I'm probably going to regret posting this, but still
There’s not much you can say when your brother-in-law sends your husband a calendar featuring sepia-tinted photographs of naked women rock climbing as a holiday gift.
p.s. I scoured Google trying to find a picture of said calendar, to no avail. Such scarcity MUST mean it is art and not soft-core porn.
p.p.s. I mean – seriously. Naked rock-climbing chicks? Where exactly should he display this item? Our current calendar where family dental appointments and social outings are recorded is prominently posted next to the phone in our kitchen. Wonderkiller does not possess a garage or woodshed or other man-lair where the Valvoline girlie calendars used to hang. At his office? His state-funded office where the guidelines for what behavior constitutes sexual harassment are prominently displayed in the break room, in case you should forget? Our bedroom? In the magazine rack next to the toilet?
UPDATE: It's called Stone Nudes.
p.p.p.s. Feel free to blather on in the comments about said calendar celebrating the beauty and strength of the female form. Then please tell me where I can find a naked rock-climbing men calendar being marketed to women (not gay men – there's a difference).
FURTHER UPDATE: Apparently the photographer behind naked rock-climbing chicks did a naked rock-climbing dudes calendar in 2002. I'm shocked that it apparently didn't sell well enough to warrant a repeat.
Okay, I've finally figured out what I want to say about this: I'm not debating the merit of a calendar of naked rock-climbing chicks. Stick a plunger on top of your refrigerator and call it art for all I care. I am debating the merit of giving a calendar featuring naked people as a gift.
And the reason I question this is because art is an intensely personal experience. (See – I'm willing to accept that the calendar in question is actually art.) Many years ago, a friend traveled to Egypt and bought a papyrus, which he had framed and gave to me. Upon bestowing the gift, he made the comment that he had taken a grave liberty in doing so: he made a big assumption that I would like the papyrus and the frame that he had chosen. Artistic preferences are extremely personal and often unique to the individual, he went on, and it's never polite to assume that you understand someone's individual tastes or worse, that you have better taste than they do.
So, if the calendar was intended as art, it made a rude assumption about our artistic preferences.
If it was intended as porn . . . well, I gotta go back to the question of where are my naked rock-climbing dudes?
Labels: art vs. porn, gifts, in-laws
Oregano, yo knows
Only someone like Oregano -- a woman brave enough to admit she has Hanson on her iPod -- could truly appreciate the beauty of
this post.
Remember when
videos were literal? Boy, those were the days.
"Timbers Ascents to More Corporate-Sponsored Humiliation"
Express copyeditors
assent to more readership-sponsored humiliation.
Note: I realize that this might be some small attempt at humor on the part of the Express staff...you know, "timbers" and "ascents"...but for it to be funny, it has to make sense. I'm just saying.
Divided Loyalties Go Bad
Or in other words, what are the Seattle Mariners doing?!
I have two baseball teams I follow: The Mariners, since I'm a former Seattlite, and the Washington Nationals, because I live here now. The Mariners used to be amazing, and used to make all these small moves in the offseason that would absolutely pay off (Hi there, releasing giant albatross Alex Rodriguez (yucky!) and getting Ichiro, which resulted in 116 games won in 2001, tied for the most eva!) But now, it seems that the managment there wants to sandbag the team, by acquring several over-the-hill Nationals players, and trading amazing prospects for these guys. What they're doing ... just plain does not make sense.
However, these things are good for the Nats, which means it's good for the team whose games I can actually attend. But at the same time, I want my M's to succeed. It's like when one of your children bests the other in the spelling bee.
I pull my hair in frustration.
im in ur club drinkin ur booz
We unmoored the party barge Friday night and floated it down to Dupont to see what all the pretty people were up to. Turns out the pretty people were all consumed with holiday cheer and spent the whole night giving us alcohol.
Dear Peter at Citron: Oregano, yo was really enamored with the festive arrangement you had at the bar. That, and the mojitos. "Lime, mint, syrup, and rum . . . it's like everything I love in one glass."
Dear Empanada Guy: Sorry about taking over your place like that. I swear, we just can't take Britney, yo anywhere and expect her to behave.
Dear Billy Ocean: No, we are not going to get into your car.
Dear Friend of the Guy Wearing the Circa-1997 Sweater and Haircut: Yes, we know you bought us the round of shots. No, we are not going to designate someone from our table to "thank you in the right way."
Dear Drunk Biz-natch on M Street Who Told Us to Keep it Down: Like you've got room to talk.
Dear Fly: Let's forget about that whole tequila shot thing next time, 'kay?
Kisses,
The Alligators
Fodder: The K-Fed Book
Read this morning that Kevin Federline's threatening to write a tell-all book about Brit. So much to say, and will likely add more in comments.
But let's start with the obvious: K-Fed can write? I know he has no problem populating the earth with children, but can he populate a page with words? (Not to be redundant here, but actual, relevant, literate words?)
Then, I had a wretched thought: What if it's a pop-up children's book? Scary, shudder-inducing stuff.
Also, as a person who works in publishing, I find this especially disturbing--because I finally found a job that would be worse than a nurse who works on colonoscopies. And that, my friends, is someone who is slated to edit K-Fed's straight up gangsta poseur speech into sentences with a subject that isn't "bitches" or "shizzle," and a verb. Hopefully, the chosen one (the poor editor, we'll send you a fruit basket...) will be able to find a babelfish for translating his rubbish.
P.S. Spell check wanted to change "Federline" to "Fatherliness" and/or "Patrilineal." Hee!
Life Lessons, Part 1
Don't order sushi on a Monday night, unless you want to taste what Friday's selection was like. And only if you have a good imagination and a strong stomach.
awe.some.
"I wish my grass was emo so it would cut itself."
- Guy, yo
Perceived Goodwill Actually Disguised Hex
The earlier post regarding the Angry Refrigerator Pixie was misguided, apparently, as I think I have been cursed by her. As the tally for spilling foodstuffs on myself today advances (current number: 3), it appears that the food storage salvation was not as purely intentioned as thought.
The victual stains are racking up, meaning the financial savings I gained--by not having to purchase another Ziploc container--will now be doled out to the drycleaner.
Plus, I encourage you to read the very good, insightful and truthful comment by Bailey, yo, in the post below. What I thought was a saving grace was actually a Hester-Prynne-on-the-Scaffold, you-should-be-ashamed-of-yourself smackdown.
I AM shamed, y'all. I almost can't enjoy the vendor-gift season.
Angry Refrigerator Pixie Spares Ziploc Container
... in Monday morning toss-everything-out session (soup inside, also not dumped out). And by spared, I mean left on lunchroom table, rather than hurled with vigor into trashcan.
Perhaps 'tis a sign of the season: The Angry Refrigerator Pixie is consumed by the spirit of the holidays. In other words, perhaps A.R.P.'s heart grew three sizes today.
Too bad I didn't bring in leftover roast beast for her to carve.
Say Anything...I mean, Shut up!...Ass...
At the hairdresser yesterday I start reading an issue of Cosmo, and I go straight for the section "Guy Confessions." I think I enjoy reading these pages so much because they remind me of the days of yore when I used to subscribe to YM. Any of you who used to read YM remember a section called "Say Anything." In Say Anything you were supposed to be amused by stories of girls being utterly mortified either in public, or, most commonly, in front of their--gasp!--Crush! But what used to amuse me wasn't so much the embarrassing moments, but what assholes these "crushes" the girls writing in were talking about. I mean, in many cases, the "mortifying moments" were just things that could happen to any of us, and yet, it seemed like the "crush" would inevitably be so disgusted and turned off by it he "never spoke to [the girl] again." These "Guy Confessions" in Cosmo are no different. It's like, who are these biznatches they are so upset to turn off? To illustrate my point, please find my interpretation of a "Say Anything" or "Guy Confession":
"There was this [really hot girl/ guy I was totally crushing on] in the class across the hall from me. I would see [him/her] everyday and finally worked up the nerve to ask [him/her]out. We go to this really nice seafood restaurant, and the date is going really well--I can tell [he/she] is REALLY into me-- when all of a sudden, my throat starts to itch. I drink some water and try to ignore it but it keeps getting worse. It turns out I was allergic to shellfish and I totally didn't know!!! So anyway, my throat closes up and I turn bright blue, and my date is like "what the hell?!" Well, I fall to the ground, like
totally dying, when a doctor who was eating at the next table was able to open up part of my airway with his Monte Blanc pen. Luckily I survived--barely--but some blood from my life-preserving neck hole got on my date's shoe! [He/she] was so grossed out, and OHMIGOD, NEVER spoke to me again! Lesson learned, see your allergist before going on a hot date!!!!"
What the hell?! What is this?? To add to oregano yo's list of "Places you NEVER want to find date" I'm putting "Say Anything" or "Guy Confessions" on the list!
Now on AOAPB: More Complaining About Congress!
Oh crap. Y'all found us.
Um, I don't actually have anything bad to say about Congress right now.
Wait, I heard something about Ted Kennedy and some chick and driving his car off a bridge . . .
Oh, that happened 40 years ago? Shit, I wasn't even alive then.
Seriously, hi y'all!
Thanks, Wonkette, you dirty whore. We were just minding our own damn bidness out here on the barge. But we hope all y'all keep coming back. Or Blogline us. Or something.
Yeah, it's usually pretty dull around here.
From the Mouths of Congressmen
In a very intriguing article from the
WaPost--—regarding the "new" mandate that members of the House should be required to, you know, work a few days more for lawmaking, which is kind of the job they're being paid and were elected for--—the following was quoted:
"Keeping us up here eats away at families," said Rep. Jack Kingston (R-Ga.), who typically flies home on Thursdays and returns to Washington on Tuesdays. "Marriages suffer. The Democrats could care less about families -- that's what this says."
There's so much to be said about this quote, but my favorite part is to analyze the usage of "could care less"
thusly.
Also, we thinks Jack may be looking for a way out from family and marriage. This-a-way, he has a very clear scapegoat when he does, in fact, end his marriage. Might be time for Mrs. Kingston to hire herself a new pool boy.
I'm starting my list
If my husband and I don't manage to reconcile, I'll have to begin dating again. (Oh, God, please no.) If that comes to pass, I will need acceptable places to meet acceptable men. I am hereby starting a list of places where I will NOT be shopping for a date:
1. The paintball field. Because the alternate name for the paintball field is "Mullets 'R' Us."
Stay tuned for more...
blech
I keep trying to write something meaningful and pithy on the demise of Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock's mariage, but I've been distracted by a recipe for the Most Disgusting Cocktail Ever.
Horseradish Pomegranate Margarita.
The first problem I see is that making a single drink requires 24 hours "infusing" time. Second problem is that making a single drink requires five minutes "mixing" time. The third problem is making this drink involves mixing horseradish, tequila, pomegranate, and super-sweet organgy liquor.
Now, I make the worst martinis in the world. Seriously, I do. That's why I always order them when I'm out. I lack the necessary skills to meld gin, vermouth and olives into something drinkable. I can brine a goddamn 24-lb. turkey and grow my own hydroponic chard, but I lack the touch for making cocktails. Therefore, I appreciate the professional technique required, and I willingly fork over horrifying sums of money to have someone qualified make my martinis.
This recipe should never have been shared with the general population, y'all. This recipe is
dangerous in the wrong hands. This recipe could cause
blindness, fer crying out loud.
Here's to all the bartenders who will see us and our dumbass "you know what would taste good? Scotch, Diet Coke, and mustard!" selves through this holiday season.
Reason for Having a Doctor Friend, Parts 3–7
3. For when you hit a slippery patch of tile in the Metro tunnel, plunk forward onto your forehead, and have a giant goose egg that as the day goes on gets bigger and more painful.
4. For when you watch too much Grey's Anatomy and self-diagnose that bump on head as something actually somethin' more serious—it's always the people with the simple injuries on that show that are toast, y'all.
5. For when your face starts progressively going numb, starting at the point of injury and spreading outward, a full 6 hours after contact with floor.
6. For when the late Friday night decision is made that maybe one should go to the emergency room to check out said numbness, for it could be indicative of reason number 4.
7. For when the ER doctor says, "You need a CAT scan" at 1:30 a.m., even though she already told you it was likely just swelling pushing onto the nerves, causing temporary neurological paralysis.
If one could just find a doctor friend, one could have been reassured, told about the temporary numbness, wait until morning and call one's real doctor. Could have been all different.
Won't someone please be our doctor friend?
