I’d like to offer a belated “congrats” to Danica Patrick for being the first woman to win an Indy style race. I’m sure that will open the door for at least two more women out there who have dreams of compensating for their missing penises by driving around in circles REALLY fast. I mean, that’s why the guys do it right?
The best part is that Danica doesn’t have a mullet. She has a lovely head of hair and has been able to maintain her femininity in a sport primarily sponsored by cheap beer manufacturers and attended by thousands of men owing back child support.
As I perused the celebratory articles in the paper last week, I came across a photo that left me in tears. Apparently AirTrans is a sponsor of Ms. Patrick or their marketing guy is a consumer of the aforementioned cheap beer. Regardless the airline decided to honor Ms. P by putting her face on the plane and changing the name on the plane to . . . ready . . .
AirTranica.
Hot mess! Ferosha! And inadvertently validating to legions of T-girls across the globe. Can you imagine what their flight attendants are like?
"Oh . . . no . . . honey. You need to shut that baby the hell up! I got WORK to do."
"I SAID put your damn seat in the full, upright and LOCKED position! And from the looks of your saggedy ass, I know you know what a locked position looks like."
Of course, I’m sure that no one in the car racing world got the joke. I mean, can you imagine what a NASCAR dad would look like in drag? (A quick scan of Craigslist in quasi-rural areas would probably answer that rhetorical question.)
But all humor aside, I laud Danica Patrick. I think it’s amazing that she crossed that line first. But I still find it amazing that, in a world where people go so fast, it sure took us a long time to get here.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Is Sorry Enough?
Contrary to what the ramblings of this blog might lead you to believe, I was raised right by my sweet Mama. She was big on manners and we were taught early on how to behave in public. “Be on your Best Behavior!” she would admonish upon departure for some public event. Had more people been raised by my mom, I’d probably have a whole lot less to write about.
So, I guess it’s a good thing that I was a problem pregnancy and she couldn’t have any more after me. Wah-wah. Whatever. I’m still the baby, BITCHES!!!
But I digress. Today I did something that would have caused my mom to develop a case of the vapors. And it was totally inadvertent (it was NOT an “accident”—I loathe the lack of responsibility associated with that word), but probably one of the rudest things EVER.
I had to stop by a local retail establishment to make a quick pick-up (NO, it wasn’t a liquor store). Outside a young woman was in animated conversation on her celly. I silently thanked her for keeping it outside and not bringing it into the small confines of the space.
It should be noted here that while, not technically a fingernail chewer, I do occasionally indulge. Today was one of those days.
So, I’m being the fingernail gourmand. In public. Not good. But wait—it gets worse.
I transact my business and head out the door. As I’m pushing open the door, the nail I’m chewing on gives up the fight. And without thinking, I turn my head to the right . . . oh, it’s too horrible . . . I don’t know if I can . . . But I . . .
I spat.
A piece of fingernail.
On HER.
Our eyes met in a shared horror. I tossed off a sorry that sounded more like Simon Cowell than someone who was actually mortified by his actions.
As I scurried off, I heard her say into the phone, “You will NOT believe what just happened . . .”
So, I guess it’s a good thing that I was a problem pregnancy and she couldn’t have any more after me. Wah-wah. Whatever. I’m still the baby, BITCHES!!!
But I digress. Today I did something that would have caused my mom to develop a case of the vapors. And it was totally inadvertent (it was NOT an “accident”—I loathe the lack of responsibility associated with that word), but probably one of the rudest things EVER.
I had to stop by a local retail establishment to make a quick pick-up (NO, it wasn’t a liquor store). Outside a young woman was in animated conversation on her celly. I silently thanked her for keeping it outside and not bringing it into the small confines of the space.
It should be noted here that while, not technically a fingernail chewer, I do occasionally indulge. Today was one of those days.
So, I’m being the fingernail gourmand. In public. Not good. But wait—it gets worse.
I transact my business and head out the door. As I’m pushing open the door, the nail I’m chewing on gives up the fight. And without thinking, I turn my head to the right . . . oh, it’s too horrible . . . I don’t know if I can . . . But I . . .
I spat.
A piece of fingernail.
On HER.
Our eyes met in a shared horror. I tossed off a sorry that sounded more like Simon Cowell than someone who was actually mortified by his actions.
As I scurried off, I heard her say into the phone, “You will NOT believe what just happened . . .”
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Lucky, Lucky
So, the comment to yesterday’s post from JD made me feel bad about one line. I didn’t see “all my peeps” on this trip. Not even close. See, I’m really lucky that LA is almost a second home, in terms of the number of really dear friends I have there. I even ran into one randomly on the trail in Runyon Canyon Saturday morning.
Frequent commenter Drax, and her husband, Anonymous have been friends since college. In fact, I am godfather to their child. But I had made my apologies to them ahead of time, so hopefully I’m forgiven.
But this trip was really about a specific event and the activities surrounding it. I’ll probably head back out in June and hopefully get to see more people. One can never have too many friends. So to everyone I didn’t see, see you soon.
Frequent commenter Drax, and her husband, Anonymous have been friends since college. In fact, I am godfather to their child. But I had made my apologies to them ahead of time, so hopefully I’m forgiven.
But this trip was really about a specific event and the activities surrounding it. I’ll probably head back out in June and hopefully get to see more people. One can never have too many friends. So to everyone I didn’t see, see you soon.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Biceps Are Not Brains
So I did one of those 48 hour trips to LA this weekend. Got to see all my peeps. The amazing Julesy was the chair of a big Hollywood event, so the Beloved and I dusted off the tuxedoes and headed west (AFTER having my pants let out TWO INCHES in the waist. Motherfucker.)
We’re at the hometown airport on Friday waiting to depart, so I dart into the Everything Shoppe to grab a magazine, book and gum. Just outside the door to the Shoppe is the secondary screening area for TSA. A very tall, buff young man has been selected for secondary screening. He is facing me, standing no more than six or eight feet away. The TSA agent asks him to raise his arms out to his side, as he is going to pat him down.
Before doing so, the agent asks the routine question, “Do you have any injuries or conditions I should know about?” In a deep, manly voice, the dumb jock replies, in all seriousness, “Well my bicep is a little swollen from my workout yesterday.”
I could hear the TSA agents eyes rolling into the back of his head. Thank God this was the one moment all weekend when I didn’t have a drink in my hand. I would have spewed it out through my nose.
Ahhh, it’s a good thing he was pretty.
We’re at the hometown airport on Friday waiting to depart, so I dart into the Everything Shoppe to grab a magazine, book and gum. Just outside the door to the Shoppe is the secondary screening area for TSA. A very tall, buff young man has been selected for secondary screening. He is facing me, standing no more than six or eight feet away. The TSA agent asks him to raise his arms out to his side, as he is going to pat him down.
Before doing so, the agent asks the routine question, “Do you have any injuries or conditions I should know about?” In a deep, manly voice, the dumb jock replies, in all seriousness, “Well my bicep is a little swollen from my workout yesterday.”
I could hear the TSA agents eyes rolling into the back of his head. Thank God this was the one moment all weekend when I didn’t have a drink in my hand. I would have spewed it out through my nose.
Ahhh, it’s a good thing he was pretty.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Chadwick and the Angry Bitch
The Beloved and I spent most of last week in Big D, little a, double l, a- s. (oh, THAT’S how you spell pretentious!)
Not my most favorite locale on the planet, but we both had work there. The other key enticement ws the opportunity to see the fabulous and reclusive Jeffoise, who has known me since I was just a princess-in-training. Plus, the outrageous CoCo was visiting from London, so we wanted to wedge onto her dance card, as well.
Saturday night was our last night there. We were in bed by a reasonable hour, after a lovely evening with Jeffoise, but our sleep was not going to come easy. You see, next door was a lovely suite, with a terrace overlooking the skyline. Said terrace actually wrapped around our room, so we couldn’t have avoided the occupants if we tried.
And boy did we want to try.
I don’t know that I have ever experienced such thin walls. Or maybe these people just had piercing voices. Regardless, they checked in with the obvious intent of throwing a party. Loud drunken slurred speech (NOT coming out of MY mouth for a change) kept us awake for hours. They would move from the room to the terrace to the hot tub to the room, all the while keeping the decibel level at “make the dog howl.”
The “owner” of the room was named Chadwick. I know this because the drunk post-sorority girl (DPSG) kept calling his name repeatedly. I had an immediate mental image of who these people were. The DPSG was actually the loudest and most talkative—a combination I particularly loathe. Unless it’s me, of course. Then it’s just plain charming.
As Missy begins to crescendo, I glance at the clock. 2:40 a.m. Nice. And just then she delivers the line of the night.
“OMIGOD! We’re all naked! All I see is tattoos and flesh.”
Now, our room was, I guess, the second bedroom to the suite. There was a connecting door that didn’t quite seal, which I’m guessing made the noise situation worse. It also provided a nice conduit for the smoke from their cigarettes. Yum. Did I mention this is a non-smoking hotel?
Simultaneously, the DPSG’s celly rang out. And she began telling her friend what a great party they were having and how she should get right over there.
And that’s when Daddy said “enough.” I called the front desk and said, “Hi. It’s time for the party in 51 to wind down now.” Shortly thereafter, the noise died down. I’m not sure if the people died or passed out. I was kind of hoping for the latter.
As I was checking out the next morning, the woman at the front desk, without exactly apologizing, said she figured Chadwick et al would be asked not to come back. I think I may ask myself the same thing.
Not my most favorite locale on the planet, but we both had work there. The other key enticement ws the opportunity to see the fabulous and reclusive Jeffoise, who has known me since I was just a princess-in-training. Plus, the outrageous CoCo was visiting from London, so we wanted to wedge onto her dance card, as well.
Saturday night was our last night there. We were in bed by a reasonable hour, after a lovely evening with Jeffoise, but our sleep was not going to come easy. You see, next door was a lovely suite, with a terrace overlooking the skyline. Said terrace actually wrapped around our room, so we couldn’t have avoided the occupants if we tried.
And boy did we want to try.
I don’t know that I have ever experienced such thin walls. Or maybe these people just had piercing voices. Regardless, they checked in with the obvious intent of throwing a party. Loud drunken slurred speech (NOT coming out of MY mouth for a change) kept us awake for hours. They would move from the room to the terrace to the hot tub to the room, all the while keeping the decibel level at “make the dog howl.”
The “owner” of the room was named Chadwick. I know this because the drunk post-sorority girl (DPSG) kept calling his name repeatedly. I had an immediate mental image of who these people were. The DPSG was actually the loudest and most talkative—a combination I particularly loathe. Unless it’s me, of course. Then it’s just plain charming.
As Missy begins to crescendo, I glance at the clock. 2:40 a.m. Nice. And just then she delivers the line of the night.
“OMIGOD! We’re all naked! All I see is tattoos and flesh.”
Now, our room was, I guess, the second bedroom to the suite. There was a connecting door that didn’t quite seal, which I’m guessing made the noise situation worse. It also provided a nice conduit for the smoke from their cigarettes. Yum. Did I mention this is a non-smoking hotel?
Simultaneously, the DPSG’s celly rang out. And she began telling her friend what a great party they were having and how she should get right over there.
And that’s when Daddy said “enough.” I called the front desk and said, “Hi. It’s time for the party in 51 to wind down now.” Shortly thereafter, the noise died down. I’m not sure if the people died or passed out. I was kind of hoping for the latter.
As I was checking out the next morning, the woman at the front desk, without exactly apologizing, said she figured Chadwick et al would be asked not to come back. I think I may ask myself the same thing.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Check please!
This was originally supposed to be LAST Tuesday’s post, but I’ve been a slackbitch (blog-wise; I’ve been pretty busy, otherwise) and didn’t get it written.
Let me start with a confession. I don’t complain about taxes. I’ve always felt that taxes were my share of the pot. In order to have good schools, good roads, police, fire and ambulance, libraries—you know, the things we all take for granted, but would hate to be without. I’m happy to pay my share of those.
Odd that I should come to embrace that philosophy. You see, all of my life, I’ve heard bitching about taxes. As I’ve grown older, in fact, I can’t recall coming across anyone who thought they weren’t paying too much in taxes. In Texas, at least, the argument always seems to be a variation on the same theme.
“I don’t want my tax dollars going to help some welfare mother who won’t get a job!!”
Now, I’m not sure when welfare was the biggest ticket item in the federal budget. I’m guessing NEVER. But it’s such a widespread belief that our tax dollars are being mishandled that NO politician can survive even a discussion about raising taxes, even if it’s necessary and the right thing to do. Read my lips? Big mistake.
I’ve also noticed that the most rabid anti-tax people seem to be a perfect demographic overlay of the pro-gun/NRA types. Which makes this breakdown of how our tax dollars are actually spent even more rich with irony.
See, it’s not the welfare moms who are eating away our precious dollars. It’s the military. And lest you start thinking that these numbers are skewed due to the ongoing (neverending?) conflict in Iraq, these numbers actually pre-date the war (hey, the government moves slowly in releasing numbers—these are the latest available, best I can tell).
So, in case you were wondering, here’s how a tax dollar gets spent:
31 cents for military (including 6 cents in interest on debt and 3 cents for veterans benefits)
20 cents in (non-military) interest on the national debt
Okay, let’s pause for a minute. Because now I’M starting to rethink my commitment to taxes. Nearly a third of our tax dollars go to the military? At a time when the world is essentially at peace (except for our warmongering) we are spending at these levels? Can’t imagine what that percentage looks like now that we’re pushing a TRILLION in Iraq expense. Are you fucking kidding me?
Obscene. I find this exponentially more offensive than my conservative brethren find the support of welfare moms.
The next highest? 18 cents on health. Okay, I can live with that. Public Health is a very good thing. Not sure how well that money is spent (okay, not sure how well ANY of this money is spent) but I can swallow it.
Then it gets RIDONCULOUS:
6 cents on income security
3 cents on education
Wait. THREE cents on education?!?!?!? ONE-TENTH of what we spend on military?
How the fuck can you leave no child behind with that level of spending? You can’t even afford to take SOME children with you. Sad, sad, sad.
2 cents on nutrition
2 cents on housing
2 cents on environment
.3 cents on job training
There’s another 15% in there, but it’s broken down into increasingly smaller portions that will just make you cry. Of course, those TINY percentages are always the ones to get cut in the name of “budget.”
Funny, if you applied a tenth of the military spending to education, it would DOUBLE the money we spend in this country. But what would we do with a more educated populace? Not elect Republicans, that’s for sure.
Isn’t it time we took care of our own? Instead of spending all of our money on foreign soil, why can’t we spend a little more here at home? I’m not advocating for doing away with the military, just thinking maybe we need to be a little less of a big brother to everyone else and maybe a little more responsible to those of us at home.
Let me start with a confession. I don’t complain about taxes. I’ve always felt that taxes were my share of the pot. In order to have good schools, good roads, police, fire and ambulance, libraries—you know, the things we all take for granted, but would hate to be without. I’m happy to pay my share of those.
Odd that I should come to embrace that philosophy. You see, all of my life, I’ve heard bitching about taxes. As I’ve grown older, in fact, I can’t recall coming across anyone who thought they weren’t paying too much in taxes. In Texas, at least, the argument always seems to be a variation on the same theme.
“I don’t want my tax dollars going to help some welfare mother who won’t get a job!!”
Now, I’m not sure when welfare was the biggest ticket item in the federal budget. I’m guessing NEVER. But it’s such a widespread belief that our tax dollars are being mishandled that NO politician can survive even a discussion about raising taxes, even if it’s necessary and the right thing to do. Read my lips? Big mistake.
I’ve also noticed that the most rabid anti-tax people seem to be a perfect demographic overlay of the pro-gun/NRA types. Which makes this breakdown of how our tax dollars are actually spent even more rich with irony.
See, it’s not the welfare moms who are eating away our precious dollars. It’s the military. And lest you start thinking that these numbers are skewed due to the ongoing (neverending?) conflict in Iraq, these numbers actually pre-date the war (hey, the government moves slowly in releasing numbers—these are the latest available, best I can tell).
So, in case you were wondering, here’s how a tax dollar gets spent:
31 cents for military (including 6 cents in interest on debt and 3 cents for veterans benefits)
20 cents in (non-military) interest on the national debt
Okay, let’s pause for a minute. Because now I’M starting to rethink my commitment to taxes. Nearly a third of our tax dollars go to the military? At a time when the world is essentially at peace (except for our warmongering) we are spending at these levels? Can’t imagine what that percentage looks like now that we’re pushing a TRILLION in Iraq expense. Are you fucking kidding me?
Obscene. I find this exponentially more offensive than my conservative brethren find the support of welfare moms.
The next highest? 18 cents on health. Okay, I can live with that. Public Health is a very good thing. Not sure how well that money is spent (okay, not sure how well ANY of this money is spent) but I can swallow it.
Then it gets RIDONCULOUS:
6 cents on income security
3 cents on education
Wait. THREE cents on education?!?!?!? ONE-TENTH of what we spend on military?
How the fuck can you leave no child behind with that level of spending? You can’t even afford to take SOME children with you. Sad, sad, sad.
2 cents on nutrition
2 cents on housing
2 cents on environment
.3 cents on job training
There’s another 15% in there, but it’s broken down into increasingly smaller portions that will just make you cry. Of course, those TINY percentages are always the ones to get cut in the name of “budget.”
Funny, if you applied a tenth of the military spending to education, it would DOUBLE the money we spend in this country. But what would we do with a more educated populace? Not elect Republicans, that’s for sure.
Isn’t it time we took care of our own? Instead of spending all of our money on foreign soil, why can’t we spend a little more here at home? I’m not advocating for doing away with the military, just thinking maybe we need to be a little less of a big brother to everyone else and maybe a little more responsible to those of us at home.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Should the Government Subsidize Hillbilly Vasectomies?
I am a peripheral Dogface. See, Gardog’s group of friends from college is called the Dogface Gang. So, over the years, as I developed friendships with them all, I became an “honorary” dogface.
This weekend saw the first marriage of a Dogface offspring (the younger crowd has started calling themselves the Puppy Face. Cute.).
Anyhoo, the wedding was beautiful. I laughed. I cried. I danced with an amazon bridesmaid, who tried to lead. I should have let her. Anything would have been better than those two left feet of hers trying to follow. This was followed by the seductive breathing and whispered, “so, are you straight or gay?”
Hello, bark? Wrong tree.
“OHHHHHH, I’m waaaaaaaay gay.” Trust me, any man would have said the same thing. She looked like the type that would eat you up. She was a pretty girl, don’t get me wrong. But she had some balls, let me tell you.
The party was still going strong at 1:30 in the a.m. Knowing I had a flight to catch, I said my goodnights and cabbed it back to the Ritz Clarion (as I affectionately nicknamed my motel). Hey, a girl’s gotta find the glamour anywhere she can.
By two I was fast asleep, white wine and tequila churning in my belly, all moisture slowly draining from my brain. Morning would not be pretty.
At 6 a.m. I was awakened by one of the most fucking annoying sounds in the world—a small child shrieking. I don’t know why, but that sends my nerves to 11. Pisses me off royally and makes me want to do bad things.
Apparently, some hillbillies (based on the accent) had taken the room next to me, and one right across the hall. They began moving back and forth between the two rooms, with a cacophony of slamming doors, screaming children and Appalachian admonishments.
There must be a heaven, ‘cause motherfucker, this was hell. I kept thinking that they would head out—to breakfast, their purpose, a slow, painful death . . . I don’t know, anything!
But they didn’t. Apparently rooms 133 and 134 at the Ritz Clarion was as close to Disneyland as these pov-heads were ever gonna get.
As I reached for the phone to complain, something in my head reminded me that someone had said something about Kentucky the night before. Was the groom’s family from Kentucky? SHIT! What if these people were part of the wedding and I went all ballistic on them, only to run into them an hour later at the lunch?
FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK.
As the cycle of doze/shriek/slam/y’all continued, I wiled away the time reevaluating my position on handgun possession.
And then, all was quiet. The banjo people had packed up the posse and checked out, leaving me with my chardonnay/cazadores head, and only four hours sleep. I felt like I was in college again.
At lunch, I inquired about any wedding folk from Kentucky. I was told that there were none. Figures.
This weekend saw the first marriage of a Dogface offspring (the younger crowd has started calling themselves the Puppy Face. Cute.).
Anyhoo, the wedding was beautiful. I laughed. I cried. I danced with an amazon bridesmaid, who tried to lead. I should have let her. Anything would have been better than those two left feet of hers trying to follow. This was followed by the seductive breathing and whispered, “so, are you straight or gay?”
Hello, bark? Wrong tree.
“OHHHHHH, I’m waaaaaaaay gay.” Trust me, any man would have said the same thing. She looked like the type that would eat you up. She was a pretty girl, don’t get me wrong. But she had some balls, let me tell you.
The party was still going strong at 1:30 in the a.m. Knowing I had a flight to catch, I said my goodnights and cabbed it back to the Ritz Clarion (as I affectionately nicknamed my motel). Hey, a girl’s gotta find the glamour anywhere she can.
By two I was fast asleep, white wine and tequila churning in my belly, all moisture slowly draining from my brain. Morning would not be pretty.
At 6 a.m. I was awakened by one of the most fucking annoying sounds in the world—a small child shrieking. I don’t know why, but that sends my nerves to 11. Pisses me off royally and makes me want to do bad things.
Apparently, some hillbillies (based on the accent) had taken the room next to me, and one right across the hall. They began moving back and forth between the two rooms, with a cacophony of slamming doors, screaming children and Appalachian admonishments.
There must be a heaven, ‘cause motherfucker, this was hell. I kept thinking that they would head out—to breakfast, their purpose, a slow, painful death . . . I don’t know, anything!
But they didn’t. Apparently rooms 133 and 134 at the Ritz Clarion was as close to Disneyland as these pov-heads were ever gonna get.
As I reached for the phone to complain, something in my head reminded me that someone had said something about Kentucky the night before. Was the groom’s family from Kentucky? SHIT! What if these people were part of the wedding and I went all ballistic on them, only to run into them an hour later at the lunch?
FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK.
As the cycle of doze/shriek/slam/y’all continued, I wiled away the time reevaluating my position on handgun possession.
And then, all was quiet. The banjo people had packed up the posse and checked out, leaving me with my chardonnay/cazadores head, and only four hours sleep. I felt like I was in college again.
At lunch, I inquired about any wedding folk from Kentucky. I was told that there were none. Figures.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)