbed an old chik-fil-a cup filled with melted ice and coke from the cup holder and THREW IT on the windshield.

Did I mention that I had the wipers on? Yes – in my irrational fury over the stupid frosty windshield, I failed to see what a terrible idea this was. I figured it out just as 20 ounces of stale, watery Coke Zero hit me in the face, hair, shirt, coat, and went down inside my sleeves. The little that stayed on the windshield immediately froze and made things worse than when I started. So five minutes turned into ten. This was also clearly mr b’s fault.

Man, I am SUCH a catch.

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I read recently about some study that showed that when people find an old love, they don’t really care how they look – that when the feelings are strong, you remember the person that they used to be and it overshadows the person they are now. That would explain why I still feel nostalgic for a few old flames, despite the fact that they all seem to look like K-Fed now.
It doesn’t, however, explain why the holy hell all my old boyfriends look like K-Fed now. I imagine that it says something about me, but I’m not sure I want to know what exactly.

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Here’s a little known tip to help you be a good friend: Always have an embarrassing story on hand.

No, really. When something particularly humiliating happens to your friend in your presence, help them out by sharing something even more humiliating that you have experienced.

I save my Pooped in a Bag story for just this purpose.

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How is it that no one has killed that hatemongering cocksucker Fred Phelps yet? I mean, really. It’s not that I’m wishing for his death (though it wouldn’t upset me), I am just amazed that someone as vile as he is still walking around spreading his crazy and NO ONE HAS KILLED HIM! If the Supreme Court rules that he has a right to do what he does, I swear, when someone finally does kill him, I am totally getting a group of people together, renting a bus, and showing up at his funeral with the biggest, billboard-sized picket signs all depicting HARD CORE GAY PORN. Who’s with me?

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The girl sat in the bathtub last night, singing her head off. She is always singing – pop songs, country songs, Grateful Dead songs, kid songs, songs of her own creation – so it took me a few minutes to hear what song it was. It was a song about how she is “A ten year old woman.”

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Oh, and in addition to being a Ten Year Old Woman, she is also apparently Cinderella. She works and works and has to do everything and no one even likes her and why can’t people get her what she wants RIGHT NOW and Oh My God, she just cleaned her room like, two weeks ago – why does she have to do it AGAIN and why am I forcing the HORROR of (her previously favorite) jammies on her when I know that anything other than her Jonas Brothers nightgown will surely KILL HER!

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I saw a headline today that said, “Wine may be good for women’s waistlines.” I clearly don’t drink enough. I’m going to get started on that right away.