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.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
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.
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