Thursday, December 10, 2009
So on the heels of that....I found out today that old Neil just posted a cover of Adam Sandler's "The Chanukah Song" on his website, with a South Park like animated video. Given that Friday is the first day of Chanukah, I thought I would pass it along to you as my gift. I don't believe there is any hidden meaning to the lyrics of this one, but I am sure my asshole husband will figure out a way to ruin it for me somehow. In the mean time, enjoy!
UPDATE: There is now a YouTube version for those of you on your phones! Click here!
Sunday, November 29, 2009
My stoic grandmother always said, "nothing good ever happens after 2:00 a.m." And while we may never find out what happened outside Tiger's house in the wee hours of November 27, there is plenty of web speculation to chew on.
Another of granny's favorite sayings was, "Shit happens. If you don't look down, you'll step in it."
Tiger, in many ways, really stepped in it. And his wife is pretty damn angry.
I know this because after 12 years of marriage and various domestic disagreements, a spouse does not swing a golf club in the early a.m. without just cause. Hell, my temper has flared over much stupider things and once impulsively kicked a hole in my bedroom wall with a clog....but that's another story for another day....
So, in the tongue and cheek vein of my "Sesame Street Layoffs" post and an "open letter from Barbara Walter's Vagina, The Cha-Cha Chow-enge," here's my view of what really happened:
All was quiet in the sprawling Florida home. The children, safely under the nanny's care, had long been bathed and put to bed miles away in the estate's southeast wing. The lights were dim. She sat alone at the sleek modern dining table. The places were still set with Hermes china - a gift from Oprah - featuring a tiger design and starched linen napkins featuring an embroidered entwined double E. "Elin and Eldrick....it really meant something...once," she sighed. Bacarat crystal golblets glinted in the mix of candle and moonlight that flooded into the room from the bare baywindow. Yet, even in the shadows she seethed. Perhaps it was the rumors of an affair or maybe just the effects of the Pinot Noir-fueled "American Psycho," "Saw III," and "Fatal Attraction" filmfest she insisted upon earlier in the evening. The regal profile and mantle of platinum hair was offset by the cold, hard stare in her eyes. The time on her Tag Heurer watch read 2:00 a.m.
"Where the fuck was he?" she thought. "Rvvhel!" (swedish for asshole) she muttered under her breathe as she fixed her eyes on the long, gated drive, looking for the tell-tale headlights of his Cadiallac Escalade. The Buick Enclave was already parked at the start of the front walk along the circular drive. It was packed and ready for an errant getaway. "I have had enough," she thought. "He will not make a rvvhel out of me!"
She could no longer sit, and strode down the long hallway to the garage. "Everything is set," she thought. The pristine, damask couches in the study had been stripped of their pillows and covered in layers of course canvas tarp, mylar and industrial plastic. "That is where he will see me," she told herself as she opened the door into the garage and scanned the wall for power tools. "Rvvhel knuller!" she breathed (asshole fucker) as she walked toward the DeWalt chainsaw. There, standing stoic and mocking underneath the horror movie weapon of choice, was his prized set of Nike Titanium golf clubs. These were no practice set, or reserves. Encased in a glowing halo of stainless steel, these clubs were the PGA equivalent to the holy grail. This was the set that had won countless titles and championships. The set that helped construct the large and looming ego that he could do no wrong.
Without a thought, she grabbed the driver with the largest, widest, sharpest head and resumed her perch in the dining room. Then, the gates opened. He killed the headlights and eased up the driveway. It was too much, and she snapped.
"Where the hell where you?" she screamed as she leapt out the front door, brandishing the driver high over her head. "Were you with HER! Were you with that jdvlar fitta hora ab ab ab?" she screamed (fucking c-word whore).
"Whoa! Whoa! Eels, baby. I was with the guys." he explained and opened the car door.
"On Thanksgiving? You shit, you should be with your family! Where were you? Where did you go? WHO WERE you with?"
"Jesus Christ, you Nordic bitch, I was with Shaq and Mike....we were watching the game. What the hell? I just lost track of time...and besides you said it was a silly American holiday...."
"YOU JUST lost track of time. You have a mother fucking Rolex watch for every day of the year and you LOST track of time?" She swung at him hard. Nearly missing his Nike Golf hat. She hit the hood of the car. "Your stupid fuckin' cheating friends." she cried and hit the grill. "Why can't you just hang out with that nice Bill Nye the science guy we met at the block party last year." She swung wildly, hitting him squarely on the shoulder.
"Ouch! That's the money arm you crazy motherfucking Dane. You better settle yourself down, you live in Tiger's Den, under Tiger's rule."
"Aggghhh....I'm SWEDISH, you ass!" She hit the windshield.
"Damn." he said and jumped back in the car, turning on the ignition and shifting to reverse. He hit the gas and didn't even look. Bam. Right into the Buick Enclave. Reverse again as she hit a quarter panel. Bam. "Shit." he thought as he backed through the gate and hit the fire hydrant across the street. She was foaming at the mouth, running after him.
He quickly tried to Twitter, "Wife is crazy, mad, hot, mess. Damn I'm turned on. Tiger Out." But before he hit send, she sent the driver crashing through the back window hitting him in the head. Trying to dodge the club, he veered and hit a tree.
As he was slumped over, she dropped the clubs and cried, "Oh Eldrick! Eldrick! Are you hurt? Can you hear me? I'm so sorry! Oh God, I'm so sorry."
"Fuck," he thought to himself, "crazy wife, broken golf clubs, two wrecked cars....Steel, I mean Shaq, where the hell are you man, hook a brother up...Fuck TMZ, the make-up sex on this one alone is gonna kill me...."
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Early on Thanksgiving mourn,
autumn's final blush fulfills
the legacy of settlers past.
Sparse are leaves upon the trees,
all lie abundant in the dewy grass.
Damp and cold and icy still
a lonely tern wavers across the muted umber sky.
Breathe deep the golden moment
let it seep down to your bones,
revel in this state of grace.
God and country,
Family, friends and memories that are held most dear
Sing from the heart and broadly smile
for your blessings are infinite, mysterious
The harvest table brims with love.
Look around to see,
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
"Come and listen to a story about a man named Jed. A poor mountaineer, barely kept his family fed. Then one day he was shootin' at some food and up through the ground came a bubblin' crude. Oil that is. Black Gold. Alaskan Tea. "
Hmmm...me thinks this story sounds vaguely familiar???
Where have you gone, Jethro Clampett,....I mean, Levi Johnston? Special interest groups and aerial bow hunters turn their lonely eyes to you....woo woo woo. Ellie Mae? Tripp? Trig? Track? Tuna Fish? Tonto? Tattoo? ....Are you there?....I think they all saw Hurricane Sarah comin', threw their shit in Fred Sanford's truck and "moved on up" to Green Acres. Amen!
Monday, November 16, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Rain, rain go away...
don't want the kids inside all day!
Screaming, hitting, "it's no fair!"
Third time this morning had to stop 5 year-old from pulling oldest's hair.
Hubby is nestled up snug in bed, trying hard to ignore the chaos insuing as I get the kids fed.
Sitting with my coffee irked and annoyed, I have hit my limit...
"Everyone out of the house this instant!"
Out into the garage to make your clatter and when I've calmed down I'll explain what was the matter.
All I crave is 5 minutes peace - a time when the shouting, whining and cries of "Mommmeeeee" will cease.
Being a mom is 24/7 with nary a shot going straight to heaven.
The weekend has come and I feel I've earned a bit of a rest....
So, everyone, please shut the fuck up and stop being a pest!
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Then I read an article on TechCrunch regarding a Twitter account called "Shitmydadsays." The posts made me laugh so hard, I nearly peed my pants. With a lot of inspiration and an econo box of Depends, I composed the following "bon mots" as if I really gave a tweet - therefore, if I twittered this is what I'd say:
- I hate it when people stop me to say, "Wow! You look really great today." Then, I have to respond, "Thanks, I finally took a shower."
- Happy Birthday! I heard you're turning 40, but want to hear the best part...I'm not!
- Met a friend for coffee. First thing I said was, "I got dressed today...what the fuck happened to you?"
- If men can come up with remedies for conditions like Erectile Dysfunction, why the hell can't they fix "Man Boobs?"
- Am dropping the kids off at the pool...no shit...literally - I AM AT THE POOL...with the kids.
- Now that I've had three kids, I really should've rethought the location of that "Hamburgler" tattoo...
- Too much green. Too much pink. Too matchy-matchy is what I think.
- Just fucked my husband...will he just get the hell off of me already!
- Why does Eli Manning always look like he was beaten with an ugly stick?
- Just farted in Starbucks and blamed it on the 5 year-old.
- Not all soccer moms are angry and vulgar...just me.
And the list could go on....because this is kinda fun...and because I have so much stuff pent up in my head....and because you know you want to....you can now follow me on twitter here.
Monday, November 9, 2009
So...as I sat at the stop light this morning, I had a major decision to make: Turn right in the direction of the car dealership to once and for all take care of the burnt out tail and brake lights on my car......or turn left into the town center to pick-up my much needed deep hydrating boutique moisterizer.
As the light changed, there was no hesitation. Despite my husband's almost hourly chorus of nagging emails, tweets, voicemails, texts and instant messages regarding the car - my actions were intuitive. I made a beeline for the "chi-chi," "fru-fru" cosmetics store. The sentiment, "A good moisterizer is better than any vitamin," echoed through my head. It sounded like some glorious and sage advice that had once rolled off the tongues of Diana Vreeland, Coco Chanel, Jaqueline Kennedy Onassis, or at the very least, RuPaul. Yet, it was simply copy for a new skincare product advertised in a recent SELF magazine.
"Moisterizer!" "Vitamin!" "Brakelight!" The words riccocheted through my thoughts like ping pong balls. As I eased my car into a prime parking spot in front of Pottery Barn, I knew that what I was about to do was no small feat. To pull off the equivalent of a cosmetics "quickie," I had to be a woman on a mission - get in, get the goods and get out....without any upsell and purchase of additional products and services.
As I strode confidently across the street, just steps from the open shop door, the bark ring tone on my iPhone rang out. Shit! My husband! Damnit! I stood holding the barking phone as other shoppers gawked and stepped out of my way. "I will DEAL with the car, LATER!" I think I angrily said ou tloud and let the call slink into voicemail. But there would be no message, because, like clockwork, in five minutes, the phone would bark again.
It was now or never. I had a strict timetable to keep surrounding bus schedules and soccer practice. Circling back with kids in tow, was really not the best case scenario. The last time I drug the five-year-old, aka The Crazy Man, along on my quest for the perfect skinny jeans, he discovered eight new GapBody fragrances and to spite me, sprayed them all on his hair - at once. We both left the store smelling like potent combinations of Designer Imposters cologne, Deep Woods Off, rose hips and wet dog. On rainy days, when the lingering smell can be detected in the car, I am reminded of his hijinx and how it touched off everyone's allergies.
When all was said and done, I was able to pull off an impressive trifecta: got the moisterizer, got the car fixed AND got everyone to their practices reasonably on-time. But later, I knew I would have to patiently listen to my husband's monotonous "man-trum" (man tantrum) over car maintenance and why he didn't appreciate my cavialier attitude about brakelight safety. I knew that while, he wouldn't understand it, the explanation was elementary...While you can't go too far on the road less traveled without brakelights, you do, however, have a much better chance of talking yourself out of a fine, ticket or warning with glowing, dewy, well-moisterized skin.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
I am scared for her, for myself (selfishly), my children, for the future. And in the quiet moments, when I get off the phone with her, a flood of memories rush back. Ones that I thought had faded or had been lost somewhere amid the other happier moments in time, like my wedding day or the birth of my children or vacations at a far off exotic locale.
I check in with her everyday, sometimes its a long talk. Sometimes its just a quick temperature read. Her chemo has started and she is tired. Yet, everytime I end the call, I am 9 years old again. It is early December and I am in fourth grade. Old enough to know something is very wrong, but not mature enough to completely grasp the gravity of the matter. I was in between the ages that my two older children are right now.
I finish my homework and kiss my grandmother goodnight. She was dying of breast cancer and after my grandfather had died of a heart attack she came to live the last two years of her life with us. I didn't know this at the time, but she had signs and symptoms and a tell-tale lump for some time. She was a proud old world lady who didn't trust religion or doctors and kept everything to herself. By the time my mother could intervene, it was too late, the disease had spread.
That night as I lie awake thinking about horses and basketball and Christmas, I could hear her slow, labored breathing, which turned to gasps and the low, muffled tones of my parents. My father had closed my bedroom door and called the ambulance. When I heard my mother crying, I reached for rosary beads in the dark and began to pray. It seemed like it was late into the night when I heard the clank of the stretcher on the steps. The creak and groans of the EMTs as they ferried her from the bedroom, down the steps and out the front door.
"Please!" I prayed. "Please, help her!" The metal from the beads pressed crows feet into the heel of my hot, sweaty palm. I fell asleep at last with them wrapped around my wrist, while desperately asking God for some grand intervention. I realize now that my act was all in vain, all for me. She was already gone and I felt lost.
Now, I am lost again, caught between my parents and my children. Trying to live each day as it comes, because it, life, is too short, too fleeting and in the end always astounds you by coming back full circle.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The general gist of the piece claimed to be “a presidential elbow to the ribs of husbands” and quoted many long married couples about the pitfalls of keeping romance alive. While I read the wistful musing of spouses (mostly wives) wishing for more alone time together, I realized that I didn’t share the sentiment.
It’s not that I wouldn’t like a grand romantic gesture, what girl wouldn’t? But, I’d like to think that there is something more to it than just the occasional night on the town together. Isn’t it really what you make of your time together – whether you are having a discussion at a restaurant or over the kitchen table; or watching a movie in a theater or on your own couch - that fills that romantic void? You don’t need Air Force One to make an impression, or in my husband’s case just flowers…and food.
With thoughts of romance running through his head, my husband came home, last Friday, bearing gifts - a bouquet of flowers, a box of condoms and a chicken pot pie. I gave him a long hard look and tried to piece together the riddle, because nothing quite says “romance” like an assortment of Trojans, puff pastry and freshly cut sunflowers. Yet, it worked….and later, in the throes of passion, both of us knowing that we were rolling the family planning dice (hence the condoms), my husband whispered seductively into my ear, “Let’s make a baby.” (Usually, it would have seemed kinda sexy… okay maybe just sexy in a cheesy ‘70’s, Larry Dallas “Three’s Company,” big gold medallion way, but I’ll roll with it, just don’t tell my husband…) This time, however, he must have seen the look of utter fear fall across my face and he immediately recanted. “Okay, well, not really….um, just kidding….psyche!” And with the cagey reflexes of a mountain lion, he flung himself off of me, into the air and in the general direction of the hiding place of the latex cache.
As I watched his silhouette hopping back and forth in the moonlight….hoping he won’t totally kill the mood by breaking a toe on the dresser (yeah, we were kickin’ it old school, lights off and all….I suppose that the only thing missing was a Barry White 8 track, black satin sheets and glasses filled with Crown Royal on ice)….I could not help but think of the Dr. Seuss book, “Hop On Pop,” except my current situation, was more like “Hop Off Pop….don’t get off…hop off NOW!” Not a typical scenario by any means, just a factor in the birth control crossroads that I have found myself at yet again - I don’t want to get the tubes tied (definitely not after my neighbor's recent experience!), he's not ready to wear the "cone of shame" and the clock is ticking on our current solution (whole other post!)…which needs to be addressed asap!
You see, my husband and I have never quite gotten the birth control thing right. In my early 20’s, my doctors informed me that that when we did decide to have children, it would take longer than normal to conceive. We took the news as more of birth control pass than anything, and found out quickly that both we and the doctors were wrong. Boy, were we all wrong! It just so happened that my uber-fertile Irish peasant genes kicked in at age 25 and we had one hell of a mind blowing holy shit moment in the car after the first OB appointment. We were just shy of our 1st wedding anniversary and I’ll never forget how scared and overwhelmed I felt, looking down at all the forms for my blood work, the hospital registration information and the “Next Nine Months” book we were given. But as history is doomed to repeat itself, so were we and 22 months after the birth of baby #1, along came baby #2.
Now you would think that a young family with two children, a girl and a boy, would have been enough. We had two healthy children and were moving into a new house. So why throw a third into the mix? But I did and in a perfect storm of sorts I switched birth control options from the pill to the patch, left the kids with my parents, and packed up for a child -free vacation in Hawaii for a friends wedding. FYI – don’t use any form of patch – bug repellent, smoking, weight loss, etc – when going to the lushest, wettest state in the union. Regardless of what the box says or whatever is written on the fine print packaging insert, the patch will NOT, I repeat, WILL NOT stay-on while golfing, river kayaking, hiking to a waterfall, snorkeling, wine tasting, sightseeing, horseback riding, kite boarding, indulging in a full-body seaweed wrap at the hotel spa, sleeping, changing your clothes, listening to your iPod, flying in an airplane, eating lunch on a veranda or any other daily vacation activity. While we left two behind, we came back with one more….and lets just say baby #3 (now known as Crazy Man, he of the drawn on eyebrows) could have easily been named Aloha Kona. Or as my friend, who is a native Hawaiian and whose wedding we went to, likes to remind me, “Wow, they always said Hawaii was the land of romance….now you have proof!”
But I digress, and getting back to the end of my bedroom “date night” hijinx, I suppose Bristol Palin is right - the only sure fire birth control is abstinence. The concept is really quite simple - no intercourse, no conception. The problem, however, is that abstinence is unrealistic. In our modern world abstinence is somewhat of a punch line. It is a quaint silly by-gone notion like churning butter or listening to a song on vinyl. Why go through all the steps – We are an “Instant Gratification Nation” and nobody wants to wait for anything anymore. Is there an iPhone app abstinence and if so would you really want to download it? In the meantime, I will try to put it into practice, but it will ultimately be in vain... for Friday is just around the corner and I’m sure it will bring another bouquet and quite possibly another pot pie.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
When you think about it, in broad terms what really is a douche bag? Wikitionary defines a douche bag (n.) as the bag for holding water or fluid used in douching (vaginal or anal levage). The vulgar slang term is loosely used to describe “a worthless person, jackass or asshole, someone blatantly inconsiderate of others. The plural form is douche bags, but if you are at the Jersey Shore and happen upon a gathering of 6 or more douche bags, then you have a Bon Jovi tribute band. (I was going to say Springsteen, but that didn’t seem quite douche-y enough).
The problem is that once you identify one douche bag, you see them everywhere. It’s the same phenomenon that happens when you buy a new car. You might think that the model and color that you picked are almost exclusive to you, then you roll it off the lot, stereo blaring Scissor Sisters, and realize that every other car is the exact same as yours and the drivers are listening to way cooler music. Just turn on your TV and they are everywhere:
- Donald Trump (Classy Douche)
- Anderson Cooper (Tea Bagging Douche)
- Mel Gibson (Dirty Ol’ Douche or now that he has child #8 on the way, Octo-Douche)
- Ashton Kutcher (Pretty Boy Douche)
- psychic John Edward (I See Dead People Douche, not to be confused with Cheating Politician Douche John Edwards)
- Jim Cramer (Crazy Wall Street Douche)
- Dr. Phil (Oprah’s Right Hand Douche)
- Bill O'Reilly (King of the Douche Bags)
- Imus (Isn't He Dead Yet Douche?)
- Rush Limbaugh (Medicated Douche)
- Tom Brady ('Nuff Said)
- Jon Gosselin (Douche-y Dad)…and the list goes on and on…….
While through the ages “douching” and “douche bags” have been typically associated with women, a woman it seems is rarely, if ever, described as one. My husband wondered if I considered douche bag a derogatory term, like the “c” word. (You all know the word I’m talking about….the stank nasty name for the vajajay or the cha-cha). I paused for a moment and thought its not really a knock on womanhood if someone used douche bag as a derogatory term for an asshole male. Especially since most physicians will agree that douching is not really the most hygienic or safest thing to be doing anyway.
Yet, there are definitely women out there that you wouldn’t classify as bitchy, but you don’t want to start throwing around c-bombs. There has got to be a douche bag-esque name for women like Suze Orman, Paris Hilton, Sarah Palin, Joan Rivers, Rosie O'Donnell, and Kate Gosselin – women that make your skin crawl with the same feeling that you get from watching Billy Mays. At dinner with friends one night, amid a chorus of laughter, I floated out my ideal name for a female douche bag – vag (as in vagina) wipe!
Maybe being a douche bag isn’t all that bad, serial-dating, male slut John Mayer has even gone on the record stating, “Yeah, I’m kind of a douche.” And New Jersey has cornered the market on both male hair gel and the moniker (not to be confused with the tube sock and faux dockersider wearing New England variation - the Masshole). Does the adage hold that once a douche always a douche? Can a douche bag ever be rehabilitated? And what happened when a douche and a vag wipe marry, like Heidi and Spencer? Does that classify as inbreeding?
Monday, June 1, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Editor's Note: This is the final part of a 3 part essay. Please click on the links to read Part I and Part II.
The polarizing point was not the marketing and selling of a monthly sex toy service, but the act of talking about it…out loud. More volatile, I found, than politics, or religion, the topic of sex had no middle ground. An invisible line was drawn between two factions: those who talk about it and those who do not.
Just as Hester Prynne was ostracized for her sexual indiscretions, I was starting to believe I was wearing a large scarlet “pocket rocket” across my breast. The reactions were always the same: disappointment, repulsion, and more often than not, intrigue. A wink and a knowing nod seemed to confer that I was in the club, a fellow user, too. I felt oddly cool.
Then, there were others who were a little too eager, too over zealous. “I guess you have to try those, huh?” Some even offered too much information. For example, I quickly found out that my quiet, mild mannered, brother-in-law was not only a budding wine enthusiast, but a walking encyclopedia regarding the adult entertainment business. On demand, he could quote Playboy articles, bios of Stern Show regulars and upcoming dates of porn conventions.
Yet, like a dumb-struck fifth grader, I could not tell my parents about my new area of expertise.
For over a month, my mother would continually ask me about my work. I’d always hide the truth in generalizations. Finally, one morning over coffee, I couldn’t self-edit anymore. “Mom, haven’t you and dad wondered why I haven’t told you what I’m doing and who I work for?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, “but we were sure you had your reasons.” I looked at her and thought, well, here goes and began my pitch. She sucked in air and covered her mouth. I couldn’t tell if she was going to hyperventilate and was pretty sure that the only words she had heard were “intimate,” and “fruit-of-the- month.” She leaned in and whispered, “You mean they sell…vibrators?” Her tone was low and nervous, as someone of her generation would whisper “cancer” when talking of a friend’s illness. Saying it, but not really saying it, because of an invisible, unsavory element. “Oh, my! I just don’t understand why someone would get into that business.”
She quickly recovered and I was surprised she knew what I was talking about.
“There’s a lot of money to be made, mom. Sex still sells, even when the economy doesn’t.” In the end, I had gotten too familiar with the words, terminology and discussion points. It no longer shocked me and I no longer cared if I shocked others. I could tell she didn’t buy my rationalization, even if it was the truth. Now it was my mother's turn to blush magenta. I had broken her extraneous commandment and realized I could not compartmentalize and closet something I had jumped into whole heartedly.
Sex is a unique common denominator. It is a basic function of human nature from which all genders, religions, ages, ethnicities and sexual persuasions can not escape. You are either doing it or you're not. There are no gray areas; no places to hide.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Celebrities, such as Rashida Jones, who has written about “Finding Joy in Sadness” and will.i.am, who has opined on “Discovering America from Afar”, line up to share their wisdom on love, loss, beauty, spirituality and life. Still, I really don’t think I’ve had a life altering moment were the clouds have parted and God’s voice spoke. I mean, isn’t the “aha moment” really just a suburban myth, like the elusive triple orgasm, the laundry fairy and “quality me” time?
Finally, at 9:43 a.m. on Wednesday morning, I had mine. It was acute, like a pin prick, but I knew in an instant something would have to give. I was running late for my daughter’s field trip where I had volunteered to help show what life was like in turn-of-the-century New England. I pulled into the closest available parking space, grabbed my latte and hopped out to the car.
“Hey there!” a familiar male voice boomed. The voice was exiting the car next to me and I immediately recognized the dad of one of my daughter’s friends. This is when the embarrassing wardrobe malfunction began….
As we began to walk uphill from the parking lot to the check-in area, the typical small talk ensued, “Are you here for the field trip?” I asked. “Yeah, but I only thought it was going to be an hour, I didn’t know this was going to be all day,” he said and droned on about hoping to get a half day of work in and not making the bus at school and hoping that he hadn’t left the science coordinator high and dry. I politely nodded and listened, but in reality I wasn’t listening at all - I could only focus on one thing...
As I had hopped out of the driver’s seat, I felt a sharp pain around the very top of my left thigh. I was wearing a pair of Spanx “Power Panties,” the flesh-tone nylon unmentionables that are supposed to discreetly streamline your silhouette. The left leg curled up to an uncomfortable and lumpy 2 inch thickness, and snuggly gripped my leg like a rubber band. As we kept walking I was keenly aware of the direness of my situation and I tried to simultaneously listen, not walk funny and scan the property for the nearest bathroom. I was pretty sure that not much could be seen from the front, but from behind, my left ass cheek must have looked like it was either overcome with a tumor or laden with a shit load of cellulite.
As we got to the check-in area and went our separated ways- I was left to trek off to my station which seemed miles away from a bathroom. When I reached the spot, no one else was there. I looked around and for a fleeting second thought of dropping trough in the middle of the field to un-spanx my spanx. I thought twice, however, when I heard the noise of school children and watched the bus rocket up the road (that I thought was hidden by the brush), directly behind me. Thus, my spandex-ed ass was left to suffer in silence, and I was left to fret that my upper leg circulation would be fucked up forever. For the next two hours, I could not shake the vision of my husband trying to explain to the kids why mommy had to have her leg amputated.
How many “shaping” foundation garments do you have to own before you realize, this is no way to live? Or, the reality sinks in that it’s time to finally lose some weight. While Power Panties do pack a punch, they aren’t supposed to scream “girdle!”
Looking for solace or at least fat Kristie Alley photos on Oprah.com, I read that “ahas are the product of our own deep innate wisdom.” Well duh….of course I know the only person I’m fooling is my self, but I can’t really think anymore of anything philosophical or ironic to say about wearing firm form support. My inner voice tells me that I should never have encased my thighs in spandex in the first place, which I admit is different from Jada Pinkett’s “Aha Moment.” Apparently, in her moment, “God was telling me (her), ‘Surrender or explode.’” I hear ya’ Jada, especially on the explode part…
Monday, May 18, 2009
Yet, William Shakespeare has truthfully said, “The course of true love never did run smooth.” And Dorothy Parker, in wittier fashion, has said, “Love is for unlucky folk. Love is but a curse.” In short, to love is to take the good with the bad; to take the good with the bad, in a sense, is the essence of marriage.
When I got married, like every other bride and groom, thought we were exceedingly original when we selected as our second reading the first letter of Paul to the Corinthians, “Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is not jealous, it does not put on airs….There is no limit to love’s forbearance, to its trust, its hope, its power to endure. Love never fails.” If all of this love is so powerful, so wonderful and so blind, then what does it matter if it is “same sex” love and marriage or, to quote Miss California, “opposite sex” love and marriage.
I don’t mean to trivialize the issue, but I don’t understand what the big deal is. What do heterosexuals think will happen if gay people can get married? Lightning bolts will not thunder down from the sky, zombies will not crawl out of the subway, locusts will not swarm Topeka, Kansas, A-Rod will not switch hit for the other team….well, I can’t vouch for A-Rod, but life will more or less remain status quo.
The New York State Legislature has until June 20th to enact legislation to legalize same sex unions. Perhaps it is too naïve of me to hope that at the end of the day love will conquer all. Why is it that only heterosexual couples get the right to voluntarily enter into the last legal form of indentured servitude? Marriage should just be what it is – part cultural institution, part formality, part circus – and not the epicenter of a political, social or religious agenda. In a Utopian world, wouldn’t marriage be genderless and universal? Doesn’t it mean something, doesn’t it count, if two people, gay or straight, commit themselves to each other before their god, government, family, and the world in a marriage and say, “I want to be with you, I want to grow old with you, I want to care for you and have a family?” We aren’t talking about water boarding or snuggies or the Taliban or the economy, it is love, and according to the Beatles, it is “all we need!”
Looking back on my wedding album, I can’t help but think how young and foolish we were. I was 24 years old; my husband was a “more mature” age of 25. We were head-over-heels happy, and I would do it all again in a heartbeat. However, I am ashamed to admit that over the last decade, there have been far too many times were I have taken my marriage for granted. My husband and my marriage have weathered the rocky times, the selfish times, the good times and all the in between times. Never once, until now, did I stop to think how about how my life would have been if I couldn’t have gotten married to the one person I love.
If all heterosexual couples could have an “It’s a Wonderful Marriage” moment with an angel named Clarence (or maybe just Nathan Lane) who could magically show us how things could have been if wedded bliss was not a legal option, I feel pretty confident to say that more people would approach the same sex marriage debate with a much more open mind and compassionate heart.
In the end, I think those opposed to gay marriages are just scared. Scared that homosexuals will take the hallowed hetero institution of marriage and finally get it right. Like the areas of art, fashion, literature, music, design, grooming, entertainment and celebrity gossip where gay people have surpassed their hetero brethren to achieve an awesome and glittering level of excellence. A success that is bigger, broader, bawdier and bolder, like Hugh Jackman’s “I Go To Rio” finale from “The Boy from Oz,” in a way no straight person could ever dream of; Only a level of excellence that could be achieved by a boyhood spent clandestinely dancing to Bette Midler in ladies lingerie and gold Gucci heels, could passionately wish, dream and make it happen.
Doesn’t a loving male couple with matching cardigan sweaters, to-die-for rose bushes and crisp Italian linen drapes deserve the same marital rights as knocked up 17 year olds from Alaska or Louisiana? Or can’t we a least hook them up with a commitment ceremony that is not half as cheesy as the whole Spencer/Heidi “Prontag” debacle! Who gets to say what is and is not convention? Is there some imaginary book out there, like Santa’s “Naughty and Nice” list which definitively states what can and can not be?
Now Miss California, Carrie Prejean, will tell you that great book of conventional wisdom is the Bible. Scientologists will say it’s a large egg-like spaceship from the planet Ork. Catholics will say it’s the Pope. The Prontag’s will say they are just so blessed to be famous and Donald Trump will say whatever will get him laid…with Melania, Miss California, Joan Rivers, the Pope, Rosie O'Donnell, or anyone else he needs to get into bed with to do a deal. Gay, lesbian and transgender people have enough to endure in life without having to worry about what the states, courts and cosmetically enhanced beauty queens have to say about their personal love lives.
This past Sunday marked the 5th anniversary of the first same sex marriage license recorded in the state of Massachusetts. According to the Boston Globe, since 2004 there have been 12,000 legally recognized same sex unions, which in turn have pumped close to $111 million into the state’s economy. Trite jokes about Provincetown, 24 karat gold penis commitment jewelry and his-his / hers-hers towels at the Berkshire cottage aside, you can not deny the coincidence that 2004 was a big year in Bay State history – same sex marriages were legalized and the Red Sox FINALLY reversed the curse and won the world series.
New York sports fans are you really willing to chance it? Take a tip from Red Sox Nation, embrace your inner Mike Piazza, call your state senator and support same sex unions - a May win at the statehouse just might translate to an October win on a hometown ball field!