The Greatest Thing You've Ever Done (or Will Ever Do)

Hear me when I say that my respect for marriage is healthy. I love being married and I consider marrying my team member to be one of the best choices I've ever made, along with buying Li'l Zippy on ebay, of course. :) And I am so thrilled for my friends, a great number of whom (6!) are on the road to marriage right now. This rant has nothing to do with you. (God bless you and keep you all from the insanity.)

But seriously, can people get over their weddings PLEASE? Not their marriage--just their wedding.

I *am* speaking to the people who can only think of the adjective (or God! so much worse: noun!) of married to describe themselves, who have a picture of them in their wedding attire as their default myspace photo long after the flowers are dead and the thank yous have been sent. After they've sent a child of this marriage to college or even pre-school.

In a way, I just feel sort of sad for them. Like the way they look and feel on their wedding day is the best/happiest they can ever hope to be in their lives, like there is no room for improvement, only a slow downward spiral and they may as well give up and begin the emotional food binges. Their motto: life ends at 28/32/age less than 95! Oh me! Actually, sort of sad doesn't even begin to describe it! I find it painfully depressing. I want to buy them a book about finding their inner North Star (thank you, Jo!)and help them realize their self-worth. I want to invite them over for coffee and an exorcism.

But mostly, mostly, I just want them to get out of my grill and stop forcing me to play the evil game of "Six Degrees of My Wedding," which is actually pretty fun and awesomely mean-spirited. It was invented by Erin and involves mentally counting how many conversational steps it takes a wedding-obsessed person to get from any topic--say, Darfur--back to their wedding. You think it can't be done in less than six? I've seen it done!

My real message here is: married person, you have value to the world that does not lie in your having had a (please, shoot me for using this phrase) "fairytale wedding" and extra bunting added to your dress. Come back to us.

God and Country!

I have blogged about email forwards before, most cantankerously I might add, but this time, I don't want to complain about them indiscriminately. As much as I really don't give a hoot what my age in chocolate is, the forwards I find most offensive are the ones that portend to have some happy, feel-good message, but were clearly authored either by a simpleton who has only a cursory grasp on actual current events or what is perhaps worse, has an excellent grasp on them, but is determined to become some kind of spin doctor for the ultra-conservative, compassionless set. I'm not sure if these neo-cons are so frequently heard because they speak the loudest and seem to have organized their hatred so effectively or because so many others of us are silent or unwilling to respond. And I include myself in this group that is hesitant to respond, not because I don't feel strongly. I do, but I also am unsure of what the proper reaction to an email forward is. I hate to come back strongly and be like: WTF is wrong with you? Clearly, I could easily delete it. But is that the same as saying it's okay?

Yesterday I received an email forward from a high school friend. We're not really close or anything. In fact, we have hardly been in touch for nearly ten years. Yet, I do like her and appreciate hearing from her at least sometimes, and therefore do not want to be some kind of monster in my response. I don't want to be gratuitous in the fact that our politics are clearly different, so fear of hurting a friend holds me back from something I know is the right thing. That is, I can never claim to be aiding in the stopping the spread of hatred if I am afraid to admit out loud--to anyone--that it is not acceptable. Because it's not.

I have no problem writing a congress person or a newspaper. I don't know them and they basically exist to do my bidding (in theory). I can make my point and not make it personal. But that is not so with a friend who, I truly believe, has inadvertently offended all my political sensibilities.

To be fair, it was not exactly an email of hatred, but it did suggest that the 67% of Americans who are disappointed with the performance of the president and the direction in which our country is headed are a bunch of spoiled brats who take all the good things in their lives for granted. The email was lousy with examples of our whiny-ness, including the fact that the fire department responds if our homes are on fire (whee!) and the "lucky" statistic that 90% of American teenagers have cell phones, and also that we enjoy all manner of social, political, and religious freedoms.

First of all, I hardly consider our conspicuous consumerism a sign of our moral progress. But even so, is it really true that 90% of American teenagers have cell phones? Or is it 90% of white American teenagers? It is easy to believe a trumped-up statistic when you have never experienced anything different because you are among the privileged. Next, we enjoy all manner of social, political and religious freedoms? Then why are the Ten commandments staring all school children down in certain states? Why has the Equal Rights Amendment never passed? Why is the state trying to intervene once again into issues of women's health, and specifically, her right to choose? So thank you, white, old man who authored this email, but I don't think you're willing to grasp reality.

And as to those who pass it on--do they agree with it or did they never stop to think about it? And what about those of us who read it and remain silent--neither forwarding it on, nor speaking up about? What are we? Traitors to God and Country? Traitors to equality and acceptance? Or just humans--all crazy as betsy bugs.

I wish I knew.

Think Pink II

While we're on the subject of pink, I wanted to open a whole new dialog about the Pink song "Stupid Girls," which I discovered once again courtesy of Kealy and her YouTube-ing prowess. Watch first, then we'll discuss. Ready...go.



On the one hand I like it because it's kind of funny (mocking silly pop star antics) and I can tell that it's *supposed* to be a woman-empowering message. "Don't be stupid! Think for yourself!" And yet, it plays into stereotypes like nobody's business. Like the only way to think for yourself and be empowered in your own life is to be like a man. "Smart" girls wear business suits, run for congress, and choose to play football. "Stupid" girls drink Starbucks and use cell phones, have insecurities, like small dogs, want to play with dolls, etc. This reminds me of an article from the most recent issue of bitch, in which the debate rages over "what a feminist looks like." That is, can you still wear lipstick and pantyhose and still be a feminist? I say: sure! By prescribing a "look" that it takes to be a feminist, we make it an exclusive club and limit what it means to be a woman--which is antithetical to feminism! You can be anything!

I don't want to tear down other ladies just because their choices are different from mine (I prefer to tear down equally, thank you). I hope all people will have the courage to be who they want to be and find the strength in their own tastes and talents. I like wearing dresses and getting pedicures and I *don't* like football, but I am a strong feminist! I don't want to feel empowered because of how very like a man I am. I'm not a man! I am proud to be a woman and embrace the power that being that holds. Until women can own the fact that to be who they are is not to inevitably be a second-class citizen to a man, we will never realize our full potential, or ever get all men to recognize it either.

So no, don't be a stupid girl, but don't try to be a stupid man, either! Be smart, whoever you are and make choices that empower you and support your sisters.

So you missed me on the blogosphere, eh? Well I'm back!

Musical interlude: "Come on, fhqwhgads! Everybody to the limit!" from Homestar Runner.

Think Pink I

I am notoriously bad at choosing paint colors. The reason is that I am very enthusiastic about vivid and bold hues and that does not usually translate well to a large wall or even a desk chair. For example, when I lived with my sister, she told me I could pick any paint color I wanted for my room. Imagining a gorgeous undersea experience in which I would dazzle the world with my mermaid mural and fish hanging from the ceiling, I ended up picking a turquoise a little more appropriate for a float for the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe than say, a "garden home" in the snobby north Dallas 'hood where we lived. Not that I ever let the threat of being a misfit stop me. In fact, I decided to forge ahead with my under sea adventure and paint waves at the top of one wall, varying the turquoise with the white already there. I considered this fine work. After I moved out, my sister promptly painted the room beige. And not because she is a hater. She was just sane.

But now I have done it again! Bound and determined to paint my desk chair red, this has been a project almost two years in the making--as anyone who, in that time, has sat at my primer-painted kitchen chairs, can tell you. After MRT and I purchased our all-star dining set in November, we compromised that we would sell two primer chairs in the garage sale and I could keep the rest for my project--whenever it was that I'd finish it. So it's warm out and I am finally making good on the project I delved into headfirst when I lived alone, had just been broken up with by text message, had no job, and considered Molly to be my favorite conversationalist. So you can see why chairs were of such intense interest. (Also, remember those horrible wicker jobbies that you couldn't stand on and were constantly assaulting your person?)

So what is the pill in this colorful jam? My one chair is now, purely by awesome accident mind you, punk rock pink. That is: somewhere between electric red and hot pink, like a red starburst that just went to a Sex Pistols show--a Johnny Rotten Candy, if you will. Basically, I went into Lowe's with the idea that I would paint my chair red (the original idea was one each of red, yellow, green, blue), but as previously mentioned--paint samples are misleading and the hue-niverse is a seductive place. So my only defense is that this color is pretty much the exact same color as I dyed my hair last fall and I have happy memories of being temporarily punk. Manic Panic ahoy!

When I started this blog two days ago, I recalled there being a point. But I can't imagine what it was now, so I will conclude with the promise that I will post photos of my awesome punk rock chair when it's done (other stages were already documented).

PSA Re: The Evil Empire of AT&T

As God is my witness, I will never support the evil empire of AT&T and Cingular as soon as my stupid contract is up, again.

What did they do this time? I'll tell you.

I just received a very non-descript piece of mail from AT&T telling me they planned to share my name, usage info, etc. with their family of companies (and since by now they own the entire freaking world, I think we all realize that is EVERYONE) and oh, if I minded, I needed to call them and tell them not to. But if I wanted everyone to have this information--fear not! I need not do one thing! Hooray!

WHAT. EVER.

I am so tired of the evil empire attempting to swindle everyone by taking advantage of people's apathy towards what apparently looks like junk mail. I know--I know. Ignorance is no excuse. But I should not have to take action to protect my privacy. They should have to get explicit permission from me before sharing my private information.

Oh I am so ticked!

Then when I called, not only do they need my phone number, which I obviously know, they also want the three digits that follow it on my bill. As if they wouldn't be able to identify me by my home phone and as if some crazy psycho who didn't know those additional digits would just call in on behalf of all the people he thinks *might* want their privacy protected, but who actually want the evil empire to disseminate all of their information to the four winds. We wouldn't want people to incorrectly get off the list now, would we?! ARGH! So as I get an e-bill and there was no mention in the letter about needing to have this info on hand when calling, I had to call twice--once after I had pulled up my e-bill. Actually, I had to call several times because I kept getting a busy signal on the alleged "customer service" line.

This is appalling. I'm outraged.

If you have a cingular cell phone or AT&T phone, this applies to you and they expect you to call in separately for each phone number! To get off the list, please call 1-800-315-8303. Have your full account number ready (phone number + additional digits at the top of bill) when you call. Fight the man!

Also, for your irritainment while you're waiting to get a non-busy signal, I present part of my last month's phone bill. Try and decipher WTF it is saying. I dare you.

No. Date Description
Charges for XXX XXX-XXXX
2-05 3-22 AT&T YAHOO! HSI EXPRESS 24.59-

Account Code XXXXXXX
2-06 3-22 HSI SERVICE DISCOUNT 10.00-
SERVICE DATE: 03/21/07 - 04/20/07
2-07 3-22 HSI SERVICE DISCOUNT 8.20-
SERVICE DATE: 02/26/07 - 03/20/07
2-08 3-22 AT&T YAHOO! HSI EXPRESS 29.99
SERVICE DATE: 03/21/07 - 04/20/07
MARY T_____
HSI No. XXX XXX-XXXX
email@domain.com
2-09 3-22 HSI SERVICE DISCOUNT 12.30
SERVICE DATE: 02/26/07 - 03/20/07
2-10 3-22 AT&T YAHOO! HSI EXPRESS 24.59
SERVICE DATE: 02/26/07 - 03/20/07
Total Account Code XXXXXXXX 48.68
Total Charges for XXX XXX-XXXX 24.09
Total Itemized Charges and Credits 24.09

WTF indeed.

Ironic Indeed, Ms. Morissette or "I'ma start some drama."

I've been meaning to post this for awhile for several reasons.



1) I think it is a hilarious start to an important, eye-opening dialog about what we're really listening to (and singing along with) in pop music. (If you didn't know, this song is a parody of the Black-Eyed Peas's video of the same name.

2) After years of deleting emails with youtube.com links, I am now on the verge of becoming a registered user. There is a lot of awesomeness there. (Chrissy's video of Seamus in the snow also went a long way towards my like-tred of YouTube.) But I could be on the verge for awhile.

3) Alanis Morissette totally rocks.

4) I now know the html to embed a video link (thank you, youtube).

Special thanks to Kealy for posting this on Chrissy's myspace for me to steal.

Let the important, eye-opening dialog begin.

Nerdy Joke

Q: What does a copy editor do when she's not feeling well?

A: Calls inn [sic].

Business Jargon or Simply Douchebag-eze?

If I have not posted on this topic before, I have certainly lamented it publicly on many, many occasions. Please hear me when I tell you, so-called business people, that when you use certain phrases like "think outside the box" and "touch base," I, and possibly not me alone, want to wring your freaking necks.

Could you possibly be any more unoriginal and obnoxious?

You want to touch base? This is not a game! No! Please stop making allusions to the alleged business game that you are utterly out of touch with. You do not play it well. You do not speak more articulately than the average 9th grader, who at least does not sound like a broken record because s/he has only been spouting the Gospel according to their peers for a handful of years, unlike you, Mr. Middle Management. Ironically, these are the same people who post personal ads with some kind of phrase like "no games, please." Or "I'm too old for games." Clearly, this is the truth of the ages.

Also, what box? Do you mean our cultural paradigm? Question: do you know what a paradigm is? In theory, you do, as this is what "the box" refers to. However, as advertising and scheming has proven again and again: the best advantage is to work creatively *within* the cultural paradigm. That is, people gravitate towards what they know, especially if it is dressed up very fancily and obnoxiously, so it would certainly be to your advantage to think inside the box and put others in it with you. Look, I don't want to live in a box, nor a cage. But what I want more than anything is for people to stop saying this before I wreck the box with a baseball bat.

I don't think I even need to tell you what will happen if you say that you are going to "leverage" something. I so hate that this word is now a verb.

Tax Season Reminder

IRS got ya down? It could be worse, friend.

On Jack Bauer's tax returns, he has to claim the entire world as his dependents.

OH BOO-YAH!

Dearly Departed and Deeply Missed

Monday, I attended the funeral of my Aunt Dana. It was a bizarre experience, my sister's beautiful eulogy excepted, that was, in its oddity, very like her life. Yet there is no way that the stilted, formal Catholic Mass, for a woman as informal and un-Catholic as my aunt was, will be the way that I mourn her passing.

My aunt was nearly 89--a fact concealed by the dismal, gray program which noted that she was "Born to Die" on May 17 and "Died to Live," last week. For one thing, that motto sounds more at home on some type of Harley-Davidson memorabilia, not on the memorial service program of my tiny aunt, so vivacious, who had three porcelain chess sets, but never played chess, who never had food, but always had candy, who first enlightened me to Dear Abby's bra rule, and who explained almost any process in life, by punching her index fingers in the air, saying "duh-dee. duh-dee. duh-dee."

Dana was my mother's brother's ex-wife; they divorced before I was even born. I hardly know my uncle, having met him on only one occasion I can recall. Yet my aunt was always there (my own mom knew her since she was 9 years old!)-- as my childhood companion, a woman who always came through for me, especially after the death of my beloved grandmother in 1989, in ways that may seem small, but loom large in my mind.

Here is how I will remember my friend, my ally--my aunt.

She introduced me to the concept of high tea, which she drank every day at 4 p.m. and which we enjoyed on her sun porch on breezy days. She bought me my very first pack of 72 crayons (with built-in sharpener!) and encouraged me to enter the new color naming contest. When I sobbed over the loss of my Hello Kitty wallet with $8 in it, she bought me a lottery ticket--and I won $10! She subscribed to Star and People and let me stay up late reading them with her. When my sister went with her high school friends to Six Flags and I had to stay home, she took me out for a day so much better, I considered it a coup. (We went to Jason's Deli and to see the movie A League of Their Own.) When she was expecting us, she still came to the front door and eyed us suspiciously through the window, then laughed and tapped the glass with those amazing, punching index fingers. She said "hell's bells" a lot and accompanied every activity in life with an appropriate sing-song motto. Her utility room fridge was always stocked with at least four kinds of Cokes. We attended musicals together in the summer and listened to big band music in the evenings. I was taller than she was by the time I was 11. She sagely warned me in my teens that I might one day find my fashion choices of the time regrettable, yet took me shopping for them anyway. She told me stories of her childhood in Virginia and listened when I told her anything at all. She hugged me often and told me I was creative and brilliant and wonderful and beautiful and special.

I had not seen her in a couple of years at the time of her death, for a variety of reasons, but none I could not have overcome. I wish I had. I would have told her how wonderful she was, and has been, all my life. Goodbye, Dana. I love you so very much and will miss you and your wonderful, kind, compassionate heart.

April Showers?

I know you've been waiting for a gem of a post of earth-shattering nature. Well, this will just have to do, especially since it is rather newsworthy. It snowed today. All day. It piled up on my car and as I watched through the window of my bedroom, I thought about documenting it for you to see, but instead I took a very long nap.

Yes, let me re-iterate. I know it was pretty much cold-tastic everywhere in the U.S. today, but it snowed here. In Texas. In APRIL! I almost died of shock when it snowed in Houston on Christmas. But Easter? Whoa, baby. Whoa.

Today was the first Easter egg hunt I have *ever* seen in the snow. And based on the fact that the last time it snowed on Easter in Texas (or the eve)--1800--or so that was the word* at the country club this morning, it is the last time I will ever see snow on Easter in my lifetime. Then again, El Nino and global warming are crazy animals, so you never know.

*I have no idea where this information originated, as I just searched the internet, which was not readily available at this morning's event, and I couldn't find anything even close to it. Of course, who am I to say this truth wasn't acknowledged on the radio or tv? The fact is, it never freaking snows in Texas, so 1800 sounds as likely as any to be the last time we had a freak weather pattern. Every year, we usually get some crappy ice in winter, mind you, but these gorgeous springtime flurries were almost trance-inducing, the way they hung suspended in mid-air over the highway until our car came to break up the peace, like a slushy sledgehammer of red zippyness. No wonder people like snow. I forgot how nice it can be, especially when it doesn't stick and you know it won't be long before--thank God--it will be shorts weather again.

So the snow was cool, but I live in Texas for a reason, people.

Happy Easter!

Reminder!

109 days, 7 hours, 33 minutes until...



Yippeeeeeeeeeeee!

I hate cell phones, but I still love the Constitution...

Yesterday morning, somewhere in the dream state, I heard NPR on my clock radio talking about some kind of cell phone ring tone regulation. I was wondering if I had dreamed it all up in a cell phone hatred-induced rage, but thanks to Google (you darling search boss!), I knew it was not!

For the full story, check out the NPR summary and audio file page.

Basically, some people in NYC find assorted ring tones so obnoxious, they would like to pass legislation by which people are heavily fine for using any ring tone other than the four designated tones sanctioned by this noise reduction department on their cell phones.

Look, I hate cell phones and I find that people with 50cent as their ringtone are completely loatheworthy; I really do. And yet, I cannot even come close to agreeing with this kind of policy. To begin with, NYC is not the boss of anyone. I did appreciate their banning of trans fats to protect consumers and such as that, even though I, hater of trans fats, find that marginally too bossy. But telling millions (MILLIONS!) of people that they can't use an expressive ring tone because it's annoying? Fie! Waaaaaay too bossy. As much as I like to imagine in my fantasies that an annoyance police force exists, it should not exist! It is your right to wear a miumiu anywhere you please!

My objection is totally based on ideology, without regard to how difficult it would be to enforce this. But has anyone thought of how absurdly difficult it would be to enforce this? Do visitors to the city--of which there are bajillions each day--have to comply with this as well? If not, who is to say who is a visitor and who is not? What about people who are totally unaware of this policy? I daresay that most annoyance happens at work or in restaurants when the police are not around. Are people going to start making citizens' arrests? Are we to live in a police state?

We shall not!

And I may regret saying this, but all of you expressive types out there, ring on with your bad selves! But if you wouldn't mind, please do it far away from me. Even if I won't push for your arrest or for you to get a ticket, I will sneer and possibly hiss and spit in your direction.

Get YourSpace out of MySpace!

I never thought it would come to this. I have started disliking people that I normally would find amusingly eccentric, simply because they post too many bulletins on myspace. I know! I know! How has it come to this? I am ashamed, really, but I have to stop the irritation one way or the other. And if they cannot regulate their bulletin diarrhea, I will be the electrolytes that quell the problem, at least as it pertains to my own personal spaceship.

I mean, seriously, I just don't give a crap about every Morrissey Factoid EVER, nor do I want to see the resulting backlash of your failed marriage spelled out in myspace surveys posted as bulletins when we haven't seen one another in, oh, 15 years (or even if we had). That's what blogs are for, okay? If you post one, there's a possibility I might read it, but even if not, the likelihood that we can remain cyberfriends is at least pretty good. And don't forget that shell of a sense of pride you can keep for your very own. Don't underestimate its value, soon-to-be-ex-cyber-friend.

But now I must banish you. Please go quietly. I don't want to make a scene--or God forbid, post a bulletin about it.