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July 2007
July 30, 2007
July 25, 2007
Teh Winnahs (and Obligatory Lecture Because You Knew It Was Coming)
First, everyone, thanks for participating! Your captions completely cracked me up yesterday and the following are my favorites.
First up, Babs's entry.
Next, Stace's contribution.
Third, Malabama got creative.
But my very favorite is Jessica who I think best captured the whole LOLCAT vibe with these dual entries.
Jessica, congrats and please send me your address so I can mail your your book!
* * * * * * * * *
And now for the lecture...
Yesterday Mindy posted in the comments she couldn't play our captioning game because she thought it was too sad. Thank you all for not attacking her and calling her a troll because she wasn't wrong.
This IS sad. But here's why I think a little public shaming will do Lindsay Lohan some good.
Right now Lindsay should be building a life and a career because she IS talented. Who didn't fall in love with her in The Parent Trap and Freaky Friday and who wasn't completely delighted by her performance in the movie Mean Girls? She seemed like the kind of like the little sister we'd all want to have, right? I certainly don't think of her in the same class as Paris who's famous because she paid a publicist to make it happen. Lindsay Lohan has a place in the spotlight because she earned it.
I'm not completely heartless and I'd like to say the world should be more kind and understanding of Lindsay's problems. We can't imagine the kind of pressure she's under and, really, who among us didn't fuck up at her age? Of course, for most of us, we were forced to deal with the consequences of our youthful actions. For example, when I got myself kicked out of college after my sophomore year, no one patted me on the knee and said it would be OK. I'm not saying my parents weren't empathetic; however, they understood the best way for me to keep from screwing up like that again was to send me off to work and have me pay for my own schooling.
And now I have the degree (and student loan debt) to prove they were right.
When I imploded, it was up to me to reassemble myself and I never forgot what I learned in so doing. Yet after Lindsay's first DUI - and when public shaming (or a couple of months behind the cash register at Maurices') would have done her a world of good - she still found herself in every magazine being touted as a role model, a trend-setter, an icon... a celebrity. Just look at any recent glossy tabloid - sure they've talked some smack, but the pictures they show portray a completely different message, e.g. When Lindsay's in rehab, her beverage of choice is SmartWater! Lindsay enjoys drying out poolside in Catalina brand swimwear! Lindsay hides her bloodshot eyes in a classic pair of RayBan aviators! Shit, I'm surprised Mercedes didn't hire her to be a spokeswoman to tout the crashability of their S-class model. So, to a certain degree, I can understand the cognitive dissonance she must experience in trying to come to terms with having fucked up while an entire industry exists solely to take her photograph.
I believe Lindsay is the product of overly-permissive Boomer parents who've done nothing but use her as show pony to serve their own needs. (*cough*Lynn Spears*cough*) And I am sorry. However, Lindsay IS of age and has been for three years and the choices she's made recently are her own. Her parents didn't pour cocktails down her throat. They didn't fill her pockets with cocaine. Neither Mom nor Dad pushed her behind the wheel and held a gun to her head saying, "Drive!" She did this by her own volition.
Maybe her behavior is due to addiction and because of this, Mindy's point is we should be tolerant. With an average person, I wouldn't disagree. Addiction is heartbreaking. Devastating. Honestly, I really was happy when Lindsay went to rehab after her DUI. I hoped the group meetings and counseling and introspection would allow her to emerge from this period of her life wiser, yet unscathed. My wish was she'd come to terms with how she was living her life and realize exactly how selfish and dangerous it was to drive a car in an altered state. I wanted her to really live the steps and emerge from Promises a strong and stable person, capable not only of taking responsibility for her actions but also determined to use her fame and fortune as an agent for positive change.
So I bought the magazines because I wanted to monitor her progress.
However, as her stint at Promises wore on and more and more photos were released, I began to suspect her inpatient status stemmed not from a desire for a cure, but because her publicity machine said she had to go. I don't doubt Promises is in the business of helping people get better. But I wonder if she was admitted with the understanding she wasn't addicted and just needed it to look like she was doing something? This would explain why she was allowed to come and go at will and attend parties.
Regardless, within days of graduating Promises, there she was on the road, legally drunk, carrying drugs, and endangering the lives of the very people who buy both the magazines and the products they see her use.
Again, no one made her get into the car.
This is the choice she made.
A very bad choice.
And there are no more excuses.
Her choices this time demonstrate she didn't learn a damn thing the first time around. Since it's well documented she doesn't come from the kind of people who'd give her the swift kick in the ass she so desperately needed, the onus fell on those of us who see her movies and read about her in the tabs. Instead of passing judgment, we sent Lindsay hope, hugs, and good tidings. We forgave her bad behavior because we felt she'd eventually right her own course. We crossed our fingers she would "let go and let God." We were sadly tolerant and we gave her a second chance, clasping our hands in prayer that she'd find her way.
But you know what? Our kid-glove approach didn't work.
We failed her.
And she blew it.
Again.
So fuck tolerance.
It doesn't work. Being sad for her isn't going to save her.
Bring on the shame.
July 24, 2007
I Can Haz 8-Ball? Contest
I know, I know... I'm on deadline, but I simply could not resist the news of YET ANOTHER Lohan drinking-and-drugging-and-driving arrest.
photo courtesy of TheSmokingGun.com
So, come up with your best lolcat caption in the fine tradition of icanhascheezbuger.com and I'll send my favorite entry an autographed copy of Bright Lights, Big Ass. Put your caption in the comments section or build and link to your own Lohan/Lolcat image if you prefer to use a different photo.
Contest subject to end whenever I run out of time or this begins to bore me.
UPDATE: The window for entries has closed. Lohan was yesterday's news and today I've moved on to being concerned about terrorist cheese. Winner announced later today!
Taking a Quick Break from the Manuscript to Say...
According to the Daily Media News Feed on Media Bistro:
DREW CAREY NAMED NEW PRICE IS RIGHT HOST
"Carey announced that he will replace Bob Barker as the host of The Price is Right during Monday's taping of the Late Show with David Letterman. Speculation about Carey assuming the sought-after spot had been building since his appearance last week at the CBS portion of the Television Critics Association tour to promote the upcoming prime time game show he is hosting, Power of 10."
As long as he still insists we spay and neuter our pets and otherwise leaves the show as-is, I'm pleased with this choice.
(And THANK GOD it wasn't Rosie. Bob Barker would never toss a Koosh ball.)
(And, no, that's not a euphamism.)
(Because a Koosh ball is a TOY.)
(Yet I'll still get emails accusing me of hate speech.)
(Many, many presumptive, stupid emails.)
(OK, back to work now.)
July 19, 2007
Waiting for Godot... in a Totally Different Store
Today I NEED to continue to plug away on my rapidly-coming-due manuscript.
However, I WANT to call for a boycott against Nike, Inc. but I'm waiting for their response on whether or not they plan to continue to have dog-killing thugs endorsing their products, MICHAEL VICK. (In the meantime, Fletch spent last evening with a seam-ripper, removing little embroidered swooshes off all his athletic gear.) (While our vicious, blood-thirsty, born-to-kill pit bull cowered in the bathroom because it was raining.)
And I WILL get started on neither, instead recounting this scene from twenty years ago that I'd completely forgotten about until I dreamed about it last night. (BTW, if there's a fourth book in the whole life-of-Jen series, it will be a prequel composed of the longer version of hey-I-was-always-kind-of-an-ass stories like this.)
* * * * * * * * * *
It's late August, 1987. Everyone I know is back on campus except for me. The previous semester, I directed my academic efforts towards boys, beers, and VISA, so my university invites me to take a semester or two off with the nebulous suggestion I become less stupid. My parents' plan for my de-stupidification is more concrete and includes work, and lot of it, should I want to continue to live indoors. This is why I find myself in the belly of the beast, working retail at the Southtown Mall in Fort Wayne, Indiana, and having the following exchange with a harried-looking mother who enters my store:
Me: (with the kind of forced cheerfulness our corporate office requires, knowing full well if I'm not polite that I could be fired and if I lose my job on top of being booted out of school, I will never, ever be out of trouble) Hi, welcome to Maurices'! Can I help you find anything?
Customer: Yes, I have a hold for Miller.
Me: Sure! Let's go get it for you! (thumbing through the rack behind the counter) Hmm, I don't see anything for Miller. Did you hold it today? We only keep items on the hold rack until the close of business, so if you held it yesterday, it would have been put back into stock.
Customer: (snaps) Yes, it was today. The name is Miller. M-I-L-L-E-R. Look again.
Me: Ooh, gosh, my mistake then! Let's give this another looksie. (going through the rack, pulling out every single garment) No, no, no Miller. But let's see, I've got holds for Helen, for Heidi, for Marcy, and for Joan. Did you give your first name? Is one of these yours?
Customer: No! (exasperated sigh) Go look in the back.
Me: (I'm about to explain THE BACK is a cramped storage area with a mini-fridge and a small picnic table and a bunch of broken floor fixtures. There's a wee cork board with this week's schedule posted to it, and if we're really, really lucky, the tiny, dank employee bathroom isn't too disgusting to use. We don't put holds back here because it's tiny and gross. And, more importantly, this is most certainly NOT where we hide all the good items that you only get to see after you specifically request we retrieve them from here.) (And yet when I take in the customer's knitted brows and and lips pursed so hard her bright red lipstick is bleeding into all tiny wrinkles around her mouth, I think better of it.) OK! Be right out. (I freshen up my lipgloss in the filthy mirror, taking my time so the customer assumes I'm looking.)
Me: (returning) Mrs. Miller, I'm so, so sorry! It's not back there. Somehow your item must have been returned to stock. If you can tell me what it looks like, I'll find it for you immediately.
Customer: (slams hand on counter) Damn it, why are all you people all so incompetent?
Me: (pauses, channeling my seething rage into something resembling polite conversation) So, um, were they a pair of jeans then? Acid washed, perhaps?
Customer: No! It was a sweater! It was a goddamned yellow argyle sweater with pink and green diamonds! And my daughter is going have a fit you if you lost it and she can't wear it on the first day of school!
Me: (MUST KILL) (WITH KINDNESS) (also, am completely sure if we HAD a yellow argyle sweater, I would already own it) Ma'am, I think you're talking about the sweater at Ups 'N Downs across the hall. Which is a totally different store from Maurices'.
Customer: Show me because I am not leaving without this sweater.
Me: (shrugging as I pass the other Maurices' employees in their mini-skirts and maxi-bangs while Customer and I exit, cross the courtyard, and enter Ups 'N Downs) OK, then, here we are. In this place which is a different store.
Customer: (grabbing the sweater off a display where half a dozen of them are folded) A-ha! I told you you put them back! Is retail really that difficult? I don't know what is wrong with you people.
Me: (smiling with gritted teeth) My guess is that we work in a different store. See, that's why the music and clothing are different here and it's also why we went through that big hallway past the landscaping and the Things Remembered kiosk.
Customer: (thrusting the sweater and her credit card at me) Here, ring me up. You've wasted enough of my time.
Me: Sure! Let me just find a clerk who works here in this store which is different from the store I work in. (spotting an employee I know, grinning broadly) Hey, Kendra? Can you ring this up? I can't, what with my not working here because this is a different store and all.
Kendra: (punching buttons on the cash register and then handing over a slip) Here you are Mrs. Miller, please sign here. OK! (hands over her package) Thank you for shopping at Ups 'N Downs.
Me: And at Maurices! Which is a different store! (customer exits, delighted with her purchase)
Kendra: What the hell was that?
Me: That was tangible proof of why I need to get my ass back into college.
* * * * * * * * * *
Hey! While I was writing this entry, I got an email back from Nike:
There is no change in the status of the agreement between Nike and football player Michael Vick. Nike will continue to monitor the situation, but has nothing further to say at this time.
We appreciate that you took the time to contact us and your feedback will be passed along to the proper department.
Sincerely,
Nike
Oh, Nike...
It is SO FUCKING ON.
Are you disgusted they've yet to part ties with Michael Vick? Then please let them know!
One Bowerman Drive
Beaverton, OR 97005-6453
Phone: 1-800-344-6453
or
NIKE, Inc.
USA Consumer Services
PO Box 4027
Beaverton, OR 97076-4027
or
Click here for the email form you can use to tell Nike you don't buy products from corporations who ipso facto endorse dog fighting.
Please cut, paste and repost this information to spread the word.
"Fuck you, Nike for making my mumma write a completely schizophrenic blog. Also, your shoes don't even taste good."
July 16, 2007
July 10, 2007
Wash Me (Or Not)
Imagine you are in your basement organizing which of your work clothes should be taken to the drycleaner. While sorting, you run across your wife's favorite bathing suit drying on a rack.
What do you do next?
A) You put it right back where you found it because your wife expressly instructed you to only grab your work clothes. And as this is plus-sized women's swimwear, you're pretty sure you've never worn this piece to the office. Also, she yelled at you the seventeen times you accidentally washed and dried it last year, too.
B) You put it right back where you found it because your wife expressly instructed you to stay the hell away from her laundry as she's still pissed off you shrunk most of her polo shirts when you washed them in boiling water and dried them within an inch of their lives last week.
C) You put it right back where you found it because your wife begged you to please, please, please ask her if you ever have any laundry-based questions. And, really? Since you work hard, maybe just leave everything for her because she promises you she doesn't mind washing all the clothes, especially since nothing gets ruined that way.
D) You take the bathing suit directly to the drycleaner.
Try to guess how Fletch answered this question.
Here's a hint:
I'll truly consider it a Miracle Suit if it doesn't explode next time I put it on.
Craigslist 1, Jen 0
Yay! I'm back!
I've been locked out of Typepad for some unknown reason for the past few days but things seem to be back to normal now. (This service is still ten jillion times better than my old webhost, so I'm not complaining.) (I mean, much.)
Anyway, I'd been planning to post about Friday night - Fletch and I were invited to listen to The Police play from our friends' rooftop deck next to Wrigley Field. But now four days and a couple of gallons of gin and tonic later I can't remember much except for:
A) We had a blast
B) The invitation said we should dress like we did in the '80s (but that would imply I ever stopped)
C) The Police may possibly rock harder now than they did in the '80s
and
D) I inhaled a bug and kind of choked on it
I did manage to get a couple of photos in before the Tanqueray (can you think of a more quintessential '80s beverage?) kicked in and I began to attract insects.
The cab that picked us up. AND TOOK US STRAIGHT TO HELL.
Russ, Chris, and Fletch with Wrigley in the background and a gorgeous sunset.
Fletch and Kat, whose tan is better than mine. (Yet I like her anyway.) (Even if we did argue over which of us Sting was really singing to.)
Two. The correct answer is two, that is if you're wondering how many photos Fletch will pose for without getting annoyed. Whatever. I'm just pleased that I'm back to having only one chin again.
So, while Typepad was down yesterday I decided to do something about the box spring currently living in my front hallway. Fletch wanted to toss it after we put the new bed together but I thought maybe someone else could use it. Plus, I've been watching a lot of Planet Earth and I'm beginning to feel bad about the polar bears so I though I'd do what I could to keep the box spring from ending up in a dump. (I'm not sure how the act of giving away a box spring would directly save the polar bears, but this compulsion is why I'm finally recycling my empty water bottles, too.)
I figured Craigslist was the best place to dispose of such an item, so I decided to post an ad. As a quick caveat, I have to say I LOVE Craigslist. It's kind of the wild west of the Internet and you can find ANYTHING there. (Seriously, have you read the Rants and Raves section? Or the dating boards, which, although enormously entertaining, are nothing less than NC-17?) But even with all the ridiculously racy content, it's absolutely the best way to buy, sell, or find anything in the city.
I've sold a couple of pieces of furniture on Craigslist before. Because of this, I learned that unless I suddenly enjoy answering 10,000 stupid questions, I must be as detailed as possible in the ad. With this in mind, I put the following post with the headline of I Don't Know Why You'd Want This under the Free section yesterday.
Why would you want a queen-sized box spring? I have no idea.
Perhaps you have a masochistic streak and like the idea of laying on sharp edges and wooden slats. Maybe you have a way to recycle the box spring and don't want me to be all earth-rapey by setting it in the trash (currently my Plan B.) Possibly you collect old bedding from strangers. Or you're just determined to get something free from Craigslist, damn it, and this is finally your chance.
Regardless of the reason, this box spring is free to whoever wants to haul it out of my front hallway first.
Please note this is a queen-sized box spring only. It's by Serta. Or Sealy. Or something - I can't remember. Does it matter? It's about ten years old but it's in good shape because most of those years were spent in storage.
Again, so we're clear, there's no coordinating mattress here.
There's no possibility of a coordinating mattress here.
I will not deliver this to your house.
I will not schedule an appointment so you can come and look at it. It's a box spring. You know what it looks like already.
I will not hold this for you until you move into your new apartment next month.
I will not send you a photos because if I were willing to go to that sort of effort, the box spring would already be in the garbage, instead of simply being dumped in my front hallway.
So, come and get it.
Or not.
I don't care.
Crystal clear, right? Yet I still got a dozen questions yesterday of the "Can you deliver it?" and "Is there a coordinating mattress?" variety, as well as a number of emails telling me I was stupid for posting so much text and I should have just put up a photo and charged everyone a dollar for my effort. (Yes. Because my effort in writing is worth exactly one dollar.)
Late last night I got an email from an administrator at Craigslist. I opened it, assuming one of their staffers wanted the box spring, but instead I was told that my ad was deemed "offensive" and had been thusly removed.
Offensive.
On a website where you can score horse and find multiple anonymous sex partners, MY ad is the one that rubbed people the wrong way? Why? Because I used the word damn? Or because I said I didn't want to be an earth rapist and thus miffed all the politically correct out there?
Whatever.
The box spring is now in the trash.
I'm sorry, polar bears.
July 06, 2007
July 03, 2007
I'd Even Settle for Men in Black at This Point
Since my parents sold their house with the pool last fall, this is the first Fourth of July in years that I won't spend wallowing in the shallow end with a trashy novel and a banana daiquiri.
Honestly? I'm fine with that. I'm thankful for the decades I had to enjoy the pool and I'm happy my parents moved within walking distance to their grandchildren, even if it means there's no place to wallow in their backyard now.
(OK, fine, technically there's a lake in their backyard, but it's a non-swimming lake and please don't get me started on how you can have a lake and not be able to swim in it because it's a freaking LAKE and that's MADNESS, I tell you.)
(Although it may have something to do with the snakes.)
Anyway, I figured I'd simply indulge in my second favorite Fourth of July tradition, which is watching Independence Day starring the divine Mr. Will Smith. I love every single thing about this stupid movie - the stripper with the heart of gold, the ridiculous special effects, the heavy-handed environmental messages, the hilarious stereotypes, the completely implausible coincidences, etc. But regardless of the cheese factor, and despite having viewed it no less than fifty times, I never fail to choke up when President Bill Pullman gives his big speech in front of the new civilian Air Force about today being our Independence Day.
USA! USA! USA!
And oh, beautiful for spacious skies!
For amber waves of grain!
And God bless America and...
Ahem.
So, after I unloaded the new blender and banana daiquiri fixings out of the car (see? I improvised!) I ran to the TiVo to figure out which of the inevitable fifteen different re-broadcasts I'd watch. I scanned the guide and was surprised to see it's only airing once, which is fine. Once is all I needed.
I clicked to record and only then did I notice something odd about the show's description.
It was written in Spanish.
Which means the only television station to see fit to broadcast the very best Fourth of July movie ever is Tele-freaking-mundo.
Somehow I feel like the terrorists just won.
July 02, 2007
