The Double Standard in the Media: Enough of the sexist bullshit!

In today's news, outcry over this commercial (seen at the bottom of this post), touting it as "offensive and disgusting" is one of the top stories on my news station. Are you fucking kidding me right now? When women wear next to nothing on many TV commercials and/or fellate their fingers while eating a goddamn burger, that isn't offensive? When the media stops objectifying women and the viewing public stops accepting it and enjoying it, then and only then can we be outraged about fully dressed men shaking their asses like bells to a Christmas song! These men are wearing more clothing in this commercial than the Victoria's Secret Angels who do nothing but flounce around and pose seductively like mindless whores.

By the way, Vicki's Secret,  who are you marketing to exactly? I buy my own bras since they have to actually fit my boobs...therefore requiring a regular fitting and actually trying them on in the store. 
Does Carl's Jr. think that men will eat more of their hamburgers if they see a woman licking the drippings off of her fingers as though they were a leaky schlong? Because on the flip side, they give us a lumberjack eating like a fucking slob, causing us to run for our Tide Stain Sticks from force of habit with our husbands who also eat like this poor schmo. And, it doesn't make me hungry or crave a burger in the least. 

When are the television media execs going to realize that women spend the most money after watching commercials and we hold the key to the family's bank account? Showing us scantily clad women acting like brainless skanks doesn't make us open our wallets and start forking over cash. I have an idea, entertain us with a memorable jingle that we are going to hum later on in the day. If you can't do that, if your level of creativity has sunk so low, then prove to us that your product is far superior to all the others on the market. We have brains and educations and would like to be treated like rational, thinking human beings. Can you give that a whirl? I know, just as doubtful as Santa finding his way down my chimney this Christmas. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

In the meantime, enjoy this hilarious commercial!!!

A grand start to our holiday season!!! 

Getting Old is NOT My Cup of Tea!!!

We're all getting older, day by day. Some of us more quickly than others. Looking in the mirror loses its appeal, unlike when we were in our prime and would turn toward any store front window that would reflect our image for our viewing pleasure. Now, I avoid those same windows. Who needs Macy's and their pointy-nippled anorexic mannequins reminding you of each and every flaw? Not me, no thank you. Wrinkles are just the icing on the cake. Visual deterioration can be masked, plumped, and serum-ed. Hell, for the brave and uber-vain, there's always Botox or plastic surgery. That's a route you won't find me taking in this lifetime, but if it's your thing, have at it. The art of disguising them has become my new talent. Those nasty little worry lines that's I've more than earned as a parent for 18 years, are easily camouflaged by all forms of bangs. Side bangs work if you aren't ready to commit to a full-on pin-up girl bang. Think about it, a slight change in your hairstyle can erase years...years, my friends! I am all over that shit like white on rice. Anything that keeps me miles away from anesthesia and scalpels is fucking A-ok in my book.

Gray hair can seriously suck the life out of a youthful-looking broad. Luckily for me, I only have about four...two on each temple. Be jealous if you need to, that's fine with me. I'm sure it's not the only thing you envy about me and others you encounter on a daily basis. That's your cross to bear, not mine. However, even having four gray hairs is too much for me. That's my personal appearance peeve. That and white trash roots. There's really no excuse for letting your hair age you prematurely. There are rows and rows of hair color in the stores, no need to spend a fortune, particularly if you are a cheap fucker like I am. This is not your mother's Miss Clairol, there are fancy, higher priced, better for your hair options now. Get on them and stop looking like a haggard old witch. Any improvement that can be done in the privacy of your own home and provide life-changing results in under thirty minutes is worth your effort, so get off your ass and make it happen.

The issue of boobs that need a forklift is not a pleasant one, but not insurmountable, either. Victoria's Secret provides a plethora of beautiful and sturdily uplifting brassieres for even us aging beauties. Those of us who had ta-tas that stood up on their own, proudly defying gravity and saluting the sun every morning...are now feeling the cruel pull of middle age boob-droop. That doesn't mean we have to put up with it! Go shopping, spend the $45, and get the ladies off your lap. While you're at it, remember, with droop comes the opportunity to not only shove them up...but together. That's right, cleavage! Work it, own it, and show it the fuck off. The last time I had decent cleavage before middle age was during pregnancy...over 18 years ago. I am due and am not going to let this ship pass me by before I get too old and it becomes tacky instead of sexy. Wrinkly cleave is a frightening sight in which I will not partake.

Beyond appearance, getting older has seriously unpleasant physical side effects that I'd rather not deal with, but am being forced to every morning. Yes, the random and frequent aches and pains. We can blame our mattresses and pillows for only so long before we must admit, it's not the padding in our beds but the less-than-lubricated, creaky old joints in our bodies that plague us. Becoming intimately acquainted with the merits of Tylenol and Advil is inevitable. Feeling like you can't stand straight or move your hands is unnecessary, drugs were invented to eradicate that kind of bullshit. Embrace them, they are your friends. I have and am not apologetic in the least. Call me an addict if you'd like, but I don't bitch and moan all day like you do. And you annoy the shit out of me.

Let's not forget the eyesight...or lack of youthful ability to see without doing the old broad stretch to see a fucking menu. Close up, distance, they are both starting to go and for fuck's sake, it's frustrating as hell. In the beginning of the decline it was manageable. Squint a little here, elongate the arm a bit there. All was swell. But when I seriously considered asking the closest person in the room to walk the reading material a few feet back so I could see it, I knew it was a losing battle. That and losing my ability to drive effectively at night. Independence is hard to maintain when you can't drive past 7pm. It kind of sucks balls, to be completely honest. So, I found myself at my annual eye exam explaining my vision difficulties to my optometrist to be told that at my age, at MY age, it was to be expected and how did I feel about progressives?!?! Holy shit! Progressives are for old people, why are you asking ME about them? Well, if you want to read and see far away and drive at night, you'll want one pair that does all that...you don't want multiple glasses, do you? Jeez, when you put it that way, do I have a choice? Good thing I look cute in glasses or I'd be squinting like a motherfuck.

Sweaters are great, but tell me why I now need one even in the summer time? I've become THAT person. Always cold, except for the random hot flash, I've now turned into one of those old ladies I used to laugh at when I was younger. Racing around the house to close windows my husband has left open yet again, wearing fuzzy socks in the house, and wrapping myself in a giant crocheted blanket in order to watch TV because I fear I'll freeze to death...this is my existence. Let me assure you, it's not all in my head. My skin is actually cold to the touch. So much so, my husband often tells me I'm dead but I just won't admit it. He's even been so kind as to offer to buy a shovel to make me a comfy resting spot. Admittedly, there are times I wonder if he may be right. But then I remind myself that I'm not THAT goddamn old! I prefer to blame it on my intermittent anemia. The uterine residents should be blamed here, not my advancing age. Yet, I know better. Nobody I know is getting any younger...nor am I. Some of us are just racing down that road to old age faster than others. One race I'd like to lose, thank you very much.

There are days I feel as though I am losing my mind. Not because I've gone crazy, but because I've walked into yet another room and forgotten why! My world has become a sea of yellow sticky notes, texts to myself, and other assorted forms of reminders so I can get through an average day. How on Earth did I become this person? I used to have an amazing memory...in school I didn't study, I memorized and got straight A's. So explain to me how this same person can't remember to turn off a light or put something back in the fridge. It's frustrating as hell and I simply don't have time to sit around holding my head, eyes closed tightly trying to remember basic shit. My long-term memory is still sharp as a tack, the short-term is slowly flying out the fucking window. Ask me about my childhood and I can regale you with story after story. Ask me what I had for breakfast and I have no friggin idea. Good times, good times.

Believe me, I am not complaining. Feeling this way, experiencing all the creaking and cracking, seeing the four gray hairs, working on disguising the wrinkles...all of those things means I've woken up and been given another day to enjoy. It means I am beating the odds, I am otherwise healthy and alive. Regardless of the "gifts" of the aging process, I'm still here and I can still kick your ass. Are some of these things annoying? Of course they are, who said they weren't? Do they slow me down? Here and there, naturally. Would I rather enjoy a few more years of youth? Of course, who wouldn't? But, the real question is, would I want to go back in time to grasp at those years? Fuck, no! I wouldn't be who I am without all of this and as I was once told, it sure beats the alternative. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Put it in Perspective, for Christ's Sake!

I've had it up to here with all the whining! Those of you who knew my mom know exactly where *here* is, those of you who didn't, sucks for you. so let's move forward. Everyone has a problem lately. My throat hurts; my shower wasn't hot enough; there was a line at Starbucks this morning; I'm too fat; I got my period; the cat threw up again; my husband forgot to take out the trash; my ass itches...these are the kinds of things plaguing Americans today. We hear it on the street, we see it on TV, we read it on social media. Life is so fucking hard. Yeah, it's rough. Waking up, going to work, making dinner, taking care of the kids, and falling asleep next to the person with whom you chose to spend the rest of your life. Damn, allow me to pass you the box of Kleenex and hold your hand. Your world sucks gritty donkey balls. If I sound sarcastic, congratulations on your ability to read my tone.

For those of you who had less than satisfactory showers, ask yourself if you'd have preferred taking a bum shower at the local gas station. Think that would have been warmer, more relaxing, and had a massage option? So, of course, I'm totally sorry your morning routine didn't meet your expectations. When my boiler broke and we took ice cold showers for three days until we were able to get someone to come fix it, I wasn't screaming from the rooftops about how miserable my life had become. Shit happens, I knew there was an end in sight and it wasn't worth my time or effort to bemoan it all fucking day long. It certainly wouldn't have repaired the damn thing. Yet, the second someone's shower head leaks or drain doesn't function properly, it becomes a media circus. Get a grip.

A long line at Starbucks? OH. MY. GOD. You actually had to wait for your venti four pump non-fat tuxedo mocha with the extra shot? Christ on a cracker, what is this world coming to? An extra five minutes has been sucked out of your oh so hectic day. I'd be furious...maybe you should write to someone. Hell, I'll help you compose a scathing letter to the CEO of Starbucks right now. Your time is precious, goddamn it. You have to race to Nordstroms before your Zumba class and get to your child's day care on time so you won't be charged a penny more. Priorities? Have any? I should begin by asking why someone who has nothing better to do than shop and work out has placed their child in day care? But that would open up a can of worms that you don't want to unleash. But what I really want to know, what really sticks in my craw...is the fact that you have no ability to experience delayed gratification. Yet, you expect children to wait without fussing. I feel sorry for the person with whom you currently making the beast with two backs.

"My ass is too fat." Trust me, if your ass is fat, chances are, there are many other body parts that have joined it in all its Rubenesque glory. Not that I am being critical in the least. I'd like to think that by now, you all know my opinion about weight and size. Rock the body you have and you'll always look fabulous. Dress it up with sexy clothes, slather it with expensive lotions, spritz it with beautiful perfume, and shake that curvy ass up and down the fucking street. However, if you are somewhat dissatisfied with the condition of your body, shut the fuck up about it and do something. Don't go on some ridiculous crash diet that you couldn't possibly maintain for more than a week without either passing out or alienating everyone around you because you've become positively demonic. For God's sake don't become that annoying gym rat that suddenly goes seven days a week, three times a day, and waxes poetic about the merits of spin class and Pilates. This is yet another thing that you will never continue for any length of time and will poison you for any further activity in the future. One bit of advice, it always works and alienates no one. PUT THE FORK DOWN. It's called portion control, try it.

Aw, crap. You got your period? Your uterus is working properly for yet another month? Dammit all to hell. A cramp, a twinge, a backache. Yeah, I get it. But please don't preach to this choir about how heavy your flow is and moan and groan about how many super tampons you've used. Until you have a uterus that is described by your very own Ob/GYN as a bouncy house of fibroids...and that children's ride that rests inside your body causes you to bleed through Ultra tampons and pee-pee pads and turns your bed into a crime scene...you've not had a bad period. We've discussed my issue before, so I won't belabor it. What I will tell you, is that every time you get your period...on time...it means your body is functioning correctly. Complaining about a working reproductive system seems almost bitchy. Think of the women who have bodies that betray them and their desire to have children. Their uterus doesn't work like yours, does it? Still want to complain?

The cat barfed, that's one of the most frequently utter sentences in my house. But you know what? I wouldn't trade my bulimic baby for anything in the world. Sometimes it's a hairball, sometimes it's her inability to exercise portion control and slow the fuck down. To me, it means that my little old lady is still alive and kicking! Instead of looking for shit to whine about, think of all the wonderful things your feline child gives you. Unconditional love, head butts, snuggles, loudly vibrating purrs at the sight of your face, company in the bathroom...can you really complain about someone who provides all that, unselfishly? And only asks that you feed, care for, scratch in all the right spots, and once in a while clean up a little puke? Come on, find your heart...if you have one.

Holy shit, your husband forgot to take out the trash? Maybe you should just beat him with a stick to teach him a lesson about responsibility? He came home from busting his ass at work all day, helped you finish dinner, set the table, played with the kids so you could watch your favorite show uninterrupted, and opened that stuck jar lid for you...yet he forgot one little thing and you spend the next day bashing him to anyone who will listen. Of course, you won't mention all the things he did do for you. It doesn't prove your point about what a lazy asshole he is and how he can't remember to do a simple task that you've asked him to do a million times. Couple of points I'd like you to ponder: you CHOSE him as your life partner, what does this say about you if he is an ass? The other point I'd like you consider, the question I'd like you to ask yourself is...does he hurt you? Does he hit you, twist your arm, pull your hair? Does he make you feel badly about yourself, scare you? If you can't answer yes to any of those...he's a good man and you are a ungrateful harpie.

Should your ass be itchy, there are creams for that. The real issue here, is that people today don't know how good they've got it. They don't appreciate what they have and who they have in their lives. As I think about my next phone call to my aunt to ask about my Godfather, uncle, second father...whatever name I assign him today...when I am calling her every night after work to ask if his condition has changed, if he has woken up and been lucid, if the doctors are offering any hope today, if the feeding tube surgically implanted in his stomach is working properly...I can't help but hate you and your First World problems. When I dread the sound of my cell phone ringing because it may be her and it may be the news I fear the most, and then I hear you whining about your kids fighting with each other or the price of gas these days...I want so badly to punch you in the throat, shake you until your brain beats around in your thick skull so hard that you have a concussion, and tell you what I really think of you and your *problems* once and for all.  So, the next time you feel a whine about to erupt from your lips, stop yourself. One day my restraint will fail. Feeling lucky? Are you friggin kidding me right now???

She's From NY...Ohhhhh.

What the fuck does that mean exactly? Those of you from any other state have undoubtedly said this in conversation with your friends at least once. Don't bother trying to deny it. Attempting to explain away something you don't understand or fear is more than slightly offensive. Are you trying to justify your own skewed opinions about a particular type of person who you assume is that way due to their state of origin? I'll wager that most of you spouting off about New Yorkers have never even stepped foot on a Manhattan sidewalk, never even hopped on a bus in Queens, or driven through Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. Have you? I didn't think so. Yet you are certain you know us, inside and out. The way we speak, the way we dress, and the way we treat other people. Hell, I'm sure you think you could write a book.

Allow me to step right in and stop you from making a gigantic ass out of yourself in public one more time. You do realize how goddamn ridiculous you sound every time you drone on about what you believe to be facts...about people you've never met?! Even if you've had the privilege of meeting one of us, your opinion has already been set in stone, with no prior knowledge other than what you've watched on television or in the movies. Let me tell you something about Hollywood. Their perception of us is also a tad jacked up. This is not to say that they haven't a clue about our speech patterns or behaviors...some of the Hollywood bigwigs were actually born on the Right Coast. So, some do have a definite feel for us and the minutiae that makes us who we are. But, in general, they are trying to portray one side and one side only. The side that both intrigues and entertains you.

Are all NY Italians in the Mafia? God, no. But if you watch enough TV or film, you'd start to believe that it's a hardcore fact. Badabing, badaboom...whacking, being made, Consiglieres to right, Capos to the left. Men in the "waste management" business having basement meetings about who insulted "the family" and the proper course of action (who is whacking and how) and women tottering around on heels after them asking if they want baked ziti or stuffed shells tonight because they have to go buy more ri-gutt, while ignoring the fact that he was headed to his goumadas apartment, for which he pays the rent, for a nooner. Come on, seriously. I grew up a NY Italian and I don't recall anyone being in "waste management" in my family. We may have had ri-gutt (ricotta for those of you whiter than whites who don't understand bastardized dialects) in the fridge, but that didn't make us part of the *Family* that made the newspapers every so often.

While I am aware that our accents are different than yours, that doesn't make it bad or wrong. The way we pronounce most words can be considered more phonetically correct than some of the folks who hail from the Left Coast. That's right, it's an AH-range not OR-nge. Our accent is closer to British and therefore more proper than the rest of you boneheads. Clipped endings, absent "r" sounds...that's right, we are classy as fuck. Beyond that, I'd like to emphasize that just because our accent sounds a bit harsh, doesn't mean that we are an uneducated bunch of dumbasses. Some of the best doctors, lawyers, scientists...come from NY and boast the same accent as the rest of the residents. Now southern accents...those don't sound very bright, but that's a different topic altogether. My point is, our accent is just a minor part of who we are, just as your oddball way of speaking doesn't define you.

Moving on to a pet peeve of mine, our attitudes and manner of dealing with others. We are different, that's true. However, we are not inherently bad or mean. What we are is honest. Pulling no punches, not holding back unless absolutely necessary, never hiding behind a veil of insincerity...we are the most up-front and forthcoming people you will ever meet. Don't ask me if your outfit makes your ass look fat unless you really want to know. This honesty has been translated in some circles as mean and angry. Let me clarify, the truth isn't always pretty. If you can't handle it, don't ask. The next item I'd like to address regarding our demeanor is the fact that we are always angry or impatient. Blatantly untrue. We grew up in a city that moved quickly, time waited for no man, and we had to push to get a seat on the bus. Does this make us terrible people? No. It means we've learned to adapt to challenging situations that would flatten the rest of you on your asses and have you making an appointment with your doctor to increase your dosage of Xanax.

The way some of you portray us to friends, you'd think we were the meanest motherfucks on the planet. Don't tell me you've never lost your temper, screamed at someone, or said what was really on your mind with no filter present. You'd be lying through your teeth. The difference is when you do it, it's because you were pushed, backed up against a wall, or had enough of the bullshit. When I do it, it's simply because I'm from NY and that's just how we are...isn't that what you'd tell your husband over dinner? Yeah, makes perfect sense to try to prove that your opinion about people you don't know is correct by recounting one moment in time and using it to define us as a whole. Who's the asshole now? My daughter is still learning how to deal with people who think they can explain away one of her outbursts or unfiltered honesty by the aside, "She's from NY," and the other person acknowledging that disclaimer with a knowing, "Ohhhhh." It pisses her off...and instead of just realizing that they are ignorant and possibly jealous of her ability to handle things they cannot, she tends to prove their point. She's my kid...was there ever any doubt? Are you friggin kidding me right now???