Thursday, December 28, 2006
I think that was because we spent it mostly with my in-laws. I made Christmas Eve dinner there (which turned out really well) and we all went to Christmas Day brunch at the Four Seasons downtown. It was spectacular. Omelet stations, caviar, ricotta cheese blintzes with a spicy pear compote, and bottomless mimosas of which I drank several. We in the Western World like to pride ourselves on our civility and the suppression of our killer instincts. But set out all-you-can-eat Alaskan King Crab-legs and even the most refined among us discover they are not terribly far removed from their tribal roots. A gentleman wearing a svelte Movado wristwatch nearly stabbed my hand clean through when I fought my way through the greedy crowd and tried to sneak out a tiny little crab claw. No wonder they call it the World's Deadliest Catch. God forbid I'd tried for a whole leg. They would have ripped out my throat and nailed it to the wall as a trophy/warning.
But it was worth every hair-raising moment.
We spent Christmas Day evening with my family, which was blessedly uneventful, except for a brief shouting match on vegetarianism and global warming. I don't know what it is with my family and Doomsday Scenarios, but everyone, with the exception of myself, are insanely susceptible. It's weird because I am a firm believer in organic eating whenever possible. And who isn't in favor of pollution reduction? But because I don't subscribe to the notions that animal meat is sacred (delicious? Yes. Sacred? No.) and that global warming is the direct result of eeeeeeeevil capitalist man-bear-pigs, it becomes impossible to accept that I have, in fact, critically considered both issues. One of my sisters even told me she didn't want to discuss any dissenting opinion of the causes of global warming because An Inconvenient Truth had really moved her. I told them all they ought to become Jehovah's Witnesses because at least then they could believe all that crazy shit and still retain some charm. I am not the most well-liked in my family.
Now once a year, at least one of my sisters loses her mind and waxes nostalgic for the family outings of old and decides that we all need to collectively do something together. This year it was the ballet. Yesterday, all of my sisters and I made good on our Christmas present to our mother and took her to see The Nutcracker. We had to take two cars and drive on freeways which are scary enough with good drivers. Toss in two female drivers who don't know where they are going, add in all the other females who at some point throughout the day must each have their own way (from parking to using the restroom) to the inconvenience of all, and we're back to our tribal roots again. But it was fun. Gwennie and Emma loved it so much. They dressed in their little Christmas dresses and behaved so well and looked so pretty you'd never know they are holy terrors the whole rest of the year.
And they loved their dollhouse. Many thanks to everyone who rendered an opinion.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Fairytale of New York
It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won't see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you
Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one
I've got a feeling
This year's for me and you
So happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true
They've got cars big as bars
They've got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It's no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me
You were handsome
You were pretty
Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner
Then danced through the night
The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day
You're a bum
You're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it's our last
I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you
Here's for Angi----------------------(blog)
Here's for John in NH--------------(blog)
Here's for Jack----------------------(blog)
To everyone else, Alec told me your names were too hard to pronounce and to go back from where you came you lousy miscreants.
But a Merry Christmas everyone from yours truly. May your holiday be happy and your chestnuts well roasted.
(H/T: Jim Treacher. Thanks.)
Thursday, December 21, 2006
I guess what I believe is that you can't demand your husband fulfill his traditional role as husband unless you fulfill your traditional role as wife (or vice versa although I still don't know why anyone would want the traditional role of husband). Or you can mix it up, which is more complicated but more fun.
We all suck.
I talked to Trashman yesterday and we both came to that conclusion. Although he thinks I could suck for money and make considerably more than a broke crack-whore. He knows the business well, so I am encouraged. At least I have something to fall back on.
I am almost done with my Christmas shopping. But I want to get something for my brother-in-law and I have no idea what to get him. He put together Gwennie and Emma's dollhouse and it took him 2 hours. I had no idea it would be that complicated, so I feel kind of bad. But he has no vices. He doesn't drink or smoke, and he works very hard. I think I'll try to find him the CD of Johnny Cash singing Hurt by Nine Inch Nails.
Gwennie and Emma are going to have a stellar Christmas. They don't deserve it, but I deserve to have a little fun, so they better make my fucking day. I want smiles and shrieks of delight and a little shrine to Santa in the corner of their rooms and their solemn assurances they will believe in him for the rest of their lives.
In a strange turn of events, Gwennie has convinced the neighbor boy who doesn't believe in Santa that he does in fact believe in Santa. Or she's at least gotten him to say he believes in Santa. The force is strong with that one. She'll make a fantastic lawyer. Or cult leader.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
I said in the comments, "Actually, I agree with your Catholic co-worker. But who fucking wants to be the man?"
I was kind of kidding. I don't subscribe to the whole "women be submissive to your husbands" deal. And I don't say that as a feminist (whom I detest on an academic level more than I could possibly iterate in one post), but as a regular person with strengths and weaknesses that wouldn't serve my family well if they were bound to a traditional structure.
Inanna summed it up much more concisely when she said, "I am the man and the woman… so… where does that leave me???"
I amended my statement and said, "...Most marriages end up balanced in some way or else they fail. All I was saying was that with prostitutes so readily available, and men being the easy fuckers they are (bless their dear, slutty little hearts), who fucking wants the traditional role of husband?"
And that last sentence is my question of the day, which I will say again for the sake of pure redundancy. Is there still any appeal left in the traditional husband's role? I'll be honest. If I were a single man, I'd say "screw it" and find myself a nice hooker. It would be cheaper and with less sexual politics.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Then I had an epiphany. The Asian Mall. When you buy something ordinary then throw in a pair of chopsticks, the recipient will think that you think they are cultured and refined. And what better gift to give someone than the idea that they are cultured and refined?
Besides. While there, Jethro and I could get this soup that we crave regularly but is not common to the Vietnamese restaurants in our vicinity. This soup is the reason that I will try anything once. Chicken feet, tripe, congealed pigs blood, the yolk part of fertilized eggs both duck and chicken (I haven't been able to bring myself to eat the embryonic ducklings and chicks yet).
This soup consists of a clear broth and contains tomatoes, various herbs, noodles, fish components in a paste that is the consistency of scrambled eggs, and snails. To add insult to what must seem a most injurious meal, you mix the most unpleasant smelling sauce in it. On it's own, the paste looks, tastes, and smells like something belched up from the most foul regions of Hell. In the soup it adds just the right amount of salty, spicy pungency.
The Asian Mall is just like a regular mall except that everything is translated into very poor English. Every entrance has wording on it that says:
No pop pop
Allow in this building
Or something to that effect.
Upon walking into the mall, I noticed that they had finally taken down the Christmas wreaths (that had been decking the halls every day for years) just in time for...uh...Christmas.
We walked to the food court which is just like any other food court except that everything is translated into very poor English. I have to rely on Jethro for all my information and he makes me carry the bags and walk a foot behind him. It's kind of sexy.
Jethro ordered Pho (a less exotic beef noodle soup) for Gwennie and Emma and two bowls of snail soup for us. The ladybehind the counter couldn't believe I was going to eat it. When she brought it out, she just stood there smiling at us. I could hear her thoughts: "Go White-Girl, Go White-Girl, You Can Do It, It's Almost The Birthday Of Your Lord and Savior"
Jethro said it was actually a huge compliment that I would order and eat it. It meant that it was so good, it's reputation had spread beyond the usual customers. That made me happy.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
John from the comments, in response to some careful flattery and outright deceit, now has a blog that you can visit. He's funny. Go see him. Go on. I'll wait.
In the meantime, I'll tell you a story about John from college.
The college we went was a small, Catholic, liberal arts school in New Hampshire. It was pretty as a picture. The dorms were firetraps, but the rest of the campus was an old farm with quaint buildings. The cafeteria was in the old barn, as was the chapel (where I finally stopped going to Confession).
John and I have somewhat similar pasts. I'd even go so far as to say that of all the people (black, white, Gentile, Jew, male, female, potent, impotent) I've ever met, he is the most like me. But I think our respective histories had made us both somewhat prone to dramatic expression. Mine was more fragile and internal, while his was flamboyant and occasionally spectacular.
Case-in-point. We did Secret Santas around Christmas. I had drawn the girl who was to eventually be John's wife. Part of the Secret Santa game was to make your victim perform various humiliating acts in the week leading up to the big reveal in order to receive the final present. Not being particularly imaginative in this department, I bought a tube of hideous orange lipstick with a note telling her she must wear the lipstick for the entire evening or forego the riches in store for her. She was a good sport.
The tube of lipstick was lying on the table next to her when a tall, dark, slovenly handsome young man picked it up and wordlessly enveloped his mouth in it. His name is changed, but we'll call him Declan. And as I now recall, he kind of had a thing for facial artistry. A year later when we were in Rome, he decided to don The Crow make-up when he found out his girl had cheated on him. But in a slight miscalculation on his part, he ended up in The Crow make-up plus some bright-red lipstick. I think he accidentally threw in some John Wayne Gacy (a simple mistake that could happen to anyone).
Declan was sitting placidly next to John's now-wife, when John came bolting down. He took one look at him, promptly grabbed his face, and planted a big one right on the mouth for maybe 2 or 3 seconds longer than The Scene in The Godfather II. I don't think I saw tongue, but if I did, I know I blocked it.
Now Declan was a homeschooled lad who had at one time been fairly overweight. Before coming to college, he started running and lost a significant amount. Since he was rather good-looking, no one had any idea of his lack of experience with regards to romance. (One's prospects are limited if you are an overweight homeschooler. I know of what I speak).
He played off John's kiss rather well, but couldn't hide a small, shy smile before he arranged his features into a blasé expression. Come to find out some time later, that was his first kiss ever.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Strangely enough, given my penchant for excruciating, unwanted detail, I have no desire to discuss it.
I went to the laundromat Saturday and did almost all the laundry in the house. For too long now, I've been sliding by doing the bare necessities. I decided that something would have to be done when Gwennie and Emma tried to go to school in a Halloween costume and a puffy pink party dress (with sneakers).
So I loaded up every piece of clothing I had in the house, including the clean laundry that just needed folding/hanging (I figured I could fold it all while the first loads were washing and drying). Also every single sheet, blanket, pillowcase, and pillow that looked like it could use a bath. Just that took me about 3 hours.
I quickly realized that I was in over my head, but I filled up three washers and started in on my clean laundry. I definitely needed more folding space than was allowed by common washateria etiquette. So I smiled my friendliest smile at the nice lady pulling out her clothes from the dryer next to me.
"Boy I sure do have a lot of laundry," I said a few decibels above my normal tone of voice. "But the school told me I needed to wash everything in the house if I wanted to be rid of the lice."
The nice lady attempted to give me a watery smile back, and inched away as quickly as a psychotic white girl would let her without biting her and giving her rabies.
"Do you think these dryers get hot enough to kill them off? They'd better. I don't want to do this again."
She shrugged her shoulders noncommittally and gave me a wide berth along with the rest of the patrons. It was a necessary evil, but I did get a little lonely. Luckily, Jethro decided that even though he is a Doc-tor, he is not above helping his wife with the laundry in a washateria. Bless his dear proletarian heart. I have doctor relatives who would have their throats slit from ear to ear before they'd set foot in a washateria.
With his help, we got almost all of the laundry done. There are a few more loads, but nothing Ol' Balky in the garage can't handle. I'm relieved.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
***Disclaimer*** I'm obviously not speaking for all Asians, just all the Asians I've ever met.
I mean what other guy could go around knowing that everyone thinks he has an abnormally small penis and just laugh and demand anal?
Rosie O'Donnell, with her usual brand of non-humor, recently mocked the Chinese language on The View. And probably the only people (Asian or otherwise) to give a shit, were the Asian-American Journalists Association. In response to their displeasure, Rosie O'Donnell's rep said, "She's a comedian in addition to being a talk show co-host. I certainly hope that one day they will be able to grasp her humor." (source)
Yes. One glorious day the Chinks will cut off their braids, get penile implants, open their eyes wide, and finally grasp Rosie's subtle, elusive, elegant humor.
It wouldn't be so funny if she hadn't accused Kelly Ripa of being a homophobe because she didn't want Clay Aiken (who hasn't even come out of the closet yet) putting his hand over her mouth when he was co-hosting for Regis on Live with Regis and Kelly. (Aren't New Yorkers fantstic?)
When Aiken put his hand over Ripa's mouth, she said, "Oh, that's a no-no," adding, "I don't know where that hand's been, honey!"
Rosie said on The View, "To me that's a homophobic remark. If that was a straight man, if that was a cute man, if that was a guy that she didn't question his sexuality, she would have said a different thing."
How the fuck does Rosie know that? No wait. I know. She is God. God is not only a woman, He is a Big Fat Grunting Carpet Muncher. No wonder there has been so much gender confusion regarding the Deity.
If Clay Aiken was poking his head out of the closet, I have no doubt he saw his shadow. I mean, I'd pretend to be straight too if Rosie was going to bludgeon people with my sexuality.
And since it seems she will be on the air until her heart gives out, I'm hoping that one day we will all be able to grasp her humor. That is my Christmas wish for the peace and unity of mankind.
H/T: Michelle Malkin and Paxalles
Thursday, December 07, 2006
I know some of you were amused by john's comment (as was I). I just wanted say that John is no random commenter. He's a friend of mine from High-Minded-Liberal-Arts-College in New Hampshire whom I've known for years. He's a really funny writer and could write a fantastic blog which I've been not-so-subtly hinting at him to do. If he continues to refuse, I'll see if I can talk him into letting me post some of his stuff.
That being said, I have to say that it is so weird having someone from that particular time in my life read this blog. He found me on MySpace and I emailed him and let him know where I write regularly. But once I found out he actually read it, I went back through my archives and tried to read it through the eyes of someone who hadn't seen me in a long time, just to see if my personality had remained consistent over time. (I'm frequently bored and given to constant overanalysis and introspection. I can't help it.) Anyway, I think I'd come to the conclusion that I drank a lot and was rather touched in the head - probably not so different from college. I was a wreck in college though. I'm still a wreck, but now I can read William Faulker and laugh instead of pucker. That's a huge improvement.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
I want Santa to bring Gwennie and Emma a dollhouse for Christmas. It will be their big present. I can't decide between this one and this one. The first has more rooms, more space in the rooms, and brighter colors. I like that. But the second has an elevator which is totally cool and Gwennie would go bonkers over it. I really can't decide, and I have to or I won't get it in time to put it all together. Help me.
I was going to take a picture of the Brazilian panties, per Jeanette's request, but they don't really look interesting on their own. On me is another story. They definitely look interesting. Fascinating, revolting, and interesting. I need to wax.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
I don't know if I've mentioned it, but I'm watching my child-molester-next-door-neighbor's kids after school. He has been out of a job for awhile and his wife finally got off her fat ass and got a job. They don't have a ton of money, so I watch their two sons at a discount.
It's strange watching the kids of a child molester. You feel like you have to keep an eye on them constantly and every little thing they do that even hints of being sexual in nature makes you notice. It's not fair to them and I have to make a conscious effort not to make a big deal out of things. But it's a terrible thing for those kids, and I wish it were different. I wish I didn't know.
What sucks even more than the whole "my-father-is-a-child-molester" thing is that their mom is such a batshit loony tune. The youngest son has some pretty serious emotional issues (I know, no friggin' duh, right?). But they are all directly related to his home life and shitty things his parents do.
His mom came to me all teary-eyed saying that he said he was going to kill himself and she was going to take him to a psychiatrist right away and start him on anti-depressants. He's seven. I asked her if he'd ever heard anyone else talking about killing themselves. She said that she says it quite frequently and her husband has actually tried it.
Now while I'm not saying he doesn't need the pills.......actually, no. Scratch that. I am saying he doesn't need the pills. What he needs is for his parents to pull themselves together and stop talking about suicide in front of their children. This stupid bitch was actually horrified that her son would say such a thing. I am fucking horrified that they would say such a thing, especially within their kids' hearing. They seem to think they have no parental responsibilities as long as they take him to a healthcare professional. What they can't seem to grasp is that their kids wouldn't need healthcare professionals if they acted with a minimal amount of decency and respectability.
What I have learned from watching her son is that he has a learning disability. He can't read. I don't think he even knows all his letters and he is in first grade. He is very smart at math, though - far ahead of his peers. (He and Gwennie actually traded services with their homework, which made me laugh so hard that it was really difficult to tell them they weren't supposed to be doing that.) But what he doesn't have are the myriad of emotional and behavioral disorders his mother claims. Every single one of his issues is directly related to his home life and his parents.
But no one is going to listen to me. They're going to drug him up like a little zombie, numb him to any emotion, and he will stop giving his parents trouble. Everyone will go ass up to the miracle drugs without giving any thought to the cause of his problems, not to mention his physical health, and we will all prance along on our merry ways. Fuck every single one of us for this. This is to what we've been reduced. Pill popping cowards. And I don't exclude myself. I've been sorely tempted in that direction both for myself and for Gwennie.
I've tried to talk to Batshit Mom about her kids, but ever time I've tried, her lazy eye glazes over and she starts speaking to me the way she thinks a medical professional would speak to a lay person with a very low IQ. The only problem is that she doesn't have the slightest fucking idea what she is saying. But Batshit Mom is a nursing student. No. Actually, she took a couple of pre-nursing school classes at the local community college. Apparently that trumps all empirical evidence. It doesn't matter, though. That woman is on about 17 different meds herself, from anti-depressants, to painkillers, to allergy pills, and weighs as much as a baby elephant. If this is a specimen of the kind of "help" the medical community is giving people, then fuck them with something sharp. Every single one of her meds costs a small fortune per month. It's just money in the pockets of the medical community and the pharmaceutical companies, and this poor woman probably won't even remember her kids being children. Just very bitter, very pathetic, very high adults.
Monday, December 04, 2006
But let me make it up to you. There is one realtor here whom I want to punt like a football. And I could, too. She is about 4 feet tall and very petite. She is always making these trendy, exotic salads in the break room and she carries around a bottle of water that is almost as big as she is. She always condescendingly congratulates me on my healthy eating whenever she sees me with a salad as if we're in some kind of club where she is the Superior Cheerleader/Almighty Ruler of Those Who Are Struggling with Their Weight. "Keep at it, Chubbs and soon you will have a slim (ha! I said 'slim' to her) chance of being half as cute as me. Then I'll let you be seen with me and you can make me look good by comparison." Have I mentioned that I detest her? She reminds me of a little midget rat with tiny little rat paws. All that is missing is the cheese which I'm sure she'll never eat. One bite and she'd probably gain 30 lbs.
Normally (in case you couldn't tell), I'm somewhat jealous of those types of women because I'm rather Amazonian in structure, and yet through the cruel fate that leaves me undefined, 'cute' is about the only complimentary adjective I can pull off. So legitimately cute women kind of piss me off a little. Not this one, however. I will never complain about my stature again because, barring any unfortunate accidents resulting in amputation or paralysis, I could drop kick her if the need overwhelmed me. And it may. I make no guarantees.
Friday, December 01, 2006
My brother-in-law (Jethro's sister's husband) came over this morning in a dress shirt and tie, which is unusual for him since he lays flooring for a living.
"Who died?" I joked.
"Uh, my brother," he answered, looking surprised that I knew.
My face fell and I mentally started banging my head against the wall. Of course someone had died. There is no other reason on earth that he would be dressed up on a weekday morning. The only times I've ever seen him dressed up were for funerals and weddings and who the hell gets married on a Friday morning?
Turns out he wanted me to print up directions to the funeral home for him because he is completely computer illiterate.
I complied with all humility. I felt really bad. Luckily, he isn't the type to be hurt by it or mad at me for it.
I like my BIL. He comes from a huge native Texan family which means he is part Eastern European, part Native American, Mexican and whatever else got thrown into the soup over time. Most of his family is from La Grange, TX and is made up equally of the wildly successful and the ne'er-do-well. He is a good guy though. He is quiet with a dry sense of humor, he works really hard and takes very good care of his mom. He does not like it when my in-laws try to give him money (which is their way of showing affection and letting you know that you are a lazy incompetent who should be sterilized with all due haste). He is also not the type to tell anyone about anything that is troubling him, so I wasn't surprised to see him alone on his way to the funeral home.
The brother who died had been sickly for years with kidney failure. He was diabetic, overweight, in a weelchair and the hospital had accidently pumped Dialysis Machine Cleaner Fluid through his kidneys one time by accident. Apparently it was all downhill from there. But I'm sure it is still sad and I wish I had known. I would have gone.