We all do it. Every one of us is getting old. Racing along the road to the dirt nap we will all take one day. From the moment we are born, we start dying. Now, THAT'S a pleasant thought. Take that along with you today to lift your spirits. But, it's true. Nobody lives forever and childhood is the shortest span of time in our lives. Which is why those of you too foolish to have enjoyed it seem to be the ones acting like children now. You are the people currently having mid-life crises. Humiliating the shit out of yourselves, dressing like teenagers, behaving like you are in your early 20s, and acting like total assholes. Right after you figured out that getting old blows gnarly chunks, you attempted to recapture the essence of your youth. Don't bother, chode. There are reasons that kids have all that fun and are able to function the next day. They CAN! You, on the other hand, are old. Your body has an embarrassingly long recovery time, which is why you shouldn't be acting like a fucking child. Break a hip and it's basically over. File that one away.
Parts of getting old are pretty goddamn awesome. Menopause is a biggie on that list. Ladies, follow along with me for a minute. I know you are going to rip me a new asshole for romanticizing the glory that is our change of life. You will bemoan the hot flashes, the night sweats, the forgetfulness, the mood swings, and I will call bullshit. I'm going through an early menopause and I can assure you, the pros far outweigh the cons. Two words: period cessation. I win. To revisit my entry about the tampon commercials, my period has never been my friend, has never been that "feel like dancing" kind of time, and basically has caused me more sleepless nights than when my daughter was first born. Bitch all you want about menopause, I'm gonna love it and hug it and squeeze it.
Along the ride down the death highway comes a certain amount of wisdom. You can actually say, "Been there, done that" because you have! A mind filled with memories and experiences you can share with others, regaling the younger generation with stories about our glory days. We had to listen to it when we were their ages, I feel like it's MY turn now. I can start every sentence with, "When I was your age" for an entire day and not run out of material. No glazed looks allowed, listen with the same rapt attention I was forced to and smile and nod in all the right places, bitches. You haven't earned the right to comment or compare notes. Shut your pie hole or I'll be forced to slap duct tape over it.You'll get your turn in 20-30 years. Meanwhile, show some respect.
There are some negative aspects of attempting to age with some amount of grace. Needing to hold the menu out in front of you the entire length of your arm while squinting doesn't scream young and attractive, I know. I wear glasses for reading and refuse to carry them with me to a restaurant. No one else needs to know I can't see a fucking thing. I'll struggle and adjust the position of the menu over and over until I can see just enough to order food. The eye doctor mentioned the possibility of a need for progressive lenses by next year. That's HOT! That will mean wearing them all the fucking time. Christ on the cross, that's just what I need. My brain may be nerdy, but on the outside, I'm pretty damn fabulous. Guess I'll have to choose frames carefully and rock the sexy librarian look when the time comes. I'll wear my hair up and strategically let it down throughout the day with a choreographed hair toss that'll make whores blush.
Aches and pains in muscles I had no idea existed makes waking up a nightmare. When did this start and who do I contact? I didn't sign up for this. I can't even wash my hair until I've cracked my knuckles and all the other joints necessary to lather up. Then, of course, I have to crack my neck...on both sides. Unless, of course, I only want to look forward all day long. Driving would be a bitch. My back always feels like it needs immediate chiropractic adjustment. Having been a chiropractic assistant, I can crack my back, and yours, with great proficiency. I just don't enjoy HAVING to each and every day. Nothing says old fart quite like squatting down to talk to a child and having both knees crack so loudly the kid actually looks stunned and asks what that noise was. Every time.
I just can't stay up as late as I used to, which was practically all night long. A night owl for most of my life, I shunned the early morning hours with a passion. Now, I still shun the early morning but for a different reason. I am so friggin tired. There's not a movie around that can keep me awake till the credits. Renting a movie at my house consists of popping the DVD in, getting settled on the couch, watching the movie for as long as I can with both eyes fully open, and then crashing like a lead balloon. Straining to keep my eyes open, I'll crack my knuckles over and over for something to focus on while blinking really, really hard. Adjusting my ass on the cushion, refolding the blanket across my legs, stretching a little bit, and again, blinking really, really hard. My whole family knows this little charade and waits like snipers for me to take the long blink. You know, the one where you think you've just closed your eyes for a few seconds, but actually you've fallen totally asleep? Sometimes, I'm lucky enough to startle myself awake fast enough and nobody notices. Unfortunately, this doesn't happen often enough. That's when the bastards snap into action. My daughter will either elbow or kick me, depending on her distance from me on the couch. My husband will choose that moment to scream like a psycho to scare the living shit out of me AND wake me up so that I can enjoy the movie, or so he claims. I think it's just their way of getting me back for the evils they perceive to have experienced by living with the joy that is me.
Does anyone else take quite as many pills as I do each day? Sweet baby Jesus, it takes a good five minutes to lay them out on the counter at night before I go to bed. Counting, sorting, remembering which ones are morning and which are evening doses. Glucosamine for the creaking joints, Vitamin D for bone health, Iron because having tsunami periods for so long left me anemic, a multivitamin just because, Estroven for the aging uterus, B-12 to aid in iron absorption, and the list goes on. I can't wait till I have even more pills and can buy one of those fancy pill holders that have drawers labeled with the days of the week. That's when I'll know I have officially arrived.
Eating is a challenge as you get older, don't deny it. The things you loved in your prime, now don't love you back anymore. I could eat like a horse and think nothing of it. Back in the day, I had a fairly cooperative metabolism. Now that it has slowed down to a crawl, I have to rely on tracking points, Weight Watchers-style just so my clothing continues to fit. Can't just scarf a Snickers on the way home from work and wash it down with a bag of Doritos and a beer these days. Nope. Chugging coffee and snacking on an apple, oh yeah, I live like a fucking Queen. What really sucks is not being able to eat loads of garlic and onions anymore. I could chop heads, not cloves, heads of garlic into a dish and eat it with great voracity with NO ramifications beyond rancid breath. The same went for onions, and I am talking about raw onions. If I did that now, I can guarantee how the rest of my night is gonna go down. Me, grabbing my stomach and running to the toilet where I will spend an inordinate amount of time, suffering on the throne instead of enjoying the evening with the rest of my family. Good thing I love to read.
Luckily, I only have approximately 3 or so gray hairs. They grow at my temples and as soon as they are spotted they are violently plucked out and tossed away. What I do have, much to my complete and total dismay are forehead wrinkles. I hate them with all the venomous, bile-spewing hate inside me. Face creams, wrinkle serums, exfoliation products all fail me in my crusade against the evil face folds. Not that I've given up and don't use these things anymore. Oh, I do. Regularly and with a little prayer included. I know that there is the option of Botox and that it also magically rids you of migraines, which would be a trip to paradise for me. However, the concept of having needles stabbed into the very thin skin between my eyes, over and over, has absolutely no appeal to me. Yes, I have tattoos so it's not as though I have a deep-seated fear of needles and other sharp objects. But in the face?!?! That's beyond insane and at the pinnacle of vanity, so no thank you.
Looking forward to the senior discounts, just not to looking like I'm eligible. Definitely, looking forward to retiring and becoming the newest Golden Girl, maybe not while wearing the gaudy, floral clothing. I'll be the old broad in hot pink leggings and AC/DC shirt wearing "fuck me" boots. Is getting older all bad? Hell no. Can it be a painful bitch? Holy shit, yeah. Does it have its privileges? When I was your age, I knew not to ask so many goddamn questions. Am I gonna age with grace or am I gonna go down kicking and screaming, throwing up the rock sign? Are you friggin kidding me right now?
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
We can all see you aren't black, your girlfriend isn't your shortie or boo-thang
Does it stick in your craw, too? When white people decide that speaking regular English just isn't good enough for them anymore, and start using Ebonics? It's one thing to joke around in private with your friends and see who can sound the most ghetto. We've all done it. It's quite another when you adopt this dialect into your everyday life. The sagging pants that show your nasty-ass boxers or worse, your tightie whities, are bad enough. The fact that you've chosen to wear something you have to physically hold up all day long proves how stupid you are, but when you couple that look with sounding like you aren't certain of your race, you become a total fucking moron.
Everyone seems to want to be ghetto these days. Not all of you are or can be, sorry. Growing up in the rich white suburbs completely negates your ability to be considered ghetto. I know, it's heartbreaking. It doesn't matter what you wear, or how many hours you log watching BET, you will still be as white as rice if your parents are, too. You think you have "swagga", you look like you are nursing an injured leg. Having your hood up inside the house or that odd-looking baseball cap with the tag still dangling from it like Minnie Pearl, makes me wonder if you are Jewish. No one else wears hats inside. Hiding your yarmulke?
Someone explain to me why you'd call a girl a shortie? I've learned recently that there is some secret society of vertically-challenged people who actually call themselves shorties. Apparently, they didn't appreciate my entry about short men. But, now, armed with this knowledge, I feel compelled to tell you racially confused people what a shortie actually is, according to NOSSA, the National Association of Short Statured Adults. The mere fact that this little clan or cult exists makes me laugh my ass off. But, I feel the need to educate, so pay careful attention. NOSSA considers short stature to refer to any male person 5'7" and below and any female person 5'2" and below in height. Consider yourselves informed.
Since when did the phrase "off the hook" become anything but something to refer to when you leave the phone out of its cradle to impersonate a busy line in an attempt to ward off asshole callers? I'd have to assume around the same time we stopped using land lines and became surgically attached to our mobile phones. "Dat shit be off da hook" is not something I want describing my house, my cooking, or my ass. Let's see if we remember any real adjectives, shall we? I'm not asking that you dig deep into the recesses of what used to be your brain and pull out a $50 SAT word like rapturous or ambrosial. How about a simple "nice house" instead of waxing ebonically about my "crib"?
Unless I am BBQing how the fuck can you possibly get all up in my grill? And really, why the hell would you want to throw yourself onto a burning hot metal rack? I know, at this point I am sounding more like an old geezer than the young, vivacious broad that I am, but PUH-LEEZE. The whole concept of wearing dental jewelry escapes me. Most people dread getting one of those oh-so-attractive metal crowns on their back teeth. Why in the hell would you purposely put a gigantic row of gold teeth, studded with jewels on your own front teeth? You can't talk properly, you can't eat. And you look ri-goddamn-diculous. Remember when braces were considered nerdy? Braces aren't a hell of a lot of metal, and they were thought to make even the most attractive person suddenly butt-ugly. Guess what, dumb ass? Putting that much metal in your mouth for decorative purposes makes you look as ugly as homemade sin.
Don't bother trying to AKS me a quesshun. Grammatically-challenged ass monkeys back in Queens in the late 70s and 80s used aks instead of ask. They were white. Back then, it was considered having bad language skills. Only the less-than-intelligent spoke that way. Now, it's included in the conversations of those who think they are a deeper shade of soul instead of the WASPy little shit they actually are and would realize if they took a moment to actually look at themselves in a functioning mirror. Anytime you bastardize English intentionally to try to sound cooler than you actually are, what you become is an illiterate jackass.
Like when you insist upon using double negatives because it sounds more gangsta, and we all know you think you are OG. See, I know some of the awesome vernacular you've learned, too. But, allow me to assure you of a few little items. First, using a double negative in a sentence actually means the opposite of what you are trying to convey. So, when you tell me you ain't got none, you actually do, ass wad. Then, we move into the whole gangsta bullshit. The original "gangstas" (or as you call them OG) were Italian or Sicilian and were called gangstERS or mobsters. They dressed impeccably and did not talk like retards. Think about it.
Since you aren't a gang member, from a poor neighborhood, part of the Cosa Nostra (which doesn't exist, mind you), or African American, maybe you can try to embrace who you actually are...even if you aren't as cool as you'd like to be. Acting like something you're not is never cool or attractive to a potential dating partner. It's the same as being a phony but way more fun to laugh at with your friends. So pay very close attention pasty white boy, if you still choose to "roll up" wif yo' homies, crack a FO-TY, watching for the po-po, looking to "pop a cap" all up in some playas azz, know one thing, I am so totally gonna rag on you. I will laugh and point and mock you using really big-ass words that I can be positive you will not know. How can I not? Are you friggin kidding me right now???
Everyone seems to want to be ghetto these days. Not all of you are or can be, sorry. Growing up in the rich white suburbs completely negates your ability to be considered ghetto. I know, it's heartbreaking. It doesn't matter what you wear, or how many hours you log watching BET, you will still be as white as rice if your parents are, too. You think you have "swagga", you look like you are nursing an injured leg. Having your hood up inside the house or that odd-looking baseball cap with the tag still dangling from it like Minnie Pearl, makes me wonder if you are Jewish. No one else wears hats inside. Hiding your yarmulke?
Someone explain to me why you'd call a girl a shortie? I've learned recently that there is some secret society of vertically-challenged people who actually call themselves shorties. Apparently, they didn't appreciate my entry about short men. But, now, armed with this knowledge, I feel compelled to tell you racially confused people what a shortie actually is, according to NOSSA, the National Association of Short Statured Adults. The mere fact that this little clan or cult exists makes me laugh my ass off. But, I feel the need to educate, so pay careful attention. NOSSA considers short stature to refer to any male person 5'7" and below and any female person 5'2" and below in height. Consider yourselves informed.
Since when did the phrase "off the hook" become anything but something to refer to when you leave the phone out of its cradle to impersonate a busy line in an attempt to ward off asshole callers? I'd have to assume around the same time we stopped using land lines and became surgically attached to our mobile phones. "Dat shit be off da hook" is not something I want describing my house, my cooking, or my ass. Let's see if we remember any real adjectives, shall we? I'm not asking that you dig deep into the recesses of what used to be your brain and pull out a $50 SAT word like rapturous or ambrosial. How about a simple "nice house" instead of waxing ebonically about my "crib"?
Unless I am BBQing how the fuck can you possibly get all up in my grill? And really, why the hell would you want to throw yourself onto a burning hot metal rack? I know, at this point I am sounding more like an old geezer than the young, vivacious broad that I am, but PUH-LEEZE. The whole concept of wearing dental jewelry escapes me. Most people dread getting one of those oh-so-attractive metal crowns on their back teeth. Why in the hell would you purposely put a gigantic row of gold teeth, studded with jewels on your own front teeth? You can't talk properly, you can't eat. And you look ri-goddamn-diculous. Remember when braces were considered nerdy? Braces aren't a hell of a lot of metal, and they were thought to make even the most attractive person suddenly butt-ugly. Guess what, dumb ass? Putting that much metal in your mouth for decorative purposes makes you look as ugly as homemade sin.
Don't bother trying to AKS me a quesshun. Grammatically-challenged ass monkeys back in Queens in the late 70s and 80s used aks instead of ask. They were white. Back then, it was considered having bad language skills. Only the less-than-intelligent spoke that way. Now, it's included in the conversations of those who think they are a deeper shade of soul instead of the WASPy little shit they actually are and would realize if they took a moment to actually look at themselves in a functioning mirror. Anytime you bastardize English intentionally to try to sound cooler than you actually are, what you become is an illiterate jackass.
Like when you insist upon using double negatives because it sounds more gangsta, and we all know you think you are OG. See, I know some of the awesome vernacular you've learned, too. But, allow me to assure you of a few little items. First, using a double negative in a sentence actually means the opposite of what you are trying to convey. So, when you tell me you ain't got none, you actually do, ass wad. Then, we move into the whole gangsta bullshit. The original "gangstas" (or as you call them OG) were Italian or Sicilian and were called gangstERS or mobsters. They dressed impeccably and did not talk like retards. Think about it.
Since you aren't a gang member, from a poor neighborhood, part of the Cosa Nostra (which doesn't exist, mind you), or African American, maybe you can try to embrace who you actually are...even if you aren't as cool as you'd like to be. Acting like something you're not is never cool or attractive to a potential dating partner. It's the same as being a phony but way more fun to laugh at with your friends. So pay very close attention pasty white boy, if you still choose to "roll up" wif yo' homies, crack a FO-TY, watching for the po-po, looking to "pop a cap" all up in some playas azz, know one thing, I am so totally gonna rag on you. I will laugh and point and mock you using really big-ass words that I can be positive you will not know. How can I not? Are you friggin kidding me right now???
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Can you please post to Facebook one more time, I'm not clear on the last time you wiped your ass.
Everyone of us has a Facebook friend who does this, so I'm sure you are envisioning that person right now. Maybe, like me, you are daydreaming about driving a shank deeply into their left kidney and watching them suffer slowly. OK, perhaps I am alone in that particular fantasy. I do tend to have more macabre thoughts than the average human. In any event, these people drive me absolutely fucking out of my head. All day long, they fill my feed with more detail than I have ever wanted in my entire life. I don't want to know that much about anyone. Ever. Even if I haven't spoken to you in a very long time and I actually care about you, it's still way too much sharing.
There's the person who posts every item of food and drink that passes their lips. If you've made some outrageously elaborate meal and you don't normally cook, this is an acceptable time to share ONE photo. Only one. Of the completed meal. Not every single step it took to create your kitchen masterpiece. I don't need to see your dirty mixing bowls, your ingredients spread out across your counter, pots of food cooking on your stove, and certainly not you in a fucking apron, posing with your spoon. Nobody believes that you are Mary Homemaker, twirling around your kitchen, making happy little cooking noises, and singing to yourself. Those of us who work, just like you, come home and begin the mad rush that is known as making dinner. We race around the kitchen, kicking our shoes off one by one as we put the dishes left in the rack from breakfast away and start taking out armfuls of shit from the fridge to create an edible, and hopefully healthy, meal. Not one person I know, puts on a frilly apron and dances around the kitchen like a happy little sprite. We are dragging serious ass.
Keeping along that particular vein, I know you love coffee, vodka, cherry coke, Starbucks, Peets, Dunkin Donuts, arsenic and old lace. I have my favorites, too. If you've posted once or twice, I remember. Most of us have at least average intelligence and can recall things we've seen or read. Driving it down our throats each and every time you take a sip makes YOU the ass clown. Maybe you've forgotten your own favorite beverage? Maybe the photos you post each time you take a sip help remind you? Not only the photos, but the check-ins at every watering hole you enter, show up on my feed. Jesus H. Christ, didn't know I knew his middle initial, did you? Why do you feel the need to let God and all his good little creatures know where you are at every minute of the day? Do you want to be stalked? Letting us all know where you are, also lets the pros know you aren't home. Good move. One day, if you are local, I'm gonna make sure I show up everywhere you check in. Pressing my face against the window, smiling maniacally and watching you get your drink. Yeah, witnessing you shit your pants will be totally worth it.
Next is the gym rat. Exercise is great for your body, I get that. You take really good care of yourself, that's wonderful. Or that's what you want all of us to think. I often wonder each time I see someone posting that they are at the gym, health club, or boot camp class, if they really actually went. You can drive in the general vicinity of a location and check in. I can drive by check in just about anywhere I want you to believe I've been. Part of me thinks they drive past the gym and check in on their way to the donut shop. That's just me but I am sure some of you have had your suspicions, too. So, I've figured out that either some of you are totally obsessed with your appearance and ignore the rest of your lives to workout for many, many hours per day OR you just want us to think that so you look like you are better than the rest of us. Trust me, the next party where I can see your muffin top up close and personal, I'll know the truth. Won't that suck balls for you?
Let's not forget to mention the perpetual vacationer. I don't necessarily mean the seven-day Aruba trips. Actually, those photos are lovely. What I am referring to, are those that take jaunts here, there, and everywhere and never seem to work a day in their lives. Really? Who pays for these little getaways? Someone signs their name at the bottom of the credit card slip. Please, nobody wants to know that you live your life like a permanent vacation while the rest of us work our asses off and actually admit it. If I go six towns east, I don't announce it for all to read. While it may constitute getting out of Dodge for me, it's not post-worthy, and who gives a shit, anyway? This person celebrates a trip to the mall, posting pics along the way. Bitch, I could not give a ripe fuck where you are now, you don't need to chronicle it for me. It's not jealousy. I go places, out of town, stay in hotels...all that fun shit. The difference between me and the other broad, I don't feel the need to rub your nose it. Repeatedly.
Did you get dressed this morning? Oh please, post a photo of your outfit, said no one, ever. Do you actually think the rest of us need a pictorial view of each item in your closet, posed just right in order to accentuate what you think are your best features? Guess what? You'd be wrong. I know you are totally excited about being able to button your own shirt now, but we've expected this from you for years. It's not an accomplishment at forty years old. The poses are absolutely hilarious! Lady Madonna has nothing on you. That perfect combination of saint and whore, you've clearly worked on it in the mirror, haven't you? Let me assure you, you look ridiculous. If you were actually a model, you wouldn't be taking pics of yourself with your cell phone to post on Facebook. In case you were wondering. Which I am sure you aren't.
What have we learned today? Aside from the fact that I just don't give a rat's dangling testicle where you are, what you do, or what you eat and drink every minute of every fucking day...which is abundantly true. We've also begun to come to terms with the fact that others share my opinion, the one that counts right now. Think before you post. Is it remotely entertaining from anyone else's point of view? Have I posted this 573 times before? Will anyone else be interested, or have I pushed the limits of everyone's patience yet again? Does it really fucking matter to anyone BUT me? I'll be willing to bet the answer to all of the above is, "Are you friggin kidding me right now???"
There's the person who posts every item of food and drink that passes their lips. If you've made some outrageously elaborate meal and you don't normally cook, this is an acceptable time to share ONE photo. Only one. Of the completed meal. Not every single step it took to create your kitchen masterpiece. I don't need to see your dirty mixing bowls, your ingredients spread out across your counter, pots of food cooking on your stove, and certainly not you in a fucking apron, posing with your spoon. Nobody believes that you are Mary Homemaker, twirling around your kitchen, making happy little cooking noises, and singing to yourself. Those of us who work, just like you, come home and begin the mad rush that is known as making dinner. We race around the kitchen, kicking our shoes off one by one as we put the dishes left in the rack from breakfast away and start taking out armfuls of shit from the fridge to create an edible, and hopefully healthy, meal. Not one person I know, puts on a frilly apron and dances around the kitchen like a happy little sprite. We are dragging serious ass.
Keeping along that particular vein, I know you love coffee, vodka, cherry coke, Starbucks, Peets, Dunkin Donuts, arsenic and old lace. I have my favorites, too. If you've posted once or twice, I remember. Most of us have at least average intelligence and can recall things we've seen or read. Driving it down our throats each and every time you take a sip makes YOU the ass clown. Maybe you've forgotten your own favorite beverage? Maybe the photos you post each time you take a sip help remind you? Not only the photos, but the check-ins at every watering hole you enter, show up on my feed. Jesus H. Christ, didn't know I knew his middle initial, did you? Why do you feel the need to let God and all his good little creatures know where you are at every minute of the day? Do you want to be stalked? Letting us all know where you are, also lets the pros know you aren't home. Good move. One day, if you are local, I'm gonna make sure I show up everywhere you check in. Pressing my face against the window, smiling maniacally and watching you get your drink. Yeah, witnessing you shit your pants will be totally worth it.
Next is the gym rat. Exercise is great for your body, I get that. You take really good care of yourself, that's wonderful. Or that's what you want all of us to think. I often wonder each time I see someone posting that they are at the gym, health club, or boot camp class, if they really actually went. You can drive in the general vicinity of a location and check in. I can drive by check in just about anywhere I want you to believe I've been. Part of me thinks they drive past the gym and check in on their way to the donut shop. That's just me but I am sure some of you have had your suspicions, too. So, I've figured out that either some of you are totally obsessed with your appearance and ignore the rest of your lives to workout for many, many hours per day OR you just want us to think that so you look like you are better than the rest of us. Trust me, the next party where I can see your muffin top up close and personal, I'll know the truth. Won't that suck balls for you?
Let's not forget to mention the perpetual vacationer. I don't necessarily mean the seven-day Aruba trips. Actually, those photos are lovely. What I am referring to, are those that take jaunts here, there, and everywhere and never seem to work a day in their lives. Really? Who pays for these little getaways? Someone signs their name at the bottom of the credit card slip. Please, nobody wants to know that you live your life like a permanent vacation while the rest of us work our asses off and actually admit it. If I go six towns east, I don't announce it for all to read. While it may constitute getting out of Dodge for me, it's not post-worthy, and who gives a shit, anyway? This person celebrates a trip to the mall, posting pics along the way. Bitch, I could not give a ripe fuck where you are now, you don't need to chronicle it for me. It's not jealousy. I go places, out of town, stay in hotels...all that fun shit. The difference between me and the other broad, I don't feel the need to rub your nose it. Repeatedly.
Did you get dressed this morning? Oh please, post a photo of your outfit, said no one, ever. Do you actually think the rest of us need a pictorial view of each item in your closet, posed just right in order to accentuate what you think are your best features? Guess what? You'd be wrong. I know you are totally excited about being able to button your own shirt now, but we've expected this from you for years. It's not an accomplishment at forty years old. The poses are absolutely hilarious! Lady Madonna has nothing on you. That perfect combination of saint and whore, you've clearly worked on it in the mirror, haven't you? Let me assure you, you look ridiculous. If you were actually a model, you wouldn't be taking pics of yourself with your cell phone to post on Facebook. In case you were wondering. Which I am sure you aren't.
What have we learned today? Aside from the fact that I just don't give a rat's dangling testicle where you are, what you do, or what you eat and drink every minute of every fucking day...which is abundantly true. We've also begun to come to terms with the fact that others share my opinion, the one that counts right now. Think before you post. Is it remotely entertaining from anyone else's point of view? Have I posted this 573 times before? Will anyone else be interested, or have I pushed the limits of everyone's patience yet again? Does it really fucking matter to anyone BUT me? I'll be willing to bet the answer to all of the above is, "Are you friggin kidding me right now???"
Monday, August 6, 2012
You were born here, did you REALLY say that?!?!
Sweet baby Jesus! I'd swear some people never learned English. Proper English. Grammar and all that fun shit you learn in elementary school. The fucking basics. I don't ask for much. Never once have I expected anyone to speak using the same eloquent prose that we were forced to read in high school. Nobody is asking you to compose your thoughts in iambic pentameter. Just, please, for the love of all things good and holy, speak correctly. Don't murder your mother tongue. It's embarrassing...for me AND you.I have to say that I hail from the same country and you are making ME look like a moron. Unacceptable.
Not everyone majored in English, like I did. Let me assure you, I didn't think you did. A fairly useless degree at best, it has afforded me the ability to write understandably and with a certain degree of clarity that many cannot. However, knowing that "brung" isn't a word doesn't take an advanced degree and an abundance of student loans. Verb conjugation isn't reserved solely for Spanish class, or whatever foreign language you chose to take in school. Using the right form of any word, verb, noun, pronoun, is mandatory. You want to be understood, right? Most people will be able to translate some of what you are saying because we have children and have heard the bastardization of language as only the young can. In general, you sound like an idiot, on your best day. Realizing that you frustrate the shit out of most people who have the unfortunate privilege of being forced to listen to you, should clue you in that something has to be done. When I hear that someone had "tooken" the bus, I feel stabby, oh so stabby. What the fuck on Earth is tooken? Do you even own a dictionary? Not every kid was a screaming nerd like I was and read the dictionary for fun, of this I am painfully aware. But, we aren't here to discuss my quirks and childhood issues. We can, just not now.
I am not picking on those for whom English is a second language. My great-grandparents did not claim English as their primary language, I do understand the struggle and can forgive those who emigrated from their homeland to come here. English is one of the hardest languages to learn. I can accept that. However, when it is the ONLY language you've ever heard and used your entire life, I expect a fair amount fluency. What I don't want to hear spewing out of your cakehole is that your son is "more better" at sports than his cousin. You are clearly *more stupider* than I can believe any human being could be. Did you really feel that comparative needed a little boost? A little something, something? Damn.
Another interesting habit of those who torture and maim English is when they are in the middle of the aforementioned language brutality, they suddenly slow down and speak very succinctly, like they want you to hear just how smart they believe themselves to be. Not to be confused with the speaking to foreigners in customer service method of speaking loudly and slowly. This is a case of a burst of imagined intelligence coupled with a need to be validated for that outstanding burst. Let me assure you, what you do when you try to speak in those lovely rounded tones, is look even more retarded. All you are doing is drawing attention to the fact that you cannot speak your native language with any more proficiency than the average toddler.
Some phrases are regionally specific and have nothing to do with incorrect speech patterns. There's no difference between soda, pop, and coke. Just like a sneaker and tennis shoe differ only in spelling. This is not what rubs my ass the wrong way at all. As a matter of fact, I happen to love the differences in the way people speak from East to West and North to South. I'm the first to pick up on new names for things as well as regional accents. Love 'em all! What chafes my hide, what really gets under my skin like a friggin parasite is people who seriously don't know how to speak.
At a CPR/First Aid certification renewal class, my coworkers and I chose to sit as far back as possible, like the ill-behaved children we are, so we could mock the presenter. At least I admitted it! Anyway, she was your typical bleached-blonde, white trash woman with the long-assed fake nails and teased hair. Queen of the trailer park. To her credit, she was fast and didn't drag the class out to it's full, grueling, repetitive 8 hours. However, and you knew this was coming, her grasp of the English language was embarrassingly slight. As my friends and I eyeballed each other while she was speaking, snickering here and there because we are immature at times, she gave the usual spiel along with some homespun anecdotes using her own life as examples. Fanfuckingtastic. Love that shit. But, when she told us the story of how her son's appendix "had bursted," I almost peed my pants. Seriously. It was touch and go for a while, trying to stifle my laughter, wipe the tears from eyes, and attempting to avoid looking at any of my friends, knowing it would have caused an eruption of uncontrolled hysteria. I suppose sometimes, the stupidity of others can be quite entertaining. I know I get a kick out of it.
While some phrases are regionally specific and have nothing to do with bad grammar, there are others that are just plain wrong. The one I want to bring to your attention is the hanging preposition. Nowhere else have I heard so much abuse of this language offense than right here in the Bay Area. One specific example sticks in my mind like crap on the bottom of my shoe at the CA State Fair. No way to clean it completely and the stink stays with you for what seems like an eternity. Somehow, some way, leaving the word AT hanging off the end of a sentence has become a normal speech pattern. I must have blinked. I've heard teachers do it! What the fuck?!?! Let me know where you're AT, is not and will never be grammatically correct. If you want me to take you seriously, just don't do it. Am I the only one who had to diagram sentences in 7th and 8th grade? A prepositional phrase is just that, it has more words. It doesn't stand alone. Don't leave it there like a redheaded step-child.
In case you were wondering, SUPPOSABLY and IRREGARDLESS aren't words, either. No matter how many dumb shit newscasters you hear use them tonight on your giant, flat-screen TV, they still don't exist. That is, if you can stop laughing at their flowery pronunciations of Spanish words while continuing the newscast in their well-trained non-accents to actually hear them say much of anything else. I don't ask for much from the American public. Is requesting that you speak the language of the country you live in correctly too difficult? Have I asked for a pint of blood and your first born? Are you incapable of proper speech? Well, then, know this, I will laugh at you, out loud and with great enthusiasm. I may even encourage others to join me while pointing at you. Maybe I'm being mean, but you sound like a fucking doofus, what do you expect? Are you friggin kidding me right now???
Not everyone majored in English, like I did. Let me assure you, I didn't think you did. A fairly useless degree at best, it has afforded me the ability to write understandably and with a certain degree of clarity that many cannot. However, knowing that "brung" isn't a word doesn't take an advanced degree and an abundance of student loans. Verb conjugation isn't reserved solely for Spanish class, or whatever foreign language you chose to take in school. Using the right form of any word, verb, noun, pronoun, is mandatory. You want to be understood, right? Most people will be able to translate some of what you are saying because we have children and have heard the bastardization of language as only the young can. In general, you sound like an idiot, on your best day. Realizing that you frustrate the shit out of most people who have the unfortunate privilege of being forced to listen to you, should clue you in that something has to be done. When I hear that someone had "tooken" the bus, I feel stabby, oh so stabby. What the fuck on Earth is tooken? Do you even own a dictionary? Not every kid was a screaming nerd like I was and read the dictionary for fun, of this I am painfully aware. But, we aren't here to discuss my quirks and childhood issues. We can, just not now.
I am not picking on those for whom English is a second language. My great-grandparents did not claim English as their primary language, I do understand the struggle and can forgive those who emigrated from their homeland to come here. English is one of the hardest languages to learn. I can accept that. However, when it is the ONLY language you've ever heard and used your entire life, I expect a fair amount fluency. What I don't want to hear spewing out of your cakehole is that your son is "more better" at sports than his cousin. You are clearly *more stupider* than I can believe any human being could be. Did you really feel that comparative needed a little boost? A little something, something? Damn.
Another interesting habit of those who torture and maim English is when they are in the middle of the aforementioned language brutality, they suddenly slow down and speak very succinctly, like they want you to hear just how smart they believe themselves to be. Not to be confused with the speaking to foreigners in customer service method of speaking loudly and slowly. This is a case of a burst of imagined intelligence coupled with a need to be validated for that outstanding burst. Let me assure you, what you do when you try to speak in those lovely rounded tones, is look even more retarded. All you are doing is drawing attention to the fact that you cannot speak your native language with any more proficiency than the average toddler.
Some phrases are regionally specific and have nothing to do with incorrect speech patterns. There's no difference between soda, pop, and coke. Just like a sneaker and tennis shoe differ only in spelling. This is not what rubs my ass the wrong way at all. As a matter of fact, I happen to love the differences in the way people speak from East to West and North to South. I'm the first to pick up on new names for things as well as regional accents. Love 'em all! What chafes my hide, what really gets under my skin like a friggin parasite is people who seriously don't know how to speak.
At a CPR/First Aid certification renewal class, my coworkers and I chose to sit as far back as possible, like the ill-behaved children we are, so we could mock the presenter. At least I admitted it! Anyway, she was your typical bleached-blonde, white trash woman with the long-assed fake nails and teased hair. Queen of the trailer park. To her credit, she was fast and didn't drag the class out to it's full, grueling, repetitive 8 hours. However, and you knew this was coming, her grasp of the English language was embarrassingly slight. As my friends and I eyeballed each other while she was speaking, snickering here and there because we are immature at times, she gave the usual spiel along with some homespun anecdotes using her own life as examples. Fanfuckingtastic. Love that shit. But, when she told us the story of how her son's appendix "had bursted," I almost peed my pants. Seriously. It was touch and go for a while, trying to stifle my laughter, wipe the tears from eyes, and attempting to avoid looking at any of my friends, knowing it would have caused an eruption of uncontrolled hysteria. I suppose sometimes, the stupidity of others can be quite entertaining. I know I get a kick out of it.
While some phrases are regionally specific and have nothing to do with bad grammar, there are others that are just plain wrong. The one I want to bring to your attention is the hanging preposition. Nowhere else have I heard so much abuse of this language offense than right here in the Bay Area. One specific example sticks in my mind like crap on the bottom of my shoe at the CA State Fair. No way to clean it completely and the stink stays with you for what seems like an eternity. Somehow, some way, leaving the word AT hanging off the end of a sentence has become a normal speech pattern. I must have blinked. I've heard teachers do it! What the fuck?!?! Let me know where you're AT, is not and will never be grammatically correct. If you want me to take you seriously, just don't do it. Am I the only one who had to diagram sentences in 7th and 8th grade? A prepositional phrase is just that, it has more words. It doesn't stand alone. Don't leave it there like a redheaded step-child.
In case you were wondering, SUPPOSABLY and IRREGARDLESS aren't words, either. No matter how many dumb shit newscasters you hear use them tonight on your giant, flat-screen TV, they still don't exist. That is, if you can stop laughing at their flowery pronunciations of Spanish words while continuing the newscast in their well-trained non-accents to actually hear them say much of anything else. I don't ask for much from the American public. Is requesting that you speak the language of the country you live in correctly too difficult? Have I asked for a pint of blood and your first born? Are you incapable of proper speech? Well, then, know this, I will laugh at you, out loud and with great enthusiasm. I may even encourage others to join me while pointing at you. Maybe I'm being mean, but you sound like a fucking doofus, what do you expect? Are you friggin kidding me right now???
Friday, August 3, 2012
The shrieks of the drama kings and queens make my ears bleed
One in every fucking crowd, two or three if the gods have smiled down upon you. You know the one I'm talking about. "OHMYGOD! Did you hear what she just saaaaaaaaaidddd?" Um, no, because I could NOT care less, but please, regale me with all the details at top volume. Stuck in high school, these buffoons and dumbasses haven't bothered to notice that the rest of us have not only grown up, but have developed adult priorities. None of which include what someone just said, did, bought, or whatever. Jumping up and down, flailing their arms like a retarded bird on crack, these people demand your attention day and night. There is always something going on and it must be discussed, RIGHT NOW.
Here's what I have to say about the phone ringing at 3am, if you or an immediate family member are not dead or dying, you have no reason to dial my goddamn phone at that hour. Expect an hour-appropriate response. I'll wake the rest of my house just to tell you off. Yes, I'll take that risk. Once I'm up, I don't care who has to join me. Then we'll all be pissed off at you. Makes you think, huh? Wouldn't running into all of us become really uncomfortable? Maybe by that time, you'll have gained your hearing back in your "phone" ear after I blasted you a new asshole. Years ago, I'd take a call at that hour from a sad friend and listen to her tales of woe for hours. I'm not 16 anymore, and sleep comes before you.
It's not that I don't care. Well, yeah, I guess it is. Reality is harsh, and I feel obligated to dole out daily doses as I see fit. What amazes me the most, is your uncanny ability to choose the absolute worst time to need my ear. The middle of the night is bad, but so is when I am making dinner, doing laundry, waiting in line at Safeway...seems like almost always a bad time. My point is, and I do have one, if you've called me at an inopportune time, it'd be great if you would realize on your own and maturely hang up first. Don't make me be the bitch every time. Much as I enjoy the title, and I do, you take some of the fun out of it by being so friggin pathetic.
Choosing what to wear shouldn't be that hard. At your age, I think you've done it a few thousand or so times on your own. Why must you call me, out of breath from rummaging through your closet and dresser, to ask me if the black flats will go better with the red capris? How the fuck should I know? Am I there? Does it affect me or whether I'm using Shout or OxyClean on my clothing? No to both. I am busy. You should be, too. Busy and old enough to figure out what footwear works for you today.
Did I hear what that bitch said? Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. I have an uncanny ability to tune out bullshit and nonsense, so chances are pretty good I have no idea what the fuck you are talking about. You heard. You heard, you mulled it over, you've even figured out its relevance to you! Now you want me to pick it apart and draw diagrams and charts proving that, indeed, this all affects you in some way. Then, you want me to rethink the whole thing, and prove how it all makes her a total bitch, and you were SO right. Holy mother of the sweet baby Jesus! I think my head may have exploded all over my cell phone, and I'm pretty positive it voided my warranty. What the hell do you expect to happen after we do this exercise in futility? Will your world change drastically? Will she stop being a bitch? Does it really matter?
It's one thing to call me to have a bitch-fest at someone else's expense. You may or may not have noticed, but I do derive great joy from laughing at others. This is acceptable, if I have time, and if I'm not sleeping. I'll gladly join you in mocking someone's outfit or the absolutely unbelievable bullshit story they told you today. Nothing would make me happier. Well, that's a total lie, but you get my drift. But don't expect me to do it with a spatula in hand or while shoveling the litter box. While fun to do, it's not life-threatening so I'm not going to drop trou and give you my undivided attention.
Calling me practically stumbling over yourself to tell me what happened on your reality show, that, by the way, I don't watch, was your first mistake. Your next was expecting me to engage you in a semi-intelligent conversation about it. I say semi-intelligent because reality shows are borderline Special Ed, and another topic we'll explore one day. I will tell you that I don't know these people, and surprise, you don't either. To hear you talk about them like you just got back from having coffee at Starbucks with these people makes you not too many steps above that borderline. But you not only want to tell me what happened on this past episode, but you want me to assess the situation for you. What situation? Seriously? You DO realize most of this shit is scripted, right? Sorry, I know I made your world come crashing down at your feet, but someone had to do it.
Let's see what we've learned today. Gossip has its place in everyone's life. I fully support it and your right to do so. Hell, I support my right, too. I have no issue being there for you when you really, truly need me. Please assess the actual need first. My patience is limited, as I am getting older. My time is limited because, well, I'm way more important than you realize. Will I answer when you call? Of course. Will I express great concern if you have a real issue? Naturally, I'm considerate that way. Is it ok to call after 11pm? Are you friggin kidding me right now???
Here's what I have to say about the phone ringing at 3am, if you or an immediate family member are not dead or dying, you have no reason to dial my goddamn phone at that hour. Expect an hour-appropriate response. I'll wake the rest of my house just to tell you off. Yes, I'll take that risk. Once I'm up, I don't care who has to join me. Then we'll all be pissed off at you. Makes you think, huh? Wouldn't running into all of us become really uncomfortable? Maybe by that time, you'll have gained your hearing back in your "phone" ear after I blasted you a new asshole. Years ago, I'd take a call at that hour from a sad friend and listen to her tales of woe for hours. I'm not 16 anymore, and sleep comes before you.
It's not that I don't care. Well, yeah, I guess it is. Reality is harsh, and I feel obligated to dole out daily doses as I see fit. What amazes me the most, is your uncanny ability to choose the absolute worst time to need my ear. The middle of the night is bad, but so is when I am making dinner, doing laundry, waiting in line at Safeway...seems like almost always a bad time. My point is, and I do have one, if you've called me at an inopportune time, it'd be great if you would realize on your own and maturely hang up first. Don't make me be the bitch every time. Much as I enjoy the title, and I do, you take some of the fun out of it by being so friggin pathetic.
Choosing what to wear shouldn't be that hard. At your age, I think you've done it a few thousand or so times on your own. Why must you call me, out of breath from rummaging through your closet and dresser, to ask me if the black flats will go better with the red capris? How the fuck should I know? Am I there? Does it affect me or whether I'm using Shout or OxyClean on my clothing? No to both. I am busy. You should be, too. Busy and old enough to figure out what footwear works for you today.
Did I hear what that bitch said? Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. I have an uncanny ability to tune out bullshit and nonsense, so chances are pretty good I have no idea what the fuck you are talking about. You heard. You heard, you mulled it over, you've even figured out its relevance to you! Now you want me to pick it apart and draw diagrams and charts proving that, indeed, this all affects you in some way. Then, you want me to rethink the whole thing, and prove how it all makes her a total bitch, and you were SO right. Holy mother of the sweet baby Jesus! I think my head may have exploded all over my cell phone, and I'm pretty positive it voided my warranty. What the hell do you expect to happen after we do this exercise in futility? Will your world change drastically? Will she stop being a bitch? Does it really matter?
It's one thing to call me to have a bitch-fest at someone else's expense. You may or may not have noticed, but I do derive great joy from laughing at others. This is acceptable, if I have time, and if I'm not sleeping. I'll gladly join you in mocking someone's outfit or the absolutely unbelievable bullshit story they told you today. Nothing would make me happier. Well, that's a total lie, but you get my drift. But don't expect me to do it with a spatula in hand or while shoveling the litter box. While fun to do, it's not life-threatening so I'm not going to drop trou and give you my undivided attention.
Calling me practically stumbling over yourself to tell me what happened on your reality show, that, by the way, I don't watch, was your first mistake. Your next was expecting me to engage you in a semi-intelligent conversation about it. I say semi-intelligent because reality shows are borderline Special Ed, and another topic we'll explore one day. I will tell you that I don't know these people, and surprise, you don't either. To hear you talk about them like you just got back from having coffee at Starbucks with these people makes you not too many steps above that borderline. But you not only want to tell me what happened on this past episode, but you want me to assess the situation for you. What situation? Seriously? You DO realize most of this shit is scripted, right? Sorry, I know I made your world come crashing down at your feet, but someone had to do it.
Let's see what we've learned today. Gossip has its place in everyone's life. I fully support it and your right to do so. Hell, I support my right, too. I have no issue being there for you when you really, truly need me. Please assess the actual need first. My patience is limited, as I am getting older. My time is limited because, well, I'm way more important than you realize. Will I answer when you call? Of course. Will I express great concern if you have a real issue? Naturally, I'm considerate that way. Is it ok to call after 11pm? Are you friggin kidding me right now???
Thursday, August 2, 2012
NY Catholic high school in the 80's. How many times did YOU roll your skirt?
You haven't truly lived unless you survived Catholic high school. Now I know all you public school graduates will argue this point to death. Filling my ears with stories about how rough it was, and how bad ass you had to be. That may be so, my fellow NY'ers. However, you did it in clothing that YOU chose, and you didn't have to hide your badassery from priests and nuns. We win. Nothing compares to being forced to dress like a dork in school as a teenager trying to come into your own, and take the city buses to get there. Try getting on a crowded bus wearing a maroon kilt that had a giant golden safety pin, tights, and loafers and see if you can avoid the stares and nasty comments from the PUBLIC school kids. That's right, it was you who made our lives a living hell travelling to and from school.
We had such a mutual dislike going on between the Catholic school kids and public school kids in high school. Maybe we were a little jealous that you could wear whatever the fuck you wanted. Although, that begs the question, why did you dress like homeless people if you were given a choice??? Many of you looked like nobody's child, while others looked like gang members, some like streetwalkers, and a fair amount like crack heads. Now I've pissed off a ton of you. Guess what? Tough shit. Didn't bother you when you made fun of us on the bus, did it? Didn't phase you when you egged us and the passing buses were rode on Halloween, did it? Didn't bug you at all when you tried to lift our skirts while boarding the buses behind us. We fucked you there...we all wore shorts underneath. Public or private, all boys that age are pigs.
This is not to say that the whole experience sucked balls. It didn't. We managed to have fun in ugly skirts, two sizes too big even after the uniform company measured all of us. We just rolled that bad boy up at the waist and rocked the hoe-bag look. Not necessarily a bad thing, every guy fantasizes about dirty school girls. But coupling that sexy (excuse me while I change underwear, I may have peed myself saying something as ridiculous as that) skirt with a collared shirt or sweater seriously detracted from any sort of attractiveness we may have attained by rolling it up 5 times. That and the oh-so-sexy tights we all wore with the flat shoes we were required to wear. I suppose they had a clue about the dirty school girl and helped us take it down a notch with dorky shoes. We did attempt to add the cute factor back in by wearing slouched socks over the tights, sometimes two alternating pairs in complimentary colors. Are you gagging yet?
What we did that set us apart from even the *ahem* individuality of the public school girls, is we seriously fucking rocked giant hair. I kid you not, we had enormous hair and were damn proud of it. The higher the better. In retrospect, and we all know that hindsight is 20/20, we all would have been wise to buy stock in Aqua Net. Every girl carried the mega-sized can of Aqua Net in her bag. Later to be replaced by the genius invention called Stiff Stuff, but I digress. It was our badge of honor, our pass into the secret society of girls. Hair that looked like a teased lion's mane or even better, a teased and permed lion's mane was how we expressed ourselves. And express we did, loudly and with great volume!
Walking into the bathroom required a gas mask to assist in breathing while stepping through the hairspray fog that seemed to be constantly in there. How else could we achieve our signature look? Really big hair, bangs curled under looking like a hairy coke can on our foreheads, and maybe the most important and defining part, the pieces of side and top pulled back with a butterfly clip. But wait, that's not it. After we pulled those strategic pieces back, we then yanked the hair forward using four fingers shoved into the hair until there was the BUMP. The bump which had to be larger than life and sprayed till it looked like it had been professionally shellacked. And you thought Snooki invented it? Balls.
Girls with massive hair required some serious makeup. Thick black eyeliner that came out to points on the top and the bottom lid giving all of us exaggerated cat eyes was just the beginning. We layered on mascara on our lashes until it looked like two tarantulas died on our faces. Thick foundation was applied until you could write with your fingernail on our cheeks. We completed this glamorous look with big, pink glossy lips. Vogue should have had us on their cover for the years spanning 1984-1988. We were the epitome of 80s fashion, or so we thought. Laugh all you want, you bitches are just jealous that you didn't come up with it.
Boys had other challenges with the uniform. Plain navy pants and a collared shirt, even if they wore a sweater. Seemingly easy, or so you think. If you were a woody, which is what we called the rock/stoners, it was a piece of cake. Plaid flannel shirts were all collared and button-down. Problem solved. If you were nerdy, even easier. But if you were a guido, heaven help you. How the hell could you rock your look without the prerequisite wife-beater (we called them guinea Ts) and Sergio Tacchini jacket? Seriously, what the fuck was the majority of the male population in my high school supposed to do? Solution: wear a ton of gold jewelry. Open that motherfucking collar up, and dangle three or four thick gold chains from your neck. Make sure you had at least one cross, the horn, and perhaps a saint or two hanging from those chains. That covered the religion part of the program. But no self-respecting cugine (koo-zheen for you non-NY, non-Italians) would be caught dead without the gold Playboy bunny hanging from one of those necklaces. The same Playboy bunny symbol that graced the locks on their Cadillac doors, but again, a whole other topic.
Thinking back, I suppose we all wore way too much gold jewelry. Rings on almost every finger, necklaces filled with charms and charm holders to carry the load of all those baubles, bracelets, earrings. OK, we were tacky...but we made it look good!
Dressing to impress in Catholic high school was a challenge. We met that challenge head-on, and hair-on daily and with style. We took what could have been a fashion nightmare and turned it into something we could actually wear with minimized embarrassment on the streets of Queens. We made being Italian into a fashion statement, one that even the Irish girls adopted. Our look was even imitated on the Jersey Shore, don't believe for a second it was created in the 2000s by Jersey girls! Hell to the NO! It was born in Catholic high schools in Queens, NY, thank you very fucking much. Am I glad I was a part of it? You better believe it. Looking back at my yearbook, would I want to repeat that look today? Are you friggin kidding me right now???
We had such a mutual dislike going on between the Catholic school kids and public school kids in high school. Maybe we were a little jealous that you could wear whatever the fuck you wanted. Although, that begs the question, why did you dress like homeless people if you were given a choice??? Many of you looked like nobody's child, while others looked like gang members, some like streetwalkers, and a fair amount like crack heads. Now I've pissed off a ton of you. Guess what? Tough shit. Didn't bother you when you made fun of us on the bus, did it? Didn't phase you when you egged us and the passing buses were rode on Halloween, did it? Didn't bug you at all when you tried to lift our skirts while boarding the buses behind us. We fucked you there...we all wore shorts underneath. Public or private, all boys that age are pigs.
This is not to say that the whole experience sucked balls. It didn't. We managed to have fun in ugly skirts, two sizes too big even after the uniform company measured all of us. We just rolled that bad boy up at the waist and rocked the hoe-bag look. Not necessarily a bad thing, every guy fantasizes about dirty school girls. But coupling that sexy (excuse me while I change underwear, I may have peed myself saying something as ridiculous as that) skirt with a collared shirt or sweater seriously detracted from any sort of attractiveness we may have attained by rolling it up 5 times. That and the oh-so-sexy tights we all wore with the flat shoes we were required to wear. I suppose they had a clue about the dirty school girl and helped us take it down a notch with dorky shoes. We did attempt to add the cute factor back in by wearing slouched socks over the tights, sometimes two alternating pairs in complimentary colors. Are you gagging yet?
What we did that set us apart from even the *ahem* individuality of the public school girls, is we seriously fucking rocked giant hair. I kid you not, we had enormous hair and were damn proud of it. The higher the better. In retrospect, and we all know that hindsight is 20/20, we all would have been wise to buy stock in Aqua Net. Every girl carried the mega-sized can of Aqua Net in her bag. Later to be replaced by the genius invention called Stiff Stuff, but I digress. It was our badge of honor, our pass into the secret society of girls. Hair that looked like a teased lion's mane or even better, a teased and permed lion's mane was how we expressed ourselves. And express we did, loudly and with great volume!
Walking into the bathroom required a gas mask to assist in breathing while stepping through the hairspray fog that seemed to be constantly in there. How else could we achieve our signature look? Really big hair, bangs curled under looking like a hairy coke can on our foreheads, and maybe the most important and defining part, the pieces of side and top pulled back with a butterfly clip. But wait, that's not it. After we pulled those strategic pieces back, we then yanked the hair forward using four fingers shoved into the hair until there was the BUMP. The bump which had to be larger than life and sprayed till it looked like it had been professionally shellacked. And you thought Snooki invented it? Balls.
Girls with massive hair required some serious makeup. Thick black eyeliner that came out to points on the top and the bottom lid giving all of us exaggerated cat eyes was just the beginning. We layered on mascara on our lashes until it looked like two tarantulas died on our faces. Thick foundation was applied until you could write with your fingernail on our cheeks. We completed this glamorous look with big, pink glossy lips. Vogue should have had us on their cover for the years spanning 1984-1988. We were the epitome of 80s fashion, or so we thought. Laugh all you want, you bitches are just jealous that you didn't come up with it.
Boys had other challenges with the uniform. Plain navy pants and a collared shirt, even if they wore a sweater. Seemingly easy, or so you think. If you were a woody, which is what we called the rock/stoners, it was a piece of cake. Plaid flannel shirts were all collared and button-down. Problem solved. If you were nerdy, even easier. But if you were a guido, heaven help you. How the hell could you rock your look without the prerequisite wife-beater (we called them guinea Ts) and Sergio Tacchini jacket? Seriously, what the fuck was the majority of the male population in my high school supposed to do? Solution: wear a ton of gold jewelry. Open that motherfucking collar up, and dangle three or four thick gold chains from your neck. Make sure you had at least one cross, the horn, and perhaps a saint or two hanging from those chains. That covered the religion part of the program. But no self-respecting cugine (koo-zheen for you non-NY, non-Italians) would be caught dead without the gold Playboy bunny hanging from one of those necklaces. The same Playboy bunny symbol that graced the locks on their Cadillac doors, but again, a whole other topic.
Thinking back, I suppose we all wore way too much gold jewelry. Rings on almost every finger, necklaces filled with charms and charm holders to carry the load of all those baubles, bracelets, earrings. OK, we were tacky...but we made it look good!
Dressing to impress in Catholic high school was a challenge. We met that challenge head-on, and hair-on daily and with style. We took what could have been a fashion nightmare and turned it into something we could actually wear with minimized embarrassment on the streets of Queens. We made being Italian into a fashion statement, one that even the Irish girls adopted. Our look was even imitated on the Jersey Shore, don't believe for a second it was created in the 2000s by Jersey girls! Hell to the NO! It was born in Catholic high schools in Queens, NY, thank you very fucking much. Am I glad I was a part of it? You better believe it. Looking back at my yearbook, would I want to repeat that look today? Are you friggin kidding me right now???
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
You want ranch with that? The Californication of my life.
Ranch dressing was never my favorite growing up. I was a Thousand Island girl, with an occasional oil and vinegar moment. Fast forward twenty-five years, and I found myself on the Left Coast, land of ranch with everything. Holy shit! The first time I ordered fries and the waitress asked me if I wanted ranch, I looked at her like she had an extra ass growing on her forehead. Shaking my head to clear the nonsense I just heard, I told her ketchup would be more than enough. Who puts ranch on french fries? Just about everyone out here, that's who. I tried to let that one slide, not wanting to reject the entire coast over a condiment.
Much to my disgust, I also learned that Californians put mustard on hamburgers and mayo on freaking everything. I despise mayo. That's not true, it has its place. In my tuna salad. The end. One road trip, many years ago, we stopped to pick up some breakfast sandwiches at the local greasy spoon. Thinking this would be a quick and easy stop, I jump out of the car and step into the diner. The nice Mexican lady behind the counter greeted me and I placed an order for three bacon, egg, and cheeses on a roll. Basic breakfast order, right? Not here. Did I add any items to that order? No, I most certainly did not. Bacon, egg, and cheese. Plain and fucking simple. What I received, and only noticed once back in the car and on the road, was a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich...with lettuce and gobs of fucking mayo! Who the hell puts lettuce and mayo on something that contains an egg? NorCal residents do.
This was when I started to wonder if they even had taste buds out here. It was bad enough I couldn't find a real pizzeria here, and that is tragic, but I was coming face to face with the most ferocious food combinations I had ever encountered. Having been spoiled by eating the best pizza in the country all my life, I didn't know that pizza could be gross. Doughy and peppery, this shit truly upset me. Who is making this crap? Who told them that you should mix cheddar cheese in with the mozzarella? Cheddar is a cheese I should never see on pizza or any Italian food. Yet, over and over again, this orange glop found its way on to every pizza I ordered, attempting to find real pizza.
Pizza toppings. They should be simple, basic, and taste good with sauce and mozz. What they shouldn't be is BBQ'ed. Pizzas are not edible plates on which to put other non-related food items. Ham and pineapple have no place on a pizza. Neither does BBQ sauce or Canadian bacon or cilantro. It's not a fucking taco! Good lord, how do you people eat this shit? Pepperoni, garlic, meatballs, mushrooms, olives...normal pizza accompaniments. Leave the Mexican ingredients at the taqueria.
Avocado is something I never thought I would come to enjoy. It's funny-looking, smells weird, and a textural nightmare. My mom brought one home many, many years ago and felt we should try it. I almost projectile vomited having tried the tiniest bite. She never bought another. Here, it's a staple like rice in China. I was very reluctant to put that mushy green stuff in my mouth again. But, I felt almost obligated to do it. As a California resident, I think you HAVE to eat it. I'm not sure they'll let you have a driver's license without doing so. I wasn't taking any chances, so I decided to take the chicken shit way out. Guacamole. That's right, people. Mash that odd-looking fucker up with some lime, onion, cilantro, garlic...I'll have a taste. Suddenly, I was a convert. Maybe they aren't so nasty, after all. Took a considerably longer time to attempt to eat a slice on its own. Ok, maybe the granola-chomping, hemp-wearing, Left Coasters were on to something.
As I began the assimilation process, I noticed my tastes begin to adapt and change. No longer was I hunting for NY Chinese food, rather I had embraced the spicy, more authentic CA version of it. Even if the Chinese restaurants out here think using scraps of chicken and beef anuses is acceptable usage of meat in a szechuan dish, I can look past it or eat shrimp and avoid the heinous, tendony alternatives. I'll slap avocado slices on my burger, but don't expect me to slather mustard on it. Ketchup belongs on a burger, mustard on a hot dog. Commit that to memory, free-range, organic natives. Mayo still has absolutely no place on my egg sandwiches, nor will it ever. That shit is just nasty. I'll even dip a fry or onion in ranch, unprovoked and completely of my own volition. But, I will not, cannot, never, ever, even on a dare dunk my goddamn pizza slice in ranch dressing. Even if it is too peppery, double cut because you dip wads don't know how to properly FOLD a slice to eat it, or speckled with fucking cheddar cheese. Ranch doesn't belong near my pizza, are you friggin kidding me right now?
Much to my disgust, I also learned that Californians put mustard on hamburgers and mayo on freaking everything. I despise mayo. That's not true, it has its place. In my tuna salad. The end. One road trip, many years ago, we stopped to pick up some breakfast sandwiches at the local greasy spoon. Thinking this would be a quick and easy stop, I jump out of the car and step into the diner. The nice Mexican lady behind the counter greeted me and I placed an order for three bacon, egg, and cheeses on a roll. Basic breakfast order, right? Not here. Did I add any items to that order? No, I most certainly did not. Bacon, egg, and cheese. Plain and fucking simple. What I received, and only noticed once back in the car and on the road, was a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich...with lettuce and gobs of fucking mayo! Who the hell puts lettuce and mayo on something that contains an egg? NorCal residents do.
This was when I started to wonder if they even had taste buds out here. It was bad enough I couldn't find a real pizzeria here, and that is tragic, but I was coming face to face with the most ferocious food combinations I had ever encountered. Having been spoiled by eating the best pizza in the country all my life, I didn't know that pizza could be gross. Doughy and peppery, this shit truly upset me. Who is making this crap? Who told them that you should mix cheddar cheese in with the mozzarella? Cheddar is a cheese I should never see on pizza or any Italian food. Yet, over and over again, this orange glop found its way on to every pizza I ordered, attempting to find real pizza.
Pizza toppings. They should be simple, basic, and taste good with sauce and mozz. What they shouldn't be is BBQ'ed. Pizzas are not edible plates on which to put other non-related food items. Ham and pineapple have no place on a pizza. Neither does BBQ sauce or Canadian bacon or cilantro. It's not a fucking taco! Good lord, how do you people eat this shit? Pepperoni, garlic, meatballs, mushrooms, olives...normal pizza accompaniments. Leave the Mexican ingredients at the taqueria.
Avocado is something I never thought I would come to enjoy. It's funny-looking, smells weird, and a textural nightmare. My mom brought one home many, many years ago and felt we should try it. I almost projectile vomited having tried the tiniest bite. She never bought another. Here, it's a staple like rice in China. I was very reluctant to put that mushy green stuff in my mouth again. But, I felt almost obligated to do it. As a California resident, I think you HAVE to eat it. I'm not sure they'll let you have a driver's license without doing so. I wasn't taking any chances, so I decided to take the chicken shit way out. Guacamole. That's right, people. Mash that odd-looking fucker up with some lime, onion, cilantro, garlic...I'll have a taste. Suddenly, I was a convert. Maybe they aren't so nasty, after all. Took a considerably longer time to attempt to eat a slice on its own. Ok, maybe the granola-chomping, hemp-wearing, Left Coasters were on to something.
As I began the assimilation process, I noticed my tastes begin to adapt and change. No longer was I hunting for NY Chinese food, rather I had embraced the spicy, more authentic CA version of it. Even if the Chinese restaurants out here think using scraps of chicken and beef anuses is acceptable usage of meat in a szechuan dish, I can look past it or eat shrimp and avoid the heinous, tendony alternatives. I'll slap avocado slices on my burger, but don't expect me to slather mustard on it. Ketchup belongs on a burger, mustard on a hot dog. Commit that to memory, free-range, organic natives. Mayo still has absolutely no place on my egg sandwiches, nor will it ever. That shit is just nasty. I'll even dip a fry or onion in ranch, unprovoked and completely of my own volition. But, I will not, cannot, never, ever, even on a dare dunk my goddamn pizza slice in ranch dressing. Even if it is too peppery, double cut because you dip wads don't know how to properly FOLD a slice to eat it, or speckled with fucking cheddar cheese. Ranch doesn't belong near my pizza, are you friggin kidding me right now?
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