This video is sweeping the Internet. If you haven't seen it yet, here it is. This is a two-year old Indonesian boy who has developed a two pack-a-day cigarette habit. In other words, this kid is smoking 40 cigarettes a day!
His parents don't see anything wrong with it since, according to them, he appears to be healthy.
Women. Of the two sexes, we are known as the neat ones. It's the men who are nasty, right? It's the men who wear underwear with skid marks. It's the guys with the apartments nasty enough to render them undatable. Have you ever seen a woman pull balled up clothing from the corner, sniff them and put them on? I once knew a guy so nasty that he would go to the club, dance like a maniac and sweat like a fool and wear the same outfit out Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights. Women aren't nasty like that, are we?
Well, guys, let me let you in on a little secret. Women's bathrooms are nasty.
I'm not saying all women are nasty, most of us are not, but there is a minority of women who are just nasty as hell.
They don't flush toilets... no matter what is in them be it rancid pee, funky feces or overloaded tampons. Decent women, we wait. We flush and then wait to see if everything went down in the flush. If it didn't, we flush again. We flush until everything is gone!
They sprinkle on the seat ... They leave little droplets for the next person to clean up ... and that's just inconsiderate, rude and nasty. This is why many women's bathrooms have the following little diddy on their walls, "If you sprinkle when you tinkle, please be neat and wipe the seat."
They miss the toilet entirely. I don't really understand how this happens considering your ass is on or hovering right over the seat. I don't know, maybe it's kids, but somehow a lot of pee gets on the floor and guess what? They leave it there! Don't get me started on the women who cannot handle their monthly obligations cleanly!
They don't wash their hands. They walk straight out of the stall and for the door. Eeewww! Sure, maybe they didn't use the bathroom. Maybe they just went in there to straighten out a dress or something. Either way, if you are coming out of a bathroom stall, wash your hands anyway. I've seen women do this several times at the movies and the only thing I can think is, "I hope they aren't sharing popcorn with anyone."
This is a public service announcement for the fella. You don't have a monopoly on nasty.
Nine and a half out of ten days, I’m rocking a basic level of cuteness. I’m always color-coordinated. I never leave the house without my earrings, my fragrance and at least a splash of make-up (unless I’m working out). There are some days however, when I up the ante. Today was one of those days. I was, in a word, ADORABLE!
Flash back to Mother’s Day. Since my mother is dead and I’m not a mother, I avoid the usual Mother’s Day haunts like the plague. I don’t do church or restaurants on that day. So, I found myself at the mall with my friend Katrina (she doesn’t have kids either and her mom lives across the country). Despite the fact that both of us are currently in a state of extreme “financial embarrassment,” as my grandmother would call it, we decided to do a little retail therapy anyway.
Not trying to break the bank, we got some cute little sundresses on sale at Old Navy. Very reasonable. I go a cute white dress and a funky hot pink number.
I hadn’t worn either one and last night I decided to wear the white one today. I did a little Audrey Hepburn do, swept up with a bouncy bang, broke out some white wedge heeled sandals and some silver accessories. As I stepped back from the mirror, I had just one word “WOW.”
I got oodles of compliments when I went to volunteer today. Then, I had to stop by Katrina’s job so that she could bask in the aura of my adorableness. She saw me and in a word, “WOW.” I looked damn good and I felt damn good. I haven’t felt this good since 25 pounds ago. Who knew I could rock this kind of cuteness as a fat ass!
Tomorrow is Sex and the City night. I’ve got another outfit on tap complete with killer red heels.
Over the weekend, I spent some time with Ariel, the teenage girl I mentor. We’ve been paired together for a couple of years and I like spending time with her. She’s just about the only teenager I can spend time with without wanting to strangle her.
Anyway, we decided to see a movie. She wanted to see the new Shrek movie. It was in 3-D. So I strolled up to the counter and asked for two tickets to the IMAX 3-D movie at 11:45. The lady in the ticket booth responded by saying and I quote, “That will be $33.” Huh?
At that point, my mouth, Ariel’s mouth and the mouth of the woman standing behind me all hit the floor with a giant thud. $33? Seriously? Am I being punked? Are you joking? What the fuck????
For $33, we should have been sitting between Shrek and Fiona and Donkey had better be feeding us popcorn! I could not believe it. But then it got worse. We strolled up to the concession counter and ordered two medium drinks. I got a regular popcorn. Since she hadn’t eaten yet, she got some mini hot dogs. The total? A whooping $25!
I spent $58 dollars to see this damn movie and do you know what. I was so tired that I fell asleep. I must have slept through almost $8 worth of that movie.
To add insult to injury (my wallet is still limping), the damn 3-D wasn't even that good.
I don’t know who’s reading this, but here goes. If you lead the scandalous kind of life that would make you a perfect guest for a sleazy talk show (like Maury), there is something I want you to know.
The “Green Room” is a set-up. Anything you say or do in the Green Room is being taped. So … keeping this in mind, here are a handful of things that you don’t want to do in the Green Room (unless you want to get caught).
Do not admit to cheating.
Do not admit that: a) you don’t love your girlfriend/wife anymore b) you no longer find her attractive c) you’d like to bang or have already banged her sister/cousin/mother/friend.
Do not ask out or make out with the ‘sexy decoy’ in the room. Yes, she’s a freak, but it’s a set-up.
Exposing yourself in the Green Room is a bad idea. Hell, that’s a bad idea in the Green Room and in any other semi-private place with a person you just met. But, if you do it in the Green Room, it’s being taped and your little wee-wee will be blurred out when they show it on the show.
Just because there isn’t a ‘sexy decoy’ doesn’t mean you are safe. Sometimes they will put a male decoy in the room. You get to talking to this guy and you open up (see #1) to him about your extracurriculars. Again, it’s a trap. It’s a set-up.
I haven’t done a post about Joey in a while but he has suddenly become post-worthy after yesterday’s grooming. The dog looks like a million bucks! He left the groomers with his new cut, snazzy bandana and fresh fragrance. So as I am looking at him, marveling at the impossible cuteness that is my dog, I wondered what would he sound like if he could talk.
Would he sound like his name-sake, Joe Pesci with a fast staccato delivery and a whiny, nasally voice?
Maybe he’s have a Little Shop of Horrors deep-throated man-eating plant voice, “Feed me Seymour!”
He could sound like Bill Clinton with a raspy, scratchy Southern drawl. Then, I remembered, he’s from Southeastern Pennsyvania. I don’t know what Southeast Pennsylvanians sound like but they probably don’t sound like Bill Clinton, so we can scratch that one.
It probably, unfortunately, means that he doesn’t have a European accent. He is a poodle though, so maybe he does sound a little French.
I doubt he has any kind of thuggish rap dialect. While he’s no punk, I can’t see him coming that hard.
I think he’d sound like any regular guy, sort of like the baby on the E-Trade commercials.
I don’t talk about my work situation much because there isn’t much to talk about. I’ve been unemployed since September. Lately though, things are getting bad. Really bad. How do I know? I’ll tell you how I know. I know because last night, … last night, … last night, I … I wrote a poem.
Sure I’m Writer Girl! I write this blog. I write another blog. I write web text. I write press releases. I write newsletters. I write screenplays. I write manuals. I write in my journal. I write. It’s what I do. What I don’t do is poetry.
You know the poetry that angst-ridden, drama-filled, my-world-is-coming-to-an-end-because-Justin-texted-Brittany-and-not-me-even-though-Kim-told-Kevin-to-tell-Justin-that-I-liked-him, teenaged girls write. That’s what my poetry sounds like. I wrote my first God-awful poem at the angst-ridden, drama-filled age of 13 and my poetry hasn’t improved one iota since then.
But there I was, last night, writing poetry. At least this time, I wasn’t trying to rhyme everything. When I try to rhyme, I end up with the kind of greeting card text that Morticia Adams would write. Now, it’s worse because it’s rambling free-flowing verse that is just horrid.
The worst part is that I saved it. Now I can go back to it later and relieve the horror that only my poetry can provide.
I’m a waver. I grew up waving at neighbors, chatting to people in line at the store and nodding ‘hello’ at the park when passing other walkers and joggers. I like waving at my neighbors. I’m from Ohio, and in Ohio, we wave.
Anyway, I’ve lived on both coast and I hate, I mean hate, the people who ‘don’t have time’ for pleasantries. Really? I mean really. You can’t put your hand up and move it from side to side for two seconds as I’m walking the dog and you are pulling out of the drive way? Are you that intense that you have to look forward and work very hard to ignore me as you jog by? Is it going to kill you to do half of a head nod as our eyes meet while we’re both putting the garbage on the curb? Are you that frazzled and overwhelmed that you can’t mutter “Good morning,” to a co-worker as you pass by?
In California, I spent two years living next to a woman who refused to speak or wave. She just scowled. I never learned her name. I got nothing from her in two years. In fact, when I tried to speak, she would look at me as if I was a registered sex offender asking for a play date with her children. I mean, home girl was completely over the top in unneighborly behavior. Yet, if her house was on fire or something else went down, I have no doubt that she would have ran her little evil ass over and asked me for help. And, I wouldn’t have scowled back at her (although I’m sure the thought would have crossed my mind), I would have helped her because I’m nice and I’m from Ohio and that’s what we do.
Of course, I’m not stupid. I’m talking about exchanging pleasantries and being courteous when you are in the workplace, in your neighborhood or maybe in a store dealing with acquaintances and select strangers. I’m not advocating going down a dark alley littered with criminals and crack heads grinning and saying “Top of the morning to you!” to people who actually might want to do you harm. Chances are though, that you don’t work with those people and, hopefully, you don’t live next door to them.
If you are one of those non-wavers, here’s a thought. Most of us ‘nice people’ just like a little acknowledgement. I promise you, if you pass us in the hall and give a good morning nod, we aren’t going to grab you and give you some ridiculous and wildly inappropriate bear hug. If you wave to us on the street while we are walking by, we aren’t going to jump in front of your car and demand a 20 minute conversation.
We are nice, but we aren’t crazy (well, not most of us anyway).
My uncle had a huge porn collection. I mean huge. Stacks and stacks of magazines: Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler, plus a lot of ‘off-brand’ stuff. My cousins and I would spend hours flipping through them. He also had films, actual films, and as soon as we figured out how to work the projector, we were watching those too. It was a lot easier when he got a Betamax machine because then we could just pop in a video. Anyway, by the time I was a teenager I’d seen more porn than most teenage boys.
Anyway, I never thought it was a big deal. From my young perspective, these were adults doing what adults did. The thrill came not from watching the sex but from doing something (watching porn) that we weren’t supposed to be doing. About the only thing that ever really bothered me was the pictorial with Santa and a couple of buxom elves. First of all, Santa would never do those things. Secondly, where was Mrs. Claus? Thirdly, those women clearly weren’t elves as elves were little happy people with pointed ears who made toys. They never did stuff like that and certainly not with Santa!
I digress, yet again. My point is, when I looked at the women in the pictorials, they were busty. My mom was not. I wondered, if, when I grew up, I’d have nice boobs or if I would look like my mom, who was a great mom but a little on the flat side.
As I hit puberty, the curves came. Like my mom, I definitely got the hips and the booty, but I was still lacking in the boob department. In fact, I would see my Aunt Lindsey every couple of years. And every time, my fabulous aunt with the accent straight out of Designing Women complete who never left home, hell, never left the bedroom without perfectly crafted big hair, flawless make-up, long painted nails and designer outfit, she would look at me and say, all sugary sweet, “Why I never noticed you were flat-chested!” This happened every time I would see her from my teens through my early thirties.
Of course, every bra I purchased was padded. I had water bras, push up bras and any other bras that would push the ‘girls’ up and out. Now, I had nice breasts, they were just on the small side.
Then, it happened.
Slowly, I started putting on weight. While most of it went south of my waist, adding to the already ample booty, some of it did stop at the chest, making the girls, more … robust.
So here I am now, fatter than I’ve ever been. And, I hate it. I hate being a ‘plus size.’ I hate not being able to shop at Ann Taylor. I hate being referred to as ‘full-figured.’ But I do like the rack. I have cleavage now. I have actual cleavage without any help from a brassiere. I can rock a low-cut top. Men stare at my chest. It’s strangely empowering.
And I didn’t need to go under the knife, all I had to do was get fat.
I went to see Cavalia last weekend. For those of you who don’t know Cavalia is a show created by the co-founder of Cirque de Soleil which includes their trademark acrobatics plus horses! Yes horses, lots of pretty horses doing pretty horse tricks.
As Annie and I sat there mesmerized by the horses, the acrobats and the new age music (which really was quite hypnotic), she leaned over to me and said, “Remember when they used to say weaves were made of horse hair?”
Now, I love a weave. I’ve worn a weave off and on for years now. I’m not wearing one now because I’m unemployed and good weaves cost money. It just wouldn’t be right to be living off unemployment, fighting to keep my house and stay even a little bit current on my mortgage all while rocking several hundreds of dollars worth of weave. It just wouldn’t be right.
Anyway, as I watched the flowing manes of the beautiful horses, I missed my weave even more. It brought a tear to my eye. My hair is alright but I’m a child of the 80’s, I like big hair. My hair is never going to be as big and thick as I need it to be. I could tease it, spray it, volumize it and pray to the gods and it just ain’t gonna happen.
I used to have a full weave with tight spirally curls. I loved it. It was easy to maintain. I didn’t have to worry about umbrellas when it rained because it never went flat and it never lost its curl. It was wonderful. It was funky. It reflected my eccentric and creative personality. Now, with my own shortish, relaxed do, I look like every other corporate-type woman. I look like I work downtown and spend weekends shuttling kids back and forth from wherever it is kids go back and forth from.
There is nothing wrong with that if that’s who you are and that’s what you do. But I’m a writer, damn it. And I don’t have kids. I’m creative. I’m quirky. I’ve got a tenuous grip on reality. I need hair that reflects my complex and kooky nature.
As I watched the long silky manes of the Cavalia horses, I realized that like Samson needed his luscious locks, I need my weave. We will be together again!
Sometimes, I’ll be talking to someone, just having a basic conversation. The person I’m talking to will ask me a question or make a comment, and I’ll think of a song. I’ll think of a song that’s lyrics provide the perfect response! Sometimes, I’ll want to sing my response but that’s really never appropriate, so I’ll just sing it in my head. Of course, then I get caught up in the song, and forget to respond (with boring words) and it seems like I’m not listening only I am listening. It’s just that I’m listening more to the song in my head than the person I’m talking to.
Anyway, then there are other times. Sometimes when I’m walking somewhere, I’ll have a song in my head. As I’m playing the song in my head, I’ll think of a really cool dance move! And then I’ll think of another. Within seconds, I’ve got a little routine playing in my head. And as I’m walking through a busy Uptown, or at the mall or at the grocery store, I’ll feel the strongest urge to bust a move right and right there … in the frozen food aisle, or in front of Foot Locker or at the corner while waiting for the light to change.
Sometimes, I’ll think to myself, how nice it would be not just to bust a move but to bust a move and have anonymous people of all races, genders, shapes and sizes, bust a move with me. So we’re all unified in some crazy choreographed routine. Of course, now that I think about it, I would also like the music to blare through a speaker or intercom system to make it complete. You can’t dance without music.
Anyway, I guess, sometimes, I’d like my life to be a musical. This could explain my fascination with Glee…
I have issues. I’ve written about some of them here in my blog: people standing to close to me, my fears of mushrooms and midgets, and my disdain for pools and amusement parks. Yeah, I’ve got issues. Hell, I’ve got a lot of issues. I’ve listed 10 in no particular order.
Bathroom Closeness: Unless it’s crowded, I don’t want someone doing their business in the stall right next to me. Out of all the stalls to choose from, someone chooses the one right next to me? I’m sorry but there is something that’s just pervy about that.
Potlucks at Work: Sure we work together but I don’t know you well enough to eat something you brought from home. As far as I know you could have nasty household habits. At my last job, there was a woman who would stand in front of the full length mirror, pick her nose and wipe the boogers on the wall next to the mirror. We could never find out who she was. How do I know I wasn’t eating her banana pudding? Unless you bought it from the store, or I know you well enough to know you aren’t a nasty bitch, I’m gonna have to pass.
Thin Men: They make me look fatter and hippier than I already am. Your man is your biggest and best accessory, so if he can’t make me look good, he’s gone. About the only thing a thin man can do for me is eat a sandwich and introduce me to his hefty friend (Note: I said hefty. I could say beefy. I might say athletic. But, I didn’t and wouldn’t say fat).
TMI: I once had a co-worker. I would ask her on Monday what she did over the weekend. Her response always included a play-by-play of her sexual escapades. I mean detailed – who’s leg was where, who’s tongue did what, how long it lasted and how many positions were used. I stopped asking her about her weekend. Moral of the story: keep your business to yourself.
Tailgating: Back the fuck up. Nuf’ said.
Lack of Eye Contact: When men speak to me, they should look me in the eyes. My boobs don’t talk. They are not carrying on a conversation with my ass. Look me in my eyes, damnit!
Angry Atheists: Why are they so angry? Why do they get their panties in a bunch every time someone utters the name of God? I innocently say “Bless You” after a sneeze and I’m treated to a 20-minute diatribe about how religion has ruined society. Calm down.
Ugly Women with Men: Every time I go to the mall or to the store, I see unattractive women who are coupled up. I can’t even get a dinner date and women that are less attractive than me have men. I’m not saying that I’m all that, but I’m not something you peel off the bottom of your shoe either. C’mon!
Bacon and Eggs: Cannot stand either one. They disgust me. The smell of bacon makes me ill. I don’t like eggs either. I never had. In the spirit of Dr. Seuss, let me put it this way when it comes to eggs. "I don't want them fried. I don’t want them dyed. I just can’t lie! But eggs I’ll never buy!" The smell of bacon and eggs together makes me nauseous.
Bedroom Mirrors: I have a mirror in front of my bed now but it still bothers me. Since I was a kid, I have this persistent, irrational fear that someone or something is looking at me from the other side of the mirror while I sleep. I’m scared that one day I’m going to wake up and see it looking at me. Seriously, the thought of it keeps me up at night.
Name: SDC Home: United States About Me: I'm a youthful 44-year old, who is infectiously funny, dangerously smart, wildly creative, hopelessly math-phobic, tactfully honest, occasionally politically incorrect, and cute to boot! See my complete profile
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