This is how I hope it happens:
I’m taking a whimsical stroll in a part of town I never go walking in when suddenly; I happen to see a man eating a living human’s flesh like chicken.
“Holy shit!” I say. “What the hell….”
Chaos erupts. People are attacking from all sides, biting and groaning; their skin all gray and wrinkly; eyeballs milky white and void of intelligence. A woman runs screaming from her home as her undead husbands pursues, his mouth watering for her flesh (and not in a good way; that hasn’t happened in a long time, as the love died long ago). A toddler suddenly climbs off her tricycle, approaches her father and takes a large, juicy bite out of his hand. He screams and falls to the ground, twitching and gasping until, suddenly, he rises, all pale and drooly, and joins his daughter in her quest for the meat of the living.
I know what this is. It’s the motherfuckin’ zombie apocalypse.
I’ve been expecting this but what I had not planned on was this totally random stroll on a Sunday afternoon in this neighborhood I never, ever find myself in.
“Dresden!”
I hear my name shouted above the shrieks and bloody squishes and I turn to see you, so super hot, standing in the doorway of your home, waving me to safety.
I, of course, had no idea you even lived over here but I run through the sea of death-followed-by-reanimation straight into your front door. We quickly turn the locks and collapse against the door, breathless, terrified and a little bit turned on. Well. I mean, I might be….
“What the hell is happening?!” You ask me, your beautiful eyes wide with horror. You poor, muscular thing. You didn’t even have time to put a shirt on after your shower, did you? I get distracted by a little water on your chest but then snap back to reality.
“It’s the zombie apocalypse,” I say darkly.
Suddenly, there is slow and methodical pounding, accompanied by moaning at your front door.
“Don’t worry”, you say. “I have a basement that is made of steel and has steel enforced doors with super strong locks on them. There’s enough food to last 6 months, two separate bathrooms on opposite sides of very large basement, so, you know, do whatever you need to in there and I’ll never know, and a television that runs of batteries, which we have an endless supply of. Unfortunately for everyone else, there is only room enough for two people. I guess it’s you and me.”
We rush to the basement that seems to have been built for this exact situation, locking all doors. We try desperately to contact loved ones on our cell phones.
“My girlfriend…” you say with sadness. “She…she’s on vacation in Manhattan. Shopping trip. God, I hope she’s ok.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” I say and turn on the television. Katie Couric is reporting live from the top of 30 Rockefeller Plaza in Manhattan with the header “Crisis! The Zombie Apocalypse of 2011” scrolling across the screen. Remarkably, she is still smiling as she reports that 90% of Manhattan’s population has been eaten or zombified.
“It seems,” she shouts over the sounds of screaming, helicopters and blind, wild shooting, “that the undead had a particular lust for the flesh of tourists. I have just received confirmation that all those who were visiting Manhattan from other locations have been either killed or recruited into the massive, ever-growing zombie army.” The camera cuts to a group of female zombies wandering hungrily in front of H&M, amid discarded purchases.
“That’s my girlfriend!” You point at a zombie in skinny jeans, a threadbare blousy-blouse that accentuates her perfect undead breasts and ballet flats with cascading, gorgeous zombie hair.
No!” You shout as your girlfriend attacks and feasts upon the flesh of Al Roker, who obviously drew the short straw that day.
I approach you slowly and lay a gentle hand on your bare, well sculpted arm. “I…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
You retreat to the bathroom, slamming the door. I steel myself against the carnage unfolding in front of me and begin uncovering our resources.
You return from the bathroom, stone-faced and unfortunately having located a t-shirt. “We need to make a run for it. Head for the mall or something. Someplace safe.”
“Dude. This is the safest place on the planet. It’s a steel enforced basement. We need to stay put.”
We argue for a while and then I make us a nice dinner of roasted chicken breast, garlic whipped potatoes and a tomato salad. When night falls and we are both sleepy, it becomes painfully obvious that there is only one bed. Awkwardly, you stammer that you’ll sleep on the couch. But I awake to find myself in your arms. I scramble out of bed—what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?! You quickly explain that I was having a nightmare and you were simply trying to comfort me. I am suspicious but commence making us each a double espresso while you make me an omelet.
As the days go by, we become closer, sharing our innermost thoughts and feelings; having heated arguments over whether Goodfellas or The Departed was Scorsese’s best film; laughing as we watch Airplane! again; crying as we admit how much we both miss our families. I even listen as you tell me about your girlfriend—about the hopes and dreams you had for the two of you…the way she smiled…the fact that she listened to really horrible music but you loved her anyway. Eventually, you begin to do things like brush the hair out of my eyes. You don’t even have to ask how I want my coffee because you already know. Months have gone by and some days, we’re profoundly irritated with each other. You can be so stubborn and I’m rather bossy at times. You make me cry once or twice and beg for my forgiveness. You know that when I’m moody, it’s best to put on Heart’s Greatest Hits and let me sing for as long as I want to. I know you need your alone time, so I retreat to my bathroom, writing and listening to music (because there’s a couch in there) while you do your thing.
And then poof—we’re in love. It’s scary and exhilarating. There’s also the small matter of the fact that we may be the last two people alive. But we’re too happy to let that get us down. The television stations have been off for months but we check every morning anyway. One morning, a news anchor reports live from the ABC studios that the zombies have been eradicated! We rejoice, throwing our arms around each other. Soon, military personnel with heat seeking technology discover us in our amazing basement. Suddenly, as we’re being wheeled away on separate gurneys for thorough medical examinations, I begin to feel you slip away. Was our love real? Or was it just convenient? What happens now?
A doctor mentions to me that they’ve found a cure for the zombie affliction and some of those affected can be saved and returned to normal. It’s then that I hear you ask another doctor: “My girlfriend…she…was bitten at the start of all this….”
As they wheel me into my hospital room, I am enveloped by acceptance. I breathe deeply and tell myself that it took a goddamned zombie apocalypse for him to notice me; what did I expect? This was never real. This was never meant to last. I’ll go back to my life and he’ll go back to his. We’ll always have the basement.
I awake in the middle of the night to find you sitting next to my hospital bed, slumped over, and snoring softly. I say your name and you wake up.
“What…what are you doing here?” I whisper.
You look at me quizzically. “Where else would I be?”
And we live happily ever after, in a police state that’s been put in place under the theory that the zombie apocalypse was a terrorist attack facilitated by the media and “gotcha” journalism. But still…happy.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
If we find a big saw, we can totally get rid of Florida.
A while back, I became aware of a concept called unintended consequences. This is what happens when you’re like, “Oh, I have this great idea for something that will totally better this community.” So you gather a task force, have a lot of meetings, draft and re-draft proposals, put on a nice blouse and go before a panel and sell your great idea. You give them all the reasons in the world why this is going to kick ass and they really want to go to lunch, so they’re like, “Yep, sounds great.” So you press the play button and stand there, aghast, as the shit hits the fan.
“But…we wanted to help people, not unleash the four horsemen of the apocalypse.”
The clearest modern day example of this is abstinence only education.
“I have an idea. See, I’m pretty sure kids are having sex because they don’t realize they’ll go straight to hell if they do. So I propose we institute this thing I like to call abstinence-only sex education. I mean, don’t even give them an option. If we take away all knowledge about a subject, they won’t know what to do…so they won’t do anything. Right?”
The point was to scare the living shit out of teenagers by telling them that pre-marital sex only had two outcomes: a scorching, scabby descent into the pits of sexually transmitted infection, or God would strap a screaming, snotting, pooping little person to your hip and life, as you know it, would become infinitely worse than it already is.
That’s it. Nothing else will happen. So just don’t do it.
Now, if I had been in the room, I would have said, “Are you out of your fucking minds?!” Which would have translated into, “I have some concerns. But first I’d like to ask how long this meeting is scheduled for because I’m about to blow this fucker up.” There were plenty of people who rallied against this terrible idea but George W. had a hard on for it and declared it so: all sex education in our schools must be abstinence-only.
So here’s what happened: incidents of STIs and teen pregnancy skyrocketed. Teen pregnancy became such a huge industry that MTV got in on it. Ancient, sleeping sexually transmitted infections came roaring back to life. Seriously, syphilis? I would have been less astounded if Jesus had been a surprise presenter at the Emmys. I worked in STI education for many years and I was sitting in rooms, going, “Syphilis? Am I even here right now?”
Unfortunately, humans have a very high learning curve. And also, this very dangerous group of conservative weirdos has got a whole bunch of us by the balls. So here we go again.
Florida Governor Rick Scott has signed a law that will require all adults applying for Temporary Assistance for Needy Families to submit to a drug test. The law takes effect July 1st. Scott defends the law, saying this will hold people accountable, the money will get to the people who really need it, we shouldn’t be subsidizing people’s drug habits, blah blah blah.
Now, I know what you’re thinking…it’s Florida; they know not what they do. True, the heat does have an impact on one’s ability to think clearly. You may also be thinking, “Gee Dresden, I think that’s totally fair. If you’re going to get a check from the government, I think we need to make sure that you’re not spending it on the meth or the heroin.” But let me tell you why this shit is seriously flawed.
1. Until this country stops feeding damaging, long standing stereotypes, nothing will ever change. Nothing. Imagine, for a minute, that you found yourself in a position where you needed financial aid for your family. To come to this realization is already difficult; it’s embarrassing to say, “I can’t support my family and I need help.” THEN you have to go apply for help at a stuffy, over crowded government office with often unhelpful employees. The person on the other side of the counter is being told to assume you’re a drug addict who intends to let their children starve and smoke all the government’s money all up. This is a fantastic way to treat people struggling with poverty issues. Fantastic.
2. The government is the #1 offender right now when it comes to mismanaging money. I mean, come on. We’re billions and trillions of dollars in debt. The people bailed out the government and now that folks have lost jobs, the government is going to start accusing the people of mismanaging money? The government is going to accuse the people of mismanaging money. Sit with that like a fart in a car for a minute. Smells like shit, doesn’t it?
3. Here are the unintended consequences:
a. Increased violent crime, including murder. An addict will find a way to get drugs, with or without the government’s help. This includes, but is not limited to, robbery, mugging, prostitution, car jacking, etc. Drug related murder is already a thing; if we create more obstacles for desperate people in desperate situations, there will almost surely be an increase in drug related murders.
b. Increased unwanted baby having. Guess how you can get money from the government? By getting knocked up. A giant tax return because I have kids? Shit, it’s even crossed my mind (to be fair, I was drinking at the time). This will result in….
c. More people needing government assistance. As well as….
d. Increased drug and alcohol addition.
e. A whole bunch of other shit we haven't even thought of yet.
But, hey, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this will go off quietly and no one but the ACLU (and me, clearly) will get upset about it. There will definitely be recipients who will gladly pee into a cup in order to get their check. But I think what we forget over and over again is how these laws impact people. People, not money.
These are human beings we’re talking about. Drug addicts are human beings. Everyone is up in arms about the way other governments treat their people. We protest and donate and buy t-shirts; Oprah and Madonna build schools in other countries. All this does is take focus off what is happening in our own country. Arizona, Florida, Wisconsin…the refusal to tax the wealthiest 2% of the population because why? WHY? We’ve let money trump (heh) human beings and it’s only going to get worse. In the past few years, this conservative, fascist agenda has been turned way, way up. And the people who believe in this rhetoric are going to be very surprised when the shit rolls downhill and they discover that the people they followed blindly don’t give a damn whether they live or die.
“But…we wanted to help people, not unleash the four horsemen of the apocalypse.”
The clearest modern day example of this is abstinence only education.
“I have an idea. See, I’m pretty sure kids are having sex because they don’t realize they’ll go straight to hell if they do. So I propose we institute this thing I like to call abstinence-only sex education. I mean, don’t even give them an option. If we take away all knowledge about a subject, they won’t know what to do…so they won’t do anything. Right?”
The point was to scare the living shit out of teenagers by telling them that pre-marital sex only had two outcomes: a scorching, scabby descent into the pits of sexually transmitted infection, or God would strap a screaming, snotting, pooping little person to your hip and life, as you know it, would become infinitely worse than it already is.
That’s it. Nothing else will happen. So just don’t do it.
Now, if I had been in the room, I would have said, “Are you out of your fucking minds?!” Which would have translated into, “I have some concerns. But first I’d like to ask how long this meeting is scheduled for because I’m about to blow this fucker up.” There were plenty of people who rallied against this terrible idea but George W. had a hard on for it and declared it so: all sex education in our schools must be abstinence-only.
So here’s what happened: incidents of STIs and teen pregnancy skyrocketed. Teen pregnancy became such a huge industry that MTV got in on it. Ancient, sleeping sexually transmitted infections came roaring back to life. Seriously, syphilis? I would have been less astounded if Jesus had been a surprise presenter at the Emmys. I worked in STI education for many years and I was sitting in rooms, going, “Syphilis? Am I even here right now?”
Unfortunately, humans have a very high learning curve. And also, this very dangerous group of conservative weirdos has got a whole bunch of us by the balls. So here we go again.
Florida Governor Rick Scott has signed a law that will require all adults applying for Temporary Assistance for Needy Families to submit to a drug test. The law takes effect July 1st. Scott defends the law, saying this will hold people accountable, the money will get to the people who really need it, we shouldn’t be subsidizing people’s drug habits, blah blah blah.
Now, I know what you’re thinking…it’s Florida; they know not what they do. True, the heat does have an impact on one’s ability to think clearly. You may also be thinking, “Gee Dresden, I think that’s totally fair. If you’re going to get a check from the government, I think we need to make sure that you’re not spending it on the meth or the heroin.” But let me tell you why this shit is seriously flawed.
1. Until this country stops feeding damaging, long standing stereotypes, nothing will ever change. Nothing. Imagine, for a minute, that you found yourself in a position where you needed financial aid for your family. To come to this realization is already difficult; it’s embarrassing to say, “I can’t support my family and I need help.” THEN you have to go apply for help at a stuffy, over crowded government office with often unhelpful employees. The person on the other side of the counter is being told to assume you’re a drug addict who intends to let their children starve and smoke all the government’s money all up. This is a fantastic way to treat people struggling with poverty issues. Fantastic.
2. The government is the #1 offender right now when it comes to mismanaging money. I mean, come on. We’re billions and trillions of dollars in debt. The people bailed out the government and now that folks have lost jobs, the government is going to start accusing the people of mismanaging money? The government is going to accuse the people of mismanaging money. Sit with that like a fart in a car for a minute. Smells like shit, doesn’t it?
3. Here are the unintended consequences:
a. Increased violent crime, including murder. An addict will find a way to get drugs, with or without the government’s help. This includes, but is not limited to, robbery, mugging, prostitution, car jacking, etc. Drug related murder is already a thing; if we create more obstacles for desperate people in desperate situations, there will almost surely be an increase in drug related murders.
b. Increased unwanted baby having. Guess how you can get money from the government? By getting knocked up. A giant tax return because I have kids? Shit, it’s even crossed my mind (to be fair, I was drinking at the time). This will result in….
c. More people needing government assistance. As well as….
d. Increased drug and alcohol addition.
e. A whole bunch of other shit we haven't even thought of yet.
But, hey, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this will go off quietly and no one but the ACLU (and me, clearly) will get upset about it. There will definitely be recipients who will gladly pee into a cup in order to get their check. But I think what we forget over and over again is how these laws impact people. People, not money.
These are human beings we’re talking about. Drug addicts are human beings. Everyone is up in arms about the way other governments treat their people. We protest and donate and buy t-shirts; Oprah and Madonna build schools in other countries. All this does is take focus off what is happening in our own country. Arizona, Florida, Wisconsin…the refusal to tax the wealthiest 2% of the population because why? WHY? We’ve let money trump (heh) human beings and it’s only going to get worse. In the past few years, this conservative, fascist agenda has been turned way, way up. And the people who believe in this rhetoric are going to be very surprised when the shit rolls downhill and they discover that the people they followed blindly don’t give a damn whether they live or die.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Pick a day, Easter.
As Easter approaches, I feel the need to express my lack of understanding about holidays in general. Let me start by saying that I don't understand holidays because we never celebrated holidays when I was a child. I tell people this and they always say, "Oh my God, you never got to celebrate Christmas?! What about Halloween--did you go trick or treating?" When I tell them no, I did not go trick or treating and there was never a Christmas tree or Christmas presents in my house, they act as if I just told them that every year, my parents made us each kill a puppy for Satan. They relax slightly when I tell them that Thanksgiving is a holiday we choose to celebrate, mostly because we love to eat. Although we call it Turkey Day to avoid Jesus being a part of it. Thanksgiving is the celebration of Jesus's first day of Kindergarten, right? And there was a turkey...? Never mind.
Easter is easily the weirdest holiday in my estimation. I never remember that it's Easter. I always drive to Target and freak out because the parking lot is empty. A Target parking lot is never empty. I wonder if a zombie apocalypse has finally happened, text someone ("Dude...why the fuck is Target closed?"), drive around in a near panic and finally get the message that it's Easter. Then I get mad. Is it really necessary to close Target for a holiday that most people feel pretty lukewarm about? 90% of people who get asked, "Are you doing anything for Easter" answer, "Meh...ham at my parents house...nothing special." Also, why does Easter keep moving? It's all over the map. Pick a day, Easter. It would make it a lot easier to remember that it's Easter and not waste my time trying to go buy tampons and a toaster.
The time leading up to Easter is also strange to me. People give up things for Lent but they always give us stupid things, like swearing or Taco Bell. Honestly, I'm no expert, but I do know that Lent is about self-denial of worldly possessions. So...you believe Jesus died for our sins and in the pursuit of religious and spiritual whatever, you've given up the F-word and 7-Layer Burritos? Really? Not very impressive.
Easter candy is not good, either. Those chocolate eggs with the white and yellow cream inside are nasty. Whose horrible idea was that? "You know, people like eggs and they like candy...what if we made a candy that made people feel like they were eating eggs but was really chocolate and white and yellow goo of some kind? What if we did that?" And if I never see another Peep again, it will be too soon. I had a boyfriend who used to make me hit every single Walgreens the day after Easter so he could buy all the Peeps at 75% off, which he would then put in the microwave. Sometimes he would stick a toothpick in them first because "it looks like they're holding a sword and when they expand in the microwave, it looks like they're having a sword fight." These were the moments when I questioned my life choices. Incidentally, he smoked a lot of dope. A lot.
This Easter I get to go see the Pixies in St. Paul, which is absolutely the most magical thing that Jesus and the Easter Bunny could have brought me. To celebrate the end of 2 Fish Fillets for $2 at McDonald's, I will be reliving my high school fantasies of being best friends with Kim Deal and makeout friends with Charles Michael Kittridge Thompson IV. So I'm not mad at Easter this year. I finally know what it's all about: ME.
Easter is easily the weirdest holiday in my estimation. I never remember that it's Easter. I always drive to Target and freak out because the parking lot is empty. A Target parking lot is never empty. I wonder if a zombie apocalypse has finally happened, text someone ("Dude...why the fuck is Target closed?"), drive around in a near panic and finally get the message that it's Easter. Then I get mad. Is it really necessary to close Target for a holiday that most people feel pretty lukewarm about? 90% of people who get asked, "Are you doing anything for Easter" answer, "Meh...ham at my parents house...nothing special." Also, why does Easter keep moving? It's all over the map. Pick a day, Easter. It would make it a lot easier to remember that it's Easter and not waste my time trying to go buy tampons and a toaster.
The time leading up to Easter is also strange to me. People give up things for Lent but they always give us stupid things, like swearing or Taco Bell. Honestly, I'm no expert, but I do know that Lent is about self-denial of worldly possessions. So...you believe Jesus died for our sins and in the pursuit of religious and spiritual whatever, you've given up the F-word and 7-Layer Burritos? Really? Not very impressive.
Easter candy is not good, either. Those chocolate eggs with the white and yellow cream inside are nasty. Whose horrible idea was that? "You know, people like eggs and they like candy...what if we made a candy that made people feel like they were eating eggs but was really chocolate and white and yellow goo of some kind? What if we did that?" And if I never see another Peep again, it will be too soon. I had a boyfriend who used to make me hit every single Walgreens the day after Easter so he could buy all the Peeps at 75% off, which he would then put in the microwave. Sometimes he would stick a toothpick in them first because "it looks like they're holding a sword and when they expand in the microwave, it looks like they're having a sword fight." These were the moments when I questioned my life choices. Incidentally, he smoked a lot of dope. A lot.
This Easter I get to go see the Pixies in St. Paul, which is absolutely the most magical thing that Jesus and the Easter Bunny could have brought me. To celebrate the end of 2 Fish Fillets for $2 at McDonald's, I will be reliving my high school fantasies of being best friends with Kim Deal and makeout friends with Charles Michael Kittridge Thompson IV. So I'm not mad at Easter this year. I finally know what it's all about: ME.
Monday, April 18, 2011
But Maybe the Queen of Mexico
My 6 year old niece is obsessed with princesses. Ob. Sessed. I was never this little girl. I mean, I liked the concept of a princess or a queen simply for the fashion and the handsome prince. But from what I recall, I was never a wearer or crowns or gowns. I walked around with a blanket on my head to symbolize the long blond white girl hair I always wanted but we don't need to pull at that thread right now, do we?
Q has an abundance of Disney princesses in her possession and, to be fair, her parents have not bought any of them for her. This is all Grandma's doing. I'd also like to point out that the child is a genius who reads and writes better than any 6 year old in the free world and can articulate better than most adults about a variety of subjects. So she's no vain, shallow child. But she was definitely bit by the princess bug.
When it's time to play, she directs all action up front, assigning dolls and boyfriends. Of course, playing princesses with me is not easy.
Q: "Here, Aunt Dee, you can be Belle and I'll be Tiana. They're getting ready for the ball."
Me: "What is the ball in celebration of?"
Q: "I dunno, it's just a ball. Bell is going with the Beast and Tiana is going with Naveen."
Me: "Maybe Bell just wants to by herself. She doesn't need a date."
Q: "Yes, she does. She can't go to the ball by herself."
Me: "Sure she can! All her friends will be there. She doesn't need the Beast to have fun."
Q: (narrowing her beautiful eyes at me) "She needs to go with Naveen."
So I give in and stop peppering play time with feminism (or is that bitterness?). Everyone goes to the ball and has a date. At some point, Q's doll decides to steal my doll's date and we have another conversation about how every story need not revolve around a man. Then my sister chimes in that every story needs conflict and I give in again. None of this lasts more than 10 or 15 minutes anyway as Q will be distracted by something and be on her merry way.
One day I decided to tell Q the truth. "You know...you'll probably never go to a ball. Like, people don't go to balls."
She just stared at me with that angelic face, expressionless. I couldn't tell if she was thinking, "Well duh, Aunt Dee," or "Are you fucking kidding me?! There will be no ball?!?!"
She sighed and said, "Aunt Dee, I'm not the Queen of England but maybe I could be the Queen of Mexico."
Rather than explaining that Mexico doesn't have a queen and, honestly, if they did, she probably doesn't want that job (what with all the violence in Juarez), I laughed and tickled her. But it got me thinking. What is our obsession with the role of princess?
As Kate Middleton prepares to transition from commoner to princess, our country has become fascinated by her. Incidentally, we have no monarchy and folks moved here to escape that schlocka a million years ago or whatever. But for a nation founded on disapproval of the monarchy, we sure are interested in the monarchy. And look at all the tragic things that have happened to princesses and queens over time. These ladies more often than not meet tragic, cruel ends. I'm not saying that Kate is going to be kidnapped and quartered by the French or anything. But beyond all the scary and gross deaths princesses and queens have faced over the years, I bet being a princess is really, really boring.
Imagine all the looooooong events you'd have to sit through, your legs perfectly crossed at the ankles, hands folded neatly in your lap, fighting off the yawns while people endlessly took your picture. You could never have a shitty day where you run to the drugstore in your sweatpants for ibuprofen. It doesn't matter if you have terrible cramps, you simply must be there for the dedication of the new Pediatric Prosthetics wing at the hospital lest people think you a cold, heartless bitch, scoring you a headline along the lines of, "Princess Doesn't Care About Limbless Children, Only Cares About Self, Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby."
And for God's sake, what if you were infertile or decided you didn't want to have children? The press would talk about your womb as if it were the crumbling leader of a Middle Eastern country chock full of oil. "We've got to get in there, fix the problem and harvest the goods."
You could never "accidentally" drink too much chardonnay at the party and slur anything about "my motherfucking mother-in-law from hell" or half-jokingly say, "We should invade China" or suggest a round of body shots with your hot ginger brother-in-law. And you can forget about forgoing panties at the Westminster Polo Championship because a stiff breeze will blow your skirt up and the whole world will know you've retired all grooming efforts.
Also, you probably shouldn't have an opinion about anything. You'll need to perfect stock answers to politically and/or socially charged questions. "Princess Kate, what do you think about the situation in Libya?"
(Smiling brightly) "I'm very proud of my charitable duties and my husband's commitment to the whole of England. We are very much against AIDS, global warming and all sorts of other nasty things."
The worst part of being a princess would probably be marrying down. Kate Middleton is smokin' hot and William...well, he does look a lot like his father, now doesn't he? Did you see Charles and Diana's wedding? Don't tell me you didn't notice the look of slight nausea and panic in her eyes at several stages during the ceremony. Those were the moments she was thinking, "What the fuck am I doing?! I'm a super hot 80s babe with sweet, sweet feathered hair; why am I marrying this shriveled old man?! Dear God and Queen Mary of Scots, save me!"
Oh, if being a princess were all about going to balls, wearing lovely dresses and putting little to know effort into your stunning beauty. If only there were princes to save us from our poison apples, cruel spell-casting sea hags, yeast infections and cable bills. Alas, this is not the case. I guess we'll just have to save ourselves.
Q has an abundance of Disney princesses in her possession and, to be fair, her parents have not bought any of them for her. This is all Grandma's doing. I'd also like to point out that the child is a genius who reads and writes better than any 6 year old in the free world and can articulate better than most adults about a variety of subjects. So she's no vain, shallow child. But she was definitely bit by the princess bug.
When it's time to play, she directs all action up front, assigning dolls and boyfriends. Of course, playing princesses with me is not easy.
Q: "Here, Aunt Dee, you can be Belle and I'll be Tiana. They're getting ready for the ball."
Me: "What is the ball in celebration of?"
Q: "I dunno, it's just a ball. Bell is going with the Beast and Tiana is going with Naveen."
Me: "Maybe Bell just wants to by herself. She doesn't need a date."
Q: "Yes, she does. She can't go to the ball by herself."
Me: "Sure she can! All her friends will be there. She doesn't need the Beast to have fun."
Q: (narrowing her beautiful eyes at me) "She needs to go with Naveen."
So I give in and stop peppering play time with feminism (or is that bitterness?). Everyone goes to the ball and has a date. At some point, Q's doll decides to steal my doll's date and we have another conversation about how every story need not revolve around a man. Then my sister chimes in that every story needs conflict and I give in again. None of this lasts more than 10 or 15 minutes anyway as Q will be distracted by something and be on her merry way.
One day I decided to tell Q the truth. "You know...you'll probably never go to a ball. Like, people don't go to balls."
She just stared at me with that angelic face, expressionless. I couldn't tell if she was thinking, "Well duh, Aunt Dee," or "Are you fucking kidding me?! There will be no ball?!?!"
She sighed and said, "Aunt Dee, I'm not the Queen of England but maybe I could be the Queen of Mexico."
Rather than explaining that Mexico doesn't have a queen and, honestly, if they did, she probably doesn't want that job (what with all the violence in Juarez), I laughed and tickled her. But it got me thinking. What is our obsession with the role of princess?
As Kate Middleton prepares to transition from commoner to princess, our country has become fascinated by her. Incidentally, we have no monarchy and folks moved here to escape that schlocka a million years ago or whatever. But for a nation founded on disapproval of the monarchy, we sure are interested in the monarchy. And look at all the tragic things that have happened to princesses and queens over time. These ladies more often than not meet tragic, cruel ends. I'm not saying that Kate is going to be kidnapped and quartered by the French or anything. But beyond all the scary and gross deaths princesses and queens have faced over the years, I bet being a princess is really, really boring.
Imagine all the looooooong events you'd have to sit through, your legs perfectly crossed at the ankles, hands folded neatly in your lap, fighting off the yawns while people endlessly took your picture. You could never have a shitty day where you run to the drugstore in your sweatpants for ibuprofen. It doesn't matter if you have terrible cramps, you simply must be there for the dedication of the new Pediatric Prosthetics wing at the hospital lest people think you a cold, heartless bitch, scoring you a headline along the lines of, "Princess Doesn't Care About Limbless Children, Only Cares About Self, Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby."
And for God's sake, what if you were infertile or decided you didn't want to have children? The press would talk about your womb as if it were the crumbling leader of a Middle Eastern country chock full of oil. "We've got to get in there, fix the problem and harvest the goods."
You could never "accidentally" drink too much chardonnay at the party and slur anything about "my motherfucking mother-in-law from hell" or half-jokingly say, "We should invade China" or suggest a round of body shots with your hot ginger brother-in-law. And you can forget about forgoing panties at the Westminster Polo Championship because a stiff breeze will blow your skirt up and the whole world will know you've retired all grooming efforts.
Also, you probably shouldn't have an opinion about anything. You'll need to perfect stock answers to politically and/or socially charged questions. "Princess Kate, what do you think about the situation in Libya?"
(Smiling brightly) "I'm very proud of my charitable duties and my husband's commitment to the whole of England. We are very much against AIDS, global warming and all sorts of other nasty things."
The worst part of being a princess would probably be marrying down. Kate Middleton is smokin' hot and William...well, he does look a lot like his father, now doesn't he? Did you see Charles and Diana's wedding? Don't tell me you didn't notice the look of slight nausea and panic in her eyes at several stages during the ceremony. Those were the moments she was thinking, "What the fuck am I doing?! I'm a super hot 80s babe with sweet, sweet feathered hair; why am I marrying this shriveled old man?! Dear God and Queen Mary of Scots, save me!"
Oh, if being a princess were all about going to balls, wearing lovely dresses and putting little to know effort into your stunning beauty. If only there were princes to save us from our poison apples, cruel spell-casting sea hags, yeast infections and cable bills. Alas, this is not the case. I guess we'll just have to save ourselves.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Things you should never say to black people (and by "black people" I mean "anyone").
1. "I have a lot of black friends." No you don't. In fact, I'm willing to bet if you ever met a black person, they would hate you. A lot.
2. "My best friend is black." If by "best friend" you mean "the woman who sits in the cube next to mine who I smile at every morning", then yes; your best friend is black.
3. "I've always wanted to have sex with a black woman/man." And now you never will.
4. "I had sex with a black woman once. She was a hooker." A man actually said that to me once. He was also missing a tooth. A front tooth.
5. "You're the first black woman I've ever slept with." Great; here's your paperwork. You'll need to see a notary in order to officially be granted the title White Dude Who Had Sex with a Black Woman.
6. "Can I touch your hair?" Can I touch your ass?
7. "Do you know Random Person Who Also Happens to be Black?" Yes, we all know each other. Actually, there are only 4 of us; the rest is all mirrors.
8. "Black people are such great singers." Clearly you've never met my father. Or my brother.
9. "Do you use the word 'nigger?' Why is it ok for black people to say 'nigger' but white people can't say 'nigger?'" Well you've just said it three times, asshole. And just because I'm standing here doesn't make it acceptable.
10. "I'm 1/16th African American." I'm 1/16th impressed.
2. "My best friend is black." If by "best friend" you mean "the woman who sits in the cube next to mine who I smile at every morning", then yes; your best friend is black.
3. "I've always wanted to have sex with a black woman/man." And now you never will.
4. "I had sex with a black woman once. She was a hooker." A man actually said that to me once. He was also missing a tooth. A front tooth.
5. "You're the first black woman I've ever slept with." Great; here's your paperwork. You'll need to see a notary in order to officially be granted the title White Dude Who Had Sex with a Black Woman.
6. "Can I touch your hair?" Can I touch your ass?
7. "Do you know Random Person Who Also Happens to be Black?" Yes, we all know each other. Actually, there are only 4 of us; the rest is all mirrors.
8. "Black people are such great singers." Clearly you've never met my father. Or my brother.
9. "Do you use the word 'nigger?' Why is it ok for black people to say 'nigger' but white people can't say 'nigger?'" Well you've just said it three times, asshole. And just because I'm standing here doesn't make it acceptable.
10. "I'm 1/16th African American." I'm 1/16th impressed.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Breaking the Poop Wall
This weekend, I had the opportunity to discuss a very important stage in relationships with a group of extremely intelligent women. The Poop Stage. We all agreed that The Poop Stage (TPS) is perhaps the most pivotal stage in a relationship. Sure, you love my smile, my laugh, my lust for life, my boobs...now I’m gonna blow up your bathroom. How you like me now?
As toddlers, we go through a Freudian phase of life that none of us remembers, also called The Poop Stage (or perhaps something slightly more scientific). This happens when we make a doodie in our little plastic toilet, stand up, turn around, look at it and realize, with great astonishment, that we did that. Many children will call their parents in and proudly present the deuce like a gift for baby Jesus. And we are lavished with praise and gumdrops or maybe a star on our Potty Chart. For minutes, perhaps hours, we are kings and queens of our plastic thrones; masters of our own asses; certified poop commanders.
Somewhere along this journey of transitioning from shitting in our shorts to long, drawn out bathroom sessions involving magazines, the act becomes horrifying. Parents no longer take you to Dairy Queen to celebrate the poopie; instead they walk into the bathroom as you’re exiting, waving a hand in front of their face, scowling and scolding. “Good lord that’s horrible! For the love of God, turn the fan on! Light a match! Are you trying to kill us all? Jesus Christ!”
Our poop pride quickly disappears and we are left embarrassed, shameful, and wondering silently why we are so disgusting. Through no fault of our own, it happens again the next day. We accept that this is going to continue and that it’s going to be gross. We seek out private places to make boom-boom—we drive to the local Target over our lunch break to avoid polluting the shared work bathroom; we try to beat roommates home so we can drop the kids off at the pool in relative comfort. And when that fails, we apologize for our natural movements, attempting to make jokes, cracking a window, politely lighting a $35 Aveda candle.
But the challenge comes when we start dating someone. Oh, the excitement of the first date with all those awkward moments that happen as two people try to figure out if they’d like to marry, fuck or kill the person sitting across the table from them. Eventually, there might be a first kiss, which tells you an awful lot. (My advice: if it’s bad, run. Run fast.) After a few dates, things get complicated. Does he like me? Will he call? How do I walk that stupid, delicate line of “I really want to hang out with you” and “I don’t even remember your name, playa”?
At some point (and it’s different for everyone) there will be sex, which can make or break the situation. Being compatible over coffee or dinner does not necessarily translate into sexual chemistry. You will likely know this before you hit the sheets but most of us decide to check it out anyway. I can say from experience, sometimes your instinct is wrong, in either direction. So, you know, go for it.
So everything’s going along swimmingly—sex is good, conversation is stimulating, he has a nice car, he loves his mother, he always calls when he says he’s going to, there haven’t been any angry outbursts, he’s not rude to servers in restaurants, he doesn’t refer to his ex-girlfriend as “that fucking bitch” or “the love of my life” and it looks like we might have a winner.
At some point, you will have to poop at his place.
The anxiety surrounding this inevitable occurrence is pretty intense. As women, we don’t really want men to know we poop. It’s ridiculous because when you get a group of men together, they can talk about the stuff that comes out of their ass all day. As the girlfriend, if you chime in with something like, “Oh dude, I dropped a deuce the other day that had its own zip code. It was doing its taxes and shit”, you break the Poop Wall. Yes, intellectually, New Boyfriend knows that you eat food and, thus, need to make a doodie now and again. But for God’s sake, don’t talk about it. Even my feminist instincts can’t argue with this one. I mean, I want New Boyfriend to view me as intelligent, creative, funny, sexy, loyal, loving, etc. But I’ll do anything to avoid him finding out that I poop.
I’m pretty crafty for a while. I will admit to quietly slipping out of bed once the man snoring starts and closing myself in the bathroom for some quality time. I’ve straight up lied and told a long story about there being a line for the loo and only one working toilet at the restaurant to cover up the fact that I’ve been gone for 15 minutes. But at some point, it’s going to happen. Perhaps after a Mexican themed dinner or a big cup of coffee.
There are several ways to handle this:
1. Make it funny. “Ha ha ha, I’m going to destroy your bathroom dude. It’s going to be like a Michael Bay movie.”
2. Be a total girl about it. “Um...ok...so, I have to, like, go to the bathroom. But, like, I mean, I have to go to the bathroom. So, like, I’m really sorry but we had burritos for lunch and even though I said no beans, it’s still, like, going to happen and I’m so embarrassed (giggle, giggle, sob, sob)."
3. Just resign and admit you’re disgusting. “Ok, so here’s the deal: there are some things happening in my butt that I cannot control. So I’m going to the bathroom for a while. Please don’t acknowledge it.”
Generally I go with #3. Because he doesn't care. He’ll probably laugh at you and tease you a bit but if he honestly breaks things off because you poop (which has never happened in the history of the whole world) then my man’s got issues you can’t even begin to understand. I read an article the other day about how Terrence Howard, star of many horrible movies, won’t date a woman unless she wipes her business with baby wipes every time she goes to the bathroom. This is proof that Terrence’s delicate toddler Poop Stage was not a glorious time full of stickers and cookies and hugs and applause. His Poop Stage was traumatic and shameful, likely at the hands of his Mommy, leading him to believe that we’re all unclean in our nether regions, especially women, because a woman is the one who mistreated him in regards to his poopy phase. That’s called transference of anger. That’s right, bitch, I just psychologized you. And now I’m gonna blow up your bathroom.
As toddlers, we go through a Freudian phase of life that none of us remembers, also called The Poop Stage (or perhaps something slightly more scientific). This happens when we make a doodie in our little plastic toilet, stand up, turn around, look at it and realize, with great astonishment, that we did that. Many children will call their parents in and proudly present the deuce like a gift for baby Jesus. And we are lavished with praise and gumdrops or maybe a star on our Potty Chart. For minutes, perhaps hours, we are kings and queens of our plastic thrones; masters of our own asses; certified poop commanders.
Somewhere along this journey of transitioning from shitting in our shorts to long, drawn out bathroom sessions involving magazines, the act becomes horrifying. Parents no longer take you to Dairy Queen to celebrate the poopie; instead they walk into the bathroom as you’re exiting, waving a hand in front of their face, scowling and scolding. “Good lord that’s horrible! For the love of God, turn the fan on! Light a match! Are you trying to kill us all? Jesus Christ!”
Our poop pride quickly disappears and we are left embarrassed, shameful, and wondering silently why we are so disgusting. Through no fault of our own, it happens again the next day. We accept that this is going to continue and that it’s going to be gross. We seek out private places to make boom-boom—we drive to the local Target over our lunch break to avoid polluting the shared work bathroom; we try to beat roommates home so we can drop the kids off at the pool in relative comfort. And when that fails, we apologize for our natural movements, attempting to make jokes, cracking a window, politely lighting a $35 Aveda candle.
But the challenge comes when we start dating someone. Oh, the excitement of the first date with all those awkward moments that happen as two people try to figure out if they’d like to marry, fuck or kill the person sitting across the table from them. Eventually, there might be a first kiss, which tells you an awful lot. (My advice: if it’s bad, run. Run fast.) After a few dates, things get complicated. Does he like me? Will he call? How do I walk that stupid, delicate line of “I really want to hang out with you” and “I don’t even remember your name, playa”?
At some point (and it’s different for everyone) there will be sex, which can make or break the situation. Being compatible over coffee or dinner does not necessarily translate into sexual chemistry. You will likely know this before you hit the sheets but most of us decide to check it out anyway. I can say from experience, sometimes your instinct is wrong, in either direction. So, you know, go for it.
So everything’s going along swimmingly—sex is good, conversation is stimulating, he has a nice car, he loves his mother, he always calls when he says he’s going to, there haven’t been any angry outbursts, he’s not rude to servers in restaurants, he doesn’t refer to his ex-girlfriend as “that fucking bitch” or “the love of my life” and it looks like we might have a winner.
At some point, you will have to poop at his place.
The anxiety surrounding this inevitable occurrence is pretty intense. As women, we don’t really want men to know we poop. It’s ridiculous because when you get a group of men together, they can talk about the stuff that comes out of their ass all day. As the girlfriend, if you chime in with something like, “Oh dude, I dropped a deuce the other day that had its own zip code. It was doing its taxes and shit”, you break the Poop Wall. Yes, intellectually, New Boyfriend knows that you eat food and, thus, need to make a doodie now and again. But for God’s sake, don’t talk about it. Even my feminist instincts can’t argue with this one. I mean, I want New Boyfriend to view me as intelligent, creative, funny, sexy, loyal, loving, etc. But I’ll do anything to avoid him finding out that I poop.
I’m pretty crafty for a while. I will admit to quietly slipping out of bed once the man snoring starts and closing myself in the bathroom for some quality time. I’ve straight up lied and told a long story about there being a line for the loo and only one working toilet at the restaurant to cover up the fact that I’ve been gone for 15 minutes. But at some point, it’s going to happen. Perhaps after a Mexican themed dinner or a big cup of coffee.
There are several ways to handle this:
1. Make it funny. “Ha ha ha, I’m going to destroy your bathroom dude. It’s going to be like a Michael Bay movie.”
2. Be a total girl about it. “Um...ok...so, I have to, like, go to the bathroom. But, like, I mean, I have to go to the bathroom. So, like, I’m really sorry but we had burritos for lunch and even though I said no beans, it’s still, like, going to happen and I’m so embarrassed (giggle, giggle, sob, sob)."
3. Just resign and admit you’re disgusting. “Ok, so here’s the deal: there are some things happening in my butt that I cannot control. So I’m going to the bathroom for a while. Please don’t acknowledge it.”
Generally I go with #3. Because he doesn't care. He’ll probably laugh at you and tease you a bit but if he honestly breaks things off because you poop (which has never happened in the history of the whole world) then my man’s got issues you can’t even begin to understand. I read an article the other day about how Terrence Howard, star of many horrible movies, won’t date a woman unless she wipes her business with baby wipes every time she goes to the bathroom. This is proof that Terrence’s delicate toddler Poop Stage was not a glorious time full of stickers and cookies and hugs and applause. His Poop Stage was traumatic and shameful, likely at the hands of his Mommy, leading him to believe that we’re all unclean in our nether regions, especially women, because a woman is the one who mistreated him in regards to his poopy phase. That’s called transference of anger. That’s right, bitch, I just psychologized you. And now I’m gonna blow up your bathroom.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
I declare this half eaten burrito official.
While I was slogging away on my treadmill at the gym, CNN told me that Maine is desperately trying to decide if their official state dessert should be the whoppie pie or blueberry pie. Pennsylvania is also considering the whoppie pie for official dessert status, which obviously makes Maine want that one more because it’s just human nature to covet thy (sort of) neighbor. As I schvitzed and schlepped away in the name of socially acceptable perfection, I began to wonder: does every state have an official state dessert? Why do we need official state desserts? Does that mean that any time there is an official meal, the official dessert gets served? How does this get decided? And with all the piles and piles of shit going on in the world, why am I grasping on to this?
I decided to just go with it.
Upon Googling “how official state foods are chosen” I didn’t find much; mostly state government pages that listed WIC-eligible foods. I found lists and lists of official state foods and one tiny blurb that said that when someone wants to make an official state food (say an official muffin, dessert, beverage, etc) they have to bring it before a judge and have it “declared by law” as the official state food.
Who the hell does this? And why? If I decided that clamato should be the official state tomato-based beverage and I went through the process of trying to have that declared by law, everyone would assume that I am crazy and unemployed. And rightfully so.
Some of the official state foods make sense; for example, Minnesota’s official state grain is wild rice. Duh. Minnesota is one of two main producers of wild rice. Maryland’s state food is blue crabs. Yep, that sounds about right. Idaho’s state food is the potato. Again, yes, I whole-heartedly agree with this and understand it. But here’s where it gets weird.
Louisiana has a state jelly. How come? It is Mayhaw jelly and the mayhaw capital is Georgia. Louisiana also has an official state meat pie. No, meat pie is not the official state pie—they have an official state meat pie. It’s Natchitoches. New Mexico’s state vegetable is refried beans. I got news for ya, retired old timey hippies: refried beans do not qualify as a vegetable. Oklahoma must feel inadequate because they have quite a few official state foods. One of their official state meals is corn. Corn is not a meal. In fact, Oklahoma has ten official state meals and none of them are an actual meal. A meal is several items, not one item. Utah’s state snack food is Jell-O. How did that happen? It’s not like Jell-O was invented or conceived in Utah because it wasn’t. But in 2001, the governor invented “Jell-O Week.” Oh how I wish I had been in that meeting. North Carolina has an official state blue berry—it’s blueberries. They also have an official state red berry, which is the strawberry. I happen to love North Carolina but 2001 must have been a very slow year for them.
And the big winner for official state beverage? Milk. Almost every state has legally declared milk official. Nebraska also decided to embarrass themselves why declaring Kool-Aid their other official state beverage but that is because Kool-Aid was invented in Nebraska. The state of Alabama ain’t playin’; their official state beverage is whiskey.
I guess I’m failing to understand why we need official state foods and beverages. This throw down between Maine and Pennsylvania for the whoopee pie is a big enough news story that CNN had an actual segment on it. I wonder if people can protest the declaration of an official state food. Like if Minnesota wanted to declare the kiwi as the official state fruit, I’d totally make a sign and go to the capitol and demand to know why a fruit that does not grow here and has no historical ties to my state would be named an official anything. Would I be ridiculed or seen as a new brand of community leader, demanding that things start making sense around here? By the way, Minnesota’s official state fruit isn’t the kiwi; it’s the honeycrisp apple.
I decided to just go with it.
Upon Googling “how official state foods are chosen” I didn’t find much; mostly state government pages that listed WIC-eligible foods. I found lists and lists of official state foods and one tiny blurb that said that when someone wants to make an official state food (say an official muffin, dessert, beverage, etc) they have to bring it before a judge and have it “declared by law” as the official state food.
Who the hell does this? And why? If I decided that clamato should be the official state tomato-based beverage and I went through the process of trying to have that declared by law, everyone would assume that I am crazy and unemployed. And rightfully so.
Some of the official state foods make sense; for example, Minnesota’s official state grain is wild rice. Duh. Minnesota is one of two main producers of wild rice. Maryland’s state food is blue crabs. Yep, that sounds about right. Idaho’s state food is the potato. Again, yes, I whole-heartedly agree with this and understand it. But here’s where it gets weird.
Louisiana has a state jelly. How come? It is Mayhaw jelly and the mayhaw capital is Georgia. Louisiana also has an official state meat pie. No, meat pie is not the official state pie—they have an official state meat pie. It’s Natchitoches. New Mexico’s state vegetable is refried beans. I got news for ya, retired old timey hippies: refried beans do not qualify as a vegetable. Oklahoma must feel inadequate because they have quite a few official state foods. One of their official state meals is corn. Corn is not a meal. In fact, Oklahoma has ten official state meals and none of them are an actual meal. A meal is several items, not one item. Utah’s state snack food is Jell-O. How did that happen? It’s not like Jell-O was invented or conceived in Utah because it wasn’t. But in 2001, the governor invented “Jell-O Week.” Oh how I wish I had been in that meeting. North Carolina has an official state blue berry—it’s blueberries. They also have an official state red berry, which is the strawberry. I happen to love North Carolina but 2001 must have been a very slow year for them.
And the big winner for official state beverage? Milk. Almost every state has legally declared milk official. Nebraska also decided to embarrass themselves why declaring Kool-Aid their other official state beverage but that is because Kool-Aid was invented in Nebraska. The state of Alabama ain’t playin’; their official state beverage is whiskey.
I guess I’m failing to understand why we need official state foods and beverages. This throw down between Maine and Pennsylvania for the whoopee pie is a big enough news story that CNN had an actual segment on it. I wonder if people can protest the declaration of an official state food. Like if Minnesota wanted to declare the kiwi as the official state fruit, I’d totally make a sign and go to the capitol and demand to know why a fruit that does not grow here and has no historical ties to my state would be named an official anything. Would I be ridiculed or seen as a new brand of community leader, demanding that things start making sense around here? By the way, Minnesota’s official state fruit isn’t the kiwi; it’s the honeycrisp apple.
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