Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Drama on the LOVE BOAT

My mom and dad just returned from a two week Hawaiian Island cruise on a Norwegian cruise ship with my dad's brother, my aunt and four other people. FUN! RIGHT?

So I drive down to Norman last night to see them, eat a much needed home cooked meal, watch trip video footage and collect my booty (souvenirs!). To my surprise, my mom and dad are giving one another the silent treatment and I can feel their bad attitudes in the air like a thick and miserable little rain cloud permeating their house.

UGH. What's worse than making the trip to the parental unit's headquarters and finding them mid-fight? Not a whole lot.

Apparently, after almost 30 years of marriage, they have discovered the following:

A) My mother is a bossy, critical control freak with uptight tendencies (dad's discovery)
B) My dad is impatient, drinks a lot of beer and has a difficult time controlling both his mouth and the volume of his voice (mom's discovery)

Really? It took a cruise through paradise to discover those things? Did they just meet? I guess I wasn't successful with my disclaimers to both of them separately before they left, despite my efforts. They are so predictable.

And they aren't being dramatic about it or anything...Nooooo. I still can't help but laugh. While visiting with my dad in his "corner" of the silent-yet-pissed-off emotional sparring match, he vented to me about mom's nitpicking his every move and obsessing over things from sunscreen down to the socks he wore:

"Are you wearing sunscreen? Where's the sunscreen? Do we need to get more sunscreen? I don't think you put on enough, don't buy that, we have enough sunscreen on the ship. Why didn't you bring it? You're going to burn. I told you we should have brought it..."

*Yup. That's sounds about right. That's my mother. "Bruce, I want to introduce you to HIROKO...."

Mom recapped to me an incident where dad, my boisterous favorite uncle, Al, and his buddy Gary, were reprimanded on the ship deck one night after too many glasses of wine (Al and Gary) and Guiness beers (dad), for foul language and obnoxiously booming drunken conversation...throwing around "God Damn" this and "God damn" that, flavored with "F Bombs" and SHIT, HELL, etc...only to discover that they had been sitting at a table behind a group full of Catholic priests.

*Yup. That's my dad. "...and Hiroko, meet BRUCE."

I find that particular scenario to be hilarious, but my mom doesn't share our sense of humor.

What in the hell were Catholic priests doing sitting out on a ship deck, in the smoking area, after 1 a.m. with a bunch of Baby Booming men on vacation drinking?

Praying? Give me a break. Middle-aged people need to cut loose and go wild sometimes just as much as anyone else.

While watching an hour's worth of home movie footage (which, with my dad as camera man narrating things with the sarcasm and humor of the master cynical maestro he is, it was quite entertaining), I couldn't even tell they were bumping heads so much.

But when mom handed me an envelope of full of pictures that cruise ships bombard you with around every corner, at the end of every staircase, before, after and during dinner, at port, etc. (!!!!!!), I got my biggest kick of the night.

They only purchased three or four pictures, but the first one of the collection had my brother and I rolling:

You know couples always look so cheesy and almost scarily happy in those professional portrait pictures on cruise ships, right? My parents, in the first formal dinner picture, looked so obviously annoyed and pissed off at the world, with their forced, tight-lipped "smiles" in that moment that I could FEEL their bantering one another with their thoughts.

I know both of the expressions that were on their faces and they are quite frightening...they were wearing the "Stay the FUCK away from me faces" that all parents have when they've HAD IT.


I keep trying to tell them that in a week or two, when they have settled back into their home routines and have cooled off, they will look back at their bickering and laugh. They don't seem to think so, but their stubbornness only makes it funnier to me.

I suggested they frame the picture and put it on their mantle so that after they realize how much time they wasted being pissed off, they might remember the fun stuff they did.

They weren't amused.

It's amazing the kinds of things that you can learn from your parents without them even trying to teach you anything...

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Marital Bill of Rights

Oh, MSNBC. Sometimes I applaud you for your articles and sometimes I want to spank your bottom with a rice paddle for being so unoriginal and lazy (but I think you might like it too much).

I just read two separate "he said, she said" husband/wife "Bill of Rights" articles (links to them are at the bottom of this blog), and I must say, pretty disappointed. You got two writers to regurgitate the same old husband/wife stereotypes that have plagued American culture for far too long.

Shame on you. While it might appear at first to be clever and witty, those articles fail to do anything but pigeonhole the same old tired "PMS She-Devil naggy wife" and "lazy, slobby, piggish husband" song and dance that, in my opinion, are completely overgeneralizing and fail to give credit to married couples who don't fit into that niche. I feel sorry for the couples who do.

Even though some of the Amendments mentioned in the articles might be somewhat peppered with grains of truth here and there, I have to argue the following points to the following Amendments:

Husband's Bill of Rights:

AMENDMENT I:"We have the right to go out with our buddies at least once a month."
Let's be fair. All wives are not complete naggish shrews who keep their husbands on a short leash. Now, it shouldn't get ridiculous and out of control (A.K.A. husband spending too many nights a week gambling with buddies until 3, 4, 5 a.m.), but no husband or wife should have to ask permission to hang out with their friends nor should they have to put a limit on how often they can do it. Guy time, like girl time, is HEALTHY when utilized within reasonable means, but if your husband or wife is choosing to spend more time with friends than with you, you have a lot of other issues going on there that should probably be addressed. If the author of this article really has to take a stand and declare his freedom to do this and meekly request a meager once a month hang out session- as if he is LUCKY to see his buddies just one time in 30 days- he needs to find a new wife. Or maybe his wife needs to FIND A LIFE and some friends of her own.

AMENDMENT III: "We have the right to have a few things of ours in the house."
Again. The naggish shrew thing. Yes, husbands. It's your house too. Have some fucking balls and keep your important shit in your house if you want it there. If it's that important, fight for it...if your wife loves you, and you make that big of a stink about it, she will understand. If not, again. You need a new wife. I personally wouldn't mind having a framed ACDC poster in my living room, but that's me. A cow skull, not so much. But stuff like that, that doesn't get the "ok," need not be banished to a garage or basement. Try a neutral room, like the study. Wives can put all of the girlie shit that you won't "ok" in there with it to keep it company. DONE.

AMENDMENT V: "We have the right to teach our sons how to burp and fart."

Really? Is it really necessary to teach a human being how to fart and burp? Won't they just kind of naturally pick up on those bodily functions? Husbands and wives both fart and burp, and the thing that the kid needs to be taught is how to do both in a way that doesn't make him THAT kid at school- you know, the obnoxious stinky one. I can't imagine why any man would voluntarily and purposely make his son THAT guy, and I can't imagine any woman not understanding that a dad letting one fly occasionally to make his kids laugh IS FUNNY. This doesn't mean that a man needs to declare to the world, "I have the RIGHT to teach my son how to fart and burp," but more so, "Hey wife. It happens and it makes them laugh. Deal with it. You fart too and it's equally funny to all of us. Get over it."

"We have the right to watch the big game."

Yes. Yes you do. Some of us wives might not be huge sports fans, (~ahem~cough, cough~) but give us a little credit. If we have decided to marry you, most of us understand and accept the fact that we also married your love of sport, or music, or poker, or art or whatever the "other girl" is in your life. I call a man's passion outside of his woman the "other girl" in his life, since she is the bitch we must compete with for your attention from time to time. Just make sure that we remain number one. No self-respecting woman will play second fiddle to anything in her marriage, but she shouldn't expect her husband to give up the things that he loves just because he's married. Why would a wife want her man to discard the things about him that made her love him in the first place? I don't think that men are deep by nature and they sometimes need a reminder that they might be slipping in the attention department. Because they are busy watching the game. That doesn't mean that they don't care though.

AMENDMENT IX:"We have the right to the remote control when we are on the couch."
This one is funny. The man who wrote this obviously never had an older sister who had no problem going into full head to head combat over a remote control. No man has THE RIGHT to the remote control, and neither does any wife, or any PERSON for that matter. It's all about who wants it more and how much someone really really REALLY needs to watch something specific. Any man who declares his right to the remote the control is in desperate need of some discipline by his wife. I would imagine that most women are the ones who provide the evening meal. See how hubby likes it when he spends a few days fending for himself for dinner. He may have a kung fu grip on the remote, but an empty stomach does not a happy husband make.

Wife's Bill of Rights

AMENDMENT I: "We have the right to dislike your buddies."

Kind of. One or two particularly annoying husband buddies sometimes comes along with the territory and it's something we must accept. We don't have to like ALL of husband's friends, but let's not overgeneralize here. His friends are now your friends. Your friends are now his. Why live in a state of BITCH when they want to hang out with husband? Learn to share. Jesus. You like your husband, and SURPRISE! Other people do too! Would you rather be married to a loser with no friends that no one likes? What kind of uptight, stick up the ass, pretentious snotty wife does not want her husband's friends coming over to hang out and "drink beer and high five"? (seriously- did this writer really write that? SHE DID. See article. Fucking lame.). Perhaps the writer of this article is indeed an uptight, stick up the ass, pretentious snotty wife...or she is just a lazy writer and couldn't come up with something better. Regardless, wives don't want our husbands bitching and being an asshole when we bring our girlfriends around, so why would we do that to them? Buddy time makes husband happy, and happy husbands make wifey happy. The end.

AMENDMENT II: "We have the right to experience PMS in all of its glory."
?????? GLORY? I don't know what kind of period this chick has but there is nothing glorifying about menstruation. PERIOD (no pun in intended). What a cop out, to go the "period" route. Yes, women have periods. Yes, it's an on going cultural thing to make period jokes and make it an issue with men. Ha ha, tongue in cheek, typical bullshit.
Ha ha, tongue in cheek, typical bullshit. The entire world gets this already. I can't believe the writer wasted a perfectly good Amendment on an easy out like this. The PMS "experience" is something that goes completely unspoken and needs no declaration of freedom tagged onto it. It's nature. No woman should have to declare her right to experience it nor ever have to explain herself to anyone while she is experiencing it. I can't believe I have even wasted this much time discussing it. If a woman's husband ever has too big of a problem with any complaint or craving or mood swing or lack of motivation to anything but lay down, after committing himself to her, her period, and everything else that comes along with Aunt Flo (gross- I hate that term!) then that woman needs to school her husband on just how ugly period time can be if he can't shut his yap about it.

AMENDMENT VII: "We have the right to keep and bear tons of girlie bath products."
Newsflash, this just in- Not all women keep tons of girlie bath products in the bathroom. And not all wives piss away money on $15 bars of soap either (people DO this?). It may happen that girlie bath products accumulate, but I don't think we have a RIGHT to clutter the house full of shit we don't need. If a woman does have tons of stuff like that floating around the house serving no purpose in life, I wouldn't blame a man for getting annoyed with it. I would get annoyed with myself for having all of that crap. I DO get annoyed when too much of anything gets piled up serving no purpose in my house. My parents are pack rats, my mother in particular. My husband does it too and it drives me nuts. I don't want him collecting and keeping and bearing tons of junk in our house so I try not to do it either- this is when we get rid of things. Let it go...just let it go....

AMENDMENT IX: "We have the right to flirt."
Um, no we don't. Flirting is something that we leave at the alter, along with anything else that might voluntarily make another man believe for two seconds that they have a shot in hell of getting into our panties. Getting a "smokin' deal" on a purchase or not, not all of us prostitute our feminine qualities in order to get things in life. For the same reason we don't want our husbands flirting and giving a hot waitress the wrong idea for a free beer or bucket of wings or whatever, we do not have the right to flirt with strange men- strange men meaning ANYONE WHO IS NOT YOUR HUSBAND.

Those are just my opinions.


Wife's Bill of Rights.

Husband's Bill of Rights.

Monday, April 28, 2008


All I can hear...I ME MINE I ME MINE I ME MINE....

My blog subject title is actually a lyric from one of my dad and I's favorite Beatles' songs:

I guess that's just what's on my mind today- I mean, on I ME MINE MIND.

The Beatles really were geniuses- individually and combined. Sometimes when I hear their songs, especially a few in particular, I am moved to tears.

It takes a lot to do that to me. They are magic.

My dad and I went to see the BEATLEMANIA tribute band a year or two back. We wound up drinking so much that I think I forgot that I wasn't really at a Beatles' concert, and then when I realized that I would never get to see them, and that half of them are dead, I felt completely robbed and broken hearted.

I asked my dad if it was lame of me to love a band so much that it makes me cry, and he said, "If it is, then I'm lame too." We then shared a lovely father/daughter moment of fake Beatles' doing a pretty decent job of covering track 11 through "The End" of Abbey Road over cheap speedway beer.

My dad is an artist and a musician and a writer and a dreamer- one of those Baby Boomer dads who rocked the long hippie hair (until about 3 years ago) and taught himself to play the guitar, fronting garage bands as a teenager and aspiring to be a rock star from the age of 8 until now- at 52.

He never gave up that dream, even after getting sentenced to joining the military in lieu of jail time at 18 years old, and years of being chained to working a government job with the Post Office to support his family. To this day, when I go to my parents house, he is usually to be found in his studio, fiddling around with his instruments, eager to share with me his newest project: usually either a cover of a classic that he loves or an original piece he wrote about something that gets on his nerves or how much he hates the Post Office (those are always hilarious and sad at the same time, but I gotta love him for it) :)

He was in a band for his unit in the Air Force, which is how he met my mom- who saw him play one night while they were both stationed in England. Then, once we eventually moved to Norman in the early 80's, he used to play on Campus Corner and around the City with some buddies of his (he used to play at the Deli- isn't' that nuts?)

Since I was an itty bitty kid, he was always in his "man cave" (in the basement, formal livingroom, garage, etc. of the houses we lived in over the years) writing songs and smoking and drinking beer and "jamming" with his band buddies, or just pickin' on his guitar, solo-style...

You know how when you grow up, there is always a NICHE that your dad has, so that for every birthday and Christmas, as long as you get them something related to that central "theme," the gift should be a success?

For some dads it's OU or golf or other sport or sport team.

For my dad, it was the Beatles. Over the years, we've branched out to Zeppelin, the Stones, the Who, Sabbath, ACDC, Foghat, etc., but the Beatles is always a can't miss hit.

Dad used to play his guitar and sing to me, "Here Comes the Sun" when I was a little girl, and Dad and I danced to the Beatles' "All You Need is Love" at my wedding.

I am imagining that that is partially why my heart is so soft when it comes to the Fab Four...not just because everything they were/are (which I could rave on about forever, but will spare you), but because their music reminds me of just how COOL my pops is.

He's my rock star. He reminds me that, no matter how old you get, you can dream and dream and dream and never really grow old. He reminds me that, even though sometimes you have to conform in order to go through the required motions of life to maintain a lifestyle and necessity, you never have to conform who you are as a person. We love the Beatles, and everytime I am feeling blue, their music makes me happy. And a bit weepy, but in a fabulously joyful and awesome way.

Gotta cherish and savor those rare little things in life that actually move you to happy tears.

Friday, April 25, 2008


Taylor and I had a very interesting conversation with the in-laws (his mom and step-dad) over cheddar biscuits and fishy things at Red Lobster last night.

Without getting into too much detail, since I really can't summarize our discussion of the infinite universe and human existence, I'll just say I had a small side of epiphany with my Mahi Mahi for dinner.

It's interesting to think that, as important as we humans believe ourselves to be- and how we tend to get so wrapped up in our own existence that we make ourselves the center of the universe- WE ARE NOT IMPORTANT. At all. In the big picture, we are all just individual bundles of energy bouncing off of one another, existing in a plane of "time" and "space" that we create with our own perceptions.

We might not even technically exist, but rather everyone and everything around us only seems to exists because our perceptions tell us that it all does...therefore, we don't actually exist at all until we come into contact with others in some way, shape or form, forcing them to recognize us into existing in their realities, and theirs into ours.

Perhaps the meaning of life is that there is no real purpose or meaning or significant outcome to shoot for. We're all simply existing and surviving, and human beings have created different religions and ideas of "GOD" a higher being to make our existence seem more interesting and meaningful so that we feel as if life has purpose- when it might not really have any at all.

A favorite quote of mine says: "There is an ancient Chinese Proverb out there that says exactly what you need it to." - Chinese Proverb.

We create all of these meaningful aspects of our existence to keep ourselves entertained somehow- all of the soapboxes we choose to stand on, the beliefs and morals that we stick to (or try to stick to most of the time I guess- humans are hypocritical creatures by nature), the personas we take on to project the senses of our being out to others so that we are perceived a certain's all, at the core, just to entertain ourselves while we are here.

That's it. If we are all just energy, then it is possible to just BE without having to make some sort of "meaning of life" production out of our time on this planet. We humans are programmed to be so egotistical and narcissistic that we do whatever we can to convince ourselves that our existence is more important than it really is...even the ones who fight for all of these causes for the greater good...when it comes down to it, it all circles back around to the SELF in some way.

That being said, if we are all just sources of energy, attracting to ourselves the kind of energy that we send out into the infinite nothing, then life seems so much simpler and easy to control. It's not an old man with a beard holding a lightening bolt on a cloud in the sky controlling everything- we control everything in our existence by our own energy, and the world functioning around us is controlled by the combined energy of us all.

The energy we project from our mindsets can make things happen AND prevent things from happening...I think we all have magic genies in our minds that can grant our own wishes.

I think about all of the things I've ever truly wanted in my life- and I'm talking about things that I've wanted in my heart to the point of obsession- and I've gotten it all. I think of the things that I haven't gotten or haven't gotten as quickly as I've wanted it, or have yet to achieve or achieved and lost... and if I really think about my particular mindsets in those situations- those yearnings and desires mixed with subtle to extreme senses of doubt and fear and apprehension- I can see how I might have created my own negative outcomes.

The other stuff- the planning of the images of what I wanted in my mind for years- I lived into and made them tangible. I think this is because I wanted those things with such reckless abandon that I told myself that they were already mine to have, I just hadn't gotten my hands on them yet.

Knowing what you want and truly believing in who you want to be and living in the image of how you want your existence to exist- it's all about just channeling the right energy out into the nothingness to attract the right energy to back to you.

The two sayings, "Setting yourself up for failure" and "If you want it, here it is, come and get it" (thanks Beatles) can all be applied to energy, and to me, believing this makes life seem so much less complicated and stressful.

And now I've suddenly come down with a brain freeze-like headache from thinking so hard on an empty stomach.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

On My Upcoming 10-Year Reunion

After months of protesting the upcoming 10-year anniversary of my graduating high school, I am a bit thrown aback to find that I have yet to receive an invitation to any reunion in the first place.

Apparently invitations are circulating, 45-minutes South in my hometown, and Jenny got one in the mail. She shared with JC and I some of the details of the event, such as Family Picnic Day.


The reunion committee alone brings to me thoughts of contemplating slamming my hand in my car door. That seems less painful to me than having to mingle with those kinds of elitist high school jerk offs who embodied all of the retarded high school royalty stereotypes kids are forced to swallow through bad Hollywood cinema (think circa Molly Ringwald and "Pretty in Pink).

How can I boycott something that I am not even invited to? 10 years later and they never cease to irritate me. It's ironic really- and totally typical. But it makes for some fun writing- I must admit.

Perhaps as a senior, when I got suspended during my very last week of high school ever, I was actually expelled from the entire Norman Public School system completely.

Can they do that? If so, SWEET. That's the next best thing to staging a boycott.

I can't imagine why they wouldn't want me there. I mean, my girlfriends and I were outstanding examples of upstanding high school teen dream perfection. (bahahaaaaaa!)

*side note* JC and Jenny being the two remaining girls after 10 years of former "bfs" who dropped like flies over the years. Interesting how that works...time weeds out the, um, weeds???? :) Not just on my part...just to be fair, I'm sure I was also a weed to some of my formers as well.

Soooo. No invite. JC hasn't gotten one yet either. We like to laugh about it- wondering how the invite process works with stuff like that. Do people remember enough about us to figure we wouldn't come anyways? Or did too much bad behavior get us Ix-knayed by default?

Hmmm. Surely crafting a flavorful (I'm not saying tasteful) flier protesting against the Administration for trying to screw the Seniors out of our hard-earned right to raise hell on our final day couldn't possibly constitute a complete black ball situation now, could it?

Curiouser and curiouser...Perhaps it was the cartoon piggy illustrations of our top notch administrators and carefully articulated opinion concerning the matter at hand. I suppose they may not have appreciated the dozens of photocopies posted throughout North or the sidewalk chalk all over the parking lot.

Can't. Control. Pen...or any other tool used for channeling thoughts and opinions running wild in brain.

Seems much hasn't changed. I still wonder who it was who ratted me out. It had to have been a rat. I have a hard time believing that, without the help of some chicken shit informant, the Administration had a real lead to go by to get the hand writing analysis in the first place.

I am wondering also if there was even a hand writing analysis performed at all. Chances are some bitch that didn't like me probably got her rocks off by turning me in, and Principle what's-his-face had to pull some sort of "hard evidence" out of his ass to bust me to the extreme that he did.

Oh well. Sometimes you gotta take one for the team.

Nevertheless, I must express my gratitude to the chicken shit informant and Dr. Quinn, for providing me freebie final grades and a thoroughly enjoyed extended permanent vacation from that cleverly disguised prison! I thought of you fondly as I was floating drunk down the Illinois River with friends during those extra few days of freedom.

All of that authority-flexing on your end and I STILL got to walk at graduation. SUCKERS.


Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Dear Skinny Jeans

Dear Skinny Jeans,

I am forcing myself back into your life whether you like it or not. Even though I know that we are both not completely ready for one another yet, I have seen the error of my ways and I am giving you my word that I will do everything in my power to make you want to fit me into your life again.

I hope you forgive me for letting myself go and neglecting what it takes to make it work for us. Our relationship was like a lovely plant that I neglected because I got distracted by trivial things that aren't half as important as having you in my life- like holiday feasting by the metric ton and free for all dark beer consumption with no regards as to how that might have been affecting our relationship.

I put "us" on the back burner, and eventually traded you in for what was easy and more comfortable, rather than face the issues at hand. I got scared. The more clingy and needy you became, the more I wanted to distance myself from you and run away from our problems.

I am hoping that you will help guide and inspire me to be a more motivated person, because since we went our separate ways I just haven't felt like myself. After trying you on today and spending a few hours in you, I realized what all I threw away and what I've been missing. You bring out the best in me and I am the happiest when we are together!

I also realized that in order for us to re-establish our relationship it is going to take some time and effort on my part, but I am confident that I am now in a place to truly appreciate you.

I know it's kind of awkward and uncomfortable right now- OK- it's REALLY awkward and uncomfortable right now- but I don't blame you for resisting me.

Please don't give up on me, Skinny Jeans. I know we can make this work.



Tuesday, April 22, 2008


We ate at Bennigan's Irish Pub last night, and I must admit: Not a fan of the Bennigan's.

First of all, when a patron asks a waitress how a particular appetizer is, such as southwest eggrolls, why would the waitress stand there looking stupid and say, "Um, like, I couldn't tell you. I've never had them before. I have no idea."


LIE to me! Tell me that they are the best damn southwest eggrolls you've ever had!

Jesus Christ.

Second of all, what kind of Irish pub offers a fish and chips entree, but mysteriously runs out of vinegar? RUNS OUT OF VINEGAR!? In an entire restaurant, how can there not be any vinegar to be found?

After my much anticipated basket of fish and chips arrives, I am asked if I need anything else.

"I would love some vinegar, that would be great," I say.

Our waitress returns five minutes later empty-handed.

"We're, like, out of vinegar," she says.


"Really? You're out of vinegar?"


"Completely out of vinegar. None to be had in this entire restaurant."


I sit in silence looking at her, waiting for her to suggest a solution to this problem. She stands in silence looking bored.

So the waitress finally suggests balsamic vinegarette or ranch salad dressings for my fried fish.


Blasphemy. There is a very specific way to eat fish and chips, and it doesn't involve ranch or balsamic vinegarette salad dressing. You eat fish and chips with malt vinegar. That's like the law of the land.

Would a waitress trained in the know of steak eatery suggest to a patron that they try some ketchup on their fillet mignon? I think not.

I guess she never got the memo that vinegar is to fish and chips like ketchup is to french fries, or mustard is to hot dog, or spam is to fried rice (for those of you who don't know- oh yes. Spam makes fried rice out of this world. Haters.)

I am convinced that there was indeed vinegar back there somewhere but she was too lazy to go and find it. Because she was too busy going outside to talk to a friend who was smoking, or having a conversation with another waitress farting around in the back, or whatever else she had on her not-doing-shit-even-though-she-had-only-one-table agenda for the evening.

Refilling our drinks apparently wasn't on the agenda. It's always nice to have to walk your empty cup up to the bar for a refill, and passing by the window, you see your waitress outside chatting with a friend.

Taylor gets his Monte Cristo, and much to his dismay, it is more like a massive fried catastrophe with a hint of what used to be a ham sandwich in it somewhere.

The sandwich BURPED grease at him- seriously. It was a little grease hiccup, spewing a trickle of hazardous waste down the side, like a fat kid looking guilty with frosting slipping off of his chin after eating an entire cake to himself.

Taylor ate two or three bites and couldn't handle it. I swear he started to sweat grease. So he put it in a to-go box, wrote "GROSS" on it and left it sitting on the table with the generous tip we left the waitresses for her 5-Star services.

Monday, April 21, 2008


A long-time friend of mine told me to fuck off today. Actually, I say a "long-time" friend when I should actually give him more credit than that.

He was one of my very best friends. Or was he? I am wondering now if we were ever really best friends in the first place. I am beginning to realize that for all of these years, I might have just been an emotional toilet for him to dump all of his fucked up neurosis in. Friends' issues that were once something you cared about can fast turn into fucked up neurosis when they choose to verbally abuse you and take for granted your patient ear and understanding.

There is only so much that one person can take- and I am not some blow up clown punching bag that can be knocked down over and over again, always coming back with a shit-eating grin on my face, happy and ready to take more.

A real friend wouldn't go out of their way to be a complete dickwad to you in public. Real friends don't yell that they "FUCKING HATE YOU" in public because, BOO HOO, you couldn't make it to an event of theirs.

Friday night at a birthday dinner, in front of a table of 20 or so people, which included someone's father and grandmother, this old friend of mine suddenly threw one of those alcohol-induced temper tantrums that you would expect to see on shows like "Intervention."

Where you can't decide if you are more embarrassed for that person because they are making themselves look like a complete and utter drunken asshole in public, or if you are more embarrassed for yourself to have been the one who brought that complete and utter drunken asshole to the party.

He wants me to fuck off because he is too big of a self-absorbed titty baby to understand, or even FATHOM, that- SURPRISE! The world does not revolve around him and he is not the center of the universe!

Two tears in a bucket. FUCK IT.

Friday, April 18, 2008

Yakkity Yak Yak YAK

Today has been the Friday of the Blabbermouths.

I have spent the majority of my work day being forced to endure the flapping jaws of people whom I am convinced were put on this planet to talk my friggin' ear off about shit that has absolutely nothing to do with anything.

Why is it that some women only want to blab to you about their children when they decide that they actually have something to say to you, burning up valuable minutes of your life that you could be using to discuss things that actually matter in the world?

Do they do this with men too, or is it just with other women? Apparently since I was born with the same baby making machinery as these women, I am supposed to give a shit about everything that little Johnny or Jane does to make their mommies beam. I think that they forget that women without children will not fully appreciate the YAK YAK YAKKING of details concerning any real aspect of their children's existence.

Find another mother to go play stage hogging ping pong with, or call a friend who actually genuinely cares about what you have to say about your kid.

I must stress here that for friends, I have all the time in the world for rehashing childrens' stories- the key element of this statement is this: FRIENDS. Friends' children are interesting because not only do you know the children, but here there is usually a two-way conversation involved between friends.

For work acquaintances, I allow about 5 minutes of talk time to run your mouths about your kids, and after that, unless it's something of some sort of medical importance, my brain shuts off and I start to hate you a little more for every ten additional seconds that I have to hear your voice. In work acquaintance situations, the topic of children is always one person doing all of the talking for far longer than what is acceptably allowed.

This is particularly true with women whose children are in high school. Most kids in high school are either shithead brats or overachieving goody two-shoes, neither of which are terribly interesting to a woman in her twenties with no children.

In my book, if the kid can chew and swallow steak, nothing that they do can be considered cute and/or interesting anymore.

The funny thing is, is that when these women are talking about their children, they seem to feel as if you are obligated to fain interest. The regular universal "Omigod you are so boring to me right now that I could slap you- SHUT THE FUCK UP" more-than-obvious body language won't work on these women.

I don't think they even notice that you aren't really listening. They know that it would be incredibly rude to interrupt and cut off someone who is sharing stories about their CHILD with you. And they take advantage of this unspoken social rule.

This is because, years ago, some jerk off somewhere instilled into American society that anything and everything child-related is special and important to society in a whole.

This is a LIE. Anything and everything child-related is only special and important to the parents and immediate family and friends in any individual child's life.

No one else gives a crap.

A 4-year old who just LOVES Ariel, the Little Mermaid, is not special for being excited to meet her at Disney World this summer. This aspect of that kid's life is not worth a 20 minute marathon mouth session by her mother while I have important Internet surfing to do on the clock.

I myself am a fan of Ariel the Little Mermaid and would also be excited to meet her at Disney World. Does my age make that any less special? I don't think so.

Both mine and the 4-year olds fan power for the Little Mermaid is not special and important in any way, to any person, besides our parents.

NOTE TO SELF: Someday, when I am a mother, I promise that I will never be that person who bores the pants off of my co-workers with pointless information about my offspring.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Take a Bite out of Crime

A detective came into my office today to inquire about a Japanese foreign exchange student he was working with on a case last fall. Before I got to hear the dish, my boss Charlie went into newsman mode and ushered him into his office.

Oh well. The two seconds of something interesting that raised its head for ten measly seconds at work today was better than nothing interesting at all. Which is where this day was headed.

Even the WORD detective is interesting. This guy wasn't so interesting when he first popped into our office. He looked pretty normal, like an I.T. guy poking around or an office peon from another department looking for one of our graphic designers to make him a poster for a weak math club fund raiser or something.

But, despite his shiny bald head (which should have given away that he was in some area of law enforcement, since Oklahoma law enforcers like to look like Skinhead Nazis) the instant the guy said, "I'm a detective..." and turned to the right, just so, to where his shiny badge flashed suddenly on his belt, he was interesting.

He was dressed in civilian clothing, and I was disappointed that he wasn't wearing one of those sweet tan trench coats and matching detective fedoras (hat). Where was his pipe and magnifying glass? What kind of Gumshoe wears a baby blue collared Polo shirt?

A detective badge and gun in holster just isn't as exciting when hanging off of a pair of Dockers next to a cell phone.

I think detectives should be required to dress in appropriate detective uniform at all times (unless undercover of course- the outfit could possibly give him away and blow his cover). We would all take them just that much more seriously.

Thoughts of McGruff the Crime Dog came to mind. I wonder whatever happened to him.

Surely he's retired by now.


Wednesday, April 16, 2008

The Funny Farm

Thinking about love relationships today.

Now that I am married and have been living with Taylor for 6+ years (whoa! my how time flies!), talking with my friends who are in newer relationships and/or are preparing for marriage makes me reflect on T and I's experience as a couple.

Not to say that we are the all-knowing duo of relationship expertise, but I must give us credit for how far we've come and all the bullshit we have managed to conquer. Let it be known- there has been PLENTY of bullshit. Awful, toxic, gut wrenching bullshit. By the metric ton.

One conversation I had with a friend today brought to mind some of the paranoid shit I used to do when I first starting dating Taylor- paranoid because finding love like this scared the beJesus out of me and made me a complete psychotic freak for a stint.

When you feel as though you've found the end all of loves, the most terrifying thing in the world is the thought of losing it and being without it. Love truly can make a semi-stable person lose their fucking mind.

And if you are the kind of person like I am, and you are already a little out of your mind in the first place, love can easily drive you to do things that surely might get you hauled off to the Funny Farm...maybe not literally, but you can quickly be metaphorically committed by your boyfriend after he discovers you rifling through his shit and turning all Super Sleuth Private Investigator/Head Hunter on ex-girlfriends.

When curiosity mutates into obsession, and obsession mutates into paranoia and paranoia mutates into hysteria...and most of this is the product of our own creation as a result of too much crazy over-analyzing and snooping with no real reasonable basis for doing so in the first place.

Love makes people crazy. I think that the people who try the hardest to resist the crazy, or the ones who embrace the crazy full force, are the craziest of the love crazed.

That happy gray area of crazy is the best place to be, it's just getting there and staying there that's the hard part.

We women get a bad rap with the whole "crazy psycho" label, but I don't think that women are crazy. I think that men can make us that way. They make us that way with their ability to exist in states of indifference and calmness and "What's the big deal?" attitude.

I've learned that, for the most part, men aren't really as deep as we want to give them credit for ("What??? What do you mean you can't read my mind? How can you NOT know how big of a deal this is? You're supposed to KNOW me!")...but at the same time, they'll shock you with weird, random senses of profound insightful deepness that leaves you dumbfounded and silent with amazement at how deep they are actually capable of being...when they feel like it.

Or after you've poked and prodded and forced them to be because they just can't handle your mouth moving for one more second.


Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Myspace Babies

Babies and small children are taking over Myspace.

I am noticing more and more that photographs of people I know are disappearing, and they are getting replaced by pictures of their infants and little kids. The more of these default image replacements that occur, the more it appears as if babies and children are taking over myspace, see?

Upon investigating this phenomena and digging around on peoples' myspace profiles, I am seeing that many newborns and kids have all but entire communities of other infants and tykes in their myspace networking circles, particularly in their "Top Friend" areas.

This makes it appear that there is a growing number of wee ones getting savvy with the Internet and they are creating their own myspace profiles to communicate with one if they are uniting and plotting their world domination, starting with the Internet.

Sometimes I get a comment from a friend whose default image is their baby and it appears as if the baby is sending me the comment. Or when I see someone with their baby's picture as their myspace default image comment another friend with THEIR baby's picture as their myspace default image, it looks as if the two babies are having a conversation.

BABY NUMBER ONE: "It was so good to see you the other day!"
BABY NUMBER TWO: "I know! We definitely need to do that again sometime, I had so much fun!"


One baby sent me a comment last week asking me if I was going to go to an art fusion show, where he was going to be a tattoo model.

Another baby told me how funny a Youtube video was that I had sent her and mentioned how yummy David Beckham is (in reference to his package).

One baby posts a "party pic" of herself with her baby friend as a comment on that baby friend's page and the two of them share a good laugh over it.

I'll get messages from pre-schoolers photographed at the zoo, telling me that they enjoyed my political rant on a blog I posted about Sally Kern.

I find these situations to be hilarious.

If aliens were to tap into our Internet systems and discover the Myspace social networking site, they would discover what would appear to be an alarming development within our race.

They would see all of these infants communicating and believe that humans are beginning to evolve at lightening speed- with our "hatchlings" and young ones intellectually progressing at a rate that could mean serious trouble to the rest for the universe- what with newborn humans learning how to communicate and operate the World Wide Web right out of the womb and before they are even completely potty trained and all.

Friday, April 11, 2008

Old Biddy

Taylor and I tested out different Posturepedic mattresses last night...making us both officially boring and old.

While testing one we liked called the Posturepedic "Blissville," Taylor thought it would be helpful to fart into the $1300 pillow top mattress to test out its resilience... Not too shabby. No vibrations that might disturb my sleep and it absorbed any smell that might have resulted quite effectively.

What a considerate husband I have, to make my personal comfort such a priority.

Thankfully, there wasn't a helpful salesperson within miles of assisting us in sight, so the entire experience was pretty entertaining.

It's an interesting phenomena to pick out your very first, brand new mattress as a newly wedded young couple. It's not like picking out kitchen appliances or a new sofa.

I think it's a combination of suddenly being concerned about the firmness of your mattress and the quality of sleep you are getting. Suddenly noticing that a newly aching back won't allow you to simply pass out peacefully anymore when it's time for bed and that you are willing to fork out a ridiculous amount of money to do so again.

You slowly begin to realize that the thrill you feel while testing out those new mattresses bumps you into that once foreign realm of the square and married adult- where you can recognize that the coolness you once believed you possessed while simply dating is rapidly depleting with every "Honey, come try this one. It's SO amazing," (bounce, bounce on the bed) "It's firm, but not TOO firm. WOW."

This being said with the same kind of enthusiasm once reserved for big nights out on the town or scoring some sort of fabulously potent illicit party drug to tweak out on until the sun comes up.

But at the same time, mattress shopping sparks thoughts of what kinds of things can be done in beds besides sleeping...and the smell of newly, uncharted territory like a room full of expensive virgin mattresses with high quality springs and coils can be oddly enticing.

Scoping out a new bed brought back memories of our 21 year-old sex lives from 6 and half years ago when we first started dating and couldn't keep our hands off one another. "Hmmmm. A new bed to do it on! Sweet!"

Since no one wanted to help us, we probably could have gone at it right there and gotten away with it- you know, to test it out and make sure it was juuuuuuust right. We didn't, but discussing doing so made the shopping more fun.

The fart helped too. I can always count on Taylor to break the ice. Nothing like giggling hysterically at immature shit with your husband while immersed in Old People Land. Keeps you young.

Thursday, April 10, 2008

I'll Whip you With My Bible Belt

Sometimes I am so disgusted with the Republican politics in my state that I find myself dry heaving and turning green when I read what they not only try to enforce, but are actually successful in achieving.

Rep. Oklahoma Senator Todd Lamb is in the process of trying to get a bill passed that will require abortion practitioners to give women seeking to terminate their pregnancies ultrasounds so that they may bear witness to their "sins." The bill is now in its final phase, at the hands of Gov. Henry.

This is a thousand invisible hands of a thousand invisible preachers playing God, when the bottom line is that it isn't their right to meddle in any woman's medical business.

I am wondering if Senator Tom Lamb has ever been required to have an over-sized, dildo-shaped foreign object stuck up in his private parts so he can take a first hand look at his internal baby making machinery. Does he have any idea how unpleasant that experience can be?

How could any man possibly understand and even fathom any remote physical or spiritual aspect of a woman's pregnancy whatsoever? Despite what they DO know, everything they actually know is second hand information- because they themselves will never be pregnant. Everything they have experienced is second hand experience. Until they themselves have gotten pregnant and have had something growing inside of their nonexistent wombs, male lawmakers need to BUTT OUT.

What gives any man, outside of the man who conceived the baby, the right to dictate anything that has anything to do with a woman's pregnancy?

Be religious and Pro-Life all you want, that's your choice. But we are all individuals and we all have our own lives and choices to consider. And those lives and choices are no one else's business.

I personally wouldn't be able to go through with an abortion, but I don't believe that any institution or establishment or ANYONE should have the right to govern what I do with my body or any other females body. It's our choice.

If they are so hell bent on reducing the number of abortions, how about they start with working on reducing the number of unwanted pregnancies by enforcing more effective sex education in schools? Preaching abstinence is obviously not an effective method here, you know, considering that Oklahoma has one of the top highest teen pregnancy rates in the entire country.

Maybe Lamb the boy genius should consider that and concentrate on that kind of prevention before advocating laws intrusive medical laws on pregnant women. This law to me is taking 10 steps back from any progress that the sexual revolution fought so hard to accomplish back in the day.

Everyone is entitled to their personal beliefs and opinions, but I am sick of Republican politicians forcing their religious bullshit agenda on those of us who don't agree and don't follow their faith.

Here are a couple of articles about the Oklahoma ultrasound law:

Bible Beating Politicians Continue to Play God

Democrats Argue that Bill will Demean and Humiliate Women

As for Sally Kern...tell me that this woman isn't just BEGGING for a shitpie in the face. Seriously.


On April 2, a huge flock of sheep gathered at our Capitol to bleat in support of their martyr. Check out the article below:

(and p.s. I guarantee you that the "reformed" gay man Stephen Black still likes men).

Sally Kern Continues to Be a Prejudice Asshole

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Designer Muffin Tops

I am thinking that students who are majoring in design should probably dress more like they have a clue about what looks good on themselves before they decide what looks good in anyone else's physical space.

I was in a meeting today where some students from the College of Arts, Media & Design presented their ideas for our office's design/architectural remodel, and I'll just say that for someone who was trying to convince us to let her fashion a new look for our office, one particular girlfriend's outfit was not good.

Two things come to mind: Muffin Top and the bottom of a bargain bin.

Don't get me wrong-I am all for bargain shopping. Bargain shopping is one of my special super powers. What's better than finding clothing for a great deal? Pretty much everything I buy is on sale.

But I do believe that there is a particular art to bargain shopping...and it doesn't involve constructing an entire outfit out of frocks that are unfashionably too small, too "square," in colors that should be banned, and just don't "go" if you catch my drift.

Mixing and matching is one thing- when different items go together in a way that makes them interesting or unique. But to simply throw together an entire collection of conservatively flavored, triple-marked down clearance clothing...that lack of consideration to detail does not scream "I'm a designer!" to me.

I think it's also important to understand that Muffin Tops do not make good accessories. I have some jeans that could bake Muffin Tops on my waistline, but I don't wear them. Because they obviously no longer friggin' fit.

Having a Muffin Top is one thing, but there are ways to tuck it away and make your ensemble more flattering. I mean, not just for the sake of hiding it, if you don't care what you look like, but come on. It just looks SO uncomfortable, what with your pant button hanging on for dear life and your extra baggage overflowing all over the place.

When you are wanting to be taken seriously as a person with an eye for style, your bodily baked goods are just too distracting when they are leaking out of your clothing.

I don't know if I could take seriously the design advice of a chick wearing badly faded black slacks so tight that an unacceptably prominent Muffin Top is spilling out the top, scuffed black orthopedic shoes, a too-small/too short white collared button down shirt with a Little House on the Prairie collar under an electric peach quarter sleeved cardigan and a strangely curled loopy hairdo.

I would be worried that she would make my space look as tacky as her outfit.

This chick is a DESIGN student. I don't find any excuse for someone choosing a professional career in interior design to walk around looking like an eyesore. It's like a hairstylist with a perm or a tone-deaf musician.

Here is a little for clarification on Muffin Top 101 for those not in the know:

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Off with Her Head!

I have this thing with Queens in European history who got their heads chopped off. There is something fascinating to me about it. I don't know what it is, but it is so horrifying and grotesque that I've always found myself absolutely mesmerized by the whole idea.

Marie Antoinette, Anne Boleyn, Mary Queen of Scots...all lost their royal heads to the sheer delight of angry mobs. Lots of people were beheaded back in medieval times, but it's crazy to me that they would do it to a Queen.

I've recently become obsessed with the Tudors...and just to make this clear, I'm talking about the actual history of the Tudors (King Henry VIII, Queen Elizabeth, Anne Boleyn, etc. NOT the Showtime series, "The Tudors.").

Now THAT was a disfuncational royal family.

To think of all that resulted from the horny King Henry VIII, a ruler who took to chopping off the heads of his wives who didn't either die after childbirth or become exiled so that he could screw his newest mistress...a man who broke an entire country free from the Catholic Church so that he could wed a new piece of ass (Anne Boleyn, the original Monica Lewinski of sorts).

All for the sake of ensuring that a penis would continue to rule the land. And what's funny is that when it was all said and done, his daughter Elizabeth, whom was the product of his decision to split from the church and marry his mistress, wound up becoming one of the greatest rulers the country would ever have.

All of that drama and beheading and religious turmoil...6 wives (two beheaded, one exiled, one dead from childbirth, one annulled, and the last one whom I will just assume was simply one lucky bitch), a country in ruins and the only male heir dead...all of that fuss and a woman was still destined to rule England.

PHENOMENAL irony. Bravo.

That's some pretty heavy shit. Henry VIII! What a pig! But oh what a fascinating pig he was.

Since I am voluntarily ignorant when it comes to most things religious, I had no idea that England broke from the Catholic Church so that King Henry VIII could divorce his first wife and marry his whore.

Can you imagine having that kind of power? The man named himself the head of his own Church, unscathed by having the Catholic Church on his bad side. That's craziness. The Catholic Church is one big scary intimidating entity.

Even Chuck Norris sleeps with a night light on out of fear of the Catholic Church hiding under his bed.


Henry VIII's influence marches on to this day, having followed English settlers overseas to America. It makes sense. From what I've witnessed here in the US of A, many Protestants continue to find no problem in divorcing their spouses to be with their whores. It's very educational to finally understand where the root of that American classic came from.

Ol' Henry was the original religious rule-bending hypocrite. The OG Bible Abuser.

Who needs reality television when there are real-life stories like THAT to read about?

I find myself hungry for more information on the whole mad Tudor dynasty.

About a year or so ago, a sudden interest in European royalty also happened to me with Austrian born, one-time French Queen Marie Antoinette, after I saw Sofia Coppola's film "Marie Antoinette" with Kirsten Dunst.

I remember being a kid and watching the cartoon "Beetlejuice," which was a spin-off from the movie. In an episode, one of the dead characters was Marie Antoinette. She walked around carrying her head tucked under her arm. The head talked and had a French accent and everything.

I thought that to be mind boggling and morbidly amusing and it has always stuck with me, so years later, when Coppola put out her film, I was intrigued.

Initially I was annoyed with ending of the film, "Marie Antoinette." The movie ended with Antoinette looking back wistfully at Versailles, while being hauled away to be imprisoned...then...NOTHING.

("Whaaa? Wait- that's IT? I sat through this whole fucking movie and I don't even get to see her get her head cut off? What a gip!")

After watching it again, reading up on the history, and better understanding the artistic direction Coppola was coming from in making the movie, the lack of blood and gore started to make sense and became a just choice, but still. It would have given me some sort of closure.

I was pleased to see that "The Other Boleyn Girl" made up for what "Marie Antoinette" lacked in that department- where Queen Anne Boleyn and her brother George lost their heads in gruesome public executions.

In "The Other Boleyn Girl" axes fell, heads rolled, and I got that odd feeling of repulsion/satisfaction that must have come with someone getting their head cut off back in the day. It's disgusting I know, but I am one of those people who are inherently interested in the dark and disturbing.

Mildly disturbing at least~ not disturbing just for the sake of shock value.

The stories that back those medieval executions are what make them so interesting. It's not just for the sake of seeing someone get their head cut off.
You go through the entire journey of a story- especially in visual media- and there is all this building up and climaxing...especially when you know the fate of the doomed.

I mean, mobs of people would gather and cheer with their children in tow when someone was sent to the block. They would rejoice and scream and hoot and hollar while a person was executed. Like jackals.

That's just pure insanity.

I personally would never want to actually see someone get their head cut off in real-life (GOD no), but when it comes to historical execution, one has to wonder just what was so sick about human nature back then to make some sort of celebrated social event out of it.

Beheading was the real deal. To leave it out of a movie just depletes a big chunk of what was interesting about the entire story in the first place. Had Marie Antoinette and Anne Boleyn had NOT been beheaded, would modern day film makers be making movies about them?

Sometimes the way someone leaves this world, or the fact that they left the world earlier than they should have at all, is mostly of what makes them so interesting.

Friday, April 4, 2008

Fugly Bridesmaid Regalia

Although I've been lucky and have escaped the stigma of the ugly bridesmaid dress, I've witnessed and heard about some brutally nasty ones.

The idea of being forced into a hideous dress while standing in front of an enormous congregation of people is just about one of the most awful things I can imagine (right up there with getting stuck in an elevator with a full bladder, having to listen to Hinder or Fergie for hours on end).

I did my best to save my bridesmaids from public humiliation at my own wedding, and I know my BFF, who is getting married later this year and has made me her Maid of Honor, will do the same for me.

Because we like one another. A true friend would never let her girlfriend suffer the utter turmoil that is having to wear a fugly dress.

I went to a wedding once a few years ago during Christmas time, and much to my sheer delight/horror (I couldn't decide if I wanted to die laughing or puke in my purse), marching down the aisle comes four bridesmaids adorned in Mrs. Claus dresses, almost identical to the ones below, but more form fitting:


How does one smile while draped in a red velor clownsuit trimmed with white faux fur?

You know those bridesmaids have got to be standing there, gritting their teeth, thinking, "You ASSHOLE. I hate you."

I'm afraid I would have to just drink myself into oblivion at the reception so that I might forget what I have on. I would also have to embarrass the hell out of my bitch ass friend who put me in it in the first place.

This is where a, "I remember how in high school how you blew half of the basketball team during that semester you were strung out on speed...gosh those were crazy times. (insert name of groom) sure did make an honest woman out of you! Cheers!"
toast, made sure to be announced in front of her mom and dad's uppity work friends and business associates.

The bride at the wedding I went to was stunning of course~ I'm talking, she actually looked like a real princess or Miss America or something.

But thinking back now, I can't decide if she can take 100% of the credit for being so gorgeous. I mean, next to those "buffer" dresses, a drag queen could make people go "Awwwwwwwww....she looks STUNNING!"

I was distracted during the majority of the ceremony, trying to figure out what in the hell that bride was thinking when she picked them out. It was baffling.

My husband was an usher, so I sat with some of his friends, trying not to let the snickers fly. I was relieved that none of my girlfriends were there with me or we surely would have been escorted out of that church (and why is it that just being in a church makes things funnier? This is one of the reasons I don't allow myself in church...I can't handle the pressure of not laughing and not judging).

I wanted to interview one of the bridesmaids at the reception- mic in hand- as if I were on a red carpet reporting live for "E!":

"So- this is an interesting piece. Who's the designer? What is that fabulous material, polyester? Or a blend perhaps? How do you REALLY feel about it? It's ok. You can tell me."

I think I might have actually had a nightmare since then of me in one of those dresses, chasing after the bride who made me wear it with a baseball bat...

Here a link to more ugly dresses to enjoy not having to wear.

Ugly Dresses.

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

Killer Bees and Worker Bees

I watched Kill Bill Vol. 2 last night (I love ’em both), and the "Superman" dialogue between Bill and Beatrix Kiddo/Black Mamba really speaks volumes.

I love super hero and villainous things as it is, but this dialogue really broke down the underlying appeal of it all to me.

Bill says that there are killer bees and there are worker this big bee hive world we live in, I would sooner die young than simply be a worker bee forever. I want to be a killer renegade bee. The super hero/alter ego explanation is stellar~ I like to believe that the me who goes to my Desk Monkey job all day is just my alter ego...and the me that I really am at heart is the Super Hero, not the other way around.
Watch the video and listen closely- perhaps it will inspire and speak to you too:) This dialogue makes me want to conquer the fucking WORLD.

I suppose this might indicate that I believe myself to have some sort of super human powers...

I do, by the way.

Tuesday, April 1, 2008


Saw "21" last night. It was much like I expected it to be, but I did come to several conclusions after watching it:

1.) Jim Sturgess, the main guy "Ben" is super super cute....or super DUPER cute. I can’t decide if I think he is hot or not, but he definitely has his hot moments (when he is not busy being super duper cute). This brings me to my next conclusion.

Here he is: My newest celebrity boyfriend. And he's British. I will try to forget that he was in the awful Beatles musical who used Bono as Dr. Roberts.

2.) There is something super hot, to me at least, about a guy sitting at a card table...and not just any Vegas-going guy at a card table...I am talking about the serious kind of guy who is there to get down to business, not gamble. Perhaps my thinking this is a result of Taylor and my many years of competing with poker as his girlfriend. Either way, I like a guy who is not only serious about what he does, but is good at it too. Smart guys are hot. Few hot guys are smart, but when you find a smart guy who is hot, his hotness is just off the charts attractive. Um, what was my point? Oh yes, Jim Sturgess pulled off the hot smart guy thing quite nicely. Me likey.

3.) I love Kevin Spacey. Period.

4.)I’m disappointed that the makers of the movie "21" chose not to be accurate and go by the book it was based on, "Bringing Down the House." The real-life MIT guys who actually pulled the Vegas stunt off were ASIAN AMERICAN guys. Not a cute white boy, not a generically attractive blond girl (whom in the movie, I could have done without the romance subplot...). The movie makers threw in a couple of "token" Asian characters to make the card counting team more believably "brainy," but failed to give them any dimension as characters OR real speaking parts. Tisk, tisk movie makers. What "artists" will sacrifice in their work for GREEN GREEN GREEN and drawing in the masses. I am imagining all of the talented Asian American actors out there who were cut out of the opportunity to real-life Asian characters of an interesting story. Had the movie included the guys from "Better Luck Tomorrow" the movie would have been way more convincing and realistic...I mean, part of the whole reason that the MIT guys got away with their card counting heist is because they used their ethnic stereotypes to pull it off...

5.) BUT, I really enjoyed watching Jim Sturgess. So I will forgive them I guess, for the sake of eye candy. I wish that the movie would have given the role of the brainy card counting team member/love interest to the Asian girl instead of Kate Bosworth (too skinny, too generic, way too boring and dry and uninteresting) know, considering that it might be nice to give a lead role to an Asian girl that doesn’t require her in kimono or samurai sword slinging kung fu fighting nail salon fortune cookie English speaking subordinate concubine. Asian girls like cute boys too and also get to date them, but American movie makers never seem to understand that. Hollywood still has a LONG way to go. Until they decide to be more progressive, Asian American movie goers will continue to have to accept the fact that American movies don't like to give romantic leads to us unless we are sporting kimonos and slinging samurai swords.

* But I will happily accept more cute British imports such as Jim Sturgess.

the end.

Dear Taco Bell

Dear Taco Bell,

I have beef with you- and I’m not talking about the mystery meat "beef" that you load into your creatively named Tex-Mex products (despite what you may beg to differ, there is no f’ing way that your so-called meat was ever a living, breathing’s far too rank and stanky and disturbingly raunchy to have come from something organic).

I have a real problem with your advocation of the "4th Meal" in the American diet. Who in the hell gave you the authority to christen your meals as the fourth meal of the day? What ever gave you the idea that it is even a good idea to insert a "4th Meal" into our diets, considering it is apparent that Americans have a difficult enough time balancing 3 meals in a day?

Are you aware of what exactly your food does to people who eat your "4th Meal" during the designated "after dinner, before breakfast" hours?

Do you have any idea how dreadfully painful it is to wake up literally feeling that "4th Meal" bubbling and fermenting in the guts of someone who was duped into believing that Tex-Mex fast food consumption between dinner and breakfast might not be a bad idea? What exactly do you DO to your products to make them so freakishly generic and sickening?

Before last night, I had not eaten your food in at least a year or two- and even back then it was usually due to intoxication and the fact that you are the only one open late enough to offer food to the drunk and unstable...(because at that point of the night, human beings will eat just about anything with cheese on it, regardless of whether or not it should come with some sort of "toxic" warning label. You obviously caught wind of this because you are serving road kill and disguising it with clever names like CHALUPA).

I know that you target the weak and vulnerable...drunk high school and college students whose asses you efficiently contribute to packin’ on those infamous "freshman 15" and acne problems...but what about the rest of us who are no longer immune to waking up feeling like shit?

Do you realize that you are no better than McDonald’s when it comes to fattening the asses of Americans? People always want to scrutinize McDonald’s, but YOU are the ones deciding to add an entire new meal category into our diet!

Last night I took a chance with you, Taco Bell, while sober, after a long day of packing and moving my house. You were a quick solution to a massive hunger attack. Although I was hesitant, fully aware of what your food does, I took a chance. Low and behold, sure enough, I woke up feeling disgusting and nasty, as if I’d gobbled down a gallon of garbage the night before, cursing your wretched faux Tex-Mex nightmare.

Why did I even eat it in the first place if I knew what was going to happen? I blame your evil marketing strategies. Damn you, they worked on me. You must be incredibly proud of yourself. Satan himself must sit at the head of your executive table...that is, when he is not busy with McDonald’s. Be sure to give him the collective souls of all who obediently consumed your "4th Meal" and are paying for it today.

Also, I am curious as to why your employees always appear to be fresh off the crack pipe, with your Taco Bell "4th Meal" grease permeating the flesh of their tweaked out grills. Are they the only ones capable of burning the midnight oil so that your ass fattening creations may better give us all the bubble guts first thing the next morning?

Boooo, Taco Bell. Booooo.


You suck and I hate you

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