Monthly Archives: February 2013

I Loved The Oscars. Which Apparently Means I’m Very Bad at Being a Female.

I’ve never been accused of being a girly-girl.  While I had a deep-seated love for Cabbage Patch Kids and boy bands as a child, (and yeah, the boy band thing may not have gone away,) I dressed up as a hockey player in third grade when other girls were princesses.  I was trying to play quarterback when my classmates were playing cheerleader.   I panic at the thought of shopping, have to consciously stop myself from using the word “fuck” while talking to co-workers and “new people,” as I call them, and some of my favorite jokes are ones that cannot be told in polite company.  (Which is a good thing, given my choice of husband and friends.)  (Seriously, we keep a list on our fridge of “Things That Have Never Been Said Before,” that actually have been said at my house.  Most of them are not repeatable.)

Keeping the above in mind, I was ecstatic that Seth MacFarlane was hosting the Oscars.  (My non-girliness does not extend to awards shows.  I love awards shows.  Fucking LOVE them.  All the dresses and hair and the shoes and the red carpet and the excitement and the famous people.  Can’t get enough.)  I looked forward to them more than I had in years – because seriously?  The hosts always try to make some jokes about the attendees, and they always seem to fall flat – Billy Crystal excepted – because everyone is so afraid of offending someone or stepping over the line.  But Seth MacFarlane, who makes fun of everyone, exploits every weakness, and isn’t afraid to drop an f-bomb here or there?  He would be fabulous!

And I thought he was.  Sure, he teeter-tottered on that tightrope of offensiveness, but for the most part, I thought he did a great job of not going overboard while simultaneously keeping what’s normally a tedious couple of hours entertaining.  So I was somewhat surprised at the backlash he received the following day, being called misogynistic, sexist, racist, and culminating in the “Worst Oscars Ever.”  People?  You all need to calm the fuck down.  Seriously.  Re-fucking-lax.  Take a joke.

The Salma Hayek, Javier Bardem, Penelope Cruz joke.

While mentioning the above three, MacFarlane joked, ““We have no idea what they’re saying but we don’t care because they’re so attractive.”  Um, hello?  Every single time Penelope Cruz is on TV, I’m all, “What?  What did she say?”  I can’t understand her.   Does it make her stupid?  Absolutely not.  Does it make her any less of a phenomenal actress?  No.  Does it take away from her award-winning performances?  Negative.  Same with Bardem and Hayek.  All he did was find the possibility of a flaw in three of the most beautiful people on the planet and exploited it.  Did anyone come after Ellen DeGeneres after this commercial where she tells Sofia Vergara, “That’s because no one can understand you.”  NO.  Why was this different?

The Abraham Lincoln Joke.

While talking about the film “Lincoln,”  MacFarlane remarked, “This is interesting, Daniel Day-Lewis is not the first actor to be nominated for playing Lincoln. Raymond Massey portrayed him in 1940’s “Abe Lincoln In Illinois.” This is true. I would argue, however, that the actor who really got inside Lincoln’s head was John Wilkes Booth.” Much of the audience waited a beat before groaning in disgust and  I thought the host’s response of, “Is 150 years too soon?” was hilarious.  C’mon, Hollywood.  You’re going to gasp in disapproval and be all offended?  You know if you were on your couch at home and not on the camera you would have laughed.  It. Was. Funny.  How many people do you think started to laugh and then when they heard the murmur of disapproval changed their minds and shook their heads?  I bet it was a lot.

We Saw Your Boobs.

This is perhaps MacFarlane’s most maligned number of the night.  Short version, he sang a song highlighting several women who have been topless in various films, and the reaction from some of those mentioned?  Was not positive, to put it mildly.  Um, ladies?  We did see your boobs.  You can call it art, you can call it acting, you can defend it in the name of your craft all you want.  You still showed your tits in front of a camera, for millions of people to see.  Does that mean it’s degrading, or not artistic, or distasteful?  No.  But you still showed your boobs.  I promise you, Seth MacFarlane is not the only person that internally giggles when he sees you and thinks, all Beavis and Butthead style, “Heh.  I’ve seen her boobs.”  And if you didn’t consider that possibility, you’re kind of dumb.  And the fact that these women, Assemblywoman Bonnie Lowenthal, and Sen. Hannah-Beth Jackson, actually took the time to write a letter to the academy, stating that MacFarlane’s jokes,  “reduced our finest female actresses to caricatures and stereotypes, degrading women as a whole and the filmmaking industry itself,” makes me think that politicians in California?  Probably need some more focus.  Seriously, folks, these are Hollywood actresses.  And please don’t get me wrong here – I’m honestly not downplaying their accomplishments or talents, or fabulous boobs, for that matter – but honestly?  An enormous portion of these women’s collective success is based on their phenomenal looks.  And I promise you, they got paid a substantial amount more for showing their knockers than if they’d refused.  If you don’t want people to mention they’ve seen your boobs – don’t show your fucking boobs.  It’s quite simple, really.

In short?  Get over yourselves, Hollywood.  You’re not classy anymore, and if we dig down deep enough, you really haven’t ever been. There’s always been scandals and sex tapes and cheating and mysterious deaths and tragic downfalls and profanity and nastiness and cover-ups.  And if you don’t want that exposed on your big, shining, celebratory evening where you all act like you’re the bestest of friends and you wouldn’t stab your tablemate with a salad fork if you thought it would get you a better role?  Don’t ask someone who has made their living saying what everyone else is too afraid to say to be your host for the evening.

Cheers to you, Seth MacFarlane.  I thought you were great.

Just wait until next year.  Remember who did the halftime show after Janet and Justin's wardrobe malfunction?  Me neither.

Just wait until next year. Remember who did the halftime show after Janet and Justin’s wardrobe malfunction? Me neither.

And Sometimes, I’m the Idiot Everyone Wants to Punch

As anyone who has read this blog knows, a good portion of it is dedicated to venting about people that have shown some sort of incompetence.  Whether it’s in line at the grocery store, on a crowded bus, or on my computer or television in the form of “news,” and “celebrities,” pretty much everyone I have any sort of contact with who isn’t one of my immediate friends or family is a fucktard in my mind.

Although I spend a lot of time seething over other’s idiocy, rest assured, I’m hardly sitting on some high horse.  I mean, this morning, I went to put on my rainboots as I was determined not to fall on my ass yet again and found a dollar bill, three bottle caps, and two crumpled up drawings of clowns that appeared to be in jail jammed in the foot.  Despite not having children to blame this on, I wasn’t surprised.  So believe me, my glass castle shattered some moons ago.  Despite this, I still  have no problem calling out the general public on their inadequacies and dumbfuckery at the grocery store or on the bus.  However, I’ve had a few incidents in the past week or so which have me think that perhaps I’m being a tad judgmental.  And that sometimes?  I’m the fucktard.

Incident #1 – Dominicks.

Earlier this week, I made my daily stop to Dominicks after work.  There appeared to be four thousand people in the store, and the lines were already about 15 deep.   I got hit with a cart, blocked by a trio of elderly ladies debating the merits of their yogurt brands, accosted by someone posing as a medical professional who wanted to check my spine, and almost exploded from holding in profanity whilst waiting for the cutesy couple in front of me to figure out how to pull a produce bag off the roll.  (Hint – it’s not by standing there and giggling, “OMG!  I ripped another bag!  You try!” “No, you try!  You can do it!.”  So very much hate.)  By the time I got to the end of the line behind 17 people waiting for the self-checkout, I was already kind of crazy and spent the next 15 minutes in line cursing each and every one of my fellow shoppers.  I was seething at the inefficiency and sheer stupidity of these folks who were holding up the line.  Tapping my foot, rolling my eyes, sighing huffily – the whole nine yards.

Until I got my own dumb ass up there, scanned my container of soup (one of the main reasons I still frequent Dominicks is they have the most amazing baked potato soup on the planet,)  a six-pack of Miller Lite, a roll of toilet paper, and some cat food.  It was right about here that I realized I had eight singles in my purse, along with a whole mess of quarters.  Now, not only am I that person holding up the line, but I’m paying for the saddest combination of items ever WITH CHANGE.  And then?  I ran out of quarters.  So if I was looking for a lesson in humility, I certainly got it while digging for sixty more cents in my purse while everyone behind me tapped their feet in exasperation, rolled their eyes, and mentally called me a pathetic jackass in unison.

Incident #2 – CTA Part One.

The CTA has done everyone a big favor since the new year in raising their prices on one-day, three-day, and seven-day passes.  And by “done everyone a favor,” I really mean bent them over without consent, lube, or dinner.  Without going into all of the math, it is no longer economically efficient for me to buy a seven-day pass and instead makes more sense to buy ten dollar CTA cards every couple of days.  Which means, of course, with me being me and whatnot, I occasionally find myself near running to (fucking) Dominick’s before work once a week because I forgot my pass is no longer valid.  Earlier this week, I got on the bus, put in my card, and got the hateful message that there was only $.75 on my card.  Once again finding myself digging around for change, I assumed the bus driver would do what every other bus driver does when the person is short, which is either wave them on or let other, better prepared folks board while I got my shit together.

But if that had happened, it wouldn’t be my life.  So instead, the bus driver just sat there while I dug around frantically for my wallet – and isn’t it always the case that the more you’re in a panicked rush, the more shit you drop?  Seriously, normally I can reach in my purse without looking and find my lighter, keys, and phone within seconds – leaving everyone waiting behind me in literal freezing rain.  After I’d dropped my lunch on the floor, pulled out a tampon wrapped around my headphones, and mistook a quarter for a penny, I finally had enough to carry on and began walking through the near empty bus while other passengers boarded.  And apparently said bus driver really had it in for me, because as soon as my last quarter passed through, everyone else jumped on the bus and she immediately slammed on the gas.  At which point I dropped my lunch a-fucking-gain and was too afraid to bend over and pick it up while the bus was lurching to and fro, then caught my foot in the plastic bag it was in and nearly gave someone a very unwelcome lap dance.

Incident #3 – CTA Part Two.

I get out of work at 5:30 every night.  From there I catch the Blue Line at Clark/Lake in order to catch my bus.  For those unfamiliar, the Clark/Lake stop is a relatively busy one, as every other train line save the Red Line stops there.  In addition, 5:30 is somewhat of a turning point – it’s not necessarily considered “rush hour,” anymore, so if you miss a train by 30 seconds, you may be stuck waiting for another 12 minutes listening to the guy play the buckets and desecrating some classic Temptations hits.  The Blue Line train also runs to the airport, so quite often I’ve found myself behind some clueless tourists who are trying to pull their giant luggage through the turnstiles.  (Another hint – it ALWAYS gets stuck.  Always.)  While I’ve certainly been frustrated by this, I will honestly say I never get mad at the tourists, because they don’t know any better and I do not forget that not long ago I was right there with them, terrified and confused by all of the people rushing by me.

That being said, I have often become apoplectic with the girls carrying giant gym bags, the sales guys in suits and backpacks standing at the turnstiles and just waving their wallet in front of the sensor despite it CLEARLY NOT RECOGNIZING THEIR CARD, the vagrants trying nine different cards that they’ve found on the ground, and the folks that get up to the turnstile and then begin searching for their pass, holding up the rest of the line for us savvy travelers.  All of that being said, I have to wonder what names I was called today as I bopped up to the turnstiles with my headphones, singing along to Tiffany, when my card wasn’t accepted.  No worries, I took it out, waited a beat, then tried to put it in again.  No dice.  Wouldn’t even go in the slot.  Waited another moment – not noticing the security guard trying to get my attention as I was too involved in my music – and tried again.  Nothing.  Now, I’m irritated, and at the same time I look up to get the guard’s attention, he taps me on the shoulder.  Exasperated, I turn around – with headphones still on, mind you – and make a “WHAT?” gesture.  He points at my ear and I yank a headphone out, all, “Yes??”  “It’s upside down, ma’am.”  Me.  (And I’m embarrassed about this, honestly.)  “What?  I can’t hear you.”  “Your card.  You’re putting it in upside down.”

Well, shit.

I wonder how many people are telling stories about the dumb blonde they got stuck behind this week?

Dammit.

Dammit.

Three People That Should Have Kept Their Mouth Shut

I really wanted to title this something more angry, (Three People That Should Be Shot Into the Sun was a frontrunner,) but I took a step back and tried to remember that one of the reasons I love my country so much is that we are all protected by the First Amendment and everyone is entitled to their opinion.  No matter how much someone’s opinion makes me want to kick them in the shins, no matter how much I disagree, no matter how fucking wrong and ignorant they are, no matter how much they make me fear for humanity – they are entitled to their opinion.  That being said?  These people might want to reconsider theirs.

This Group in Indiana Pushing for a “Traditional Prom,” Excluding the LGBT Students of the Community.

For the full perspective, please read the full article.  It needs to be noted that the school itself, including its principal and administrators, are NOT in favor of this joke of a prom and instead welcome all students, regardless of sexual preference, to the actual dance and are not budging on the issue.  This “Traditional Prom,” which would only include male/female couples and would ban homosexuals, has been developed by a select group of students, parents, and this fabulous teacher that everyone would obviously want to have.  And by “everyone would want to have,” I mean OH SWEET BABY JESUS I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS WOMAN IS AN EDUCATOR.  Ms. Medley has certainly come under the most fire for her comments, and I would almost feel sorry for her if she wasn’t such an idiot.  In an interview, Ms. Medley compared her LGBT students to her special needs students, that she “cares” about her homosexual students despite not believing in homosexuality, and my personal favorite, responded “No,” to a question regarding whether homosexuals have a purpose.

Really?  Are we not in 2013?  I mean, I’m not a moron.  I realize that we have a long way to go before there’s true equality and  so on and so forth.  But the fact that this woman, who is a teacher, who should be a CHAMPION of those that society shuns, can say with a straight face that she cares about all of her students while actively judging them astounds me.  How much would you like to bet she also has strong opinions about her black students, about her overweight kids, about her goth kids, about her artistic students?  I mean, she certainly SEEMS well rounded and not at all condescending, but – oh wait, no she doesn’t.

Rex Reed and His Insightful Comments about Oscar-Nominated Melissa McCarthy.

Despite a deep-seated love for both Jason Bateman and Melissa McCarthy, I haven’t yet seen “Identity Thief.”  The movie itself might suck, I don’t know.  But Mr. Reed’s comments about Melissa McCarthy are, in short, disgusting.  The review seems to be an almost personal, vitriolic assault on McCarthy, calling her, “tractor-sized,” “a hippo,” and “obnoxious and obese.”  I’m going to skip over the obvious, which could include things like, “Rex Reed is a complete dickhead,” “Rex Reed needs a fucking full-length mirror if he’s going to throw stones at people about their looks,” and “The females in Rex Reed’s life are probably super proud of him.”  Instead, I say for one, I surely hope the fabulous Melissa is laughing all the way to the bank, as the movie was the highest-grossing yet this year and she has that whole Golden Globe/Oscar thing to fall back on.  Two?  I’m glad that the response has been overwhelmingly negative towards this narrow minded prick.  I hope that the lesson that comes out of this is that, regardless of size, if you are awesome at what you do and work hard at it, you will be embraced in a positive manner and hopefully rewarded.  I hope the other lesson is that if you’re a mean-spirited jerkface, people will eventually stop liking you.  You’re losing the internet, Rex Reed.

This Pastor Who Stiffed a Waitress on a $.29 Tip in the Name of the Lord.  And Then Got Another One Fired.

So Pastor Alois Bell of the Almighty Church of Jerks that Shouldn’t Go Out To Eat, during a trip Applebees a few weeks ago, thought that if their large party split their check, they could sneak around the mandatory 18% gratuity on large parties.  This is a common tactic among people that suck at going out to dinner, and as a former waitress is one of the several things that made me want to take a hostage after several hours of fetching water for a party of ten.  Her waitress for the evening was not fooled by the ruse and added the 18% gratuity anyhow.  Pastor Bell wasn’t having it, and scratched out the TWENTY NINE CENT tip, scribbling “I give God 10%, why do you get 18?”

Well, Ms. Bell, let me tell you.  Because I?  Have been running around like a fucking maid for you for the past two hours.  I am in the position of depending on high and mighty jerks like you to pay for my rent and groceries.  Which is why I ran around like a maid for you for the past two hours.  I took all of your orders, I brought your drinks, I remembered who wanted medium and who wanted rare, I kept your glasses filled, I cleared your plates, I walked each and every person in your party through the menu because IT’S VERY CONFUSING, being Applebees and all, I explained your desserts, I found a vegan entree, I unearthed the special dipping sauce you like, I wiped up the sticky fucking mess the children in your party threw on the floor, I boxed up three bites of a cheeseburger for you to take home, I made fresh coffee because yours “tasted old,” I reheated your bread, and I split your fucking check eight different ways.  And I did it all with a smile.  For TWENTY NINE FUCKING CENTS.  You know why?  Because I take my job seriously, as demeaning and demoralizing as it can be.  You can give God whatever you want, and bless you for it.  But I’m pretty sure He would want you to give your waitress TWENTY NINE CENTS for waiting on you hand and foot all night.  Also?  If this is truly your belief, why are you angry and embarrassed about it now that someone other than your lowly waitress is aware of it?

     ***Edited: It appears I was incorrect in the tip amount; it was actually $6.29.  Point remains the same.***

In short – yes, everyone’s entitled to their opinion and beliefs.  And yes, I recognize the irony of writing an opinion piece on other people’s opinions.  To quote one of my favorite movies ever, “Opinions are like assholes, honey. Everybody’s got one and everybody thinks everybody else’s stinks.”

What’s yours?

wtf

How To (Not) Be an Adult.

Ever have one of those days where, right in the middle of something, your brain is all, “What in the fuck is WRONG with you?  How do you even manage to remember to put on pants?”  This can’t just be me, right?  Other people have to have those moments where they think, “Hmm.  I’m not sure what choices led me to this exact moment, but I definitely regret them at this particular juncture in my life.”  I’m going to assume that this is true for everyone.   However, it occurred to me when this thought jumped into my subconscious several times in the same evening that perhaps I need more adult supervision.

A Night in the Life of the Eternally Perplexed.

  • First thought upon entering the house (and turning all of the lights on,) is “Dammit!  I forgot cat food again.”
  • Spend a few too many minutes wondering if cats can survive 12 more hours without food.  Strongly consider filling the dish with treats and seeing what happens.
  • Flash forward to trying to clean up cat vomit with toilet paper because I also forgot paper towels and head back to the store-that-shall-not-be-named.
  • Ponder the effectiveness of “Stop Only if Pedestrians are Present,” signs in the middle of Chicago Ave.
  • Decide with certainty signs are NOT effective after nearly being knocked airborne by a bitch on a scooter whilst crossing said street.
  • Check weather report – you will not fool me tomorrow, Mother Nature!
  • Seriously, who fucking loses a pair of winter boots?  Especially someone who only owns one pair?
  • Oh, remember when you didn’t feel like changing your shoes at work the last time it snowed and nearly lost your toes to frostbite?  Check under your desk, smartypants.
  • You will not fool me Mother Nature, but apparently you will win.  Again.
  • Hmm, what’s for dinner?
  • Well, not whatever was in THAT container.  Let’s just put that right back where we found it, shall we?
  • Hey, leftover garlic shrimp and pasta!  Surely my husband hasn’t been looking forward to this all night!
  • Hmm.  Not quite enough for the pastatravaganza I was hoping for.  I know, I’ll add some more noodles and saute some garlic and onions to add!
  • Let’s just move this plastic plate to this OTHER burner, out of the way.
  • Singing along, “He was a Skater Boy, said see you later boy!” 
  • I miss Avril LaVigne.
  • Wow, this onion’s taking a long time.  Hope the garlic’s not burning.
  • FIRE!!  PLATE ON FIRE!!!
  • Do we have a fire extinguisher?
  • OF COURSE YOU DON’T YOU FUCKING IDIOT!  YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE A FLASHLIGHT!
  • What’s that type of fire you can’t throw water on??!!!  Is it a stove fire?
  • I have flour!  Should I throw flour on it?
  • GREASE FIRE, DUMMY.  THROW WATER ON IT.
  • Hmm.  That sort of worked.
  • MOVE THE TOWEL.
  • More water.  It’s working!
  • Holy shit, plastic burns quick.
  • GET. A. BIGGER. RECEPTACLE.
  • “The fire’s out, kitties!  It’s safe now!”
  • I loved that plate.
  • Pretty sure those noodles are ruined.  Let me just throw them in the leftovers anyway.
  • Well, now everything you were going to eat is ruined.  Dipshit.

After cleaning up all of the water I had tossed around the kitchen in my manic firefighting attempt, I had a beer and went to bed.  Sometimes, you just have to give up and start over tomorrow.

I’m guessing it’s safe to say that tomorrow isn’t holding a lot of promise of normalcy, either, but I’m sure going to keep trying.

If anyone is surprised it was a Christmas plate, I can't believe you read this far.

If anyone is surprised it was a Christmas plate, I can’t believe you read this far.

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