Source: What’s Worse Than A Racist?
I took a six day vacation from work to recharge myself. You know, get my house clean, get myself all rested up, finish writing a novel, catch up with friends and relatives, write letters to people.
I will give you one guess as to how many of those things were accomplished.
Well, maybe the recharging thing. That wasn’t so bad. Of course, the only thing I ended up organizing was my own little writing corner and bookshelf area (a girl’s gotta have priorities).
And so, I was feeling pretty good about going back to work this morning. Okay that’s a lie. But, I was feeling better than I thought I would.
Then I squirted makeup all over my cardigan while I was getting ready, and twenty minutes later, it was discovered that I’d forgotten to tell the babysitter to come back today instead of tomorrow.
When I finally made it to work, I was taken aside to be shown my New Filing System, which had been put into place by one of our marvelous assistants (yeah, that’s how chaotic my brain is, I have to be shown how to file. I mean, it’s not like I don’t know how to file, it’s more like, my way makes more sense to me, but apparently when I’m gone six days, no one can find a damn thing because my way only makes sense to me). So I see my new marvelous filing system, and see a hundred notes on things that I need to check on, and decide I’ll do that later after I get logged into my computer.
So, I turned on my computer, and was told in big white font on a scary black screen that: ALERT! No Hard-drive detected!
Just so you know, turning your computer off and on again about fourteen times, does not fix this problem.
After a run-down of all the little catastrophes that occurred during my absence, finally I hit enough of the right buttons in the correct sequence, that the computer rebooted itself and I was able to see my gazillion emails. At which point I was wondering, Why did I think it was a good idea to take a week off, again???
Oh right, the recharging thing.
Six days is either too many or too few days for optimal recharging to take place. That’s the moral of this story.
So these are two old posts dug up from some ancient cesspool of a blog, but I happened upon them today and thought they were still relevant. So here you go. Enjoy. Or don’t. I really don’t care :p
Throwback #1: Beauty Pageants
Last night I watched two shows about little tiny girls in Beauty Pageants. Wow. I know what you are thinking. I watch too much TV. I really do. Especially in the winter when it is too cold to go outside and do anything productive. Anyway, I was watching these shows and two things kept going through my mind.
1) How do they get 3 and 4 year olds to DO those things? My daughter (who is 3) would be running all over the stage asking the other girls if they had any candy. Then she would probably skip to the front of the runway when they called her name, fart loudly, giggle and run away. If we were lucky we would get an *Excuse me* out of her, but it would depend on the time of day and if anyone had procured any candy for her, yet.
2) What the hell is wrong with these parents? Some of them spend thousands and thousands of dollars just on CLOTHES for these beauty contests. One mom even admitted her husband would rather she put that money into an account where it could accrue interest for her daughter’s education (gasp!) and she disagreed. Another mom stated that parent’s who thought Pageant Parents were doing something wrong had ugly kids. Are you freaking serious? And why do all of these parents have southern accents and bleach blonde hair?
I don’t pretend to understand anything about these types of settings. I can’t understand wanting my small child to dress like a prostitute and flirt with a weird man singing out-dated love songs to all the contestants who are wearing fake teeth and (sometimes) fake hair. I can’t relate to parents who think beauty pageants are a way to teach their kids about *real life.* I don’t want my daughter to think her worth to me depends on how cute she is, how well she can sing or dance, or how tan she is.
I would like her to quit farting and burping loudly in public, though. So if anyone has any suggestions, let me know.
Throwback #2: American Idol
I’m not gonna lie…I hate this show. I hate it. I hate American Idol. I am sorry to all of you who love it. I know you are out there. I know it is a family show many people like to watch together. I get how some people like it, I am just not one of them. However, there …was absolutely. nothing. on. last. night for most of the night. So, I ended up flipping back and forth between American Idol and the shows on CBS (Gary Unmarried is SOOO Funny!)
Anyways, the first few episodes of American Idol are usually the most entertaining because they have all the nutjobs from the state they are visiting in one line, and they parade them around and put them on the air, and it is funny (sometimes. Other times it is just cruel). What I don’t get though, are the PARENTS of these nutjobs. Honestly. What the hell?
Ok, so you have little Suzie who you have been grooming for stardom since she was 2 years old. All your life you have told little Suzie how great she is at singing. From the time she learned her ABC’s you have been praising her voice and putting her up in front of friends and family and throwing crackers at her to get her to perform. You bought her cute little outfits. You got her teeth whitened. You paid to have her hair the right shade of blonde at all times. You would’ve even paid for voice lessons had they been needed 😉
Of course you didn’t do ALL the work. Little Suzie *did* get herself into the choir and she *did* try out for all those solos at school. She sang in front of everyone who would listen. She even sings in the middle of class and on the bus, and during soccer practice! So, when little Suzie heard American Idol was coming to audition people in her state, well of course she decided to go stand in line for 48 hours with her excited parents!!! After all, what could go wrong?
And you can’t really blame little Suzie for thinking this way. I mean, look at her. She *is* beautiful. Her parents and friends and family members have told her how beautifully she sings since her chubby little two year old hand could grasp a microphone by itself! She is so excited to meet Simon, *Dawg* Jackson, Crack-head Abdul, and that new judge lady I don’t know her name. She sings her little heart out. She really gets into it. She is bobbing her head, closing her eyes, doing jazz hands. She is giving it all she’s got. If you had it on mute, you might actually buy that she was good. The problem is, she isn’t good. Not even remotely. She makes sounds that mimic a cat being ripped apart by a pitbull. You check to make sure your ears aren’t bleeding. Even the judges can’t keep a straight face. They are in shock. Such high hopes for a pretty little girl, but alas she gets booed out of the audition room.
So, then the parents are out waiting in the hall. When little Suzie comes out crying, no yellow sheet in her hands, the parents erupt into hateful cries. “Those Judges are CRAZY! They have no idea what they are talking about! Ohmigosh, the HORROR!” And I just want to say to them, “What the HELL are you talking about?!?!” I want to reach into the screen and shake them. I feel bad for Little Suzie. I really do. It isn’t her fault that her parents are delusional, tone deaf nutjobs. It isn’t.
Honestly, who is worse here, the judges for being assholes, or the parents for setting their children up for failure? I mean, unless you are completely deaf, there is no way anyone can *truly* think little Suzie is a good singer. I’m not buying it. There is no way anybody who LIKES music can say that Suzie has a future in the music industry. No way, no how. What are these parents thinking? Why would anyone encourage little Suzie to go on national television and humiliate herself? Its like telling a quadrapalegic he has a real shot at the Ping Pong championship. It’s just cruel.
So I’m just wondering. Are there really that many tone deaf people in America? I think it’s doubtful. I think some people just truly believe if they say something over and over and over again, it will come true. If we all *believe* little Suzie is a good singer, other people will believe it, too! If we dress her up real pretty, and tell everyone she is going to be a star, they will have to agree with us! Yes! That is so obviously how the world works! And then we will all just sit around eating rainbows and pooping butterflies (haha that’s from Horton Hears a Who)! Someone should take these parents out to a dark alley and beat them with a pillow case full of cheese. And buy little Suzie a drink. She needs one.
“Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Yeah, you. Gettin into your car.”
“Um… but, you’re a bird.”
“Yeah, yeah. We’re not s’posed to do this, ya know, talkin to humans thing, but somethins been buggin me lately. Can we talk?”
“Uh. Yeah. I mean, okay. Sure.”
“Who’s gonna pass up a chance to talk to a bird, amirite?”
“Haha, yeah. Okay, so… what do you want to talk about Mr. Bird. Is that– I mean, what can I call you?”
“Yeah, I mean, that’s not my name or whatever, but fine. Mr. Bird is just fine.”
“So… what can I help you with, Mr. Bird?”
“Well, me and my friends been noticin a lot of you have been real stressed out lately. Like, since November? Y’all been kinda pissy and arguin with each other. The newspaper’s been all kinds of bad news.”
“You read the news?”
“Yeah, ‘course I do. We all do. Anyway, what’s up with this Shimkus guy? I remember seeing all kindsa signs with his name on ’em not too long ago, ’round here.”
“Oh yeah. He just won reelection. Ya know, for U.S. congress.”
“So, why’s everyone mad at him now for?”
“Because he said men shouldn’t have to pay for women’s prenatal health insurance.”
“Them’s a whole bunch a words I don’t understand.”
“Oh. Right. Well, uh, when people need healthcare–like when we get sick or need a doctor?–we have insurance. So that we don’t have to pay the entire cost ourselves. It’s like a pool of people all paying in, just in case one of us needs to get medical care.”
“So what’s that gotta do with uh… whatcha call it? Prenatal–”
“Prenatal care. Yeah, that’s when a woman gets pregnant? Like you lay eggs, human women have babies… they need care before, during, and after that. He doesn’t think men should have to pay into the insurance pool for that.”
“Oh. You guys like one of those weird species where you just split in half to procreate?”
“You get yourself pregnant?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“But like, the men… they ain’t got nothin to do with that whole process? That’s why he’s mad?”
“No, they have everything to do with it. Us women can’t get pregnant without a man. Like, at all.”
“Really. Huh. So, what’s this guy’s deal? He against babies? He like, think they should be stopped from being born at all costs?”
“No, he’s actually really against birth control, and abortions, and thinks women should just have babies, I guess.”
“Yeah, I know, right? Makes no sense.”
“So… I mean, not to be incendiary–”
“That’s a really big word for a bird.”
“–but why ain’t y’all like, protestin and riotin and stuff? If that happened in bird world, we’d have a revolution on our hands, lemme tell you what.”
“Uh… well, I mean, I guess some of us thought about it but I’ve got like, this Pilates Class thing later?”
“Pilates? That’s that thing where you’re rollin ’round on the floor and stuff?”
“You’ve watched me do Pilates?”
“Well, not on purpose but you should close your blinds.”
“No seriously, you look ridiculous when you do that.”
“Yeah? Oh, shit. Well… I think I’m getting better.”
“No, you’re not. Anyway, what can I do to help? Anything I can do? Me and my pals? Like hey, look at that guy right there walkin to his car, could I shit on him?”
“Him? No, that one’s mine and he’s fine. Don’t shit on him.”
“Well, who can I shit on?”
“I’m really not even sure how that would help…”
“Me neither, but I do gotta go anyway so I thought, ya know, two birds with one stone. Haha.”
“Haha yeah, okay. Well, you can never go wrong with a guy getting out of a truck that has testicles hanging from it’s hitch.”
“I gotta tell ya, I got no idea what the hell a testicle is.”
“They look like little balls? Hanging on the back of the truck?”
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I’ve seen those.”
“Okay. Well, there ya go.”
“All right well, it’s been nice talkin to ya. Good luck with your revolu–oh right, you’re not having one. ‘Cause of Pilates.”
“Right. Haha well, have a nice shit, Mr. Bird. See you around.”
When I was very young I attended church camp every single summer. Yes, I know I cuss like a sailor and drink like a fish but just hear me out, okay?
I did. I went to church camp. We played games and sang songs and camped and canoed and played in the rain and stared up at the stars like we couldn’t imagine something so divine being right there where we could see it. Like we were looking at something we weren’t supposed to see, a universal secret we were all supposed to pretend we didn’t know.
One of the games we played when I was very young made us split into 8-10 teams and each team got one carpet square and we were told that the first team that got every single member of their line across the field without any team member stepping off a carpet square would win.
So we all tried, like good little soldiers, to get our entire team across the field while dragging each person across on the square, or hopping and jumping across without leaving the square and then flinging the square back to our line. Each of our little teams just a little island of determined people looking for the answer to this stupid riddle. All of us hot and sweaty and beginning to think the rec counselors were playing a grand joke on us, we were their entertainment for the afternoon.
Until someone said, “Can we join each other?”
And another kid said, “No of course not! That’s cheating!”
And I just stood there thinking, is it cheating? I don’t think they said anything about that being cheating but to be honest, I was probably not paying attention all that closely…
And then another kid said, “Yeah! Let’s all get in one line and use all our squares and make a bridge across the field, and if we run out the person in the back can pick up the last one and pass it down!”
But there was still that one cocky little shit of a kid that thought he could do it all by himself like he was proving something to himself or God or maybe the hot older counselor chick. And it took a while, but we finally convinced that kid to shut the hell up and get in line with us because we weren’t all going to make it across with his shitty little attitude, and we weren’t going to be able to go to the snack bar and get ice cream until everyone had made it across, so we couldn’t just leave him alone on his side acting like a jackass.
The counselors were so proud, gave us the big lecture about teamwork and no man is an island, all that great stuff. And probably they didn’t really think it’d make a huge impact on any of us. Maybe they didn’t realize one of us would take that one day in summer camp and think about it from all sides for years to come, analyze it, turn it into some grand metaphor about life that extended beyond teamwork.
But maybe this is all religion really is, maybe this is all that life really is: taking everybody from all walks of life and bringing them into our line and handing them our scraps and squares to step on so we can all make it across the chaos together. Maybe all the Christians can’t get across without the Atheists, or the Muslims or Jews or Buddhists or Hindus or any of us. Maybe if only one group keeps trying to get across on their own, no one is going to get any fucking ice cream.
So in closing: We’re in this together, so try not to be a dick, and help everyone else get in line and cross the field even if they don’t look like or talk like or pray like you do.
The stars aligned so my cousin (whose blog you may have seen, at thisrarelyhappens.wordpress.com) were able to, for the first time in eight million years, go Christmas shopping together. Now we used to shop all the time, it was our favorite pastime and our greatest hobby. But you know, life, kids, husbands, life… they all get in the way. But here is a list of things that don’t change after years of not getting to Christmas shop together:
- We still don’t know where the hell we parked after exiting the mall/Barnes & Noble/Starbucks/insertwhatevershop here. It doesn’t matter if we were in that store for four hours or four minutes, we will come out to the parking lot and look at each other like, “Did we even drive a car or were we magically transported here by Christmas elves? I can’t remember!”
- We will, at some point, laugh so hard (about nothing) that the retail or wait-staff forced to wait on us will assume we’re high (we’re not) and that will make us laugh even harder (and, no, we don’t care that people are looking at us).
- At some point, our laughter will turn serious and we’ll catch up on all the not-so-fun stuff going on in our lives.
- One of us will still always love chocolate cake and one of us will hate it (obviously only the one who likes chocolate is right).
- Lost. We’ll get so fucking lost. But then we’ll get not lost, and then lost again. But GPS is helping this matter out tremendously.
- We’ll spend too long in the bookstore.
- One of us will have a coupon for every single store we enter and know exactly what is on sale, when it’s on sale, and what coupon can be used when. The other one of us will be me saying, “There’s coupons for this store?!”
- One of us won’t eat enough and will get so hungry she starts dropping the f-bomb like a comma. (Okay fine, that one is me, too).
- We’ll end up buying the same exact shirt in one store but saying it’s okay because they’re different colors.
- At the end of the weekend we’ll wonder why we don’t do this all the time.
You know those days when you decide to try something new, so you plan to go to a nice, relaxing, yoga class at the gym? You think about it all day, how you’re probably going to kind of make an ass of yourself, but it will be for the greater good of your tendons and muscles, so you suck it up, and get yourself ready, and drive to the gym.
Stepping out of your comfort zone, good for you. You’re ready for this.
Then you get up to the fitness classroom, and look around, find your place, and too-late realize you’ve made a terrible mistake. Because this is not a yoga class. You read the schedule wrong because obviously you’re a moron, and you are now standing in the middle of a dozen women setting up ridiculous amounts of equipment, with muscles everywhere, and the instructor is wearing a headset and talking about getting your “bench” in place, and how you’ll need weights and resistance bands and, if the music is any indication, a level of coordination you do not have.
It’s too late to sneak out though and people are looking at you because you’re in their way, and obviously you’re new, and you can’t just chicken out now and let everyone know you’re too dumb to read a schedule, so you take a deep breath, and try to keep up with the rest of the women but it’s impossible because you don’t even know what a “march and pop” move even is, and what in the hell does that work anyway? And there are combo moves where you’re supposed to kick and scuttle and do all sorts of stuff in time and what the hell were you thinking?!?
But somehow you make it through the entire hour without kicking anyone else in the face or falling down or knocking over an entire rack of weights. And you think, well, that was a ridiculously clumsy step out of your comfort zone. But it wasn’t so bad.
And then you pray no one secretly recorded this class and it ends up on youtube.