What he said
"What's 'normal' for Beverly Hills is not 'normal' for the rest of the world. What's 'normal' in Beverly Hills is more like 'batshit fucking insane' to the rest of the world."
-- Mr. Bailey, yo's response when I sent him a link to
this article and a note moaning about what counts as a normal female beauty regime these days.
Labels: Short Rants
Also, "bitch set me up"
How is it possible that the New York Times actually believes it’s stumbled on something new and earth-shattering with “The Devil Wears Prada” reason that horrible people working with other horrible people in a horrible place (the so-called fashion industry) want to kill each other?
“He needed killin’” has been considered a plausible defense in Texas for centuries.
Labels: ill-informed opinions
Department Store of Horrors
Memorial Day weekend, and I decided to fullfill my duties as an American by indulging in a long trip to Consumertown, a.k.a. Tyson's Galleria.
Nearing the end of the five-hour spending fest, I entered a dressing room at one of the shopping center's anchor stores—the one with the ampersand in the center of the name—and proceeded to try on an item of clothing. Horrific horrors ensued whilst looking in the two-way mirror. "Holy crap, do I look like that? How are small children not nightmared by me?" were actual thoughts had.
The combination of an ultra-skinny mirror and a pallid greenish glow from the overhead fluorescent lighting created a
faces of meth-like appearance, which was not at all how I generally picture myself, considering I've never regarded mixing Sudafed and Drano as a good way to stay up for 72 hours. Said mirror instantly dropped 20 pounds off my person, which I thought would be a welcome development, but viewing this result really made me want a sandwich. Or six sandwiches and a cheeseburger. It. Was. Awful. The lighting highlighted all the redness in my skin, every mole. And somehow the mirrors also screwed with my posture, making me both a hunchback, adorned with some ba donka donk.
Don't know how it happened, don't care. All I know is when I think of what I saw there, I feel an instant urge to hurl. All I can say is stay out of the dressing rooms there.
Nature is trying to kill me, yo.
We’re entering Week 5 of the
Bailey, yo Allergy Death Watch here at AOAPB, where Nature tries to kill me with her wicked trees, flowers, flowering trees, grass, mold, mites, dander, dust, ozone, radio waves, clouds, and life in general.
Nature is pissed because I screamed at her a little a couple of months ago, when she startled me by landing on the terrace by my office window in the form of three raptors with red eyes. Nature-in-the-form-of-predatory-birds then proceeded to bludgeon their brunch-in-the-form-of-a-smaller-bird against the terrace railing, causing me to shriek in a most loud and girl-y fashion, that “Nature is outside! Nature is outside killing! Killing its lunch! Nature! Nature!” and frantically try to close the blinds to shield me from the horror.
See, I had no desire to interrupt Nature while she was dining. It’s just her table manners are disgusting.
At last tally, Nature has sent me to the doctor four times, for a total of six prescriptions. The currently approved morning cocktail now includes:
- 1 shot Nasacort to protect the nasal passages
- 1 Zyrtek in desperate attempt to shield my body from invaders
- 2 Sudafed to relieve the pressure in my ears, which haven’t popped in four weeks. Also to help drain the ick from the sinuses.
- 2 Robitussin Cough Tabs to disguise the hacking up of drained ick
- 1 multi-vitamin because nothing else is working
- 2 prophylactic Excedrin Migraine tablets
Also, three courses of antibiotics to clear up the nasty lil infections of ears, tonsils, and sinuses where Nature has managed to penetrate my defenses.
This shit’s gotten out of hand, y’all. So I hereby offer my profound apologies to Nature for interrupting her lunchtime repast a few months back. It was my lack of sophistication that led to such a gauche response, and I humbly beg your pardon.
Now can we dial back the freaking particulate matter content? You’re killing me here.
Labels: open letter of irritation; Nature is a bitch
Old Peeps Actually Taste Better
Happy Easter, y'all.P.S. The
conjoined Peeps surgery is kind of an homage to last night's Grey's Anatomy repeat, if you think about about it.
Labels: food art
Dear Ruth Marcus: Get Bent
Ruth Marcus opines in that oh-so-insipid way of hers that Elizabeth Edwards should back off campaigning for her husband because she’s got cancer. Incurable, but treatable, won’t-someone-think-of-her-poor-soon-to-be-motherless-children cancer.
Scholars and social critics more thoughtful than me can pick apart and mercilessly refute her arguments. Me, all I got is blind fury and a blog.
Many AOAPB readers know that my husband has incurable, but treatable cancer. Now you all do.
Ruth points out that there’s a double standard for women and men when it comes to handling illness. Well sure, as long as we got women like Ruth to reinforce said double standard.
Cancer sucks, no doubt about it. Incurable cancer sucks big-time. But the idea that Elizabeth Edwards is going to 1) die with horrible regrets for not spending more time with her children and 2) blithely announced to her children that “Mommy’s cancer is back! Now I’m off to campaign for Daddy!” just feeds horrific old-school stereotypes about cancer and motherhood.
Reality check: we’re all going to die with horrible regrets. For those of us who are parents, many of those regrets will center around things we did or didn’t do with our kids. But you accept this the minute you become a parent. You can’t let is paralyze you. Because if it isn’t cancer, it’s going to be something else that knocks you off your game.
It is possible to be a parent, wage-earner, and a cancer patient simultaneously. Only people like Ruth Marcus that think we should pick two out of three.
Labels: cancer, life lessons, open letter of irritation
I love it when the nurses all call me "Mom"
BoyChile and GirlChile had their first appointments with the dentist today. Nothing brings out the crazy quite so much as a first “ANYTHING MEDICAL” appointment with your toddlers. You can guarantee a couple of things:
1. You’re going to be late.
2. You’re going to need to fill out a metric shitload of forms.
3. You’re going to forget some vital piece of information. (SSN, blood type, insurance card, vaccination certification, credit score . . .)
4. You’re going to leave the medical establishment worried about something you’d never thought of before.
5. You’re going to leave thinking you’re a bad parent because you’d never thought of said thing before.
It won’t surprise many readers (hi Mom!) that I’ve been called “somewhat aggressive” when it comes to making my will known. Must be because I . . . you know . . . tell people what I want.
But not with doctors. Oh no. That urologist could have told me he was going to take my kidney out with a local anesthetic and a grapefruit spoon, and I would have said, “Hand me that consent form and let’s get cracking!”
So my babies are in these big chairs and there’s not enough time (in my mind) to explore the office, or the tools, and the damn Dora the Explorer DVD runs out just about the time the whiny brush starts up, and I’m bouncing back and forth between their chairs, trying to keep a big ole smile on my face because, hey! This is fun! Going to the dentist is fun!
When the dentist with BoyChile demands of me, “how did he break his front tooth?”
How does any kid break his tooth, I wanted to ask her. They’re generally not trying to bite the cap off a bottle of beer or playing ice hockey.
He fell down, I say.
The nerve’s exposed, she said We have to take an X-ray right now.
Now, in an incredible feat of timing, BoyChile took out his tooth exactly a week ago today. Managed to keep all those teeth in his head until one week before his first freaking dental appointment. But no matter – dentists are here to help us, right?
BoyChile was not about to stay still long enough to let anyone stick an oversized coffee filter in his mouth and point a lens at him. X-ray taking thus abandoned, BoyChile thoroughly over the entire dentist-thing, we head back to the chair of doom.
Lady Dentist has been replaced by semi-retired Dentist/Owner of practice, and he’s been called over for a consult. He takes off his mask, gets BoyChile calmed down, probes and wiggles things a bit, backs up, send BoyChile off, and talks to me like an adult – i.e, if the nerve actually was exposed, BoyChile probably would have stopped, you know, eating. And would be crying, like, all the time. My faith in the profession of pediatric dentistry is thus restored.
So here’s where I surprised even myself. When I went to the counter to pay and make BoyChile’s follow-up appointment, I specifically asked for Dr. Owner to do the follow-up. When told he doesn’t see patients regularly any longer, I said that I would take whomever was most similar to him in personality and patient treatment. No offense to LadyDentist, but I wasn’t comfortable with her and I don’t want her hands in my kid’s mouth again.
The moral of the story is this: if we are so goddamned determined to turn healthcare into a business, then patients have a right to act just like customers. It took me 34 years, two kids, and a unilateral nephrectomy to figure that out.
Labels: life lessons, mad parenting skillz
Celebratory Gunshots, Too
As I set about planning the celebration of my children’s third natal day, I had a couple of ideas, none of which involved any place named “Zone,” renting animals that require a support staff or permits, or spending money.
Lucky for me that my kids love running around outdoors and their birthday falls just after Spring’s coming out party. So all I need is a park featuring a wide open field, some balls to kick and toss around, a sheet cake from
Rolling Pin, and we’re set.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was going a little too low-end though. Even a slacker mom like me likes a little flash, a spark of cool for the kiddie party. “Kites!” I thought. “It’ll be excellent kite-flying weather! We’ll get some kites for the kids to supplement the ball-kicking fun! What could possibly go wrong with kites?”
What indeed. Labels: mad parenting skillz, Things that scare the crap out of us
Lazy People
Suck.
That's all.
Labels: Grumpiness, Short Rants
Just Because It's a Holiday—A Photo Journey, Part 3
We're feeling oh so loving here on the barge today, therefore, here's a very special photograph from the beach house to commemorate this occasion.
Yes, that is a lamp, with a base in the shape of a clown. A ceramic clown. Yes, it is incredibly shudder-inducing. In fact, I have chills as I write this.
What? You want to see a close up?
If you insist .... You sure? But it's Valentine's Day and I have to save something for a St. Paddy's surprise. ... Okay. Fine. But don't email me if something goes awry. Like for instance say this clown lamp comes to life, throws its power cord over the bumper of a passing car, hitches a ride over the Bay Bridge, finds your house, and electrocutes you. We're not responsible for that happening.
So Enjoy! Happy Valentine's Day.
Labels: Beach house photos, Things that scare the crap out of us
