Streaming Pile of Television

Streaming television is a fantastic thing. I love watching an entire season of a show consecutively without being tied to any kind of schedule. The drawback is that occasionally Dewie will flex her age difference muscle and force me to watch some awful show from her youth. Admittedly, I got into Dark Shadows, mainly because the over the top dramatics cracked me up. We still use the “Barnabas stare” as a punch line. Bewitched is entertaining enough, especially if it’s an episode featuring Endora. Her condescending, snarky attitude makes me feel better about douche-y Darren saying things like, “I forbid you to get involved!” and “I expect you to concentrate you efforts on keeping this house!” The westerns are tolerable on a periodic basis, though I had to develop a song to tell them apart. It is set to the tune of the Bonanza theme song and goes like this, “Little Charles Ingalls on a show as Little Joe it’s called Bonanzaaaaaa! It was on a long time ago, and it’s not in black and white (that’s Gunsmoke).”

However, recently Dewie has been watching this show called Adam 12. The writing and acting is painfully horrible and the plots are predictable within the first 3 minutes of the show. There is only one way to fight these shows. Pick it to pieces. It goes something like this…

“So… why is no one named Adam?”

“The car is called Adam.”

“So the show’s about a car?”

“Ugh. No. The show is about Jim and Pete.”

“Does the car have special powers or something?”

“No! It has nothing to do with the car.”

“Then why are they saying Adam 12 every 30 seconds?”

“It’s the name of the car!”

(Pete wrecks his car and is apparently injured.) “Did he just announce that his spleen is ruptured? How could he possibly know that? Does the car double as an MRI? Is that its special power?”

“No. The car is not an MRI and it does not have special powers.”

“Wow. Jim just told that other coppy guy that they had to find Pete because they were close. Real close. 

This show is pretty homo-tastic. I think they’re like share a shower close.”

“That is funny. I never noticed that as a kid.”

“Yeah, in the last episode they were buying potholders and doilies from an old lady.”

“The pot holders were for Jim’s wife. He’s married.”

“I think he bought them to so he can make breakfast for Pete. After they share a shower.”

Dewie giggles. “Maybe.”

“Look at how close they are. I think Pete is gonna kiss him. Look at him!”

“I think I would remember if he kissed him.”

“Yeah. Probably.” The next episode starts. “Oh. Come on! You’re telling me a 78 year old woman remembers those kinds of details when a burglar is waving a gun in her face. He was on smack? Are you serious? The old granny not only knows what heroine is, but knows its street name in 19 sixty whatever?”

“Maybe she’s just a sharp old lady.”

“Hey! Look! That must be the bad guy. Six feet tall, sandy hair, green button down, gray slacks, brown boots. Just like the old lady said. Wait up… he doesn’t appear to be on smack. It may be a case of mistaken identity…”

Dewie giggles. “Shut it.”

“Look at how he’s wrestling with that guy. I think the ambiguously gay duo was based on these guys. These guys are so Ace and Gary. Well, gracious me! There’s another guy that looks like he could be the bad guy. Six feet tall, sandy hair, green button down, gray slacks, brown boots. Oh and wait a minute…I think he may be on the smack.”

“We don’t have to watch this.”

“No. I love it.”

Part of This Nutritious Breakfast

Ok, so I kept telling myself that it was none of my business, but I’ve been asked to weigh in directly at least 4 times. Here it is. The Time magazine cover with the breast feeding three year old creeps me the hell out. I understand the point. I really do, but in its haste to get people’s attention, they have crossed the border into vigilante mom land and no one but other vigilante moms can tolerate being there for even a miniscule amount of time without breaking into seizures of eye rolling that persist until you spontaneously and repeatedly yell, “Shut the F@#$ up!” like some crazed Tourette’s soaked mental patient.

Now, admittedly, I have to turn on my cerebral brain when I witness anyone breastfeeding an infant. Frankly, my emotional self is just uncomfortable with it. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I don’t have children. Maybe it’s because I have never viewed breasts as meal receptacles. What I do know is that this is my problem and no matter how weirded out I am by it, there’s nothing wrong with it. I do have issues with people that glare at a restaurant full of customers as if they are daring someone to say something as they plop their engorged boobie on the dinner table. I know it’s natural, but if there wasn’t a baby attached to it, that same woman would go to jail.  Have a little class. Throw a blanket over your shoulder. Or better yet, don’t schedule dinner at the same time as your baby’s next feeding. We get it. You’re all maternal and what not.

The specific problem I have with the magazine cover is the age of the child and the pose of the mother. If that very same woman was wearing a hooters uniform, those same vigilante moms would have already organized a posse to hunt the responsible party down like a scared animal. I’m not buying the whole “nutritional value” crap either. That kid probably spent the morning playing Xbox followed by a lunch of Crustables and cheese doodles. If your kids eat three meals a week at McDonald’s you don’t give a rat’s ass about his nutrition. This leaves one of two possible scenarios. Either the mother refuses to admit that the child is no longer an infant (he probably also drinks out of a sippy cup and has a pacifier in his mouth while he stomps hookers to death playing Grand Theft Auto) or she is getting some sort of emotional fulfillment out of it. Either way, it has nothing to do with the kid or what’s best for him. Call me old fashioned or anti-woman or whatever, but a kid shouldn’t have to run in from recess to breastfeed. 

Can You Hear me now?

I walked out of Weezie’s Salon when I’d just had my hair cut. As I was opening my car door, a man in the passenger seat of a car parked two spaces down from me caught my eye. He was looking right at me. His scraggily hair and trucker hat perfectly accessorized his grease stained pocket t-shirt. All of his windows were down and there was a teenaged boy in the back seat. He was also looking at me.

The man yells in my direction, “You know where Weezie’s is?”

The front door of the salon is no more than 30 yards from where he is parked. Confused by his question, I point at the door. “Um… Right there?” The boy in the backseat starts to giggle.

“To the right of it?”

“To the right of what? It’s right there.” I point again. The man pulls his eyebrows together in confused aggravation. He stares at me like I’m an idiot. The boy in the backseat is emitting a full on belly laugh.

“You know where Domino’s is?”

I point to two doors to the right of Weezie’s door. Now I’m getting annoyed. “It’s right there. Is this a test?”

He looks angry now. Maybe I insulted his (ahem) intelligence. He turns around to look at his son who is now having convulsions in the back seat. As he turns, I catch a glimpse of his left ear. He is wearing a bluetooth. It takes me a full 5 seconds to realize that not one word of his conversation was directed at me. I look at his son who is now so hysterically tickled that he is drooling on himself. As he meets my eyes. I grin at him.

“Thanks a lot, buddy.”

He manages to form the words, “My pleasure.” between gasps for breath. Giggling, I get in my car and head home. 

Temper Tantrum

I woke up feeling like I needed to be productive today. Still in my jammies and my bare feet I gathered all the laundry from various rooms and carried it to the utility room. I was met with a full basket of clean clothes that haven’t been folded and clean clothes in the dryer. I start to feel a twinge of aggravation flaring up in my gut, but I push it aside while I gather the clean clothes and bring them to the closet to be folded.

We have a very limited amount of space and I have developed a carefully planned system for storing clothes. The majority of our clothes are folded neatly and stored in cubbies. It only takes a few items out of place for the whole thing to look like rabid dingo has made a nest in the closet. I sigh as I look at the wall of what was beautifully folded clothes. There are sleepy pants in the t-shirts, work shirts in the good shirts and nearly half of the clothes are folded stupid. That itch of aggravation is growing into anger. Damnit, Dewie! Realizing I can’t repair it, I just take everything off the shelves and start refolding it. The more I fold the angrier I get.

I’m about halfway through the pile when Dewie shuffles in all sleepy eyed and happy. This makes me even angrier. What in the hell does she have to be so damn happy about?! She rubs her eyes and innocently rasps, “Morning babe. You doing laundry?” Oh, it’s on now.

“I was trying to do laundry, but apparently someone can’t manage to put anything where it goes. Or fold anything right. Or fold anything at all. Why are your clothes all mixed up and folded stupid?”

“I don’t have enough room.”

“You’d have room if you actually FOLDED anything.”

“I can’t fold them like you.” She sweeps her arm toward the wall of clothes like she’s showing a brand new living room set on The Price is Right. “It looks like a damn department store!”

“You could if you tried. You just don’t want to. And why was there two loads of clean laundry in the utility room?!”

“I needed underwear.”

“Ok, new rule! If you wash it, you fold it and put it away! You know what? Even better, you’re banned from laundry!” Wait, what? Crap. I know as soon as it comes out of my stupid face that I have made a tragic mistake. That same carefree grin slides back over Dewie’s face.

“Ok.”

And thus my idiotic tantrum reaps its just reward. 

Dog Business

It was lovely outside yesterday. For some strange reason we have enjoyed cooler weather this week with a refreshing breeze and bright, sunny skies. My favorite time of day is late afternoon when the sun is starting to sink and the earth is lit in a beautiful golden light. It’s like nature’s dimmer switch. It was on such a perfect day and such a perfect time that Dewie and I set off on our nightly dog walk. Scout had already obediently relieved herself in the vacant lot on our street and we were on the back side of the block when we approached the house with actual sod. The grass is so appealing that Scout can’t help but throw herself to the ground and roll around in it. She does this nearly every single day.

A couple of years ago, the house with the sod was one of the unlucky ones on the block that suffered the wrath of the falling tree epidemic. Though the house itself has been nicely repaired, it has remained strangely empty while its residents occupy what can only be described as a two story shed. I don’t know the whole story there, but I would wager that it involves jackassery of the highest caliber and a family whose collective IQ might form one normal person.

Yesterday, as Scout dropped to roll, I noticed there was a scowling man standing beside his truck outside the barn-shed with his arms crossed. Thinking nothing of it, I waved at him and went about my conversation with Dewie.

As we walked closer to him, the man yelled out, “Keep your damn dog out of my yard!” A little taken aback, I initially thought that this man must be someone I know who is messing with me. I try to get a good look at him, but he is in no way familiar.

So, I call back, “I’m sorry, were you talking to me?”

“I SAID KEEP YOU DAMN DOG OUT OF MY YARD!! I’m tired of stepping in dog shit when I park my truck over there!” Ok, so clearly I don’t know this guy and he is a first class douche bag. We pass this house every day. Scout rolls in his yard every day. She has never pooped here, and there has never been a truck parked there.

“She wasn’t actually in your yard, and she has never crapped by the road in front of your house.”

“I was standing here the whole time! I saw what she did!!” Ok, now the adrenaline is flowing. It’s go time.

“If you were standing there the whole time, you clearly don’t know the difference between crapping and rolling. Besides, she is on a 6 foot leash. The city owns 5 feet from the street. Since you were standing there the whole time (yes, I did imitate him when I said that. Sometimes anger brings our my inner 5 year old) then you could clearly see that my feet were on the street, so technically it is not possible for her to have been in your yard (yes I did it again, I know)!” It’s then that I notice that I have actually taken several giant steps toward the man and I am actually standing in his driveway. The man pushes off the truck he was leaning on and hobbles into the house. His limp is pronounced and his hip seems to be the culprit. The thought actually enters my head that I could probably take him. I mean his balance isn’t that good. I am strangely disappointed when he walks away. How dare he walk away from me when I’m winning!

We spend the remainder of our walk talking about the crazy man and what a horribly unhappy little person he must be. I very briefly consider taking a dump in a bucket to leave on the edge of his yard so he is clear about what crap actually is. It occurs to me that in a sick way I actually enjoyed the encounter. I am getting confrontational in my old age. If things keep progressing this way, I have a feeling I’m going to be one of those mean, belligerent old people. Fortunately for me, elderly people get a pass on terrible behavior. I think I’m going to need it. 

Egg-sactly!

Grocery shopping is usually one of my favorite pastimes. Let’s face it. I enjoy food. A lot. I also enjoy putting together delicious dishes with as little money as possible. It’s become a kind of a game for me. I spend the morning perusing the ads online and make a game plan as to which stores I am going to patronize and in what order. I know it’s sad, but it gives me a buzz. I love it.

This afternoon, my last stop was Publix. It’s one of my favorites because it’s clean, well lit, beautifully merchandized and the customer service is amazing. I also know when they get their shipments so I can snag the freshest produce and hit the amazing “buy one get one” sales before they’re sold out. Yes, I have put THAT much effort into this. Today however, Publix was a madhouse. It’s Thursday and I’m already aware of the sales, so I can’t fathom any reason for the crowd. I decide to brave it anyway. Apart from the masses of rude people, everything seems pretty normal, until I get to the dairy case.

I round the corner to pick out some eggs and the whole area is demolished. It looks like a midget has been river dancing on the shelves. There’s broken eggs on the floor and strewn over into the yoghurt cups. Almost all the cartons are open with smashed shells stuck to the inside. I’m so shocked that I muse out loud, “What the hell is up with the eggs?”

An adorable old woman in turquoise linen capris and matching blouse walks up beside me. I notice her white hair is wound into a perfect French twist as she reaches over and pats my arm as only little old ladies do.  I immediately feel bad for swearing in front of her but before I can apologize she croaks, “It’s Easter, dear.”

“That’s right, I forgot about that. What is wrong with people?”

The little old lady leans in close enough for me to smell the peppermint on her breath and points to the wreckage in front of her. “You said it, dear. They’re fucking animals. You’d think people will die if they don’t color their damn eggs.”

Pure joy. I love old people. 

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I’ve never been a big fan of newspapers, mainly because they are printed on ridiculously large paper and unless you’re reading it at a table the size of an airplane wing they’re just awkward to handle. Admittedly, I acquire most of my news online. There’s really only one problem with this; almost every single news site online offers a space for the ignorant masses to voice their idiotic opinions.  I know I don’t have to read them, but something in me needs to be reassured that there are reasonable, educated people left in this country. Unfortunately these comments are peppered with stupid, offensive, borderline literate musings that make me long for the days when I could just skip the editorial page.  I can’t help myself; I have to read them even though they often leave me feeling hopeless and skeevy. Here are the worst offenders:

1.     The “everything comes back to politics” people

It could be an article on bird flu, stupid baby names, or the discovery of a rare dinosaur bone. Inevitably, there will be people that blame this on either Obama or the conservative party. I’m pretty sure neither liberals nor conservatives had any hand in naming a kid “Apple” or conspired to hide and then find a rare fossil to further their careers.

2.       Trolling

Because there are no consequences for running your mouth or purposefully picking a fight with someone over the internet, those people who can’t win a fight in real life pick one online. It’s never been funny in the past, and it is not funny now. You know if they said that crap in real life, they would be rewarded with a throat punch.  They know it too. That’s why they stick to the web.

3.       The “every problem in the world can be solved with Jesus” people

Often this is a response to real social issues like gangs, rapists, murderers, etc. Sure. If only Ted Bundy and Charles Manson had been approached by a Jehovah’s Witness, none of that unpleasantness would have happened. I don't know why experts on the human mind have never thought of this! Religion can’t fix mental illness any more than prayer can mend a broken leg. This kind of dismissive attitude is incredibly dangerous and infuriating.

4.       The “conspiracy” people

Not everyone is trying to trick you. You are paranoid and probably smoke too much weed. Sometimes it really is just a coincidence.

5.       The “why did I read this article, this is not news” people

Now, clearly you were interested or you wouldn’t have clicked on it. Did you open the link just so you could berate people that like a little human interest or sleazy celebrity story? You’ve created quite the hypocritical conundrum.  We all bow to you, oh superior one. We look to you to determine our own moral compasses, for you are clearly the most evolved person on the planet. Feel better?

If only they would print newspapers on reasonably sized paper…

Cry Me a Whole Handful

I recently finished the first two books in The Hunger Games series and although they’re not my usual cup of tea, I have to say that I did enjoy them. I was especially impressed that even being young adult novels, they contained such superb character development that the events in the books literally moved me to tears. Several times.  Since I had to wait until payday to download the third book onto my kindle (I’ve reached my budgeted book buying quota for this week), I thought I would talk Dewie into reading the first two. I thought she would enjoy them given her obsession with the show Spartacus. Take out the soft porn, replace the gladiators with kids and throw in a little Beyond the Thunderdome, and it’s eerily similar. I was right. She was hooked.

Dewie tends to be fairly sensitive. When we watch sad movies she’s always the first to start sniffling, especially if it involves kids. Being the evil schemer that I am, I decided I would monitor her progress in the books, estimate when she got to the sad parts, wait for her to cry, and make fun of her.

The next evening, the two of us were lying in bed reading. Knowing a tear-jerker moment was quickly approaching, I casually asked her what was happening in the book. Not bothering to look up, she simply muttered, “Wasps.” I looked at the clock, and estimated an hour, maybe a little less until the first moment of pure, pitiful sadness. About an hour later she puts the kindle down and declares that she’s tired. Confused and a little disappointed, I ask her again where she is in the book.

“Rue just died.”

Ok, now I’m just annoyed. “You didn’t find that… sad?”

“Yeah, it was sad.”

“You didn’t get a little misty eyed, you know with the flowers and the bread and what not?” She just looks at me with this stupid blank look on her face. “You didn’t get to that, did you?”

“No, she just died.”

I’m completely exasperated. “You just stopped in the middle of that?”

“I’m sleepy.”

“Now it’s going to be all anti-climactic. You can’t stop there. You ruined the moment!”

She turns over and pulls the covers up around her neck. “So, I’ll back up a few pages tomorrow.”

I huff like a petulant child. “It won’t be the same!”

“I’m closing my eyes.”

The next night, she finishes the first book and moves on to the second. Again I wait for it. I know it’s coming because she’s making a frowny face and again I’ve estimated when she will approach one of the saddest parts of the story. After 5 minutes or so, her face relaxes and the frown disappears.

“What just happened? “

“Katniss just made her little speech and they just shot the old man.”

“Seriously?”

“Uh… yeah.”

“The old man did the whistle thing and everyone in the crowd did the whole kiss the three finger salute and everything?”

“Yep.”

“Have you no soul?”

“What?”

“HOW ARE YOU NOT CRYING?!”

“It was sad and little disturbing, but I don’t know, it just wasn’t ‘crying’ sad.”

“You have a cold, black heart you know that?”

She laughs at me and turns over. “I’m closing my eyes…”

“Fine.”

The next evening, I’m lying in bed reading alone and Dewie shuffles into the bedroom, wiping her eyes.

“I just got to the part where they whipped Gale. It was so sad.”

For a second I’m perplexed. “Really? You thought that was sad enough to cry?”

She looks up and shows me her pronounced frown and trembling bottom lip. It’s the most exaggerated sad face I’ve ever seen. A sob rips through her chest and she pounds the bed with her fist. “WHY? WHY? WHY??”

I just look at her. “Really? You pulled out the Kerrigan ‘why?’” She starts to giggle. “I’m going to bed.” I tell her, “ You and your soulless, cold, black heart are welcome to join me.

“I can’t stop here, it would be anti-climactic. I don’t want to ruin the moment.”

“I’m closing my eyes…”

Dreaming of Donkeys

“I wonder why tooth paste foams. Does it have soap in it, and if it does, is that really something I want in my mouth? Oh, probably peroxide. It foams when it comes in contact with catalase which is in saliva. Does all toothpaste have peroxide in it? I should pay attention to that…” My thoughts were cut short by the sound of my name echoing through the house, the annoyance in her voice making it shrill. Dewie should really settle down, you know with the high blood pressure and all. I spit the toothpaste foam into the sink.

“What? I’m brushing my teeth!”

“Well hurry up, your damn donkey’s at the window and he’s gumming up the glass again.” This makes me smile. I’ve always wanted a donkey, and now I finally have one. Just the thought of his scruffy little face makes me grin.

“Tell him I’ll be down in a sec.” I rinse my mouth and swish the toothpaste out of the sink. I turn the water off and listen. “DEWIE! I don’t hear you telling him!”

“I’m not talking to a donkey.” Ridiculous. I mean he speaks English.

“Fine. Let him slobber up the window.”

I slip into some flip flops and head downstairs. As I enter the kitchen sure enough, there was Lester nipping at the window.  I spin around to face Dewie. “He just wants his sandwich.”

“I got the bread out for you.” Following her finger to the loaf on the counter, my mouth curls downward in a frown.  Dewie’s eyebrows rise above her glasses. “What?”

“He likes the wheat bread.”

Dewie looks at me like I just crapped in her shoe. “Seriously?”

“Well, he does.”  I switch out the loaves and smear a thick layer of peanut butter on the wheat bread, then top it with another slice, mushing it flat with my palm. Opening the window, I reach out and scratch Lester’s course chin. “You want your sammich, little fella? What do you say?”

Lester stomps his foot, huffs and lets out a frolicking, “Heeee-Haw!”

“That’s a good boy. And who’s your favorite human?” Lester jerks his head to the side and nudges my hand. He pushes his velvet nose into my palm. “That’s right. I am. And who’s the evil human who can’t be bothered to make you a peanut butter sammich?”  Lester narrows his eyes and pulls his lips back showing his perfect square, flat teeth. He takes a deep breath and looks right at Dewie and says, “That bitch. ”

It’s my fantasy, I can make him talk if I want to. 

There's No "I" in Polygamy

I recently watched the first season of Sister Wives on Netflix. I don’t necessarily have an issue with the idea of polygamy as a general idea. I’ve seen numerous documentaries featuring group family structures that seem to work for everyone involved, and you know, whatever floats your boat. However, the religious based brand of crazy that these people are selling is fraught with underlying issues that everyone seems to be blissfully ignoring. The biggest problem I see with Cody and his four lovely wives is that there is only one practicing polygamist in the group. The wives are very much monogamous. This creates an imbalance of power that leaves me unsettled at best.  

Let’s start with Cody. At first he seems like a decent guy, but it quickly becomes clear that he uses this bazaar lifestyle and creation of an unnatural number of children to stroke is fragile male ego. Fluffing his age inappropriate, scraggly surfer boy hair, complete with receding hairline, he clearly thinks that he is hilariously charming but is so full of himself that he doesn’t even notice that he's the only one laughing at his jokes.  When asked by his first wife how he would feel if she was showing attention to another man, he replies, “The vulgarity of you taking on another lover is an idea that I’m not even comfortable thinking about. It makes me sick. I realize that may seem somewhat hypocritical, but you chose this lifestyle.” No, Cody, it doesn’t sound SOMEWHAT hypocritical, it is completely hypocritical, but I think he inadvertently hit the nail right on the head. No one in that family wants to address the huge white elephant that everyone is so persistently sidestepping. No one is happy. Except Cody.  It becomes clear that the only real emotional satisfaction the women experience comes from their relationship with each other rather than their relationship with Cody. These women have accepted their role in this shenanigan and are making the best of it. Although they sing the praises of their lifestyle and insist that they are happy, they make it painfully clear that there is a difference between being comfortable and being happy.

Having 13 children, Cody has basically worn out his wives, except for the first wife who only had the one child, but her perpetually red, bloated skin leads me to I suspect that she’s a raging alcoholic. Having sufficiently fattened up his other wives and driven the first one to drink, he takes on a fourth younger, marginally more attractive wife. This causes upheaval in family, showcasing what everyone but the participants already know, that Cody is really the only one that’s ok with this arrangement.  Cody dismisses the issues like he does all the others by saying that, “Change is scary. Everything will settle down. I haven’t courted in 16 years, this is new for everyone.” Well that’s clear that it’s new to you by your continuous use of the word “courting.” Froggy goes a courtin. People date.  The sister wives use little unimportant events such as Cody picking out the new wife’s wedding dress to showcase their displeasure. So you feel betrayed by him because he picked out a dress? Let’s dig a little deeper, ladies.

One of the most disturbing scenes for me was watching the gaggle of little girls playing with Barbies. You guessed it. Four Barbies, one Ken. Then one complains that she doesn’t get enough time to play with Ken and the new wife pipes up, “Just like Daddy has to split his time with your four mommies, you have to share Ken’s time too.” Christ lady, please don’t set these little girls’ moral equilibrium on “freak show.” Get them another freaking Ken doll. I might have felt better about the whole thing if just one little girl took her Barbie across the room and played with it alone, but she was perfectly willing to sacrifice her dignity and share a Ken.