Saturday, January 29, 2011
As some of you may or may not know, the mayoral election here has panties in a giant twist up the ass of the Windy City. Even if people don’t live in the city, they are more than happy to share with you their two, unwanted cents (of which they don’t have to pay taxes) about who is the best candidate for our new mayor.
So I’ve noticed thus far, there are a shit ton of little old, suburban ladies, who are more than happy to fake vote and dry hump Rahm Emanuel’s, fully residential leg as if they care about the public school system with a burning passion that rivals the heat of the sun.
I’m not sure if it’s the hotness hypnosis combined with menopause as to why these Ladies Who Lunch have a strong opinion on why Rahm’s name should be on the ballot. Not just his name, but also a picture of him naked, using his foul mouth to suck the cap off of a Metamucil bottle, and wash it down with a shot glass of prune juice and a cumadin chaser.
Not the actual point of the Political Bees Blog, sad as it seems.
The point in this case wasn’t Rahm should or shouldn’t be on that ballot. As we know, that ship sailed into Lake Michigan’s poisoned waters last week. The Bees take issue with those who get too wound up about an election that they have nothing to do with....
...in a public place...
...at a celebration meal.
I take ownership that it was myself who brought up the subject, but it was only as a last ditch attempt to change the conversation from the illness of the month to something less depressing. I didn’t think that it would turn into a point of contention where they would have to be correct on points of minutia that didn’t have anything to do with what I was saying. It’s also my fault that I forgot about the handicap about the person I was with. They can be hard of hearing, if you know what I mean.
But oh well, works for Rahm! I learned a lesson, and it seems he’s got another fangirl!
PS: For those of you who enjoy a good parody tweet, go say hello to @MayorEmanuel. He’ll give it to you rough! (Sadly, after Rahm won that shizz, his tweet impostor drop his handle with a quickness, gave up his place as a rock star in local pop culture, and went back to being a lowly, hipster, teacher of journalism at Columbia College, my ala mater. I sure am proud.
No. For real. I am!! *Cliched Fist Pump!*
Friday, January 21, 2011
Bare with me. I’m a little slow on the uptake this week. My habit of skimming the bottom of the pop culture cesspool was distracted by having productive things to do. It was quite the shock to my system. I have since taken to my bed in attempt to recover from such a gargantuan thwart to my weekly routine.
But carry on, I must.
As I was back trolling to the various celebu-sucker blogs, I happened to come across a clip from the start of the week that made we weep bitter tears of betrayal right into my jumbo sized, Central Perk coffee bucket.
In a happy place of nostalgia, a treasured, iconic pop culture sign of beauty is frozen in time as a testament to the giant fart known as the latter half of the 90‘s...
The Rachel Haircut.
Everyone wanted it. But not everyone could have it. Girls far and wide tried in vain to transcend all that is pure and holy to make their hair look like that chick on tv. Sadly, for most of them, their locks were not equipped to handle the troth full of product needed to perfectly sculpt those perfectly razor cut strands into amazingly sweeping layers.
Yet, out of a nation of chicks who worshiped at the House of Aniston every Thursday night, I only knew one fair maiden who could actually pull it off, and not look like she had sticky curtains shellacked to her head.
Yes, out of everyone I knew at the time, only my friend, and then boss, Krissie, and Jennifer Aniston herself, could rock the Rachel as it should be rocked. Everyone else, well...they looked like ass. Myself included.
So imagine my shock and awe when I saw this shizz ripped from the headlines, right out of Aniston's mouth to my shocked soul.
"Let's just say there have been moments I'd rather not relive, like that whole Rachel thing. I love Chris [McMillan, her hairstylist], and he's the bane of my existence at the same time because he started that damn Rachel, which was not my best look. How do I say this? I think it was the ugliest haircut I've ever seen. What I really want to know is, how did that thing have legs?"
Really? Seriously? My ugly hair is offended, as am I.
That shit made her a star. She rose to fame because of the ensemble cast, AND because of her righteous haircut. Her hair should have had its own introduction in the shows opening credits. It wasn’t her acting ability. She’s pretty much the same dimension of one of three chicks in every movie she’s been in since Friends was given a proper burial back in the “days of yo’r.”
I sometimes think that the only reason she has any fan base left is to pay homage to her once glorious haircut. What a bung hole to hate on the hair that launched the coiffed dreams of people who wanted to “be you” in some capacity. It’s like the assholes who have a one hit wonder, and then hate on the song that gave them a lifetime of meaty royalty checks, and their momentous 15 minutes that deemed them worthy enough to be mentioned on a VH1 retrospective.
RUDE. The bees are NOT pleased!
Not to say that she’s not entitled to hate her hair. We all do it. It’s a three times a day habit for me, if not more. My whole life I’ve had the SAME hair. It doesn’t matter who cuts it, what I wash it with, or what’s in it. The fact is, it’s going to lay flat on my head, and make my long face so long that it out-longs SJP by an inch. I’ve learned to live with my hair, in all of it’s shameful, stringy, cow-licked glory.
But Aniston has no excuse. She needs to hate behind closed doors, so the people who have been paying $10 a pop to see her bad movies do so with a forced smile, ever hopeful that she’ll one day do something interesting again. That is, other than cry about Brangenlia taking a multi-cultured poop on her front doorstep, and leaving her a hate note scribbled in Vietnamese that translates into “I’ll be there for youuuuu...”
So endeth my Friday rant,
*A quick note; that little quote on the pic, that was a tweaked nugget of genius from one of the chicks previously mentioned in my last blog. Though she’s long gone, her wit has stayed with me all these years. I pay true homage to her with this punk ass pic. *nods*
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Who is THAT GIRL? What is THAT GIRL? We all know THAT GIRL. We love to hate THAT GIRL. Because without her, most of us would have nothing to talk about over drunken brunch.
I was once THAT GIRL.
THAT GIRL who keeps the drama fresh and ever flowing, and sucks you into a vacuous Serena VanderWhore vortex whether you like it or not.
THAT GIRL, the one who relates most conversations back to herself, and redirects it to her many drama whored, inappropriate relationships with even more inappropriate men.
THAT GIRL who never has any money. Though, I’m still that girl, but for totally different reasons. Legitimate ones, like medical bills, a mortgage, and the desire to put food on the table. The difference is now, if it’s not a necessity, and if I can’t afford it, I don’t buy it/do it. It’s put a dent in my social life. But, que sera. My social life was already dented when I discovered social networking back in 2007.
Also to see the light at the end of the Tunnel of Debt is totally worth the cost of poverty now. Paying cash: accept no substitutions or imitations.
My inability to properly budget was more expensive than the squandered money itself. Shit is replaceable. A one of a kind friend, is just that. One of a kind. I should have spoken up, taken less, and made a better effort to give back more.
Years later, I would like to think that I have learned some lessons from the casualties of my ass hatterry. I try to listen more, and give what I can when I can. I try to never forget a birthday. I try to be a cheerleader for my friends, to stand in their corner, and to be honest. If I think your idea is awesome, I’ll tell you. If I think what you’re doing is the suck, I’ll tell you that too. Because it’s my job as your friend to have your back, not let you go around looking or acting like a damned fool, or watch you get your ass played out when something could have been said that may have spared you a hot mess.
I hope my friends can do the same for me as well; have my back when it’s rough or when it's chill, call me out on my stupid shit (of which is plentiful and bountiful), and just be there to pat my hand when I’m the one acting a fool with a simple “Ok, shit’s over. Dust your shoulders off and keep on movin’.”
So, what does this have to do with bees, honey, manners, and all that shizz that this bloggy space is all about? Well, I will enlighten you.
First off, I took bad manners, per se, and made it into an art form. So I believe that I owe these two a proper apology. One girl, I went out like a punk. Not once but twice. The other, I got the Jimmy Choo boot from her. But if you’re going to get your ass kicked to the curb, at least it should be by a fabulous shoe! Go out in style!!
Second, but more ensconced in my heart, one of my life resolutions is to cherish and nurture the friendships I have now. After the passing of my dear friend, and now starting to come to terms with the fact that motherhood and I aren’t going to party together in this lifetime, I really got a chance to truly see who my real friends (and family, for that matter) are.
Friends come and go, and the good ones should know how much they are truly appreciated. They deserve all of the best I can give them. Of course, there are always the few who just need to sprayed by an extra large can of Bitch-Be-Gone. But I’m going to try and give them the benefit of the doubt as well before they see my knock off Jimmy Choo boot kicking their asses to the curb. More blog to come on that, I assure you.
Trying to make amends is an art form, especially when you know that there really isn’t anything to be said that can fix it. I’m also pretty sure that even the simplest “I’m sorry,” is going rightfully to fall on deaf ears.
For what it’s worth, this is not supposed to be a woe is me, pity party post. The truth is, I can’t write a blog about how I’m always full of awesome, and how my judgmental eyes see the world as one, specific way, just so I can accuse people of commenting crimes against manners. To do that smacks of hypocritical smugness.
I am not full of awesome, and my judgements can be unfounded. To be really true to this journey down literary lane, I have to own up to my own bullshit.
But none of that is the real point. The point is the principle. The words need to be said, one way or the other. I just wish I figured this shit out like..seven plus years ago.
So, what do the bees think I should do? Clearly, the apology letters are long over due. It’s the timing of when to send them that sucks my own ass dry. Now is not the time. The truth is, that even with all of this emoting and so called deep introspection, I don’t have the tits to do it right now. But maybe in a year or so. That’s the goal.
Here’s to the bees keeping my ass in line in order to reach that goal. Or to when I grow a pair. Whichever buzzes by me first.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
I interrupt the blog I was in the process of writing...
..in order to bring you this breaking news. The Winter Bees have not let the winter blues beat them down.
Snowstorms are like major family events, such as weddings or funerals. It’ll either bring out the best in people, or the total ass damned worst. It’s dog eat dog during a Chicago snowstorm. God forbid if anyone cut anybody any slack.
If you may, please observe this scene from where all the good shit happens in my life. The alley.
On the left, you will see a van from Direct TV, obviously there on a service call, or to score some low cost, back alley Ritalin, also known as Strattera. On the right you will see an open garage door, an unseen very pissy lady inside, honking her horn an ass-ton, and shouting curses to the sky.
Her complaint, she’s blocked in her garage. Which, she may or may not be. I would say it depends on your vantage point and her skill. From my judgement, it looks to me like there’s a good enough amount of room for her to wiggle her way out of her spot, despite the snow and all.
Unless she’s driving P. Diddy’s Hummer Stretch Limo circa 2006, or she’s a seriously shiteous city driver, I’m not sure what the problem is. Drive your shit and pray, just like the rest of us do when the going gets tough and the tough call in from work and shizz.
Instead, she sat on her horn and yelled to the air that she was calling a tow truck. Why she didn’t call Direct TV, talk to the dispatch, and have them contact the driver to have him come move his crap...that I do not know. That seems a lot simpler and quieter than yelling to the world “DAMN YOU DIRECT TV! DAMN YOU TO HELL!”
Alright, well maybe not THAT dramatic. But I’m trying to set a tone here.
I don’t think that the Direct TV guy had planned that he was going to sequester this chick to her garage. I think the poor dude was like, “Shit. it’s snowing ass buckets, I have to do these service calls no matter how much it sucks ass outside. I’m so happy my job requires me to scale a roof in treacherous conditions. Lemme just stop what I’m doing so I can move my car that’s not in the way, and climb up here TWICE, because I’m not paid enough to take my life into my own hands only one time whilst in the field.”
At the same time, she’s probably all like “Damnit, why do I have to drive in this shit? Why didn’t I keep my kid home from school today? Oh..because she’s annoying, and I need her out of the house from 9 to 3, or I loose my freakin’ mind every time she wants to have a three hour screaming match over gumballs. But, now she’s screwed. She's the only kid left at school, because everyone else has to take the fucking bus.”
For what it's worth, I don't think the tow truck would have been able to do anything. As you can see, the van wasn't officially blocking entry/exit to her garage. It was on city property, pulled over to the side, and easily passible. That makes this woman, in my book, officially a pant wetter. Thumbs down to that! No honey for her!
Hopefully this tale had a happy ending. As of right now, the van is gone, the garage door is closed, and my husband wants me to stop fuckin’ around the alley as if I’m Brenda Starr, and make his ass some dinner.
PS: So much for that whole “not swearing as much” thing. Maybe better luck next year.
Or tomorrow. I’m no quitter. That’s why it took me so long to get through rehab.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Promises, promises! I have made many to myself, especially where this new year is concerned. Since I’ve now settled into the reality that I’m never ever going to get a Mother’s Day card from an actual child (The cards from the cats and dogs don’t count.) I’m bringing in the new year while doing the mid-life, pant shit.
In as much, I took some time this past week and invested in some high end, Belgium beer on sale to do some heavy drinking and thinking about some changes that need to be made. The end result was a two page list, scrawled in eyeliner, that’s not only totally illegible, but full of suggestions that just set the bar WAY too high.
Put on a full face of make up every day, even when I’m just going to the store? Fuck that action.
Once the Hops Haze wore off, and I could attempt to revamp my original intentions in the spirit that they were intended, I realized that what I wrote was the same crap I had been writing for years. Not the usual, lose ten pounds/eat like a pure bred Vegan Queen sort of resolution. But rather ones that were meant to help me clean the slate of the sty that is my proverbial home.
But there was one in particular...
On July 26th, 2010, I posted a blog on here declaring that come 2011, I was going to cut back on the myriad of naughty words that fall from my mouth on a minute to minute basis.
As you can see, it’s January 4th, and one could say that I blew the snot right out of that nostril. But let’s take a closer look, shall we?
When I originally wrote that post, I was scolded a mere 72 hours later by my girl, Noelle. She was outraged, claiming that it was my civic responsibility to go forth and cuss for all of man kind. That if I didn’t refer to the parking meter as a “fucking ass shit fucker” for no other reason than it was there, and it was charging me $3.00 to park for an hour on a SIDE STREET, then who would?
I told her I would happily consider her wishes, and then much to her delight, swore at her in Japanese because we were having sushi for dinner that night. I thought it would be a nice mood enhancer.
When Noelle went on to greener fields over this past summer, I vowed, in her honor, to keep the fucking dream alive. GO FORTH AND CUSS, I SHALL, SHIT HEADS! I’ll do it with pride, my head held high, my middle finger even higher. Even though it’s completely against why I even started this blog in the first place. She was right; I swear, therefore I am. My goal shouldn’t be to banish the stanky habit entirely, just learn to use it more appropriately. Not every occasion is one where the word “shit” needs to be used as an adjective or adverb. I know that now. I accept it.
As for the rest of the resolutions, they basically all revolve around the same principle, which is to be a better person. Be a better wife/daughter/friend, get my ass together both in and outside the house, and give back whenever I can. Simple things that usually get hard when other people are involved.
But I will persevere, and keep trying to strive to do stuff that will allow me to be all of those things that I subscribed to be when I began this little spot-o-blogosphere last July. I know you all wait with bated breath for the tale of the 2011 Bees and the sticky pot of well mannered honey that it’ll bring, as do I.
Insert curse word HERE!