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.

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

Happy Muthas’ Day

A darling friend of mine noted that I didn’t paste any warm and fuzzalicious words in honor of my mommy dearest this week on our social network. I love(d) my mother, but I used to have the hardest time finding a Mothers’ Day card because nothing quite said “Fuck you, bitch” the way I wanted it to.

Here’s the scoop: Sometimes moms are not Clair Huxtable or Carol Brady or June Cleaver. Sometimes moms have babies out of allegiance to some antiquated decree proclaiming a woman “not a real woman” if she doesn’t get married, get spermed, get swollen, get contractions, and then get her insides expelled out of her nether regions while LOVING the whole process AND the tiny tadpole who caused that nuclear pain.

My mom pledged that allegiance. She really would have rather birthed some stardom. Instead she despised most of her existence, most everything about me from my pre-adolescence to my own motherhood, and most of the attention NOT being on her. I jumped through all the flaming hoops I could to get her attention, pissed her off as often as possible, disappointed her in scandalous ways. We made up after she turned into a lonely and delusional grandmother who still passed for my sister. And then she fucking died.

I miss her laugh (of which I ADORED being the cause), her closets of enchanting evening wear and scrumptious shoes. And her cooking. Her better-than-Paula-Deen-in-her-dreams cooking. Her Oh, my GOD cooking; everything she created was pure gold, Southern-git-yer-diabeeteez-here, lick-the-plate, unbutton-your-waistband-until-the-misery-of-overstuffing-passed, gourmet grand. I’m sometimes morose with the realization that I’ll never experience her culinary creations again. I think about how it would be if she came back for just one dinner. Maybe on a Mothers’ Day. But then she’d bring her drama with her. And she’d have to go away again. And I still wouldn’t have just the right card.

Love and Marriage and Cameron Diaz

So, yeah. Cameron Diaz came out this week…no, not like that. MISS Diaz came out in the press with her opinion that marriage is a dying institution. Now, having grown up fully embracing the idea that “practice makes perfect,” I think I know a hell of a lot more about marriage than MISS Diaz does. Or ever will. In fact, if the aforementioned corollary is true, then I am a freaking matrimony master. A wedding whiz. A connubiality connoisseur. You get the picture.

MISS Diaz is merely a nuptial novice, and she is just all sour-grapes because she can’t GET anyone to marry her. After her comments exploded like an unarmed despot dictator’s brain matter because what she has to say is such momentous fricking NEWS, a super-credible psychiatrist and member of the Fox News Medical A-Team, Dr. Keith Ablow, agreed unequivocally with MISS Diaz. According to the doctor, “90 percent of the married patients I speak with would rank their marriages in the top two stressors in their lives, while only 10 percent would rank their marriages as one of the top two sources of strength in their lives.” Huh. Isn’t that kind of like a dentist stating that a high percentage of his patients come to him with some concern about their mouths?  People who have happy marriages don’t go see marriage counselors, numnuts. Did Dr. Ablow poll the millions of couples with whom he DOESN’T speak? I rest my case. But only about what dumbasses celebrities (more on that this week) and compensated medical experts are.

As far as marriage goes, I’ve had A LOT of practice and know practically everything there is to know about it. And I say people ought to be able to make a commitment to whomever or whatever they choose. If a fellow wants to marry his Dustbuster ®, more power to him, and let the sucking begin*.

Source: http://www.foxnews.com/opinion/2011/05/06/dr-keith-ablow-cameron-diaz-right-4-reasons-marriage-dying-institution/

*OMFG. I’m kidding. Do NOT go around saying I think people should marry a vacuum cleaner. Y’all don’t need to go all cray.

I Can’t Heeeearrrrr You, Part 2. Otherwise Known As “Speak the Fuck Up”

When I started college, I realized that I couldn’t always understand conversations or what folks said to me in public. And then the first week of freshman year, this dummmmmmmmbassssss threw a couple of lit firecrackers over the transom into my dorm room, and they landed on my bed where I was reading. Right next to my left ear. Oh, yeah! HiLARious! What a totally FUNNY prank, you nutless wonder! (I know your name, too, anal plug.)

Wooo. I’m still laughing.

My ear did nothing but ring for days, so I had a hearing test. The really funny part of that story is that the How-in-the-World-Have-you-Gone-This-Long-Without-Hearing-Aids?!-verdict surprised me. I didn’t see it coming.

Too-bad, so-sad that since sixth grade I’d been a vocalist. Ran in the family. But so did progressive nerve-loss hearing impairment. Better think of a new career, I thought. It truly sucked big, nasty, geriatric balls that I had to stop performing. At my ten-year high school reunion, Lisa Jones, whom I’d known casually when we’d sung (See, J-Lo? You use “sung” when there’s a helping verb, dammit!) in shows together, asked me, with genuine excitement, if I planned to join the 80’s cover band on stage.

Sheeeeeeee-it, no. I’d have sooner stripped naked and turned clumsy cartwheels while peeing in front of everybody and God. No-ho-ho-ho. I’d given up the tangerine dreams of a permanent spotlight after embarrassing myself on a handful of occasions. It seems in my case, a career in music involves hearing oneself, Beethoven be damned. So I chose teaching. Those are close, aren’t they?

Fast-forward twenty vicious years, and spiteful reality has sucker-punched my ass, snatched out fistfuls of my thinning hair, deviated my septum, and left me unconscious on the hot sidewalk. There is almost NO career for an INTELLIGENT deaf girl. In fact, no activity that requires human interaction was designed for us posts.

Teaching is torment. Shopping is agony. Dinner at a restaurant is torture. And although my hearing loss is responsible for most of the distress, a large portion of the blame falls on the devolving diction of most people I encounter. Many store clerks, students, waiters, co-workers, and all of my daughter’s myriad doctors sound like they’re fighting to form words around a giant old chaw of fresh cow shit in their mouths. I can ask folks to repeat what they say a hundred-thousand-billion times, and it won’t make a bit of difference. Just fucking text me. Jesus. I know most of these folks can’t spell either, but damn. Let’s at least level the playing field!  And, honestly, if what you have to say isn’t important enough for you to speak the fuck up and enunciate, then just keep it to yourself.

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.

C*nt Never Could

Holy shitwads, y’all! Gwenyth Paltrow appeared on Chelsea Lately—the only late, late night talk show with a woman behind the main desk—a couple of nights ago. This is, apparently, BIG news. Or the uproar could be that while on the show, Gwynnie called her grandmother a really, realllllly nasty name for the female genitalia. In case you are too chaste to know what the word is, then I’ll give you a hint, and perhaps you’d like to tell me what the fuck you’re doing reading this in the first place. Hm? Nothing? Mm-hmm.

For you sheltered mama’s boys, the word that Ms. Paltrow said begins with a “c.” It rhymes with “cunt.” Do you think you have it figured out? I’ll give you a sec. Thaaaaaat’s it. Yeah. Gwyn called her own grandmother that derogatory name because she was trying to riff off some stupid shit that Chelsea said about her grandma, which wasn’t even funny like 90% of what Chelsea says.

Well, my grandmother could kick both their grandmas’ asses in the kitchen; she smoked Marlboro Reds for sixty-five years; and she said things like, “Cain’t never could,” which means “Stop yer fucking bitching and whining and saying, ‘I can’t,’ and just do the goddamned thing I told you to do.” Whatever she told me to do generally concerned picking shit out of the garden in the Georgia heat and then shelling it for dinner as if I didn’t have better things to do in the air conditioned den where the t.v. was. “Peas cain’t shell themselves,” she’d bleat. To which I’d think, “Cain’t never could, you fucking peas.” I never said anything out loud, or I sure as shit wouldn’t be here whining today.

The thing that gets me about Gwyneth Paltrow’s c-word utterance is that every damned body is so shocked. Is there really anyone who still believes in the sparkling, studio-spun celebrity persona? Rock Hudson screwed boys, people. The jig’s been up for years. Gwyneth does not shit diamonds or have gold for blood. She isn’t immortal, as far as I know, and she calls her grandmother a cunt. She is one of the greatest actors I’ve ever seen, but since when does pretending well mean you’re better than everyone else? Shit. If that’s all it takes, where’s my fucking limo?  I’ve been married four previous times. Don’t tell me I cain’t act.

Funny Girls Write Books.

Well. I’ve been KINDLING lately, and I don’t mean I’ve become firewood. Or that I’ve recently turned anyone on. I really should say “Kindle-ing” if I want to be accurate, since I’m talking about all the reading I’ve been doing on my Amazon Kindle. I’d toyed with getting one for awhile, and a few weeks ago I snagged a deal at Big Box. As soon as I plugged that puppy in, and whole books and magazines appeared in microseconds, I frothed at the mouth and scheduled some near-future rehab.

The first thing I did was order a whole slew of books penned by comediennes (women comedians for all your dumbshits). I’d been anticipating the arrival of Tina Fey’s Bossypants like a gaggle of gay teens pining for a Kurt-Blaine tongue wrestle. But because I had a couple of days before Bpants’s release, I quelled my desire with Kathy Griffin’s Official Book Club Selection: A Memoir According to Kathy Griffin and Chelsea Handler’s My Horizontal Life.

Kathy r-o-c-k-s. I laughed laaaaaate into the night reading her surprisingly sweet and intimate memoir; but I can say with unvarnished truth that Chelsea Handler’s book was so unfunny that I resent the fact that I cannot even use it as toilet paper if I run out. I want my fucking five dollars back, bitch. (Although perhaps the reality that it was five dollars should have been a clue to its suckassness.)

Tina Fey, now, is just as wicked as Kathy Griffin; but because her humor is a little more cerebral, and she’s selected a better class of friends, Tina isn’t on Oprah’s and David’s and every-damned-body’s shitlist. Hey. Both of those girls swear way more than I do, but nobody’s having a stroke about it. So be quiet, Daddy. (Who do you think taught me all those words anyway? Yeah. That’s right. Bathroom bitches at Parkwood Elementary. But you should have warned me about sixth-graders.)

My conclusion #1- If you’re looking for pee-in-your-panties fun, grad a box of Depends ® and a Griffin- or Fey-produced product.

My conclusion #2- The only upside to anything by Handler: If you need to lose a few pounds before an upcoming special event, read Handler’s shit, and you can puke up food you haven’t even eaten yet. Slimming.

My conclusion #3- If they can sell books, so can I. Go, girl writers.