Karl Marx said that religion is the opiate of the masses. I say Fairy Tales are the opiates of women. They’ve been crammed down our throat for centuries to ensure that we wed and procreate. And by we, I mean girls, because if we don’t do it, ain’t nobody gonna do it, and then, bye bye humanity. I mean, it’s not like birthing is a pleasant process (except hopefully the conception, but then there’s no guarantee on that, is there?).
And that’s really the whole point of the fairy tale, isn’t it? Procreation. Oooh, I’m going to gestate a life form for almost a year inside my body, have it suck all the nutrients out of me and then it’s going to emerge out of my WHAT? You must be out your damn mind. That’s why we have to seduce ourselves, so to speak, with this whole “true love” and "marriage” idea. Diamond rings dangle in front of us like shiny carrots in front of a plow horse and if there’s anything a woman will fall for, it’s something shiny.
Fairy Tales began centuries ago as a way to teach little girls lessons about life- Some of them were practical lessons- like Little Red Riding Hood; don’t trust “wolves” because they just want to “eat” you… and your grandmother and anyone else they can get their hands on. True dat. But what are the stories boys grow up on? Peter Pan the perpetual child, which isn’t really a fairy tale at all, is it? Well besides that there’s… uh… I’m sure there’s one… hmmm.
But when we’re talking about Fairy Tales, I think we all know whom the big culprits are- Cinderella, I’m looking at you. Listen girl, I know you had a hard life, and your family treats you poorly (don’t even get me started), and you met this great guy, but can you not flaunt it in front of the rest of us? The other girls are getting ideas. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that you don’t share happiness? You ferret it away so no one can ruin it. Get with the program.
Now, I love a fabulous dress and a big party and lots of presents as much as (or more than) the next girl, but this whole “happily ever after” thing is a sham. I mean, we all saw what happened to Jessica Simpson. It is incredibly dangerous for women to walk around with this “Someday my Prince will come…” mentality. One day, poof! there he’ll be, rescuing you from your wretched life, and then everything will be perfect and birds will sing and unicorns will dance and a beautiful rainbow will appear above you and you’ll be happy and taken care of forever.
I was kind of hoping to, you know, travel the world, achieve nirvana, write the next Great American Novel, but if I can just sit here and wait for one of these boneheads to pull his head out of his dirty ass long enough to put a chip of diamond on my finger and knock me up to get my happy ending, then I’ll cancel my plans! I want off this ride.
I’m not denouncing love. Love is great. I love love. All I am saying is that if we don’t stop romanticizing the whole breeding process, we’re never going to move forward as a society. Why did the price marry Cinderella? I’m sure he liked her and thought she was cute and had killer shoes, but that’s not why he married her. Why do people get married? No, dear, not because they love each other- have you been paying attention? People get married to (let’s all say it together) legitimize heirs. Correct.
If I have a baby, it’s going to be because I want to create an army of little bubble-busters to carry on for me or because the birth control failed, not because I’m in love with the idea of getting married and having babies. If you’re lucky ladies, you may end up legally committed to a man who can string more than two complete sentences together and occasionally cleans up after himself, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. All of those men are gay.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Under Pressure
The CW may not be responsible for the most original programming on TV. Not only did they remake 90210, but last night I saw a commercial for Melrose Place. Didn’t watch it fifteen years ago- not going to watch it now. However, the CW has created one original show that has won my heart.
It’s called Hitched or Ditched, and I’m pretty sure the execs at FOX are kicking themselves for not having thought of it first. This show finds couples that have been in long-term relationships, but for whatever reason have not yet gotten married. The “whatever reason” is usually something along the lines of they have no business being in a relationship together. Then the show forces them to choose whether or not to get married one week later standing at the altar at their dream wedding.
It’s more suspenseful than Hitchcock. To make things more wonderful, the happy couple has to tell their parents. The parents are the cherry on top of this beautiful disaster. This reminds me what I so love about reality TV- because real life is so much more bizarre than fiction. Who on earth could have dreamed these people up? And who on earth let them style themselves? This country is a fascinating place.
The greatest thing about this show is that it is literally engineered for disaster. And last night, at least, the douchebag actually broke up with his girlfriend in her wedding dress, surrounded by friends and family on national TV! I mean, it doesn’t even occur to him to have the decency to call the whole thing off and break up with her privately. Thank god a catch like that is back on the singles market.
Even the happiest, most well adjusted couples would crack under this kind of pressure. As if “’til death do us part” isn’t pressure enough. I think it’s a genius idea. If we forced more people to choose whether or not they wanted to marry each other in a week, we’d have a lot fewer marriages in this country. More parties, fewer marriages; the way life should be. Besides, wouldn’t weddings be more interesting if you didn’t know the outcome beforehand?
I think they should take it a step further. What I propose is that they round up all the Jewish and Indian mothers whose children aren’t married yet, have them invite the kids over for dinner, and force them to get married on the spot to a stranger the mother's have chosen for them. It could even involve kidnapping or gunpoint. I’d call it “Arranged or Your Mother Will Dismember You,” or “Oy Gavultz! Where are my Grand Bubbies already?!”
Pressure is a very powerful instrument. When applied correctly it can turn carbon into diamonds, which then, in turn, when put on someone’s finger, can create even more pressure. I think this is an appropriate time for an evil laugh: Muuuahhhahahahha! So thank you, CW for this fascinating psychological study on the affects of undue pressure on potential marital relationships. Who knew the CW had such quality programming?
It’s called Hitched or Ditched, and I’m pretty sure the execs at FOX are kicking themselves for not having thought of it first. This show finds couples that have been in long-term relationships, but for whatever reason have not yet gotten married. The “whatever reason” is usually something along the lines of they have no business being in a relationship together. Then the show forces them to choose whether or not to get married one week later standing at the altar at their dream wedding.
It’s more suspenseful than Hitchcock. To make things more wonderful, the happy couple has to tell their parents. The parents are the cherry on top of this beautiful disaster. This reminds me what I so love about reality TV- because real life is so much more bizarre than fiction. Who on earth could have dreamed these people up? And who on earth let them style themselves? This country is a fascinating place.
The greatest thing about this show is that it is literally engineered for disaster. And last night, at least, the douchebag actually broke up with his girlfriend in her wedding dress, surrounded by friends and family on national TV! I mean, it doesn’t even occur to him to have the decency to call the whole thing off and break up with her privately. Thank god a catch like that is back on the singles market.
Even the happiest, most well adjusted couples would crack under this kind of pressure. As if “’til death do us part” isn’t pressure enough. I think it’s a genius idea. If we forced more people to choose whether or not they wanted to marry each other in a week, we’d have a lot fewer marriages in this country. More parties, fewer marriages; the way life should be. Besides, wouldn’t weddings be more interesting if you didn’t know the outcome beforehand?
I think they should take it a step further. What I propose is that they round up all the Jewish and Indian mothers whose children aren’t married yet, have them invite the kids over for dinner, and force them to get married on the spot to a stranger the mother's have chosen for them. It could even involve kidnapping or gunpoint. I’d call it “Arranged or Your Mother Will Dismember You,” or “Oy Gavultz! Where are my Grand Bubbies already?!”
Pressure is a very powerful instrument. When applied correctly it can turn carbon into diamonds, which then, in turn, when put on someone’s finger, can create even more pressure. I think this is an appropriate time for an evil laugh: Muuuahhhahahahha! So thank you, CW for this fascinating psychological study on the affects of undue pressure on potential marital relationships. Who knew the CW had such quality programming?
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Frugality can Eat Me
Frugal is pretty much one of my least favorite words. It’s not even pretty. Fruuu-gal. Bleh. It sounds like the name of an ugly Germanic Troll whose job in life is to suck the fun out of everything. In action, it’s even less beautiful. There is a lot to be said for simplicity, but frugality is like simplicity’s evil stepsister. Simplicity allows for function and beauty, but frugality is all about denial and subsistence.
I mean, I appreciate being poor, because when one day I actually do have money (and unicorns roam the earth) I won’t waste it. I won’t stuff my home with useless things, like 47 soccer balls or every DVD at Target, although I may occasionally splurge on an antique typewriter. It’s called a lifestyle for a reason.
It’s nice to have nice things. This is America, after all. Land of the materialistic. Not that I’m living in the lap of luxury here by any means, but sometimes it’s all about the little things. I didn’t mind wearing Kmart shoes, or shopping the $5 rack at Old Navy (when I had money for shopping). I don’t mind buying generic sour cream. I don’t mind getting movies from the library instead of going to the movies. And I certainly don’t mind drinking at home instead of going out. But when it comes to my face, I don’t play.
I finally ran out of Clinique astringent. This is, as my friend Eli would say, a Greek tragedy. I think one of the reasons I never really had problems with my skin is because I’ve been using the Clinique skincare line religiously since I was 12. But I sooo do not have $25 for astringent right now (although amazingly I did have $25 for a pitcher of beer the other night… it’s about priorities people).
What I do have is a three year old half-empty bottle of witch hazel, left over from when my ex was convinced that we could make Clinique astringent at home for a fraction of the cost by merely reading the ingredients. He was wrong. By the way, frugal was one of his favorite words. Clearly, that match was not meant to last.
I’m all about DIY. I generally don’t buy anything I can make myself. But a superior product is a superior product. Does the witch hazel work better than Clinique? Hell no. Does it cost practically nothing? Sure does. That is frugality’s ugly little joke on us, and I for one, do not appreciate it.
However, desperate times call for desperate measures. So I’ll suck it up for now and make do. I just hope I’m not forced to make my own mouthwash next.
I mean, I appreciate being poor, because when one day I actually do have money (and unicorns roam the earth) I won’t waste it. I won’t stuff my home with useless things, like 47 soccer balls or every DVD at Target, although I may occasionally splurge on an antique typewriter. It’s called a lifestyle for a reason.
It’s nice to have nice things. This is America, after all. Land of the materialistic. Not that I’m living in the lap of luxury here by any means, but sometimes it’s all about the little things. I didn’t mind wearing Kmart shoes, or shopping the $5 rack at Old Navy (when I had money for shopping). I don’t mind buying generic sour cream. I don’t mind getting movies from the library instead of going to the movies. And I certainly don’t mind drinking at home instead of going out. But when it comes to my face, I don’t play.
I finally ran out of Clinique astringent. This is, as my friend Eli would say, a Greek tragedy. I think one of the reasons I never really had problems with my skin is because I’ve been using the Clinique skincare line religiously since I was 12. But I sooo do not have $25 for astringent right now (although amazingly I did have $25 for a pitcher of beer the other night… it’s about priorities people).
What I do have is a three year old half-empty bottle of witch hazel, left over from when my ex was convinced that we could make Clinique astringent at home for a fraction of the cost by merely reading the ingredients. He was wrong. By the way, frugal was one of his favorite words. Clearly, that match was not meant to last.
I’m all about DIY. I generally don’t buy anything I can make myself. But a superior product is a superior product. Does the witch hazel work better than Clinique? Hell no. Does it cost practically nothing? Sure does. That is frugality’s ugly little joke on us, and I for one, do not appreciate it.
However, desperate times call for desperate measures. So I’ll suck it up for now and make do. I just hope I’m not forced to make my own mouthwash next.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
My Hairy Baby
I have this cat, Otis, who pretty much the cutest mother loving thing and is like a son to me. I love him more than life itself, but he drives me completely insane. He is the reason I realize I’m so not ready to have children. I threaten to throttle him at least once a day. My roommate said the other day: You’re as anti-social as Otis is. No, actually Otis is as anti-social as I am. As it happens with pets and children, he has taken on my exact personality: loving and cuddly (about 10% of the time), demanding, loud, paranoid, obnoxious, distrusting, needy, easily startled and, of course, anti-social.
He’s always running away from loud noises or new people. The other day I opened a bottle of seltzer water and he ran under the bed. Really, Otis? Water?!?! You’re afraid of water??? And I can’t close any doors in the apartment. Not even the bathroom door, or he sits outside and cries. And as soon as he sees me getting dressed to go out, that’s when he demands the most attention.
He wears my patience down to a fine point, until it becomes sharp, like a weapon. He knows exactly when I begin trying to work, like right now, and that’s when he wants to play. This is his favorite game: First he cries like he’s just been stabbed through the chest, then when I stop what I’m doing to get up and play with him, he runs under the bed. I try to play with him, but he does nothing. Then I return to my desk to continue working, and it starts all over again. The game ends when I lose my temper.
His other favorite time of day is when I go to sleep. Usually, he is a cuddle bunny. He snuggles with me while I sleep, and it’s the sweetest thing, BUT when I get in bed one of two things happen. He wanders around the apartment howling like a tortured banshee, or he jumps on me every time I move, and bites and claws the hell out of any body part above the covers. Then when he eventually settles down to cuddle, I can’t move. Even if I turn sides, he gets up, walks on top of me, and resumes his position on the other side, which of course wakes me up, and makes me toss and turn all night.
But of course, there is no dysfunctional child without a dysfunctional mother. More than anything in the world, he is afraid of being caged, and riding in cars. But I can’t live without him, so he has to travel with me wherever I go. Have you ever had to travel with a cat through security at the airport? You have to take him out of the cage (which he barely fits into to begin with and let’s not talk about how fun it is to get him into said cage in the first place) and hold him as you go through security. Then you have to ask the security guard nicely if he’ll please help you get the claws out of your back so you can put the cat back in the cage. It’s a very trying experience for both of us.
But as mad as he makes me, we hate to be apart. We’ve had separation anxiety ever since he was a baby. If you can’t tell by now, I am a crazy cat lady. We have conversations. Here is a typical conversation:
Otis: Cheese, did I hear cheese?
Me: No, Otis you can’t have any cheese.
Otis: Did you say cheese? I see it. I smell it. Give it to me.
Me: No, Otis no cheese. You’re getting fat.
Otis: Cheeeeeeeesssse!
Me: Fine. Cheese.
Otis: Now come play with me in my room.
Me: No, Otis, Mommy has other things to do.
Otis: Please come play with me in my room?
Me: Otis, I have work to do! Come watch Mommy work.
Otis: Play with meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!
Me: Dammit Otis! I have work to do so you can have cheese to eat! I have to clean the whole house because you never lift a finger t o help me and you only hide under the bed when you want to play!
Otis: Cheese?
Me: Don’t meow me when I’m holding a knife!
Otis: Meow.
I told you I was crazy. This conversation is pretty much verbatim, except what most people hear when Otis speaks is, “Meow.” But I happen to be a very gifted pet psychic. Or, he has literally driven me to the point of insanity with his incessant meowing. But I won’t kill him yet. Because the people that make you most crazy are the ones you love the most.
He’s always running away from loud noises or new people. The other day I opened a bottle of seltzer water and he ran under the bed. Really, Otis? Water?!?! You’re afraid of water??? And I can’t close any doors in the apartment. Not even the bathroom door, or he sits outside and cries. And as soon as he sees me getting dressed to go out, that’s when he demands the most attention.
He wears my patience down to a fine point, until it becomes sharp, like a weapon. He knows exactly when I begin trying to work, like right now, and that’s when he wants to play. This is his favorite game: First he cries like he’s just been stabbed through the chest, then when I stop what I’m doing to get up and play with him, he runs under the bed. I try to play with him, but he does nothing. Then I return to my desk to continue working, and it starts all over again. The game ends when I lose my temper.
His other favorite time of day is when I go to sleep. Usually, he is a cuddle bunny. He snuggles with me while I sleep, and it’s the sweetest thing, BUT when I get in bed one of two things happen. He wanders around the apartment howling like a tortured banshee, or he jumps on me every time I move, and bites and claws the hell out of any body part above the covers. Then when he eventually settles down to cuddle, I can’t move. Even if I turn sides, he gets up, walks on top of me, and resumes his position on the other side, which of course wakes me up, and makes me toss and turn all night.
But of course, there is no dysfunctional child without a dysfunctional mother. More than anything in the world, he is afraid of being caged, and riding in cars. But I can’t live without him, so he has to travel with me wherever I go. Have you ever had to travel with a cat through security at the airport? You have to take him out of the cage (which he barely fits into to begin with and let’s not talk about how fun it is to get him into said cage in the first place) and hold him as you go through security. Then you have to ask the security guard nicely if he’ll please help you get the claws out of your back so you can put the cat back in the cage. It’s a very trying experience for both of us.
But as mad as he makes me, we hate to be apart. We’ve had separation anxiety ever since he was a baby. If you can’t tell by now, I am a crazy cat lady. We have conversations. Here is a typical conversation:
Otis: Cheese, did I hear cheese?
Me: No, Otis you can’t have any cheese.
Otis: Did you say cheese? I see it. I smell it. Give it to me.
Me: No, Otis no cheese. You’re getting fat.
Otis: Cheeeeeeeesssse!
Me: Fine. Cheese.
Otis: Now come play with me in my room.
Me: No, Otis, Mommy has other things to do.
Otis: Please come play with me in my room?
Me: Otis, I have work to do! Come watch Mommy work.
Otis: Play with meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!
Me: Dammit Otis! I have work to do so you can have cheese to eat! I have to clean the whole house because you never lift a finger t o help me and you only hide under the bed when you want to play!
Otis: Cheese?
Me: Don’t meow me when I’m holding a knife!
Otis: Meow.
I told you I was crazy. This conversation is pretty much verbatim, except what most people hear when Otis speaks is, “Meow.” But I happen to be a very gifted pet psychic. Or, he has literally driven me to the point of insanity with his incessant meowing. But I won’t kill him yet. Because the people that make you most crazy are the ones you love the most.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Top Ten Reasons I Love Being Single
My roommate and I were having a conversation a few weeks ago. “Where’s your girlfriend?’ I asked, since I was shocked to see him by himself. They literally spend every moment together. Some might find that kind of relationship cloying. They work together. they’re together every night, they even do his laundry together. I wouldn’t be surprised if they wipe each other in the bathroom. “She’s coming over later,” he said. “Don’t you ever get tired of that?” I asked. “No,” he said. “Haven’t you ever met someone you wanted to spend every second with?” My skin is still crawling.
A lot of people have been coming to me for relationship advice recently (or have I just been telling people what to do again?). I have no problem, okay, limited problems with relationships in general, but I definitely have a problem with relationships for the wrong reasons. Question number one for you is “Why am I in this relationship?” I will tell you the correct answers at the end of this article.
Either way, my answer to any and all relationship questions is, “Break up with them.” Not (necessarily) because I’m bitter or because I don’t believe in love. I’m sure that a healthy relationship can be very fulfilling. But many times people will stay in unhealthy relationships and play pretend that everything is going to work out because they’re afraid to be alone. That’s one way to do it. I have another suggestion.
Break up with them. Breaking up with someone is the best thing you can do for yourself. Not only is it a fantastic diet, but it strips away all the layers of supposed external satisfaction and achievement, and breaks you down to the very core of your being. A lot of people like to avoid this because it brings you face to face with yourself, with the reality of who you are, and most of the time, it ain’t pretty. I like to call this “The Cocoon of Pain.”
Then, you rebuild. You fix all those ugly things you saw about yourself. It’s an opportunity to become a better person, a person wholly unfathomable to the person you were. You become strong from the inside out. Because once and only once you’re strong and happy as an individual, can you be happy in a relationship. I mean really peacefully eternally truthfully satisfied, not fantasy/infatuation/endorphin-induced blindly “happy.” (You know who you are. Please stop making out on public transportation. You nauseate the rest of us.)
And being single is a ball, let me tell you. Every time you people call me and complain about your boyfriend, I thank my lucky stars I don’t have to put up with anyone’s bullshit but my own. You come into this world alone, you leave it alone, so get comfortable with it. You’ll find out it’s pretty fantastic. Will I be single forever? Probably, it’s pretty awesome. And maybe one day down the road I’ll meet a boy who has his shit together and isn’t a jerk or a moron and is happy just by himself. When that day comes, I’ll jump out of my wheelchair and do a dance.
Here are some of the more petty things I enjoy about being single:
1. I don’t have to share anything. Ever.
2. I can spend as much time as I like getting ready to go somewhere without anyone getting on my case about it.
3. No one tells me I have too many shoes.
4. Life is a sexual smorgasbord.
5. I don’t have to watch Mythbusters or Cartoon Network.
6. If I snore, no one wakes me up to tell me about it.
7. I don’t have to goad anyone to clean their ears or clip their toenails.
8. No one tries to get me to go camping.
9. I do it right. Every time.
10. I can sing along to Sister Act II without the fear of being mocked by people who clearly don’t understand the genius of Sister Act II.
Many of you will read this and agree with me in principle and then go back to “Why won’t he call me,” or “He said he’ll never cheat again.” That’s your prerogative. Relationships are complicated and I can’t tell you what’s best for you. But I will anyway. Break up with him. Remember when I asked you why are you in this relationship? Do you have your answer ready? Ok, tell me.
That’s bullshit. If your answer begins with “because,” then it’s the wrong answer. Do yourself a favor and listen to your Aunty Foxy. Break up with him. If it's really meant to be, it'll work itself out in the big somewhere out there. But for now, you need to dump his ass.
On a side note, I will be starting a website called “Ask Foxy,” where you can write to me with any and all of your little problems, be they relationship, health, beauty, style, etiquette, or existential, and I will give you my unadulterated answer. Because everyone needs a little of me in their lives.
A lot of people have been coming to me for relationship advice recently (or have I just been telling people what to do again?). I have no problem, okay, limited problems with relationships in general, but I definitely have a problem with relationships for the wrong reasons. Question number one for you is “Why am I in this relationship?” I will tell you the correct answers at the end of this article.
Either way, my answer to any and all relationship questions is, “Break up with them.” Not (necessarily) because I’m bitter or because I don’t believe in love. I’m sure that a healthy relationship can be very fulfilling. But many times people will stay in unhealthy relationships and play pretend that everything is going to work out because they’re afraid to be alone. That’s one way to do it. I have another suggestion.
Break up with them. Breaking up with someone is the best thing you can do for yourself. Not only is it a fantastic diet, but it strips away all the layers of supposed external satisfaction and achievement, and breaks you down to the very core of your being. A lot of people like to avoid this because it brings you face to face with yourself, with the reality of who you are, and most of the time, it ain’t pretty. I like to call this “The Cocoon of Pain.”
Then, you rebuild. You fix all those ugly things you saw about yourself. It’s an opportunity to become a better person, a person wholly unfathomable to the person you were. You become strong from the inside out. Because once and only once you’re strong and happy as an individual, can you be happy in a relationship. I mean really peacefully eternally truthfully satisfied, not fantasy/infatuation/endorphin-induced blindly “happy.” (You know who you are. Please stop making out on public transportation. You nauseate the rest of us.)
And being single is a ball, let me tell you. Every time you people call me and complain about your boyfriend, I thank my lucky stars I don’t have to put up with anyone’s bullshit but my own. You come into this world alone, you leave it alone, so get comfortable with it. You’ll find out it’s pretty fantastic. Will I be single forever? Probably, it’s pretty awesome. And maybe one day down the road I’ll meet a boy who has his shit together and isn’t a jerk or a moron and is happy just by himself. When that day comes, I’ll jump out of my wheelchair and do a dance.
Here are some of the more petty things I enjoy about being single:
1. I don’t have to share anything. Ever.
2. I can spend as much time as I like getting ready to go somewhere without anyone getting on my case about it.
3. No one tells me I have too many shoes.
4. Life is a sexual smorgasbord.
5. I don’t have to watch Mythbusters or Cartoon Network.
6. If I snore, no one wakes me up to tell me about it.
7. I don’t have to goad anyone to clean their ears or clip their toenails.
8. No one tries to get me to go camping.
9. I do it right. Every time.
10. I can sing along to Sister Act II without the fear of being mocked by people who clearly don’t understand the genius of Sister Act II.
Many of you will read this and agree with me in principle and then go back to “Why won’t he call me,” or “He said he’ll never cheat again.” That’s your prerogative. Relationships are complicated and I can’t tell you what’s best for you. But I will anyway. Break up with him. Remember when I asked you why are you in this relationship? Do you have your answer ready? Ok, tell me.
That’s bullshit. If your answer begins with “because,” then it’s the wrong answer. Do yourself a favor and listen to your Aunty Foxy. Break up with him. If it's really meant to be, it'll work itself out in the big somewhere out there. But for now, you need to dump his ass.
On a side note, I will be starting a website called “Ask Foxy,” where you can write to me with any and all of your little problems, be they relationship, health, beauty, style, etiquette, or existential, and I will give you my unadulterated answer. Because everyone needs a little of me in their lives.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Hair Chem 101
A lot of people objected to the use of the term “ghetto” in the title of this blog, but what I have to say to them is, I slept with a plastic bag on my head last night. I’m qualified.
It all started about nine months ago. I had decided, on a lark, to enter a beauty pageant. And, I further decided, if I am going to compete in a beauty pageant, I’m going full-throttle, so I decided it was time to be blond again. And god sent me an angel in the form of my new colorist (who has since deserted me to pursue her own life- the selfish bitch) who got me blonder than I’ve been since I was ten and my hair was whiter than the driven snow (with green chlorine highlights).
Can I just say, I love being blond. I love it, I love it, I love it, I love it, I love it, I love it. When my colorist would rinse me in the sink and the overwhelming stench of ammonia smacked me in the nostrils like a pimp with a pistol, I found heaven. “More blond!” I kept saying. As a result, my hair got a little fried.
So now, with no colorist left to indulge my jones for peroxide, god has sent me another angel; a friend whose father is African and who knows a bit about troubled hair. She is my hair guru. And boy did I need her. So she took me to hair mecca- the beauty supply store. Since I live in the ghetto (or in a luxury high-rise with a swimming pool and tennis courts adjacent to the ghetto, if you want to be precise) there were two such stores not five minutes from my house across the street from each other.
Beauty may be pain, but hair care is a science. Why didn’t they teach this stuff in school? So much more practical than anything I ever leaned in chemistry. Apparently, there’s all this really intense cellular structure, but here is what is boils down to: Protein makes the inside of your hair strong, and keratin makes the outside of your hair strong. Your hair must have both protein and moisture to be healthy. Not too much protein, or too much moisture. Just like Goldilocks, it must be just right. Also, during the course of my investigation, I discovered that sex is good for stimulating healthy hair growth because it increases blood flow in your scalp. You’re welcome.
If you have very little self-control, a beauty supply store is not the place you should be. They have brushes of every shape and size, weave of every color and texture, and make-up and jewelry and nail polish, oh my! It’s a magical place. Everything is so cheap it’s nearly irresistible. I managed to walk out with only a minor amount of damage, and a new hair care regime: a keratin spray for post-shower, a can of oil for when I have to blow dry, a daily protein conditioner, weekly deep conditioner (which I am to wear while I am sleeping with a plastic bag on my head), and a new tube of lipstick.
After all, just because my hair’s a mess, doesn’t mean the rest of me should be.
It all started about nine months ago. I had decided, on a lark, to enter a beauty pageant. And, I further decided, if I am going to compete in a beauty pageant, I’m going full-throttle, so I decided it was time to be blond again. And god sent me an angel in the form of my new colorist (who has since deserted me to pursue her own life- the selfish bitch) who got me blonder than I’ve been since I was ten and my hair was whiter than the driven snow (with green chlorine highlights).
Can I just say, I love being blond. I love it, I love it, I love it, I love it, I love it, I love it. When my colorist would rinse me in the sink and the overwhelming stench of ammonia smacked me in the nostrils like a pimp with a pistol, I found heaven. “More blond!” I kept saying. As a result, my hair got a little fried.
So now, with no colorist left to indulge my jones for peroxide, god has sent me another angel; a friend whose father is African and who knows a bit about troubled hair. She is my hair guru. And boy did I need her. So she took me to hair mecca- the beauty supply store. Since I live in the ghetto (or in a luxury high-rise with a swimming pool and tennis courts adjacent to the ghetto, if you want to be precise) there were two such stores not five minutes from my house across the street from each other.
Beauty may be pain, but hair care is a science. Why didn’t they teach this stuff in school? So much more practical than anything I ever leaned in chemistry. Apparently, there’s all this really intense cellular structure, but here is what is boils down to: Protein makes the inside of your hair strong, and keratin makes the outside of your hair strong. Your hair must have both protein and moisture to be healthy. Not too much protein, or too much moisture. Just like Goldilocks, it must be just right. Also, during the course of my investigation, I discovered that sex is good for stimulating healthy hair growth because it increases blood flow in your scalp. You’re welcome.
If you have very little self-control, a beauty supply store is not the place you should be. They have brushes of every shape and size, weave of every color and texture, and make-up and jewelry and nail polish, oh my! It’s a magical place. Everything is so cheap it’s nearly irresistible. I managed to walk out with only a minor amount of damage, and a new hair care regime: a keratin spray for post-shower, a can of oil for when I have to blow dry, a daily protein conditioner, weekly deep conditioner (which I am to wear while I am sleeping with a plastic bag on my head), and a new tube of lipstick.
After all, just because my hair’s a mess, doesn’t mean the rest of me should be.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Blow (Dry, that is)
While Tabitha’s Salon Takeover is in re-runs, I’ve had to go elsewhere to get my hair salon fix. There are quite a few movies deal with the subject of getting your hair did. It all started, back in 1975, with Warren Beatty in Shampoo. Then you have your trailer/beauty salon in Steel Magnolias. And of course the slew of nearly indistinguishable Beauty Parlor movies starring Queen Latifah, Vivica A. Fox, and my girl Mo’Nique, now showing on BET about women who finally open their own salon only to have circumstance or some trifling ho try to take it away from them, but in the end they prevail. Let’s not forget all those Barbershop movies, either.
But I am happy to announce that I have found, quite possibly, the best hair movie of all. For me to call something the best, you know it has to be seriously ridiculous. It’s called Blow Dry. Apparently it came out in 2001, but that’s news to me. It combines the best of the Salon genre, with the best of the Competition film genre (think Best in Show but with people instead of dogs). It’s a movie about a hair competition (Mo’Nique sit down girl. Yes, I know that’s what your movie was about. This one came out first. Sit your ass down!) from the same director who brought us The Full Monty.
Here’s an overview of the plot: Britain’s (oh, did I mention it’s a British movie?) top hair competition comes to a small town where, former champion and competition drop out Phil (played by Alan Rickman) runs a small barbershop with his son (Josh Hartnett). His ex-wife (Natasha Richardson) and her lesbian lover/ Phil’s former hair model Sandra (Rachel Griffiths) run a salon across town. Natasha Richardson wants the whole family (not currently on speaking terms) to enter the competition like old times, but Phil refuses. Phil has to face his past as Ray Robertson (Bill Nighy- for those of you who don’t know him by name, he’s the rock star from Love Actually), the current champion will win at any cost. Things get complicated when Ray’s daughter Christina (Rachael Leigh Cook) reunites with Josh Hartnett, her childhood crush.
Now, let me just say, that this movie is sublime. Josh Hartnett with his fake British accent and his big puppy dog eyes is so damn cute you want to pinch him, although, what he is doing in this movie is anyone’s guess. Rachael Leigh Cook, is, as usual, so robotic you want to slap her. Bill Nighy is unbelievably charismatic as usual, and wears more glitter in his hair than kindergartners spill on the floor during craft hour. There’s enough drama and star power that the movie could sail by just on that. But, if it did, I wouldn’t be writing about it…
Did I mention that Heidi Klum has a supporting role? Not only does she get some serious screen time, but at one point, and I don’t want to ruin it, but… she wears a merkin. For those of you unacquainted with this term, a merkin is a pubic wig. But wait for it… the merkin is in the shape of a giant red heart. And, the “Total Look” created for the end of the competition is absolutely surreal and involves a skull tattoo, a lot of gold leaf and a hair topiary. Also, Josh Hartnett has a part time job styling the hair of the deceased at the local funeral parlor, which is just about my all time favorite movie job.
Any movie that sets a love scene in a funeral home gets two thumbs up from me.
But I am happy to announce that I have found, quite possibly, the best hair movie of all. For me to call something the best, you know it has to be seriously ridiculous. It’s called Blow Dry. Apparently it came out in 2001, but that’s news to me. It combines the best of the Salon genre, with the best of the Competition film genre (think Best in Show but with people instead of dogs). It’s a movie about a hair competition (Mo’Nique sit down girl. Yes, I know that’s what your movie was about. This one came out first. Sit your ass down!) from the same director who brought us The Full Monty.
Here’s an overview of the plot: Britain’s (oh, did I mention it’s a British movie?) top hair competition comes to a small town where, former champion and competition drop out Phil (played by Alan Rickman) runs a small barbershop with his son (Josh Hartnett). His ex-wife (Natasha Richardson) and her lesbian lover/ Phil’s former hair model Sandra (Rachel Griffiths) run a salon across town. Natasha Richardson wants the whole family (not currently on speaking terms) to enter the competition like old times, but Phil refuses. Phil has to face his past as Ray Robertson (Bill Nighy- for those of you who don’t know him by name, he’s the rock star from Love Actually), the current champion will win at any cost. Things get complicated when Ray’s daughter Christina (Rachael Leigh Cook) reunites with Josh Hartnett, her childhood crush.
Now, let me just say, that this movie is sublime. Josh Hartnett with his fake British accent and his big puppy dog eyes is so damn cute you want to pinch him, although, what he is doing in this movie is anyone’s guess. Rachael Leigh Cook, is, as usual, so robotic you want to slap her. Bill Nighy is unbelievably charismatic as usual, and wears more glitter in his hair than kindergartners spill on the floor during craft hour. There’s enough drama and star power that the movie could sail by just on that. But, if it did, I wouldn’t be writing about it…
Did I mention that Heidi Klum has a supporting role? Not only does she get some serious screen time, but at one point, and I don’t want to ruin it, but… she wears a merkin. For those of you unacquainted with this term, a merkin is a pubic wig. But wait for it… the merkin is in the shape of a giant red heart. And, the “Total Look” created for the end of the competition is absolutely surreal and involves a skull tattoo, a lot of gold leaf and a hair topiary. Also, Josh Hartnett has a part time job styling the hair of the deceased at the local funeral parlor, which is just about my all time favorite movie job.
Any movie that sets a love scene in a funeral home gets two thumbs up from me.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
A Civilized Bush
Today, we will be discussing horticulture. (Dad, this would be a great article for you to skip.) I am not talking about gardening if you get my drift.
I think it is important for all of us to be well maintained. There are several reasons for this. First of all, bathing suit season is upon us, and it’s just rude to walk around with your bush hanging out of your bikini. The same way it’s rude for those of you who don’t shave your armpits. I get it, with the feminism, but nobody wants to see that. Secondly, the more prepared you are for sex, the more likely you are to have it. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, it’s in your best interest to make that an inviting area- a place someone would like to spend some quality time. Plus, its helpful for them to be able to see what they’re working with- most of them have plenty of trouble down there as it is.
I’m a big proponent of the “bush is back” movement. No offense to you ladies, because I’m sure a lot of you are bare down there, but it’s just so not my thing. Pre-pubescent is a look that went out with me a long time ago. Not to mention that that hair is there for a reason. I can’t imagine how badly you get chaffed. But while I do endorse a healthy growth, too much bush is just too much. Think more Halle Berry, less Pam Grier.
And gentleman, no one is leaving you out of this conversation. Puh-lease take care of your business. Trim and clean boys, that’s all you need to remember. Keep it trim and for god’s sake, keep it clean.
Not all of the hair gets to stay though. As a guideline, think back to kindergarten coloring: stay inside the lines. There are several methods for hair removal, and all of them suck. Let’s discuss them one by one.
Waxing: I’m a girl who never says never, but when it comes to waxing, never is the first word that comes to mind. Why on earth would I pay $40 every month to have someone rip my pubic hair out with hot wax? I mean, I’m kinky, but that’s just wrong. Just. Plain. Wrong. Moving on.
Shaving: Great for the moment but hell later on. Instant and painless but shaving is problematic for several reasons. Firstly, it’s not an area with high visibility. Secondly, you shave with razors. Razors are sharp. I try to avoid contact between sharp metal objects and my genitals. Thirdly, the itch factor- it’s impossible to get through the day when you’re that itchy in that area (diaper rash ointment helps).
Trimming: Scissors also fall under the “sharp objects don’t belong near my genitals” category. Generally the best way to keep things in line, but still doesn’t take care of the “outside the lines” hair. Which brings me to my next topic…
Tweezing: I like tweezing. I find it therapeutic (because I have OCD). Tweezing is more controlled and less “kill me now” painful than waxing. However, tweezing down there just makes them angry. And when they get angry, they make you miserable. Two words for you: Ingrown Hair.
So really there’s no great way to go around this. Pick your poison, but take care of business. A little discomfort is no reason to let your shit get all out of whack. See you at the beach.
I think it is important for all of us to be well maintained. There are several reasons for this. First of all, bathing suit season is upon us, and it’s just rude to walk around with your bush hanging out of your bikini. The same way it’s rude for those of you who don’t shave your armpits. I get it, with the feminism, but nobody wants to see that. Secondly, the more prepared you are for sex, the more likely you are to have it. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, it’s in your best interest to make that an inviting area- a place someone would like to spend some quality time. Plus, its helpful for them to be able to see what they’re working with- most of them have plenty of trouble down there as it is.
I’m a big proponent of the “bush is back” movement. No offense to you ladies, because I’m sure a lot of you are bare down there, but it’s just so not my thing. Pre-pubescent is a look that went out with me a long time ago. Not to mention that that hair is there for a reason. I can’t imagine how badly you get chaffed. But while I do endorse a healthy growth, too much bush is just too much. Think more Halle Berry, less Pam Grier.
And gentleman, no one is leaving you out of this conversation. Puh-lease take care of your business. Trim and clean boys, that’s all you need to remember. Keep it trim and for god’s sake, keep it clean.
Not all of the hair gets to stay though. As a guideline, think back to kindergarten coloring: stay inside the lines. There are several methods for hair removal, and all of them suck. Let’s discuss them one by one.
Waxing: I’m a girl who never says never, but when it comes to waxing, never is the first word that comes to mind. Why on earth would I pay $40 every month to have someone rip my pubic hair out with hot wax? I mean, I’m kinky, but that’s just wrong. Just. Plain. Wrong. Moving on.
Shaving: Great for the moment but hell later on. Instant and painless but shaving is problematic for several reasons. Firstly, it’s not an area with high visibility. Secondly, you shave with razors. Razors are sharp. I try to avoid contact between sharp metal objects and my genitals. Thirdly, the itch factor- it’s impossible to get through the day when you’re that itchy in that area (diaper rash ointment helps).
Trimming: Scissors also fall under the “sharp objects don’t belong near my genitals” category. Generally the best way to keep things in line, but still doesn’t take care of the “outside the lines” hair. Which brings me to my next topic…
Tweezing: I like tweezing. I find it therapeutic (because I have OCD). Tweezing is more controlled and less “kill me now” painful than waxing. However, tweezing down there just makes them angry. And when they get angry, they make you miserable. Two words for you: Ingrown Hair.
So really there’s no great way to go around this. Pick your poison, but take care of business. A little discomfort is no reason to let your shit get all out of whack. See you at the beach.
Monday, May 18, 2009
F-F-F-F-Freezing
There’s nothing I hate more than being cold… except being wet and cold. I’m sure this all stems from the time I was a competitive swimmer. Competitive swimming means swim practice all year long, and at the time I happened to live in Florida. Swimming in Florida means swimming outdoors, because why would you need an indoor pool in Florida? And although you may think, BFD, it doesn’t get that cold in Florida, let me tell you that it does.
In Florida, in December, when the sun has gone down, it can get down to 30 degrees or so. When you’re practically naked and barefoot on cement, you feel it. When you’re practically naked and swimming in a large body of unheated water for two hours at a stretch, and you can’t feel your toes or your fingers, and the only way to warm up momentarily is to pee on yourself, it’s pretty damn cold. The worst thing to do in this situation (besides thinking about how many other people are urinating in the water) is to stand above the heater. Those few seconds of warmth are glorious, but the second you have to move, it’s excruciating.
I think one of the reasons that I left my ex was because I was so damn cold. We were living together during the second winter of my unemployment. Come to think of it, I lived with him during the first winter of my unemployment too. Him, his five roommates, their dog and me all lived together in a 300-year old house. During the day, everyone would go off to work, and to save money on heat, they would shut it off while they weren’t home. Guess who’s unemployed ass was home during the day. I didn’t want to get out of bed in the first place, but when you shut off the heat in a house that only gets to a max of 60 (they literally wouldn’t set the thermostat higher than 68) degrees in the winter, you definitely want to stay in bed all day (in your pajamas, a sweatshirt, two pairs of socks, slippers, a hat, and two quilts).
I used to think those old claw-footed bathtubs were romantic and beautiful, until I had to live with one. Let’s do the math here: Porcelain tub + Drafty Victorian House + Huge Glass Window + Flimsy Curtains + Cheap Ass Roommates who Refuse to Pay for Decent Heat + Tile Floor + Five Minutes of “Hot” Water + Dead of New England Winter = My own personal hell.
Not only was all this loveliness going on, but also the showerhead was European style, which means handheld, AND there was no hook to hang it on, which meant for the five torturous minutes twice a week that I forced myself to peel off all my protective layers and stand in this filthy, freezing “shower,” at no time could both my head and my feet be warm. So if the water was on my head, the rest of my body was freezing, and if I tried to warm the rest of my body, the water on my head started to freeze. There was little time between shivering and cursing for soap or shampoo and there was NO time to shave before the water turned ice cold.
Living conditions, if you could call them that, were, as you can see, miserable. One day, the shower actually made me cry. There I was, stiff, naked, freezing, hugging myself, standing on my tip-toes and holding the trickling lukewarm water above my head and sobbing because I was sooo cold. My body still tenses up at the memory of that shower. So I kicked its ass to the curb. Amazingly enough, that shower isn’t the worst thing that bathroom ever did to me, but that’s a whole other story.
My new shower is amazing. First of all, my rent includes heat and hot water. And the water in my building gets scalding hot- just the way I like it. Don’t even get me started on my showerhead (three speeds). While Scarlett may have vowed to herself that she’d never be hungry again, I promised myself that no shower would ever again make me cry.
In Florida, in December, when the sun has gone down, it can get down to 30 degrees or so. When you’re practically naked and barefoot on cement, you feel it. When you’re practically naked and swimming in a large body of unheated water for two hours at a stretch, and you can’t feel your toes or your fingers, and the only way to warm up momentarily is to pee on yourself, it’s pretty damn cold. The worst thing to do in this situation (besides thinking about how many other people are urinating in the water) is to stand above the heater. Those few seconds of warmth are glorious, but the second you have to move, it’s excruciating.
I think one of the reasons that I left my ex was because I was so damn cold. We were living together during the second winter of my unemployment. Come to think of it, I lived with him during the first winter of my unemployment too. Him, his five roommates, their dog and me all lived together in a 300-year old house. During the day, everyone would go off to work, and to save money on heat, they would shut it off while they weren’t home. Guess who’s unemployed ass was home during the day. I didn’t want to get out of bed in the first place, but when you shut off the heat in a house that only gets to a max of 60 (they literally wouldn’t set the thermostat higher than 68) degrees in the winter, you definitely want to stay in bed all day (in your pajamas, a sweatshirt, two pairs of socks, slippers, a hat, and two quilts).
I used to think those old claw-footed bathtubs were romantic and beautiful, until I had to live with one. Let’s do the math here: Porcelain tub + Drafty Victorian House + Huge Glass Window + Flimsy Curtains + Cheap Ass Roommates who Refuse to Pay for Decent Heat + Tile Floor + Five Minutes of “Hot” Water + Dead of New England Winter = My own personal hell.
Not only was all this loveliness going on, but also the showerhead was European style, which means handheld, AND there was no hook to hang it on, which meant for the five torturous minutes twice a week that I forced myself to peel off all my protective layers and stand in this filthy, freezing “shower,” at no time could both my head and my feet be warm. So if the water was on my head, the rest of my body was freezing, and if I tried to warm the rest of my body, the water on my head started to freeze. There was little time between shivering and cursing for soap or shampoo and there was NO time to shave before the water turned ice cold.
Living conditions, if you could call them that, were, as you can see, miserable. One day, the shower actually made me cry. There I was, stiff, naked, freezing, hugging myself, standing on my tip-toes and holding the trickling lukewarm water above my head and sobbing because I was sooo cold. My body still tenses up at the memory of that shower. So I kicked its ass to the curb. Amazingly enough, that shower isn’t the worst thing that bathroom ever did to me, but that’s a whole other story.
My new shower is amazing. First of all, my rent includes heat and hot water. And the water in my building gets scalding hot- just the way I like it. Don’t even get me started on my showerhead (three speeds). While Scarlett may have vowed to herself that she’d never be hungry again, I promised myself that no shower would ever again make me cry.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Ghetto Princess Points
I’ve been achieving many a life goal recently. No, I still haven’t read Madame Bovary in the original French. And, no, I haven’t had, like, any professional success, but I finally achieved my dream of singing “Total Eclipse of the Heart” at karaoke. (I rocked it, by the way.) And, I am finally on my way to becoming a black girl.
Before everyone's panties get all twisted up, when I say “black” I’m not talking about a race as much as an attitude or state of mind, the “Oh heeeeeeellllll naw” or “Oh no you di’ent” state of mind if you will (with accompanying neck roll and snapping). I know many African-Americans who are not “black,” and I know many Caucasians who are. Hell, I’m from Tampa. Everybody’s black in Tampa. And in Tampa, we will cut a bitch.
During my most recent bout of unemployment (unemployment to me is like allergies to others… it never really goes away, but at certain times of the year it gets real bad), I ended up watching a lot of BET. Between viewings of Blackbusters like Soul Plane (Snoop’s performance is inspired) and Three Can Play That Game (not anywhere near as prolific as the immortal Two Can Play That Game), I started watching a show called Hell Date.
Hell Date, if you haven’t seen it, is BET’s spin on a dating show. Its host is a midget in a devil costume, and the prospective suitors are deliberately outrageous in order to get the girl to react. If the girl says she's looking for someone independent, the man will be on the phone with his mama during dinner. If the girl loves animals, the man will pretend to be a hunter who eats bloody steak. The girl thinks she’s on a date from Hell (hence the title) until some time during dinner, when it couldn't possibly get more awkward, the midget in the devil costume pops out of nowhere and thrusts his pitchfork at her while screaming “You’re on Hell Date!”
What I love about Hell Date is not the show itself, or even the midget host in the devil costume (although I do think he’s pretty wonderful), it’s the way the girls react to these situations. What I love about black girls is they say the most obvious things, but things that would never occur to me to say. For instance, if I was on a date with a man who was eating bloody steak and dipping it in milk, I would excuse myself, vomit quietly into my napkin and continue making small talk. But a black girl in the same situation would say, “You like that blood, huh? Boy you crazy.” Situation handled. That's the beauty of this show. You can't put one over on a black girl. She will call your ass out. My reaction would be something like, "Oh dear me, thank goodness it was all a hoax! I almost believed that man to be truly uncouth."
I’m blown away by how forthright and no-nonsense these girls are. My people like to play a game called “If we don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist.” But it’s like black girls are constantly playing a game of “Bullshit.” Call it out, gurl. Call it out. Plus, they don’t bullshit with their feelings. Country Club white people believe that you choose your feelings to suit the situation according to what Emily Post recommends. My people are retarded. Where was my strong black mother who was supposed to teach me not stand for injustice or insult? Why instead do I know how to properly use a shrimp fork?
My roommate walked out of his room last weekend wearing what I can only describe as the most hideous pair of shorts I’ve ever seen. They were neon-green nylon/vinyl with some kind of large spray-painted camouflage print. “Do these fit right?” he asks me. “Is that a bathing suit?” I asked, blinking because I was at once awe-struck by the awfulness and blinded by the neon. “No, they’re shorts,” he says. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Yeah,” he says. “Do you like them?” “Where are you going to wear them?” I asked. “Around the house, or maybe to the Mac store. People wear crazy things there.” “You’re going to go, not only out in public, but to work in those?” I said. “What’s wrong with that?” he asked genuinely. The problem was that he was really jazzed about these shorts. He thought these shorts were really cool. “Because those are the fucking ugliest shorts I’ve ever seen,” I said.
He ran to his room and came back with another pair of shorts exactly the same as the first pair, but these were covered in a pattern of boom boxes. “Does that mean you don’t like these either?” he asked me. And then I laughed in his face. I just could not stop laughing. That’s what I thought of them. And I told him to his face just what I thought of them. And then I told him to get them out of my sight, return them to TJ Maxx, and never go shopping without a chaperone again.
Step One to being a black girl: giving someone your honest and unedited opinion when they are acting a fool- whether they ask for it or not. The next step- tackling conflict head on, or “I’ma handle my bid’ness.” Snap.
Before everyone's panties get all twisted up, when I say “black” I’m not talking about a race as much as an attitude or state of mind, the “Oh heeeeeeellllll naw” or “Oh no you di’ent” state of mind if you will (with accompanying neck roll and snapping). I know many African-Americans who are not “black,” and I know many Caucasians who are. Hell, I’m from Tampa. Everybody’s black in Tampa. And in Tampa, we will cut a bitch.
During my most recent bout of unemployment (unemployment to me is like allergies to others… it never really goes away, but at certain times of the year it gets real bad), I ended up watching a lot of BET. Between viewings of Blackbusters like Soul Plane (Snoop’s performance is inspired) and Three Can Play That Game (not anywhere near as prolific as the immortal Two Can Play That Game), I started watching a show called Hell Date.
Hell Date, if you haven’t seen it, is BET’s spin on a dating show. Its host is a midget in a devil costume, and the prospective suitors are deliberately outrageous in order to get the girl to react. If the girl says she's looking for someone independent, the man will be on the phone with his mama during dinner. If the girl loves animals, the man will pretend to be a hunter who eats bloody steak. The girl thinks she’s on a date from Hell (hence the title) until some time during dinner, when it couldn't possibly get more awkward, the midget in the devil costume pops out of nowhere and thrusts his pitchfork at her while screaming “You’re on Hell Date!”
What I love about Hell Date is not the show itself, or even the midget host in the devil costume (although I do think he’s pretty wonderful), it’s the way the girls react to these situations. What I love about black girls is they say the most obvious things, but things that would never occur to me to say. For instance, if I was on a date with a man who was eating bloody steak and dipping it in milk, I would excuse myself, vomit quietly into my napkin and continue making small talk. But a black girl in the same situation would say, “You like that blood, huh? Boy you crazy.” Situation handled. That's the beauty of this show. You can't put one over on a black girl. She will call your ass out. My reaction would be something like, "Oh dear me, thank goodness it was all a hoax! I almost believed that man to be truly uncouth."
I’m blown away by how forthright and no-nonsense these girls are. My people like to play a game called “If we don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist.” But it’s like black girls are constantly playing a game of “Bullshit.” Call it out, gurl. Call it out. Plus, they don’t bullshit with their feelings. Country Club white people believe that you choose your feelings to suit the situation according to what Emily Post recommends. My people are retarded. Where was my strong black mother who was supposed to teach me not stand for injustice or insult? Why instead do I know how to properly use a shrimp fork?
My roommate walked out of his room last weekend wearing what I can only describe as the most hideous pair of shorts I’ve ever seen. They were neon-green nylon/vinyl with some kind of large spray-painted camouflage print. “Do these fit right?” he asks me. “Is that a bathing suit?” I asked, blinking because I was at once awe-struck by the awfulness and blinded by the neon. “No, they’re shorts,” he says. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Yeah,” he says. “Do you like them?” “Where are you going to wear them?” I asked. “Around the house, or maybe to the Mac store. People wear crazy things there.” “You’re going to go, not only out in public, but to work in those?” I said. “What’s wrong with that?” he asked genuinely. The problem was that he was really jazzed about these shorts. He thought these shorts were really cool. “Because those are the fucking ugliest shorts I’ve ever seen,” I said.
He ran to his room and came back with another pair of shorts exactly the same as the first pair, but these were covered in a pattern of boom boxes. “Does that mean you don’t like these either?” he asked me. And then I laughed in his face. I just could not stop laughing. That’s what I thought of them. And I told him to his face just what I thought of them. And then I told him to get them out of my sight, return them to TJ Maxx, and never go shopping without a chaperone again.
Step One to being a black girl: giving someone your honest and unedited opinion when they are acting a fool- whether they ask for it or not. The next step- tackling conflict head on, or “I’ma handle my bid’ness.” Snap.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
The Bigot Moron who came in Second
The Donald has spoken. Miss California will keep her crown. I’m not even sure where to begin with this. Let’s start at the beginning. Donald Trump is a douche bag. Trust me, I’ve met him, and he’s a douche bag. His sons are douche bags, the people who work for him are douche bags, and I couldn’t be less surprised than if he divorced his wife and married a young eastern European model.
He literally owns the Miss Universe organization and everyone in it, which includes Miss USA and all of the individual states. I think he sets a perfect example for his organization. He’s been in this position with a Miss USA candidate twice before, and it went a little something like this: cute girl gets caught with scandalous photos. Keeps her crown. Not so cute girl gets caught with scandalous photos. Crown gets taken away. This time, cute girl gets caught with scandalous photos. Keeps her crown. See where I’m going with this? I’m sure he locked himself in the bathroom with those photos for an hour to “make his decision.”
It’s a beauty pageant people. Not an inner beauty pageant, not a “most smartest” pageant, not a talent pageant. It’s basically a wet t-shit contest with evening wear. The Miss California organization even paid for a boob job for this girl before the Miss USA pageant! So before I start to get too irate about this, I remember that this sort of thing has no credibility whatsoever. Let’s not forget that even after her amazing speech about “opposite marriage,” the bigot moron still came in second. Clearly she’s not being judged on her ability to make good decisions (because I think she should have told the doctor to make her a C cup at least).
But, I mean, what the hell kind of operation is this? Have you seen what those girls wear on stage? Why don’t they just call it the Miss Texas 1986 pageant? I think I just figured out why they wear bedazzled earrings the size of coffee saucers- because during the question portion of the evening, I remember being mesmerized by how gaudy those earrings were instead of listening to the answers. Aha! I would also like to point out, at this time, that beauty queens wear the same shoes that strippers wear. The exact same shoes, except beauty queens pay $200.00 for theirs.
Now, I truly am a gal with a great nose for trouble. I happened to participate in this year’s Miss Massachusetts USA pageant, and had I won, I would have been there when all this went down. Thankfully, I did not win. The biggest reason I’m glad I didn’t win (besides having to keep up with the diet and exercise, and having no intention whatsoever of fulfilling the “duties” of Miss Massachusetts) is because I don’t have to deal with topless photos of myself surfacing in the media. I mean, alleged topless photos. Also, amidst the prizes for winning Miss Massachusetts USA, there was no boob job.
Because to be honest, in the back of my mind, I knew that if I won, a lot of shit was going to go down, because I do a lot of stupid shit, but I know that about myself. The rules for participating in the pageant clearly state that you can’t involve yourself in this kind of activity, for those of us who can read a contract. What do they call us again? Oh, right. “Losers.” You also have to be a natural born female, but I think that’s only because if they let trannies in the pageant, the regular girls wouldn’t have a chance.
So what is next for the bigot moron? How can she possibly extend her fifteen minutes of fame? I smell a reality series… followed by a Playboy pictorial. At least Vanessa Williams had the decency to step down. But then again, that was the Miss America pageant. The Miss America pageant at least has a talent portion. But who needs talent when you’ve got a boob job?
He literally owns the Miss Universe organization and everyone in it, which includes Miss USA and all of the individual states. I think he sets a perfect example for his organization. He’s been in this position with a Miss USA candidate twice before, and it went a little something like this: cute girl gets caught with scandalous photos. Keeps her crown. Not so cute girl gets caught with scandalous photos. Crown gets taken away. This time, cute girl gets caught with scandalous photos. Keeps her crown. See where I’m going with this? I’m sure he locked himself in the bathroom with those photos for an hour to “make his decision.”
It’s a beauty pageant people. Not an inner beauty pageant, not a “most smartest” pageant, not a talent pageant. It’s basically a wet t-shit contest with evening wear. The Miss California organization even paid for a boob job for this girl before the Miss USA pageant! So before I start to get too irate about this, I remember that this sort of thing has no credibility whatsoever. Let’s not forget that even after her amazing speech about “opposite marriage,” the bigot moron still came in second. Clearly she’s not being judged on her ability to make good decisions (because I think she should have told the doctor to make her a C cup at least).
But, I mean, what the hell kind of operation is this? Have you seen what those girls wear on stage? Why don’t they just call it the Miss Texas 1986 pageant? I think I just figured out why they wear bedazzled earrings the size of coffee saucers- because during the question portion of the evening, I remember being mesmerized by how gaudy those earrings were instead of listening to the answers. Aha! I would also like to point out, at this time, that beauty queens wear the same shoes that strippers wear. The exact same shoes, except beauty queens pay $200.00 for theirs.
Now, I truly am a gal with a great nose for trouble. I happened to participate in this year’s Miss Massachusetts USA pageant, and had I won, I would have been there when all this went down. Thankfully, I did not win. The biggest reason I’m glad I didn’t win (besides having to keep up with the diet and exercise, and having no intention whatsoever of fulfilling the “duties” of Miss Massachusetts) is because I don’t have to deal with topless photos of myself surfacing in the media. I mean, alleged topless photos. Also, amidst the prizes for winning Miss Massachusetts USA, there was no boob job.
Because to be honest, in the back of my mind, I knew that if I won, a lot of shit was going to go down, because I do a lot of stupid shit, but I know that about myself. The rules for participating in the pageant clearly state that you can’t involve yourself in this kind of activity, for those of us who can read a contract. What do they call us again? Oh, right. “Losers.” You also have to be a natural born female, but I think that’s only because if they let trannies in the pageant, the regular girls wouldn’t have a chance.
So what is next for the bigot moron? How can she possibly extend her fifteen minutes of fame? I smell a reality series… followed by a Playboy pictorial. At least Vanessa Williams had the decency to step down. But then again, that was the Miss America pageant. The Miss America pageant at least has a talent portion. But who needs talent when you’ve got a boob job?
Monday, May 11, 2009
The Crock and the Dentist
I had to go to the dentist today.
I was scheduled for a cleaning.
But once I got there, the dentist noticed a tooth that could use a filling. “Some dentists would say fill it,” she said, “but I say wait and see.”
But then I said…
“Let’s just fill it.” I thought this was the mature, adult way to handle the situation. I thought I was being terribly brave about the whole thing. “If it’s going to get filled anyways, let’s just do it. But, uh, could you give me a sedative first?”
I’ve only had two cavities filled in my life. The first time, I was caught unawares. It was about four years ago, in Tampa. When he said “filling” I had no way of knowing he meant the kind that involves drilling. I’ve never had anyone drill into my tooth’s nerve endings before, so I could not even imagine a pain like the kind I felt. It is strange torture, drilling on someone’s tooth’s nerve endings. I have the feeling medieval war criminals would have really enjoyed that idea.
The second time was a little more than two years ago. The dentist told me I had seven cavities. Seven. Cavities. I’ve only ever had one cavity, and now I have seven? Ok. I told my doctor that if I had to get seven cavities filled, I was going to need some Valium to make that appointment. So I took some Valium, and I took some more, and I took more and more to the point that I was hallucinating in the waiting room, but I was not relaxed. I refused Novocain, because for some reason, the idea of having a needle in my mouth was far more terrifying than someone drilling into my teeth’s nerve endings. The rest of the appointment went well.
So today, when I manfully set aside my terror and decided to go ahead and get it over with (some day soon, I promise!), the doctor tells me she will give me a prescription for 5mg of Valium. Ok, apparently we’re not on the same page here, Doc. If I’m not going to get a decent amount of drugs out of this, just do it now. There is no possible way this woman will ever believe the dosage it would take me to be relaxed for this to happen. If I even mention the word “Klonapin,” she’ll immediately assume I’m trying to score a prescription I can sell on the street. So just. Fucking. Do. It.
She gave me some Novocain. Supposedly to “numb the pain.” If you’ve never had the pleasure of getting a shot of Novocain in your mouth, imagine what pouring liquid magma into the blood vessels in your jaw would feel like. Not pleasant. And to keep it from hurting too much, the doctor has to do it very very slowly, so that goddamn needle is in your mouth for a fucking minute, jabbing your gum.
Then the drilling begins. She asked me if I am numb (and I’m like, emotionally?), I look at her like, how’m I supposed to know that? She asks me if my lips are numb. Yes, lips definitely numb. So she begins to drill, and I try to be all zen about it, and for a while, it does not hurt. And then that old familiar feeling, set to the sound of a high-pitched buzz saw. Then I’m falling into a black hole centered in the heart of my molar. My whole body tensed like I was attempting shoot up out of my body. “Does that hurt?” she asks. Uh, yeah. “Do you want more Novocain?” NOOOOOOoooo. No. Thank you. No. Get it over with.
For the next five minutes, I endured a sensation that made me wonder exactly how painful is childbirth? I’m the lucky girl with the low pain threshold and the drug tolerance of a linebacker. I was right, in one respect though. Pain is temporary… but swelling lasts for at least twelve hours.
I was scheduled for a cleaning.
But once I got there, the dentist noticed a tooth that could use a filling. “Some dentists would say fill it,” she said, “but I say wait and see.”
But then I said…
“Let’s just fill it.” I thought this was the mature, adult way to handle the situation. I thought I was being terribly brave about the whole thing. “If it’s going to get filled anyways, let’s just do it. But, uh, could you give me a sedative first?”
I’ve only had two cavities filled in my life. The first time, I was caught unawares. It was about four years ago, in Tampa. When he said “filling” I had no way of knowing he meant the kind that involves drilling. I’ve never had anyone drill into my tooth’s nerve endings before, so I could not even imagine a pain like the kind I felt. It is strange torture, drilling on someone’s tooth’s nerve endings. I have the feeling medieval war criminals would have really enjoyed that idea.
The second time was a little more than two years ago. The dentist told me I had seven cavities. Seven. Cavities. I’ve only ever had one cavity, and now I have seven? Ok. I told my doctor that if I had to get seven cavities filled, I was going to need some Valium to make that appointment. So I took some Valium, and I took some more, and I took more and more to the point that I was hallucinating in the waiting room, but I was not relaxed. I refused Novocain, because for some reason, the idea of having a needle in my mouth was far more terrifying than someone drilling into my teeth’s nerve endings. The rest of the appointment went well.
So today, when I manfully set aside my terror and decided to go ahead and get it over with (some day soon, I promise!), the doctor tells me she will give me a prescription for 5mg of Valium. Ok, apparently we’re not on the same page here, Doc. If I’m not going to get a decent amount of drugs out of this, just do it now. There is no possible way this woman will ever believe the dosage it would take me to be relaxed for this to happen. If I even mention the word “Klonapin,” she’ll immediately assume I’m trying to score a prescription I can sell on the street. So just. Fucking. Do. It.
She gave me some Novocain. Supposedly to “numb the pain.” If you’ve never had the pleasure of getting a shot of Novocain in your mouth, imagine what pouring liquid magma into the blood vessels in your jaw would feel like. Not pleasant. And to keep it from hurting too much, the doctor has to do it very very slowly, so that goddamn needle is in your mouth for a fucking minute, jabbing your gum.
Then the drilling begins. She asked me if I am numb (and I’m like, emotionally?), I look at her like, how’m I supposed to know that? She asks me if my lips are numb. Yes, lips definitely numb. So she begins to drill, and I try to be all zen about it, and for a while, it does not hurt. And then that old familiar feeling, set to the sound of a high-pitched buzz saw. Then I’m falling into a black hole centered in the heart of my molar. My whole body tensed like I was attempting shoot up out of my body. “Does that hurt?” she asks. Uh, yeah. “Do you want more Novocain?” NOOOOOOoooo. No. Thank you. No. Get it over with.
For the next five minutes, I endured a sensation that made me wonder exactly how painful is childbirth? I’m the lucky girl with the low pain threshold and the drug tolerance of a linebacker. I was right, in one respect though. Pain is temporary… but swelling lasts for at least twelve hours.
Friday, May 8, 2009
My New Boyfriend
Apparently the Universe had been reading my blog. It seems to have particularly enjoyed my article entitled “Damn You, Hormones” in which I cataloged my current struggles with my libido, as a result of seeing someone who has literally made me go crazy with desire. I ended the article by saying, “So here we are, Buddha on one shoulder telling me to ignore all my desires, Freud on the other telling me to jump his bones, and in front of me, the most gorgeous piece of ass god ever created. What’s a girl to do?” The Universe has given me the answer.
I had decided, quite obviously, to jump the man in question, but only after getting to know him, because in the past when I jump people’s bones or fall drunkenly into bed with them it generally comes back to bite me in the ass, and I’m trying to avoid that. So I decided to court the man in question and was going to put my plan into action today.
I woke up from an amazingly pleasant and realistic dream this morning and the second I opened my eyes, I sensed that something was not quite right. Immediately, a feeling of impending doom descended upon the day. Not today, I thought. Shit. I quickly started to search for the cause. Is everyone ok? Has anything happened? No bad messages on my phone, and my friends were fine, better than fine.
So I checked my email. It may surprise you to learn that I am a student of astrology. What?! Kate, you? You’re so practical and down to earth. Yes, I study the movement of the planets and their effect on our lives. Every morning I get an email with the cosmic happenings of the day- what’s in retrograde, who’s aligning, etc. Today, in addition to being a full moon, my email tells me, today is the day that Buddha returns to earth from his spiritual home to bless the faithful. Greeeaaaaaat.
I ignored this, being somewhat tortured physically and mentally by my insatiable craving for sex. I chatted with friends about their upcoming dates and what they’re going to wear, and they chatted with me about my crush and the craving kept growing and growing. So I decided to take a cold shower and relieve the tension. But relieve the tension I did not.
I realized that the Universe has answered my plea of “What’s a girl to do?” (A word of advice: Don’t ask for advice {especially from the Universe} if you’re not interested in taking it. It may not be what you want to hear.) The Universe wants me to channel my sexual energy, not spend it, and use it to rise to a higher plane of existence and understanding. I just wanted to get laid without it backfiring for once.
So I thought about it (because I am never one to just follow orders, even if those orders come from the highest powers). Any relationship that I have with a man, no matter how healthy it is, will be, in the end, flawed because humans are flawed. If I instead devote my energy to a relationship with the divine, well then, that’s just perfect. Perhaps Buddha is the one man who can truly satisfy me. Perhaps not, but there’s only one way to find out; meditation, not masturbation.
As it turns out, my new boyfriend is Buddha. I guess he's a crush on me for a while and finally made his move. I did not see that one coming. Go figure- the one guy I can't use my sexual powers on. We’re taking it slow, getting to know one another, but I gotta, say, it feels right. Finally! someone who loves me for my mind. Already I feel calmer, more peaceful and all those nasty little urges and chaotic voices are long gone. So keep it in your pants, Hot Ass Guy! Unless, of course, the path to enlightenment is in there…
I had decided, quite obviously, to jump the man in question, but only after getting to know him, because in the past when I jump people’s bones or fall drunkenly into bed with them it generally comes back to bite me in the ass, and I’m trying to avoid that. So I decided to court the man in question and was going to put my plan into action today.
I woke up from an amazingly pleasant and realistic dream this morning and the second I opened my eyes, I sensed that something was not quite right. Immediately, a feeling of impending doom descended upon the day. Not today, I thought. Shit. I quickly started to search for the cause. Is everyone ok? Has anything happened? No bad messages on my phone, and my friends were fine, better than fine.
So I checked my email. It may surprise you to learn that I am a student of astrology. What?! Kate, you? You’re so practical and down to earth. Yes, I study the movement of the planets and their effect on our lives. Every morning I get an email with the cosmic happenings of the day- what’s in retrograde, who’s aligning, etc. Today, in addition to being a full moon, my email tells me, today is the day that Buddha returns to earth from his spiritual home to bless the faithful. Greeeaaaaaat.
I ignored this, being somewhat tortured physically and mentally by my insatiable craving for sex. I chatted with friends about their upcoming dates and what they’re going to wear, and they chatted with me about my crush and the craving kept growing and growing. So I decided to take a cold shower and relieve the tension. But relieve the tension I did not.
I realized that the Universe has answered my plea of “What’s a girl to do?” (A word of advice: Don’t ask for advice {especially from the Universe} if you’re not interested in taking it. It may not be what you want to hear.) The Universe wants me to channel my sexual energy, not spend it, and use it to rise to a higher plane of existence and understanding. I just wanted to get laid without it backfiring for once.
So I thought about it (because I am never one to just follow orders, even if those orders come from the highest powers). Any relationship that I have with a man, no matter how healthy it is, will be, in the end, flawed because humans are flawed. If I instead devote my energy to a relationship with the divine, well then, that’s just perfect. Perhaps Buddha is the one man who can truly satisfy me. Perhaps not, but there’s only one way to find out; meditation, not masturbation.
As it turns out, my new boyfriend is Buddha. I guess he's a crush on me for a while and finally made his move. I did not see that one coming. Go figure- the one guy I can't use my sexual powers on. We’re taking it slow, getting to know one another, but I gotta, say, it feels right. Finally! someone who loves me for my mind. Already I feel calmer, more peaceful and all those nasty little urges and chaotic voices are long gone. So keep it in your pants, Hot Ass Guy! Unless, of course, the path to enlightenment is in there…
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Just F***ed Up
I’d have to say that the best thing anyone has ever said to me was on the subject of my taste in men. “You’re standards aren’t too high,” my friend said. “They’re just fucked up.” And boy was he right. I’ll be walking down the street or in the grocery store and see someone who catches my eye, and I’ll say to myself, “Ooh he’s cute.” And then I respond to myself, “You just like him because he’s dirty.” And I don’t mean raunchy dirty, I mean greasy dirty.
For some ungodly reason if I see someone who looks like a strung-out crack addict or like they haven’t bathed in a week- be still my heart. I once dated a guy, who, when I first saw him, I literally thought he was homeless (had a lot to do with the garbage bag he was dragging around with him). Here are some of the crushes I’ve had in the past: “Greasy Lighting Guy,” “Hot Maintenance Guy,” “Cute Cater Waiter 1,” “Cute Cater Waiter 2,” “Built Construction Worker…” the list goes on and on (and on).
You can probably tell that the relationship I like to have with men is a distant one. I don’t want to know you, I don’t want to like you, I don’t want to spend time with you. What I want to do with you involves one night, a lot of alcohol and some endurance. That’s it. But really when you think about it, isn’t that the same thing the men are thinking? You’d hope so, but no. They want to “date,” they want to “spend time with me,” they think I’m “wonderful.” Why do I sleep with such girly men? Get the job done and go home!
But I come to wonder, since the light in my closet has been broken for six months (As a fall-out of the Maintenance Guy affair, I can no longer call Maintenance. He got too attached.), perhaps I should begin to consider the consequences of my actions.
I suppose I shouldn’t use people. Fine, I know I shouldn’t use people. Damn, I’ll have to stop using people. Double damn, that means I can’t use men for sex. How the hell am I supposed to get any sex around here? (Head scratching.) Maybe I can use men for money? Oh wait, that’s wrong. Hmmm. Aw shit… is this going to involve opening up emotionally? Damn it!
Well, this will be an interesting experiment. Can a high-strung, misanthropic loner have a relationship involving (duh duh daahhh) feelings? Place your bets now, ladies and gentlemen. I am already balking at the idea, but I do love a good experiment. I think I’m like one of those kids that only likes to eat chicken nuggets and who is convinced that everything else tastes like crap. I suppose I should be more open. Who knows? Maybe I’ll meet some really skeezy looking drug dealer taking a leak on the bus and we’ll fall madly in love with each other.
For some ungodly reason if I see someone who looks like a strung-out crack addict or like they haven’t bathed in a week- be still my heart. I once dated a guy, who, when I first saw him, I literally thought he was homeless (had a lot to do with the garbage bag he was dragging around with him). Here are some of the crushes I’ve had in the past: “Greasy Lighting Guy,” “Hot Maintenance Guy,” “Cute Cater Waiter 1,” “Cute Cater Waiter 2,” “Built Construction Worker…” the list goes on and on (and on).
You can probably tell that the relationship I like to have with men is a distant one. I don’t want to know you, I don’t want to like you, I don’t want to spend time with you. What I want to do with you involves one night, a lot of alcohol and some endurance. That’s it. But really when you think about it, isn’t that the same thing the men are thinking? You’d hope so, but no. They want to “date,” they want to “spend time with me,” they think I’m “wonderful.” Why do I sleep with such girly men? Get the job done and go home!
But I come to wonder, since the light in my closet has been broken for six months (As a fall-out of the Maintenance Guy affair, I can no longer call Maintenance. He got too attached.), perhaps I should begin to consider the consequences of my actions.
I suppose I shouldn’t use people. Fine, I know I shouldn’t use people. Damn, I’ll have to stop using people. Double damn, that means I can’t use men for sex. How the hell am I supposed to get any sex around here? (Head scratching.) Maybe I can use men for money? Oh wait, that’s wrong. Hmmm. Aw shit… is this going to involve opening up emotionally? Damn it!
Well, this will be an interesting experiment. Can a high-strung, misanthropic loner have a relationship involving (duh duh daahhh) feelings? Place your bets now, ladies and gentlemen. I am already balking at the idea, but I do love a good experiment. I think I’m like one of those kids that only likes to eat chicken nuggets and who is convinced that everything else tastes like crap. I suppose I should be more open. Who knows? Maybe I’ll meet some really skeezy looking drug dealer taking a leak on the bus and we’ll fall madly in love with each other.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Damn You, Hormones
There was more humping than usual going on at the drag show last night. I mentioned this to my friend who simply smiled and said to me, “It’s Spring.” Ah, yes, Spring, the time of year when we all start humping each other uncontrollably. Indeed.
Libido translates as the “desire to create.” That makes sense, what with the world coming to life around us, that we humans choose to celebrate being alive by creating more life. Or maybe it’s just a biological excuse to take our pants off and rub up against each other. Freud says (and trust me, I’m paraphrasing) the libido comes from the id, or unconscious part of the mind where all urges and desires come from (the part of the mind that generally rules my life). Basically, the id is the “I want it NOW!” part of your mind.
I myself am not immune to this “Spring is in the Air,” (pheromones on the breeze) shit that’s going around right now (I’d rather have swine flu). I don’t need anything heightening my sexual drive. My sexual drive is already dangerously high and has been since I was four. I’ve just gotten it under control (by locking myself inside my apartment so that I am not a danger to myself or others). You should be thanking me. If I was a super-hero (or villain) my super-power would be to fuck the life out of (or into) everyone (note to self: comic book idea!). And who’s to say I’m not, but that’s an idea for another day.
Every super-hero has their kryptonite, just as every person has their Achilles’ heel, and my Achilles’ heel is in my ass, or to be more specific, someone else’s ass. I am an ass man, always have been, always will be. There’s nothing in this world like a nice ass. And I have seen the most amazing ass ever. I won’t tell you who or where, but trust me, it exists, and it is high and tight and round and meaty and magnificent. I will spare you the details of the thoughts that run through my mind, but let’s just say that the sight of this ass completely unraveled me- literally unraveled any self-control I had and turned me into a pulsing hot ball of desire. Seeing that ass was like hearing a chorus of angels praising god’s name. Oh god, that ass.
Buddhists say that desire is the root of all unhappiness, and to achieve nirvana, we must eliminate desire. Now, I am not a Buddhist, but I know that when I do not get what I want, I am extremely unhappy. So I am trying to control my id. I am denying my desires to achieve inner peace. But Dr. Freud says that if I don’t expel this energy, it’s only going to find another outlet. I mean, it’s one of the laws of physics- energy is never lost, just transferred, which may be why I’m so unhappy. Perhaps what Dr. Freud is saying is that we should not try to control our desires, but instead give into them, for when you try to control desire, it only ends in frustration.
I like Freud’s theory a lot more than Buddha’s theory of denial, but what to do with my newly formed pledge to stop getting involved with stupid boys? And Hot Ass Guy is no doubt a stupid boy (aren’t they all?), albeit willing and able. Spring, you bastard. You know I won’t be happy until I’ve had him. But will I be unhappy once I’ve had him? So here we are, Buddha on one shoulder telling me to ignore all my desires, Freud on the other telling me to jump his bones, and in front of me, the most gorgeous piece of ass god ever created. What’s a girl to do?
Libido translates as the “desire to create.” That makes sense, what with the world coming to life around us, that we humans choose to celebrate being alive by creating more life. Or maybe it’s just a biological excuse to take our pants off and rub up against each other. Freud says (and trust me, I’m paraphrasing) the libido comes from the id, or unconscious part of the mind where all urges and desires come from (the part of the mind that generally rules my life). Basically, the id is the “I want it NOW!” part of your mind.
I myself am not immune to this “Spring is in the Air,” (pheromones on the breeze) shit that’s going around right now (I’d rather have swine flu). I don’t need anything heightening my sexual drive. My sexual drive is already dangerously high and has been since I was four. I’ve just gotten it under control (by locking myself inside my apartment so that I am not a danger to myself or others). You should be thanking me. If I was a super-hero (or villain) my super-power would be to fuck the life out of (or into) everyone (note to self: comic book idea!). And who’s to say I’m not, but that’s an idea for another day.
Every super-hero has their kryptonite, just as every person has their Achilles’ heel, and my Achilles’ heel is in my ass, or to be more specific, someone else’s ass. I am an ass man, always have been, always will be. There’s nothing in this world like a nice ass. And I have seen the most amazing ass ever. I won’t tell you who or where, but trust me, it exists, and it is high and tight and round and meaty and magnificent. I will spare you the details of the thoughts that run through my mind, but let’s just say that the sight of this ass completely unraveled me- literally unraveled any self-control I had and turned me into a pulsing hot ball of desire. Seeing that ass was like hearing a chorus of angels praising god’s name. Oh god, that ass.
Buddhists say that desire is the root of all unhappiness, and to achieve nirvana, we must eliminate desire. Now, I am not a Buddhist, but I know that when I do not get what I want, I am extremely unhappy. So I am trying to control my id. I am denying my desires to achieve inner peace. But Dr. Freud says that if I don’t expel this energy, it’s only going to find another outlet. I mean, it’s one of the laws of physics- energy is never lost, just transferred, which may be why I’m so unhappy. Perhaps what Dr. Freud is saying is that we should not try to control our desires, but instead give into them, for when you try to control desire, it only ends in frustration.
I like Freud’s theory a lot more than Buddha’s theory of denial, but what to do with my newly formed pledge to stop getting involved with stupid boys? And Hot Ass Guy is no doubt a stupid boy (aren’t they all?), albeit willing and able. Spring, you bastard. You know I won’t be happy until I’ve had him. But will I be unhappy once I’ve had him? So here we are, Buddha on one shoulder telling me to ignore all my desires, Freud on the other telling me to jump his bones, and in front of me, the most gorgeous piece of ass god ever created. What’s a girl to do?
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
José, Mi Amour
Happy Cinco de Mayo everyone! I had planned another article for today, but I realized just in time that today is the day we gringas celebrate Mexico, and so today we will be discussing my favorite thing to come out of Mexico besides mariachis, sombreros, and burritos: Tequila.
There are two types of people in this world. The kind who get kicked in the teeth by Tequila and then run away from him and stay away, and the kind who get kicked in the teeth by Tequila, stand right back up and say, “Kick me again, bitch.” I fall into the second category. Tequila (aka José) was my first love- before Jack, before the Marlboro cowboy, it was José and me.
Ah, such happy times together José and I have had. Now we’ve fought, of course, like all couples tend to do. He beat me up pretty badly one New Years, but boy did I ask for it. And, of course, I came back around in the end, because ours is a story of true love. I have been with José since I was about fifteen. When my parents weren’t home we’d sneak off together. And whenever I fell on hard times in life, José was always there for me, smacking me in the face and telling me to, “Man up, pendeja.”
José and I have an open relationship. Our passion is too intense for an everyday kind of arrangement. Occasionally his rich older brother, Petron, will take me out, but I have never and will never take up with José’s skeezy, no-good cousin Sauza. A girl has standards. And of course there’s Jack and all his cousins and brothers and uncles… And I’ve been seeing my new Russian boyfriend, Smirnoff, a lot lately. But there is always José, and when he takes me in his arms, I can’t breathe and I tingle all over… Oh José.
If only one day, we could buy a nice little hacienda overlooking the beach, where I could write and paint and pass out in the sun, and José could… I don’t know, run guns or deal drugs or both, we could be so happy together. Until that day, we always have Cinco de Mayo (and Uno de Julio and Quattro de Augusto and Thursday and Happy Hour and my birthday and Christmas…).
There are two types of people in this world. The kind who get kicked in the teeth by Tequila and then run away from him and stay away, and the kind who get kicked in the teeth by Tequila, stand right back up and say, “Kick me again, bitch.” I fall into the second category. Tequila (aka José) was my first love- before Jack, before the Marlboro cowboy, it was José and me.
Ah, such happy times together José and I have had. Now we’ve fought, of course, like all couples tend to do. He beat me up pretty badly one New Years, but boy did I ask for it. And, of course, I came back around in the end, because ours is a story of true love. I have been with José since I was about fifteen. When my parents weren’t home we’d sneak off together. And whenever I fell on hard times in life, José was always there for me, smacking me in the face and telling me to, “Man up, pendeja.”
José and I have an open relationship. Our passion is too intense for an everyday kind of arrangement. Occasionally his rich older brother, Petron, will take me out, but I have never and will never take up with José’s skeezy, no-good cousin Sauza. A girl has standards. And of course there’s Jack and all his cousins and brothers and uncles… And I’ve been seeing my new Russian boyfriend, Smirnoff, a lot lately. But there is always José, and when he takes me in his arms, I can’t breathe and I tingle all over… Oh José.
If only one day, we could buy a nice little hacienda overlooking the beach, where I could write and paint and pass out in the sun, and José could… I don’t know, run guns or deal drugs or both, we could be so happy together. Until that day, we always have Cinco de Mayo (and Uno de Julio and Quattro de Augusto and Thursday and Happy Hour and my birthday and Christmas…).
Monday, May 4, 2009
Vogue is Forever
I was recently very upset to hear (second-hand mind you) that one of my favorite magazines- Domino- has been laid to rest. Ok, now this economy thing has gone too far! Domino is the sister magazine to my beloved Lucky, and reports on home décor in a stylish, modern way. No other magazine can replace it (as if I wasn’t heartbroken enough when the Martha Steward equivalent Blueprint went under last year after only a handful of issues). The publisher is sending, to finish out my subscription, get this- Cookie, the magazine about parenting and family lifestyle. I don’t know where to begin.
But while other magazines may come and go, the one steadfast and true glossy, like a beacon in the storm, is Vogue. Aahhh Vogue. I have almost every issue I’ve ever gotten. When I first moved from Florida five years ago, I made the terrible mistake of, gulp, trashing all my magazines. I know, I’m still upset about it, but it must have been in response to having to leave my books behind- in boxes! Cardboard boxes! My books don’t deserve that- they should be on a shelf, where I can see them and touch them and read them and tell them that I love them… as you can see, I’m still a little upset about it.
So now everywhere I go, the magazines come with me. Every time I move, I waver… do I really want to carry all these heavy effing magazines? I have boxes and boxes and boxes and boxes of magazines. But the answer is always, yes, yes, yes. Keep the magazines. I’ve even almost convinced myself that perhaps Vogue was a phase for me, that I’m not really a Vogue girl. But the warm tingle of reverence I feel whenever I gaze lovingly at even the advertisements tells me that yes, I am truly, now and forever, a Vogue girl.
I will admit that the past few years, the magazines have come in the mail, and I piled them, unopened, unread, their plastic wrappers intact. Because you can’t just read Vogue- it’s not like InStyle or US Weekly, which you can flip through at the salon or the waiting room at the dentist’s, you must devote yourself entirely to the reading. And the past few years, what with the heartbreak, depression, massive bouts of unemployment and mounting debt, I just haven’t had the heart to look at all the wondrous and earth-shatteringly beautiful things inside the pages of Vogue.
But now, I have eighteen months worth of unread magazines. Does it matter that they’re not current? Hell no! Vogue is timeless. You can open any issue from any date, and it would still be a soul-shatteringly profound experience. That is why I’m keeping mine. When I’m old and crazy and my house is over-run with feral cats, I’ll have all my Vogues to keep me company. A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
But while other magazines may come and go, the one steadfast and true glossy, like a beacon in the storm, is Vogue. Aahhh Vogue. I have almost every issue I’ve ever gotten. When I first moved from Florida five years ago, I made the terrible mistake of, gulp, trashing all my magazines. I know, I’m still upset about it, but it must have been in response to having to leave my books behind- in boxes! Cardboard boxes! My books don’t deserve that- they should be on a shelf, where I can see them and touch them and read them and tell them that I love them… as you can see, I’m still a little upset about it.
So now everywhere I go, the magazines come with me. Every time I move, I waver… do I really want to carry all these heavy effing magazines? I have boxes and boxes and boxes and boxes of magazines. But the answer is always, yes, yes, yes. Keep the magazines. I’ve even almost convinced myself that perhaps Vogue was a phase for me, that I’m not really a Vogue girl. But the warm tingle of reverence I feel whenever I gaze lovingly at even the advertisements tells me that yes, I am truly, now and forever, a Vogue girl.
I will admit that the past few years, the magazines have come in the mail, and I piled them, unopened, unread, their plastic wrappers intact. Because you can’t just read Vogue- it’s not like InStyle or US Weekly, which you can flip through at the salon or the waiting room at the dentist’s, you must devote yourself entirely to the reading. And the past few years, what with the heartbreak, depression, massive bouts of unemployment and mounting debt, I just haven’t had the heart to look at all the wondrous and earth-shatteringly beautiful things inside the pages of Vogue.
But now, I have eighteen months worth of unread magazines. Does it matter that they’re not current? Hell no! Vogue is timeless. You can open any issue from any date, and it would still be a soul-shatteringly profound experience. That is why I’m keeping mine. When I’m old and crazy and my house is over-run with feral cats, I’ll have all my Vogues to keep me company. A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Porky Piglet
There are few times in life when negative is a positive. Today is one of those days.
I’ve put on a little weight during my annual winter hibernation. I’m not going to lie. Apparently there’s no point in attempting to lie, because even complete strangers have begun to comment on it. I took some clothes to the consignment store and as the woman was cataloging the items and the sizes, “Zero Petit… ,” she says, looks at me, “Are these your clothes?” Uh…yeah… “Oh,” she says. “You don’t look it.”
Now, just stop right there- before you start rolling your eyes because I’m complaining about five pounds, five pounds in either direction on my frame makes a big difference. I’m not trying to get anyone to say, Oh, Kate, no… you’re so skinny, you look great. I’m not that girl. And I don’t think it’s fair that I’m not allowed to talk about my weight issues just because I’m small. Complaining about my weight is my right as a woman, and I refuse to be left out. I demand the right to bitch.
Now I know this is probably a result of having watched 4 hours of “I Never Knew I was Pregnant,” on TLC last week, but I’m starting to get a little paranoid. Ok, I’m getting really paranoid. Usually any weight I put on goes straight to my ass or my boobs, generally where you’d want it to go, but this winter, I’m emerging from the cave with what can only be described as a belly. This disturbs me, because it’s not a gut-belly, it’s a little round belly. And, ok, maybe I’ve been a teensy bit more hormonal than usual.
This is not the first time I’ve been totally paranoid about a nonexistent pregnancy. But it is my general understanding of the universe that as soon as you drop your guard, that’s when they get you. If God is going to get me pregnant, it’s definitely going to be the “I never knew because I only gained ten pounds, kept getting my period and had no symptoms,” kind of pregnancy so that I can’t thwart him. God, as I know him, is a sneaky motherf*cker. But I’m onto him.
It’s not that I don’t want a baby, I do- for like an hour, forty-five minutes. Not the forever and ever kind. I would have no problems with a baby if I didn’t have to birth it or take care of it. I’ve got things to be, people to do, havoc to wreck. I’d be a great father, but a mother? Sometimes I hate being a gay man trapped in the body of a woman.
You could chalk all this up to me being completely insane and generally neurotic (which is a pretty safe bet) if I didn’t actually know two people who never knew they were pregnant. Well, one eventually figured it out when she ballooned, but the other one I saw a month before it happened and she had actually lost weight and looked better than I’d ever seen her. Then she gave birth into her pajama pants in the waiting room at the hospital.
I find myself alternately praying to God that there is actually a baby inside me and that’s the reason for the protrusion, and then I realize what I’ve just said, drop to my knees, clasp my hands together and call out, “Please let me just be fat, please let me just be fat!” I mean, my diet generally consists of a variety of processed cheese and pasta dishes that come either in a box or a pouch (although in the interest of my health I have switched to fat-free milk, and Smart Balance Light butter alternative) and I create meals specifically so that I can douse them in sour cream.
Finally, I can’t take the emotional vortex anymore and I cough up the $15 for a home pregnancy test. And just like my attitude and my bank balance, it was negative. Which means I’m just getting fat! Crap. Perhaps one last macaroni & cheese breakfast… just to celebrate.
I’ve put on a little weight during my annual winter hibernation. I’m not going to lie. Apparently there’s no point in attempting to lie, because even complete strangers have begun to comment on it. I took some clothes to the consignment store and as the woman was cataloging the items and the sizes, “Zero Petit… ,” she says, looks at me, “Are these your clothes?” Uh…yeah… “Oh,” she says. “You don’t look it.”
Now, just stop right there- before you start rolling your eyes because I’m complaining about five pounds, five pounds in either direction on my frame makes a big difference. I’m not trying to get anyone to say, Oh, Kate, no… you’re so skinny, you look great. I’m not that girl. And I don’t think it’s fair that I’m not allowed to talk about my weight issues just because I’m small. Complaining about my weight is my right as a woman, and I refuse to be left out. I demand the right to bitch.
Now I know this is probably a result of having watched 4 hours of “I Never Knew I was Pregnant,” on TLC last week, but I’m starting to get a little paranoid. Ok, I’m getting really paranoid. Usually any weight I put on goes straight to my ass or my boobs, generally where you’d want it to go, but this winter, I’m emerging from the cave with what can only be described as a belly. This disturbs me, because it’s not a gut-belly, it’s a little round belly. And, ok, maybe I’ve been a teensy bit more hormonal than usual.
This is not the first time I’ve been totally paranoid about a nonexistent pregnancy. But it is my general understanding of the universe that as soon as you drop your guard, that’s when they get you. If God is going to get me pregnant, it’s definitely going to be the “I never knew because I only gained ten pounds, kept getting my period and had no symptoms,” kind of pregnancy so that I can’t thwart him. God, as I know him, is a sneaky motherf*cker. But I’m onto him.
It’s not that I don’t want a baby, I do- for like an hour, forty-five minutes. Not the forever and ever kind. I would have no problems with a baby if I didn’t have to birth it or take care of it. I’ve got things to be, people to do, havoc to wreck. I’d be a great father, but a mother? Sometimes I hate being a gay man trapped in the body of a woman.
You could chalk all this up to me being completely insane and generally neurotic (which is a pretty safe bet) if I didn’t actually know two people who never knew they were pregnant. Well, one eventually figured it out when she ballooned, but the other one I saw a month before it happened and she had actually lost weight and looked better than I’d ever seen her. Then she gave birth into her pajama pants in the waiting room at the hospital.
I find myself alternately praying to God that there is actually a baby inside me and that’s the reason for the protrusion, and then I realize what I’ve just said, drop to my knees, clasp my hands together and call out, “Please let me just be fat, please let me just be fat!” I mean, my diet generally consists of a variety of processed cheese and pasta dishes that come either in a box or a pouch (although in the interest of my health I have switched to fat-free milk, and Smart Balance Light butter alternative) and I create meals specifically so that I can douse them in sour cream.
Finally, I can’t take the emotional vortex anymore and I cough up the $15 for a home pregnancy test. And just like my attitude and my bank balance, it was negative. Which means I’m just getting fat! Crap. Perhaps one last macaroni & cheese breakfast… just to celebrate.
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