I kicked yo ass, NaBloMoFo!
14 Replies
NaBloPoMo Final Stretch. More white socks please!
Dear Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, are you sure I really need to add FOUR tablespoons of butter? Isn’t that like, a lot?
Dear vegetarians, I hate to tell you, but Tofurkey does not look nor taste like turkey. Or anything that is benign. If you are going to be a vegetarian, just suck it up and find peace within yourself. What is the point with fake meat anyway? It is like, oh, I can’t kill real people so I will just dismember Barbie dolls. CREEPY.
Dear people who love to make things from scratch, Stove Top stuffings taste better than any home-made stuffings I’ve ever had the good fortune of tasting. If you would like to convince me otherwise, feel free to send me yours.
Dear Parents-in-Law, “You betcha!” ceased to be funny the second time you said it. And I hope watching Sarah Palin’s Alaska and finding her “adorable” and her show “interesting” is not a sign that you consider her a legitimate candidate for anything more serious than a cable show host. Some people find Snooki on Jersey Shore “adorable” and the entire Housewives franchise “interesting”. Just sayin.
Dear Christian Conservatives and Tea Partiers, Ayn Rand (whoever she was) was an avowed atheist and she supported abortion rights. Just thought you should know.
Dear Uber Cool World Record Penny Pyramid, I am very sorry that I read the subject line as “Got Penises? Largest Penis Design Pyramid” and therefore I was not able to fully appreciate your awesomeness when I excitedly clicked on the link.
Dear PayPal, I am very sorry that I replaced the “P” in the last word in your new tagline “The world’s most-loved way to pay and get paid” with an “L” when I first saw it, and therefore for a second thought you finally found a way to optimize your revenue perhaps even with a joint venture with Craig’s List.
Dear semi-cute Starbucks Barista, you really broke my heart when you held my eyes for a long moment and then called me ma’am.
Dear SUV Driver, if you cannot park within the lines, you really should not be allowed to buy a car that big.
Dear Cadillac Escalade owner, please see above. In addition, please stop tailgating me. I am not going to budge because I am a bitch like that. You are not going to intimidate me with your mass. If you were driving a real truck with a gun rack and not some manifestation of conspicuous consumption, I may be scared. Costco will be there waiting for you. There is no hurry. And if you are late for your hair stylist appointment, I am pretty sure they will wait for you since you tip so well on top of the $200 you spend there every time.
Dear Sports Car Owner, you have a very nice car, drive it. It pangs me when you drag your ass below the speed limit: it’s like not having sex when you are sleeping with Megan Fox. (I use her as an example because I assume asshats like you go gaga over empty shells like her. You are welcome.)
Dear Person Whose License Plate says SORDID, I am going to assume that you have a secret identity that is more exciting than your train-taking commuting suit-cladding backpack-wearing self.
Dear Fellow Blackberry Widows, is it just me or do you find typing on Blackberry in the middle of the night in total darkness as annoying as banging on a typewriter while shining a bright light in your eyes?
Dear iPhone lovers, be honest: do you now type less carefully because in case when you make a mistake, it is actually cool to show people what hilarious suggestions Auto Correct come up with? Win-Win, right?
Dear Straight Men, what is it about Jennifer Love Hewitt that makes her so hot to you lot? I am gonna bet that every woman groans when you mention her as one of the hot actresses. We simply can’t see it. Jessica Alba. Yeah, I concur. Megan Fox. I can see why. But Jennifer Love Hewitt? Not so much.
Dear Husband, it is very uncool to quote with glee “It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again.” when I ask you to put lotion on my back. Same goes to saying “Redrum. Redrum.” in a creepy voice after our bedroom was painted, yes, red.
Dear Husband, I am not so sure about the lone item on your wish list: the 10 Disc set of “Romancing the 70s”. I can understand the 80s, and possibly the 90s. But Romancing the 70s? Are you gay? Because if you are, that would explain a lot. On the other hand, if you are, why do I get the one gay guy who is not stylish and does not appreciate shoes? You also do not make a good confidant. Just my luck. Ugh.
Dear Santa, I would like all my files to be transferred from my old computer to the new computer, neatly organized, like magic.
Dear Internet, I am sorry for subjecting you to more White Socks in my Crotch and Tissues inside my Bras to get myself over the finish line for NaBloMoFo. Be well. Stay well.
Sundays in My City
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Remember: Picnik is a lady’s best friend. During the holiday season, Picnik’s is the mother’s best friend.
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Let Them Eat Cake
The night before Thanksgiving my then 7-year-old boy, Mr. Monk, found it difficult to fall asleep because he was giddy with excitement: grandparents and uncle were flying to celebrate the holiday with us, and his birthday fell on Thanksgiving this year.
“Mom, you know why I love Thanksgiving?”
“Why?” I asked, knowing he was excited about his birthday and the presents.
“Because I can ask you to cook and you wouldn’t ask, ‘So are you going to eat it?’ And you wouldn’t be too busy to cook.”
Yeah, I am Mother of the Year.
Because of his temperament, Mr. Monk has never really looked forward to a big birthday party at one of those dreadful places with crappy rides, screaming ruffians and giant horrid animals (Think: Chuck E Cheese). Since his birthday is always in the Thanksgiving week, he is content, and possibly happier, to simply celebrate it with the grandparents.
This year though I feared that he might have been shortchanged. On the morning of his birthday, after I wished him a Happy Birthday with lots of kisses and hugs, I started dishing out assignment for him to help get the house ready for our guests from out of town.
“I know it’s your birthday, but Thanksgiving takes precedence today!”
Mother Of The Year.
To make it up for him, I let him help me prepare the dishes.
The morning after Thanksgiving, I was beat. I slept till 10:30 am when Mr. Monk came to wake me up.
“Mom. Mom. Mom. Wake up. WAKE UP!”
“GO AWAY!”
It took me another half an hour to remember that it was supposed to be his “make-up birthday” day.
Mother. Of. The. Year.
I sort of made it up for him by letting him help crack the eight eggs required for the recipe, zest the lemons, squeeze lemons with the citrus press, bake his own birthday cake, make the frosting, and frost the cake.
This was our first try at making a “fancy” cake (i.e. NOT cupcakes) from scratch complete with homemade frosting: When I saw Velva’s Luscious Lemon Cake on her blog Tomatoes on the Vine, I knew I had to make this for Mr. Monk because
1) he’s been begging for a homemade birthday cake forever (Remember he somehow envisions me to be some sort of a June Cleaver without even knowing about June Cleaver)
2) he loves the lemon loaf at Starbucks (and yes it IS indeed kind of embarrassing how familiar he is with Starbucks)
The results?
The cake was a hit! (Thanks, Velva!)
Mr. Monk had loads of fun in the kitchen with mom and grandma.
And he LURVed the lemon frosting.
It was well worth it even though I burnt the hand mixer making it, with smoke coming out of it and all…
So.
Mother of the Year?
Thanksgiving is over. We can be snarky again.
F I N A L L Y!
Ok. I am joking. Well, maybe 50%. I am most likely kidding on the square, as is my MO.
I have been thinking about being thankful, for all the right reasons, like everybody else around Thanksgiving time.
When I went to the grocery store across the street for the fourth time in two days yesterday afternoon, I asked the cashier lady what time they would be closing.
“7 pm. Why? You want to come back again?” She laughed.
“No. I was complaining to you about coming here so many times, but then I remembered that you are still working on Thanksgiving Day, so I am kind of embarrassed for being a whiner.”
Somehow I couldn’t get our brief exchange out of my head.
How many times have I complained to a cashier in a store about my day? To the teachers at my kids’ childcare center? To a salesclerk? To the person behind a counter, any counter? To all these other people earning minimum wages (or hopefully higher) and lousy healthcare / retirement benefits (if any) who probably at that moment just wanted to wring my neck but were able to wear a plastic smile because their jobs required them to?
Here are what I am thankful for, for the not so politically correct reasons:
I am thankful that working for me is a choice and not a necessity.
I am thankful that though I work, I do not carry the stress as a sole bread earner.
I am thankful that I am able to treat my work and responsibility as the “second” income and therefore I am not as stressed out as my husband.
I am thankful that my life is comfortable enough that I can afford to be plagued by angst, ennui and neurosis.
I am thankful that my reality affords me to worry about ideology.
I am thankful that I can afford to be generous.
I am thankful for not having to think at all in order to come up with things that I should be thankful for.
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I promised that I’d be snarky in the title so I cannot possibly let you down. Here it is…
I am thankful that Sarah Palin proved yet again that she has no business commenting on political issues or any other serious issues.
“Obviously, we’ve got to stand with our North Korean allies.” — Sarah Palin on Glenn Beck’s radio show
(Yes, I’ll admit: it took me a while to try and work this gem into this post…)
Happy Thanksgiving!
Freak out!
Almost 3 pm the day before Thanksgiving. House. Not cleaned. Laundry. Not done. Thanksgiving dishes. Not planned. Ham. Not picked up from the store yet. Pies. Ditto. Grocery list. Nope. Grocery shopping. Ha!
My parents-in-law are flying in tomorrow arriving at 11 am. Vegetarian brother-in-law. 3 pm.
I am running around not knowing which task to tackle first. Mr. Monk has started the timer for 20 minutes: time to leave me alone so I can regroup and breathe. But he kept on coming over to talk to me so he graciously agreed to add 5 more minutes to the timer.
I am ashamed to admit: This scene happens every Thanksgiving.
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Oh, yeah, I had to come back and ETA (“Edited to add”): Tomorrow is also Mr. Monk’s 8th birthday. Yeah. I forgot. I have been forgetting it every day. I just did, even after he reminded me today:
“Will you at least wish me a happy birthday tomorrow morning?”
So add to the To-Do-List: Buy birthday presents for son. And do not forget his birthday again!
While I go freaking out some more, running around town like a headless chicken turkey, please enjoy this.
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Or this version by The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain. (Not kidding, Elly! In fact, I won’t be surprised if you have applied for a chair there already…)
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Norman Rockwell can take the turkey and stuff it!
Thanksgiving.
I had an existential crisis last year when my then almost-7-year-old Mr. Monk started talking about a golden turkey. Complete with legs wrapped around in silver tinfoil and tied with red strings.
I honestly had no idea where he got the idea. I still don’t.
But an idea he did have. In fact, he was convinced that on Thanksgiving Day we were all going to sit around the table when, voila, out of the oven, a golden bird would be brought out on a silver platter and everybody would Oooo and Ahhh. And we would live happily ever after.
Ok, the last line was from my sarcastic self.
I hated breaking the news to him. Earth to Mr. Monk. Earth to Mr. Monk.
“Are you going to eat the turkey?”
“Hmmmm. Nope?”
“So you just want to look at the turkey?”
“Hmmmm. Yeah.”
Norman. (Please imagine me saying it the way Jerry Seinfeld says “Newman!”)
“Norman Rockwell can take the turkey and stuff it!” I thought.
That being said, I do like all the parodies made of the now iconic Freedom From Want. The following is a repost of all the Freedom from Want parodies I could find with some exciting new additions.
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This is what I am talking about! Thanks, Elly, for finding this for me!
Cold Turkey (A Pictorial)
I have not been motivated to write real posts for a while now because I find lately my stats dispiriting, to say the least…
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Turkeys. Reason why most people visited my blog lately...
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I am kind of not motivated to write a real post... Gobble gobble
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Oh well. This kind of provides me with a great excuse to show you this picture I took when I all of a sudden saw something really interesting happening on my bookshelf at work.
I think I am going to report them to HR.
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I swear. I did NOT stage this. I simply caught them in the act. I suspect they've been doing this for a while now right above me all this time...
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Or, I could talk about how famous people on Twitter actually talked to me today.
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By “famous people” I meant whichever staff member from Comedy Central’s InDecision happened to be in charge of Twitter today. By “talking to me” I mean “Direct Messaging” so I was like the Booty Call that they were ashamed of being seen with.
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And this is why we all need to have a blog: to make sure that we always, ALWAYS, have a way to have the last word.
There. You. Go.
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Envy
Of all the Seven Deadly sins, ENVY arguably is the root of all evil, imo.
Of the seven deadly sins, only envy is no fun at all. — Joseph Epstein
Kevin Spacey obviously agrees and that’s why his character in Seven saved Envy the Sin for himself…
It is also in the Ten Commandments in the form of the Tenth Commandment:
Thou Shall Not Covet.
Envy is an emotion that occurs when a person lacks another’s (perceived) superior quality, achievement, or possession and either desires it or wishes that the other lacked it. (Wikipedia. What else?)
Most of the strife and many of the abhorrent, cruel, cold acts men committed against fellow men in this world have been caused by envy. To understand Envy, we need to understand the differences between Envy and his close cousin, Jealousy.
“Envy” and “Jealousy” are often used interchangeably, but in correct usage, they stand for two different distinct emotions. In proper usage, jealousy is the fear of losing something that one possesses to another person (a loved one in the prototypical form), while envy is the pain or frustration caused by another person having something that one does not have oneself. Envy typically involves two people, and jealousy typically involves three people.
(Wekipedia. Sigh. Maybe I SHOULD make a donation to Wikipedia after all…)
Or as Aristotle said…
Jealousy is both reasonable and belongs to reasonable men, while envy is base and belongs to the base, for the one makes himself get good things by jealousy, while the other does not allow his neighbour to have them through envy.
In this sense, Jealousy implies that there is a “reason” behind the emotion that human beings should be able to relate to: the fear of losing a loved one to someone with something more desirable, whereas Envy causes you to stand alone with your rage (for the rage “It is not fair” inadvertently comes when one is envious of someone else for something; the rage becomes even more severe when one recognizes that there is nothing unfair about the situation and yet cannot help but feel the tightening of one’s heart)
The emotion used most often to explain the motif (if there HAS TO BE one) for Iago’s actions in Othello is envy. I despise any attempt by modern scholars and especially, theatrical directors to turn his motif from Envy to Jealousy, creating a plausible yet cheapening story of Iago’s potential infatuation with Desdemona or Othello.
Why does Iago’s action have to be interpreted with reason? Envy is irrational, pure and simple. And what makes it the worst of all human emotions: It is isolating, unproductive, and more often than not, destructive. And it lives within all of us.
Here is my confession.
Envy lives within my heart and I cannot ward it off completely, 24/7.
When I marvel at undeserved good fortunes and when I subjectively decide who is or is not worthy of such good fortunes. When I belittle the fashion world and the people living in it. When I complain about my sister-in-law whose husband does all her bidding and whose parents are at the ready to provide long-term free babysitting. When I go out of my way to ignore bloggers whose husbands cannot get enough of them in the bedrooms and, it seems, everywhere else. When I tighten my fists reading about husbands who help around the house after an 8-hour work day. When I make fun of the really wealthy for their frivolous purchases or idiosyncrasies. When I look down at the young for their recklessness and carefree-ness.
I cannot honestly say that I do not feel envious.
When I witness brilliance and genius.
I cannot honestly say that I do not feel Antonio Salieri’s pain, that I do not understand where his hatred of Mozart came from.
Even though I could comfort myself with the understanding and perhaps acceptance that “There is not a passion so strongly rooted in the human heart as envy” (Richard Brinsley Sheridan, the guy who wrote The School for Scandal), I despise and scare myself when I recognize envy in my heart. I look in the mirror and I see ugliness. Embarrassed and ashamed. I close my eyes, shake my head, breathe deeply, willing it to go away by counting my blessings.
I learn to truly recognize and sincerely admire the brilliance and genius in those surrounding me.
This has served me well in blogosphere.