Archive | October, 2010

Wait and Vomit

29 Oct

I sort of made this pact with myself that I wouldn’t publish anything when I was stabby. Sort of like hiding the phone when you’re drunk, you know? I don’t want to stabby-post and then regret it later. Which is why I’ve been remarkably silent this week.

Is it just me or have the last couple of weeks been weird? Allow me to review:

  1. Juan Williams gets freaked out by clothed Muslims.
  2. Brett Favre supposedly has a photogenic penis.
  3. Marie Claire doesn’t like fat people.
  4. Rand Paul supporters like to stomp people who exercise that whole free speech thing I thought Tea Partiers were so fond of.
  5. Christine O’Donnell kind of hooks up, kind of doesn’t, and is totally gross for not waxing.
  6. The vice-president of the Midland School District in Pleasant Plains, Arkansas resigned due to comments he made about the gays. Comments such as, “Seriously they want me to wear purple because five queers killed themselves. Theonly way im wearin it for them is if they all commit suicide. I cant believe the people of this world have gotten this stupid.”


I sort of saved everything up for today. I’m going to get all this out of my system at once. Then I’m going to go get a McRib. Because I’ve been craving one all week, and I have a feeling the restraint I’m about to show is going to use up a lot of calories.


The only thing I have to say now about Juan Williams is that one wonders if naked Muslims would freak him out more than clothed ones. I mean, maybe we should pass a law that not only can’t those Big Scary Muslims  wear burqas and stuff, they can’t wear ANYTHING! Yeah, I like that. Because someone outwardly identifying as a member of THE SECOND LARGEST RELIGION IN THE WORLD is really scary. Juan, I want to applaud your honesty, but your bonehead is getting in the way.

And speaking of boneheads…Brett. Brett, what the hell? Do the names Monica Lewinsky and Tiger Woods not mean anything to you? If you wanted to take the focus on what a crappy season you’re having, congratulations! You did it. But you know what–I don’t want to single you and your Lil’ Brett out. I understand there are lots of guys out there who think that sending a pretty girl a grainy, crappy camera phone picture of their Johnson is just the thing to make her panties fall straight to the floor. Let me take this opportunity to say: YOU ARE WRONG. Now, get a pencil, because what I’m about to say is important. You ready?

Guys, really, your lady is being totally serious when she says she loves your junk.  Totally serious AT THAT MOMENT. We do not want an 8×10 glossy of it perched between pictures of our college graduation and the obligatory trip to Cabo with our girlfriends. You do not need prop it up on pillows like it’s a cute wittle puppy and make it say cheese. Taken out of context, your penis is ridiculous. While you may enjoy the sort of up-close, gynecological shots that would make doctors question exactly what part of the body is being featured, WOMEN DO NOT. Please, for the love of all that’s holy, stop taking pictures of your dick. Believe me when I say, in this case the camera DOES NOT add five pounds inches.

I’m coming back to Marie Claire in a minute. I’m still warming up for that one.

Dear Tea Party,

Thank you. Your ridiculous antics only help the moderates.  And while your concern for Rand Paul and his person is touching, you don’t get to beat up people with differing views. Ever.  You know those Brown Shirts you like bringing up? That’s what they did.

You are an amazing study in contrasts. You don’t want to pay taxes to support things like, oh, I don’t know, police, but then when some kid from the camp across the lake infiltrates your bonfire, what do you do? Scream for the police. I like how you talk out of both sides of your mouth and your ass all at once. Brilliant trick, that.



Now, Christine O’Donnell. Yeah. I hate doing this, but I have to say I feel badly for the woman. Some asshat who can’t even close the deal comes out and says, oh yeah, she was totally drunk, came on to me, I took her home for nookie, but intercourse is the only REAL sex there is, and she wasn’t having any of that, so we didn’t do it. And oh yeah, like MANY WOMEN, she doesn’t wax. So gross.

Once again a woman going out, getting a little drunk, and hooking up is a horrible, terrible crime against humanity and she shouldn’t be allowed in public—let alone run for office.  And the poor victim of this crime, some also-drunk dude who was denied his God-given right to pass through the lady’s Golden Gates, needs to tell his story so voters can see what a terrible choice it would be to vote for this disgusting woman who doesn’t even wax. I’m over this. Over.  You want to show this woman is unfit for office, do it by highlighting the fact she doesn’t seem to understand the First Amendment.  If your entire case for why she’d make a terrible member of Congress is that she wore a ladybug costume and gave you blue balls, yr doin it rong.

I want to skip over the fact that this dude in Arkansas is a homophobic nut for a second, and talk about grammar. Look, I know I play fast and loose with the rules of punctuation, spelling, and Englishy stuff like that there, but I have to tell you if I were representing my local school board, I might run my screeds through an editing program before I published them. I mean, really? REALLY?

And dude, look, you may not like them queers, but as a school board member, you represent them. Whether you know it or not, okay? And whether you like it or not, you have an obligation to ensure them queers get the same education as everyone else. You don’t want to wear purple, fine. I don’t like wearing red. I just fail to understand how wearing purple for a day ruins your life. Because that’s what you said.  You said, “We are honoring the fact that they sinned and killed thereselves because of their sin. REALLY PEOPLE…being a fag does not give you the right to ruin the rest of our lives.” Then, inexplicably, you say that you don’t care how people live their lives as long as they keep that shit to themselves.

I would ask the same of you, sir. Keep that shit to yourself. You want to be an ignorant, bigoted, hate-monger, keep that shit to yourself. Also? Clint McChance would be a great gay porn name. So you’ve got that working for you.

Now, back to Marie Claire.  Let me just fill you in on the off chance you don’t know why I’m giving Marie Claire magazine The Asshat of the Week award.  Deep breath. It seems Marie Claire ran a piece by a woman called Maura Kelly. Feel free to look it up. I’m not going to link to it because page hits generate ad revenue, but feel free to go on your own.  Ms. Kelly wrote a piece—one assumes while under the influence of various psychotropic drugs—that she said was inspired by her editor asking her if it made her uncomfortable seeing fat people make out on TV. “Because I can be kind of clueless,” she wrote, and I’m just going to stop there because I think it was really the only insightful part of the piece, and I want to be fair.

The point is that Ms. Kelly does not like fat people. They gross her out. They jiggle. They are unhealthy. They clearly don’t understand basic nutrition like EAT LESS AND EXCERICE MORE. Because the fatz makes you stupid, DUH. Now, don’t get her wrong! She’s got plump friends! But obesity is something people have a “ton” (See what she did there?!) of control over!

Then she goes on to critique another show—one of the Real Housewives franchise—even though she hasn’t seen it either! I think it’s important to say, at this point, what she’s keeping secret: Being thin and healthy (two words she seems to think are synonyms) makes you omniscient. It’s true. Because she’s thin-n-healthy, she doesn’t NEED to watch these shows to have an opinion about them! She’s just that good!

What’s grosser than watching a Fattie McFaterson waddling across an Applebee’s? THINKING ABOUT ONE HAVING SEX!! EWWWWWW!! And really, one could only imagine Fattie having sex because NO ONE FAT WOULD EVER REALLY HAVE SEX! Oh, but it’s okay because an anorexic or a drug addict are gross too! Really!

But Ms. Kelly did not write a piece about disgusting anorexics or drug addicts, and after working my way through her oeuvre, I can’t tell that she ever has. And I think one need only substitute “obese” for “gay”, “black”, “Mexican”, or any number of other descriptives to see how completely bogus her line of reasoning is.

Many people have questioned why Ms. Kelly’s editor let this piece run in the first place, and I think that’s a really naïve question. The piece generated hits. The piece generated buzz. The piece generated ad revenue. Fat-shaming and discrimination is tolerated. It is acceptable. Fashion magazines have been doing it as long as they’ve been around. I defy you to find any online article about obesity WITHOUT a comment either in the article or in the comments on the article, where someone does not say one or more of the following things:

  • Fat people just don’t have self control.
  • You’re only obese because you’re lazy.
  • I’m just worried about the kids.
  • I’m just worried about your health. I want you to be healthy.
  • You choose to be fat.
  • Fat people don’t have fulfilling social lives.

Oh, I could go on. I won’t, but I could. I find it interesting that when we show overweight people doing normal things, we’re glorifying obesity. And, as a friend pointed out, it’s questionable logic to equate overweight people making out with America’s obesity epidemic.

I don’t mind discussion. I think differing views are interesting. And I suppose that’s why it’s so hard for me to grasp why, “Yes, I understand what you’re saying, but I don’t agree, and let me tell you why…” isn’t a part of more public discussions. How is that difficult? I’ve said that a lot (and had it said to me), and it leads to some interesting talks. Occasionally–not often, but sometimes–I’ve both changed a mind and had my mind changed. Of course, it also requires that the other person listen and respond and not just wait and vomit.


I’m Way Stabby

26 Oct

I have nothing positive to say today. Between Tea Partiers stomping people, anti-choice nimrods, and good, old-fashioned pissiness, I’m over today. To cheer myself up, I’ve just watched two of my absolute favorite comedy sketches ever. Enjoy.

Queue Wars

25 Oct

So, here’s the thing. Tomorrow in the mail I will be receiving Robin Hood from Netflix. Ask me which version. Which version, you ask? No clue. Ask me when I put that in the queue. When did you put it in the queue, you ask? Never. I never put it in the queue.  Would you like to know why I didn’t put it in the queue? It’s because had I tried, had I even sat down at the computer with the thought of putting something in the queue, my adorable—generally mild-mannered—husband would have had his Spidey Sense activated and would then drop whatever he had in his hands, start sniffing the air, and come crashing through the roof of the house, all in an attempt to stop me from putting a season of Mad Men in the queue and thereby forcing out Sands of Iwo Jima. A movie he has seen 7,564 times.

The battle of the sexes has moved from boardrooms and bedrooms. It is now fought in the eerie blue light of the computer screen where the Netflix queue is displayed.

I have said this before, but I really think the solution to our economic woes is to put couples on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange and tell them they are negotiating for queue positions. Our negotiations generally go something like this:

ME: I’ll give you disc 1 of the new season of Battlestar Galactica and Cahill: U.S. Marshall for disc 1 of Mad Men.

HUSBAND: Fine, but I want Jet Li’s Fearless in exchange for Vera Drake.

ME: Well, by the time we cycle around, it will be the weekend, you’ll be home, and we probably both want to watch Dr. Who. So, I’ll move it up, follow it with Mad Men because I can watch it during the day and turn it back around, and I’ll give you The Guns of Navarone for the first of the next week.

HUSBAND: Okay, but make sure you don’t get any of the Battlestar Galactica discs out of order. I have my lawyer on speed dial, remember.

ME: Uh-huh. And I could replace you with batteries.

HUSBAND: You. Wouldn’t. Dare. You couldn’t. After a week you’d be crawling over to my side of the bed like you were in the desert looking for water.

ME: Give me back disc 2 of Mad Men and you’ll never have to find out.

There are many divisions of labor in our house. I do not keep the books. We would all be screwed. He does not do the grocery shopping as he doesn’t know how to buy the right kind of toilet paper. Somehow, and I’m not sure how, he’s become the Gollum of Netflix. He’s Baron Von Queue. The King of the Queue, Ruler of All Movies and Keeper of the Order of DeeVeeDee. Somehow this rather (publicly) mild mannered, lovely man who counts Housekeeping among his favorite movies has turned into THE MAN WHO WILL ONLY WATCH A MOVIE IF IT’S AN HOUR AND A HALF OF BLOWING SHIT UP. In his defense, it could be blowing shit up in WWII. Blowing shit up in space. Blowing shit up while riding a horse. Blowing shit up with zombies. His is a non-discriminatory world of blowing shit up.

Look, normally I read articles like “My Husband Leaves His Undewear on the Floor!” and want to puke. I listen to couples we know and hear stuff like I wanted us to see “When In Rome” and all he did was fall asleep! and I get all yeah, I’d fall asleep too. As a defense mechanism for not having to watch that load of crap. Don’t misunderstand that this is some girly rant against any movie with blood and gore and blowing shit up. This is about the people we turn into when the Netflix queue is in play. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You see a whole other side of your queue partner, is what I’m saying.

Tomorrow, should you want to come over with some popcorn, I suppose HE will be watching Robin Hood. I will be in front of my computer streaming It Might Get Loud.


22 Oct

Because it is INTERNATIONAL CAPS LOCK DAY, I’d like to share a few things that suddenly shift meaning when said in CAPS LOCK.

  9. MOM

*This one was actually a message sent to me just like that.

Writing About What To Write About

21 Oct

I have this issue a lot that I sit down to write about something and then I realize:

  1. It should really stay off limits.
  2. It’s really not as funny/interesting/strange as I originally thought.
  3. I’ve done that topic to death in a certain other blog.
  4. Gosh, I sound like I bitch a lot. I mean, a lot, sister.

For example, for two years now, I’ve sat down at the keyboard to wax philosophical about my love of avocados and how I wonder if a black bean slash sweet potato cake would really be that good. Have I ever written more than that about either subject? No. No, I have not. That falls under number two. And I’m pretty sure I could make it fall under number four if I tried.

I try to keep a distance between really personal stuff and the keyboard, but there are some things I will talk about with impunity. Like female stuff. I mean, 49.76% of the population is women. We share common innards, you know? And it is always, ALWAYS, amazing to me how men will crumple and fall at the mention of any of the following: periods, the viscosity of said periods, childbirth, breast pumps, and the mechanics of diaphragm usage. I can sit and listen to a man talk about what my husband calls The Fickle Finger of Fate–the prostate exam–without flinching. Not that I really want to, but I can if I need to be polite. And you would be amazed at how often that’s happened. But the other day when I mentioned to him the severity of my cramps and how I thought they might be related to the chicken gizzards I appeared to be passing, he got all AAAAAHH! PLEASE MAKE IT STOP! OH, THE HUMANITY!!

Yeah, I know. He totally can’t handle it. I don’t mean this all in a sort of a Secret: Strong Enough for a Man, Made for a Woman way. Like one of those things that sounds good on the first listen, and then you realize is a total sexist generalization. I’m saying I’ve seen a male OB/GYN wilt at the mention of yeast infection symptoms. My husband once calmly came in from the yard, took off his boots, and asked in a normal voice for me to come help him with something. I looked over and he had a hatchet sticking out of his shin and blood soaking his jeans. I am not even joking. But if he even thinks someone has mentioned Cesarean section, he pukes. Which, just so you know, is why I don’t order a lot of Caesar salads.

Labor stories do actually seem to be abhorred by both men and women. One gentleman just told me that women, “like try to outdo each other with who suffered the most. We men would prefer they kindly stop, and join our stimulating discussion the merits of bermuda versus zoysia as a fairway grass.” And I must say that I agree with another female friend who says she can’t deal with delivery stories. Actually that’s not true. Labor I can handle, but when women start talking about feeling the fetus moving around, kicking, and whatnot, I get cold, cold chills. It’s the thought of something growing inside me. Something that can’t get out on its own. For almost a year. You remember that scene in Juno where she decides to have the baby when the girl tells her that the fetus has fingernails? Yeah, that’s where I can’t deal. Fingernails? Something inside me with fingernails? No way, dude. This is why I did not give birth. I draw the line with fingernails.

Now look, before you start telling me about the wonders of children and the joy of childbirth, and how I’m a terrible, horrible, disgusting person for talking bad about it, it won’t do any good. I’m impervious to such attacks. There’s a reason I’m a step-parent, okay?

You see? Boundaries. Blogging is all about maintaining boundaries.

What’s Up With That?

19 Oct

Surprised Cabbage is now Yeah, And Another Thing.

Yeah, I moved. Again. Update your bookmarks and all that.

The site is still under construction, so if it looks a little wonky, just give me a minute. I’ll fix it. Thanks for reading. As usual, keep those expectations low.

It’s All About Pacing

19 Oct

Four times I sat down yesterday to tell you a story. Four times I forgot what I was going to say. If this is how the aging process works, I want no part of it. Can I remember that in 1976 my mother sold my yellow vanity table in a garage sale? Yes, I can. Do I know that Kevin Costner was to play Alex in The Big Chill and is still visible as the corpse in the opening sequence? Yes, I do. Do I know that Millard Fillmore supposedly introduced the bathtub to The White House, but there is some controversy over that fact? Yes, I’m aware of that. I’ve a head for trivia and a body for…well, trivia.

I looked in the mirror yesterday and all I could think was JOWLS. Where did those jowls come from? It is a special time in any girl’s life when something formerly only used to describe a lesser cut of pig can now be used to describe her face. This is heightened by the fact that I’ve recently lost some weight, and it shows in my face. Happy on the whole, yes, but fat is the best wrinkle filler. In fact, I’m trying to come up with a home fat-injection system. I want to call it DerrièreVisage. I think the name speaks to how it will work. It will also double as a flavor injector for chicken and turkey, so I think it’s really got some potential. Anyway, I really noticed an excess of skin the other day when I was putting on eye shadow. The applicator pulled my eyelid skin. And it stayed like that. It looked like my skin was made of sort of a purple-y crumpled tissue paper. I considered dropping my usual firming eye cream in favor of a steam iron, but that just seemed like more work than it was worth.

I think I was just hyper-aware of my impending crepey -ness because I had to go to a wedding last weekend. I am in the sort of delta between most of my friends already being married, and their children getting married. I don’t have to go to a lot of weddings these days, for which I am ever thankful. The Adorable Couple is not too much younger than I—I think he is six years younger, but she is more in the neighborhood of ten or more. So, wait. That nets out at what, eight? Thirty is a lot different than thirty-eight. Which brings me to my point.

You kids do not know how to pace yourself with the booze. You guys pregame. There’s no finesse to pregaming. There’s no art to it. You pound back four or five shots before you get to your destination and you’re puking in the rose bushes before the first score/toast/cop arrives. Now, see, back in my day, we kept it to a couple of beers or a couple of shots at most. The object was to keep a nice mellow drunk throughout the festivities so the only rose bushes you were puking in were your parents’.

A young gentleman stopped by our table at the reception and the talk turned to the torture he supposedly suffered as a lad by my husband and brother-in-law. I asked him where his scar was. It seems no one has escaped a scar if one has spent any time with The Boys. And let me stop future comments on this issue right now: Yes, I have one. Yes, I’ll show it to you. No, I won’t tell you how I got it. Dinner was not even finished and this guy was already talking in the non sequitur of the drunk. When asked what business he was in these days, he began a rambling dissertation on food delivery. Was he a delivery man? In logistics?  Perhaps he was developing a greener product to replace those plastic tripods used to keep the pizza box from infringing on the cheese’s territory? It remains a mystery.

Oh, but let’s give credit where credit is due, for he was certainly not the only binger there. One rather gregarious young lady busted out The Humpty Dance for the second song of the evening. Fortunately—or unfortunately for some, I suppose—she managed not to bust out of her rather ill-fitting halter dress. The only explanation I have for several friends of The Adorable Couple waving their hands in the air like they just didn’t care during a unique cover of “Dancing in the Dark” was a heavy hand in pouring the lemon drops that had to have been guzzled during the ride from the church.

The drunkenness of the younger guests could be measured by the fluency of what Tom Wolfe has called the “fuck patois”. I’m sure, had we stayed longer, we’d have heard language devolve into an even more bastardized state where entire conversations are had by uttering no more than fuuuuuuh, maaaan or ummmm druuuuhhh, y’aaaaal.

Pacing, my husband says. It’s all about pacing. One good friend is a fan of the bathtub drunk. You come in from a long run on a cold day, pour a couple of fingers of bourbon, get in a hot tub, and proceed to get “all squity and smerky.” My father does not like a heavy hand at the bar. “Pour it light,” he says, “I’ll be here all night.” I went through a slightly annoying phase of drinking aperitifs such as Campari and soda with a twist of lime.  Light alcohol, and therefore not a regular presence in bars at the time. All that seems so much more civilized than sucking back airplane bottles of blue, coconut-flavored grain alcohol or—and I swear to the little six pound, eight ounce baby Jesus this exists—Goo Goo Cluster flavored liqueur.

Now I don’t drink too much at all. Various medications, the affliction of alcohol-induced heartburn, and the need for better sleep have pushed out the booze in my Traditional Fall Burn Shit and Drink Beer Sundays. And my Wine Wednesdays. And our Date Nite Double Shots™. The only problem with all that is sobriety sure accentuates my damn jowls.