Today I had a conversation with a woman from Peru, who was quite intelligent and interesting to talk to. Something that she said struck me hard and really made me think.
For a long time, I’ve blamed the horrible economy and the extreme disparity between the rich and poor on three super-powerful entities: pharmaceutical companies, health insurance companies, and oil companies. Health insurance companies don’t go under very often when compared with other industries. They pay out fractions of what they’re billed, they force the insured to pay unreasonable percentages of the bills and force them to jump through sometimes fatal hoops to get the coverage they’re entitled to, and they charge us obscene amounts in premiums. This drives up the cost of benefits for employers, and they pay the employees less as well as forcing them to contribute to the premiums, which is in addition to the medical bills employees end up having to pay. In turn, people are not getting the preventive care they should because they cannot afford it, and when they do get a diagnosis, they can’t afford the treatment. These days, we also have to worry that a diagnosis can actually effect our ability to have future coverage, too. I don’t have to touch on the astronomical costs of medications in the U.S., which are unjustly inflated for Americans. And I know I don’t have to launch into any kind of sermon about how much money the oil companies make for no reason other than because they can charge anything they want, and we’ll pay it. We experience and see this everyday.
So, as I was sitting there, chatting with this Peruvian woman who has recently immigrated to the U.S., she seemed to be trying to figure out the American psyche with the questions she asked me, and with each answer I gave, I was cognizant of the representative role I played the opinion she was forming of whatever group I represented to her. We discussed racism in the country, as well as in our modest little suburb, compared and contrasted it with what we both had experienced living in Chicago, and how difficult it is for immigrants these days to be treated by strangers with any decorum or respect. This led me to ask her a question about an article I read in a forgotten newspaper recently.
What I remembered reading was an article that cited that there is an exodus of native Mexicans returning to Mexico after coming to America for a “better life”. The article subjectively listed first that the economy here has prompted many people to return to the countries they left for similar reasons just a few years or decades earlier, like jobs are no longer abundant and the cost of living is so high. As secondary and tertiary reasons for the unprecedented return to Mexico, were the fears of deportation and the dubious future they have of ever being granted citizenship. We’re not necessarily talking about illegal immigrants here, either. Many legal citizens are going BACK to Mexico for a “better life”, and what reasons they give may or may not be what is being reported. I have my doubts. I’d venture a guess that yes, jobs are scarcer, money doesn’t go as far, and becoming a citizen is a process few will accomplish after paying heaps of money for many years, all the while paying taxes and supporting the U.S. economy. But I would put a lot of emphasis on the overall hatred and hostility that is aimed directly at the Mexican border, and anyone with an Hispanic-sounding name, or tan or olive skin is being accused of being an illegal alien at every turn in this country. Our country is downright despicable in the way we treat anyone we suspect might be Hispanic. Could it be that maybe they’re leaving because we’ve threatened them, treated them horribly, and made them feel unwelcome in every way, in every area, including dragging out the citizenship process for Spanish-speakers that greatly exceeds the length of time it takes for someone to become naturalized from Europe or Asia? My money is on blatant hatred they see on a regular basis, which only exacerbates the economic woes.
I’ve learned very quickly that the American public believes some very different things than the rest of the world. You get together a room full of immigrants from a variety of countries around the world and you ask them who was behind the attacks on 9/11. You’ll be very surprised who everyone blames. I won’t name names because I’ll likely be accused of being a conspiracy theorist or un-American for spreading this hearsay, but let’s just say that after November, the lame duck they blame won’t be as powerful anymore. So, when I brought up this article I read to this very bright Peruvian woman, she started talking about all the different news channels she watches regularly, including all the local ABC, NBC, and CBS affiliates, the national news channels, and the international news channels, which was the groundwork she laid before she answered my question about what she thought of how much truth there was to this article.
That’s when she hit me with something I hadn’t thought about.
She mentioned the hundreds of raids taking place at companies, factories, and various places of business, where everyone on staff is checked for citizenship, and truckloads of illegals are carted off, taken to jail, and after two – three months of jail time, they are released and immediately deported. These raids go on constantly, she assured me. The American news does not report this. However, if she watches the news on Univision or Telemundo, she can see just how many people are being deported all around the country, everyday. It’s sad and frightening, even to people who are citizens or who are going through the process. These are their family members, friends, and neighbors. You never know who is just going to disappear on any given day.
Now, after these raids started becoming common, something else happened at the companies that employed illegals. Um, well, duh – they couldn’t employ illegals anymore. Which meant that they had to hire people legally and pay higher salaries, as well as the appropriate employment taxes. Many businesses have gone under because of this, and the rest have raised what they charge to consumers for their various services or products, and this contributes to the outrageous inflation. So, essentially, what the stupid racists in the U.S. have long thought, that illegals come here and go on Welfare or other government subsidies, draining money out of our pockets via our taxes, well, they’re still stupid racists because they’re absolutely backwards. Our economy thrives with illegals working illegally at places we do business with because employing them keeps prices down. Let’s not even discuss the costs we’re investing in these raids, in the court costs, incarceration, and then shipping people back to their homelands. At some point, you’ve got to step back and take a good, hard look at the costs and the benefits.
I’m not promoting breaking the law, ignoring the proper immigration process, and allowing employers to get away with not paying employment taxes on people who they aren’t supposed to hire. This isn’t even to even mention the moral issues of hiring people for pay lower than minimum wage and denying them benefits and tax rights like Unemployment, Workers Compensation, and everything else that labor laws are set up to ensure. C’mon now, you all should know me better than to think I’d encourage the breaking of numerous laws set up to protect EVERYONE involved. Not happening here, folks. But what this woman brought to my attention was how much of an enormous impact the aggressive deportation of illegals is having on our economy, and for the first time ever, I’m starting to see that maybe I cannot blame all my woes on the three aforementioned super-powers.
Just when I thought she was done making my brain expand, she started talking about China, and the economic powerhouse they are quickly becoming. She asked me how their economy was able to grow so much. I saw where she was going, nodded and conceded that cheap labor does wonders for the economy. She pointed out the pattern in other countries, which are growing and also notorious for their cheap labor. She paused and then continued to add that when people immigrate to the U.S. illegally, they’re not competing with Americans for jobs. Americans won’t do the jobs illegals do, particularly for the money these employers are offering. Illegals do factory work, agricultural work, garbage work, clean-up work, and all the other tasks that we think we’re above. They work their asses off, they don’t complain, and often they have two or three jobs to make ends meet, all hard labor work. But if the government forcefully removes them from these jobs, we have fewer people in the U.S. willing to do this work for such meager earnings, and that’s when many of these companies raise their prices enormously. When that doesn’t solve problems, they take their business and their jobs, uproot, and go to other countries for cheaper labor. And we all hate the fact that so many companies are moving their entire operation or portions of their operation to other countries. This trickling effect is slamming our country right now, and average citizens aren’t even talking about it.
Not on the NBC, CBS, ABC or any of the national news channels do they mention any of this, but my Peruvian acquaintance pointed out that this is what’s being talked about in other countries, being reported on international news networks, and some of the attitude is that we’re getting what we deserve.
Not me, I yell! I’m not one of them!
It’s hard for me to swallow because so often I feel like this entire country has gone mad and I’m alone, standing there with my arms outstretched, demanding to know what the fuck is wrong with my countrymen and am I the only one who is currently ashamed to be part of the human race. I don’t support the war, the current president, conventional wisdom, or the people in this country trying to deny global warming, like the holocaust deniers who refuse to see the facts. I’m not one of them! I don’t support massive deportation and raids on businesses. I also don’t support just turning a blind eye to broken laws. What I do support is the concept of developing a new plan that isn’t so goddamn inhumane, which I have not run across yet. Someone somewhere is smart enough to come up with an idea that actually sounds civilized, right? RIGHT? WHERE ARE YOU? SPEAK UP! Where is our humanity?! Beyond the immigration problems, there can’t be a quick fix for our economy, either. Theorists are foretelling that the economy will miraculously right itself, and many prognosticators even name a specific month when this upturn will occur, while others are doomsday believers who have started building a hut and caching non-perishables. Much faith is being placed in people’s presidential candidate of choice, but I think that’s largely naïve. I’m even starting to believe that the next elected president can’t even hope to turn things around in his term, and we haven’t begun to bottom out yet. That’s the pessimist in me talking. But I haven’t built a hut or started storing my canned foods, so don’t lock me up in that padded room just yet.
It’s always eye-opening and thought-provoking to have conversations with people who do not derive all of their opinions about world and national affairs by what the biased American news reports. We are most often sheep, and sometimes we fail to recognize how sheep-like we have become until we run into someone with a view from a different angle. Even if you don’t agree with anything you read in any paragraph of this post, you have to admit that it’s quite interesting to know that people are thinking this about us, and maybe, just maybe, we’re a little too wrapped up in the drama of being Americans to see what being an American means to people who aren’t.
And there are far more people who are not Americans in this world.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Sacrifices
How long can someone survive with only 3.25 ounces of blood left in her body? That might be a high-end estimate. I think I might have less.
After I put my dinner in the oven, there was some thunder rumbling in the distance, and those of you who have a dog know that as soon as the weather threatens to get bad, the damn dog announces frantically that he must pee. This means you have to put on whatever protective gear you can find to deal not only with the inclement weather, but find the cloth leash (because chains in a lightning storm are unwise), put on shoes that easily slide on and off to protect you from standing on escaping worms, yet will protect your feet from the rain and puddles, and throwing on that rubber parka, even though it's 80º outside, to keep your pajama top and work slacks (because you've only had time to half-change clothes since arriving home) from getting drenched in the downpour. You take the dog out, and though it's not raining quite yet, it will be in a moment, which the dog doesn't understand. He decides this is a grand time to run full-force down the street and go for a high-speed, high-impact run around the subdivision, which almost dislocates your shoulder before you get him back under control. Well, somewhat. Finally he pees, and while his bladder unloads an unbelievably large load of liquid, you notice the lightning is quite dramatic and tell the damn dog to hurry the hell up, perhaps curse him a little bit for saving up his pee all day for this storm.
Yeah, well, all that is quite annoying, but for some reason, despite the danger I thought I was in while the dog was peeing, I actually went inside and grabbed my camera so I could return to the imminent storm and take lightning shots before the deluge began. Uh-huh. With a big metal tripod. And a mostly metal camera. In the middle of a field. With lightning. And I call the dog stupid.
My pictures weren't all that great because there were far too many clouds hiding the lightning, but three of the pics showed little fizzles of lightning. Okay, maybe you'll have to click to embiggen them to see the lightning, but it's there -- I swear!
All artists sacrifice a little of themselves for their art, right?
For me, it was my blood.
At 10 p.m., with an impending storm, every single mosquito in the Tri-State area heard the news that there was a juicy human standing outside taking pictures, and the swarm commenced. They were all over me in a way that I've never experienced before. They were in my ears, on my lips, up my shirt sleeves, between my toes, and in other unmentionable areas that had me wiggling like Jell-o. I even had an Æon Flux moment where I trapped one between my eyelashes, Venus-flytrap-style. It's very hard to hold still for 5- and 10-second shutter speeds when bugs are in your hair, up your nose, and under your arms, biting and sucking your blood. Somehow I managed to take 175 pictures, though. Do the math. I was out there for quite a while, bleeding to death into small siphons of thousands of insects looking to use my life to further their own species. Fuckers! And all I had to show for it was these three photos with tiny little fizzles of lightning.
Even the dog thought I was nuts. When I went back inside, pale and near death, he looked at me as if to say, "You know, if we'd been on that sprint around the subdivision, they never would've caught up to you. Now you're going to bleed to death out of a million microscopic holes and who's going to give me cookies everyday? Oh, wait, yeah, I'm cute so everyone will, but you'll still be dead. Stupid human."
That's me.
After I put my dinner in the oven, there was some thunder rumbling in the distance, and those of you who have a dog know that as soon as the weather threatens to get bad, the damn dog announces frantically that he must pee. This means you have to put on whatever protective gear you can find to deal not only with the inclement weather, but find the cloth leash (because chains in a lightning storm are unwise), put on shoes that easily slide on and off to protect you from standing on escaping worms, yet will protect your feet from the rain and puddles, and throwing on that rubber parka, even though it's 80º outside, to keep your pajama top and work slacks (because you've only had time to half-change clothes since arriving home) from getting drenched in the downpour. You take the dog out, and though it's not raining quite yet, it will be in a moment, which the dog doesn't understand. He decides this is a grand time to run full-force down the street and go for a high-speed, high-impact run around the subdivision, which almost dislocates your shoulder before you get him back under control. Well, somewhat. Finally he pees, and while his bladder unloads an unbelievably large load of liquid, you notice the lightning is quite dramatic and tell the damn dog to hurry the hell up, perhaps curse him a little bit for saving up his pee all day for this storm.
Yeah, well, all that is quite annoying, but for some reason, despite the danger I thought I was in while the dog was peeing, I actually went inside and grabbed my camera so I could return to the imminent storm and take lightning shots before the deluge began. Uh-huh. With a big metal tripod. And a mostly metal camera. In the middle of a field. With lightning. And I call the dog stupid.
My pictures weren't all that great because there were far too many clouds hiding the lightning, but three of the pics showed little fizzles of lightning. Okay, maybe you'll have to click to embiggen them to see the lightning, but it's there -- I swear!
All artists sacrifice a little of themselves for their art, right?
For me, it was my blood.
At 10 p.m., with an impending storm, every single mosquito in the Tri-State area heard the news that there was a juicy human standing outside taking pictures, and the swarm commenced. They were all over me in a way that I've never experienced before. They were in my ears, on my lips, up my shirt sleeves, between my toes, and in other unmentionable areas that had me wiggling like Jell-o. I even had an Æon Flux moment where I trapped one between my eyelashes, Venus-flytrap-style. It's very hard to hold still for 5- and 10-second shutter speeds when bugs are in your hair, up your nose, and under your arms, biting and sucking your blood. Somehow I managed to take 175 pictures, though. Do the math. I was out there for quite a while, bleeding to death into small siphons of thousands of insects looking to use my life to further their own species. Fuckers! And all I had to show for it was these three photos with tiny little fizzles of lightning.
Even the dog thought I was nuts. When I went back inside, pale and near death, he looked at me as if to say, "You know, if we'd been on that sprint around the subdivision, they never would've caught up to you. Now you're going to bleed to death out of a million microscopic holes and who's going to give me cookies everyday? Oh, wait, yeah, I'm cute so everyone will, but you'll still be dead. Stupid human."
That's me.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Dogs are Family, Too
Doggie Extraordinaire is the little brother we never had. He needs a blog to deal with what we do to him. Click the photo below to see what we've done to him now.
Poor thing.
He still loves us.
*No doggies were harmed in the making of this blog post. Perhaps humiliated, but not harmed.
Poor thing.
He still loves us.
*No doggies were harmed in the making of this blog post. Perhaps humiliated, but not harmed.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Consider Yourself Warned
Scary movies have never appealed to me. As a pre-teen I tried to prove my courage by watching horror films with my friends, but I hated the feeling of being afraid, and by the time I was a teenager, I’d built up enough courage to tell my friends I’d really rather play with bugs than watch a scary movie. And since then, I just don’t watch them.
Being afraid is not a feeling I covet. I don’t seek out adrenaline rushes, either. You won’t catch me willingly riding a roller coaster, skydiving, or doing any other risky activity associated with making your heart pound faster. I prefer cheap thrills and not risking my life. There is nothing appealing about doing anything that could easily cause me to scream, cry, or pee my pants. Why people seek this out and pay good money for it, I don’t know.
Recently I watched a program on television that frightened me beyond any kind of terror I felt watching The Exorcist as a child, or any paranormal story that I only half-believed, yet it scared the pants off me anyway. This show gave me nightmares the first time I watched it, and though I’ve tried to avoid it at all costs, occasionally I’m awake into the later hours of the day and I catch a glimpse of it as I’m flipping through the channels. No matter how strong I think I am or how much loving support I have with people around me, I cannot watch this show without having anxiety attacks. If you’ve watched this show, too, you probably know exactly what I’m talking about.
I would hereby like to declare that the TLC TV show “Jon and Kate Plus 8” is the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.
One child gives me the willies. Two children make my skin crawl and I will run if they get worked up in any way, happy or upset. But eight? Eight kids, which include one set of twins and one set of sextuplets, could possibly be worse than anything I’ve ever seen before.
Boyfriend Extraordinaire is the oldest of nine kids, and though the concept of nine kids is petrifying as well, at least they weren’t all the same general age. He was already away at college when the youngest was born, so it isn’t like there were eight preschoolers in the house at one time.
Dear Flying Spaghetti Monster! EIGHT! PRESCHOOLERS! In the house! At one time!
I think I’m going to pass out.
They make so much noise! And they’re always talking, and someone’s always crying, and I don’t understand a word they say in their subhuman babytalk. It’s not just these particular kids. It’s kids in general. But there are so many of them! They’re everywhere! Two go to school and six are too young for school, but it’s the youngest ones who drive me the craziest. No matter how orderly their home might be, to me it’s complete chaos. Everyone wants attention, and the elaborate games they have to play to keep everyone entertained exhausts me just watching. I just…just can’t watch it. There are so many of them!
Kids are like spiders. One spider can be kinda cool for about five minutes, watching it crawl around, and talking to it, knowing it doesn’t understand you. Two spiders are a little creepier. I think they’re going to gang up on me, and they will if you let your guard down. But eight spiders?! Eight spiders mean that at any moment, you can become spider food. Kids and spiders are the same to me.
Jon and Kate are brave, but after about three minutes of watching the show, I start thinking they’re lunatics. I recognize that they didn’t intend to have eight kids in two pregnancies, but there should be some kind of trade-in system for when you have too many kids. We should be able to exchange them somewhere for other goods. In the warped world of my imagination, Jon and Kate should’ve been able to trade two of the sextuplets for a home addition, one for a new car, and another one for better appliances. There are a lot of people out there who want children, and I think if you have too many, you should be able to trade them. That would make me happy. Not that Jon and Kate would have done this, because they seem to actually enjoy the chaos, but maybe, if I ran the universe, people would have this option, so that TV networks wouldn’t see this family as being so special and inflict the horror that is this zoo of children upon those of us in society who have a child phobia.
I suppose the bottom line is that my morbid curiosity has forced me to watch this show twice, and each time I found myself more upset, more horrified than I thought possible, and it’s my fault for watching. I shouldn’t watch. My blood pressure shoots up, I cover my eyes, I mute the television, and sometimes I have to leave the room and then come back to watch the end. This is not the kind of stress that should be on a television show. This should have an X-rating. It shouldn’t just be on any time of day for channel flippers to innocently find. This show should be available only if you punch in a complex code and sign a waiver, it’s that scary.
So, if you haven’t seen the program, consider yourself warned. You can skip all the horror films they release from now on and watch this show to get that sense of terror and helplessness that so many people seem to crave. For me, I am done. No more. I’d much rather play with spiders.
Being afraid is not a feeling I covet. I don’t seek out adrenaline rushes, either. You won’t catch me willingly riding a roller coaster, skydiving, or doing any other risky activity associated with making your heart pound faster. I prefer cheap thrills and not risking my life. There is nothing appealing about doing anything that could easily cause me to scream, cry, or pee my pants. Why people seek this out and pay good money for it, I don’t know.
Recently I watched a program on television that frightened me beyond any kind of terror I felt watching The Exorcist as a child, or any paranormal story that I only half-believed, yet it scared the pants off me anyway. This show gave me nightmares the first time I watched it, and though I’ve tried to avoid it at all costs, occasionally I’m awake into the later hours of the day and I catch a glimpse of it as I’m flipping through the channels. No matter how strong I think I am or how much loving support I have with people around me, I cannot watch this show without having anxiety attacks. If you’ve watched this show, too, you probably know exactly what I’m talking about.
I would hereby like to declare that the TLC TV show “Jon and Kate Plus 8” is the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.
One child gives me the willies. Two children make my skin crawl and I will run if they get worked up in any way, happy or upset. But eight? Eight kids, which include one set of twins and one set of sextuplets, could possibly be worse than anything I’ve ever seen before.
Boyfriend Extraordinaire is the oldest of nine kids, and though the concept of nine kids is petrifying as well, at least they weren’t all the same general age. He was already away at college when the youngest was born, so it isn’t like there were eight preschoolers in the house at one time.
Dear Flying Spaghetti Monster! EIGHT! PRESCHOOLERS! In the house! At one time!
I think I’m going to pass out.
They make so much noise! And they’re always talking, and someone’s always crying, and I don’t understand a word they say in their subhuman babytalk. It’s not just these particular kids. It’s kids in general. But there are so many of them! They’re everywhere! Two go to school and six are too young for school, but it’s the youngest ones who drive me the craziest. No matter how orderly their home might be, to me it’s complete chaos. Everyone wants attention, and the elaborate games they have to play to keep everyone entertained exhausts me just watching. I just…just can’t watch it. There are so many of them!
Kids are like spiders. One spider can be kinda cool for about five minutes, watching it crawl around, and talking to it, knowing it doesn’t understand you. Two spiders are a little creepier. I think they’re going to gang up on me, and they will if you let your guard down. But eight spiders?! Eight spiders mean that at any moment, you can become spider food. Kids and spiders are the same to me.
Jon and Kate are brave, but after about three minutes of watching the show, I start thinking they’re lunatics. I recognize that they didn’t intend to have eight kids in two pregnancies, but there should be some kind of trade-in system for when you have too many kids. We should be able to exchange them somewhere for other goods. In the warped world of my imagination, Jon and Kate should’ve been able to trade two of the sextuplets for a home addition, one for a new car, and another one for better appliances. There are a lot of people out there who want children, and I think if you have too many, you should be able to trade them. That would make me happy. Not that Jon and Kate would have done this, because they seem to actually enjoy the chaos, but maybe, if I ran the universe, people would have this option, so that TV networks wouldn’t see this family as being so special and inflict the horror that is this zoo of children upon those of us in society who have a child phobia.
I suppose the bottom line is that my morbid curiosity has forced me to watch this show twice, and each time I found myself more upset, more horrified than I thought possible, and it’s my fault for watching. I shouldn’t watch. My blood pressure shoots up, I cover my eyes, I mute the television, and sometimes I have to leave the room and then come back to watch the end. This is not the kind of stress that should be on a television show. This should have an X-rating. It shouldn’t just be on any time of day for channel flippers to innocently find. This show should be available only if you punch in a complex code and sign a waiver, it’s that scary.
So, if you haven’t seen the program, consider yourself warned. You can skip all the horror films they release from now on and watch this show to get that sense of terror and helplessness that so many people seem to crave. For me, I am done. No more. I’d much rather play with spiders.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Kool Kids Rock, As Always
Last night, half of the Kool Kids got together to assuage some of our stress.
Poor Ann has been suffering from Man Woes, and she wrote me an email complaining about something awful her ex had done, and she used the F-word. I was aghast! Of course, she didn’t actually utter the word, but putting it into an email was still far beyond anything I’d ever experienced with her, so I made plans to get together with her, because she clearly was distraught.
As news of my Mom Woes got out, Marina emailed me and wanted to see me for hugs, so I mentioned that I was meeting Ann late that night and invited her along. But I warned her that The New Ann was going, and she had a potty mouth.
Marina immediately shot back that this was not OUR Ann, but a pod person, and Marina insisted on accompanying us because I was surely in need of backup dealing with this impostor.
It’s always good to have friends who know how to make me laugh when I’m putting my mom in an asylum.
So we three went to Applebee’s for a late meal before they closed.
After unloading our Woes, both Man and Mom, Ann announced that she was doing a storytime about ice cream, to the tune of “On Top of Old Smokey.”
To show us how the song would go, she sang the substituted lyrics to us.
And before she got the entire line out of her mouth, Marina’s head turned into a beet and began to shake. She was laughing so hard that she actually turned redder than when she sunburned herself into a lobster.
Dude, the only thing funnier than Ann dropping the F-bomb, is Ann singing about losing her cherry.
Of course, she threw something at Marina and insisted that this program was for little kids, so there would be no laughing and snickering at her lyrics, but I reminded her that parents would be in the room too, and I wished her luck not putting them into vomiting laughter.
She suggested that maybe she’d change “cherry” to “sprinkle”.
Uh-huh. Maybe that’s a good idea.
Hopefully Ann didn’t walk away feeling worse after we made fun of her. I sure hope not. Because, seriously, the only reason we laughed is because she’s our golden child and it was completely insane to imagine her doing these things.
Perhaps the only thing that might have cheered me up after my mom tried to kill herself with 76 Xanax was exactly what happened last night, and for that I’m forever grateful to Ann and Marina.
Poor Ann has been suffering from Man Woes, and she wrote me an email complaining about something awful her ex had done, and she used the F-word. I was aghast! Of course, she didn’t actually utter the word, but putting it into an email was still far beyond anything I’d ever experienced with her, so I made plans to get together with her, because she clearly was distraught.
As news of my Mom Woes got out, Marina emailed me and wanted to see me for hugs, so I mentioned that I was meeting Ann late that night and invited her along. But I warned her that The New Ann was going, and she had a potty mouth.
Marina immediately shot back that this was not OUR Ann, but a pod person, and Marina insisted on accompanying us because I was surely in need of backup dealing with this impostor.
It’s always good to have friends who know how to make me laugh when I’m putting my mom in an asylum.
So we three went to Applebee’s for a late meal before they closed.
After unloading our Woes, both Man and Mom, Ann announced that she was doing a storytime about ice cream, to the tune of “On Top of Old Smokey.”
To show us how the song would go, she sang the substituted lyrics to us.
- ♫ On top of my ice cream,
All covered with fudge,
I lost my first cherry-- ♫
And before she got the entire line out of her mouth, Marina’s head turned into a beet and began to shake. She was laughing so hard that she actually turned redder than when she sunburned herself into a lobster.
Dude, the only thing funnier than Ann dropping the F-bomb, is Ann singing about losing her cherry.
Of course, she threw something at Marina and insisted that this program was for little kids, so there would be no laughing and snickering at her lyrics, but I reminded her that parents would be in the room too, and I wished her luck not putting them into vomiting laughter.
She suggested that maybe she’d change “cherry” to “sprinkle”.
Uh-huh. Maybe that’s a good idea.
Hopefully Ann didn’t walk away feeling worse after we made fun of her. I sure hope not. Because, seriously, the only reason we laughed is because she’s our golden child and it was completely insane to imagine her doing these things.
Perhaps the only thing that might have cheered me up after my mom tried to kill herself with 76 Xanax was exactly what happened last night, and for that I’m forever grateful to Ann and Marina.
Friday, June 20, 2008
A Learning Vacation
I learned some things while on vacation. Things I never would’ve guessed my vacation would reveal.
Now I’m back in my usual schedule and trying desperately to adjust back to ordinary life. It sucks. I want to hang with my Schwee, visit animals, walk through the woods, take pictures, and eat at restaurants everyday. Dammit, why isn’t this possible?!
- First of all, my name is Nikki and I am a restaurant addict. Even if I’m not hungry, I want to go to restaurants. I’m happy taking home so many doggie bags from the food I couldn’t eat at all the restaurants I insisted we go to, that our Styrofoam containers completely filled my fridge by the end of the week. I don’t WANT to go to restaurants. I NEED to go to restaurants. Boyfriend Extraordinaire is trying to get to the bottom of my love of restaurants, but we can’t get past my inability to stop grinning from ear to ear while sitting in a booth and having bottomless drinks brought to us. C’mon! What’s NOT to love about restaurants? Well, yeah, aside from the price.
Boyfriend Extraordinaire is worthy of his name. Let me count the ways. He fixed my hubcaps, which wouldn’t stay on my car and the dealership had no idea what to tell me. He fixed my garage door lock so that my home isn’t completely vulnerable with an unlockable garage door. He also fixed the lightswitch in my garage so that I don’t have to feel around in the pitch-black darkness for the floodlight that plugs in, because my flashlight broke. He bought me a new flashlight. The remote control that my dog ate had a missing chunk out of the circuit board, and B.E. not only found a soldering iron and solder in my myriad of a garage, but he soldered two wires to the circuit board and now my remote control works for the first time in three years. He bought me a treadmill. He bought me a wireless weather station so that I don’t have to spend the first moments after I wake up checking the Weather Channel and NOAA.gov for weather conditions, which I’m a tiny bit obsessed with. He made fun of me and told countless strangers in a loud, announcing fashion that I peed my pants (well, no, just my underwear, because when I finally got to the toilet, I got my shorts off at the last second but ended up sacrificing the undies) when we were out last week, after I drank four glasses of beverage and found myself in a public setting with no washrooms anywhere nearby. Hey, wait, that’s not nice! Scratch that! Okay, so he laughs at all my stupid jokes, like when I farted in bed and told him I was giving him butt-to-butt resuscitation. He cracks me up, too, in the embarrassing, uncontrollable way that makes me snort and choke and I have to beg for mercy. And above all else, he still yells out “Woo, woo!” when I change clothes in front of him. Truly, he’s extraordinary.
We watched television. We watched shows I didn’t know existed. I found a show called “Burn Notice” and I have one thing to ask. HOW the HELL did Bruce Campbell get to be so old?! OH! MY! FSM! He doesn’t look bad, but WHAT the FUCK? Is this some scary/funny trick by Sam Raimi? And why the hell did Jim Carrey become famous doing a bad impersonation of Bruce all these years, too? How did Bruce drop off my radar for so long that he looks like he could be his own dad? My head hurts.
Earplugs work well against noise like someone snoring a foot away, and an aggressive dog who barks at the garbage men, the lawn care guys, and any noise or movement that occurs in the house. Earplugs are great. But they can also guard your sensitive ears against the necessary blaring of your alarm clock, so be wary.
Planes make Schwee sick. Every time. Every flight. Cesspools!
My sunglasses broke – my favorite sunglasses – and shopping for sunglasses revealed something very bizarre about our society. We want the tiniest lenses for our eyeglasses so as not to be able to see clearly except for a pinprick straight ahead of us, without any peripheral vision or up and down. We seem to want to fall down stairs and hit our head on things. Fashion is stupid. YET! Yet, the trendy sunglasses look like Charles Nelson Reilly glasses. Last year it was Elton John, but it’s progressed to these unbelievable Harry Carry frames that need only some feathered hair, a tacky fur coat and Charlie perfume to make the ensemble complete. Why? Just why?
Work email should never ever be checked from home when you’re on vacation. I’ve said it before but I never take my own advice. I will in the future.
Now I’m back in my usual schedule and trying desperately to adjust back to ordinary life. It sucks. I want to hang with my Schwee, visit animals, walk through the woods, take pictures, and eat at restaurants everyday. Dammit, why isn’t this possible?!
He's No Swan!
Hans Christian Anderson was a dildo.
We’re all familiar with the story The Ugly Duckling and the moral it preached about how ugly kids can grow up to be beautiful adults, or some such nonsense. There are some fairy tales that I think are beautiful and timeless, and there are some, like this one, that I think are garbage. This tale is about the equivalent of saying that if you’re flat-chested as a kid, you could grow up and have naturally huge knockers, so don’t fret about being an AA.
C’mon, you self-deprecating, pre-emo dork! Can’t you do better than that? Perhaps teach that there are more important things in the world than being a size 3, having bee-stung lips or a six-pack of abs you could crush a beer can with when you do a sit-up. Gee, maybe it would be nice for a kid to know that being smart and having courage are two traits far rarer and more precious than having big blue eyes and long lashes to bat at your mommy. Maybe it would be nice if the little cygnet got his revenge on the ducklings by saving them from habitat loss or leading them to food during a famine. Maybe it would be better if the entire story recognized that the ugly duckling was not only never a duckling, but he was never ugly, either!
HELLO! Have you seen what a cygnet looks like?! They are the cutest little off-white fuzzballs I’ve ever seen, with pastel-pink bills and big, dark eyes. What a stupid fairy tale that is when you consider how fucking adorable cygnets are!
Okay, Mr. Anderson, let’s look a little closer here. If that was supposed to be semi-autobiographical, with the “ugly” bird representing you and how ugly you thought you were, but it grew up to be the most beautiful bird around, perhaps this self-pity fest needs to be crashed. This “ugly” critter you saw as yourself is actually one of the cutest animals in nature. What’s that about? You want people to think that you’re self-conscious about how ugly you feel, but you really believe you’re a cute, fuzzy cygnet about to grow up into a gorgeous swan? I’m supposed to feel sorry for that? I’m supposed to find comfort in what you perceive as a turn of luck that means you will be stunningly gorgeous, so no one should tell you how ugly they think you are? Oh no, Mr. Anderson. Go cry on someone else’s shoulder! We are not that gullible. And if you think you’re a baby swan, then you’re a shallow braggart anyway.
Dildo.
And to help prove it, here are my pictures of a family of swans I met at the Chicago Botanic Gardens. Tell me these things aren’t adorable! Mr. Anderson WISHES he was this cute!!
And, if you’re so inclined, I have more pics of peacocks, mountain goats, bears, lions and pelicans.
I swear I'll write actual posts again now that my vacation is over.
We’re all familiar with the story The Ugly Duckling and the moral it preached about how ugly kids can grow up to be beautiful adults, or some such nonsense. There are some fairy tales that I think are beautiful and timeless, and there are some, like this one, that I think are garbage. This tale is about the equivalent of saying that if you’re flat-chested as a kid, you could grow up and have naturally huge knockers, so don’t fret about being an AA.
C’mon, you self-deprecating, pre-emo dork! Can’t you do better than that? Perhaps teach that there are more important things in the world than being a size 3, having bee-stung lips or a six-pack of abs you could crush a beer can with when you do a sit-up. Gee, maybe it would be nice for a kid to know that being smart and having courage are two traits far rarer and more precious than having big blue eyes and long lashes to bat at your mommy. Maybe it would be nice if the little cygnet got his revenge on the ducklings by saving them from habitat loss or leading them to food during a famine. Maybe it would be better if the entire story recognized that the ugly duckling was not only never a duckling, but he was never ugly, either!
HELLO! Have you seen what a cygnet looks like?! They are the cutest little off-white fuzzballs I’ve ever seen, with pastel-pink bills and big, dark eyes. What a stupid fairy tale that is when you consider how fucking adorable cygnets are!
Okay, Mr. Anderson, let’s look a little closer here. If that was supposed to be semi-autobiographical, with the “ugly” bird representing you and how ugly you thought you were, but it grew up to be the most beautiful bird around, perhaps this self-pity fest needs to be crashed. This “ugly” critter you saw as yourself is actually one of the cutest animals in nature. What’s that about? You want people to think that you’re self-conscious about how ugly you feel, but you really believe you’re a cute, fuzzy cygnet about to grow up into a gorgeous swan? I’m supposed to feel sorry for that? I’m supposed to find comfort in what you perceive as a turn of luck that means you will be stunningly gorgeous, so no one should tell you how ugly they think you are? Oh no, Mr. Anderson. Go cry on someone else’s shoulder! We are not that gullible. And if you think you’re a baby swan, then you’re a shallow braggart anyway.
Dildo.
And to help prove it, here are my pictures of a family of swans I met at the Chicago Botanic Gardens. Tell me these things aren’t adorable! Mr. Anderson WISHES he was this cute!!
And, if you’re so inclined, I have more pics of peacocks, mountain goats, bears, lions and pelicans.
I swear I'll write actual posts again now that my vacation is over.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Meerkats!
If you've ever watched the show "Meerkat Manor" on Animal Planet and fell in love with a meerkat only to have your heart broken, allow me to invite you to my newest Tabblo of some meerkat pups at the Racine Zoo, who are all the tiniest bundles of cuteness I've ever seen and there is no bad ending! It's all good!
It is with regret that I cannot add any audio of this encounter, because if you have never encountered meerkats in person, you just don't know how adorable their constant tiny, little moaning noises are. You're just going to have to go see them for yourselves.
It is with regret that I cannot add any audio of this encounter, because if you have never encountered meerkats in person, you just don't know how adorable their constant tiny, little moaning noises are. You're just going to have to go see them for yourselves.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
Pass the Pizza, Please
Lately, I’ve been trying to eat healthy and live a better life.
I’m very good about vegetables and fruit. They are a part of every meal and if I go without, I start craving things so intensely I’ve been known to run to Wendy’s in the middle of the night to get a salad and baked potato. But some of my other choices are not so good, and with summer here, I’m grilling burgers and hot dogs more often than I should. So, I’ve been making some changes.
First I started trying to eat fish, despite my fears of mercury and pollutants, and what I’m finding is that I just cannot consume food that smells like a yeast infection. Call me crazy. Every time hold my nose and scoop a bit of something fishy into my mouth, my gag reflex kicks in and I feel the need to wash my mouth out with Monistat. I think I’m done with fish.
Then I committed myself to whole grains, incorporating delectable grass seeds into usually bland and unfulfilling foods like spaghetti and meatballs and banana bread. Who knew all this time that couscous was the tasty flavor of mud that’s long been missing from my meatloaf recipe? Have you ever had quinoa? If you haven’t, you really should. It’s somewhere between hay and unsweetened, dry cereal, which is exactly what I want to replace 50% of the meat in my meatballs with. Add a little Parmesan, roll in flour, cook in a skillet and add to your spaghetti and suddenly you’ll find that one of your favorite dishes is now improved to taste like bird food. I wonder if you can grow grass in your tummy with the right conditions. Oh, and who likes sweet banana bread? That’s right: NO ONE! Put some whole grain flour in that recipe instead and you’ll find that the essence of banana added to a gritty yet moist cracker is just what you’re looking for. Trust me, whole grains are great! And if that wasn’t enough of a sermon to run out and fill your foods with barley and brown rice, consider how happy you’ll be when you have to poop 15 minutes after every meal thanks to all that fiber. Oh, your butt will thank you! Your butt will thank you to the tune of constant tenderness. You’ll love it! Trust me.
So, tomorrow is my last day of work until the 19th, and Boyfriend Extraordinaire is flying in tomorrow night so we can be on vacation together. For this week, we’re likely going to eat out most days, and I’m stepping back from grass seeds and vaginal-discharge-flavored meats. When he’s gone and I’m back at work, I’ll probably give it another try, but I get this week to eat pizza and fajitas again.
Oh, and I’ll enjoy the luxury of maybe cutting back to one bowel movement a day. And when you consider how much toilet paper and toilet flushes this will save, I think the earth will thank me.
I’m very good about vegetables and fruit. They are a part of every meal and if I go without, I start craving things so intensely I’ve been known to run to Wendy’s in the middle of the night to get a salad and baked potato. But some of my other choices are not so good, and with summer here, I’m grilling burgers and hot dogs more often than I should. So, I’ve been making some changes.
First I started trying to eat fish, despite my fears of mercury and pollutants, and what I’m finding is that I just cannot consume food that smells like a yeast infection. Call me crazy. Every time hold my nose and scoop a bit of something fishy into my mouth, my gag reflex kicks in and I feel the need to wash my mouth out with Monistat. I think I’m done with fish.
Then I committed myself to whole grains, incorporating delectable grass seeds into usually bland and unfulfilling foods like spaghetti and meatballs and banana bread. Who knew all this time that couscous was the tasty flavor of mud that’s long been missing from my meatloaf recipe? Have you ever had quinoa? If you haven’t, you really should. It’s somewhere between hay and unsweetened, dry cereal, which is exactly what I want to replace 50% of the meat in my meatballs with. Add a little Parmesan, roll in flour, cook in a skillet and add to your spaghetti and suddenly you’ll find that one of your favorite dishes is now improved to taste like bird food. I wonder if you can grow grass in your tummy with the right conditions. Oh, and who likes sweet banana bread? That’s right: NO ONE! Put some whole grain flour in that recipe instead and you’ll find that the essence of banana added to a gritty yet moist cracker is just what you’re looking for. Trust me, whole grains are great! And if that wasn’t enough of a sermon to run out and fill your foods with barley and brown rice, consider how happy you’ll be when you have to poop 15 minutes after every meal thanks to all that fiber. Oh, your butt will thank you! Your butt will thank you to the tune of constant tenderness. You’ll love it! Trust me.
So, tomorrow is my last day of work until the 19th, and Boyfriend Extraordinaire is flying in tomorrow night so we can be on vacation together. For this week, we’re likely going to eat out most days, and I’m stepping back from grass seeds and vaginal-discharge-flavored meats. When he’s gone and I’m back at work, I’ll probably give it another try, but I get this week to eat pizza and fajitas again.
Oh, and I’ll enjoy the luxury of maybe cutting back to one bowel movement a day. And when you consider how much toilet paper and toilet flushes this will save, I think the earth will thank me.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
It Ain't Easy Being Blue
About six months ago I happened to be in Kenosha, Wisconsin (I say “happened” even though I spend an abundance of time there) and waltzed into a hair salon to get a trim. My former, long-time stylist had, six months prior, given me a Mrs. Brady shag hair-do that I hated-hated-hated, and I waited a half-year before I was willing to let anyone else touch my locks. Finally I was so frustrated with the overgrown bush that sat atop my head that I didn’t care who cut it, but I needed it cut. And what happened? I fell a little in love with the lady who cut my hair. Now she’s the only one I’ll allow to touch my noggin and I have to go all the way to f’ing Kenosha whenever I need my hair cut or dyed.
If you live anywhere in Illinois or Wisconsin (perhaps even Iowa or Michigan), you are aware that there was psychotic weather that blasted through Kenosha today, with three tornados that had been spotted around 3 pm.
At about 3 pm, I was leaning back in the chair at the sink, having the blue dye rinsed out so that she could finally give me her artistic cut, when someone came running into the building and announced that the tornado sirens were going off.
I fully expected her to stop what she was doing and assume whatever position she was trained to assume during an emergency, but she just shrugged and said, “I’m busy.”
Have I mentioned that I love my stylist?
No one stopped doing hair. No one ran out into the street to check out the sky. No one turned on a radio or checked the weather. It was business as usual.
I said, “I’m so glad the storm held off until my hair was blue again. I don’t care what happens now, if I’m flying through the air for miles, as long as I have blue hair again.” I was kidding, of course, but I was relieved that I was blue before any tragedy would hit. Is that vanity or is that just good time management?
She said, “See? That’s why you’re one of my favorite people!”
Really? Oh gee!
I thought she only liked me because I tip her $20 whenever she does my hair. I feel so awful for her because I watch the schmucks who go in and get a $30 haircut and tip her a few singles. Even the women who get elaborate dye jobs tip $5. It makes me a little sick. I did the math and realized that in the three hours it takes her to bleach, dye, cut and style my hair, she likely could have cut and shampooed six people, and if they each tipped her $3 (which is low, but typical), she’d have gotten $18 in tips in the time it took to do my hair, and for me to give her $5-10 seemed unfair. She always acts like I hand her a diamond tennis bracelet when I give her the twenty, but it only seems right to me. Even if the entire cost charged to me for the three hours of work only totaled $60, I don’t base it on a percentage of the total charge but what I think her time should have been worth, and then I feel guilty for only giving her $20.
While I was there, I witnessed a slew of personal tragedies, without even considering that we were working through a tornado warning.
There was a terrible car accident where a deliveryman had crashed into the car of one of the stylists, so the police were called and a huge to-do was ongoing because this was the second time this deliveryman had hit a car belonging to one of the stylist’s, and he continually blamed them for parking in the parking spaces where they were supposed to. Uh-huh. That made no sense to the police, either.
A teenage girl came in and there was a collective gasp when the stylists saw her. She had that horrendous orange tan that announced loudly to the world that she spends an abundance of time in a tanning bed or swimming in sweet potatoes. But the most shocking thing was that she had clearly bleached her own hair, which was naturally dark, and it had taken on that nauseating orange-yellow color that’s as unnatural as her tan. Her hair looked downright scary. And what was even worse was the bleach hadn’t been evenly applied, so she had dark spots like a jaguar all over her head.
I’ve seen some freakish people before. Hell, some I see almost everyday, but I could not stop myself from gawking at this mess. The stylist who drew the short straw and was responsible for giving her a real hair color again was so terrified of this girl’s hair that they had to have a mini-meeting in the back to discuss what could be done and what colors might actually give her the blonde hair she was looking for.
Once we were out of earshot, my stylist, who is probably only about 25 herself, laughed quietly at the teenager and said that her friends liked to call people like her a rotisserie chicken because of the all-over orange look they seem to think looks good. I giggled. What is it about the beta-carotene look that is appealing to them? I liked the rotisserie chicken reference, too, but it made me hungry.
A family came in and I realized something quickly: it’s summer. Part of why I hate summer is because there are more kids out and about, raising hell and wreaking havoc wherever I go.
There were two boys between 6 and 8 years old, a younger girl of about 4 or 5, and an older girl of about 9 or 10. The girls got their hair cut first, and the guy cutting their hair was not having any of their nonsense. The boys grew impatient and began running around the salon side-kicking things, including hair dryers, women’s purses, chairs, and their own mother’s legs. She, of course, did nothing.
My entire body was tensing up, and I glared at the boys as if my Librarian Stare of Death had any kind of strength this far from my power source. It did not. They ignored me.
Finally, the stylist who was working on their sisters had enough. After the boys grew bored kicking things, they began bombarding him with rapid-fire personal questions and I think this was just too much.
He said, “HEY! You don’t get to talk! I get to do all the talking. You’re paying for my time – I’m not paying for your time. You don’t get to ask questions. You don’t get to do anything. You’re here to get your hair cut and that requires you to sit still and shut up.”
Dude! If he wasn’t gay, I’d kidnap him, marry him, and have no children with him for many happy years.
The mom took the boys out to the car to wait their turn and the girls didn’t make a peep for the entire rest of the time they were in there.
Usually this is a busy but quiet salon and I’m not sure that summer is going to be good to them.
My intention when I went there today was to get blue hair again and sorrowfully announce that this would be my last blue. The cost is just too much, and I have been unsuccessful doing the re-dye between seeing my stylist every 6 - 8 weeks. It was going to be sad, but I need to pay some bills off rather than make my hair blue.
But, as with all my good intentions, I not only didn’t make this announcement to my stylist, but I committed to a future appointment. AND, as if that’s not enough, we totally bonded today and I actually think we’re friends now. We laughed, we cried, we shared deep, dark secrets, and when I left, there was this awkward thanking of one another for being so wonderful, and I thought she was going to hug me. I probably would’ve hugged her back, too. I almost invited her to our Kool Kids gathering this evening, but it was a long drive for her and she worked until 9. It’s too bad. I think the girls would’ve liked her. She’s this extremely tall, extremely thin, absolutely drop-dead gorgeous girl who spends her time reading and hanging out with friends. Sounds familiar. You know, because we’re all tall, thin, drop-dead gorgeous chicks. (Ahem! *cough* *gag*) Whatever. We read, too! So, now that we’ve bonded and made plans for my next visit, I couldn’t bear to tell her that I can’t afford her anymore.
Eh, what’s more important? Having awesomely blue hair and a stylist who makes me cry, or paying my car insurance? CLEARLY the car insurance will be sacrificed! I mean, really, was that a choice at all?
If you live anywhere in Illinois or Wisconsin (perhaps even Iowa or Michigan), you are aware that there was psychotic weather that blasted through Kenosha today, with three tornados that had been spotted around 3 pm.
At about 3 pm, I was leaning back in the chair at the sink, having the blue dye rinsed out so that she could finally give me her artistic cut, when someone came running into the building and announced that the tornado sirens were going off.
I fully expected her to stop what she was doing and assume whatever position she was trained to assume during an emergency, but she just shrugged and said, “I’m busy.”
Have I mentioned that I love my stylist?
No one stopped doing hair. No one ran out into the street to check out the sky. No one turned on a radio or checked the weather. It was business as usual.
I said, “I’m so glad the storm held off until my hair was blue again. I don’t care what happens now, if I’m flying through the air for miles, as long as I have blue hair again.” I was kidding, of course, but I was relieved that I was blue before any tragedy would hit. Is that vanity or is that just good time management?
She said, “See? That’s why you’re one of my favorite people!”
Really? Oh gee!
I thought she only liked me because I tip her $20 whenever she does my hair. I feel so awful for her because I watch the schmucks who go in and get a $30 haircut and tip her a few singles. Even the women who get elaborate dye jobs tip $5. It makes me a little sick. I did the math and realized that in the three hours it takes her to bleach, dye, cut and style my hair, she likely could have cut and shampooed six people, and if they each tipped her $3 (which is low, but typical), she’d have gotten $18 in tips in the time it took to do my hair, and for me to give her $5-10 seemed unfair. She always acts like I hand her a diamond tennis bracelet when I give her the twenty, but it only seems right to me. Even if the entire cost charged to me for the three hours of work only totaled $60, I don’t base it on a percentage of the total charge but what I think her time should have been worth, and then I feel guilty for only giving her $20.
While I was there, I witnessed a slew of personal tragedies, without even considering that we were working through a tornado warning.
There was a terrible car accident where a deliveryman had crashed into the car of one of the stylists, so the police were called and a huge to-do was ongoing because this was the second time this deliveryman had hit a car belonging to one of the stylist’s, and he continually blamed them for parking in the parking spaces where they were supposed to. Uh-huh. That made no sense to the police, either.
A teenage girl came in and there was a collective gasp when the stylists saw her. She had that horrendous orange tan that announced loudly to the world that she spends an abundance of time in a tanning bed or swimming in sweet potatoes. But the most shocking thing was that she had clearly bleached her own hair, which was naturally dark, and it had taken on that nauseating orange-yellow color that’s as unnatural as her tan. Her hair looked downright scary. And what was even worse was the bleach hadn’t been evenly applied, so she had dark spots like a jaguar all over her head.
I’ve seen some freakish people before. Hell, some I see almost everyday, but I could not stop myself from gawking at this mess. The stylist who drew the short straw and was responsible for giving her a real hair color again was so terrified of this girl’s hair that they had to have a mini-meeting in the back to discuss what could be done and what colors might actually give her the blonde hair she was looking for.
Once we were out of earshot, my stylist, who is probably only about 25 herself, laughed quietly at the teenager and said that her friends liked to call people like her a rotisserie chicken because of the all-over orange look they seem to think looks good. I giggled. What is it about the beta-carotene look that is appealing to them? I liked the rotisserie chicken reference, too, but it made me hungry.
A family came in and I realized something quickly: it’s summer. Part of why I hate summer is because there are more kids out and about, raising hell and wreaking havoc wherever I go.
There were two boys between 6 and 8 years old, a younger girl of about 4 or 5, and an older girl of about 9 or 10. The girls got their hair cut first, and the guy cutting their hair was not having any of their nonsense. The boys grew impatient and began running around the salon side-kicking things, including hair dryers, women’s purses, chairs, and their own mother’s legs. She, of course, did nothing.
My entire body was tensing up, and I glared at the boys as if my Librarian Stare of Death had any kind of strength this far from my power source. It did not. They ignored me.
Finally, the stylist who was working on their sisters had enough. After the boys grew bored kicking things, they began bombarding him with rapid-fire personal questions and I think this was just too much.
He said, “HEY! You don’t get to talk! I get to do all the talking. You’re paying for my time – I’m not paying for your time. You don’t get to ask questions. You don’t get to do anything. You’re here to get your hair cut and that requires you to sit still and shut up.”
Dude! If he wasn’t gay, I’d kidnap him, marry him, and have no children with him for many happy years.
The mom took the boys out to the car to wait their turn and the girls didn’t make a peep for the entire rest of the time they were in there.
Usually this is a busy but quiet salon and I’m not sure that summer is going to be good to them.
My intention when I went there today was to get blue hair again and sorrowfully announce that this would be my last blue. The cost is just too much, and I have been unsuccessful doing the re-dye between seeing my stylist every 6 - 8 weeks. It was going to be sad, but I need to pay some bills off rather than make my hair blue.
But, as with all my good intentions, I not only didn’t make this announcement to my stylist, but I committed to a future appointment. AND, as if that’s not enough, we totally bonded today and I actually think we’re friends now. We laughed, we cried, we shared deep, dark secrets, and when I left, there was this awkward thanking of one another for being so wonderful, and I thought she was going to hug me. I probably would’ve hugged her back, too. I almost invited her to our Kool Kids gathering this evening, but it was a long drive for her and she worked until 9. It’s too bad. I think the girls would’ve liked her. She’s this extremely tall, extremely thin, absolutely drop-dead gorgeous girl who spends her time reading and hanging out with friends. Sounds familiar. You know, because we’re all tall, thin, drop-dead gorgeous chicks. (Ahem! *cough* *gag*) Whatever. We read, too! So, now that we’ve bonded and made plans for my next visit, I couldn’t bear to tell her that I can’t afford her anymore.
Eh, what’s more important? Having awesomely blue hair and a stylist who makes me cry, or paying my car insurance? CLEARLY the car insurance will be sacrificed! I mean, really, was that a choice at all?
Monday, June 2, 2008
Dirty Old Men Should Not Bother Dirty Young Women
Most things sexual don’t offend me save for a few really heinous proclivities that involve scat, urine, pain, blood or other such extreme. I don’t pretend to understand many of the fetishes out there, such as feet or shemales, but I don’t judge, and wish everyone well in the exploration of their sexuality, as long as it’s legal and harms no one else. There haven’t been all that many mainstream movies rated R or weaker that I’ve found to be gratuitous unless it was violent or overly cheesy. Pretty much, unless it’s a rape scene (which I don’t consider sexual, though it has sexual parts involved) or something so outrageous as to be laughed at, it’s pretty difficult to make me uncomfortable watching a sex scene in a conventional movie.
Today, when I was speaking with someone who went off a little on a rant about the sexuality in movies today, I was offended. He didn’t describe any scenes and he didn’t say any words that upset me, but it was the way he spoke that made me sick. First there was the lisp, which in and of itself isn’t offensive in any way, but when spoken by this man in a despicable kind of way, it came off as nasty. Second, he drew out the words he was trying to emphasize in a way that made it seem torturous to be waiting so long for the word to finish. Then there was the fact that he was about 80 years old and had just spent quite a while telling me about all the hot women in Hollywood, like Denise Richards, Sarah Michele Gellar, and Michelle Pfeifer.
He told me about nice movies I should watch, like Simply Irresistible, One Fine Day. (Gag.)
“You know, without all that NAAAAASTY SEXXXXXY stuff.” I just knew spittle was everywhere, and that was more unnerving than any movie he might have been referring to.
He said, “Have you ever seen the movie Wild Things?”
I thought to myself, oh no, that’s the movie with Neve Campbell and Denise Richards making out. Here we go! He’s going to tell me about how his god doesn’t allow two women to kiss, or some such anti-gay sentiment.
Wrong!
He loved it. He also liked Unfaithful, which I found surprising how intensely sexual it was. Then he started talking about how you could see up Michelle Pfeifer’s dress in the Fabulous Baker Boys, and she wasn’t wearing underwear. Also, he liked the movie Inventing the Abbotts, because there was a scene in it where Jennifer Connelly showed her white panties to someone under a table.
Suddenly I was feeling a lot like actual sex scenes were far more sterile than some panty-flashing that this man was describing. He was like a horny teenager who could list 50 years worth of movies that included nudity.
Then he really offended me by starting to list all the actresses he thought were beautiful, and all the ones he thought were ugly. What bothered me most was that this man was grossing me out on a level I haven’t experienced in a long period of time, and he had the nerve to think that his opinion about what women he thought were ugly were somehow thoughts worthy of sharing. The ones he didn’t like are ones who’d never flashed breast or buttock, coincidentally. Yet, he would continually interject certain movies that he thought were too sexual and offensive to him.
This is when I realized that overt sexuality doesn’t bother me. It’s when some dirty old man gets a kinky thrill out of seeing Sandra Bullock’s breast and then telling me about it, and then I’m ready to spit.
Give me the foot fetishists, men in drag, boys with toys, chicken-fuckers and gang-bangers any day of the week as long as I don’t have to talk to the dirty old man who likes to talk about his softcore fetish.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go sandblast myself until I’m clean again.
Today, when I was speaking with someone who went off a little on a rant about the sexuality in movies today, I was offended. He didn’t describe any scenes and he didn’t say any words that upset me, but it was the way he spoke that made me sick. First there was the lisp, which in and of itself isn’t offensive in any way, but when spoken by this man in a despicable kind of way, it came off as nasty. Second, he drew out the words he was trying to emphasize in a way that made it seem torturous to be waiting so long for the word to finish. Then there was the fact that he was about 80 years old and had just spent quite a while telling me about all the hot women in Hollywood, like Denise Richards, Sarah Michele Gellar, and Michelle Pfeifer.
He told me about nice movies I should watch, like Simply Irresistible, One Fine Day. (Gag.)
“You know, without all that NAAAAASTY SEXXXXXY stuff.” I just knew spittle was everywhere, and that was more unnerving than any movie he might have been referring to.
He said, “Have you ever seen the movie Wild Things?”
I thought to myself, oh no, that’s the movie with Neve Campbell and Denise Richards making out. Here we go! He’s going to tell me about how his god doesn’t allow two women to kiss, or some such anti-gay sentiment.
Wrong!
He loved it. He also liked Unfaithful, which I found surprising how intensely sexual it was. Then he started talking about how you could see up Michelle Pfeifer’s dress in the Fabulous Baker Boys, and she wasn’t wearing underwear. Also, he liked the movie Inventing the Abbotts, because there was a scene in it where Jennifer Connelly showed her white panties to someone under a table.
Suddenly I was feeling a lot like actual sex scenes were far more sterile than some panty-flashing that this man was describing. He was like a horny teenager who could list 50 years worth of movies that included nudity.
Then he really offended me by starting to list all the actresses he thought were beautiful, and all the ones he thought were ugly. What bothered me most was that this man was grossing me out on a level I haven’t experienced in a long period of time, and he had the nerve to think that his opinion about what women he thought were ugly were somehow thoughts worthy of sharing. The ones he didn’t like are ones who’d never flashed breast or buttock, coincidentally. Yet, he would continually interject certain movies that he thought were too sexual and offensive to him.
This is when I realized that overt sexuality doesn’t bother me. It’s when some dirty old man gets a kinky thrill out of seeing Sandra Bullock’s breast and then telling me about it, and then I’m ready to spit.
Give me the foot fetishists, men in drag, boys with toys, chicken-fuckers and gang-bangers any day of the week as long as I don’t have to talk to the dirty old man who likes to talk about his softcore fetish.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go sandblast myself until I’m clean again.
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