I. Love. My. Dahhhhhgs: Proof that I can hold two opposing ideas in my mind simultaneously.

Do I like the smell of pee? Do I enjoy picking up pieces of poo or scraping channels of packed poo out of my tennis shoe treads with a toothpick? Does it feel good when a “power chewer” clamps his jaws on the middle of my hand when I’m simply trying to break up a vicious 3 AM fight between two male puppies who both believe they are the Alpha? Does a bear shit in the master bathroom and wipe its ass with Charmin?

Negatory.

When I’m away from home, do I pine for six precious little puppy eyes? Do I adore doggie kisses even when they leave a schmear of shit-smell on my skin? Are MY dogs the cutest fur-babies in the entire known universe? Does a bear shit in the woods?

Abso-fucking-lutely.

Flat Heads Belong Only on Screwdrivers

You know what sucks worse than that little minion “running” North Korea? Having a flat head. Apparently, when I was a baby, my mother never turned my ass over, so practically my whole pre-ambulatory life, I lay on my back in my crib or in this crank-up baby swing that had a seat made of turquoise canvas.

According to a news report I recently read, I’m not the only one whose caretakers just left them endlessly lying there while their heads flattened out. The article, entitled, “Nearly half of babies have flat spots, study finds,” does not make me feel any fucking better to know that I’m not alone. Fifty percent of the population don’t have flat heads, and those are the successful people.  You don’t see any runway models who spin around and make the crowd gasp because the backs of their heads align perfectly with their necks. Like mine.

And although Donald Trump has gasp-worthy hair and it SEEMS like part of his brains might be missing, when he turns to the side, he doesn’t look like somebody lopped off the back hemisphere of his skull. Like me.

The Donald

I can’t wear a hat because, in profile, I look like a deck-post. I can’t rock a high ponytail like Jennifer-freaking-Aniston. And when I lie on one of those neck-support pillows that’s supposed to fit snugly in the hollow between the bottom of your skull and your shoulders, I look like someone’s preparing me for CPR.

Even though the study in the article I’ve mentioned was conducted on two-month-old Canadian babies—and who the hell knows what kind of babies they have in a place where there is no “ow” sound—there is at least one American company that manufactures orthotic helmets to reshape a baby’s head before it hardens permanently into the shape of the capital letter D. Like mine.

Unfortunately, the helmets cost thousands of bucks and make your family look like child abusers or hockey freaks. Equally bad, IMHO.

The cheaper option is just to turn the damn baby. I mean, what are you doing that you can’t rotate the baby every hour or so? Even the laziest sumbitches can get up off the couch at the end of every episode of This is Us or Fleabag or Game of Thrones and turn. The. Baby.

The Canadian study showed that when their flat heads were not caught in time, the babies’ facial features were also affected. Great! You lazy asses are creating children who are all chainsaw accident in the back and Quasimodo in the front. I hope you are proud. Your children will suffer a lifetime of mediocrity, a hand-to-mouth existence, the failure of all of their hopes and dreams, and no cute hats in their futures.

I now know exactly why I have had limited success and why I have a face that incited my grandmother to say things like, “You’re pretty to me.” Flat head. Thanks. When my grandmother was teaching her own daughter—my mother—all those parenting skills, she might have spent a little less time on left-handed compliments and more time on turning the flat-headed baby.

A Little Consideration, Please

You know, it is evil to post photos of people on social websites without their permission. I have never, ever, ever liked having my picture taken because taken means stolen, and whatever tribe it is that believes cameras steal your soul is absofuckinglutely right. One should not have to suffer even in private the humiliation of the hard, cold pictorial evidence of one’s actual appearance, yet alone in a global forum teeming with former high school classmates’ malicious anticipation that you are more swollen than they are.

I prefer to live in a sort of delusion that I don’t really resemble what a Polaroid says I do. If you have seen a photo of me, then you know exactly what I’m talking about. My fat fricking chinnage looks like one of those inner tubes for river rafting, or like Trump when he’s sputtering. Coincidentally, my upper torso appears to have been inflated by a gigantic air mattress pump perhaps inserted into one of those little plastic valves that may be hidden beneath my back-fat folds. Who knows what’s all up under there? You can understand why I don’t willingly pose for posterity. It’s totally unfair to be the cause of mass pukery.

Now I realize that many folks enjoy flaunting the goods, especially when they are young and firm and dumbasses. I mean, who out there hasn’t allowed the occasional tasteful Hustler-crotch-shot or the harmless sex-with-multiple-kitchen-accessories tape? What? Yes, I meant besides Paris Hilton and anyone who assists Hef with his catheter and collection bag. What? No one? Huh.

Well, booby shots, then. Everyone does that. Even Pippa. And what happens to all embarrassing exposures the second the image develops? They pop up on Facebook. Or somebody’s ex sells them to a skin mag. Whatever. Why can’t we all just show a little more consideration? Here are some pointers that might help: Don’t let anyone ever shove a camera in your hoo-ha. Don’t generate a penis gallery with your own damned cell phone. Don’t smoke. It kills. (I just had to throw that in there.) And please don’t put my age- and jumbo-bags-of-Kit-Kats-tarnished image on display without checking with me first. My answer will always be “no,” but it is strictly in the best interest of public safety.

Another Shitty Day in Pooville

How does she know? I realize my miniature poodle is more intelligent than most high school students and all rappers, but I still can’t figure it out. Only when I am in the mother of all hurries does my sweet little pookums work up an industrial-sized episode of explosive stool expulsion. On the carpet. Used to be beige. The spot she selected this morning is less than three inches from the kitchen tile where bowel spills would be easy-breezy to clean. But nooo. Unless her fecal fury can cause floor-covering cataclysm, she will save her detonations for the yard.

I made the mistake of gating her in the laundry room once while I had to work. To show her obvious indignation, she first made a substantial doody deposit and then spent the remaining four hours behind bars heinously bouncing up and down in the excrement until her little crap-covered paws had fused the shit to the linoleum with the heat of the manic jumping. I had to scrub the scene of the crime with metal because of the astonishing adhesive properties of her creation. That dog totally discovered a new element. Shitonium. It’s true. She’s going to win the Nobel in science this year.

Now on the other end of the sphincter spectrum, there’s me. Several nights ago, someone apparently sneaked in while I was sleeping and poured a bag of Sakrete up my ass. “Plugged” does not even scratch the surface of my condition. I considered my options and decided that a nuclear warhead would be my safest bet. Let me just say that the results were not pretty. I am absolutely positive that a Mac truck drove out of my lower intestine later that evening. The only good that came of the situation is that I totally reaccepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. Several times.

Celebrities, You are NOT the Boss of Me.

Why do celebrities even open their mouths when they are not A.) speaking in character on screen or stage, B.) getting their teeth whitened, or C.) blowing someone? I mean, the only thing of substance that ever, ever comes out of a celebrity’s dental orifice is partially digested food. Are you paying attention here? Donald. Trump. Could. Be. President. People think Jennifer Aniston is REAL. And for God’s sake, global warming is NOT to blame for the ozone’s holes. The one-hundred percent true cause is Sean-Puerile-Penn’s toxic twaddle.

Why do we—and by we I mean idiots when I don’t personally like the celebrity in question—follow the minute-to-minute functions of people so synthetic that if you flip them over and look at the bottom of one foot, it will say Patent Pending? Did you know there is a Celebrity Attitude Scale developed by a British psychologist, which ranks people according to their levels of celebrity worship? There’s entertainment-social: Celebrities are fun to watch! There’s intense-personal: Celebrities and I have lots in common, and I want to hump one! And then there’s borderline-pathological: The duct tape, chain saw, and map to David Letterman’s house are in my trunk because he has been sending me secret love messages in his monologues, and he wants me to come over and cut him into small squares so that I can keep him in my pocket at all times and maybe wear some of his skin.

There is something seriously bent about the fact that we buy schmillions of products and services just because Tiger Woods or Oprah says we should, unless of course Miss Winfrey selects my book for her Book Club one day, and then you absolutely, by all means, most definitely should get a copy as soon as possible because Oprah really knows her shit when it comes to picking incredible literature except for the couple of times she touted those bogus-memoirs, but everyone makes mistakes. Under no circumstances, though, should you trust any fucking thing Tiger Woods says, even if he is trying to convince you to buy golf balls. The last thing anyone should ever want to play with is that guy’s balls.

Damn That Sexist, Winnie-the-Frickin’-Pooh

Okay. So, Dr. Janice McCabe, a sociologist at Florida State University, announced a startling and universe-shattering discovery this week: Children’s books are sexist, by which she means against girls. (And, I must say that the bozo who wrote the article about the kiddie-lit sexism should have to hand over his job to me immediately because he wrote, “Dr. Janice McCabe… examined nearly 6,000 children’s books between 1900 and 2000…,” by which he didn’t mean to insinuate that the doctoral-degree-holder is old as fuck. He meant that she read 6,000 books that were written between 1900 and 2000. Dumbass! Our language is in the toilet, people.)

So. Where was I? Oh. Yeah. Tomes for tots are heavy on the male characters and male/unspecified gender animals. For example, in A. A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh, everyone’s male except for Kanga. Girls are representin’ in only a third of the selected yarns for youngsters. McCabe claims that children learn in their tender years about gender from the books, cartoons, and movies to which they’re exposed—and that even in coloring books, even in 2011—males are the featured creature.

What can this revelation mean?! What if Christopher Robin had had a stash of Barbies to go with his boy toys? What if MacDonald had been an OLD lady? What if Thomas the Train and Bob the Builder had female co-workers? You know what? Chris would be considered homosexual, Old MacDonald’s farm would’ve had its taxes raised by the nasty carpetbaggers until the rent on Tara was so high…sorry. Wrong story, but same point. And the women in Thomas the Train and Bob the Builder would get paid half of what Thomas and Bob make for the same damned job.

Why should children’s literature reflect anything other than the real world? Shit. Even Hilary-who-I-still-think-is-Satan-in-a-super-fugly-mask was erased this week from a current newspaper photo of the Situation Room during the bin-Laden-liquidation because a not-tiny part of the fricking world still believes a woman has no business in a government leadership position.

We currently teach our children that a certain fashion doll can be an ASTRONAUT, but she better have really big rockets. I read Woman’s World magazine each week because I need at least one good solid belly laugh every seven days. You’d think there would be a female CEO or at least some estrogen on the five-member board. You’d be wrong. The reality is that men rule the world, and anyone who doesn’t believe it has obviously never read any damned children’s books. But I’m not sure that adding some extra girl-goats and she-bears to bedtime stories will tip the scales in vay-jay-jay favor. And really, wouldn’t it be too freaking creepy if Pat the Bunny featured a female? Ewwww.

To read the whole McCabe article (although why would you?): http://www.foxnews.com/us/2011/05/06/study-suggests-winnie-pooh-isnt-gender-equal-does-matter/#ixzz1LdDHDja9

I Can’t Heeeearrrrr You, Part 1

It’s my own fault. I didn’t learn to be careful what to wish for until too late.

I spent most of my youth pining to be deaf. I used to steal my father’s hearing aids when he was out cutting the lawn so that I could experience the feeling of the appliances in my ears. I still remember exactly how the world sounded while I listened with the aids—there was a delicate, metallic whooshing overlaying the sounds of my world: the television I could hear from the other end of the house, the lawn mower buzzing outside, the central air purring through ducts. I made my own secret hearing aid out of a non-working transistor radio for those times when my daddy’s “ears” weren’t available. I’d strap that sucker inside the front of my bra and pop in the ear phone, and voila! I was a deaf girl.

I had half a dozen deaf childhood friends—which I now find odd—and they all had the battery pack/amplifier that they wore on their chests and double wires that connected to their ear molds. I really, really didn’t like that they were special, and that I wasn’t. So. I wished. And play-acted. Until I really didn’t have to anymore. Too late to take back that shit.

I have been hearing impaired for so long that I can’t recall what it is like not to have to ask people to repeat everything, not to miss ninety-nine percent of any movie that isn’t closed-captioned, not to grin like a fucking moron most of the time because I’m pretending that I hear what’s going on around me.

My darling BFF, Lisa, posted on FB today the question, “How many times is it appropriate to say ‘what?’ before you just nod and smile because you didn’t hear or understand a word they said?” Shit. I don’t even say, “What?” most of the time anymore. I just watch people’s body language and project happy-face if a person looks like she’s telling me something exciting and positive, or shoot the old concerned-countenance if a person seems to be relating something negative. Every now and then I get it wrong. So. If I’ve rejoiced at the news of the gruesome decapitation of one of your loved-ones, I’M SORRY. It sucks, but I just didn’t hear you.

The Grammar Guru in Me Has Gone Gonzo.

I. Have. Fucking. Had. It.

Is it so very freaking difficult to use the proper rules of standard-freaking-English? I realize that English is no longer the national language of our dear country, but shouldn’t it take decades for English to go the way of Latin?

Or is English already dead?? I am beginning to believe so. Exhibit A: American Idol, this evening.

First, young Haley sang (loosely used) an unreleased Lady Gaga number. (The song should STAY unreleased for eternity if that performance is any indication.) The title of the song is “You and I,” which is gag-worthy in itself. To add hate-mongering insult to brain-murdering injury, OF COURSE I is used incorrectly. The pronoun I  is only used when it is a flipping subject. If it is the object OF something, then the object form, me, must be used. So, when Haley screeched ovah and ovah and ovah, “…about you and I,” my spleen burst into flames. Thank God I don’t need it.

Thennnn, after Haley warbled her second song—an interesting take on The Animals’
“House of the Rising Sun”—my dear, lovely Jennifer Lopez, the Most Beautiful Woman in the World according to People magazine, said, “That song has never been SANG that way before.” Immediately, Oxford English Grammar declared her “NOT the Most Intelligent Woman in the World.” And my charred spleen fell out of my ass. I am SO sending the medical and upholstery-cleaning bills to Ryan fucking Seacrest.

Exhibit B: Honda. The humongous car corporation has a new television ad, which contains this phrase scrolled in gargantuan letters across the screen: To Each Their Own! Raise your hand if you know what is wrong with that!! Anyone? Anyone? Goddamned BUELLER? If the execs at Honda tell the bazillions of viewers watching American Idol that it is okay to use the plural pronoun “they” with the singular antecedent “each,” then how can lowly English teachers like me undo the spleen-exploding damage? I mean, Jesus, I know the Japanese are famous for fucked-up English like “please follow hand ladder watering, in order to prevent slip and fall down to get hurt,” (from a swimming pool rules sign), but Mother of Godzilla! When will it stopppppppppp?

Trump bin Laden Sheen

The world may be a better place without Osama, but wouldn’t it have been far sweeter if bin Laden had been throwing a little tea party for asswipes on Sunday? I can just imagine the scene:

Inside a million-dollar compound in Pakistan—unnoticed by local political leaders and officials of the military academy within walking distance—a banquet table, draped in a dainty floral-patterned silk, overflows with scones and jam, buttery tea biscuits, iced lemon cakes, and delicate China cups brimming with café au lait.

The Donald leans slightly forward as Osama tops off Trump’s beverage. The “winning warlock” gently chews a petit four. Osama wiggles a teapot in Charlie’s direction.

“More tiger’s blood for my favorite infidel?” Osama inquires. Sheen declines with a slight wave.

“No. No more for me. I’ve got to go drain my torpedo of truth as it is.” He spots a twelve-year-old girl hesitating in the doorway. “Excuse me,” he says to his fellow fuckers, “Gotta go grab me a goddess.” On the way out, Sheen playfully flips the Donald’s hair.

“Goddammit, Charlie. It took five hours and six stylists to get that right this morning. Now I’ll never be president,” Trump seethes.

“Oh, comb on, Donnie. If I can get my career back after all the lies CBS has spread about me, then you can bounce back from a little follicle fuck-up. We shall overcomb!” Sheen explodes with laughter at his own dumbassness. Trump executes an inverted facelock elbow drop, and the two celebrated dipshits soon end up naked and grappling on bin Laden’s linoleum. Just as Osama strips his pastel striped dress over his head to join in the gay old time, a team of Navy Seals in night-vision goggles drops in for a treat. They shoot anything that even remotely resembles a dumbass.

And the world lets loose a collective sigh of relief.

Fade to black.

You Know What Sucks? LipoSUCtion.

I admit it. I’ve had liposuction. It hurt like a mother, but it did do exactly what the doctor claimed it would. It “reshaped” my trouble areas. The only thing is that the new shape is more Quasimodo than Barbie. Never did the physician tell me that once I had fat sucked out of my squarish hips and my inner thighs—which I always wanted to have a space between while my feet were together the way cheerleader legs have—that fat cells would sprout up in places I’d never had them before.

In case you’re not familiar, here’s how liposuction works in twenty easy steps:

1.)    Anesthesia is administered, but apparently it is only the “twilight” kind which doesn’t deaden a goddamned thing but makes you “forget” the pain. My ass.

2.)    Incisions are made in areas near the suction sites. The surgeon skillfully slices your tender flesh open with something mother-fucking sharp. I remember thinking, “That son-of-a-bitch is using something mother-fucking sharp to slice the tender flesh of my…private area, which I clearly did not give permission for him to do.” What I actually said was, “Ouch. Ouch. Ouch,” while some gloved hand repeatedly slapped mine away.

3.)    A very long, straw-like canula (from the Latin word for reed because the canula is hollow and large like a reed instrument such as a fucking clarinet), is threaded into the incision and down to the suction site where it is then jammed over and over and over into tender flesh to hack away large portions of fat-cell-filled tissue and to suck them out. The contents are vacuumed into an extra-extra-large Ziplock bag. The canula is mother-fucking sharp.

4.)    There is no attempt at actual cosmetic shaping because the surgeon is too busy viciously slashing as if he is angry with the fat or with you or with all of humanity.

5.)    Once the carnage is over, the incision sites are stitched, and compression garments are heaved up over your vacuumed areas.

6.)    You are sent home high on some drug, your incisions leaking excess saline tinged with your blood, which you deserve to have stain and ruin the car’s upholstery if you forgot to bring old towels.

7.)    You are in sweaty delirium and scathing pain for days and days until you go back to the doctor to have him take out your stitches, which is akin to having some son-of-a-bitch stick needles into your inflamed bruises and then rip them out really fast.

8.)    You continue to wear the compression garments for several weeks, and you may or may not get used to peeing through the cut-out hole in the girdle.

9.)    Finally, the day comes to remove all the bandaging and to view the new you.

10.)  There is lots and lots of cussing.

11.)  You are all lumpy and green and yellow and not at all svelte like those brochure thighs in the waiting room.

12.)  You wait patiently for years for the brochure thighs, which never materialize.

13.)  Meanwhile, your sides grow considerable handholds, which flop over the elastic waistbands you now are forced to wear.

14.)  Your upper back has folds.

15.)  Your upper gut looks like it’s expecting. Triplets.

16.)   No clothes of any kind ever fit correctly again.

17.)  You no longer fit into the “apple” or the “pear” category. You are one of those bumpy, misshapen gourds that comes out only at Halloween.

18.)  You never wear a swimsuit to the beach for the rest of your life without someone calling for a marine rescue.

19.)  There is still no space between your thighs when your feet are together.

20.)  The only thing that sucks more than liposuction is that you have no one but your own sorry fat ass to blame.