Kankles, muffin tops, Dunlop disease, cottage cheese, saddlebags, side boobs, stretch marks. Nobody wants these things but everyone has them. That is correct. EVERYONE. Every single normal human being struggles with these things. And it was brought to my attention that not everyone is aware of this phenomenon. So I must point out that there are key terms in the sentences beginning this paragraph: normal, human, and weight.
Defining normal, when it comes to size and body type, pertains only to those people who eat. Who really actually eat. You know- things like sandwich meat and real cheese slices. Maybe even a mini Kit-Kat or two. Heck through in the whole caboodle- those who actually eat dessert. Normal does not describe any thing you see in any form of media. These people do not eat. I am convinced they are fed by tubes of water, air, cottony things and my nephew's freeze dried yogurt droppings, penetrating their abdominal wall through surgically implanted ports. There is absolutely no possible way that someone as tall and split-brained crazy as Angelina Jolie can stand like the tattooed tower of Pisa and weigh less than me (which is 120 after the holidays)(OK, really 123). She has to be having hallucinations of flying meat and made of Japanese clock parts instead of vital organs. Cameron Diaz is most definitely made of tampon tubes encompassed by LA Looks hair gel. So to compare ourselves to anything found on a magazine or search engine home page is to compare ourselves to what our second definition is: human. Every human being must produce 443mL of water per day just to rid the body of necessary wastes. I'm fairly certain I have that much clinging to my left saddle bag whereas Rihanna doesn't pee because her body obviously doesn't hold more than a shot glass of water, thus proving, she is not human. Victoria's Secret models? Completely alien. 15 year-old aliens who eat Q-tips and lick stamp glue for sustenance. Because of these definitions, I feel I never have to compare myself to whatever media mogul feels he wants to thrust in my face today.
Our third word: Weight. The definition of weight: earths gravity on your mass. But that definition does not hold true when standing in front of the purely evil, 9 foot mirrors in the aerobics room of the gym. Weight is whether or not you can see your side boobs thrashing from side to side as you awkwardly uppercut at double speed in your martial arts aerobics class. Weight is putting on your favorite tank top and yoga pants only to find something that resembles an uncooked ham sticking out between them. Weight is defined as the moment of self defeat and admittance that the washing machine did not, in fact, shrink every single clothing item you own. Weight is the light headed feeling you have when you know that if you take a breath, your dress buttons will explode open like Mt. Vesuvius in the middle of Christmas Eve service. Weight is feeling like a stuffed sausage. And let me attest- whether you're a 4 or a 14, our definition of weight will find you. I'm a size four and these days, everything between my knees and my belly button seems to officially be made of pineapple chunks and banana pudding. Putting on my skinny jeans actually requires me to stuff my inner thigh down my pant leg. The moral of our little story is that although though a person may be a small tyke, they have fat sink holes just like anyone else. At the gym, I too have to watch as my butt cheeks move in the opposite direction of my body movement. And if you think being small will solve all your body problems, they won't. You still get stretch marks.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Jingle Jangle All the Way
This time every year, I get the same feeling. The feeling that I am in an alternate universe, that I have morphed into another being and am at a loss for how to get back. All the people, the money, the traffic, the schedules. I always end up asking myself, "What happened to Christmas?"
I grew up in a middle class family where our Christmas was a picture you could put on a greeting card and sell in gift packs of ten at Hallmark, covered in glitter, of course. Magically, one day, I would come home from school to find little plastic Santas and votive candles sporadically placed throughout the house that would be a glowing haven for the next month or so. The scent of sugary cookies and pine wafted in the air. In my backpack was a letter with all my hopes and dreams written on that extra-wide ruled manila paper. The cookies on a plate by the fire. The sounds of Nat King Cole crooning from the LP on the console. And the Christmas tree, oh the glorious Christmas tree..... back in the day when people still bought actual Christmas trees. They shed like hell and had sap all over them but by gosh, it was REAL. I was so fascinated with the tree, I once knocked it over while my parents were at the company Christmas party. Oh, but it had all the ornaments I had ever made displayed with pride on the front. In addition to my Yuletide master pieces, each year, we got to pick a new ornament- a total highlight of the Christmas season. Our tree was wrapped superbly in sparkling gold tinsel concluded with a grand, blinking star on top. But best of all- the lights. There were millions of multi-colored, blinking lights all over the place, but my favorite of favorites were the old school bubble lights. They had a medicine dropper on the end of them, full of colored liquid that bubbled once the lights got crispy hot. Looking back as an adult, my parents had to be strictly out of their mind to place cheap, Chinese boiling hot Christmas lights on a dry conifer, knowing that at any second, our house could become an erupting inferno of plastic Santas, all for the sake of child-like wonder. And I thank them wholeheartedly for it.
So the question is, where did I misplace that greeting card? I have recollections of it all the way up until a few years ago and then it just-poof- disappeared. Now Christmas makes me feel like on old-wintry hag who steals children, burns them in her oven and turns their ashes into Christmas cookies to feed to the neighbors. I hate to say it, but I hate Christmas. OK. That was harsh- I really don't hate Christmas, I'm just resentful for being an adult at Christmas time. It all started the Christmas that Santa's thank you note for the cookies contained handwriting that looked oddly akin to my father's.....
There isn't any wonder in Christmas anymore when you're standing in Wal-Mart at 12:30 at night, stumbling because you're fairly certain you lost your feet on aisle 18 and are now walking on the stubs of your tibias. You've been shopping for hours buying cheese-filled cocktail weenies, cookies, booze, more cheese, cartons of microwaveable mashed-potatoes, dinner-plates, a wintry vest for a homeless kid, pantyhose, fake tanner, monkey bread and aspirin for the ninety-five parties you have to attend in the next five days or heaven help-us, someones gonna get their flippin' feelings hurt that you didn't come to THEIR party and contribute. You load up your car after dragging your wares to the horizon of the parking lot just to have Suburban Super Mom stalk you for your spot.
Now I must interject- it's at this point for me when the alternate universe jumps in and I'm fairly certain an exorcism by a devout priest would be most helpful. I have never been a patient driver. In fact, I am a hateful driver. Jesus has a filing cabinet that is dated back from November 28th, 1996 when I began driving that is jam packed with copious sums of spiritual citations due to my driving deviance's. I have never hidden this fact from anyone. It is the sole reason I refuse to put my church's sticker on my car. Rather than curbing my impatience, it will only fuel non-believers to think even more poorly of the Christian nation. ANYWAY... Christmas traffic is the reason I might possibly go to hell. I try so hard to be a very compassionate person, during Christmas especially. But behind the wheel, during the Christmas season, icy black tar begins to flow through my veins and horns birth from my skull because it's like all the Christmas cookie crack and lard filled treats have gone straight to the logical, decision making areas of some people's brains and turned it into mushy, melted, abominable snowman crap. It's complete anarchy out there, folks. Suddenly, one-way street signs no longer matter, much like the gentleman attempting to escape mall traffic in his big, honkin' crimson Infinity mini-bus coming at me at full throttle this afternoon in the wrong lane. Or like the blue Honda pilot that feels the need to drive forty-five through a parking lot full of pedestrians. But even more aggravating- the Christmas traveler who is completely lost in the space-time continuum. You're stuck behind a mini-van only going 24 in a 50 mph zone with your surrounding lanes swamped with cars, warping time only to figure out she's mesmerized by the Christmas lights on the adjacent Blockbuster and Chevy dealership. You try to go around her and she blindly cuts you off and crosses three lanes of traffic in a span of five-feet so she can stop and get some Christmas toffee at the Bohemian Love Bakery, never mind the eighty people who had to slam on their brakes to allow her safe passage. At that point, I begin having an out of body experience where my face contorts to look like mouth of squid, my wings come out and I begin screeching obscenities at a pitch only dogs can hear. I have no idea what my car is doing at this moment in time as my skyrocketing blood pressure as baked my eyeballs into little glowing smoke bombs. I simple cannot handle it.
But I digress..... amidst all the parties, shopping, planning, packing, baking, eating and worrying about the various costs of it all, most of all, I find myself missing Christmas. I miss spending time with my family because I nodded off in exhaustion once I actually go to sit down and talk with them. I miss being able to actually enjoy the gift giving without worrying if it will be enough. I miss getting to watch the clay-mation movies, or really just having to time option to do so. I miss looking forward to going to my grandparents house, now that there is no house to go to. I miss my real tree.
My homesickness for Christmas is a simple reminder to me at how "life" can ruin our lives. So often as an adult, I find myself at the all-to-familiar crossroads of choosing to live simply or running through my life as everyone else says I should. Too habitually I choose the latter, trying to keep everyone happy, or to keep up with some ridiculous standard. Many times I do it to uphold some image that I can do it all. No matter the reason, I always end up paying for it. Like losing my childlike spirit of Christmas. Can I get that back? Some people say I will when I have my own kids. While sitting in my cold car, in a long line of traffic, I wonder if I ever will.
I grew up in a middle class family where our Christmas was a picture you could put on a greeting card and sell in gift packs of ten at Hallmark, covered in glitter, of course. Magically, one day, I would come home from school to find little plastic Santas and votive candles sporadically placed throughout the house that would be a glowing haven for the next month or so. The scent of sugary cookies and pine wafted in the air. In my backpack was a letter with all my hopes and dreams written on that extra-wide ruled manila paper. The cookies on a plate by the fire. The sounds of Nat King Cole crooning from the LP on the console. And the Christmas tree, oh the glorious Christmas tree..... back in the day when people still bought actual Christmas trees. They shed like hell and had sap all over them but by gosh, it was REAL. I was so fascinated with the tree, I once knocked it over while my parents were at the company Christmas party. Oh, but it had all the ornaments I had ever made displayed with pride on the front. In addition to my Yuletide master pieces, each year, we got to pick a new ornament- a total highlight of the Christmas season. Our tree was wrapped superbly in sparkling gold tinsel concluded with a grand, blinking star on top. But best of all- the lights. There were millions of multi-colored, blinking lights all over the place, but my favorite of favorites were the old school bubble lights. They had a medicine dropper on the end of them, full of colored liquid that bubbled once the lights got crispy hot. Looking back as an adult, my parents had to be strictly out of their mind to place cheap, Chinese boiling hot Christmas lights on a dry conifer, knowing that at any second, our house could become an erupting inferno of plastic Santas, all for the sake of child-like wonder. And I thank them wholeheartedly for it.
So the question is, where did I misplace that greeting card? I have recollections of it all the way up until a few years ago and then it just-poof- disappeared. Now Christmas makes me feel like on old-wintry hag who steals children, burns them in her oven and turns their ashes into Christmas cookies to feed to the neighbors. I hate to say it, but I hate Christmas. OK. That was harsh- I really don't hate Christmas, I'm just resentful for being an adult at Christmas time. It all started the Christmas that Santa's thank you note for the cookies contained handwriting that looked oddly akin to my father's.....
There isn't any wonder in Christmas anymore when you're standing in Wal-Mart at 12:30 at night, stumbling because you're fairly certain you lost your feet on aisle 18 and are now walking on the stubs of your tibias. You've been shopping for hours buying cheese-filled cocktail weenies, cookies, booze, more cheese, cartons of microwaveable mashed-potatoes, dinner-plates, a wintry vest for a homeless kid, pantyhose, fake tanner, monkey bread and aspirin for the ninety-five parties you have to attend in the next five days or heaven help-us, someones gonna get their flippin' feelings hurt that you didn't come to THEIR party and contribute. You load up your car after dragging your wares to the horizon of the parking lot just to have Suburban Super Mom stalk you for your spot.
Now I must interject- it's at this point for me when the alternate universe jumps in and I'm fairly certain an exorcism by a devout priest would be most helpful. I have never been a patient driver. In fact, I am a hateful driver. Jesus has a filing cabinet that is dated back from November 28th, 1996 when I began driving that is jam packed with copious sums of spiritual citations due to my driving deviance's. I have never hidden this fact from anyone. It is the sole reason I refuse to put my church's sticker on my car. Rather than curbing my impatience, it will only fuel non-believers to think even more poorly of the Christian nation. ANYWAY... Christmas traffic is the reason I might possibly go to hell. I try so hard to be a very compassionate person, during Christmas especially. But behind the wheel, during the Christmas season, icy black tar begins to flow through my veins and horns birth from my skull because it's like all the Christmas cookie crack and lard filled treats have gone straight to the logical, decision making areas of some people's brains and turned it into mushy, melted, abominable snowman crap. It's complete anarchy out there, folks. Suddenly, one-way street signs no longer matter, much like the gentleman attempting to escape mall traffic in his big, honkin' crimson Infinity mini-bus coming at me at full throttle this afternoon in the wrong lane. Or like the blue Honda pilot that feels the need to drive forty-five through a parking lot full of pedestrians. But even more aggravating- the Christmas traveler who is completely lost in the space-time continuum. You're stuck behind a mini-van only going 24 in a 50 mph zone with your surrounding lanes swamped with cars, warping time only to figure out she's mesmerized by the Christmas lights on the adjacent Blockbuster and Chevy dealership. You try to go around her and she blindly cuts you off and crosses three lanes of traffic in a span of five-feet so she can stop and get some Christmas toffee at the Bohemian Love Bakery, never mind the eighty people who had to slam on their brakes to allow her safe passage. At that point, I begin having an out of body experience where my face contorts to look like mouth of squid, my wings come out and I begin screeching obscenities at a pitch only dogs can hear. I have no idea what my car is doing at this moment in time as my skyrocketing blood pressure as baked my eyeballs into little glowing smoke bombs. I simple cannot handle it.
But I digress..... amidst all the parties, shopping, planning, packing, baking, eating and worrying about the various costs of it all, most of all, I find myself missing Christmas. I miss spending time with my family because I nodded off in exhaustion once I actually go to sit down and talk with them. I miss being able to actually enjoy the gift giving without worrying if it will be enough. I miss getting to watch the clay-mation movies, or really just having to time option to do so. I miss looking forward to going to my grandparents house, now that there is no house to go to. I miss my real tree.
My homesickness for Christmas is a simple reminder to me at how "life" can ruin our lives. So often as an adult, I find myself at the all-to-familiar crossroads of choosing to live simply or running through my life as everyone else says I should. Too habitually I choose the latter, trying to keep everyone happy, or to keep up with some ridiculous standard. Many times I do it to uphold some image that I can do it all. No matter the reason, I always end up paying for it. Like losing my childlike spirit of Christmas. Can I get that back? Some people say I will when I have my own kids. While sitting in my cold car, in a long line of traffic, I wonder if I ever will.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
I Know What I Know.
There are a lot of things I don't know but a few, valuable things I do. Here's a list in case of emergency:
1. If you say the word wedding, it automatically goes up by $100.
2. Eating both fiber one pop tarts in the pack= bad afternoon.
3. Ninth graders are allergic to following directions.
4. Gas pump hoses have a pop-off safety release in the case that you drive off with one still in your tank.
5. Bed Bath and Beyond means "As Seen On TV" in Hindu. It means "You'll Never Find it in All These Piles of Crap" in French. The French always have to make it complicated.
6. Potatoes can fly if put in boiling water.
7. If you are behind a Durango, a Jimmy, or heaven forbid, the dreaded Blazer, you will be late.
8. If you are on a highly anticipated date, you will have to fart.
9. During furniture assembly, there will always be one piece that is broken.
10. Wherever you find yourself, know where the plunger is.
11. The amount of Law and Order watched has a direct correlation to exactly how far your imagination will run away you.
12. Your bra will unhook itself only in the company of others.
13. Hot pink paper on birch wood table + water = hot pink birch wood table.
14. Don't ever buy generic Velveeta.
15. Never run from the dog. Especially one with foam on its mouth.
16. If you put on a clean shirt, they'll throw up on you again.
17. When creating a media project for the masses, your chances of misspelling menial words infinitely goes up.
18. Macaroni and cheese with lemon juice. Dare ya.
19. Beef jerky and powdered donuts. Double dog dare ya.
20. There will always be the lady with two shopping carts and no knowledge of how to use the self- checkout.
1. If you say the word wedding, it automatically goes up by $100.
2. Eating both fiber one pop tarts in the pack= bad afternoon.
3. Ninth graders are allergic to following directions.
4. Gas pump hoses have a pop-off safety release in the case that you drive off with one still in your tank.
5. Bed Bath and Beyond means "As Seen On TV" in Hindu. It means "You'll Never Find it in All These Piles of Crap" in French. The French always have to make it complicated.
6. Potatoes can fly if put in boiling water.
7. If you are behind a Durango, a Jimmy, or heaven forbid, the dreaded Blazer, you will be late.
8. If you are on a highly anticipated date, you will have to fart.
9. During furniture assembly, there will always be one piece that is broken.
10. Wherever you find yourself, know where the plunger is.
11. The amount of Law and Order watched has a direct correlation to exactly how far your imagination will run away you.
12. Your bra will unhook itself only in the company of others.
13. Hot pink paper on birch wood table + water = hot pink birch wood table.
14. Don't ever buy generic Velveeta.
15. Never run from the dog. Especially one with foam on its mouth.
16. If you put on a clean shirt, they'll throw up on you again.
17. When creating a media project for the masses, your chances of misspelling menial words infinitely goes up.
18. Macaroni and cheese with lemon juice. Dare ya.
19. Beef jerky and powdered donuts. Double dog dare ya.
20. There will always be the lady with two shopping carts and no knowledge of how to use the self- checkout.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Homeownership smonership
The American dream: owning your own home. The American nightmare: owning your own home.
I currently am living in my first house. The one I truly own, all by my lonesome. I can paint it whatever color I want, walk around naked, bang on some pots and pans..... oh wait. I think that's my nine month old nephews mantra. But anyway.... I had lived in apartments for so long and had put up with all the mass living shenanigans that all I could dream of was the promised land of private home ownership. You know the shenanigans like the lawn mowing service that never hesitates to give you the good old early morning rise at 7 am on Saturday morning. Of course they can't come during the week to make sure you're up and at 'em for work. They want to make double sure you keep up that good 'ole circadian rhythm on the weekends. And then there is the past decade of tenant's mail that you receive from the day you lease until the day you leave. I got more of their mail than I did my own. I would get people's tax return information, just to sit and wonder how the heck their employer doesn't know their correct address and how bad I would get in trouble for opening it. And rest assured your mail will go there too, long past your death certificate is issued. My adoption agency was sending letters to my former rental residence (that I pleasantly called Smurf Village due to its fashionable cornflower blue exterior) to inform me that a birth sibling was trying to get in contact with me. Hope they didn't need any bone marrow- they couldn't find my real address for months even though I hadn't lived there in six years. And of course- your overhead neighbors having sex. Nothing that a good beating to the ceiling with a mop handle couldn't fix.
All those things that seemed so awful, you dreamed of leaving behind you forever. Sucker.
I now live in a condo next to a man who loves to watch air force movies on his surround sound speakers. At 8 am. I still get people's mail, including current credit card bills, which I open because I know now, for certain, no one is coming for them. And screw the lawn mowers. I have to mow my own lawn, which I hate more than hell itself. I'd rather eat my own barf then to weed eat. Since I have been a homeowner, I have: killed 2 snakes, one which entered my home, smelled dead mice in the walls, been infested with brown reclouse, had my dog have an anxiety attack and chew two foot holes in the carpet in every room of the house. My fence has blown away, my outdoor water faucet torn off while honking like a Canadian goose in heat. I've had my window shattered by a hot grill and goatheads in my grass. A tarantula was found under my pillow. My air conditioner drips condensation like an incontinent old woman. My garage door opener requires a person with polydactyly and psychic powers to get it to operate. The water tubes under the kitchen sink spewed for hours before I came home from church one day. I came home to an episode of Swamp People after my yard spewed water for an entire weekend from a broken water main. I have had a rat in my garage. My dog door was chewed off by the dog. The bathroom door was chewed through by another dog. My house had 1985 blue trim and a fake butcher block kitchen. My washing machine vibrated its drain tube out of the wall on an oversized load. My washer is upstairs. I now have a new downstairs, and upstairs, sub floors, carpet and tile. I have weed-eated frogs during a reenactment of the plagues of the Old Testament in 2008. I have endured a weed eater to the ankle while attempting to coif my grass. I have moles in my yard that are talented enough to make my lawn look like a scaled-down model of the World War II trenches in Germany.
Let me tell you my friend, I thought this was just my world. It is not. Every house gets its share of crazy, which is not what I bargained for. And when you own it, you get to fix it. And the longer you wait, hoping and dreaming that a landlord will pop up at your door to take care of it, the more you become the white trash, redneck hillbilly on the street. The days of apartment living now look like the land flowing with wine and cheese. So is there any reward to home ownership? Sure! Raise your glasses! Here's to being able to paint your hallway metallic orange! Here's to running around naked in your house! Here's to banging pots and pans at 8 AM to enact revenge upon your neighbors! And here's to the government paying you extra in deductions just to endure it all! Cheers!
I currently am living in my first house. The one I truly own, all by my lonesome. I can paint it whatever color I want, walk around naked, bang on some pots and pans..... oh wait. I think that's my nine month old nephews mantra. But anyway.... I had lived in apartments for so long and had put up with all the mass living shenanigans that all I could dream of was the promised land of private home ownership. You know the shenanigans like the lawn mowing service that never hesitates to give you the good old early morning rise at 7 am on Saturday morning. Of course they can't come during the week to make sure you're up and at 'em for work. They want to make double sure you keep up that good 'ole circadian rhythm on the weekends. And then there is the past decade of tenant's mail that you receive from the day you lease until the day you leave. I got more of their mail than I did my own. I would get people's tax return information, just to sit and wonder how the heck their employer doesn't know their correct address and how bad I would get in trouble for opening it. And rest assured your mail will go there too, long past your death certificate is issued. My adoption agency was sending letters to my former rental residence (that I pleasantly called Smurf Village due to its fashionable cornflower blue exterior) to inform me that a birth sibling was trying to get in contact with me. Hope they didn't need any bone marrow- they couldn't find my real address for months even though I hadn't lived there in six years. And of course- your overhead neighbors having sex. Nothing that a good beating to the ceiling with a mop handle couldn't fix.
All those things that seemed so awful, you dreamed of leaving behind you forever. Sucker.
I now live in a condo next to a man who loves to watch air force movies on his surround sound speakers. At 8 am. I still get people's mail, including current credit card bills, which I open because I know now, for certain, no one is coming for them. And screw the lawn mowers. I have to mow my own lawn, which I hate more than hell itself. I'd rather eat my own barf then to weed eat. Since I have been a homeowner, I have: killed 2 snakes, one which entered my home, smelled dead mice in the walls, been infested with brown reclouse, had my dog have an anxiety attack and chew two foot holes in the carpet in every room of the house. My fence has blown away, my outdoor water faucet torn off while honking like a Canadian goose in heat. I've had my window shattered by a hot grill and goatheads in my grass. A tarantula was found under my pillow. My air conditioner drips condensation like an incontinent old woman. My garage door opener requires a person with polydactyly and psychic powers to get it to operate. The water tubes under the kitchen sink spewed for hours before I came home from church one day. I came home to an episode of Swamp People after my yard spewed water for an entire weekend from a broken water main. I have had a rat in my garage. My dog door was chewed off by the dog. The bathroom door was chewed through by another dog. My house had 1985 blue trim and a fake butcher block kitchen. My washing machine vibrated its drain tube out of the wall on an oversized load. My washer is upstairs. I now have a new downstairs, and upstairs, sub floors, carpet and tile. I have weed-eated frogs during a reenactment of the plagues of the Old Testament in 2008. I have endured a weed eater to the ankle while attempting to coif my grass. I have moles in my yard that are talented enough to make my lawn look like a scaled-down model of the World War II trenches in Germany.
Let me tell you my friend, I thought this was just my world. It is not. Every house gets its share of crazy, which is not what I bargained for. And when you own it, you get to fix it. And the longer you wait, hoping and dreaming that a landlord will pop up at your door to take care of it, the more you become the white trash, redneck hillbilly on the street. The days of apartment living now look like the land flowing with wine and cheese. So is there any reward to home ownership? Sure! Raise your glasses! Here's to being able to paint your hallway metallic orange! Here's to running around naked in your house! Here's to banging pots and pans at 8 AM to enact revenge upon your neighbors! And here's to the government paying you extra in deductions just to endure it all! Cheers!
Sunday, August 29, 2010
G is for Good News
So being at church today was one of the most uplifting days I have had in a while. In my personal experiences with church during my lifetime, you usually walk away feeling guilty, hopeless and down right nasty. Not today. Not ever again.
I go to a church that is anti-religious. I had never heard of such a thing before but I don't think I can ever go back. Religion is such a man-made thing. All those people in church taking their mental attendance, sizing you up and down as you scoot your way down the pew. I never really understood all the stand-up, sit down, fight-fight-fight either. I am a Christian and never in anything have I ever read did Jesus or Moses or anyone recite the Nicene creed, sing any sort of ritualistic song or pull out their special polyester robes before they could be presentable to God. So why the heck do we do it? I wonder if God is sitting up there, impatiently nodding us through all those rituals so he can get around to the important part- getting close to us.
My pastor went stone-cold on religion today. It truly is a serious detractor to what God and Jesus really wants from us. I'm not much of a bible beater but I do think there are some great things you can take away from it. One of those such things is the book of Romans. If you think Christianity is all a bunch of "don't cuss, don't want anything, don't lust, don't drink (including caffeine) and sit around chanting and using strange "thou hallelujah" language, this is something for you to read. Here's my quick synopsis: We ALL sin. That sin makes us feel empty, lonely and downright nasty. God knows we sin and he knows we will continue to sin until the day he kills us off, because that's how it is. You can try to be as righteous and pious all you want; you're just wasting your time and more importantly, missing the point. Jesus wants us to have a relationship with Him so he can take care of that sin for you and make you right with God. The sin becomes His problem so you can be free and others can see that and get to know Him too. The End. That's the Good News. I've heard that phrase my entire life and never truly understood it until today. What great news! There's no way you will EVER live up to the laws God gave us. He gave us those laws so we would realize how much we need Jesus. So stop trying to be something you can't and get to know Him! He'll change you and that feeling of nastiness and worthlessness will disappear like vapor. No more worries about the attendance sheet, or if your Izod shirt measures up. No more feeling worthless and that He hates you because you got wasted or lied. He knows you'll probably do it again and wants to hang out with you anyway. Now that is some Good News!
I go to a church that is anti-religious. I had never heard of such a thing before but I don't think I can ever go back. Religion is such a man-made thing. All those people in church taking their mental attendance, sizing you up and down as you scoot your way down the pew. I never really understood all the stand-up, sit down, fight-fight-fight either. I am a Christian and never in anything have I ever read did Jesus or Moses or anyone recite the Nicene creed, sing any sort of ritualistic song or pull out their special polyester robes before they could be presentable to God. So why the heck do we do it? I wonder if God is sitting up there, impatiently nodding us through all those rituals so he can get around to the important part- getting close to us.
My pastor went stone-cold on religion today. It truly is a serious detractor to what God and Jesus really wants from us. I'm not much of a bible beater but I do think there are some great things you can take away from it. One of those such things is the book of Romans. If you think Christianity is all a bunch of "don't cuss, don't want anything, don't lust, don't drink (including caffeine) and sit around chanting and using strange "thou hallelujah" language, this is something for you to read. Here's my quick synopsis: We ALL sin. That sin makes us feel empty, lonely and downright nasty. God knows we sin and he knows we will continue to sin until the day he kills us off, because that's how it is. You can try to be as righteous and pious all you want; you're just wasting your time and more importantly, missing the point. Jesus wants us to have a relationship with Him so he can take care of that sin for you and make you right with God. The sin becomes His problem so you can be free and others can see that and get to know Him too. The End. That's the Good News. I've heard that phrase my entire life and never truly understood it until today. What great news! There's no way you will EVER live up to the laws God gave us. He gave us those laws so we would realize how much we need Jesus. So stop trying to be something you can't and get to know Him! He'll change you and that feeling of nastiness and worthlessness will disappear like vapor. No more worries about the attendance sheet, or if your Izod shirt measures up. No more feeling worthless and that He hates you because you got wasted or lied. He knows you'll probably do it again and wants to hang out with you anyway. Now that is some Good News!
Friday, July 2, 2010
Frustrating Freaking Drivers
If there isn't anything more aggravating in this world, it is oblivious drivers. And what's sad is that unlike breeding, someone actually gave them a license. I'm usually a pretty cool and collected person EXCEPT when it comes to travel. Its because I can't keep my finger in its holster that I've never put my church's sticker on my car.
You've been there. You're already five minutes late and you are stuck behind a man in a pickup going ten under the speed limit in the exit lane for the ramp to the freeway. Regardless that you are 0.6 inches from his bumper, he's just bouncing along with absolutely no one in front of him until you reach the next solar system. So you decide to be patient- he could be some one's grandpa. That is until his blinker flips on and he begins to exit the exit ramp because despite the nine signs pointing to the highway, the exit only sign, and the directions painted for sixty yards on the asphalt, he's still not sure he's on planet earth. That finger just itches, don't it?
Then you have the rambling housewife. She's my favorite because she's always driving a luxury SUV that will haul the German army yet she's got one lone kid in the backseat semi-watching Dora on the headrest. And I have a theory about all cars in general: the more expensive the car, the slower it goes, despite it's performance technology. But anyway...you can spot the rambling housewife from a mile away. That's because you will need a mile to get your car to decelerate enough to keep from hitting her. So you're on a rare break from work where you have to run a quick errand and you're traveling down the highway making good time, when you must slow down from 70 to 35, kinda like coming out of warp speed in Star Wars. The daycare on wheels that you can't see around is cruising at the speed of smell. The left lane is hustlin' like pimp in the Bronx and everyone behind you is swerving into the ocean current of the left lane leaving you wedged behind Mrs. Oblivious 2007. As you finally begin to cruise past, you glare into the daycare to get a glimpse of the problem. There she is: sporting her Ed Hardy ball cap, her hot-pink, Juicy Couture velour jumpsuit, and big, fake french-tipped fingernails crawling down the road TALKING ON THE PHONE. You can't shoot death rays from your eyes because you have no eyes. They have erupted into flames blazing out of your skull. You contemplate the finger, but there's a five year old in the backseat. Besides, house mom wouldn't see it. She's on her bedazzled phone.
It's one thing if you were texting and ignorant to what's going on around you because, duh, you're looking down. But when you're using the phone? You obviously don't need your eyes to talk, but for some people, even though their eyes are facing the road, you know they're not seeing a dang thing. Lately, I have found much delight in honking at texters because it scares the crap out of them. But my ultimate favorite is the person reading a book. Yes, reading and driving. I want to know who the author is and the title of the book that's worth crashing your two-ton death machine at 70 miles per hour. I've seen it.
Last but definitely not least, is the most aggravating offender of all: being stuck in the passenger seat. Have you noticed how awful it can be to ride with others? Some ride the brake or pulsate the accelerator so you feel like you're on a ship at sea. Or they refuse to take directions from anyone else in the car until you're hopelessly stuck downtown. And to the fear of even some creatures in hell, they can drive faster than you while pulling out their phones to check their scrabble game. Advice fore myself: It's just best to drive yourself, Panama.
You've been there. You're already five minutes late and you are stuck behind a man in a pickup going ten under the speed limit in the exit lane for the ramp to the freeway. Regardless that you are 0.6 inches from his bumper, he's just bouncing along with absolutely no one in front of him until you reach the next solar system. So you decide to be patient- he could be some one's grandpa. That is until his blinker flips on and he begins to exit the exit ramp because despite the nine signs pointing to the highway, the exit only sign, and the directions painted for sixty yards on the asphalt, he's still not sure he's on planet earth. That finger just itches, don't it?
Then you have the rambling housewife. She's my favorite because she's always driving a luxury SUV that will haul the German army yet she's got one lone kid in the backseat semi-watching Dora on the headrest. And I have a theory about all cars in general: the more expensive the car, the slower it goes, despite it's performance technology. But anyway...you can spot the rambling housewife from a mile away. That's because you will need a mile to get your car to decelerate enough to keep from hitting her. So you're on a rare break from work where you have to run a quick errand and you're traveling down the highway making good time, when you must slow down from 70 to 35, kinda like coming out of warp speed in Star Wars. The daycare on wheels that you can't see around is cruising at the speed of smell. The left lane is hustlin' like pimp in the Bronx and everyone behind you is swerving into the ocean current of the left lane leaving you wedged behind Mrs. Oblivious 2007. As you finally begin to cruise past, you glare into the daycare to get a glimpse of the problem. There she is: sporting her Ed Hardy ball cap, her hot-pink, Juicy Couture velour jumpsuit, and big, fake french-tipped fingernails crawling down the road TALKING ON THE PHONE. You can't shoot death rays from your eyes because you have no eyes. They have erupted into flames blazing out of your skull. You contemplate the finger, but there's a five year old in the backseat. Besides, house mom wouldn't see it. She's on her bedazzled phone.
It's one thing if you were texting and ignorant to what's going on around you because, duh, you're looking down. But when you're using the phone? You obviously don't need your eyes to talk, but for some people, even though their eyes are facing the road, you know they're not seeing a dang thing. Lately, I have found much delight in honking at texters because it scares the crap out of them. But my ultimate favorite is the person reading a book. Yes, reading and driving. I want to know who the author is and the title of the book that's worth crashing your two-ton death machine at 70 miles per hour. I've seen it.
Last but definitely not least, is the most aggravating offender of all: being stuck in the passenger seat. Have you noticed how awful it can be to ride with others? Some ride the brake or pulsate the accelerator so you feel like you're on a ship at sea. Or they refuse to take directions from anyone else in the car until you're hopelessly stuck downtown. And to the fear of even some creatures in hell, they can drive faster than you while pulling out their phones to check their scrabble game. Advice fore myself: It's just best to drive yourself, Panama.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
E is for Enough Already
Facebook and Twitter and all of these social media portals have opened up a new realm of possibilities for all sorts of things. You can meet old friends you had when you were six and lived in another state. You can converse with celebrities when in real life, you'd get fish hooked by a bodyguard for trying to look in their general direction. Heck, you can even become a pretend farmer on some dumb game app and then go tweet about how you saved your cow from a barbed wire fence. One thing that is has also done is open up a HUGE, WIDE box of tissues for every complainer and whiner in the universe. I don't do well with either one.
I don't like whiners and complainers for one simple reason: THEY ACCOMPLISH NOTHING. I'm a do-er kinda gal. I get high on efficiency. Complainer containers are the complete opposite of this mantra. The major complaint that is really irking me right now is the BP oil disaster. No one is arguing that this is completely awful. It's ruined an entire region ecologically, economically and socially. Complainers, however, sit around and flappin their lips about how evil the oil and gas corporations are and how its the fault of the rich BP CEO. But really, this could have happened to any of the oil corporations we employ. They use man-made equipment and human-designed processes to get oil out of the ground, so bottom line- it's destined to fail. Which means we have to come up with man-made ideas to resolve said catastrophes. This calamity occurred and guess what- it'll happen again. That's a fact. So do the complainers contribute ideas on how to fix it? Do they assist in the clean up or even give a dime to help environmental groups with the mess? Of course not. Then you've got the whiners who are the blamers. "Let's blame it on BP, no, the President. Wait- blame it on the former President. We've got that down pat. This is all an dubious plot for money makers to make more money." Where does the blame really lie? I believe it lies directly in the hands of you and me.
We, and especially the complainers and whiners, don't want to have to get up off the couch to turn on the DVD player, so we just leave it on standby. We don't want to plug the phone charger back in tonight before bed- that's a hassle. Leave it stuck in the wall, charging nothing all day. Who wants to wait sixty seconds for your computer to power up? Hibernate it, baby. I love the wind in my hair, so let's take a drive just for the hell of it, instead of using up those useless calories we drank last night and getting some exercise on our bikes. And heaven forbid you must wait five minutes for your house to be arctic freezing cold when you get home. Make sure you run that air conditioner ALL DAY LONG. We are the problem. Did you know that if any of your electronic devices has any sort of LED light on it, it can pull up to 70% of it's active load even though your not using it? Yeah, like that red light on your hair straightener after you turn it off. They have a ten dollar tester at your local Radio Shack if you don't believe me. In the U.S. we are fat and wasteful. That's why everyone hates us. We have no respect for what it takes to live. Why the crap are we drilling so much? Because we use so much. Correction- we waste so much. If we weren't so dang careless, we wouldn't be in this mess.
If you don't like what's happening int the Gulf, remedy your part in the blame. Program your thermostat, unplug your crap, use less stuff. It's as simple as that. For the complainers and whiners, check yourself. Make sure you understand how much drilling costs and how much life-threatening work goes into keeping your flapping face cheeks cooled off. Be aware of the countless hours and extraordinary intelligence it takes to get your car one block to the Quik Trip for yet another high-calorie coke in that petroleum-based cup in your hand. And before you continue nagging about how no one is doing anything, I dare you to even try to come up with an idea on how to fix it while good people like my friend Lisa work two shifts a day managing the relief well being built and actually doing an enormous amount to get this situation fixed. Make sure you pitch-in before you start your bitch-in.
I don't like whiners and complainers for one simple reason: THEY ACCOMPLISH NOTHING. I'm a do-er kinda gal. I get high on efficiency. Complainer containers are the complete opposite of this mantra. The major complaint that is really irking me right now is the BP oil disaster. No one is arguing that this is completely awful. It's ruined an entire region ecologically, economically and socially. Complainers, however, sit around and flappin their lips about how evil the oil and gas corporations are and how its the fault of the rich BP CEO. But really, this could have happened to any of the oil corporations we employ. They use man-made equipment and human-designed processes to get oil out of the ground, so bottom line- it's destined to fail. Which means we have to come up with man-made ideas to resolve said catastrophes. This calamity occurred and guess what- it'll happen again. That's a fact. So do the complainers contribute ideas on how to fix it? Do they assist in the clean up or even give a dime to help environmental groups with the mess? Of course not. Then you've got the whiners who are the blamers. "Let's blame it on BP, no, the President. Wait- blame it on the former President. We've got that down pat. This is all an dubious plot for money makers to make more money." Where does the blame really lie? I believe it lies directly in the hands of you and me.
We, and especially the complainers and whiners, don't want to have to get up off the couch to turn on the DVD player, so we just leave it on standby. We don't want to plug the phone charger back in tonight before bed- that's a hassle. Leave it stuck in the wall, charging nothing all day. Who wants to wait sixty seconds for your computer to power up? Hibernate it, baby. I love the wind in my hair, so let's take a drive just for the hell of it, instead of using up those useless calories we drank last night and getting some exercise on our bikes. And heaven forbid you must wait five minutes for your house to be arctic freezing cold when you get home. Make sure you run that air conditioner ALL DAY LONG. We are the problem. Did you know that if any of your electronic devices has any sort of LED light on it, it can pull up to 70% of it's active load even though your not using it? Yeah, like that red light on your hair straightener after you turn it off. They have a ten dollar tester at your local Radio Shack if you don't believe me. In the U.S. we are fat and wasteful. That's why everyone hates us. We have no respect for what it takes to live. Why the crap are we drilling so much? Because we use so much. Correction- we waste so much. If we weren't so dang careless, we wouldn't be in this mess.
If you don't like what's happening int the Gulf, remedy your part in the blame. Program your thermostat, unplug your crap, use less stuff. It's as simple as that. For the complainers and whiners, check yourself. Make sure you understand how much drilling costs and how much life-threatening work goes into keeping your flapping face cheeks cooled off. Be aware of the countless hours and extraordinary intelligence it takes to get your car one block to the Quik Trip for yet another high-calorie coke in that petroleum-based cup in your hand. And before you continue nagging about how no one is doing anything, I dare you to even try to come up with an idea on how to fix it while good people like my friend Lisa work two shifts a day managing the relief well being built and actually doing an enormous amount to get this situation fixed. Make sure you pitch-in before you start your bitch-in.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
D is for Debauchery
D is for Debauchery which generally comes about because of drinking, which also starts with the letter D. It isn't always necessarily the case, but most of the time, they are seen holding hands. Debaucherous drinking can be anything from drunk karaoke and home-grown poker nights to full on slathering someone in paint before taking them dancing or squirting each other with dish soap and running through sprinklers. Anyway, its usually perceived as fun, until the next morning at least.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not condoning it, but I'm not gonna lie and say I haven't participated. I just don't participate with the voracity or frequency that I used to. I remember for my twenty-first birthday, I took eleven shots of various types and combinations of hard liquor, had a bottle of champagne before I even left my house and finished off the night drinking a pitcher of beer. The next morning, I threw it all up, brushed my teeth and went to a football game. Looking back on that, I can assuredly convince myself that I am supernatural. I should have died that night, but instead, I was eating a hot dog by noon the next day. Now, if I drink a glass of red wine while cooking dinner, rest assured I'll be popping aspirin in the morning and trying to self-inflict a coat hanger lobotomy. Completely forget the hot dog. It would come right back up and double as fish bait.
In my younger days, I enjoyed getting pissed and going dancing regardless of the fact that I h
ad lost all control of my limbs. It gave me reasons to wear viking helmets, spout my innermost private thoughts, and fall down, all with a perfectly good excuse. To a sober outsider, I was what Jesus calls a fool and sadly, I must agree with Him. In my mid-twenties, after an entirely virgin Friday night, I woke up one blessed Saturday morning feeling wonderful, like birds and mice were going to sing and dress me. It was at that point, I knew I had grown up and I've pretty much rolled with that ever since. And since I'm old lady and get sick to my stomach after one beer, I choose my libations wisely. I prefer a high-calorie, over indulgent tipple that if imprudently consumed, will tear you apart at roughly 4:00AM. So here's my decadence:
Chocolate Martini
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not condoning it, but I'm not gonna lie and say I haven't participated. I just don't participate with the voracity or frequency that I used to. I remember for my twenty-first birthday, I took eleven shots of various types and combinations of hard liquor, had a bottle of champagne before I even left my house and finished off the night drinking a pitcher of beer. The next morning, I threw it all up, brushed my teeth and went to a football game. Looking back on that, I can assuredly convince myself that I am supernatural. I should have died that night, but instead, I was eating a hot dog by noon the next day. Now, if I drink a glass of red wine while cooking dinner, rest assured I'll be popping aspirin in the morning and trying to self-inflict a coat hanger lobotomy. Completely forget the hot dog. It would come right back up and double as fish bait.
In my younger days, I enjoyed getting pissed and going dancing regardless of the fact that I h
ad lost all control of my limbs. It gave me reasons to wear viking helmets, spout my innermost private thoughts, and fall down, all with a perfectly good excuse. To a sober outsider, I was what Jesus calls a fool and sadly, I must agree with Him. In my mid-twenties, after an entirely virgin Friday night, I woke up one blessed Saturday morning feeling wonderful, like birds and mice were going to sing and dress me. It was at that point, I knew I had grown up and I've pretty much rolled with that ever since. And since I'm old lady and get sick to my stomach after one beer, I choose my libations wisely. I prefer a high-calorie, over indulgent tipple that if imprudently consumed, will tear you apart at roughly 4:00AM. So here's my decadence:Chocolate Martini
- 1 shot Kahlua
- 1 shot Vodka
- 1/2 shot Bailey's Irish Creme
- 1 1/2 tablespoons Coffee Ice Cream
- Chocolate Syrup
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
C is for Cancer
Death has come for me.
He is perched at the edge of the forest with his horsemen.
I have heard their thunderous footsteps off in the distance, breaking the loamy, dew covered ground.
And now they sit before me, come to claim their bounty.
Yet their equine, they prance, dancing as if spooked.
Their riders, they hesitate.
In the gentle, shadowy forest looms an ardor of willpower, of might.
It rolls quietly from me like a fog, thick and dense, consuming all within its reach.
There in the forest I plan my battle.
Slinking not from shrub to arbor, hiding from my foe, I stand, facing him, in the sunlit clearing.
Though undoubtedly he will posses my body in the end, death wavers.
He waits.
He stumbles in his confidence as my rolling fog threatens to envelope the foot of his steed.
For before us lies a battle, one of depth and profound length.
Ahead of him in the clearing he spies his reward, his aspiration- steady and focused.
Valor radiates from within this small warrior, my mission unwavering, my preparation immaculate.
My exuding power undoubtedly conferred from my King.
He has assured me victory in the end.
Death, being aware, he quivers.
Sunlight glistening from my auburn locks, I taunt,
"Come and get me."
He is perched at the edge of the forest with his horsemen.
I have heard their thunderous footsteps off in the distance, breaking the loamy, dew covered ground.
And now they sit before me, come to claim their bounty.
Yet their equine, they prance, dancing as if spooked.
Their riders, they hesitate.
In the gentle, shadowy forest looms an ardor of willpower, of might.
It rolls quietly from me like a fog, thick and dense, consuming all within its reach.
There in the forest I plan my battle.
Slinking not from shrub to arbor, hiding from my foe, I stand, facing him, in the sunlit clearing.
Though undoubtedly he will posses my body in the end, death wavers.
He waits.
He stumbles in his confidence as my rolling fog threatens to envelope the foot of his steed.
For before us lies a battle, one of depth and profound length.
Ahead of him in the clearing he spies his reward, his aspiration- steady and focused.
Valor radiates from within this small warrior, my mission unwavering, my preparation immaculate.
My exuding power undoubtedly conferred from my King.
He has assured me victory in the end.
Death, being aware, he quivers.
Sunlight glistening from my auburn locks, I taunt,
"Come and get me."
B is for Brothers
If you are a female who grew up in a house of brothers, you have a glimpse into the reality of what its like to be kidnapped by psychopaths and tortured until your release. I had two of them and I was right in the middle. Not a day went by that there wasn't some sort of suffering either verbal or physical.
My younger brother mainly just annoyed me. I spent much time alleviating my frustrations from my older brother by taking them out on him. I once gave him a wedgie that ripped his underoos. I was shocked at how easily they split and how strong I was. He was not. But mostly we screamed and yelled at each other. My older brother was a much different story.
I had a cowlick. It was slapped daily. He had a bull whip. It was used daily (until confiscation). He had a science kit. My hair was blue. He found that if you touched the rim of the stove and the metal strip on the toaster, you could restart your heart. I got to test it. I threatened to tell mom about his girlfriend coming over while he babysat. I spent 4 hours locked in a toy chest. The first time I ever shaved my legs with a razor, I clipped an artery. Too bad for me, my bathroom was on the backside of the house across a great expanse of carpet upon which he was sprawled watching TV. With blood cascading across my foot, I shakily asked him to go get mom. He took a look at my foot then told me to go get her myself. He brought home a snake that was loose in the house for a month. He skipped Thanksgiving to play basketball. He lit the neighbors yard and a rivals tree house on fire with fireworks. He shot my toddler brother with a BB gun at point blank range. Never a dull day.
Now that I am older, my brothers are 180's from their former selves. My older brother gives me golf lessons and financial advice. My little brother and I can now speak and is my greatest protector. He's also the greatest source of motivation for my spiritual life. The trials and tribulations they bestowed upon me made me the woman I am today.
My younger brother mainly just annoyed me. I spent much time alleviating my frustrations from my older brother by taking them out on him. I once gave him a wedgie that ripped his underoos. I was shocked at how easily they split and how strong I was. He was not. But mostly we screamed and yelled at each other. My older brother was a much different story.
I had a cowlick. It was slapped daily. He had a bull whip. It was used daily (until confiscation). He had a science kit. My hair was blue. He found that if you touched the rim of the stove and the metal strip on the toaster, you could restart your heart. I got to test it. I threatened to tell mom about his girlfriend coming over while he babysat. I spent 4 hours locked in a toy chest. The first time I ever shaved my legs with a razor, I clipped an artery. Too bad for me, my bathroom was on the backside of the house across a great expanse of carpet upon which he was sprawled watching TV. With blood cascading across my foot, I shakily asked him to go get mom. He took a look at my foot then told me to go get her myself. He brought home a snake that was loose in the house for a month. He skipped Thanksgiving to play basketball. He lit the neighbors yard and a rivals tree house on fire with fireworks. He shot my toddler brother with a BB gun at point blank range. Never a dull day.
Now that I am older, my brothers are 180's from their former selves. My older brother gives me golf lessons and financial advice. My little brother and I can now speak and is my greatest protector. He's also the greatest source of motivation for my spiritual life. The trials and tribulations they bestowed upon me made me the woman I am today.
Monday, June 7, 2010
A is for Augmentation
Is it just me or is there just a ginormous growth of breast augmentation these days (no pun intended)? I remember when breast amplification was for the rich or deformed. Nowadays, I'm starting to feel like the rejected member of the babysitters club. Every where I look there is a great or not-so-great pair of jubblies bouncing down the sidewalk and I just wonder where the funds come from.
I myself have a pair of natural apples. No, crab apples. I'm a petite gal so they work well for me but every now and then, when the right dress or bathing suit comes a long, I wish I had more like..... grapefruits. So I make grapefruits. Yep, I am that girl. I'm broke so I have a pair of gel filled falsies that look much like chicken cutlets that help me fill my top and shallow bucket of physical self-esteem. I used to wear them under my cheer uniform back in my professional days and tried to bribe God not to let them fall out on the field in front of the audience of 5,000 in mid performance. I finally just sewed them in figuring God wasn't all that hot on bribes. They helped balance out the badonkadonk I trail behind me. So knowing the high one can get from having a great pair of milk wagons, I get why everyone wants them. I just don't understand what some women do with them.
I can only dream of the elation of having a near perfect/perfect rack. I would love to fill out sweaters, sweatshirts, heck, even a tank top with more than something that resembles tapioca filled sandwich bags. But I have a beautiful friend who had the simple desire to just feel more feminine emerge from her enlargement with the unquenchable desire to dress like a porn star. Is it the silicone that turns common fashion sense into justification for wearing your mono-k
ini to wal-mart for a toilet paper run? I'm not saying all hypermammiferous women do this because I have numerous friends who sport their new moon pies in good taste. But it just seems that more and more some women just lose their frontal lobe and start dressing like their selling donut advertisements rather than going to the PTA meeting. Those are usually the ones with titastrophes, anyway making it doubly worse.
So to all you beauties sporting your newly purchased knockers sensibly, I salute you. I am jealous. I would love to be Boobs McGee without my matching barbie doll water beds shoved in my bra. But alas, I am a "don't fix it if it ain't broke" kinda girl. I'll wait for my possible future offspring to wreck 'em first. I just hope I don't emerge looking or dressing like Pamela Anderson.
I myself have a pair of natural apples. No, crab apples. I'm a petite gal so they work well for me but every now and then, when the right dress or bathing suit comes a long, I wish I had more like..... grapefruits. So I make grapefruits. Yep, I am that girl. I'm broke so I have a pair of gel filled falsies that look much like chicken cutlets that help me fill my top and shallow bucket of physical self-esteem. I used to wear them under my cheer uniform back in my professional days and tried to bribe God not to let them fall out on the field in front of the audience of 5,000 in mid performance. I finally just sewed them in figuring God wasn't all that hot on bribes. They helped balance out the badonkadonk I trail behind me. So knowing the high one can get from having a great pair of milk wagons, I get why everyone wants them. I just don't understand what some women do with them.
I can only dream of the elation of having a near perfect/perfect rack. I would love to fill out sweaters, sweatshirts, heck, even a tank top with more than something that resembles tapioca filled sandwich bags. But I have a beautiful friend who had the simple desire to just feel more feminine emerge from her enlargement with the unquenchable desire to dress like a porn star. Is it the silicone that turns common fashion sense into justification for wearing your mono-k
ini to wal-mart for a toilet paper run? I'm not saying all hypermammiferous women do this because I have numerous friends who sport their new moon pies in good taste. But it just seems that more and more some women just lose their frontal lobe and start dressing like their selling donut advertisements rather than going to the PTA meeting. Those are usually the ones with titastrophes, anyway making it doubly worse.So to all you beauties sporting your newly purchased knockers sensibly, I salute you. I am jealous. I would love to be Boobs McGee without my matching barbie doll water beds shoved in my bra. But alas, I am a "don't fix it if it ain't broke" kinda girl. I'll wait for my possible future offspring to wreck 'em first. I just hope I don't emerge looking or dressing like Pamela Anderson.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Why every single person over 30 has herpes.
Yes I know its been a while and no, I have not contracted and spent my time nursing any std outbreaks. I've just been crack head busy and today, after finding myself hopelessly unemployed and expressing my dilemma to a close friend, I sit and ponder why she would try to render my desperation with the ever so jovial, "Well you know you wouldn't have to worry about this if you could just get your boyfriend to propose" comment. What a kick in the nuts. Now I'm jobless and a circus freak. Thanks for the grant of fortitude.
Why is it that all married people think the cure for all the maladies of the single world is to douse it in "get married gasoline" and light it up, baby? Do you really think we are that stupid? Me having to smell someone else's waft of bowel movement coming from the hall bathroom will not lessen the dissatisfaction of my GED level income. Their persistent case of anti-folding disease of the three loads of laundry rumpled on the washer will not desist the desire to slit my wrists about gaining two pounds. And chances are, I will still have to mow the lawn after he calls me his princess. Momma didn't raise no fool. Paint all the pictures you want everyone to see about how marriage solves everything and I'll show you think stink face of a woman smelling turds and a burnt match.
The way to help any singles feel better about bumps in the roads of their lives is to not treat them as if they have some tropical disease from which all humanity runs. Get real. Tell them how you hate it when his lips flap back and forth when he snores or tell them about her stained underwear floating in the sink after an unprecedented crimson tsunami crashed upon her shores. Better yet- just talk about your EXACT SAME life problems, like mortgages. But for gosh sakes- we don't have rampant herpes, invisible friends, or as Bridgette Jones puts it- scales under our clothes. Please stop treating us as so. And stop treating it as if being single is easily "fixable" because you know we've always dreamed of being proposed to while holding him at gunpoint. I love the unsolicited advice- "What are you waiting for?", "The good ones'll all be taken", or my personal favorite, "You ain't gettin' any younger" as if my only self worth and purpose on this planet is to reproduce and stretch my vagina to unrecognizable proportions. My uncle is the worst about it. He once told me, at Christmas dinner nonetheless, that my standards were too high, when truth be told, I was scraping the bottom of the barrel. For my birthday, he stated that all of God's creatures were made male and female so that they could fall in love, get married and reproduce (I personally would like to see seahorse nuptials if that's the case). He followed that peculiar statement with the hope that one day, I too would be one of God's normal creatures. That, my friend, starts the spiral that alcoholism is made of.
Marriage will not "fix" singles for there is nothing to fix. My life's frustrations will still be there whether or not I "get my meat hooks in him and show him I'd be a good wife" (You'll notice that was a quote). Single status is not a disease, fixable with antibiotics or random setups with other single humans that aren't fit for jogging alone much less dating. And increased age does not constitute the last form of legal slavery. We're all getting older. So please be kind maybe even borderline sensitive to your local singles. They deserve love too.
Why is it that all married people think the cure for all the maladies of the single world is to douse it in "get married gasoline" and light it up, baby? Do you really think we are that stupid? Me having to smell someone else's waft of bowel movement coming from the hall bathroom will not lessen the dissatisfaction of my GED level income. Their persistent case of anti-folding disease of the three loads of laundry rumpled on the washer will not desist the desire to slit my wrists about gaining two pounds. And chances are, I will still have to mow the lawn after he calls me his princess. Momma didn't raise no fool. Paint all the pictures you want everyone to see about how marriage solves everything and I'll show you think stink face of a woman smelling turds and a burnt match.
The way to help any singles feel better about bumps in the roads of their lives is to not treat them as if they have some tropical disease from which all humanity runs. Get real. Tell them how you hate it when his lips flap back and forth when he snores or tell them about her stained underwear floating in the sink after an unprecedented crimson tsunami crashed upon her shores. Better yet- just talk about your EXACT SAME life problems, like mortgages. But for gosh sakes- we don't have rampant herpes, invisible friends, or as Bridgette Jones puts it- scales under our clothes. Please stop treating us as so. And stop treating it as if being single is easily "fixable" because you know we've always dreamed of being proposed to while holding him at gunpoint. I love the unsolicited advice- "What are you waiting for?", "The good ones'll all be taken", or my personal favorite, "You ain't gettin' any younger" as if my only self worth and purpose on this planet is to reproduce and stretch my vagina to unrecognizable proportions. My uncle is the worst about it. He once told me, at Christmas dinner nonetheless, that my standards were too high, when truth be told, I was scraping the bottom of the barrel. For my birthday, he stated that all of God's creatures were made male and female so that they could fall in love, get married and reproduce (I personally would like to see seahorse nuptials if that's the case). He followed that peculiar statement with the hope that one day, I too would be one of God's normal creatures. That, my friend, starts the spiral that alcoholism is made of.
Marriage will not "fix" singles for there is nothing to fix. My life's frustrations will still be there whether or not I "get my meat hooks in him and show him I'd be a good wife" (You'll notice that was a quote). Single status is not a disease, fixable with antibiotics or random setups with other single humans that aren't fit for jogging alone much less dating. And increased age does not constitute the last form of legal slavery. We're all getting older. So please be kind maybe even borderline sensitive to your local singles. They deserve love too.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
What Cyndi Lauper and Rob Thomas have in common.
So I’m sorry I haven’t been around lately. Life has been a backhoe and I am the dirt. My brain is currently in repair mode from said digging so I apologize in advance.
So my boyfriend and I were having an in-depth discussion about Rob Thomas’s song Someday and the debate was “what does he really mean about the lyrics ‘Someday, maybe, we can live our lives out loud?” I thought about it and I deduced that it was about Human Biology.
Biology is the study of life so it goes without saying that Human Biology is about the study of life in humans. But it’s the proverbial life that I am talking about. So this is my version of Human Biology. Open up your textbooks to page 298, please.
Our lives are so inhibited, so covered up, so pre-fabricated. We want so badly for others to see us as special, unique, or at least par with everyone else that it can literally suck the life out of you as you try to paint some façade you think will amaze others. Tiredly and usually lonely, we stop and think, “What would really impress them? What would make them gush to random strangers about me?” Bottom line is, what would you gush to random strangers about yourself? Who are you? Why sit around thinking about these things and conjuring up this lackluster forgery of yourself when there is an arsenal of whacked-up crap inside you that’s sure to make you conversation worthy?
I like Chapstick. No, I love Chapstick. When I cook bacon, I love fishing out the little pieces floating around in the grease that’s left behind. They are almost as good as the bacon itself. I try to sing with Sammy Hagar daily but his voice is too high for me to match and I ponder that every time. I really want to learn how to play the guitar so I can play Panama at a recital and impress my brother, but I haven’t been able to find the time so I play a lot of air guitar in my car, generally at stop lights. When the mood strikes me, I slide around my boyfriend’s hard wood floors because he’s got lots of open space and that is fun to me. I wear old, worn out underwear to bed because they are hands-down the most comfortable of undergarments. I absolutely must take a shower after going number two because I just feel disgusting which means I never crap in public. So if you walk into a rest room and it smells like death, I can guarantee it wasn’t me. I prefer fresh air to air conditioned at any time or temperature so therefore I drive with the windows down and the heater on full blast if I must. I am going back to school to be a PA. Not sure if I’m smart enough but we’ll find out. When I started that project, it was to prove to everyone around me that I was smart and successful and could do anything I wanted. I gave that up because no one but me really gave a crap. I’m doing it now because I am beyond excited to share my love for science and knowledge with other people so they can help themselves.
Some of those things are pretty odd and I ought to feel embarrassed and intimidated to share them with anyone and everyone, but I’m not. That’s who I am and there’s enormous freedom in not hiding that. It takes way too much effort to constantly hold up that revolting mural we’ve painted for everyone else when a unique and exclusive assortment of Human Biology lies behind it. Put down the fresco and as Rob Thomas says, live your life out loud.
So my boyfriend and I were having an in-depth discussion about Rob Thomas’s song Someday and the debate was “what does he really mean about the lyrics ‘Someday, maybe, we can live our lives out loud?” I thought about it and I deduced that it was about Human Biology.
Biology is the study of life so it goes without saying that Human Biology is about the study of life in humans. But it’s the proverbial life that I am talking about. So this is my version of Human Biology. Open up your textbooks to page 298, please.
Our lives are so inhibited, so covered up, so pre-fabricated. We want so badly for others to see us as special, unique, or at least par with everyone else that it can literally suck the life out of you as you try to paint some façade you think will amaze others. Tiredly and usually lonely, we stop and think, “What would really impress them? What would make them gush to random strangers about me?” Bottom line is, what would you gush to random strangers about yourself? Who are you? Why sit around thinking about these things and conjuring up this lackluster forgery of yourself when there is an arsenal of whacked-up crap inside you that’s sure to make you conversation worthy?
I like Chapstick. No, I love Chapstick. When I cook bacon, I love fishing out the little pieces floating around in the grease that’s left behind. They are almost as good as the bacon itself. I try to sing with Sammy Hagar daily but his voice is too high for me to match and I ponder that every time. I really want to learn how to play the guitar so I can play Panama at a recital and impress my brother, but I haven’t been able to find the time so I play a lot of air guitar in my car, generally at stop lights. When the mood strikes me, I slide around my boyfriend’s hard wood floors because he’s got lots of open space and that is fun to me. I wear old, worn out underwear to bed because they are hands-down the most comfortable of undergarments. I absolutely must take a shower after going number two because I just feel disgusting which means I never crap in public. So if you walk into a rest room and it smells like death, I can guarantee it wasn’t me. I prefer fresh air to air conditioned at any time or temperature so therefore I drive with the windows down and the heater on full blast if I must. I am going back to school to be a PA. Not sure if I’m smart enough but we’ll find out. When I started that project, it was to prove to everyone around me that I was smart and successful and could do anything I wanted. I gave that up because no one but me really gave a crap. I’m doing it now because I am beyond excited to share my love for science and knowledge with other people so they can help themselves.
Some of those things are pretty odd and I ought to feel embarrassed and intimidated to share them with anyone and everyone, but I’m not. That’s who I am and there’s enormous freedom in not hiding that. It takes way too much effort to constantly hold up that revolting mural we’ve painted for everyone else when a unique and exclusive assortment of Human Biology lies behind it. Put down the fresco and as Rob Thomas says, live your life out loud.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Contraction, Contraction, What's Your Function?
Since I've already voiced my opinion on having boobs, monthly blood hemorrhaging and occasional raging infections, I thought I'd remain ever so classy and fair to give my take on the excruciating and laborious toleration of uterine torture. Wouldn't want to leave any body parts out.
This topic was spawned because of my waking this morning at roughly 4:56, feeling as if I had just had my appendix taken out, or was maybe sporting a fresh, newly installed colostomy bag. Upon wiping the sleep from my eyes and clambering my way into consciousness, I realized I simply had cramps. For the next hour, I flopped around in my sheets like fish in the bottom of an old, mildewy canoe, squinching my eyes thinking that maybe if I pretend to be a boy, I could sleep a little while longer. No dice.
After getting ready at the speed of smell, I stepped into the frigid Oklahoma/February weather and felt my lower abdomen convulse and I gripped the siding of my house for support. It stopped me dead in my tracks much like Jeff from "Today's Special" when his hat fell off. Too bad a good ole "hocus pocus alimagocus" couldn't get my uterus seizure to desist and go skipping happily down the sidewalk to my car. So needless to say, my prostaglandins continued their poisonous drip while my subconscious drove my car to work. With tunnel vision, I sat in the drivers seat and went to my happy place, taking quick, short breaths as I was sure my my lower half had been severed off and was somewhere lounging in the back seat. I tried to contemplate what actual birthing contractions might be like. I envisioned my belly peeling open like a banana and spewing forth acid and piranhas. Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's what its gonna feel like.
I've always thought that having a male ob gyn would be weird because how could a man really know what cramps felt like? I could never quite verbally illustrate it justifiably until today. Gentlemen, you know that feeling you get in your gut after a hard night of cheap beer drinking or maybe your fourth meal entree of sum yung guy from the chinese takee-outee? That feeling like something's coming for you. Something really, really bad. It's that feeling right before the onslaught of the green apple splatters, that intense wave of anguish and torture where you are instantaneously paralyzed, on the threshold of passing out and the only thought running through your mind is whether or not you can possibly take your next breath without crapping yourself or crying. Yeah. That's what our baby maker does, encompassing our entire lower half, waist to knees, EVERY MONTH. So if she gets stroke-faced occasionally or if she collapses and writhes in agony like Sigourney Weaver in Alien, cut her some slack and don't get all weird. You now know just. how. bad. it. can. be.
This topic was spawned because of my waking this morning at roughly 4:56, feeling as if I had just had my appendix taken out, or was maybe sporting a fresh, newly installed colostomy bag. Upon wiping the sleep from my eyes and clambering my way into consciousness, I realized I simply had cramps. For the next hour, I flopped around in my sheets like fish in the bottom of an old, mildewy canoe, squinching my eyes thinking that maybe if I pretend to be a boy, I could sleep a little while longer. No dice.
After getting ready at the speed of smell, I stepped into the frigid Oklahoma/February weather and felt my lower abdomen convulse and I gripped the siding of my house for support. It stopped me dead in my tracks much like Jeff from "Today's Special" when his hat fell off. Too bad a good ole "hocus pocus alimagocus" couldn't get my uterus seizure to desist and go skipping happily down the sidewalk to my car. So needless to say, my prostaglandins continued their poisonous drip while my subconscious drove my car to work. With tunnel vision, I sat in the drivers seat and went to my happy place, taking quick, short breaths as I was sure my my lower half had been severed off and was somewhere lounging in the back seat. I tried to contemplate what actual birthing contractions might be like. I envisioned my belly peeling open like a banana and spewing forth acid and piranhas. Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's what its gonna feel like.
I've always thought that having a male ob gyn would be weird because how could a man really know what cramps felt like? I could never quite verbally illustrate it justifiably until today. Gentlemen, you know that feeling you get in your gut after a hard night of cheap beer drinking or maybe your fourth meal entree of sum yung guy from the chinese takee-outee? That feeling like something's coming for you. Something really, really bad. It's that feeling right before the onslaught of the green apple splatters, that intense wave of anguish and torture where you are instantaneously paralyzed, on the threshold of passing out and the only thought running through your mind is whether or not you can possibly take your next breath without crapping yourself or crying. Yeah. That's what our baby maker does, encompassing our entire lower half, waist to knees, EVERY MONTH. So if she gets stroke-faced occasionally or if she collapses and writhes in agony like Sigourney Weaver in Alien, cut her some slack and don't get all weird. You now know just. how. bad. it. can. be.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Planes, Trains and Sociopaths
Every time I step aboard a plane (which isn’t often on my meager salary) I am captivated by the mystery of what lies ahead. Like a five year old, I stare at the engine, the wings, the rickety tray in front of me and contemplate how this is all going to work. The wings always seem too short to send this fourteen thousand pound lump of steel, plastic and human flesh hurtling through the air. I spend a lot of time on each flight going over the aerodynamics of it all just to give myself some comfort and revel in the fact that I might be smart.
What is even more mystifying is the social aspect of each flight. Hundreds of strangers sharing the same air, all destined for the same location, even if just temporarily. The flight I am on now is no different. I’m sitting here in awe and overly aware of how rude people can be in an already uncomfortable situation. Why make it harder? We all want a nice easy trip. So we stopped in Dallas on the way to Houston when a toadstool of a woman waddled at the speed of smell down the narrow aisle. The 22 people loaded up like pack mules behind her were leaving. She was just switching to a better seat. Despite the fact that half the plane was backed up behind her, she decided she needed to use the bathroom. Like a ten pound bowling ball, she started rolling back through the line of people without so much as an "excuse me" as if she were the queen of some foreign country. From what I could tell, the only thing she was queen of was high calorie food. Was the mean of me? I’m sorry.
Then there was the elderly lady getting on the plane. The short Indian man sitting next to me had taken a trip to the lavatory when she tried to sit down in his seat. Politely I said, "Ma’am, I’m sorry but I think a gentleman was sitting there." She turned at me with her cold, glassy eyes and impatiently said, "Do you think or do you know?" Taken aback, I uttered, "Pardon?" She huffed and repeated herself, pacing her words in case I was retarded, "Do-you-think-or-do-you-know?" As I felt my fangs unsheathing for the first time in my life towards a senior citizen, I turned to her and bugged my eyes like my father used to when I was in trouble as a kid. In my best southern "I’m gonna kick-your-ass- politely" tone, I replied, "Oh, I know!" I wasn't certain about the Indian guys situation but I sure as heck knew I didn’t want to sit next to what could possibly be Omarosa’s bitter and odious step-mother during my vacation voyage. However, her absolute hatefulness did completely erase the discomfort of sitting next to the largest man on the plane on the first leg of my flight.
It goes without saying that when everybody wants to get to their destination and no one wants to be hassled or bothered, don’t go bothering everyone else like you’re the only one on the planet. Especially when you are in such an enclosed place and so many people can give you a collective beat-down. It’s just not smart or safe. On that thought, I look out the window and see glimmering snow and ice careening horizontally past my window, looking eerily like a roadway at night. It soothes my anger and I set my thoughts about small minded people behind me to dream of the warmer weather that awaits me and the radiant, pure smile of two-month old baby boy that awaits me at my gate. Ahhh….. How flying should be.
What is even more mystifying is the social aspect of each flight. Hundreds of strangers sharing the same air, all destined for the same location, even if just temporarily. The flight I am on now is no different. I’m sitting here in awe and overly aware of how rude people can be in an already uncomfortable situation. Why make it harder? We all want a nice easy trip. So we stopped in Dallas on the way to Houston when a toadstool of a woman waddled at the speed of smell down the narrow aisle. The 22 people loaded up like pack mules behind her were leaving. She was just switching to a better seat. Despite the fact that half the plane was backed up behind her, she decided she needed to use the bathroom. Like a ten pound bowling ball, she started rolling back through the line of people without so much as an "excuse me" as if she were the queen of some foreign country. From what I could tell, the only thing she was queen of was high calorie food. Was the mean of me? I’m sorry.
Then there was the elderly lady getting on the plane. The short Indian man sitting next to me had taken a trip to the lavatory when she tried to sit down in his seat. Politely I said, "Ma’am, I’m sorry but I think a gentleman was sitting there." She turned at me with her cold, glassy eyes and impatiently said, "Do you think or do you know?" Taken aback, I uttered, "Pardon?" She huffed and repeated herself, pacing her words in case I was retarded, "Do-you-think-or-do-you-know?" As I felt my fangs unsheathing for the first time in my life towards a senior citizen, I turned to her and bugged my eyes like my father used to when I was in trouble as a kid. In my best southern "I’m gonna kick-your-ass- politely" tone, I replied, "Oh, I know!" I wasn't certain about the Indian guys situation but I sure as heck knew I didn’t want to sit next to what could possibly be Omarosa’s bitter and odious step-mother during my vacation voyage. However, her absolute hatefulness did completely erase the discomfort of sitting next to the largest man on the plane on the first leg of my flight.
It goes without saying that when everybody wants to get to their destination and no one wants to be hassled or bothered, don’t go bothering everyone else like you’re the only one on the planet. Especially when you are in such an enclosed place and so many people can give you a collective beat-down. It’s just not smart or safe. On that thought, I look out the window and see glimmering snow and ice careening horizontally past my window, looking eerily like a roadway at night. It soothes my anger and I set my thoughts about small minded people behind me to dream of the warmer weather that awaits me and the radiant, pure smile of two-month old baby boy that awaits me at my gate. Ahhh….. How flying should be.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
I'm ashamed of what I did for a Klondike Bar.
It's that time of year again when we hang our heads in shame and realize that we can barely see our toes. I, myself, chose to gain five lb's over the Christmas season by overdoing the party list and consuming large amounts of cheese, wine, topped with chocolate, more cheese and more wine. I am by no means overweight, but I currently feel like a pig in a blanket when I get dressed in the morning.
I just love how it goes down every year. You go to the New Years Eve party and there's the size double-zero girl with perky, perfect C cup rack horsing down a bowl of ranch dip and a family sized bag of potato chips. Then there you are, starving next to the veggie tray, eating six whole baby carrots and dreaming of punching her in the face Fight Club style and you momentarily consider it as a rational idea until you remember that she's your friend. The next morning you hit the scale and immediately slit your wrists with your cuticle clippers because you gained a pound for each carrot and currently look four months pregnant. You plot out exactly how many hours you can reasonably go without eating before passing out or nibbling off a fingertip and fill your day planner with well-intentioned gym visits. At least, that's what I do.
I've finally gotten to the semi-levelheaded stage of getting up early to work out and have started eating healthier. I went to Wal-Mart to buy a workout DVD and was stopped for shoplifting because they thought I was walking out with a pair of basketballs shoved in my dress pants. Turns out it was just my ass. So now, Jillian Michaels is kicking those basketballs every morning as I gasp, wretch and wish to die. So far, my waistline hasn't changed much but it has successfully reduced my knockers into a pair of badminton shuttle-cocks that are very much reminiscent of my pre-adolescent years. But here's another thing about working o
ut and eating healthy that drives me crazy- you're hungry all the damned time. I swear, I used to eat a Sonic kiddie burger and I'd be good for lunch and dinner. Now I'm eating radicchio salads with lemon juice dressing and finding that it's only true purpose is to make me more ravenous. I'm so hungry I'm chewing on straws, pens, paper clips and other various office supplies like a little crazed donkey in a lettuce patch. It makes me so agitated, my school kiddos are fantasizing of the day I give up and go into full-on binge mode just so I'll stop gnashing my teeth and stomping around like a t-Rex. They fear getting their fingers too close to me. So bottom line, I'm miserable but wistfully awaiting that magical day that I start to see some noticeable change. The day when my jeans fit more like jeans rather than leggings. The time when my stomach will have finally shrunk enough that I can blissfully enjoy only eating one cube of cheese. The moment when my skinny thighs make my shuttle-cocks look like boobs again. So raise you Nalgene's full of water and Benefiber and toast to better days! Cheers!!
ut and eating healthy that drives me crazy- you're hungry all the damned time. I swear, I used to eat a Sonic kiddie burger and I'd be good for lunch and dinner. Now I'm eating radicchio salads with lemon juice dressing and finding that it's only true purpose is to make me more ravenous. I'm so hungry I'm chewing on straws, pens, paper clips and other various office supplies like a little crazed donkey in a lettuce patch. It makes me so agitated, my school kiddos are fantasizing of the day I give up and go into full-on binge mode just so I'll stop gnashing my teeth and stomping around like a t-Rex. They fear getting their fingers too close to me. So bottom line, I'm miserable but wistfully awaiting that magical day that I start to see some noticeable change. The day when my jeans fit more like jeans rather than leggings. The time when my stomach will have finally shrunk enough that I can blissfully enjoy only eating one cube of cheese. The moment when my skinny thighs make my shuttle-cocks look like boobs again. So raise you Nalgene's full of water and Benefiber and toast to better days! Cheers!!Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Top Ten Reasons its Great to Be Non-Married
10. There's a half gallon of milk, carpet cleaner, a satin pageant sash, Q-tips, the receipt from your most recent pap smear, a ceramic pig, your car title, some leftover cheese and a crusty knife, $116 cash, a hanging plant with one leaf, a wet glove and Armor All within five feet of each other on your kitchen counter and it doesn't matter. No one will see.
9. Your Christmas tree can stay up as long as you deem.
8. Your bathroom is your very own personal recording studio, much like P Diddy's. Also like P Diddy, there is no room for critics of your singing abilities and/or the amounts of hair products you own. American Idol has nothin' on this, beeyoch.
7. You bed is your domain. Your small kingdom, if you will. The comforter, blankets, pillows and sheets- all to your liking. Fart in them if you wish.
6. You can come home after work and not feel the need to be cute or impress anyone but yourself. I prefer my thin, green homemade Masters Champion t-shirt sans bra so I can walk around with National Geographic boobs, my navy, men's XL baseball sweatpants that I stole from a kid in high school, my brown loafers, and my black cardigan. I very much resemble the dad in A Christmas Story. And I love it. Hott.
5. Don't feel like cooking? That's nothing that saltines, some Taco Bell fire sauce packets and a few scoops of orange sherbet can't fix.
4. There is no need to worry that someone will walk in and discover the tang in the air courtesy of your post-work happy hour margaritas and enchilada platter from the El Rancho Viejo, never mind the toilet skids.
3. I can blog with out explaining why I am threatening my life by using my laptop in the bathtub.
2. You can sit all afternoon and read the Twilight saga for the third time and there's no one to scold or debase you for brazenly squandering your time/loitering in a fantasy world to circumvent the mediocrity of your own existence/seducing yourself into believing there are men that are actually THAT devoted with huge sums of money/looks AND can run fast.
1. I can do what I want.
9. Your Christmas tree can stay up as long as you deem.
8. Your bathroom is your very own personal recording studio, much like P Diddy's. Also like P Diddy, there is no room for critics of your singing abilities and/or the amounts of hair products you own. American Idol has nothin' on this, beeyoch.
7. You bed is your domain. Your small kingdom, if you will. The comforter, blankets, pillows and sheets- all to your liking. Fart in them if you wish.
6. You can come home after work and not feel the need to be cute or impress anyone but yourself. I prefer my thin, green homemade Masters Champion t-shirt sans bra so I can walk around with National Geographic boobs, my navy, men's XL baseball sweatpants that I stole from a kid in high school, my brown loafers, and my black cardigan. I very much resemble the dad in A Christmas Story. And I love it. Hott.
5. Don't feel like cooking? That's nothing that saltines, some Taco Bell fire sauce packets and a few scoops of orange sherbet can't fix.
4. There is no need to worry that someone will walk in and discover the tang in the air courtesy of your post-work happy hour margaritas and enchilada platter from the El Rancho Viejo, never mind the toilet skids.
3. I can blog with out explaining why I am threatening my life by using my laptop in the bathtub.
2. You can sit all afternoon and read the Twilight saga for the third time and there's no one to scold or debase you for brazenly squandering your time/loitering in a fantasy world to circumvent the mediocrity of your own existence/seducing yourself into believing there are men that are actually THAT devoted with huge sums of money/looks AND can run fast.
1. I can do what I want.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Ahhh America.... Land of the Enabled.
So part deux when it comes to health care (are you tired of it yet?.... yeah me too). Everyone is so up in arms about why EVERYONE doesn't have health care and why prices are so dang high just for a box of Kleenex at the hospital. We're all just trying to kill each other and harvest each other's organs, right? For those that are THAT short sighted and thinking that we should all be playing hopscotch and eating candy bars, let's skip into the land of reality for a short jaunt and answer that oh-so-big question.
You want a car? Buy it. You want a house? Buy it. You want more house or car than you can afford? Buy it anyway. If you want anything- a back waxer, a no-kink garden hose for your slip-n-slide with banana sprayer, Boeing 747, a Rainbow Brite jock strap, a cheap turkey baster or collagen to make your lips look like you been playing in the pool drain- you got it. Just go buy it! But yet you also want to stuff yourself like a cheap hot dog full of lips and buttholes, drink yourself until you pee in your closet, smoke until you cough up something that looks like escargot, sit your cottage cheese butt cheeks on the sofa, tan the resulting fat and try to undo it all with the Taco Bell Drive Thru Diet. Then, after making sure that you do everything possible short of running in front of a school bus to send yourself to an early grave, you want to gripe about the cost of putting humpty dumpty all back together again. Wouldn't it be great if everyone in the world could just be healthy? Of course, but its not reality because it costs money to clean up your hot ghetto mess.
Health care is expensive. Why? WE drive up the costs. We don't go get check-ups or physicals. We live promiscuously and eat over-abundantly, exercise nominally and then one day show up with our intestines rotting out of our anuses. As a whole we do not live any sort semblance of a healthy lifestyle. And yet, we blame our physicians and sue them when there's a post-surgery infection, thus driving up his costs that really get placed back to us. Really? If you'd just paid your $25 copay and gotten a checkup or maybe passed up on that Little Caesars Hot-N-Ready every Tuesday, your perforated colon would be normal and much less expensive and stinky.
My favorite thing in all of this is the media hype. I was watching this MSNBC "expose" on people that were suffering because of health care. One special couple- wife got fired and needed gall bladder surgery. Husband quit his job as a security guard after being confront with a gun, so total loss of benefits. Now they have $18,000 of debt, no jobs and were complaining about how unfair it all was. If a place needs a security guard, it means there are shenanigans going down. Like guns. But I wasn't there so I can't truly be judgemental. But what I can be condemnatory of is what was so great about this story. Their documentary was filmed in their living room from three leather sofas. They also got a shot of both people looking for jobs on the web in their office with two desktops, two printers, two scanners, two web cams and yep- two laptops as well. They both drove nice cars and she had acrylic nails and a huge head of overprocessed hair. And the best part- they were both overweight. Is that not the icon of America? If they sold even half of their "finer things" or heaven forbid- not have tacky, white tipped finger nails, their bills would be extinct. What, are you too good to flip a burger or waitress? For cryin' out loud, hit up the temp agency at least. Income is income, whether its millions or cents. And sheesh-stop shoving twinkies in your obese face and take a walk so you can avoid your next major health crisis.
As an incredible speaker, Bill Cordes, once said- YOGOWIPI. You Only Get Out What You Put In. You want health care? Get a job and buy it. You don't want to pay bills from your health care? Stop treating yourself like a garbage dump. Want to live a life of financial freedom? Act your wage. Health care is a benefit to those who earn it. Those who can't are already covered by Uncle Sam. Now THAT's health care reform.
You want a car? Buy it. You want a house? Buy it. You want more house or car than you can afford? Buy it anyway. If you want anything- a back waxer, a no-kink garden hose for your slip-n-slide with banana sprayer, Boeing 747, a Rainbow Brite jock strap, a cheap turkey baster or collagen to make your lips look like you been playing in the pool drain- you got it. Just go buy it! But yet you also want to stuff yourself like a cheap hot dog full of lips and buttholes, drink yourself until you pee in your closet, smoke until you cough up something that looks like escargot, sit your cottage cheese butt cheeks on the sofa, tan the resulting fat and try to undo it all with the Taco Bell Drive Thru Diet. Then, after making sure that you do everything possible short of running in front of a school bus to send yourself to an early grave, you want to gripe about the cost of putting humpty dumpty all back together again. Wouldn't it be great if everyone in the world could just be healthy? Of course, but its not reality because it costs money to clean up your hot ghetto mess.
Health care is expensive. Why? WE drive up the costs. We don't go get check-ups or physicals. We live promiscuously and eat over-abundantly, exercise nominally and then one day show up with our intestines rotting out of our anuses. As a whole we do not live any sort semblance of a healthy lifestyle. And yet, we blame our physicians and sue them when there's a post-surgery infection, thus driving up his costs that really get placed back to us. Really? If you'd just paid your $25 copay and gotten a checkup or maybe passed up on that Little Caesars Hot-N-Ready every Tuesday, your perforated colon would be normal and much less expensive and stinky.
My favorite thing in all of this is the media hype. I was watching this MSNBC "expose" on people that were suffering because of health care. One special couple- wife got fired and needed gall bladder surgery. Husband quit his job as a security guard after being confront with a gun, so total loss of benefits. Now they have $18,000 of debt, no jobs and were complaining about how unfair it all was. If a place needs a security guard, it means there are shenanigans going down. Like guns. But I wasn't there so I can't truly be judgemental. But what I can be condemnatory of is what was so great about this story. Their documentary was filmed in their living room from three leather sofas. They also got a shot of both people looking for jobs on the web in their office with two desktops, two printers, two scanners, two web cams and yep- two laptops as well. They both drove nice cars and she had acrylic nails and a huge head of overprocessed hair. And the best part- they were both overweight. Is that not the icon of America? If they sold even half of their "finer things" or heaven forbid- not have tacky, white tipped finger nails, their bills would be extinct. What, are you too good to flip a burger or waitress? For cryin' out loud, hit up the temp agency at least. Income is income, whether its millions or cents. And sheesh-stop shoving twinkies in your obese face and take a walk so you can avoid your next major health crisis.
As an incredible speaker, Bill Cordes, once said- YOGOWIPI. You Only Get Out What You Put In. You want health care? Get a job and buy it. You don't want to pay bills from your health care? Stop treating yourself like a garbage dump. Want to live a life of financial freedom? Act your wage. Health care is a benefit to those who earn it. Those who can't are already covered by Uncle Sam. Now THAT's health care reform.
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