So I had to go to the dentist yesterday. I really wasn't looking forward to it. Actually, I can't think of anyone who enjoys going to the dentist, for one very good reason: Dentists are evil. In fact, the word dentist comes from the Old English words dent, meaning "one who enjoys" and ist, meaning "torturing you". In a survey conducted by the very prestigious Group That Conducts Surveys, 100% of dentists admitted that, had they lived in the Middle Ages, their preferred profession would have been "torturer or executioner". (Actually, only 98% said that. The other 2% said that they would prefer to be goatherds, but their answers were disallowed due to being stupid.) Dentists always tell you that they don't mean to hurt you, but they are lying.
I have to admit, as a child I didn't really mind the dentist. I would go over there every six months, get praised for my good brushing skills, get my teeth scrapped, and leave. Nothing traumatic about it. When I was 8, I had four teeth pulled, but aside from drooling all over myself when I tried to drink because the Novocaine hadn't worn off yet, that wasn't bad.
No, my dentist troubles did not start until I was a teenager. Though I had been told that I didn't really need braces, my parents decided that I should get them anyway, since they were going to be free (thanks for nothing, military benefits!). I was already 13 at this point, and several of my friends had braces, so I already knew that they would be pretty horrible. Before they could put them on, the dentists wanted to wait until all my adult teeth had come in and I had stopped growing. I would go over there every few months and they would x-ray my hand to see if the bones had fused yet. That didn't happen until after my 14th birthday, so I didn't get my braces until I was a freshman in high school, when all my friends were getting theirs taken off. I wore those horrible torturous pieces of steel glued to my teeth until nearly my 19th birthday. And that was only the beginning.
If you've never had braces, just imagine having various bits of metal in your mouth, constantly scraping at the insides of your lips and cheeks. Every time you accidentally get hit in the face playing sports or wrestling with your brothers, you cut your mouth open and end up sucking your own blood. In fact, I think one of the prerequisites for being a vampire would be to have braces when you're a kid. There are sharp pieces of wire poking into you, and they give you these little pieces of wax to use to stick to the wires to cushion them, but then you end up swallowing the wax. From age 14 to 18, my diet was probably at least 30% wax. The rest of my diet was compose of popcorn, which I wasn't supposed to eat because it might break my braces, and sandwiches, from which the bread would get into the little spaces between the braces and my teeth and make me look like a hillbilly who didn't own a toothbrush.
Of course, there were other horrors. Like that horrible pink goo that they use to mold your teeth. They tell you, "This might be a little uncomfortable," but that is only if your definition of "uncomfortable" is "finding out what waterboarding feels like". That stuff practically oozes its way down your windpipe and you feel like you are asphyxiating and all you really want to do is throw up but if you do that, you'll die for sure. Or there was the time that one of the metal bands in my mouth came loose on the weekend, and the dentist's office was closed so I couldn't get it reattached, and it really hurt, and then I was at the PX with my parents and we ran into the dentist and my parents told him what had happened. So I had to open my mouth and stand there with it wide open, right there in the middle of the PX, which was filled with people I knew, while the dentist poked around in my mouth with his gloveless hands. Talk about embarrassment. And of course, there was the fact that every single teenage makeout session was accompanied by, "Ow, your braces just poked me!"
So by the time I was done with my braces (and actually, I never really got done with braces, since I still have a piece of metal cemented to the back of my teeth, and always will) I really didn't like dentists anymore. But I did not yet truly hate them, not in the way that I soon would, after the incident known as Having One's Wisdom Teeth Removed...dundunDUN.
I was 19 when I got my wisdom teeth out. This was muuuuch worse than just pulling teeth. They actually had to cut my gums open to extract the teeth. And, to make things much worse, they didn't put me to sleep. The dentist shot me up with tons of Novocaine, but I was still awake and I could still feel what they were doing. Never having undergone any kind of surgical procedure (or even a broken bone, or anything), I was a total wreck, very nervous, and it reeeeally hurt. And then of course there was the aftermath: you can't brush your teeth for days, your mouth is full of blood and stitches, you're all doped up on Percocet and can't eat anything but mashed potatoes and baby food...it's horrible. So after that, I did not go to the dentist again for about 10 years.
A few years ago, I decided that I didn't want to end up being toothless by age 40, so I started going to the dentist again. Of course, I had four cavities and getting them filled was no picnic. But almost worse than that is the twice yearly check up. They put you in that chair and then lay it down so much that you are almost bent over backwards, and then make you put on flimsy plastic glasses that probably have leprosy on them from the previous patients. On the ceiling above, there is always some kind of poster with a pretty picture, advising you to relax. That's like asking someone who was being questioned by the Spanish Inquisition to relax; it's not happening. Then they shine that light in your eyes that makes you feel like you are staring into the sun. And then, they begin to torture you. They yank on your teeth, stab you in the gum with a sharp piece of metal, spray water all over your face until you feel like you are drowning, and then lecture you about not flossing. And then they wonder why people never want to go back. Evil, I tell you! Evil.
Fucking dentists.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Friday, September 18, 2009
You Are The Reason Everyone Hates Going To Work
Ah, work. We spend most of our waking hours there, slaving away for the security of a paycheck. And many of us, undoubtedly, hate our jobs. I am mostly speaking to those who are employed by some sort of outside company. If you are self employed, this is probably not much of an issue, because you are your own boss and presumably like what you do, or are so strung out on crack that you don't really care. And come on, how hard is it to give blowjobs at $20 a pop? Putting the new cover sheet on TPS reports is much harder.
So, most of us spend most of our time at our jobs, surrounded by our co-workers for nine hours a day, for (according to my highly scientific calculations) 261 days a year, not counting leave and holidays. We get to know each other, to know each other's quirks and likes and dislikes and who likes to eat disgusting things like ramen noodles mixed with tuna fish. It's almost like we are a family. And, like any family, there can be a great deal of dysfunction in any work environment. So today, we are going to discuss ways to make your relationship with your co-workers run more smoothly. In other words, how not to be the Office Dick, the person everyone hates.
Let's start with something very simple: your physical appearance. No, I'm not talking about whether or not you wear makeup and I don't care if you are wearing ratty jeans and a shirt with a picture of a naked woman on it. Does not bug me at all. What does bug me, though, is when you wear clothes that are too small for you. Like, you have a big fat stomach than hangs 6 inches below the waist of your pants, yet you decide, for some unknown reason, to wear a shirt that only goes 3 inches below your pants. So the rest of us, for the whole day, are subjected to your stomach flab, dangling from under your shirt. We are all afraid that you have the albino Blob in your pants and it's trying to escape and eat us. Also, no matter how young and thin and cute you are (or think you are), there is no excuse for coming to work looking like you are going to a club. Mini skirts, skin tight pants, hooker heels, and super tight, cleavage revealing shirts are not only against the dress code, they make you look like you are trying to pick up your co-workers. And really, who wants that?
Closely related to the issue of appearance is the issue of smell. Yes, the way you smell. Please, for the love of all that is holy, take a shower every day. Use deodorant. Brush your freaking teeth. And don't douse yourself in perfume or cologne. Yes, a little can be nice, but a lot makes it seem like you are walking around with a noxious cloud of stench following you. Also on the scent front, let's discuss other smelly things that everybody except you hates. For example, you may think that your coconut-scented room spray is to die for and decide that it would be wonderful to spray it all over your cubicle, but everyone else that has to smell it is fantasizing about squirting you in the eyes with that spray and then shoving the bottle up your ass. Or when you make your oh-so-delicious broccoli and cheese meal in the communal microwave, I know you think it's the best thing ever, but everyone else thinks it smells like vomit.
You don't even want to know what we think of you when you burn your popcorn.
Don't talk on your cell phone while you are using the bathroom. It's just disturbing. Also, if you happen to "drip" please please please PLEASE clean it up before you leave the stall. That especially goes for you women on your freaking periods! And don't talk to other people over the stalls, especially if you are not good friends with them. Some of us would like to pee in peace, without your play-by-play recap of what you had for lunch or of the cute guy you met this weekend.
WASH YOUR FUCKING HANDS WHEN YOU ARE DONE.
Unless you are my boss, please do not try to tell me what to do or how to do it. I know my job and if I need help, I will ask for it. You do not need to volunteer your services. I don't care if you have worked here almost as long as I have been alive, I don't need you sending me "helpful" emails or writing me notes pointing out how I could do things different. Please, keep your vast stores of knowledge to yourself.
Don't touch other people's personal property without permission. You need a pen or a stapler? Go right ahead. But keeps your damn hands off my pictures and knickknacks. In fact, unless we are friends, there is no reason for you to be hanging over my desk, talking to me, period. I will happily discuss work-related issues with you. But I do not care what you did this weekend, what you are eating for lunch or what new book you read. I am not going to answer your questions about my personal life. And I definitely do not want to look at pictures of your cats or your vacation or your new house or your kids. In fact, some people should really just learn to shut up all together. When you are talking to people, if they refuse to make eye contact with you, pretend that they can't hear you, or just plain ignore you...those are all warning signs that you are boring and no one likes you. So rather than preying on poor defenseless people who are too polite to tell you to go away, why not take it upon yourself and just shut the fuck up?
Please, please, have something interesting to talk about besides your children. Yes, if you are a new parent or if you have small children, fine, we understand that your children are fascinating. But if your youngest child is 17 and they are still the only thing you ever talk about...well, you seriously need a life.
Don't carry on loud personal phone calls all damn day. If you don't want to work, fine. No one cares. Mess around on the internet, play Solitaire, paint your toe nails, whatever. But when your not-working interferes with my working, then it becomes an issue. It's hard to concentrate when there is someone just a few feet away blabbering on the phone all the time. And especially don't get into arguments on the phone. I'm sorry if your spouse/kids/family/attorney/kid's school/place that you bought your new dishwasher/etc is pissing you off, but if you must yell at them, please take your phone call into the breakroom. Don't yell on the phone. And keep your voice down. We don't all need to know the details of your personal life.
Don't talk in stupid, affected voices that aren't natural to you. No one likes a grownup who talks "baby talk" when there is no actual baby in the immediate vicinity.
Please, do not sing at your desk. Especially if you can't actually sing. And you're wearing headphones, and can't hear how horrible you sound. And people who are guilty of whistling in an office should be taken outside and shot without trial. Do wear your headphones when you are listening to music or a video. No one else wants to listen to the collected hits of Vanilla Ice. And keep your cell phone on vibrate, especially if you are leaving your desk.
Don't be a mooch. If I say you can have one of my tissues once, that does not mean that I am your tissue source for the rest of your natural life. Get your lazy, cheapskate ass to the store and buy some yourself. And don't constantly ask everyone, "Where are you going to lunch today?" and then expect them to bring you food. If you're not smart or capable enough to bring your own lunch, then it is your responsibility to find your own food, unless the other person offers.
I don't care what religion you are, but I don't want to hear about it at work. And I especially do not want you trying to convert me. Do not offer to bring me a pamphlet on the bible, or invite me to church with you, and I will refrain from sharing my views on religion with you. Which should make you happy, because I'm sure you wouldn't like them.
If you need something work related from me, even if we are not friends, please just come and ask. It makes things harder for everyone when you refuse to do your job correctly. But, even if we don't like each other, there is no reason not to be polite. Throwing a paper onto my desk and demanding that I give you the file is not going to win you any points.
Basically, it boils down to manners. Not the "keep a napkin in your lap and don't slurp your soup" kind, but the "make other people feel comfortable and don't be an asshole" kind. Don't be a jerk to me and I won't be one to you and we can all get along fine and do our jobs and go home without wanting to kill each other with machetes. And that, really, is what going to work is all about.
So, most of us spend most of our time at our jobs, surrounded by our co-workers for nine hours a day, for (according to my highly scientific calculations) 261 days a year, not counting leave and holidays. We get to know each other, to know each other's quirks and likes and dislikes and who likes to eat disgusting things like ramen noodles mixed with tuna fish. It's almost like we are a family. And, like any family, there can be a great deal of dysfunction in any work environment. So today, we are going to discuss ways to make your relationship with your co-workers run more smoothly. In other words, how not to be the Office Dick, the person everyone hates.
Let's start with something very simple: your physical appearance. No, I'm not talking about whether or not you wear makeup and I don't care if you are wearing ratty jeans and a shirt with a picture of a naked woman on it. Does not bug me at all. What does bug me, though, is when you wear clothes that are too small for you. Like, you have a big fat stomach than hangs 6 inches below the waist of your pants, yet you decide, for some unknown reason, to wear a shirt that only goes 3 inches below your pants. So the rest of us, for the whole day, are subjected to your stomach flab, dangling from under your shirt. We are all afraid that you have the albino Blob in your pants and it's trying to escape and eat us. Also, no matter how young and thin and cute you are (or think you are), there is no excuse for coming to work looking like you are going to a club. Mini skirts, skin tight pants, hooker heels, and super tight, cleavage revealing shirts are not only against the dress code, they make you look like you are trying to pick up your co-workers. And really, who wants that?
Closely related to the issue of appearance is the issue of smell. Yes, the way you smell. Please, for the love of all that is holy, take a shower every day. Use deodorant. Brush your freaking teeth. And don't douse yourself in perfume or cologne. Yes, a little can be nice, but a lot makes it seem like you are walking around with a noxious cloud of stench following you. Also on the scent front, let's discuss other smelly things that everybody except you hates. For example, you may think that your coconut-scented room spray is to die for and decide that it would be wonderful to spray it all over your cubicle, but everyone else that has to smell it is fantasizing about squirting you in the eyes with that spray and then shoving the bottle up your ass. Or when you make your oh-so-delicious broccoli and cheese meal in the communal microwave, I know you think it's the best thing ever, but everyone else thinks it smells like vomit.
You don't even want to know what we think of you when you burn your popcorn.
Don't talk on your cell phone while you are using the bathroom. It's just disturbing. Also, if you happen to "drip" please please please PLEASE clean it up before you leave the stall. That especially goes for you women on your freaking periods! And don't talk to other people over the stalls, especially if you are not good friends with them. Some of us would like to pee in peace, without your play-by-play recap of what you had for lunch or of the cute guy you met this weekend.
WASH YOUR FUCKING HANDS WHEN YOU ARE DONE.
Unless you are my boss, please do not try to tell me what to do or how to do it. I know my job and if I need help, I will ask for it. You do not need to volunteer your services. I don't care if you have worked here almost as long as I have been alive, I don't need you sending me "helpful" emails or writing me notes pointing out how I could do things different. Please, keep your vast stores of knowledge to yourself.
Don't touch other people's personal property without permission. You need a pen or a stapler? Go right ahead. But keeps your damn hands off my pictures and knickknacks. In fact, unless we are friends, there is no reason for you to be hanging over my desk, talking to me, period. I will happily discuss work-related issues with you. But I do not care what you did this weekend, what you are eating for lunch or what new book you read. I am not going to answer your questions about my personal life. And I definitely do not want to look at pictures of your cats or your vacation or your new house or your kids. In fact, some people should really just learn to shut up all together. When you are talking to people, if they refuse to make eye contact with you, pretend that they can't hear you, or just plain ignore you...those are all warning signs that you are boring and no one likes you. So rather than preying on poor defenseless people who are too polite to tell you to go away, why not take it upon yourself and just shut the fuck up?
Please, please, have something interesting to talk about besides your children. Yes, if you are a new parent or if you have small children, fine, we understand that your children are fascinating. But if your youngest child is 17 and they are still the only thing you ever talk about...well, you seriously need a life.
Don't carry on loud personal phone calls all damn day. If you don't want to work, fine. No one cares. Mess around on the internet, play Solitaire, paint your toe nails, whatever. But when your not-working interferes with my working, then it becomes an issue. It's hard to concentrate when there is someone just a few feet away blabbering on the phone all the time. And especially don't get into arguments on the phone. I'm sorry if your spouse/kids/family/attorney/kid's school/place that you bought your new dishwasher/etc is pissing you off, but if you must yell at them, please take your phone call into the breakroom. Don't yell on the phone. And keep your voice down. We don't all need to know the details of your personal life.
Don't talk in stupid, affected voices that aren't natural to you. No one likes a grownup who talks "baby talk" when there is no actual baby in the immediate vicinity.
Please, do not sing at your desk. Especially if you can't actually sing. And you're wearing headphones, and can't hear how horrible you sound. And people who are guilty of whistling in an office should be taken outside and shot without trial. Do wear your headphones when you are listening to music or a video. No one else wants to listen to the collected hits of Vanilla Ice. And keep your cell phone on vibrate, especially if you are leaving your desk.
Don't be a mooch. If I say you can have one of my tissues once, that does not mean that I am your tissue source for the rest of your natural life. Get your lazy, cheapskate ass to the store and buy some yourself. And don't constantly ask everyone, "Where are you going to lunch today?" and then expect them to bring you food. If you're not smart or capable enough to bring your own lunch, then it is your responsibility to find your own food, unless the other person offers.
I don't care what religion you are, but I don't want to hear about it at work. And I especially do not want you trying to convert me. Do not offer to bring me a pamphlet on the bible, or invite me to church with you, and I will refrain from sharing my views on religion with you. Which should make you happy, because I'm sure you wouldn't like them.
If you need something work related from me, even if we are not friends, please just come and ask. It makes things harder for everyone when you refuse to do your job correctly. But, even if we don't like each other, there is no reason not to be polite. Throwing a paper onto my desk and demanding that I give you the file is not going to win you any points.
Basically, it boils down to manners. Not the "keep a napkin in your lap and don't slurp your soup" kind, but the "make other people feel comfortable and don't be an asshole" kind. Don't be a jerk to me and I won't be one to you and we can all get along fine and do our jobs and go home without wanting to kill each other with machetes. And that, really, is what going to work is all about.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Attack of the 50 Foot Wide Lard Bucket
So a friend and I went shopping the other weekend. Like most women, I do love shopping, but I don't indulge in it very often, for one very good reason: every store in the world seems designed to make me feel like a walking pile of blubber.
Has this ever happened to you? You walk into a store. You find an item you like--maybe it's the color, or the cut, or the style, but something about that piece of clothing grabs your eye. You flip through the rack until you find the one in your size. Feeling hopeful, you head into the dressing room, take off your clothes, pull the new item on...and discover that it doesn't fit. Let's say it's a shirt. Perhaps, despite the "x-large" tag, it doesn't fit over your shoulders, or you have to unroll it over your boobs like you are trying to stuff a sausage. Perhaps you can't get the buttons to close. Maybe you can pull it on, but it's too tight across the back of your shoulders, forcing you to adopt a strange hunchback stance, like you are practicing for the role of Quasimodo. Or maybe it fits perfectly in all respects, except the sleeves are too short.
Welcome to my world.
I am a large woman. Sure, I am somewhat overweight; I like Coke and pastries too much not to be. I am not overly huge--I can actually see my toes, and I have a discernible waistline, even if it's bigger than it should be--but large enough. But I am also very tall. Ever since I was 14 years old, I have been 5 feet 9.5 inches tall (and you can just imagine how much fun that made dating in high school, where almost all the boys were shorter than me). I have large, long bones, and big boobs, and wear a size 9 1/2 shoe. So weight is not really the issue. Even when I weighed much less than I do now (when I had a BMI of 19.6, according to this BMI calculator), I could not find clothes that fit well. For some reason, the all-powerful clothing industry has decided that women over 5'6" just don't get to wear their clothes. Apparently, we are supposed to be content with wrapping ourselves in garbage bags.
So shopping, naturally, was a total blast. We went to Old Navy, first, which is actually a store I don't mind going into. They actually have clothes that fit me. The sizes run up to like 22 or 24, and they have "long" style pants. So I didn't feel too bad about myself in Old Navy. I bought several cute new shirts, and some jeans that fit and make my ass look nice. Then we went to a shoe store. Again, not too much of a problem. I have large feet, for a woman, but as I was just buying a pair of Converse sneakers, it didn't really matter. So I was feeling pretty good about our shopping trip at that point.
Until, that is, we braved the terror of (dun dun DUN!) the mall.
The mall is the archenemy of non-Barbie doll proportioned women. The stores there are happy to cater to you...as long as you are small. Otherwise, you are just S.O.L. While my friend was trying on clothes in one store (the Gap, maybe? I don't remember...it was all a blur of emo-looking guys and tight, shiny dresses), I amused myself by looking at the tags on the clothes. The X-Large, in that store, was a size 10. Yes, that's right...a size 10. I routinely wear an X-Large, at Old Navy and Walmart. But I could not fit into a size 10 if you greased me like a pig and used a forklift to hoist me into the material. Like faster-than-light travel, it's just not happening outside of my fantasies. But then, it never happened. Even when I graduated high school, which is when I weighed the least I have in my adult life, I could not fit into a size 10. I am simply too tall, too statuesque (which, by the way, is a great word, I think).
So I didn't do much shopping inside the mall. The scenario above, about not being able to find clothes that fit, is totally true. That is what happens to me every time I go shopping for clothes. Except for at a few select stores, nothing fits. The shirts are too tight across the stomach, too tight around the arms, too tight across the back, too short, too tight over the boobs, too short in the sleeves. The pants are too short. Even shopping for bras and underwear and socks is a challenge. How do you know what size underwear will fit you if you can't try it on? But when you buy it at Walmart by the 6-pack, it's impossible to try on. So I have many packages of wrong-sized underwear at home that I can't return but can't wear. It's hard to find women's socks for 9 1/2 size feet, so I often end up buying men's socks. And bras: don't get me started. You can't buy a cute bra if you have a cup size bigger than C, or a band size over 38. They simply don't sell cute bras for "big" girls at normal stores, as if we were not interested in looking sexy, too. If I want cute lingerie, I have to go to the "plus sized" store.
In fact, for a lot of things, I need to go to the plus sized store, or what I like to call "the fatgirl store". And the really fucked up part is that the "plus" sizes start at size 12. Yes, the size I wore when I was thin and cute and sexy is considered a "plus" size. No wonder so many women have body issues!
The fatgirl store that I frequent is called Torrid. It has cute, age-appropriate clothes, as opposed to like, Lane Bryant, which has stuff your grandmother would find too old ladyish. Going to Torrid actually makes me feel pretty good, because whereas I can't even fit into an X-Large at the Gap, I wear a size 1 at Torrid. Yes, I know, it's not a real size 1. But it still makes me feel good. So I bought a pretty belt, which actually fit all the way around my hips. My friend, who is big in the boobage area, got a cute shirt. She wore a size 0. Bitch.
So anyways, that was my fun shopping day. By the time we left the mall, I was feeling fat and ugly and very, very discouraged (and how horrible is it when shopping, an activity that is supposed to be fun, makes you want to cry?). But then I came up with a great idea! I plan to get extreme cosmetic surgery (breast reduction, liposuction, and arm and leg shortening) and develop an eating disorder. Then I can shop at the mall just like a normal girl!
Has this ever happened to you? You walk into a store. You find an item you like--maybe it's the color, or the cut, or the style, but something about that piece of clothing grabs your eye. You flip through the rack until you find the one in your size. Feeling hopeful, you head into the dressing room, take off your clothes, pull the new item on...and discover that it doesn't fit. Let's say it's a shirt. Perhaps, despite the "x-large" tag, it doesn't fit over your shoulders, or you have to unroll it over your boobs like you are trying to stuff a sausage. Perhaps you can't get the buttons to close. Maybe you can pull it on, but it's too tight across the back of your shoulders, forcing you to adopt a strange hunchback stance, like you are practicing for the role of Quasimodo. Or maybe it fits perfectly in all respects, except the sleeves are too short.
Welcome to my world.
I am a large woman. Sure, I am somewhat overweight; I like Coke and pastries too much not to be. I am not overly huge--I can actually see my toes, and I have a discernible waistline, even if it's bigger than it should be--but large enough. But I am also very tall. Ever since I was 14 years old, I have been 5 feet 9.5 inches tall (and you can just imagine how much fun that made dating in high school, where almost all the boys were shorter than me). I have large, long bones, and big boobs, and wear a size 9 1/2 shoe. So weight is not really the issue. Even when I weighed much less than I do now (when I had a BMI of 19.6, according to this BMI calculator), I could not find clothes that fit well. For some reason, the all-powerful clothing industry has decided that women over 5'6" just don't get to wear their clothes. Apparently, we are supposed to be content with wrapping ourselves in garbage bags.
So shopping, naturally, was a total blast. We went to Old Navy, first, which is actually a store I don't mind going into. They actually have clothes that fit me. The sizes run up to like 22 or 24, and they have "long" style pants. So I didn't feel too bad about myself in Old Navy. I bought several cute new shirts, and some jeans that fit and make my ass look nice. Then we went to a shoe store. Again, not too much of a problem. I have large feet, for a woman, but as I was just buying a pair of Converse sneakers, it didn't really matter. So I was feeling pretty good about our shopping trip at that point.
Until, that is, we braved the terror of (dun dun DUN!) the mall.
The mall is the archenemy of non-Barbie doll proportioned women. The stores there are happy to cater to you...as long as you are small. Otherwise, you are just S.O.L. While my friend was trying on clothes in one store (the Gap, maybe? I don't remember...it was all a blur of emo-looking guys and tight, shiny dresses), I amused myself by looking at the tags on the clothes. The X-Large, in that store, was a size 10. Yes, that's right...a size 10. I routinely wear an X-Large, at Old Navy and Walmart. But I could not fit into a size 10 if you greased me like a pig and used a forklift to hoist me into the material. Like faster-than-light travel, it's just not happening outside of my fantasies. But then, it never happened. Even when I graduated high school, which is when I weighed the least I have in my adult life, I could not fit into a size 10. I am simply too tall, too statuesque (which, by the way, is a great word, I think).
So I didn't do much shopping inside the mall. The scenario above, about not being able to find clothes that fit, is totally true. That is what happens to me every time I go shopping for clothes. Except for at a few select stores, nothing fits. The shirts are too tight across the stomach, too tight around the arms, too tight across the back, too short, too tight over the boobs, too short in the sleeves. The pants are too short. Even shopping for bras and underwear and socks is a challenge. How do you know what size underwear will fit you if you can't try it on? But when you buy it at Walmart by the 6-pack, it's impossible to try on. So I have many packages of wrong-sized underwear at home that I can't return but can't wear. It's hard to find women's socks for 9 1/2 size feet, so I often end up buying men's socks. And bras: don't get me started. You can't buy a cute bra if you have a cup size bigger than C, or a band size over 38. They simply don't sell cute bras for "big" girls at normal stores, as if we were not interested in looking sexy, too. If I want cute lingerie, I have to go to the "plus sized" store.
In fact, for a lot of things, I need to go to the plus sized store, or what I like to call "the fatgirl store". And the really fucked up part is that the "plus" sizes start at size 12. Yes, the size I wore when I was thin and cute and sexy is considered a "plus" size. No wonder so many women have body issues!
The fatgirl store that I frequent is called Torrid. It has cute, age-appropriate clothes, as opposed to like, Lane Bryant, which has stuff your grandmother would find too old ladyish. Going to Torrid actually makes me feel pretty good, because whereas I can't even fit into an X-Large at the Gap, I wear a size 1 at Torrid. Yes, I know, it's not a real size 1. But it still makes me feel good. So I bought a pretty belt, which actually fit all the way around my hips. My friend, who is big in the boobage area, got a cute shirt. She wore a size 0. Bitch.
So anyways, that was my fun shopping day. By the time we left the mall, I was feeling fat and ugly and very, very discouraged (and how horrible is it when shopping, an activity that is supposed to be fun, makes you want to cry?). But then I came up with a great idea! I plan to get extreme cosmetic surgery (breast reduction, liposuction, and arm and leg shortening) and develop an eating disorder. Then I can shop at the mall just like a normal girl!
Thursday, July 16, 2009
How Smart Are You?
This is an interesting quiz, measuring how much you know about general science. Take it and post your results in the comments! I got 11 out of 12 correct, which only proves my super smartness!
Click here for the quiz.
Click here for the quiz.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
A Skull Tumor--The Height of Fashion
Can someone please explain this to me? Honestly, why do women want to wear their hair like this? Yes, I know, I've been told it's because they want the appearance of full hair, lots of volume, etc. But you know what? This doesn't make you look like you have full hair. It makes you look like you have a tumor growing out of the top of your skull. Just look at the following illustration:
If anyone has any reasonable explanation for why you would wear this, please leave a message in the comments. I am honestly curious. I have never in my life felt the need to look like I have a pretend tumor. So I am curious.
If anyone has any reasonable explanation for why you would wear this, please leave a message in the comments. I am honestly curious. I have never in my life felt the need to look like I have a pretend tumor. So I am curious.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
That Time of the Month, Part 2
Warning: Contains graphic subject matter. If you are a weenie, do not read any further.
If you are a man (or close to one, anyway), here's what I want you to do. Get something kind of big and heavy, like a dumbbell or a bowling ball, and strike yourself repeated in the belly with it. Not in your stomach, exactly. Lower down, near your pelvic bone. Do this repeatedly for several days. Occasionally, stab yourself on either side of the belly with something really sharp, like a bamboo skewer or an ice pick. And though you may be bleeding quite a bit, try really hard not to get any blood on your clothes.
Congratulations. Now you understand a small part of what it is to be a woman.
A few weeks ago, I promised you that we would have a discussion of periods sometime soon. Well, today is your lucky day, because I am finally in the mood to talk about this. (If you have guessed that "in the mood" means I am having my period, then yes, you are very clever. And you also better not fuck with me for the next several days.) So, where shall we start?
First off, the physical discomfort. Not all women hurt as much as I described above, of course. Some hurt much more. A few lucky ones escape the pain all together, but the rest of us think they are bitches. Basically, it's like a giant hand has pushed itself through the wall of your abdomen, grabbed your innards, and is twisting them as hard as it can. Fun, right? And then your back aches. And your breasts hurt and swell for several days, and when you take your bra off, they feel like someone has tied weights to them, dragging them painfully downwards. After that, they shrink and stop hurting, but they just sort of hang there like half filled-water balloons, very sad and depressed looking. And you feel as bloated as a 4 day old corpse and none of your pants fit right.
And then of course there is the dreaded PMS. Though why it is called "Pre-Menstrual Syndrome" I have never really understood, because it is not just a "pre" thing. It's should just be called "Menstrual Syndrome" or "Don't Fuck With Me Syndrome." DFWMS. Has a much better ring to it, I think. I'm sure you men think you know all about PMS. "Oh, yes," you are probably thinking to yourself right now, "that's when my girlfriend/wife gets mad at me for no reason and yells about how we have run out of strawberry ice cream." How wrong you are. Sure, we might yell or cry or be sulky. But only for good reason. And running out of strawberry ice cream is a damn good reason. And it's not our fault. Our bodies are swirling masses of hormones that make us act that way. We can't help it! Basically, if you don't want to spend several days being miserable, here is some advice for you: The woman is always right. Especially when she is in pain due to an evolutionary system designed to bear YOUR children! So go get the damn ice cream, bring her a glass of cold water, do the dishes, whatever she wants you to do. Otherwise you might find out what it's like to sing soprano, if you know what I mean.
And here's a tip for you. We don't like those jokes you guys like to make about "something that bleeds for a week." Not funny. Not even remotely. If you would like to see something bleeding for a week, we would be glad to take a very dull knife to some of your very sensitive skin.
Of course, when we are having our periods, we want to eat junk food. It makes us feel better, emotionally. The salt and sugar and soda, though, only make us feel more bloated, thereby adding to our discomfort. And did you know that many women have upset stomachs during their periods? Even more fun! Because it's not messy enough without that.
Speaking of messes, imagine trying to get dressed. What if there's a leak? You can't wear anything light colored, just in case. And you can't wear anything tight around your stomach. Or around your crotch. Or, for that matter, your boobs. Basically, you feel like wearing nothing but ratty old sweat pants and oversized T-shirts for a week. But of course, that is not socially acceptable.
Also, guys, another tip: We probably don't want to have sex with you when we are having our period. Yes, yes, I know, you've read those studies that say that orgasms help relieve pain, blah blah blah. So what? To want to have sex, we usually have to feel sexy, and I can think of few things quiet as not-sexy as feeling like your uterus hates you and is deliberately ruining your life. So sure, offer us a back rub, a foot rub, a heating pad, lots of drugs, whatever. But please don't try to put the moves on us. Unless we indicate that we would like the moves to be put on us, in which case you damn well better comply (see singing soprano threat, above).
Basically, periods are pretty miserable. If you don't want us to make you miserable, too, make sure you bring us our ice cream, lay in a store of good movies for us, and if we send you to the store to buy tampons, don't fucking complain about it, just do it. Because you do not want to piss the hormones off.
If you are a man (or close to one, anyway), here's what I want you to do. Get something kind of big and heavy, like a dumbbell or a bowling ball, and strike yourself repeated in the belly with it. Not in your stomach, exactly. Lower down, near your pelvic bone. Do this repeatedly for several days. Occasionally, stab yourself on either side of the belly with something really sharp, like a bamboo skewer or an ice pick. And though you may be bleeding quite a bit, try really hard not to get any blood on your clothes.
Congratulations. Now you understand a small part of what it is to be a woman.
A few weeks ago, I promised you that we would have a discussion of periods sometime soon. Well, today is your lucky day, because I am finally in the mood to talk about this. (If you have guessed that "in the mood" means I am having my period, then yes, you are very clever. And you also better not fuck with me for the next several days.) So, where shall we start?
First off, the physical discomfort. Not all women hurt as much as I described above, of course. Some hurt much more. A few lucky ones escape the pain all together, but the rest of us think they are bitches. Basically, it's like a giant hand has pushed itself through the wall of your abdomen, grabbed your innards, and is twisting them as hard as it can. Fun, right? And then your back aches. And your breasts hurt and swell for several days, and when you take your bra off, they feel like someone has tied weights to them, dragging them painfully downwards. After that, they shrink and stop hurting, but they just sort of hang there like half filled-water balloons, very sad and depressed looking. And you feel as bloated as a 4 day old corpse and none of your pants fit right.
And then of course there is the dreaded PMS. Though why it is called "Pre-Menstrual Syndrome" I have never really understood, because it is not just a "pre" thing. It's should just be called "Menstrual Syndrome" or "Don't Fuck With Me Syndrome." DFWMS. Has a much better ring to it, I think. I'm sure you men think you know all about PMS. "Oh, yes," you are probably thinking to yourself right now, "that's when my girlfriend/wife gets mad at me for no reason and yells about how we have run out of strawberry ice cream." How wrong you are. Sure, we might yell or cry or be sulky. But only for good reason. And running out of strawberry ice cream is a damn good reason. And it's not our fault. Our bodies are swirling masses of hormones that make us act that way. We can't help it! Basically, if you don't want to spend several days being miserable, here is some advice for you: The woman is always right. Especially when she is in pain due to an evolutionary system designed to bear YOUR children! So go get the damn ice cream, bring her a glass of cold water, do the dishes, whatever she wants you to do. Otherwise you might find out what it's like to sing soprano, if you know what I mean.
And here's a tip for you. We don't like those jokes you guys like to make about "something that bleeds for a week." Not funny. Not even remotely. If you would like to see something bleeding for a week, we would be glad to take a very dull knife to some of your very sensitive skin.
Of course, when we are having our periods, we want to eat junk food. It makes us feel better, emotionally. The salt and sugar and soda, though, only make us feel more bloated, thereby adding to our discomfort. And did you know that many women have upset stomachs during their periods? Even more fun! Because it's not messy enough without that.
Speaking of messes, imagine trying to get dressed. What if there's a leak? You can't wear anything light colored, just in case. And you can't wear anything tight around your stomach. Or around your crotch. Or, for that matter, your boobs. Basically, you feel like wearing nothing but ratty old sweat pants and oversized T-shirts for a week. But of course, that is not socially acceptable.
Also, guys, another tip: We probably don't want to have sex with you when we are having our period. Yes, yes, I know, you've read those studies that say that orgasms help relieve pain, blah blah blah. So what? To want to have sex, we usually have to feel sexy, and I can think of few things quiet as not-sexy as feeling like your uterus hates you and is deliberately ruining your life. So sure, offer us a back rub, a foot rub, a heating pad, lots of drugs, whatever. But please don't try to put the moves on us. Unless we indicate that we would like the moves to be put on us, in which case you damn well better comply (see singing soprano threat, above).
Basically, periods are pretty miserable. If you don't want us to make you miserable, too, make sure you bring us our ice cream, lay in a store of good movies for us, and if we send you to the store to buy tampons, don't fucking complain about it, just do it. Because you do not want to piss the hormones off.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Douches Behind The Wheel
Today's topic is: Tips for Drivers or, How to Not be a Road Douche.
Yes, I know, I have ranted and raved about bad drivers a million times before. Today, however, we are going to do something different. Instead of just complaining about bad drivers, I am actually going to teach them how to become good drivers. So pay close attention. As Dave Barry says, "the one thing that unites all human beings, regardless of age, gender, religion, or ethnic background, is that, deep inside, we all believe we are above average drivers." But that does not mean that we all actually are above average drivers. In fact, the very meaning of the word "average" would preclude that possibility. As in everything else, most people are average, with some below and some above. I, of course, am one of the ones above, which is what makes me qualified to deliver this very important public service announcement.
#1: First off, let's talk about the Speeder. I know, everyone loves to speed. I love to speed! Most speed limits are far too low, and it's fun to go fast, okay, we all get it. However, there is a fine line between merely going a little fast and being a road douche. Going a little fast means you are going ten to fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit, but still doing it safely. You're not weaving in and out of traffic, trying to pass every car in sight. You're not tailgating people. You're still using your turn signal. You slow down when appropriate. In other words, you're being a courteous driver who happens to be going a little fast. Fine. If you're a road douche, on the other hand, you're just being a jackass. You're swerving in and out of traffic, across multiple lanes, never using a turn signal. You're tailgating any car that you can't pass, sometimes honking at or flipping off the other driver for not accommodating your doucheishness. You speed even in bad weather, turning yourself into an accident just waiting to happen. Stop being such a jackass when you speed. Slow down a bit, stop tailgating people, and quit speeding in the rain. If speeding is that important to you, stop driving on the road and go join NASCAR. Then nobody will care if you cause an accident. In fact, it would probably make a lot of people happy. Especially if you die in a giant gasoline-fueled fireball.
#2: Of course, the other side of this coin is the Slow Driver. I mean, come on. No one drives exactly at the speed limit unless there is a cop in the immediate vicinity, you are in a school zone, or you're an ancient person who is half blind and probably shouldn't be driving anyway. Please, stop driving so slowly. It pisses everyone off. Especially on one lane roads where no one can pass you. You're lucky you haven't been shot yet. Come on, granny, hit the gas pedal. It's not that hard.
#3: Next, I want to address the issue of Red Light Runners. Unlike with a little bit of speeding, there is no excuse for this. You can see the light, you can see that it has changed color. Everyone, even 3 year old children, know that "RED" means "STOP." I'm sure you played "Red Light, Green Light" as a child, so you had that knowledge drummed into your head then. Why have you forgotten it in the intervening years? It's not that hard. When other people have a green light and want to drive but can't because you are blocking the intersection, it makes them angry, and it makes you a very big road douche. I fully support the red light cameras that have been installed all over the city. I just wish there were more of them. Or, even better, red light tire spikes that would pop out of the ground as soon as the light changed. That way, anyone who was running the light would have their car ruined. I bet after that was reported in the news a few times, people would get the message. STOP RUNNING RED LIGHTS! If you don't want to obey traffic signals, move to some Third World country where there are no traffic signals. And then maybe you will catch malaria and die, and that will solve everyone's problems.
#4: Next, we will discuss the epitome of road doucheishness: The Loud Crappy Music Playing Douche. Yes, we know, you love your music. You think it's the best music ever, that the person who created it is a genius that should have a national holiday named after them, that you plan to name your first born child after them and dance to this music at the ghetto wedding you one day might have. That's all fine and well and good. We all have music we love. However, most of us do not inflict that music in a painful way on other people. The road douche, however, doesn't care. By the FSM, you are going to jam, and it doesn't matter if nobody else wants to jam. It's not your fault they are driving so close to you! Or that your speakers have enough bass output to knock the Earth off its orbit. You just want to listen to your music, dammit! Because it is so damn cool! But guess what! Nobody wants to listen to your music, whether it is hardcore gansta rap or Kenny Rogers ballads. If they wanted to listen to it, they would have already bought the CD. Turn down your damn stereo. If you must listen to music so loud that it makes your ears bleed, at least do everyone else a favor and do it through a pair of headphones. That way, the only one to suffer hearing loss will be you. Also, no one likes your sub woofer. Get rid of it.
5: Get off your damn cell phone and drive. I don't care if you have a Bluetooth. You still can't concentrate on the road if you are on the damn phone. Whatever the hell you are talking about is not that important, believe me.
6: If you are in a lane that has a sign that says "Lane End in X Feet," please move over immediately. There is no reason to wait until the very last minute and then force your way into the other lane. Forewarned is forearmed, after all. On the other hand, if you are in a lane that another lane has to merge into, let cars merge. There is no reason to be a dick and block people. They can't help the fact that the lane is disappearing.
7: Always use your damn turn signal when you want to turn or change lanes. And remember to turn it off after you are done! No one wants to watch your turn signal blink blink blink blink forever.
8: When you are parking, don't try to squeeze into a spot that is too small for your car. There are probably plenty of spaces, even if some of them are a little further away. Oh well. You could probably use the exercise. Also, don't park in two spots. I know, you do that because you don't want someone to park next to you and scratch your car on accident. But you know what? Parking like that only encourages pissed off people to key your car. Also, when you are parking, if there are people behind you, don't pull forward and then attempt to back into the space. Yes, I know, it makes it easier for you to get out when you leave. But everyone who has to wait while you very slowly back into the spot is planning on beating you to death as soon as you get out of your car.
There are lots more tips I could offer, I'm sure, but this is already getting long enough, so I am going to close with the most relevant piece of advice. Basically, don't be a road douche. You are not the only driver out there. The definition of the road douche is someone who doesn't care about anyone else on the road. Don't do that. Please. Pay attention, drive safely, and turn down your goddamn music. Otherwise, I am going to have to shoot you with the roof-mounted rocket launchers on my grannymobile.
Yes, I know, I have ranted and raved about bad drivers a million times before. Today, however, we are going to do something different. Instead of just complaining about bad drivers, I am actually going to teach them how to become good drivers. So pay close attention. As Dave Barry says, "the one thing that unites all human beings, regardless of age, gender, religion, or ethnic background, is that, deep inside, we all believe we are above average drivers." But that does not mean that we all actually are above average drivers. In fact, the very meaning of the word "average" would preclude that possibility. As in everything else, most people are average, with some below and some above. I, of course, am one of the ones above, which is what makes me qualified to deliver this very important public service announcement.
#1: First off, let's talk about the Speeder. I know, everyone loves to speed. I love to speed! Most speed limits are far too low, and it's fun to go fast, okay, we all get it. However, there is a fine line between merely going a little fast and being a road douche. Going a little fast means you are going ten to fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit, but still doing it safely. You're not weaving in and out of traffic, trying to pass every car in sight. You're not tailgating people. You're still using your turn signal. You slow down when appropriate. In other words, you're being a courteous driver who happens to be going a little fast. Fine. If you're a road douche, on the other hand, you're just being a jackass. You're swerving in and out of traffic, across multiple lanes, never using a turn signal. You're tailgating any car that you can't pass, sometimes honking at or flipping off the other driver for not accommodating your doucheishness. You speed even in bad weather, turning yourself into an accident just waiting to happen. Stop being such a jackass when you speed. Slow down a bit, stop tailgating people, and quit speeding in the rain. If speeding is that important to you, stop driving on the road and go join NASCAR. Then nobody will care if you cause an accident. In fact, it would probably make a lot of people happy. Especially if you die in a giant gasoline-fueled fireball.
#2: Of course, the other side of this coin is the Slow Driver. I mean, come on. No one drives exactly at the speed limit unless there is a cop in the immediate vicinity, you are in a school zone, or you're an ancient person who is half blind and probably shouldn't be driving anyway. Please, stop driving so slowly. It pisses everyone off. Especially on one lane roads where no one can pass you. You're lucky you haven't been shot yet. Come on, granny, hit the gas pedal. It's not that hard.
#3: Next, I want to address the issue of Red Light Runners. Unlike with a little bit of speeding, there is no excuse for this. You can see the light, you can see that it has changed color. Everyone, even 3 year old children, know that "RED" means "STOP." I'm sure you played "Red Light, Green Light" as a child, so you had that knowledge drummed into your head then. Why have you forgotten it in the intervening years? It's not that hard. When other people have a green light and want to drive but can't because you are blocking the intersection, it makes them angry, and it makes you a very big road douche. I fully support the red light cameras that have been installed all over the city. I just wish there were more of them. Or, even better, red light tire spikes that would pop out of the ground as soon as the light changed. That way, anyone who was running the light would have their car ruined. I bet after that was reported in the news a few times, people would get the message. STOP RUNNING RED LIGHTS! If you don't want to obey traffic signals, move to some Third World country where there are no traffic signals. And then maybe you will catch malaria and die, and that will solve everyone's problems.
#4: Next, we will discuss the epitome of road doucheishness: The Loud Crappy Music Playing Douche. Yes, we know, you love your music. You think it's the best music ever, that the person who created it is a genius that should have a national holiday named after them, that you plan to name your first born child after them and dance to this music at the ghetto wedding you one day might have. That's all fine and well and good. We all have music we love. However, most of us do not inflict that music in a painful way on other people. The road douche, however, doesn't care. By the FSM, you are going to jam, and it doesn't matter if nobody else wants to jam. It's not your fault they are driving so close to you! Or that your speakers have enough bass output to knock the Earth off its orbit. You just want to listen to your music, dammit! Because it is so damn cool! But guess what! Nobody wants to listen to your music, whether it is hardcore gansta rap or Kenny Rogers ballads. If they wanted to listen to it, they would have already bought the CD. Turn down your damn stereo. If you must listen to music so loud that it makes your ears bleed, at least do everyone else a favor and do it through a pair of headphones. That way, the only one to suffer hearing loss will be you. Also, no one likes your sub woofer. Get rid of it.
5: Get off your damn cell phone and drive. I don't care if you have a Bluetooth. You still can't concentrate on the road if you are on the damn phone. Whatever the hell you are talking about is not that important, believe me.
6: If you are in a lane that has a sign that says "Lane End in X Feet," please move over immediately. There is no reason to wait until the very last minute and then force your way into the other lane. Forewarned is forearmed, after all. On the other hand, if you are in a lane that another lane has to merge into, let cars merge. There is no reason to be a dick and block people. They can't help the fact that the lane is disappearing.
7: Always use your damn turn signal when you want to turn or change lanes. And remember to turn it off after you are done! No one wants to watch your turn signal blink blink blink blink forever.
8: When you are parking, don't try to squeeze into a spot that is too small for your car. There are probably plenty of spaces, even if some of them are a little further away. Oh well. You could probably use the exercise. Also, don't park in two spots. I know, you do that because you don't want someone to park next to you and scratch your car on accident. But you know what? Parking like that only encourages pissed off people to key your car. Also, when you are parking, if there are people behind you, don't pull forward and then attempt to back into the space. Yes, I know, it makes it easier for you to get out when you leave. But everyone who has to wait while you very slowly back into the spot is planning on beating you to death as soon as you get out of your car.
There are lots more tips I could offer, I'm sure, but this is already getting long enough, so I am going to close with the most relevant piece of advice. Basically, don't be a road douche. You are not the only driver out there. The definition of the road douche is someone who doesn't care about anyone else on the road. Don't do that. Please. Pay attention, drive safely, and turn down your goddamn music. Otherwise, I am going to have to shoot you with the roof-mounted rocket launchers on my grannymobile.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Run Away!
So I was at lunch yesterday with my family--the husband, the kid, the semi-psycho aunts--at the Cheesecake Factory. I don't much care for the food, but they have really good desserts there. I had a slice of Chocolate Ecstasy cake, and let me tell you, the name is entirely apropos. Chocolate cake, chocolate frosting, with raspberry filling. Yum.
So anyways, there we were, placing our order at the counter. I happened to be wearing this shirt (purchased from Jinx):
It is, obviously, the Killer Rabbit from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, the one from whom one should RUN AWAY!! But the people behind the counter had apparently never seen that movie, because I could hear them whispering about it. Finally, one of them asked me what it was, and I told her. But from the back, one of the Spanish speaking workers called out, "Estas el Chupacabra!"
That's right, a chupacabra. Which, if you've never heard of it before, is a contemporary mythical animal, like Big Foot or the Loch Ness Monster. Chupacabra is a Spanish word meaning "goat sucker" because the chupacabra apparently likes to suck the blood out of livestock, especially goats.
Does that bunny look like a creature that would be happy sucking goat blood? No, I don't think so. It doesn't want the blood of livestock, it wants the blood of grown men who disturb it. Tim the Enchanter specifically says that it has nasty big pointy teeth and a vicious streak a mile wide. If I was a Killer Bunny, I would certainly not be content with the blood of animals. I would decapitate everyone who came within flying distance of me.
But, as we all know, I am kind of crazy. Still, my shirt was insulted. And one of these days, that woman is going to find herself confronted by a white rabbit with blood-stained fur. And then hopefully she will remember the advice on my shirt.
So anyways, there we were, placing our order at the counter. I happened to be wearing this shirt (purchased from Jinx):
It is, obviously, the Killer Rabbit from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, the one from whom one should RUN AWAY!! But the people behind the counter had apparently never seen that movie, because I could hear them whispering about it. Finally, one of them asked me what it was, and I told her. But from the back, one of the Spanish speaking workers called out, "Estas el Chupacabra!"
That's right, a chupacabra. Which, if you've never heard of it before, is a contemporary mythical animal, like Big Foot or the Loch Ness Monster. Chupacabra is a Spanish word meaning "goat sucker" because the chupacabra apparently likes to suck the blood out of livestock, especially goats.
Does that bunny look like a creature that would be happy sucking goat blood? No, I don't think so. It doesn't want the blood of livestock, it wants the blood of grown men who disturb it. Tim the Enchanter specifically says that it has nasty big pointy teeth and a vicious streak a mile wide. If I was a Killer Bunny, I would certainly not be content with the blood of animals. I would decapitate everyone who came within flying distance of me.
But, as we all know, I am kind of crazy. Still, my shirt was insulted. And one of these days, that woman is going to find herself confronted by a white rabbit with blood-stained fur. And then hopefully she will remember the advice on my shirt.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
If This Was A Sport, I Would Definitely Watch The Olympics
You should definitely watch (and possibly enjoy) this video. Though I would not suggest watching it at work. I would say more, but I don't think it requires much explanation. If you would like more explanation, please visit DoubleX.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
That Time of the Month
Ahh, the period. The female menstrual cycle, not the punctuation mark. I am not going to say much on it at this time, though I may at a later date (like, one where I am dying of cramps and sobbing all over my keyboard) but I wanted to share this lovely illustration, which I found on The Frisky. I'm sure you women out there know exactly how this is. And men, study it carefully. Take notes. Imprint it on your corneas. It might help you survive one day.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Lord, Save Me From Your Followers
Hello, my minions. I hope you have all been doing wonderful things, like shoving old ladies in front of buses and stomping on federally protected frogs. But now it is time for another installment of "Everything In The World Bugs Me."
I had some funny stories I was going to tell you, like the one about how I insulted all the workers at one of my favorite Mexican restaurants, by accidentally implying that they were all illegal immigrants. Or about how my daughter, looking at her baby book, started crying; when questioned as to why she was crying, she replied, "Because I was so cute!" Instead of these stories, though, I am going to tell you a much different one. About the horror I suffered through recently. A horror called: Attending One's Brother's High School Graduation Ceremony.
Yes, my youngest brother graduated from high school. Makes me feel kinda old, really, considering that I graduated 11 years ago, and I distinctly remember changing his diapers when he was a baby, and once dropping him on his head. But whatever. He's my brother, I love him, so of course I planned to attend the--dare I call them this--festivities. Even though the invitation, when it arrived in the mail, had my husband's name wrong on the envelope. And the ceremony was being held in a very far away evil place called Rio Rancho. That was all okay.
So I prepared. I took the day off work. I found a semi-appropriate outfit (gray slacks, black shirt, and--hey, I gotta be me--my totally rocking red Converse). I bought a card and stuffed a $20 in it. I printed a map and filled my gas tank, to be sure that I would reach my destination. And off I went.
I should have known it was going too well. The place where the ceremony was to be held, a big "center" where they have things like hockey games and Weird Al concerts, is veeeeery far away from my house, even though it is still considered as part of the same metro area. So it would have taken me at least 45 minutes to get there anyway. But of course, I got lost. And why shouldn't I? I never go up to Rio Rancho. There is nothing there that is worth that long ass drive. So I was all flustered and rushed by the time I arrived, with only 5 minutes to spare.
I really hate feeling flustered and rushed. But yesterday, I barely had any time to notice that, because almost as soon as I sat down, the graduates started filling in. All 250+ of them. So that took a while. And then all the teachers and administrators and priests and whatnot.
Yes, priests. Because my poor brother, like every one of us siblings, was subjected to a Catholic education. And, if I may say so (and of course I can), a Catholic education totally sucks ass. Not the school or the classes or anything, but the fact that one, you have to wear a uniform (which in my case consisted of a skirt--a skirt!! I NEVER wear skirts if I can help it--and a polo shirt), two, you have to go to church at school, all the freaking time, and three, my school was all girls. Which TOTALLY blew. But anyways.
So there we were, watching everyone walk in. And then we had to rise to pray. And then we sat back down. And then we had to get up to pray again. And then to sing a holy song. And then there was some more prayer. And then, the absolute highlight of the ceremony--the keynote speech, given by the archbishop. Yay! I was prepared for some boring drivel, something about hoping and praying the graduates go out to lead good Christian lives, blah blah blah. What we got was much different.
Apparently, the archbishop is on a crusade against: THE UNBELIEVERS. Yes. That is what the entire speech, all 20 minutes of it, was about: the evils of atheism and how the archbishop really really really hoped that none of the graduates would be seduced by the wonderful-seeming atheist life, only to discover that it is horrible and unfulfilling and makes you very sad.
Well, hell. Not only did I find that speech boring, but insulting as well. Now, I don't know that I would completely consider myself an atheist--I am not going to discount the possibility that there is SOMETHING out there. However, I can say with complete assurance that that something is not named Yahweh or God. I also know that it does not give a shit whether I eat meat on Fridays or masturbate or drink alcohol, or anything of the other myriad things that various religions forbid their followers from doing. To me, religions are not about divine power, they are about the earthly power being wielded by their leaders. As far as I am concerned, as long as you follow the golden rule--Do unto others as you would have them do unto you--you're good. Anything else is ridiculous.
So anyways. The archbishop went on and on about the horrors ultimately experienced by atheists, about how it might seem nice to sleep late on Sunday mornings rather than getting up and going to church, but that eventually atheist will become lonely and friendless and lose all their teeth and die alone in their apartment and then get eaten by their pet cats. Or something. He also decried Christopher Hitchens' book God Is Not Great, which I had just finished reading the week before and thought was fascinating and very true.
And then he said something to the effect of "And atheists become murderers and child rapists."
My response to that, of course, was, "Um, I thought that was the priests in your church?"
Anyways. So you can see how much fun I had. The rest of the ceremony was pretty standard, except for the praying. And then, it was finally OVER!! I would have thanked God, if only I believed in him.
I had some funny stories I was going to tell you, like the one about how I insulted all the workers at one of my favorite Mexican restaurants, by accidentally implying that they were all illegal immigrants. Or about how my daughter, looking at her baby book, started crying; when questioned as to why she was crying, she replied, "Because I was so cute!" Instead of these stories, though, I am going to tell you a much different one. About the horror I suffered through recently. A horror called: Attending One's Brother's High School Graduation Ceremony.
Yes, my youngest brother graduated from high school. Makes me feel kinda old, really, considering that I graduated 11 years ago, and I distinctly remember changing his diapers when he was a baby, and once dropping him on his head. But whatever. He's my brother, I love him, so of course I planned to attend the--dare I call them this--festivities. Even though the invitation, when it arrived in the mail, had my husband's name wrong on the envelope. And the ceremony was being held in a very far away evil place called Rio Rancho. That was all okay.
So I prepared. I took the day off work. I found a semi-appropriate outfit (gray slacks, black shirt, and--hey, I gotta be me--my totally rocking red Converse). I bought a card and stuffed a $20 in it. I printed a map and filled my gas tank, to be sure that I would reach my destination. And off I went.
I should have known it was going too well. The place where the ceremony was to be held, a big "center" where they have things like hockey games and Weird Al concerts, is veeeeery far away from my house, even though it is still considered as part of the same metro area. So it would have taken me at least 45 minutes to get there anyway. But of course, I got lost. And why shouldn't I? I never go up to Rio Rancho. There is nothing there that is worth that long ass drive. So I was all flustered and rushed by the time I arrived, with only 5 minutes to spare.
I really hate feeling flustered and rushed. But yesterday, I barely had any time to notice that, because almost as soon as I sat down, the graduates started filling in. All 250+ of them. So that took a while. And then all the teachers and administrators and priests and whatnot.
Yes, priests. Because my poor brother, like every one of us siblings, was subjected to a Catholic education. And, if I may say so (and of course I can), a Catholic education totally sucks ass. Not the school or the classes or anything, but the fact that one, you have to wear a uniform (which in my case consisted of a skirt--a skirt!! I NEVER wear skirts if I can help it--and a polo shirt), two, you have to go to church at school, all the freaking time, and three, my school was all girls. Which TOTALLY blew. But anyways.
So there we were, watching everyone walk in. And then we had to rise to pray. And then we sat back down. And then we had to get up to pray again. And then to sing a holy song. And then there was some more prayer. And then, the absolute highlight of the ceremony--the keynote speech, given by the archbishop. Yay! I was prepared for some boring drivel, something about hoping and praying the graduates go out to lead good Christian lives, blah blah blah. What we got was much different.
Apparently, the archbishop is on a crusade against: THE UNBELIEVERS. Yes. That is what the entire speech, all 20 minutes of it, was about: the evils of atheism and how the archbishop really really really hoped that none of the graduates would be seduced by the wonderful-seeming atheist life, only to discover that it is horrible and unfulfilling and makes you very sad.
Well, hell. Not only did I find that speech boring, but insulting as well. Now, I don't know that I would completely consider myself an atheist--I am not going to discount the possibility that there is SOMETHING out there. However, I can say with complete assurance that that something is not named Yahweh or God. I also know that it does not give a shit whether I eat meat on Fridays or masturbate or drink alcohol, or anything of the other myriad things that various religions forbid their followers from doing. To me, religions are not about divine power, they are about the earthly power being wielded by their leaders. As far as I am concerned, as long as you follow the golden rule--Do unto others as you would have them do unto you--you're good. Anything else is ridiculous.
So anyways. The archbishop went on and on about the horrors ultimately experienced by atheists, about how it might seem nice to sleep late on Sunday mornings rather than getting up and going to church, but that eventually atheist will become lonely and friendless and lose all their teeth and die alone in their apartment and then get eaten by their pet cats. Or something. He also decried Christopher Hitchens' book God Is Not Great, which I had just finished reading the week before and thought was fascinating and very true.
And then he said something to the effect of "And atheists become murderers and child rapists."
My response to that, of course, was, "Um, I thought that was the priests in your church?"
Anyways. So you can see how much fun I had. The rest of the ceremony was pretty standard, except for the praying. And then, it was finally OVER!! I would have thanked God, if only I believed in him.
Friday, May 8, 2009
I Really Really Heart Star Trek
Star Trek absolutely fucking rocked!!!
Before you get any further, let me put a SPOILER ALERT here. Don't read the rest if you don't want to know what happens!
Now, onwards!
So it was really cool. It was exciting, funny, sad, finger-clenching cool. The two hours passed in the blink of an eye, and I would have happily sat through a much longer movie. There were great action sequences--Kirk and Spock kicking each others' asses on the the bridge of the Enterprise; Kirk, Sulu and a redshirt parachuting--from space!--down to a platform, where Sulu then engages in a kickass sword fight with a folding sword; the very beginning of the movie, involving the destruction of the USS Kelvin. There were lots of really funny parts, especially for Trekkies, who would understand the underlying humor in McCoy calling Spock a greenblooded hobgoblin, or telling him that he's out of his Vulcan mind. It was sad--Kirk's father died in the first 10 minutes of the movie, fighting the bad guys (evil Romulans with funky tattoos on their faces) so that his crew and his wife (giving birth in the shuttle to James Tiberius Kirk) could escape. Of course that made me cry. And then later, Vulcan was destroyed (let me repeat that: VULCAN WAS DESTROYED!!!!) and Amanda, Spock's mother, was one of the casualties.
So it was great. The plot device (the aforementioned evil time traveling Romulan changing the course of the future by going into the past) allowed the film to be true to the spirit of the the original Star Trek without having to slavishly follow its canon. And, though I was skeptical about that, it worked great. It was especially moving when young Kirk met old Spock from the future, who had been brought back in time by the Romulan.
I did have one issue. Kirk was supposed to have an older brother, George Samuel Kirk Jr, who died in the the original series episode "Operation: Annihilate!" But in the movie, there was no mention of Sam in the movie, not even a throwaway line saying that he was on another planet or anything. But that was my only quibble with the movie, and it is relatively minor.
There was a few people that I saw in costume. I, of course, was wearing my ears. They looked great! (Not really, but that's okay, they were fun to wear.)
So basically, Star Trek was super cool. You should go, immediately. Drop everything and head to the theatre right this minute!
Before you get any further, let me put a SPOILER ALERT here. Don't read the rest if you don't want to know what happens!
Now, onwards!
So it was really cool. It was exciting, funny, sad, finger-clenching cool. The two hours passed in the blink of an eye, and I would have happily sat through a much longer movie. There were great action sequences--Kirk and Spock kicking each others' asses on the the bridge of the Enterprise; Kirk, Sulu and a redshirt parachuting--from space!--down to a platform, where Sulu then engages in a kickass sword fight with a folding sword; the very beginning of the movie, involving the destruction of the USS Kelvin. There were lots of really funny parts, especially for Trekkies, who would understand the underlying humor in McCoy calling Spock a greenblooded hobgoblin, or telling him that he's out of his Vulcan mind. It was sad--Kirk's father died in the first 10 minutes of the movie, fighting the bad guys (evil Romulans with funky tattoos on their faces) so that his crew and his wife (giving birth in the shuttle to James Tiberius Kirk) could escape. Of course that made me cry. And then later, Vulcan was destroyed (let me repeat that: VULCAN WAS DESTROYED!!!!) and Amanda, Spock's mother, was one of the casualties.
So it was great. The plot device (the aforementioned evil time traveling Romulan changing the course of the future by going into the past) allowed the film to be true to the spirit of the the original Star Trek without having to slavishly follow its canon. And, though I was skeptical about that, it worked great. It was especially moving when young Kirk met old Spock from the future, who had been brought back in time by the Romulan.
I did have one issue. Kirk was supposed to have an older brother, George Samuel Kirk Jr, who died in the the original series episode "Operation: Annihilate!" But in the movie, there was no mention of Sam in the movie, not even a throwaway line saying that he was on another planet or anything. But that was my only quibble with the movie, and it is relatively minor.
There was a few people that I saw in costume. I, of course, was wearing my ears. They looked great! (Not really, but that's okay, they were fun to wear.)
So basically, Star Trek was super cool. You should go, immediately. Drop everything and head to the theatre right this minute!
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