Public Service Announcement

Dear Readers,

Since you are all sexy people, I feel you should be made aware of this. So if you're going to have gay sex, use a rubber. Or, you know, any kind of sex. Because sores on your genitals are less fun than Republicans and dead kittens.

Love,
Amy

Weekend

Occasionally, things are perfect.
Opening your arms to a good friend, the strength of her arms reassuring you. Like some power approves of your friendship the clouds break open for the first time in a week. You open the windows, pop music quietly playing as you eagerly catch each other up. Trying on clothes like teenagers playing hookie from school. Talking about London over seafood and beer. Laughing about ex-whatever they weres. Drinking beers and telling the bartender not to wear pleated shorts on his handsome frame. Running into the nice boy you had a date with and hadn't called, and your friend saying that she'd stolen you from the city against your will. Your friend saying with heavy emphasis on each word, "You could call her and visit her in Boston." Giving your phone number to the bartender, the guy that lives in Manhattan and the nice guy's friend so he can encourage the nice boy to call you.
Sometimes the sun breaks just when you need it. When you fear spending the rest of your life stuck inside shadows and showers, fear the dampness on your skin forever, the skies are clear when you wake up. You can get in the car and drive, music loud, the wind whipping strands of hair against your sunglasses. The sun rests against your skin, settling in to it's summer home. The sound of your flip-flops against your feet as you walk towards the ocean. Old men perched on the sea wall, backs to the ocean, facing their motorcycles. Young girls showing off their smooth skin to the men, sipping coffee drinks from green straws like hummingbirds. Hippie moms pulling their babies in sunhats out of their Toyotas. Surfers floating in the water, their wetsuits black and slick like otter skins. Notes of oldies and rap music floating from cars that pass by. Alone, these moments aren't anything special. But the weight of them together hits you and you smile.
Sometimes there are moments that are perfect. Dramatic irony of the best kind. After you've hauled all the food you'd planned to cook outside back inside, the rain stops falling and the sun comes out. After being threatened with the idea of being inside a cramped apartment in late spring, of eating off paper plates inside and trying not to drop ketchup on the hardwood floor, the reality happens and the clouds break up. You tilt your head back and look at the patches of blue through the verdant leaves of the old trees rising out of the cobblestones. For a moment you think that maybe you'll be the human equivalent of those trees-- growing and flourishing from the concrete soil of the city. For once you think about setting down a foundation and not fantasizing about an escape.

Nonfiction

Heh. Found on Boston.com:

FDA looking into blindness as possible Viagra side effect

Gentlemen, you're supposed to use it with someone. Heh. Heh. I am five.

No Grandma, Don't Go!

AAAAAGH! My idol has left my favorite television show!
Seriously. Something about my hetero life mate leaving for Canada has set the universe off it's orbit. Janice is leaving ANTM. People are falling off construction equipment. The Red Sox are in 4th place. I am afraid to go to the beach now since it's likely a jumping shark will eat me off the deck of the Coast Guard House, margarita cartoonishly spinning in midair as my legs dangle from shark's gaping maw.
Janice rules ANTM. She lets the contestants have it. She has such memorable quotes as "I'm fat, you're fat, she's fat: we're all fat" and "Oh, Michigan's nice. I was in rehab there once." Unless Twiggy has done some pretty hard living, I don't care for her. The only good thing that's come of this is that Nole Marin is leaving as well, giving us more fantastic Miss J Alexander. As some podunk contestant asked last season, "Why doesn't someone explain him to us?" He needs no explanation, save the adjective "fabulous."


I will miss you, Janice. I hope you get your own television show. I'll follow you anywhere. Tell me another story about rehab, grandma.


Also, you can read more about the hilarious hijinks on America's Next Top Model as retold by the very funny Potes here.

Dude, Chill

Not even Michael Jackson got in a hissy about having his story used by Law and Order. Tom DeLay's about two lawsuits from protesting too much, a la Tom Cruise. Methinks Tom DeLay needs a vacation from curtailing civil liberties and being a total hypocrite. Maybe a Disney Cruise? Oh right, Disney allows openly gay people to be comfortable in their parks and boats. Umm... maybe a riverboat ride down the River Styx? So he can see all those evil dead homosexuals, women who use birth control, pinko Commies, his idol McCarthy and get himself off knowing that he's completely superior to everyone?
Happy Friday!

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I am an insufferable douche who needed more love from his mother."

Letter to Nature

Okay, nature. I am not religious. I don't worship gods or fairies or tree sprites. I don't salute the four directions every day. I'm just an average girl who does her best to recycle and not litter. I have a good amount of love for your amber waves of grain and fruited plains. But I don't want anything to do with those things this weekend. I am looking for a shining sea. And do you know what we need to make the sea shine? What I haven't seen in over a week?
The sun. Monsieur Soliel. A bright orb of life-creating light.
Here's what's going to happen. I am going to Rhode Island today. My bathing suit is in my duffel bag. I am doing fun indoor things this afternoon, such as shopping and drinking. Tomorrow, I am getting up. I am doing some laundry. I will hang out with my mother. Around noon, I am getting in the fuel-efficient Focus. I am driving to the beach. I will pay my exorbitant walk-on fee, set up my blanket and read my book. I may even get daring and hop in the calming, cold salty water, feel the tug of the waves, probably get plunked in the head with a few tall swells. I'm going to order a Dells. Maybe even run a little.
I am going to the beach regardless of what you choose to do to me, nature. You may be overcast. You may pour rain. Send up your blowiest winds. Do your worst. My name is Amy and I shall fight you tooth and hail. My toes will be sandy. My Mom will yell at me for sullying the new car. I have been fantasizing about sand and shells, the feeling of the warm sun on my back and flip-flops since I returned from Florida in February. The fact it's taken me this long to even have the opportunity is sick. Please? I'm begging you. Give this little Leo her sunshine. Our weather forecasters have said Saturday will be nice. Please don't change this. I love the beach and I'm waking up in the night, heart racing, skin tingling with even the possibility of laying in the sun, listening to the waves crash.
So I'm going anyway. Rain, hail, winds, whatever. This pasty white girl will be on your golden shore, dreaming of clamcakes and chowder. You can make it pleasant if you'd like. But I'll be there with bikini on no matter how hard you try to make me leave.
Thank you.

I Knew I Was Prodigious

And they said I wasn't gifted. Viva cynicism!

You Do Not Need a Girl, But a Swift Kick in the Nuts

Dear P. Diddy,

Amy here. I know that I'm not rollin' on chrome or wearing the finest Ascote polo shirts but I like to think I keep it pretty real, considering I'm a white girl from Rhode Island. I appreciate your early work, such as "All about the Benjamins" and "Mo Money, Mo Problems." Your reality show "Making the Band 2" was great. The name you ultimately gave the group, Da Band, really spoke to me. Women all around the world thank you for cleaning Ashton Kutcher up and putting him in a nice suit. You don't wear pleated pants so you can't be all bad. But as I was checking color separations I listened to your new song "I Need a Girl (Part I)." I am not pleased, Mr. Diddy.
Rap has a bad--well-- rap, for subjugating women. Eminem has heard this since he opened his mouth and recorded anything. Snoop made millions of dollars rapping about how "bitches ain't shit" to him. The few successful female rappers have either treated men with the same amount of sexual objectification or rapped about women who get out of these bad relationships. It seemed for a while that women weren't just sexual objects in the lyrics of rap, but your new song brings us right back into the thick of things.
For example, the chorus as sung by Usher:

I need a girl to ride, ride, ride
I need a girl to make my wife
I need a girl who's mine oh mine
I need a girl in my life

It starts out somewhat innocently. The possessiveness of the words chosen here ("make" a wife, a girl who's "mine") kind of set my teeth on edge, Diddy, but I kept on checking the color plates. Cyan, magenta, yellow, black.
Then comes your first verse:

I got it all, but I really need a wife at home
I don't really like the zone, never spend the night alone
I got a few, you would like to bone

Wow, thanks! You can travel the world, spend endless days with attractive recording stars, be known as a successful entrepreneur, but you really need a girl to stay home and be there whenever you want? Why don't you just buy one since you're rolling in so much money? The possessive language of the chorus sounds a lot more malicious when you start pining for a stay at home sex goddess/domestic servant. Your case isn't helped by the fact that you use the word "girl" instead of "woman." So you want someone who won't challenge you, but will blindly agree with whatever you say?
You continue:

You break her heart, she'll walk out and leave ya
I find a girl, I'ma keep her

It's not up to you whether she stays or goes. She decides, as you point out immediately before you say you'll keep the girl you want. What about what you'll do for her? You say you want a woman who he can bring to the Grammys, but only if you want to. You'll buy women cellphones and beepers, but who doesn't have these things in 2005? Does anyone use a beeper anymore?
Then in the "I miss J.Lo" verse:

Damn I wish you would've had my child
A pretty little girl wit Diddy's smile

"My" child? "Diddy's" smile? This song is so completely blatant in its attempts to set the cause of feminism back forty years. The baby a woman carries for nine months is her man's, not hers. If it doesn't look like him, it's not attractive. I half expect if J.Lo had made a baby with you and it looked like her you would have left it on a mountain to be eaten by wolves with unimpressive cars.
And, finally, the last line of the song:

Nobody else cuz she's all mine

What year is this? Did I suddenly find myself in 1950? We don't own each other anymore in America. Slavery ended hundreds of years ago. Women have had the vote for eighty-five years.

You'll find Diddy here, rolling up in his Pepsi truck.

Birth control has been around for nearly forty years. Marriage doesn't come with a dowry, Diddy. Despite what romantic comedies tell you, women don't need men. We can hold jobs, decide not to marry, decide we don't want a megalomaniacal boyfriend who steals other people's music (I'm sorry, "sample"). We can even date women if we want. Women don't even need men to have babies-- we can just get some sperm or adopt. Your antiquated idea of what a woman should be to you in unbelievable. Stick with rapping about how much money you have and how much you miss Biggie. Releasing a single that amounts to a personal ad from 1955 isn't the way to go.

Sincerely,
Amy

Le Morte de Sitcom

I've always loved television. When I was a kid, I'd tune in religiously for Sesame Street and Mister Rogers. During summer vacations in elementary school I'd watch reruns of Bewitched and M*A*S*H when it was too muggy to get up and frolic outside. I've always enjoyed sitcoms more than dramas, mainly because I figure life is a bummer without having imaginary people with problems to worry about. As a kid, Full House and the Cosby Show cracked me up. I'm an aficionado of the sitcom. But the past five years or so has made me feel like a cigar smoker after a bad crop. The sitcom is dying.

This man is not funny. Don't let him fool you.

I know there are still "sitcoms" on television. Some of them are actually funny. But for the most part, sitcoms are a dying breed. In the nineties, we had Seinfeld, Frasier, Friends, the Simpsons and Sex and the City. Not everyone loved all those shows, but they meant a lot to a large number of viewers. NBC seemed invincible with it's Thursday night lineup. Then came the late '90s and early aughts, which brought along a glut of reality television. Survivor seemed to be what everyone was watching and talking about for the early part of the twenty-first century. Then came the Bachelor. Then Married by America. Then the Apprentice. If it didn't involve unscripted competition of some kind people didn't seem to care. As a result new sitcoms weren't created since paying a star's salary and writers is much more costly that getting a few rubes from Alabama in front of a camera in a cheap IKEA furnished "apartment." The old sitcoms got stale or had the good sense to end before they got their waterskis strapped on and went looking for a shark to jump. Networks hadn't invested in testing sitcoms so they kept pumping reality shows that were insanely derivative of shows that had aired only months before. The reality schtick got boring, old sitcoms were leaving and new ones had been left to languish in development. Since networks have gotten rusty with sitcoms, they air the most ludicrous, intelligence-insulting swill. They trot out a fat and/or dense man, his intelligent and foxy wife and let the toilet-seat jokes begin. Let's review what sitcoms are popular according to the Neilsen ratings.
At number six is Everybody Loves Raymond, which just finished up it's last season. I'd argue that not everybody loves Raymond because I certainly do not. I think Patricia Heaton is a shrill harpy and Raymond has so many issues with women who bark at him incessantly that his spinoff series should be titled Raymond Loves Therapy. It seems that the acrimony in that house would kill all the comedy. The brothers hate each other. The women hate each other. The men sit and shrug about the crazy women. These characters have been on television since Andy Griffith. It's tiresome and cliche.
At number ten is Two and a Half Men on CBS. I've only seen a few episodes of this show but it doesn't seem like anything special. The dense man is Charlie Sheen and the intelligent foxy wife is his gay live-in brother and his brother's son from his marriage before he went gay. It's fairly inoffensive, but derivative of Will and Grace and every typical sitcom.
NBC, the former king of comedy, has gone completely to shit. The Thursday night that was once home to Seinfeld, Frasier, Will and Grace, and the behemoth Friends now has Joey and Will and Grace with the Apprentice and ER. None of these shows is the glory that it once was. And Joey isn't even good, but it got renewed for another season. The one excellent sitcom on NBC, Scrubs, has the Arrested Development curse of being underpromoted and shuffled around the lineup like an old woman's slipper.
Networks need to realize what cable television has known for years-- people don't want the same safe series that have been on for years. We have TV Land if we want something cozy and familiar. Sex and the City was different and honest. Women (and some men) could relate to it, even though the wardrobe gave small children epilepsy. The 3-camera sitcom is over. Scrubs is filmed like a drama, as is Arrested Development. The Office, while another sucky Americanized British show, is filmed as a mockumentary. Watching these shows do something different gives me hope that a banner crop of sitcoms could be growing in development somewhere.
Reality is largely over. FOX didn't add one reality TV show to the fall lineup. Not one. UPN debuted the Bad Girl's Guide with Jenny McCarthy to attempt to fill the void of Sex and the City. Stop with the derivative shows. Make something that doesn't involve tension between and husband and wife or a single girl desperately trying not to die alone. There are many other settings that can be used for comedy-- M*A*S*H was set during war and was hilarious. Scrubs is set in a hospital. Develop some real characters and not caricatures, write something original and start airing something I want to watch. Otherwise I'm going to turn to the written word, television. So help me...

Desperately Seeking Spring

So I paid $65,000 to learn how to write beautiful works of literary glory. That's what I envisioned for myself-- hardcover novels published with beautiful photography on the jacket, movie deals, whatever. Someday I hope to get there. It's raining and I'm feeling meloncholy. Now would be an ideal time to write about my stupid ex-whatevers, heartwrenching stories of loss and woe, but instead I am going to complain about the weather.
Seriously. I am a Leo. We are ruled by the sun. Even though I'm fair-skinned I worship the sun whenever possible. I'm probably going to look like a leather bag by the time I'm thirty-five, if the sun ever comes out again. But the sun is hiding and will not come out. I leave my sunglasses at home, hoping that the cosmic forces that work against me will decide to allow the sun out. I squint so that you may sunbathe. These tricks haven't worked and I'm at the end of my very frayed wits.
I don't curse the weatherman (well, not the cute one) but when I see clouds and rain on the weekly forecast it makes it difficult to handle the "aw shucks, weather is complete ass again this weekend" mentality. The sunlight is faint in the morning and it's so easy to just close my eyes and wiggle myself deeper into the sheets, work the pre-shower gravel in my voice and tell my boss I'm sick and stay home and watch Ellen. I like to walk through the park during lunch, but it's been so cold the people watching is poor and I just shiver the entire time. Near-erotic fantasies of sand between my toes and the sun on my shoulders torment me. All I want is a trip to Rhode Island, an order of clamcakes and chowder from Aunt Carries and the pleasant sting of a small sunburn. Instead, I have summer hours at work without the summer to enjoy and a Memorial Day weekend that looks like I'm going to be catching up on my museum visting. Or the continuing systematic destruction of my liver.
All we can do is hope that the pressure system that's on top of us (per Pete Bouchard) will move and get out of this wet and cool pattern. Otherwise I'm going to start looking for real estate in warmer climes. Or stop responding to my bosses when they ask me to do something, but wear the shag that is the internet down to the hardwood between all the websites I visit. Malaise, thy name is cloudy with showers, highs in the 50s.

The Best is Yet to Come...

Hey everybody, it's the one-year anniversary of my little blog joining the world. I wish I had some deep thoughts or "best of" to post, but I am in demand at work (especially since my coworker and hetero life mate is in Toronto without me... the hip separation surgery went fine, thanks) so it won't be till later that I'll have the chance to write. But I'd like to thank you all for reading. Even those of you who arrive by Googling "paula deen is a mean bitch!" If you check the archives, you can see what the early days were like. Mostly without pictures is what they were.

Will you still love me when we are old, dear reader?

Human Supernovas

Oh barf. It's a supernova of things I hate. Here's how it'll go down:

Oprah: I used to be fat, y'all. But now I'm not. I'm a pretty pretty princess. Oh, and on today's show, we have the hottest couple since Humbert Humbert and Lolita. Katie and Tom! Eeee!
(Housewives clap politely and weep, because that's what good people do whenever Oprah opens her mouth. Enter Tom and Katie.)
Tom: Hi, Oprah! I'm not gay! Like, at all.
Katie: Hey, Oprah. My hymen's still intact. Because I'm saving it. Not because Tom Cruise is gay. Er, I mean, Tommy, my everlasting love.
Tom: I am SO in love with this woman. She's fantastic. (They kiss.)
Oprah: See? This is love. When I was fat, I didn't think I deserved love like this. But now that I'm skinny, Stedman and I send the servants away and copulate on any available surface.
Katie: I have a movie coming out soon.
Tom: So do I. But our dating is totally not a publicity stunt.
Oprah: Of course not. Love is love. You can't fake it, or use it for your own personal benefit.
Tom: Are you calling me gay?
Oprah: Tommy, of course not...
Katie: Don't call him Tommy. He's my Tommy Boo. You may call him Mr. Cruise.
Oprah: Of course, Kate...
Katie: Don't call me Kate. That ruins my youthful appeal. I still hope to make a return to television with James VanDerBeek.
Tom: I thought you said it was over with Dawson.
Katie: Pacey, I mean, Tommy Boo...
Tom: Is this because I asked you to put that pyrex rod in my--
Katie: Stop! Shut up!
Tom: Whatever, Katie. You're still a virgin if nothing penetrates your--
Katie: Stop it!
(Enter Dr. Phil)
Dr. Phil: Y'all, this is what I always say. You can't let a gay fox in the henhouse, because he's just going to rape the roosters. Also, Katie, do you know what herpes is?
Katie: Shut up! It's just love nibbles!
Tom: Yeah, Phil. Don't be sick.
Dr. Phil: That's doctor, Tom. Doctor Phil.
Oprah: I used to be fat! But now I'm not! Men love me! I inspire people! I have sex all the time!

--Fin--

Fire at Will

Ever have one of those days? Theoretically, things are going well. You're looking like an urban cowgirl in the best of ways. Three of your friends called you skinny. A coworker likes your hair color. The sun is out and a bucket of strawberry flavored sugar-water awaits the addition of some tequila after work. You're feeling like a pretty pretty princess and should act accordingly. But you just can't get in the Old Navy ad kind of mood. In fact, you're downright cranky. So, I'm going to let fly on what's pissing me off. It's not artistic, but, fuck it.

Coworkers: You are good people, by and large. Many of you are far kinder to me than I deserve. But for the love of God, when you drink the last can of diet soda in the Coke fridge, please put another six pack or two in the cooler so when a caffeine junkie walks in looking for a fix she needn't find that the diet Coke is just sitting at room temperature while only regular Coke is cold. Don't give me a "oh the diet was buried under a flat of Dr. Pepper" routine. The diet is right on top. Act like a proper human and put it in the damn fridge. God. Now my teeth are corroding from consuming regular. Thanks.

Couples: No one is going to steal your girlfriend from under your nose if you stand a foot or so apart from her. There is no need to cling to her like a life raft while riding the T in the morning. Step apart, leave room for the Holy Ghost, whatever.

Misanthropy: My future is bleak and full of woe. There is no way I am ever going to date anyone again. Why? Because I hate everyone I see in public. This couple this morning was a perfect example of horrible couples. Miss Vera Bradley Bag with her fluorescent orange tank top and bright blue ruffly skirt and her boyfriend Mr Monotone. Clinging like an unlined skirt to a pair of tights, they rode the T in together, having a boring conversation about someone equally as boring as them. He spoke in monotone. They never laughed. He held her like I was about to pick her up and sell her into the sex trade if he let her go. Maybe I'm a cold bitch, but I don't want someone who can't step away from me when appropriate. I'll tell you when I want you. Until then, leave me some room.

Government: Hey, Uncle Sam, where the hell is my tax return? Do you want to fight obesity? Road rage? A lack of consumer confidence? Then print my check and mail it. I need to join the gym. Okay? Should I have waited to quit my crappy gym until I got the check? Probably. Too late now. So I've got no physical activity (see also: never dating) and I'm eating nothing but pizza because I am SO PISSED OFF. So my ass grows and I have nothing to do but watch TV and be pissed off. So I'll spend that money as soon as you give it to me. Promise. I won't do anything reckless like save it. MAKE WITH MY MONEY.

Fashion: What the hell is up with the color palate this season? The choices are a) fluorescents to go with your heinous pink Vera Bradley bag or b) pastels. Nobody looks good in pastel. It washes people out. Especially pistachio ice-cream green. Heinous. And I have red hair. It should work. But it does not. It is also not 1989. Fluorescent is good only for bathing suits or clubbing. Office attire should not be Day-Glo. I was in Macy's on Tuesday and it was Day-Glo to the right of me, pastel to the left of me. Horrible. I'll have to make due with my three black tank tops in rotation with flip-flops and two skirts I own that still fit. If I don't get my damn tax return, I am going to fit in the others again because my ass is expanding like a Peep in a microwave.

Gravity: I tried to throw some game this morning. My good-smelling coworker had to use my computer, so I got my urban cowgirl ass up and perched on the edge of the desk, long legs on display, pushing my arms to my side to get a slight hint of cleavage going. Kristen snickered as I tried to start a conversation with said coworker about a neutral topic. He ignored me, fixed my computer and left quickly. Gravity is strong today-- my game didn't go nearly as far as it usually does. It's like throwing game on Uranus or something.

So, in short: fuck the lukewarm soda drinkers; fuck the static-stop couples; to hell with Vera Bradley bags; fuck no, I won't do what you tell me (until you make with my tax return); put the Cris-Cross/ice cream colors back in the closet and screw good smelling guys who are oblivious to my game. No. Really. Screw them.

Preach On, my Broke Brethren

My generation is more frightened of being in debt than they are of terrorism.
To this I say, "Doy." Terrorism happens only in one place. Sallie Mae follows you everywhere, looming like a cloud full of knee-breaking debt collectors. As does Nelnet and Citibank, along with Capital One.
And there's this:

The survey, released today by the bipartisan Partnership for Public Service, finds that 45.1% say they expect to graduate with $10,000 or more in college loans, with 20.6% saying they have more than $20,000 to pay off.
Another 27.5% say they will have no college debt.

You're all pussies. Pussies! I'm in the hole about $60,000 for the four years. For a liberal arts degree. I don't regret it, but, damn. I play Powerball and get nowhere. I'm too short to be America's Next Top Model. I have no rich relatives. I'm going to have to write a book.

Picture in the Dictionary...

crassadj. crass·er, crass·est

So crude and unrefined as to be lacking in discrimination and sensibility.[Latin crassus, dense.] See also: Donald Trump, whose show with slumping ratings has it's finale tomorrow at 9/10 Central, proposes a design for a new World Trade Center. Entirely selfless, of course.

---

crassi·tude (--td, -tyd) or crassness n.
crassly adv.

Oh My God... You GUYS!

This was the best show I've ever seen. Even better than Top Model. Light years better than the Apprentice. Britney and Kevin: Chaotic is television at its finest.
Kristen and I did the only thing one can do when white trash gets a reality TV show:

Yeah, that's right:

I didn't get a picture of the Cheetos and potato chips, but I assure you they were there. Roommate Deb, Kristen, Alicia and I gathered around the warm glow of the television to partake in the schadenfreude. It was an hour of Britney Spears bugging the hell out of her stylists and assistants about their feelings on sex and commitment. Britney doesn't believe in marriage because she's "been there, done that ::snort::." Then Britney and her giant lactating breasts tell us that she met Keeeevin and she began to feel otherwise. But Keeeevin played coy. "Love is love. Love is what it is. I don't believe in marriage, but I can believe that you can get married," he opines. I think we found out who's writing the President's speeches, y'all. We find out Kevin put Britney in "ecstasy, ecstasy" with his super-potent white trash super sperm. I threw up in my mouth a little.
This show is best watched with Roommate Deb, who put Alicia, Kristen and I into hysterics with her Britney impression. She uses her index finger to make the pig-snout nose that Britney makes during the show and monotoned "Kevin, what do you think about marriage, Kevin? Kevin? Oh my God, what position do you like, Kevin?" I almost choked to death on laughter and Schlitz. Sure, it's a horrible show. But I feel better about myself having watched it. For a woman who's held up as this ideal "sexy woman," she's horribly insecure. She talks about sex all the time to reassure us that she's still sexy. She clings to Kevin from the first moment he's in her Blair Witch-esque camera frame. She's needy and clingy and decidedly not sexy. Also, without makeup she looks eight shades of horrible. Sure, she's skinny, but there's lots of skinny girls in the world who don't need to discuss sex with her entire payroll.
So I'll see you all next week at 9/8 Central to watch part two of the train wreck. 40s for everyone!

Nikki Dingle Isn't Givin' it Up to You

This is Nikki Dingle. Nikki Dingle feels the need to advertise her desire to remain a virgin until marriage by wearing a silver ring, despite the fact that her last name should take care of the pesky "boys wanting to do her" issue. Nikki Dingle, ladies and gentlemen.

Yet another issue that makes my brain explode. The ACLU has filed suit against the government for donating one million dollars to the organization known as the Silver Ring Thing. This organization travels the country, asking middle- and high-school students to abstain from sex until marriage. Students can advertise this holier-than-thou attitude by purchasing a silver ring for $15. Interestingly enough, when this ring is purchased you get a complimentary Bible. Yes, some Holy Writ to go along with your federally funded organization that advocates that ''a personal relationship with Jesus Christ [is] the best way to live a sexually pure life."
Fuck off. Kids are horny, okay? The hormones drive them nuttier than a high-pitched whistle near a dog. I don't advocate reckless unsafe sex. (Reckless sex, maybe. But not unsafe.) I am just as appalled as your average midwestern mother when I hear stories of twelve year-old kids having sex, oral or otherwise. I didn't even get my period until I was twelve. But I knew exactly what was going on when I got it because I had a cool, clinical discussion in my public school about the whole reproduction thing. If by some miracle I managed to woo my history teacher, I knew I could get pregnant. I knew about contraception. I got the basic idea of what happened during sex. That was all I needed to know. My gym teacher could barely dress himself-- there was no need for him to try to explain the complicated social issues that revolve around the most animalistic of our urges.
The majority of Americans have lost sight of what sex education is. Teachers don't air Sex and the City episodes illustrating the use of the Rabbit or a sex swing. Hardcore pornography isn't shown. Cosmopolitan magazine-eqsue alliteration isn't used to ask girls if they're aware of the "sweet spot he needs to stroke." Reproductive organs were illustrated in the notorious "pancake video" when I was in school. Religion shouldn't enter into it. Teachers shouldn't tell kids they're too young to have sex or that they are old enough to do it. The cold clinical facts should be presented. This are the organs; this is what happens when you engage in sexual activity; these are the risks involved; here is how you can minimize those risks. MTV airs far more sexually explicit public service announcements during TRL-- kids know what's going on.
Even at the young age of twelve, I knew that abstinence wasn't for me. It was drilled into my hormone-permeated head that abstinence was the only sure-fire way to avoid AIDS or other STDs. But, as Billy Joel says, only the good die young. It didn't even cross my mind that premarital sex could be considered wrong. I made my choice once I had the facts. The government should allow today's teenagers, who grew up in an even more explicit society than I did, the same choices. Guilting someone into "good" behavior by threatening them with an afterlife in the fires that burn but never consume isn't the way to go, especially in public schools where the threat shouldn't even be made.
And also, there are the facts:

A study released in March in the Journal of Adolescent Health indicated that young adults who took virginity pledges as teens were as likely to be infected with sexually transmitted diseases as those who did not. The study by two sociology professors -- one at Yale, another at Columbia -- said people who make the pledge generally have fewer sex partners, start having sex later, and marry earlier. But they are less likely to use condoms and more likely to experiment with oral and anal sex.

Uh-oh. Faith-based groups should be worried about this. God doesn't like sex that couldn't result in another human born to strain the already maxed out resources of the planet. But maybe I should start hanging out at these Silver Ring Things to pick up a kinky soul stranded in a virgin's body. But that's a different ring for a different time.

He'll School You

This man owns all our asses.

John Coffee is retiring. While I know the large majority of you don't give a rat's ass, I feel the need to mention it. This guy was the best history teacher/professor I ever had, which is saying something because some of my favorite teachers taught history. He was the first person I heard call George Bush II "Shrub." He taught me what callipygianmeans. He liked my essays about Queen Elizabeth I because my writing was "spirited." Once you took a class with John Coffee you'll be back for more. I took "The World Since 1914" and went back for "Western Civilization" and "History of England." He, along with everyone else I know, lives in my neighborhood. I'll bake him a cake, bring it by his house and hope he'll let me in and regale me with the stories of his cigar and watermelon diet and public transportation tokens. Thanks much, Professor Coffee. Emerson is a worse place for your retirement.

Hallelujah!

Finally, the Supreme Court does something I agree with. Now I don't even need to walk the twenty feet to the liquor store anymore. God Bless America, indeed.

What my apartment is going to look like in about two weeks.

Plated Evil

The devil plies me with some minty libation as she comes to collect my girlish figure.
I love food that's bad for me. This isn't news-- most people enjoy a rich dish from time to time. Usually I can sit down and wait for the temptation to pass. However, lately I've been watching the Food Network. My Mom and I can agree to watch Food Network (she doesn't really enjoy Top Model) and since I've been home the past few weekends, we've watched Paula's Home Cooking.
Now if you're not into the Food Network, let me fill you in on Paula's schtick. She's a born and bred Southerner, with the heavy accent played to the hilt for effect. She throws in "y'all" and says "boil" "boy-ill." Not only does she speak southern, she cooks southern. And by that I mean she fries everything. Every dish is made with some amount of butter. Usually, some heavy cream and eggs are involved. Cooking Thin, she is not. Her husband, Michael, and her two sons turn up in some episodes which is always hilarious. The men try and sneak a taste of the food before it's finished, which results in mild fisticuffs and cursing, which never happens on the Food Network. "That guy sure eats pretty good," my Mom says of Michael.
On Mother's Day my Mom and I had a hard time getting motivated to go out so we watched Paula's Home Cooking. It was a brunch show, and Paula made French Toast Casserole. Despite the fact that my Mom and I had just eaten breakfast, we were drooling. This weekend was my mother's birthday so I tried my hand at cooking a Paula Deen creation.
I got home late Friday night/early Saturday morning and prepared the dish for breakfast. My night owl brother came downstairs and watched me get the casserole ready to sit overnight.
"How many eggs does that take?" He asked, sipping his midnight glass of chocolate milk.
"Eight," I replied, cracking the eggs into the bowl. I got out the measuring cup and poured two cups of half and half into it.
"Holy shit!" Sam said as I dumped the cream in with the eggs.
"That's Paula Deen," I said, affecting a southern accent. "'Two sticks of butter, three cups of cream, add some sugar, fry it and use vegetables for color.'"
I measured out the milk. "There's less milk than cream in that stuff? God." Sam was disgusted.
"Tomorrow we add brown sugar, nuts and butter to the top before we bake it." Sam laughed as I covered the casserole with foil ("foy-ill") and went to bed. He had to work early in the morning so he missed out on the grand unveiling of the devil's work.
Some people say that we don't need fat and salt to make things taste good, that spices add flavor in a healthy way. Maybe my Mom didn't raise me right, but that's bullshit. I removed the casserole from the oven, the butter still bubbling around the bread, a sheen of brown sugar glazing the crust, holding the pecans to the surface. My Mom and I ate three or four slices with some bacon and enjoyed. The eggs! The cream! The buttery nuts! Maple syrup! It was perfect in every way. I may die today from a heart attack after one serving of that dish, but it's worth it.
I'm hoping to take a road trip to Georgia next month sometime to visit Paula's restaurant Lady and Sons. In my mind, Paula's there in a kitchen like the one in her home, working away at the stove to make a special meal for me. One of her cute sons will come in and sneak a taste before she's done. Paula will try to whack him, miss, hit me in the eye with some fresh-from-the-frying-pan green tomato, blind me in one eye and offer me her son's hand in marriage to avoid a lawsuit. I'd accept. I know in reality it'll be some no-name, no-fun cook with the same recipes you can print from the Food Network's website. But the ghost of Paula's cackles will echo through the restaurant, enjoying making me fat and bloated with her delicious fatty foods.

Top Forty

I love countdown shows. VH1 must have an entire department of people who pitch ideas for these shows. "Top 100 Songs in 4/4!" "Top 50 Wardrobe Malfunctions!" "Top 30 Dramatic Rocker Suicides!" Everytime one is on I am sucked in for the duration. Today I got home early, since I am woefully between gym memberships, and flipped on VH1. 40 Hottest Rock Star Girlfriends... and wives was being aired, so I settled in for an enjoyable evening of switching between VH1 and the Food Network. (Sometimes, when I'm hungry but don't want to cook, I watch the Food Network.)
Something about this countdown rubbed me the wrong way. I don't get worked into a feminist lather very easily. I make barefoot and pregnant jokes often. I don't mind generalizations about women since I tend to generalize about men. But this Top 40 countdown had the tone of "these women are valid only as the significant others of these male musicians." Cameron Diaz was discussed as an actress, but primarily as a cute woman. Naomi Campell's modeling career was mentioned in passing, then the lineage of men she dated was discussed at length. Drew Barrymore was described as "elfish with a great rack." None of these women had identities of their own in this show-- they were passed around like a packed bowl at a Phish concert between various music celebrities. It was especially jarring since Rachel Perry was narrating, and she was talking about the countdown containing a lot of music and "boobies." Even she sounded fed up with the tone of the show.

Yeah, because what has Drew Barrymore done lately? Other than star in and produce movies, overcome drug problems... Good thing that nice rock star is taking care of her, because Lord knows she can't do it on her own.

American culture is turning back to the conservative mores of the past, and I don't mean kids having less sex or taking less drugs. Society seems to expect women to stick around the house and bear babies and forsake their careers and aspirations. Last week I was watching NBC Nightly News and a piece about a burgeoning women-only travel market came on. The tone of the piece was unbelievable. Brian Williams had this incredulous "can you believe these uppity bitches leaving their kids and husbands all alone and taking time for themselves?" tone on the lead in. The reporter sounded amazed that women would leave their families. What woman doesn't want to drag her kids and husband to Disney World and smile the whole time, shelling out $50 for some hot dogs and soda? Why would they want to hang out with their friends, or explore their interests on their vacation? Those crazy broads should be cooking chickens, wiping spittle and taking only fleeting moments for themselves until their kids turn eighteen.
I am one of the six people in the country who still watches The Apprentice, and tonight's episode made me really angry, and not just because the contestants are idiots. One woman, Tana, quit college to have children and move to a state where her husband had a job offer. Which is fine-- some people are okay with that and she made her choice. But Donald Trump got this super PC tone and said "There's nothing more important than having kids" and she agreed. Tana then proceeded to call the younger contestant, Kendra, less ambitious because she didn't leave a husband and kids behind to be on a reality TV show. "She doesn't have as much to lose as I do," Tana clucked self-importantly.
Just because a woman is unmarried and doesn't have kids doesn't mean she doesn't have a life. Some women don't want marriage. Some women hate the idea of a mewling baby. These women should not be pressured to reproduce because they'll crack under the pressure and drown the kids in the tub. A woman who chooses to stay at home and raise kids is fine, if that's what she wants. My mother stayed home with me until I was in junior high school and I'm a better person for it. But if she'd given up a career she loved and resented me for it, I would have been better off with my Mom in an office a few hours a day. Women, if I know my history and human rights here, have the right to choose their own path, just like men. Men can work, men can be stay-at-home dads. Women can trade token boyfriends around in Hollywood too. I sincerely hope this tone changes soon, or else girls will be thinking getting married at twenty-five and having babies immediately is the only way to be a complete person.

Friday Fun

You honestly didn't think you'd get away without a Pete post, did you?

I'll be the first to admit that I've been none to pleased with the weather lately. I thought about it today as I stood outside waiting for the T in a patch of strong sunlight that did nothing to warm me. It's mid-May? Where the hell is flip-flop weather, Pete?
Then I got to thinking. Why do we blame the meterologists? They just predict what the weather will be, sometimes with a degree of accuracy. It's killing the messenger. Except replace "killing" with "hate emailing" and you'll be in the right spot.
Per Pete's writeup today:

Judging by the venom in your emails this week, many are displeased by the thoughts of another weekend in the rain.
Let us vent....
sredfddscxx (fist on keyboard)
qopj kc vblkq (keyboard against monitor)
"&%$*!" (quote from Systems Guy)

Do people really email the weatherman to complain about the weather? Isn't that what people do when they wait in line at the Post Office? Who would take time to write a scathing email to the weather guy? Then again, who would take the time to write posts declaring platonic love to the weather guy?
But, what compelled me to post (other than an excuse to gaze on the visage of my beloved) is this very funny bit:

But wait! It's not ALL wet. There are dry times: Saturday morning and Sunday afternoon.
Doesn't fit in the plan? Then email Todd.

Ha! Todd Gross sucks. I think I would take the time to hate mail him.

Dear Todd Gross,
Please dye your hair a color found in nature. You're fooling no one.
Sincerely,
Amy
PS. Give Pete a big bear hug for me.

Shut Up, Nerdboy

Further proof Bill Gates is an asshole.
iPods rule. End of story. I know you PC lovers don't like them, and there are other cheaper digital audio players out there. But the iPod is the best. It wavered for a while with the model that didn't strictly use the scroll wheel to control it but the line of buttons under the screen, but now that it's back to the easy design it rocks. It can also display pictures if you've got the money for it.
I think Gates is just cranky because Mac's new OSX software, Jaguar, has been widely reviewed to be better than Microsoft's upcoming Longhorn. Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown, Mr. Gates.
End geek rant.

I'm a Walking Disaster

This is what it was, really:

I spent most of the day yesterday sitting in my chair reviewing a table of contents. Since it's fairly monotonous, brainless work I put in my Police CDs to prepare myself for the evening's festivities at the Dunk. Every half hour or so I'd pick my head up, look at the clock, tense all my muscles and squeal. "Eee! Sting!"
"Tell Deb I said God Speed," Kristen commented wearily.
After picking up the minivan from the people I babysit for ("Amy, why do they call it the Dunk? That sounds silly") Deb and I were on our way to Providence. We parked at the Providence Place Mall and walked over to the arena. It was eerily quiet right before the show began. At venues in Boston people loiter by the door, smoking and waiting to go in. In Providence, people hustled inside, dodging the homeless people like land mines.
Since my family isn't the sporting type I'd never been inside the Dunk (formerly known as the Providence Civic Center). It's a lot like what I imagine the old Garden in Boston was like-- sports banners, funky wood paneling, painted concrete walls interrupted only by doors to the bathroom and concession stands, most of which sold Dunkin Donuts products. I was sad to learn that the promised land of cheap beer does not apply to all minor league sports in Rhode Island-- the beer cost $6 each at the Dunk. I sucked it up and paid $9.75 for a Sam Adams and a slice of Aramark pizza. It tasted exactly like the pizza my high school cafeteria sold. The flavor of the pizza and being inside Rhode Island state lines put me into "who am I going to see that I know" mode. I expected to run into my ex-WHW I, but I didn't see him. I was surprised at how old the crowd was-- when I saw Sting at the Tweeter Center (Great Woods, you motherfuckers!) it was a fair mix of young and old. Last night women in their 40s walked from beer concession stand to beer concession stand like drunk bees in acid-washed jeans that were about a size too small, cackling with joy. They were obviously grateful for the big night out away from work and the kids. Save the lone group of thirteen year old girls, Deb and I were the youngest people I saw in the crowd.
I looked everywhere for discussion of who the opening act would be, but Sting's website nor the Dunk's advertised any opener. This resulted in Deb and I not having time for dinner, me flying at land speed records through the 128 corridor and having to sit through Fiction Plane. The singer was tall, lanky and British (just how I like 'em). The music wasn't bad, but the lyrics were trite and not at all poignant.
"This sucks," Deb said.
"No kidding."
"Sting must know these guys or something and is doing them a favor. It's not horrible. It's just not good."
"Maybe it's his son," I said. "He kind of looks like him."
Guess what? Fiction Plane's lead singer is none other than Joe Sumner. HA! Nepotism at work. After Deb and I loaded up on more crappy food (oh doughboy, you taste so good going down and add a lustrous sheen to my hair for weeks due to all the oil you carry) we took our seats as Sting took the stage.
That man could be a quadriplegic and he'd still find a way to be dead sexy. He took the stage in exquisitely tailored black pants, a long black blazer and his beat-up bass guitar. I screamed like I'd just seen Johnny Damon without clothes on. The stage lights went black and Sting's fake-accented voice wafted through the Dunk. "Helloooo Providence," he cooed. I grabbed Deb's arm so hard that she winced and said, again, "Eee! Sting!"
He launched into "Demolition Man" for the first song, and I'd forgotten how much I love it. The usual entourage of renowned jazz musicians he usually tours with was replaced with two guitarists, a drummer and Sting on bass. Everything was simple and clear, much like it was when the Police played the songs as a trio. The other musicians were glad to be playing the songs and I think much like the taste of Aramark mass-produced pizza for me, the Police songs bring Sting back to his younger days. As I said in my previous post, when I saw him at the Tweeter Center (motherfucking Great Woods!) he had no balls. He was there playing music because he was being paid an obscene amount of money and he owed it to the crowd. Last night he worked the stage, walking to the corners, dancing, bobbing his head enthusiastically. He talked with the crowd a lot, which he didn't last time. Touring with younger musicians and playing songs that remind him of his twenties got him into it, which left me with the dopiest grin on my face for the duration.
Then he played "Synchonicity II," which I argue is an even better song than the hit "Synchronicity." The lights were amazing during this number-- the rigs slid around, blinking like the lights on a soundboard. The Dunk was smoky so the path of the spotlights was easy to follow as they rotated around. The arena was lit well enough so I could see that any run I'd make for the stage would have me full-body tackled by the security guards, so I contented myself with watching Sting from a distance.
After a few more Police songs, he got into his solo stuff. He played "I Hung my Head" which Johnny Cash apparently covered before his death. I never cared much for that song: I think it's too antiseptic and clean for the subject matter (something about perfect rhyme and accidental killings doesn't mesh for me) but I'd be curious to hear the Man's interpretation of it. He played "If I Ever Lose my Faith in You" which completely rocks my socks off. He then played "Fields of Gold" which is a happy song, but for some reason always makes me tear up. I never had this play after/during sex, never had a guy sing it to me, but for some reason it's so lovely and simple, but is poignant (ahem, little Joe of Fiction Plane) enough to make me all schmoopy.
I never realized that I knew so much about Sting's work until last night. Deb would ask me what the songs were, and I could tell her the names of the songs, what album they came from, when they were released and what part of his life Sting was in when he wrote them. I felt like Kristen with the Red Sox. It made me feel like my brain is not filled only with reams of knowledge about who was eliminated when on Top Model or the lyrics to Ashlee Simpson songs. So if you need to know about Sting, ask me. I'll fill you in.
The only thing I didn't like (other than $6 beer) about the show was the performance of "Roxanne." I know he's been singing that song since before I was born, but it's his big song. It's like the Indigo Girls with "Closer to Fine"-- the audience isn't going to feel like they've seen a proper live performance without it. So he sings the first verse and the chorus, then starts throwing in lyrics to songs I like better, such as "The Bed's too Big Without You" and "So Lonely" and then scats for a while, then finishes "Roxanne." Just play the fucking song, Sting. Don't muck it up, don't throw in other songs that I'd rather hear and then not sing them, don't mess with the time measure, just play it.
After closing with "Mercury Falling" (wow, way to leave 'em wanting more, not) Deb and I left the Dunk to walk back to the mall. I basically skipped the whole way back to the big white minivan, singing "Demolition Man" and thanking Deb effusively for buying the tickets. I wouldn't have bought them for myself but I'm glad I went. It's probably the closest I'll come to a Police reunion tour until I die and live in a heaven full of '80s punk pop.

Does Everyone Stare The Way I Do? I Only Look This Way At You.

Hold that thought, baby. I'll see you at the Dunk tomorrow night.

I heart Sting. I have hearted Sting since his somewhat mediocre Mercury Falling album in 1996. I once owned a Ten Summoner's Tales tour t-shirt. I have a 4x6 Sting picture framed like snapshots of my friends in my room. The depths of my love for Sting were unrealized until I bought Message in a Box, which is the complete recordings of the Police.
I listened to those tapes non-stop in my Tempo during my freshman year of college. I liked the gritty sound of the early stuff. I enjoyed the blend of pop and punk that those three egomaniacs experimented with towards the end. The fact that three white boys from England were bold enough to experiment with reggae shows their musical cajones.
For an early (very early) birthday present, Deb bought tickets for us to see Mr. Sting in Providence tomorrow night. I've seen him live before, and my overall impression was "eeeah." He wasn't bad, but I got the impression he really didn't care. I try to keep in mind that he's old, but if the man can have sex for hours on end it seems he should be able to muster some enthusiasm for the thousands of people at the Tweeter Center.
I am more excited for this show because the set list is mainly comprised of Police songs. Eeep! Since the odds of a Police reunion tour are remote, this is probably the closest I'll get. If he plays "Demolition Man" or, even better "The Bed's Too Big Without You" or, even better, "Man in a Suitcase" (for my other man Pete) I'll flip out. I am also plotting to get Deb and I up to the stage, where she'll give me a boost and I'll run my ass across the stage before the security people can catch me, kiss him and have Deb meet me at the police (no pun intended) station. Hopefully my brother can pick me up after Deb posts my bail and bring me home, since I probably won't be able to leave state lines. But it'll be worth it. So if I don't write tomorrow, it's because bail prices have gone up. Or, if things work out well, I'll be part of his tantric harem.

The Story of O

Since I am a responsible adult with a day job, I don't usually get to enjoy the glut of talk shows on daytime television. Even through the haze of whatever cold or hangover I suffer to make me call out sick, I can appreciate the glory that is watching "Who's my Baby's Daddy?" on Maury or watching Ellen post poor-quality pictures of people's fat cats on her looky-loo. The schadenfreude of daytime television is excellent. When I was in high school I'd watch Oprah some days (I managed to catch the episode about mad cow that put me off red meat for a year) and I didn't love or hate her. She was just a gaudily dressed plump conduit of entertainment. I love the "favorite things" episode where she gives away (read: companies line up to curry Oprah's favor so she advertises their crap for free) thousands of dollars worth of terry cloth bathrobes and iPods. Occasionally when my life feels too good, I'll watch an episode about mothers hooked on painkillers or people who inadvertently killed/maimed their children through carelessness and cry like, well, an Oprah audience member.
I took my Mom to the doctor on Friday so I spent my Friday evening watching Oprah. I hoped it was a "fun Oprah" show (such as her makeover on a budget show) instead of a "sad Oprah" (9-11 widows or whatever). Instead I got the rarely seen "in-between Oprah" show about hoarders. A few months ago, they found a woman in the audience who wanted to "declutter" her house, and when the crew showed up, it turned out this woman, Carol, was living in her own filth. Now I don't mean piles of paper and a few dirty dishes. I mean dog shit in the shower and maggots in the crock pot. Carol's behavior went beyond slovenly; she's got a mental disease. Oprah mentioned that Carol is in need of help and Oprah sent a specialist in hoarding to help Carol clean out her house. I mention this because Oprah is theoretically aware of how ill Carol is. Yet in the segues between video clips of Carol's stagnant dishwater, Oprah is laughing at Carol. Making her "girl, your house is a pit" comments while the audience laughs merrily at Carol's misery. She is fucked up, Oprah. This is not laughing at a Phil McGraw non-sequitur, Ms. Winfrey. Would you laugh in the face of a woman who's depressed? Probably not if you wanted to cling to your media empire. Shift your heavily made-up face to "compassionate" for this one.
This is my main problem with Oprah. People believe that she's so open and compassionate. I think she's a big phony. The second guest on Friday's show videotaped herself in her crowded house, begging for Oprah to help her as if Oprah was the only person who has access to psychologists. If I had to beg someone for help, I'd beg Ellen, because she'd come in with a sense of humor, a genuine air and a bitchin' soundtrack. I remember (vaguely) the Oprah I watched when I was in elementary school, when Oprah was bigger and she seemed much more compassionate. Now that she's lost weight, she seems to think all her problems have been solved and we normal humans should be able to surmount whatever problems we face with similar ease. On this show, Oprah even compares the hoarding behavior with her own "issues with food." "I always compare guests' problems with my issues with food," Oprah lectures, "because I struggled, and I learned it's through diet and exercise blah blah never ends, always have to exercise blah blah like mental health issues blah blah." You hoarded Ho-Hos into your mouth, Oprah. Carol is hoarding dog shit. There is a difference. Also, anyone who has a football roster worth of personal trainers, cooks and nutritionists can lose weight. Oprah tries to play "everywoman" while keeping an air of superiority about her and it's wearing thin.

"If I cry, the ratings will come..."
On the hoarding episode, Oprah tries to keep it real. She asks Carol why her dogs are taking shits in the shower, and says "Why don't you take them outside? I take my dogs outside and pick up the poop; outside." Uh-huh. You have time to run a television program, book club, magazine and exercise your flaws away, yet you still take your dogs outside to make Number Two? I highly doubt that. Either her boyfriend Stedman or a person who is paid twice what I make walks the sprawling grounds of her estate with a solid gold pooper-scooper to clean up after Oprah's "children with fur." You are not street, Oprah. You and J.Lo should hang out together-- you may both be from the block, but you no longer have any cred there.
Oprah has changed from a plump lady who tried to help people into a egomaniac with her well-manicured hands in too many pots. If you find solace from the barely disguised contempt that Oprah shows her troubled guests, all the more power to you. When she's handing out Pontiacs she's tolerable. If you have a serious problem and need to publicly air it, try Judge Judy or Maury. At least they're honest with their holier-than-thou attitude.

Extracurriculars

Behold, what I do on the weekends. Below, Kristen and I sing backup for the Rick. We're trying to coordinate a dance routine, but after four beers in one hour (and being white girls from New Hampshire and Rhode Island) it proved difficult.


Kristen reattaches the scarf that covered my fat roll while I hold her beer as a beacon of hope for the huddled masses. Also note the small sliver of bowl in the lower left corner of the picture. That's where the vodka marinated into the pineapple and the evening went straight to hell.


"Jersey Mom" the Sue and I trash it up.

If you want more, please visit Kristen's blog where other pictures can be accessed. For a large sum of money, I'll also consider emailing the really incriminating images to you.

I Heart Mom

Fashionable and cute since 1981!

My Mom is the best Mom ever. Don't even disagree-- I won't listen to any argument to the contrary. If I have half the strength my mother has, I'll consider my life to be a good one. She raised two fairly functional human beings on her own, and I never remember her complaining until I got old enough to understand. I always had toys and stuff to do. I know she loves me, but the idea of doing something wrong and getting caught put the fear of God in me. She makes the best mashed potatoes in the world. She took me out shopping and to lunch for "girl's day" and I enjoyed having my mom all to myself for an afternoon. I wish I had the money to buy her a hot tub, an iPod and jewelry like a good kid does on mother's day (per television commercials) but all I could afford was jam and coffee. And she raved about it. That is why my Mom is awesome. So give your Mom a hug and get her coffee for her today. She gave you life. It's the least you can do.

WTF?

Um, what?

These are the faces of corruption.

They play "Louie Louie" on those kids sing pop songs tapes they sell on daytime TV to Moms who want to hear music penned by artists other than the Wiggles or the Olsen Twins circa 1993. And high schoolers can't play that crap? What? They'll play "Candy Shop" or whatever at proms, but don't sing "Louie Louie"? What? Christ on a bike, kids can't listen to the oldies station? Come on now. Sexuality in music is so overt in today's pop that the average kid isn't going to be able to figure out the double-entendre used in some oldies. Even "Jailhouse Rock" is beyond the scope of some kids. Back in my day, we had to work to figure out what a song was talking about. "She Bop" was released in 1984 and was considered pretty racy. In 1992 came "I Touch Myself." You don't even need to give it any thought with the Divynls song, but at least Cyndi made you think "'looking for a good vibration'... wait a damn minute, is she... no way!"
Louie Louie? The world has gone mad.

What About Youk, Indeed.

Kevin Youkilis tears it up for all you haters.

Yeah, that's right, motherfuckers. Kevin Youkilis breaks the tie. Have you ever seen anyone want to get out of Rhode Island more? Other than me, circa 1995-1999. Keep him here, Terry. Youk loves Boston. Boston loves Youk. Bellhorn loves weed and striking out.
Also tearing it up? Eleven game hitting streak? The man with the best man-made highlights ever:

I wish I had something more intelligent to say about baseball. But you know where to go if you need informed opinions about baseball. I just like the pretty.

Good vs. Evil

Gloria Estefan understands:

Always gettin' so restless, nothin' but trouble
Boys will be boys, bad boy, bad boy
Get me feelin' breathless, nothin' but trouble
Boys will be boys, bad boy, bad boy

I like to think I'm a fairly functional human being. I don't keep human body parts in my freezer. I venture out of my house every day to my job, which I've managed to hold for almost two years. I don't have any odor issues, nor do I compulsively steal, gamble or lie. But when it comes to men, my psychoses know no bounds.
Dating is not my forte. Not because I hate men, nor because I am a player. I've just always gone for the guys I can't have. Significantly older, significantly immature, significantly incapable of saying "my girlfriend Amy." Perfectly capable of fucking with my head, perfectly capable of sleeping with me, but unable to suck it up and listen to my grandmother nag them to impregnate me before she dies. In fact, after my first ex-whatever he was, I didn't go on a date for two years. Let that sink in. Two. Years. And when I started dating Yankees Hat Guy, I knew I was dating just to date. He was a nice guy, but the fact he didn't read for pleasure, didn't have any passion for anything and started nagging me to be exclusive on our second time meeting, ever. I didn't want him calling me so much. I ignored his calls. I dumped him.
I think my problem is I don't like when it's easy. I love the torture of not knowing what a boy is going to do. My most recent ex-WHW drove me insane with this (and Kristen, who I am forever karmically indebted to for listening to me rant for a month, pausing only to sleep, eat and make out) and I loved it. Is he going to call? Is he going to ask me out again? Will he come to dinner and submit to a DNA screen as my grandmother wants? Nope. Didn't make it to a family event. Drove me to the brink of insanity for a month, then dumped me. And I missed the lack of drama. Oh, and the making out.
I feel like a walking chick-com or episode of Sex and the City. I went on a date last weekend with a Nice Boy. Adorable brown hair, nice brown eyes. Listened to me when I spoke. Paid for my drinks and was upset when he found out I paid to park. Listened to me prattle on about baseball even though he doesn't know much about it. A perfect gentleman, who would probably smile and nod if my grandmother asked him what his SAT scores were. But it's so easy. I know if I call him, he'll go out again. I should be exited that my feminine wiles have worked so effectively, but instead I'm just "meh." There's no danger, no drama.
Some of my friends say they understand. There has to be an edge to a guy, a certain amount of chase to make dating exciting for the first month or so. Other friends, who are far better girlfriend material than me, say I'm an idiot for potentially passing up a good thing. I do want to see the Nice Boy again if only to determine if he has a douchy streak in him that will make him more attractive. Or perhaps I'll use my time to send myself into therapy which I apparently need. Perhaps it's not long before I start keeping pudgy girls in the basement of my building and "working from home" a lot.

Meh

So I have work to do, right? Like actual, important stuff. For a big title. I need to work on it. The editor is riding horses in California so I'm the boss this week. Of course, my brain decides to pull a Homer Simpson-esque exit from my skull and I am left with a steady hum of "meeeeeeehhhh" in my cranium. My synapses aren't firing today-- they're mostly clicking like an empty lighter. I want to work. I wish I could tear right through this proofchecking, but it ain't gonna happen.
It was the greatest feeling this morning-- I woke up in my bed, stone cold sober, 45 minutes before the alarm went off in the perfect position. Every limb, every hair on my head was in the most comfortable position it could be. It felt like being held off the floor on a puffy cloud held up by singing cherubs. I was still tired but I was comfortable. Then the alarm went off, calling me away from the song of the angels and I shivered my way into the shower. Damn you, Protestant work ethic! I could have mustered a sick voice, but I hauled my body into work. My spirit is out somewhere pregaming for Cinco de Mayo.
So forgive me for not writing anything intelligent today. I promise I'll get my act together tomorrow. I should rifle through the pages of this book now.

The Young Satirist Fancies Herself a Poet

Boys suck. Except for a select few. Usually when they suck I just curse, swear, eat ice cream and watch Sex and the City until my eyes are shriveled like rasins in my sockets. Sometimes I write about it. When I was in high school I fancied myself a poet. Occasionally I wrote something good, but it was mostly the typical schlock of an angry, patchouli-oil wearing teenager. Then I got to Emerson, and was broken down and rebuilt by Bill Knott. I hated him with a passion while I was in his forms of poetry class, but he got me away from the florid language and said, basically, "get to the damn point." So, since I can't think of anything to write about now, I give you a poem. Cheers.

When my handwriting would wobble
Despite my best attempts at keeping it steady,
I’d erase the errors. Rubber flakes dotting the table
My mother peering over my shoulder
Chiding me. “You need to press harder
When you erase. The letters are still there.”
My thoughts were anywhere but on the paper,
The maddening ghost-letters I couldn’t make disappear.
Later she came back, the faint lines still there. She put down
The laundry and took the pink eraser from me.
It looked easy when she did it—
Just make the mistakes disappear.
Her hands authoritative and strong
kept the paper from ripping
yet the ghosts vanished.
After my writing stopped wobbling
I wrote the initials of boys on my notebook
Then changed my mind.
I still couldn’t make the letters vanish
A faint reminder of the mistakes I’d made
Easy for anyone to see what I’d been thinking.
Now I’m grown
All my notebooks in storage
The names of men put into my cell phone,
In the computer, easily removed from the electronic ether
When infatuation ends. Nothing permanent, easy
To forget. I almost miss the smell of rubber and feeling
Of frustration.

"I Did NOT Eat That Hamburger, from the King of Burgers..."

Am I the only one who read this and immediately thought that he's doing this because he wants the interns of the future not to be fatties?
I think it's good to try to convince kids to eat better. Lord knows they tried with me when I was a kid-- I still remember eating raw veggies at school for some week of health or something. The principal said that she loved cauliflower. Do I think it's irresponsible to put soda machines and McDonalds in school cafeterias? Absolutely. But how many people can start a foundation to prevent obesity? Clinton has one. Cookie Monster is on the healthy eating wagon. Yet the preponderance of soda, candy and beer ads says that America still wants to buy the processed crap. Perhaps global warming is the solution to obesity-- if it's bikini season all year, people will eat better all year, instead of starving themselves for four months, then binging when it snows. But then, you know, we're in bikinis all the time because we'll need to grow gills to live. But, no fatties!

What About Youk?

Watch yourself, Mark Bellhorn. I am gunning for you.
From today's Globe:

How about Youkilis, by the way? He hit just .227 (10 for 44) in 12 games in Pawtucket, but in three games with the Sox this season, is batting .500 (5 for 10) with three walks and three RBIs. He delivered an RBI single in the fifth yesterday, walked twice, and began the inning-ending double play.

Yeah, that's right. "Oh, send the Greek down to Pawtucket. We don't need him." Well, FIRST OF ALL, he's Jewish. Second of all, even though his ears may not be aerodynamic and his jaw may slow him down, he's delivering. He is working hard to stay in Boston because he is a dirt dog. Also, I cannot be found in Pawtucket on most days, so he misses being so close to me.
Send Bellhorn to Pawtucket! Keep my Youkie in Boston!

"Yes, being in Boston is awesome. I heart baseball!"