Category Archives: general stupidity
Try and Whisper to My Cat
I’ve been hearing quite a bit lately about this show, “My Cat from Hell.” Well-meaning friends and family trying to tell me about this man who is an expert on cats and will come into your home to diagnose whatever emotional problems your cat apparently picked up somewhere between the litter box and the water dish. Sure, they act like they’re just mentioning it in passing, but the intention is clear: Your cats are assholes and all of you obviously need professional help and possibly some strong narcotics. While I appreciate the thought, I’ve seen this guy, and there is no way on God’s green earth or Satan’s hell that I am letting someone named Jackson Galaxy in my home. I don’t care WHAT he promises.
However, part of me wants to challenge him. Because I firmly believe that while dogs are trainable, cats are not. A dog, no matter how stupid, will eventually learn that sit = treat. A dog will learn that “NO!” is often followed by something undesirable, whether it be a lack of treat or a swat on the rear. A dog will hear his leash jangle and immediately associate it with “Walk.” A dog will almost always accept her fate when it’s time to go in a cage for the night, or in the tub for a bath, or in the car for a vet trip. This is why dogs are man’s best friend. Even the ones that are dumb as fuck will eventually learn basic commands.
Cats will do none of these things. Cats think that they are smarter than you, and will spend every minute of their ten-pound existence trying to prove it to you. I’m pretty sure if my cats could talk, their stream of consciousness would go something like this.
- “Hurry, she looks comfortable. Start barfing or something.”
- “OH MY GOD THERE’S A SHADOW ON THE CEILING AND MY ENTIRE EXISTENCE DEPENDS ON CATCHING IT!!!”
- “What do you mean, what am I doing on the counter? I’m clearly licking the plates you left out. Are you blind? Do you need a doctor?”
- “Oooh, oooh, ooh!!! Clean laundry! Ima curl up on it and molt like a snake!”
- “It’s three in the morning? Shit, where did I hide that golf ball? I need to start pouncing it across the wood floors. It’s funny to watch the blonde one wake up in a panic.”
- “Stop bringing people in the house, I’ll stop biting them. Problem solved.”
- “Go ahead and keep buying discount food. I can throw up like literally anywhere. It’s a lot harder for you to get underneath the dresser than me.”
- “Excuse me. EXCUSE ME. I was sleeping on this pillow and there’s no room for your giant head. If you insist on trying, I’ll have to keep pawing you in the face. And since I won’t sit still long enough for anyone to clip my nails, it’s probably going to be more uncomfortable for you than me.”
- “You think you were worried when that stupid small cat took off? Watch me streak out onto the porch and nearly fall out the third story window. You don’t even know panic, lady.”
- “You need to go to the bathroom? We’ll come hang out!”
- “Are you seriously telling me to stop meowing? I’m a cat, dumbass. You’d be just as successful reasoning with your toothbrush.”
- “Hey, asshole. I’m stuck to the window screen. Would you prefer I yowl like someone’s pulling my teeth out or tear a giant hole in it?”
- “What? I can only throw up properly when I’m walking around the bed while you’re sleeping in it. Stop acting all crazy.”
- “I wasn’t trying to trip you. I just like to hang out under your feet.”
- “Good morning! I’m going to stand on your head now.”
- “Please. Stop threatening to ‘Set me free.’ You don’t have the balls and you know it. You’re really just embarrassing us all here.”
Your move, Cat Whisperer. I’m sure as hell out of them.
See? As soon as I stop typing, they’re all, “What? We didn’t want to hang out on the computer. Leave us alone.”
Dirty Little Secrets
Last week, my lovely fellow blogger Sasha Cameron was kind enough to give me a a nomination for a Very Inspiring Blogger award. Which, if I’m being honest, made me super happy because 1) I haven’t won an award since Kirk Cameron was still popular for being cool and not a self-righteous douchecanoe, and 2) I’ve never met Sasha. It’s all sorts of cool to me that people I don’t even know read some of my stories. (I get a ton of readers from New Zealand. I cannot even fathom how they came to find me, but if any of you New Zealand folks would like to enlighten me, it’d be greatly appreciated.)
Anyhow, the rules of the contest are extremely simple – link back to the person that nominated, then link to some of your own favorite bloggers and ask them to state seven things about themselves that people don’t know. I’m going to do it a little differently – not because I’m oh-so-unconventional but because I’m kind of lazy and can be sort of a dick sometimes. Remember those MySpace questionnaires before Facebook took over the whole universe? I loved reading those. I love getting a little surpise glimpse into someone’s life, so I’m going to take it back 2003 style and ask you to return the favor that Sasha so greatly bestowed upon me. Tell me about yourself!
I’ll start.
1) I am addicted to stupid socks with designs on them.
Never mind that they look patently ridiculous with everything I own. I. cannot. stop. Flourescent green and pink stripes? Hell yes. Polka dots? The more the better. Socks with cats on them? Oh yes. Santa Clauses, Leprechauns, Easter Bunnies, Valentine’s Day hearts? Bring it ON.
2.) I hate silverware.
Not using it, mind you. I’m not some sort of heathen that can’t properly use a fork. Granted, sit me down at one of those fancy dinners which requires several forks and I’m likely to embarass you, but that’s more because I’m out of practice than lack of knowledge. What I hate? Is washing silverware. I don’t have a dishwasher, and while people I know recoil in horror when I tell them this, as though I’ve told them that I prefer to wash the dishes in my bathtub while I’m in it, it doesn’t bother me all that much. I haven’t had one since I moved out of my parents’ house, so I guess I’m used to it. But once I’m done with all of the pots and pans and plates and cups, believe you me, if you are anywhere in my vicinity I will do everything in my power to try and trick you into finishing the silverware. Some people have mentioned that perhaps I should just start with the cutlery, but that’s just plain wrong.
3.) I don’t like gum.
It took me about 30 years to figure it out, but I do not enjoy gum. It serves no purpose to me; why in the world would anyone want to be actively chewing all the time? I do everything I can to NOT chew in front of people – likely a holdover from my junior high days when it was kindly pointed out that I chewed like a horse due to my giant overbite – there is no way I want to do it constantly. However, I have some trouble turning down gum, for some reason. People are surprised when you don’t want a piece of gum. I always feel like I have to explain myself, which makes me super endearing to the unsuspecting person that was simply being polite by offering a stick.
4.) What most people find cheesy, I find absolutely fucking adorable.
It’s not really any secret that I’m kind of a sap. I like my books romantic, my movies to have a happy ending, my music to make me smile despite rendering everyone around me gobsmacked with horror that they’re listening to Justin Bieber, and my TV shows funny. A special aside to this? Commercials. You know the Folgers commercial with the little girl and the soldier that everyone else is creeped out by and tired of? Still love it. Completely unrealistic Budweiser Clydesdale commercial where the beautiful,gorgeous horsey remembers the owner that raised him? Forget it. I will shush you throughout it so I can enjoy the special moment.
5.) There’s four songs that will make me cry, every single time.
Baby Girl by Sugarland, The Star Spangled Banner – this one can quickly turn into the ugly cry if I happen to be at a sporting event where it’s being sung or if there are military personnel and/or children involved, American Pie by Don McClean, and Pomp and Circumstance. There’s not a whole lot I can say here that can make me NOT sound like a raving lunatic, so I’m just going to leave it.
6.) I remember names, faces, and birthdays like some sort of savant.
Seriously. I can tell you my first Jr. High boyfriend’s birthday and parents’ phone number. Sat behind me in science class sophomore year? I remember you. Did we work together for two weeks at Subway in college? I can find you on Facebook. It’s to the point that for the most part I don’t mention it when I recognize someone for fear that said person will think I’ve been building a shrine to them in my basement for the past 12 years, because who in the fuck remembers the birthday of someone they knew fleetingly in college?? (Also, this eidetic type memory is of absolutely no fucking benefit to me in everyday life; I routinely forget such things as the fact that I’m out of shampoo, where my shoes are, and the fact that I cannot drink gin without turning into a SNL caricature of myself.)
7.) I cannot listen to two things at once.
The fastest, easiest way to make me crazy is to turn on the radio juuuuuuuust loud enough that I can hear it while I’m watching television. Something about having two things to listen to at once makes me completely lose my shit. It’s like something short circuits in my brain; I get overstimulated and the only thing I can do is rock back and forth, stifling the urge to either mute the TV or pull the skin off of myself. I’m not sure if this means I have a high or low attention span, but I do know it makes everyone uncomforable when a grown woman puts her fingers in her ears in the middle of a party.
What about you?
I feel ya, kid. It doesn’t have to make sense.
Not One of the Cool Kids
I have to start by saying I was completely unaware that Abercrombie and Fitch was still considered the store for the cool kids. I was also unaware that teenagers still use the terms “cool,” and ” the in crowd,” when referencing the popular kids being that the last I checked, teenagers today are not characters from ”Grease,” and use a whole slew of words that most of us born before 1990 don’t even understand. But if the backlash surrounding this article highlighting their CEO’s comments is any indication, the war between the popular kids and the geeks is still going strong. Only now there’s the added stipulation that you can’t be one of the cool girls if your pants size is in the double digits.
CEO Mike Jeffries made this comment in an interview with Salon (several years ago, to my understanding, if we’re all being fair,) ““In every school there are the cool and popular kids, and then there are the not-so-cool kids,” he told the site. “Candidly, we go after the cool kids. We go after the attractive all-American kid with a great attitude and a lot of friends. A lot of people don’t belong [in our clothes], and they can’t belong. Are we exclusionary? Absolutely. Those companies that are in trouble are trying to target everybody: young, old, fat, skinny. But then you become totally vanilla. You don’t alienate anybody, but you don’t excite anybody, either,” he told Salon.”
So let me get this straight. Essentially, the CEO of a clothing line known for their overtly sexual advertisements showcasing standard-sized fashion models – which is somewhere around a size 2 -stated that they make their clothes with their target demographic in mind. Their target demographic is teenagers who fit the common perception of beauty. And the common perception of beauty for a female is not a size 16. It’s just not.
Is that fair? Fuck no it’s not fair. Is it right? Of course it’s not. Does it need to change? Of course it does. But bear with me a minute. When I was a teenager, there was a store in Woodfield Mall – I’m not sure if they were a chain or not - called 5-7-9. Why were they called that? You guessed it – those were the sizes they carried. Of course, they also carried sizes 0-4, but they didn’t carry anything above a size 9. When I was a teenager, I would have sold my goddamn soul to have bought my dresses from 5-7-9. That’s where everyone who was ANYONE bought their clothes. However, Jesus blessed me with early puberty and a set of knockers that required underwire at the tender age of 12; juniors clothing was out of the question way before I was a junior. Was I overweight? No. Not at all. At 16, I was a solid size eight. (And yeah, it has to be said that OF COURSE I want to go back in time and bitch slap teenage me and tell her that that Mountain Dew addiction was going to catch up in a major way and manifest itself in a lifelong affair with sugar and fast food that she will never, ever shake.) But my point is that I was a very healthy 5’4, between 130-145 pounds, and a I felt like a GIANT compared to my girlfriends. And not being able to fit into clothes from 5-7-9 was kind of heartbreaking. I couldn’t understand. Why did all of their clothes look terrible on me? How did their size 9 jeans not pull over my hips? I wanted their dresses, I wanted their clothes, I wanted to fit in. I didn’t want to buy my damn dress in the Misses section of fucking Penneys, no matter that it looked a thousand times better on me. It wasn’t from the POPULAR store.
Fortunately, my mother has a low capacity for unwarranted histrionics and finally – likely after a hissyfit of giant proportions on my part – put her foot down and said something along the lines of, “Their. Clothes. Don’t. Fit. It doesn’t matter how mad you get about it, they’re still not going to fit. I’m not sitting here anymore.” And while at the time I was probably apoplectic with the anger only a teenage girl can muster, she was so right. And I am so, so damn glad she didn’t let me buy an ill-fitting dress just because it would have made me happy in the short term. Christ knows I have enough pictures of me with a mullet and with a tuba and braces and glasses and perms; I certainly didn’t need to add a too-tight, fuschia-feathered nightmare to the mix.
What’s my point? That was damn near twenty years ago. The stores and the trends might have changed, but the perception is the same. Mr. Jeffries certainly surprised people by coming outright and saying it, but to me, the backlash is misplaced. Saying that Abercrombie hates fat people because they don’t make sizes above a ten for women is like saying that Lane Bryant is discriminating against the single-digit ladies. Boiled down to semantics, it IS the same thing. They’re both making clothes to fit their target audience, to flatter and fit their customers. And Abercrombie isn’t the ones making their audience the cool kids – there’s about a million other societal factors that make the “cool” kids synonymous with the “beautiful” kids. Abercrombie is simply cashing in on it.
There’s no easy answer or quick fix. But I think my mama had it right: this doesn’t work for you, here’s something that DOES, go kick ass in that instead. Who the fuck cares where it’s from, who cares what the label says, who cares what size it is, look at how great you look. Concentrate on that, drill it into your daughter’s head every day. You look beautiful, you ARE beautiful, I love you. No clothing line is ever going to do that. no matter how popular it is.
And if your kids are part of Abercrombie’s “cool” standard and you don’t want them to shop there? Tell them why. They may not get it now, and they might not agree with you because, hey, they’re teenagers. But explain yourself. So many of the comments I’ve seen in response to Jeffries’ statement have been contradictory to what their point should have been, “Well, he obviously wants to try and be around the cool kids now because, look at him, he clearly wasn’t when he was in high school.” What is that proving? It’s okay to make fun of someone’s looks if they did it first? It’s okay to call someone ugly if they call you fat? What does that teach anyone?
No wonder kids are confused. I am too.
Yeah. I’m not sure why we’re surprised the CEO said something unpopular.
Oh, Fork You
Occasionally, I like to take a break from regular blogging and do some product reviews. And by product reviews, I mean eviscerate the inventors of anything in the Skymall Magazine and mock those who buy their products mercilessly. There is simply so much shit out there that we just don’t need, and we keep coming up with more and more of it. Back stretchers and garbage “systems” and blankets that are actually backwards robes and stupid shoes for animals; the list goes on and on. So when I came across an article last week for the HAPIfork, I simply couldn’t stop myself from sharing it with all of you.
What is the HAPIfork, you ask? I’ll tell you. The HAPIfork is a vibrating fork designed to tell you when you’re eating too fast. It is apparently going to revolutionalize the way we eat, because eating too fast is the root cause of pretty much everything from acid reflux to obesity and beyond. Need me to back up, you say? Did you get stuck at the phrase VIBRATING FORK, like I did? You read it right. The HAPIfork, according to their website, “Records how long your meal lasts, records how much time elapses between each bite of food, records how many mouthfuls of food you consume, vibrates with flashing lights when you are eating too fast, and includes a USB port and is Bluetooth capable,” so you can upload your data and track your progress, you food scarfing monster.
So you’re pretty much using the vibrating, light-up version of a shock collar to feed yourself. If you are eating too fast, HAPIfork tells you. If you eat too fast a couple days in a row, HAPIfork tracks your lack of progress via an app you can upload to your smartphone. If you eat at what HAPIfork considers a normal pace, HAPIfork acts like a regular fork instead of acting like a sex toy while you’re trying to eat dinner. How does the journal read, I wonder? Day One: You ate like a cow. Stop it. Day Two: Slightly less like a cow, but still way too fast. Day Three: Can’t. Stop. The Buzzing. Day Four: Congratulations! You ate like a “normal” person! Maybe next week we’ll give you one of those potties that lights up when you make your pee-pee in it!
The science behind HAPIfork makes sense. If you eat slowly, it gives your brain time to realize that you’re getting full. I get that. So does anyone else who has ever attended a Weight Watchers meeting or, I don’t know, taken high school biology. But personally - and I suspect I’m not alone - I didn’t get overweight because I didn’t understand that I was getting full. I got overweight because I really fucking like to eat. Being full has nothing to do with it. It has a lot more to do with the fact that, ahem, there’s-still-more-macaroni-and-cheese-and-I-know-it’s-there-and-what-if-it’s-the-last-time-I-ever-get-to-eat-macaroni-and-cheese-I’ll-be-so-fucking-mad-if-I-die-tomorrow-and-there’s-half-a-pan-of-it-left-and-my-last-thought-is-DAMMIT-I-should-have-eaten-that.
Also, I’m not a big fan of the shame-based tactic to try and lose weight. On one hand, I guess it could work; after all, how do you explain that you have so little self-control that you essentially need a fork with training wheels? But on the other, if I want to be ashamed of the baked potato soup-a-palooza that was this winter, I will simply go to the beach in my swimskort that I like to pretend hides my thighs and watch the skinny bitches that have the confidence to run in a bathing suit play beach volleyball. (Seriously? How does that work? I suck at volleyball fully clothed. In a bathing suit, especially my swimskort which can be slightly restricting once wet, I would probably knock myself unconscious when my boobs hit me in the face and end up face down in the sand and on YouTube in one of those fail blog videos.) (Which is one of my biggest nightmares, by the way, right after getting caught on the jumbotron at a baseball game right as I take a bite of hot dog.)
This might sound self-depreciating, and it is. In reality, I rock that swimskort and have a blast at the beach several times a year. It doesn’t hurt that we bring a bottle of rum with us, but that’s besides the point. The point is that I’m able to have fun despite the size of my ass. I play catch and go underwater and get sand in unmentionable places and laugh all day with my husband and friends. And you know what? I’ve yet to notice anyone making fun of me. Because they’re too busy laughing and playing catch and enjoying the day with their own family and friends. The last thing I need is to pull out a vibrating, glowing fork that records and broadcasts my eating habits to the general public.
I so don’t want an app for that.
My utensils? Don’t need a USB port.
Bucket List for the Insane
A friend of mine recently posted on her Facebook page, “Skydiving!!! One more thing to mark off the Bucket List!” and for some reason, it stuck with me. I love the whole idea of a Bucket List. Things to do before you die, things to strive for, places to go. It’s a great idea. It gives us a sense of purpose; it helps us give our lofty dreams some sort of structure. I started thinking, “Hmm, what would be on my Bucket List?” I did some Googling – is that a word? It should be – and stalked some other people’s lists and oh, holy baby Jesus, you people have some GOALS. Hiking Everest and ziplining in the Everglades and saving starving children and starting charities – amazing. My list? Not quite so lofty. And even as I wrote mine down, my mind immediately came up with 400 reasons of why that particular idea was the dumbest one I’d ever had.
But I’m not giving up. It’s my Bucket List and I can do with it what I want. So I still wrote out my list, and then let the rational part of my brain yell at the hopeful, creative side. The result is that now I think maybe not everyone needs to make a Bucket List and some of us should probably just be happy for every day that goes by in which we don’t get hit by a bus or shit on by a pigeon.
Courtney’s (Sort Of) Bucket List
Volunteer at an Animal Shelter
- Thought: I love cats! I have time! Ever since my stupid Potato cat went missing and I visited every shelter in the south suburbs looking for him, my heart breaking at these poor kitties in cages, I have wanted to volunteer and spend time loving on these neglected animals.
- Counter Thought: Are you even serious right now? First of all, at that one shelter you went to looking for that idiot cat, there was a fucking PIG there that had just had babies. Can you see yourself caring for a PIG, Courtney? Think about it. Also, remember that one time you went to the pet store when you had PMS and almost came home with an ugly dog, even though you don’t even like dogs all that much? Let me paint you a picture of how this ends – you, fourteen cats, and a piglet. Alone.
See the Northern Lights
- Thought: That would be so amazing to see. I hear Alaska is a great place to see them – I could kill two birds with one stone! I mean, who ever goes to see Alaska? Plus I’d see the amazing lights!
- Counter Thought: You know what else is in Alaska? A raging drinking problem. And darkness. Given your love of beer and the fact that not seeing sunlight for more than 48 hours makes you homicidal – this is not the place for you. Any lights you see are likely going to be hallucinations. Why don’t you try for an eclipse or super moon here in your home state, yeah? We’ll get you a telescope or something.
Live in a Continuously Organized, Orderly Space In Which the Corners of Baseboards are Always Clean
- Thought: This isn’t impossible. My mom does it. My sister does it. It’s likely just a simple system – a routine I need to get into. I bet if I do a complete overhaul, I can keep everything spic-and-span and never have a heart-stopping panic attack again when someone drops by unexpectedly!
- Counter Thought: Really? It’s just a routine you haven’t quite picked up in the past 20 years? Sure. I wasn’t going to do this, but let me remind you of what happened last week. Remember? DO YOU?? You got a new towel off of the shelf and then had to take a whole new shower after using it because it was covered in cat hair. Why don’t you concentrate on never, EVER letting that happen again before you start scrubbing baseboards with a toothbrush.
Do One of Those Walks/Bike Rides For Charity
- Thought: Why not? I could help people and get exercise all in one. It looks like such a rah-rah good time, and for such a good cause!
- Counter Thought: Are you even fucking kidding me right now? You bribe people on a weekly basis to go places for you so you don’t have to walk up your stairs more than twice a day. Also, not to be the bearer of bad news, but giving up cigarettes did not magically take 50 pounds off of your frame, give you the gift of balance, or shrink your giant head so that it will fit in a normal-sized bike helmet. This one’s a super nice idea, but let’s keep it on your level. Try a nice short walk at a local high school – I know you, you’re going to sign up for that 3 Day Walk and you know damn well you don’t like to do ANYTHING for more than 45 minutes at a time and you’re simply setting yourself up for disappointment.
There was more, but one can only imagine what my subconscious revolted with when the word “Skydiving” crossed my mind, so I had to stop because I was hurting my own feelings. Regardless, I still think it’s a good list and am standing by it. What’s on yours?
It’s Still a Bucket
The Best Social Media Arguments Against Gay Marriage
For anyone who may have missed the memo, today the Supreme Court heard arguments regarding Proposition 8, marking what I hope will be the beginning of a historic turning point in our society. Never is social media so prevalent than when a hot-button issue is raised, and today was certainly no exception. Facebook “turned red,” in support, with hundred of thousands of supporters changing their profile picture to a red equal sign, and Twitter’s hashtag of #gaymarriage was certainly the most trending topic. It’s no secret I’m a supporter, and after coming across this fabulous post I wanted to add my own two cents to some of the arguments that popped up across various social media websites throughout the day. Mostly because dumb people are funny.
***If you don’t agree with gay marriage, you probably want to just stop here. You’re certainly entitled to your opinion, but I think it’s stupid, and that’s the nicest way I can say it.***
From an article in Nacogdoches County, Texas
“A marriage is between a man and a woman and they’re trying to take a situation that doesn’t constitute marriage and have rights on that,” said Shelia Anthony.
- Well that there’s a good sentence, ain’t it Shelia? I like that nowhere here is there any reasoning, supporting argument, or sentence structure. And that her momma apparently couldn’t spell “Sheila.”
“If you were to put men on one island and woman on another island eventually the world would die off,” said Ethan Yates.
- Yes, and if you put cats on one island and dogs on the other you’d have two islands with only cats and dogs. And if we ran out of water, we’d also die. And if dinosaurs came back, we’d probably die too. And if a meteor hit Earth, again, DEAD. Also, in your particular situation, if we put men on island and “woman,” on another island, which actually means only one woman, that would just be cruel and unusual punishment. But assuming you meant all the women in the world on one island and all the men another – hey Ethan? We fucking discovered Earth was round, we discovered electricity, we invented the internet which allows your dumb opinion to be read by hundreds, we have people in SPACE; I guaran-goddam-tee the men and women would find each other’s island. Also, kudos on coming up with a realistic situation that totally translates well to your strong argument against gay marriage.
Here are some comments from Yahoo! users in response to this article regarding today’s hearings.
“People, you are all missing the main point!! Thje The only reason participants in marriage, (traditional marriage,) were given certain “rights” was because they provide the best environment in which to raise children. It IS that simple! Laws on inheretence inheritance, hospital visitation, etc., can be changed but the fundamental privaleges privileges of marriage should be reserved for marriages consisting of one man and one woman because that is what’s best for the children that might be created. Same-sex marriages do not provide the same benefit to society and thus should not be afforded the same privaleges privileges. It IS that simple.”
- Now that we’ve fixed your grammar and made this an almost coherent paragraph, I’m kind of too tired to point out that if I had to guess, while I’m sure you believe your spawn are the greatest benefit to society since your husband Jimmy Bob was created, they’re probably going to grow up to be assholes. And I can point out about four hundred marriages off the top of my head that are surely of ZERO benefit to society. All of Rush Limbaugh’s (traditional, sacred, marriages) come to mind.
“Gay marriage should be handled at the state level. If you’re gay and want to get married, move to a state where it’s legal. If you don’t agree with gay marriage, move to a state where it’s illegal. Simple as that.”
- Interesting. I would imagine there were a lot of people back in the day that said the same thing about segregation, women’s rights, and interracial marriage. Don’t say it’s not the same thing. IT IS THE SAME THING.
“And GOD said, though shall NOT sleep with another man. Case closed.”
- I’m ignoring the fact that this guy got the verse completely wrong. His misguided point comes across and it’s my favorite. The old standby that every opponent of gay rights ultimately falls back on, seeing as they don’t have any actual reasoning behind their ignorance. The Bible also says if a woman isn’t a virgin when she is married she can be stoned to death. It forbids tattoos and rounded haircuts, folks. I’m not saying the Good Book isn’t good; however, the possibility that it’s slightly outdated in some respects really needs to be considered.
Which side do you want to tell your grandkids you were on??
Yahoo’s Top Searches: Time To Reevaluate Again
I did a post a while back about the top searches on Yahoo! and how maybe, just a little, this is why other countries hate us. Very rarely are they related to politics or war or hunger or poverty or – well, the list goes on and on, but safe to say they’re generally a little too Kardashian-based to warrant actual news or current events. That’s not to say they’re not interesting search terms, but seeing what hundreds of thousands of people apparently search on a daily basis never fails to intrigue me. Today’s was one of the more abstract I’d seen in quite a while, so I decided to share.
Here’s a few of the top searches from today.
First of all, is anyone else a little concerned that the nation’s top nude beach is in Mazomanie, WISCONSIN??? Don’t get me wrong, I love Wisconsin. I love my family there, I love camping, I love Summerfest, I love fishing. But nude beaching it? In Wisconsin? Have I missed something? Is a Midwest state where it’s only warm enough to even be on a beach like seven times a year really the go-to spot for nudists? If that’s not curious enough – the nude beach has apparently only been shut down on weekdays, as that’s when the majority of “shenanigans,” ensue. Apparently, 83 of the 92 citations issued in the past four years have been on weekdays. On one hand, I’m thinking maybe I’ve been in Chicago too long, as 92 citations in four years seems extremely low, considering we have nearly as many murders every two months here. On the other, I have to ask – if you are arrested on a nude beach in Mazomanie, Wisconsin, on a Tuesday afternoon, where exactly is your rock bottom? That has to be it, amirite??
Apparently Lindsey Vonn showed up with her “boyfriend” Tiger Woods at his daughter’s baseball game, but instead of walking in the arm of her new man proudly, she stayed in the car for an hour to avoid seeing Tiger’s ex-wife. Is it just me, or is this guy the dumbest person, like, ever? Don’t you have publicity people? And do they not realize that hiding your girlfriend in the car is going to garner more attention that showing up unobtrusively and watching the game? I get not being ready to have them both in the same place, but having her sit in the car like a dog or naughty child seems relatively counterproductive to your image. Also, honey? Just start running now. You’re pretty, you’re smart, you’re talented - you do not need to be this jackhole’s arm candy. If it was you who wanted to wait in the car – you are not ready for the scrutiny your relationship is going to garner. If it was his idea? I repeat, he’s a jackhole. Start running. Nothing good is coming from this.
The rapper’s home apparently was sold recently, in foreclosure, for a reported $4 million dollars less than it was worth. I’m going to skip over the fact that someone who had enough money to take out a $4 million mortgage and who “Isn’t having money problems,” according to his financial advisor, isn’t paying his bills because it makes me want to eat my own head. My question is more – why is this news? The man has a video of himself peeing on adolescents. (Yes, yes, he was acquitted. So was O.J.) He’s clearly not the brightest crayon in the box. Are we really surprised that he didn’t balance his books properly or invest his money wisely?
This has been on the list all day long and I was finally curious enough to look at it. An Atlanta Hawks cheerleader fell on her head in the middle of a performance last night and had to be carted off the court on a stretcher. Um, hello? Is this really that interesting? I fall down ALL THE TIME. Seriously, someone should follow me around with a camera; it’d be like YouTube gold. Not long ago, I slipped on some ice and simultaneously hit my head on a glass door – it was a far more entertaining fall than this one was. That being said, if I am ever to garner unwanted publicity, I sincerely hope that the most interesting thing someone says about me is better than what was said about Kristen here, which was “She’s obsessed with oatmeal creme pies.” Fucking seriously? That’s the only defining characteristic you can come up with? She likes COOKIES??? I hope she gets out of the hospital and immediately punches/disowns the person that gave that information to the reporter.
So there we have it, folks. The most interesting things that happened today involved a cheerleader falling, a rapper losing a house, a philanderer continuing to be a dick, and a nude beach in Wisconsin. Way to go, internet!!!
“How To Be a Good Girlfriend,” According to Cosmo or “Put Down the Cosmo RIGHT NOW,” According to Me
The other day, I came across this little gem in a blog that I follow. I’ve seen it before and it never fails to make me laugh – I mean seriously? “His topics of conversation are more important than yours?” Piss OFF – and as I looked through it, it got me thinking about what today’s guide might say. I was curious. I mean, this guide is clearly no longer relevant – really, “Offer to take off his shoes?” Piss OFF – but what would the modern woman’s guide to dating say? With all of the Facebook and Twitter and texting and Instagram and Tumblr and the fabulous ability to completely stalk someone without their knowledge, it has to be considerably different than the last time I was on the market, way back when we were still figuring out codes for pagers.
So I did some Google searching and came up with this article from Cosmopolitan, and if possible, I’m a little more horrified at this “Do’s and Don’ts” guide than the 1955 version. Who are these girlfriends and the guys that want them? Here’s a few of their “guidelines” to being a good girlfriend. Take a look and then please help me understand how we are supposed to be raising a strong, intelligent, independent generation of women. Because if they’re following all of this advice, we’re failing.
- Do: Watch the Game with His Friends
- Don’t: Cheer Really Loudly, Chug Beer, or Tell Off-Color Jokes
- Apparently, watching the game with his friends says “You’re easygoing and cool,” but enjoying the game as much as him says, “You’re crass and un-ladylike.” Well of course I’m being crass and unladylike. THERE’S FOOTBALL ON. It’s a very un-ladylike game. What do you want me to say when Cutler throws one directly into double coverage in the red zone? “Oh, fudge, sweetie. Let me refill the snacks?” PISS OFF.
- Do: Buy Him Tickets as a Gift
- Don’t: Buy Him a Sweater
- Let me guess – the tickets are for something that her delicate sensibilities can’t handle, like a loud band or baseball game that he can go to with a friend? No way, Jose. Plus – if he needs a sweater, he needs a fucking sweater. And if it “reminds him of his mother,” because she’s the one that buys him clothes? Probably best to take a step back and but quick anyhow – dude’s got mommy issues, honey. Promise.
- Do: Leave a Pretty, Delicate Piece of Jewelry at His Place
- Don’t: Leave a Toothbrush
- Apparently the idea behind this is to make sure your man is reminded of you, but nothing too forward and crazy that might scare his dull mind into thinking you’re serious about your relationship. You know what? You can’t brush your fucking teeth with a necklace, and you can’t replace a pretty necklace with a toothbrush. Also, if you are creating an environment where I don’t feel comfortable leaving a toothbrush at your place, guess what? I’m using yours, asshole.
- Do: In Public, Give Him a Quick Kiss
- Don’t: In Public, Be All Over Him
- Unless, of course, you’re super hot. Then do whatever you want.
- Do: Wear a Matching, Lacy Bra-and-Panty Set
- Don’t: Wear Complicated Teddies and Bustiers
- Clearly, because men hate porn and often contemplate how they’re glad their girlfriends don’t wear that stuff because they hate buttons. Also, if he notices your matching set of underpants instead of trying to get you OUT of them, it probably doesn’t really matter what you wear.
- Do: Bring His Mother Homemade Cookies – Oatmeal Raisin is Best
- Don’t: Bring His Mother Flowers or Wine
- The reasoning behind this is that homemade cookies show more thought and will make his mom stoked that you can bake, and bringing flowers requires your hostess to duck out and find a vase, which could be uncomfortable. If his mommy is going to be upset you can’t bake her golden boy cookies, or judge the fact that you brought flowers, listen closely and take this advice very, very seriously. Start running, as fast as you fucking can, in any possible direction. You will never win, give up now, do not pass go, do not collect $200.
What the fuck, Cosmo? How about “Be Yourself, Because That’s What He’s Going to Do, and If He Doesn’t Like It, He’s Wrong for You – Move the Fuck On!”
PISS OFF.
If you want your girls to follow these rules, guys, you deserve Bella.
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.
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.
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.
