Pardon me for a moment while I get out my soap box and dust it off. I feel a rant coming on.
I drove downtown the other day and passed on of those new fangled billboards with an ad for a gun shop on it. The guy in the ad, presumably the owner, had a giant and gorgeous dead leopard draped over his shoulders, which I guess he shot with one of those guns he sells. That ad pissed me off in several different ways, which I will now list, if I can remember them all.
1. We live in freaking South Carolina. How many people around these parts are going big game hunting? It’s all deer, squirrels, and ducks in this neck of the woods, all of which you pretty much can hit with your car. Maybe you might see the occasional wild boar or lost black bear. But leopards? Not so common in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
2. I am not a big fan of hunting in general, but if you plan to eat what you shoot, then I can respect it. Food is expensive. Hell, I am paying $5.99 a pound for organic boneless chicken breasts at Costco, so I understand that a little free and free range meat is a good thing. Leopards, on the other hand, are probably not such good eating. Nor are they local or sustainable. You have to go to where the leopards live, unless you are buddies with Ted Nugent or something. Big game hunting has nothing to do with feeding your family and everything to do with power and control. Look at that beautiful animal, I love it so much I am going to kill it? I don’t think so.
3. I am also not a big fan of guns. I’ve never even seen one up close and personal. But seriously, the Second Amendment was written at a very different time in history. Those colonial fuckers didn’t have a police force or a national guard or a war on drugs. They didn’t have roads or grocery stores or an infrastructure. So it made more sense in the 18th century for everyone to arm themselves. They needed to hunt for food and protect themselves from opportunists and Injuns. We don’t have the same issues today with our personal safety. We have cell phones to use in an emergency. We have easy transportation and security alarms and mace key chains.
4. And handguns? Does anyone really hunt with them? Who walks up to a deer and shoots it with a pistol? They are for shooting other people, are they not? That argument that guns don’t kill people, people kill people, is nonsense. People kill people with guns, not show tunes!
5. Why is violence such an acceptable part of society? I thought for a moment about saying American society, but really, it is a global problem. We don’t cane people here, or chop off heads or hands in a public square. We are quite fond, however, of all things involving shooting or blowing up. Based on our television dramas, you would think the whole world revolved around forensics and detective work, or the legal action that follows such investigations. If our movies are to be believed, we have quite a little problem with serial killers. And what is the fascination with blood spewing? We have increasingly violent video games, but if you put any of those teenagers in front of a live birth, they would all hurl based on the amount of blood and gunk involved in bringing a life into this world.
6. Why is it more entertaining to watch a life end violently than a new life begin peacefully? The pussy might not be pretty, but pussy is pussy! (See number 5.)
7. Now this may be a tangent, but I would have less of a problem with a billboard with a scantily clad busty woman sucking her own index finger than I do with the man draped in a dead cat. We don’t have a problem with extreme violence, but sex is a disgusting sin? Well, I don’t know about you, but I rather screw than get shot in the head. In fact, you don’t have to hold a gun to my head. I’m pretty much happy to do it.
8. Did it occur to the people who sold the ad that the billboard isn’t that far away from the city zoo? The zoo where we just got leopard triplets? I bet those kitties are shaking in their little fur coats over that one. And those poor little kids who have to see that ad. How confusing for them. "Mom, did that man shoot one of the new leopards?" 'No sweetie, but he would if he could."
I know I should keep at this until I get to ten reasons, but fuck it, I’ve lost my steam. Time to put away my soap box and go do the laundry. Or go clean my gun. Or maybe go watch some porn. As long as it isn’t a snuff film.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
A Purell Moment
My husband is a real stickler for washing new clothes when he brings them home from the store. It doesn’t matter to him if they are socks, briefs, or a button down shirt; he throws any and all new clothing into the wash before he will wear them. I used to think he did this just to create more work for me, seeing as how I am the laundry maven and all. I agreed with him to a point. I also wash all my new panties, nighties, and socks before I wear them, but it never occurred to me to wash everything. Not even after all the hoopla about bedbugs in clothing stores. But my little jaunt to TJ Maxx yesterday changed all that. I am now solidly on my husband’s side, and let the record show, HE IS RIGHT! And I am not afraid to admit it.
So, here we go. Swallow that last bite of cookie. Put down your iced tea. It’s going to get a little hairy.
I stopped by TJ Maxx yesterday, not for anything specific, because, seriously, who goes to TJ Maxx for something specific? It’s one step up from a flea market, which doesn’t stop me from shopping there, although after yesterday, it might. I was looking for stuff for a beach condo I am decorating, but when I didn’t find anything quite right, I scooted over to the bathing suits and perused the selection.It's about that time of year, and it's never too early to find a perfect swimsuit for less than a night's stay at a four star hotel.
As luck would have it,I found a really cute suit, which is a miracle because good bathing suits are harder to find than Waldo. The swimsuit was a black strapless one piece with a little twisty bandeau top and a very slight flouncy skirt. It was a far cry from an old lady tent swim dress, but it still provided the kind of coverage that a woman over forty with a slight weight problem and a little body dysmorphic syndrome could feel good about wearing. It did not have a product tag on it, just the store price tag, but I checked the size on the label and felt confident it would fit me. I liked it a lot but I didn’t have time to try it on, so I took it, along with a cute black and white top that I found, to the checkout counter.
I handed my shirt and swimsuit to the clerk and asked, “What is your return policy for swimsuits? I didn’t have time to try this on.”
She scanned the tag and said, “As long as you have your receipt and the original tag on it, you can return it.”
“What about the panty liner thing? Does it have to have that too?” I asked, turning the crotch inside out. “Oh Jesus, that’s disgusting! Don’t worry about it, because I am not buying it!”
We both looked at the crotch of the bathing suit. It had been used. On the black fabric was evidence that a naked crotch had touched it. In layman’s terms, there was a snail trail.
The cashier voided the bathing suit, continuing on with her spiel, “Well, if you purchased the suit, you would need to retain your receipt and keep the tags on it so you could return it later.”
“Maybe your return policy is too liberal,” I suggested, “if things can be returned in a used condition, like that.”
She shrugged her shoulders and, get this, hung the bathing suit back on the hanger, readying it to go back to the sales floor! The customer service cashier was watching us curiously and sidled over.
“What’s wrong with that bathing suit?” she asked.
“She don’t want it,” the cashier said.
“No I don't. Because it’s been worn. And used. And soiled,” I said.
“Put it in the damaged goods bin,” the customer service cashier said.
My cashier did as she was told and finished ringing up my shirt. I skedaddled to the car and bathed myself in hand sanitizer.
I bought the black and white shirt, but I took it back today. Ewww. It was too close to that bathing suit. As an aside, when I was waiting in line to return the shirt, a woman got in line two ladies behind me, stood there for a minute, and then asked if we were waiting in line to check out. Really? "No, I said, "We are waiting because it's fun."
When a sign tells you to keep on your panties when trying on bathing suits, do it. There is a reason. I might have to go so far as to wear those free little foot condoms when trying on flip flops too. Maybe I should just start shopping in a Hazmat suit. Or I could go all FLDS and make my own prairie dresses. At least they don’t come pre-slimed with someone else’s va-jay-jay smear in them. And for the record, let me say once again, MY HUSBAND IS RIGHT. But only about washing new clothes before they are worn.
So, here we go. Swallow that last bite of cookie. Put down your iced tea. It’s going to get a little hairy.
I stopped by TJ Maxx yesterday, not for anything specific, because, seriously, who goes to TJ Maxx for something specific? It’s one step up from a flea market, which doesn’t stop me from shopping there, although after yesterday, it might. I was looking for stuff for a beach condo I am decorating, but when I didn’t find anything quite right, I scooted over to the bathing suits and perused the selection.It's about that time of year, and it's never too early to find a perfect swimsuit for less than a night's stay at a four star hotel.
As luck would have it,I found a really cute suit, which is a miracle because good bathing suits are harder to find than Waldo. The swimsuit was a black strapless one piece with a little twisty bandeau top and a very slight flouncy skirt. It was a far cry from an old lady tent swim dress, but it still provided the kind of coverage that a woman over forty with a slight weight problem and a little body dysmorphic syndrome could feel good about wearing. It did not have a product tag on it, just the store price tag, but I checked the size on the label and felt confident it would fit me. I liked it a lot but I didn’t have time to try it on, so I took it, along with a cute black and white top that I found, to the checkout counter.
I handed my shirt and swimsuit to the clerk and asked, “What is your return policy for swimsuits? I didn’t have time to try this on.”
She scanned the tag and said, “As long as you have your receipt and the original tag on it, you can return it.”
“What about the panty liner thing? Does it have to have that too?” I asked, turning the crotch inside out. “Oh Jesus, that’s disgusting! Don’t worry about it, because I am not buying it!”
We both looked at the crotch of the bathing suit. It had been used. On the black fabric was evidence that a naked crotch had touched it. In layman’s terms, there was a snail trail.
The cashier voided the bathing suit, continuing on with her spiel, “Well, if you purchased the suit, you would need to retain your receipt and keep the tags on it so you could return it later.”
“Maybe your return policy is too liberal,” I suggested, “if things can be returned in a used condition, like that.”
She shrugged her shoulders and, get this, hung the bathing suit back on the hanger, readying it to go back to the sales floor! The customer service cashier was watching us curiously and sidled over.
“What’s wrong with that bathing suit?” she asked.
“She don’t want it,” the cashier said.
“No I don't. Because it’s been worn. And used. And soiled,” I said.
“Put it in the damaged goods bin,” the customer service cashier said.
My cashier did as she was told and finished ringing up my shirt. I skedaddled to the car and bathed myself in hand sanitizer.
I bought the black and white shirt, but I took it back today. Ewww. It was too close to that bathing suit. As an aside, when I was waiting in line to return the shirt, a woman got in line two ladies behind me, stood there for a minute, and then asked if we were waiting in line to check out. Really? "No, I said, "We are waiting because it's fun."
When a sign tells you to keep on your panties when trying on bathing suits, do it. There is a reason. I might have to go so far as to wear those free little foot condoms when trying on flip flops too. Maybe I should just start shopping in a Hazmat suit. Or I could go all FLDS and make my own prairie dresses. At least they don’t come pre-slimed with someone else’s va-jay-jay smear in them. And for the record, let me say once again, MY HUSBAND IS RIGHT. But only about washing new clothes before they are worn.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Some Adderall Might Help
Sitting down to write is always a lesson in focusing and tuning out as much as it is about the process of actually writing. I usually have a bunch of ideas in mind, wondering only if I am able to construct them into an essay rather than a snarky Facebook status update. It’s not that I don’t have anything to say, although, truth be told, I don’t. I am a stay at home mom. Either everything is funny, poignant, or hmmm-producing, or nothing is. Sometimes I drive home from errands thinking about calling a friend and realizing that I don’t have anything to say. So I drive on, frowning to myself. I doubt it is any different than the doldrum life of an office worker. In fact, I know it isn’t. I used to be an office worker. That was boring too.
Wanna know what I did today? That depends on if you are having trouble sleeping.I could tell you about going to the gym, as I sometimes do. Nothing rib-tickly happened there today. No one fell down in the kickboxing class, although I was tempted to roundhouse the woman behind me who had an issue with invading my personal space. She even put her water bottle on top of my sweaty towel, so I did not feel bad when I bent over and dripped all over the mouth piece. Yoga afterwards was nice and peaceful. Nothing to report there either. I do wonder though if I am the only one who sweats like a pig in that class. It’s not hot yoga, it’s only room temperature yoga. Maybe I am still sweating from the combat class. It was nice and stretchy and I enjoyed it very much, thank you.
Next I went to Whole Foods. I secretly wished for free samples of something because hell, I just did two classes at the gym. Nothing free today. Just grocery shopping and my usual seventy something dollar tab. So I drove home. I ate lunch. I tried to not eat any chocolate. I talked to my friend MJ on the phone, who also didn’t feel like working and had very little to say. I took a shower, I started a load of laundry, and I sat down to write.
The house is empty, so you would think it would be an ideal time to write, but again, not so much. I am listening right now to a carpenter bee trying to eat its way through my window pane. I can’t see the bumbly fucker, but I can hear it, buzz buzz, like a tiny little dental drill. I can even see the pile of sawdust or whatever the hell it is outside the window. You know how you can’t sleep when you go camping outside in the summer because of that mosquito hum in your ear? Try writing with a carpenter bee outside your window.
If that wasn’t annoying enough, add the two cats that live in my house. They like to sleep a lot, but not when I try to write. It’s like they know I am working, much like my husband or children do. All I have to do is tell my family I am going to write and for the next hour it’s “Mom” this and “Mom” that. The cats have their own version of irritating me. It involves running up and down the steps, down the hallway, and over the furniture, chasing each other in a complete circuit of both floors of the house. When one of them gets angry, there is hissing and growling. When one of them can’t find the other, there is howling and meowing. And when they wear each other out, they find me and lounge across my desk or nibble on the plant by the treadmill. Bees buzzing outside the window. Cats chewing leaves on the floor. Sounds peaceful, doesn’t it? Right now, my big tuxedo tom cat is making bedroom eyes at me while making biscuits on my monthly planner. Did I mention he purrs like a jackhammer? Do lions and tigers purr? It’s got to be quieter than my cat.
If that weren’t distracting enough, how about listening to the washing machine upstairs? I l have an upstairs laundry room, which I love for convenience but fear for the potential of flooding. I can’t think of another sentence right now because I am listening to the basin fill up with water. I hope it stops soon. It hasn’t ever overflowed, since that is the toilet’s job, but still, I hope it stops soon. If I don’t formulate a thought shortly, it’s going to be time to put the clothes in the dryer.
Did I mention how loud the fan is on my laptop? Jesus, it’s like a wind tunnel in here. Who can concentrate with that constant droning? Buzz, purr, slosh, hum. What was I saying again? Oh yeah, something about writing. Which I would love to do, but now it’s time to meet the school bus.
Wanna know what I did today? That depends on if you are having trouble sleeping.I could tell you about going to the gym, as I sometimes do. Nothing rib-tickly happened there today. No one fell down in the kickboxing class, although I was tempted to roundhouse the woman behind me who had an issue with invading my personal space. She even put her water bottle on top of my sweaty towel, so I did not feel bad when I bent over and dripped all over the mouth piece. Yoga afterwards was nice and peaceful. Nothing to report there either. I do wonder though if I am the only one who sweats like a pig in that class. It’s not hot yoga, it’s only room temperature yoga. Maybe I am still sweating from the combat class. It was nice and stretchy and I enjoyed it very much, thank you.
Next I went to Whole Foods. I secretly wished for free samples of something because hell, I just did two classes at the gym. Nothing free today. Just grocery shopping and my usual seventy something dollar tab. So I drove home. I ate lunch. I tried to not eat any chocolate. I talked to my friend MJ on the phone, who also didn’t feel like working and had very little to say. I took a shower, I started a load of laundry, and I sat down to write.
The house is empty, so you would think it would be an ideal time to write, but again, not so much. I am listening right now to a carpenter bee trying to eat its way through my window pane. I can’t see the bumbly fucker, but I can hear it, buzz buzz, like a tiny little dental drill. I can even see the pile of sawdust or whatever the hell it is outside the window. You know how you can’t sleep when you go camping outside in the summer because of that mosquito hum in your ear? Try writing with a carpenter bee outside your window.
If that wasn’t annoying enough, add the two cats that live in my house. They like to sleep a lot, but not when I try to write. It’s like they know I am working, much like my husband or children do. All I have to do is tell my family I am going to write and for the next hour it’s “Mom” this and “Mom” that. The cats have their own version of irritating me. It involves running up and down the steps, down the hallway, and over the furniture, chasing each other in a complete circuit of both floors of the house. When one of them gets angry, there is hissing and growling. When one of them can’t find the other, there is howling and meowing. And when they wear each other out, they find me and lounge across my desk or nibble on the plant by the treadmill. Bees buzzing outside the window. Cats chewing leaves on the floor. Sounds peaceful, doesn’t it? Right now, my big tuxedo tom cat is making bedroom eyes at me while making biscuits on my monthly planner. Did I mention he purrs like a jackhammer? Do lions and tigers purr? It’s got to be quieter than my cat.
If that weren’t distracting enough, how about listening to the washing machine upstairs? I l have an upstairs laundry room, which I love for convenience but fear for the potential of flooding. I can’t think of another sentence right now because I am listening to the basin fill up with water. I hope it stops soon. It hasn’t ever overflowed, since that is the toilet’s job, but still, I hope it stops soon. If I don’t formulate a thought shortly, it’s going to be time to put the clothes in the dryer.
Did I mention how loud the fan is on my laptop? Jesus, it’s like a wind tunnel in here. Who can concentrate with that constant droning? Buzz, purr, slosh, hum. What was I saying again? Oh yeah, something about writing. Which I would love to do, but now it’s time to meet the school bus.
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