I’ve decided that occasionally, I am going to review ridiculous things. Like products that I buy off late night television and direct-to-video horror films. First up: Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later.
I’d love to say that, as a child, I lost myself in the likes of Wuthering Heights and Pride & Prejudice. But that would be a big, fat lie. Instead, I got swept away in gossipy, vastly inappropriate junk food books; namely, the Sweet Valley High series.
I don’t know how it started. I was on my way with Judy Blume classics, like Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret, Blubber and Deenie. And then, one day, I picked up a copy of Sweet Valley High and fell in love with it. It’s easy to understand why. These books are, on average, 150 pages, which meant you could read one in an afternoon. They were about nothing important; just filled with schlocka that allowed you to escape your crappy Midwestern life and indulge in the antics of the Wakefield sisters.
Give me a break. I was a fat nerdy kid in Minnesota. Why wouldn’t I be impressed with the likes of Sweet Valley, a magical place in Southern California filled with Fiat convertibles, boyfriends with motorcycles and parents who were seemingly never there to stop their children from being giant assholes. Who wouldn’t want to live there, if only for an afternoon?
Just in case you’re a terrorist and therefore unfamiliar with the Sweet Valley High series, let me give you a high-level overview: Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield are 16 year old twin sisters. Each twin is vastly different: Elizabeth is sweet, studious, responsible and ambitious; Jessica is scheming, petty, gossipy and hot-to-trot. They have friends named Enid, Lila, Winston and Bruce. Elizabeth has a boyfriend named Todd and Jessica dates everyone. The original series was written in the 80s, so things like wild parties, drinking, drugs and sex were off limits. If they wrote the series now, Jessica would likely be at the free clinic on a weekly basis and Elizabeth would be vying for an anchor position at Fox News.
Francine Pascal is always listed as the author of all Sweet Valley High books, as well as all the books in all the spin-off series: Sweet Valley Twins, Sweet Valley University and The Unicorn Club. Yes, The Unicorn Club. I have no idea what this was about. I should mention that I have never read any of the spin-off series.
In truth, Francine Pascal is the head writer of a team of ghost writers, all of whom stick to a certain predetermined Sweet Valley formula for each book. In my mind, I picture an older, glamorous woman, a la Lauren Bacall, wearing a Chanel suit, sitting at the head of a giant table, barking commands at weary, defeated young writers who are happy to have a job but less-than-thrilled to be writing about the high school shenanigans of a couple of Aryan Nation look-alikes. I also imagine she has a little dog in her lap and always wears pearls.
I digress. The topic at hand is my review of Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later, a book released in early 2011 that catches up with Elizabeth, Jessica and the gang at age 28. You may be wondering, “Why in God’s name did you read that?” Well, technically, I didn’t. I listened to it. I’m a sucker for free trials and Audibles.com offered me two free book downloads to try their service. Digital books are fantastic on long road trips. I don’t plan on taking any long road trips any time soon but…it could happen. SVC is so far the only book I’ve downloaded.
I knew it would be bad. No…horrendously bad. Like deciding to have a bologna and cheese sandwich in your 20s because you loved them when you were 8. You take a bite and immediately ask yourself why you aren’t eating a nice maple ham or smoked turkey from Lunds. What did you ever find appealing about creepy suspect parts of a pig smushed together into a log and then sliced into floppy, moist pink circles? And then you throw the sandwich away and go out for sushi.
Truthfully, I have been intrigued by this book since I read a review of it in Entertainment Weekly. The reviewer warned me that it was baaaaad…but my curiosity was still there. So one Audibles download later, I was in the car, listening to Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later.
The nice thing about listening to books is the warm, soothing sound of the professional voice reading them to you. January LaVoy, who is apparently on One Life to Live or All My Children or something, did an excellent job of voicing each character uniquely, including the men. She should also be commended for not stopping in the middle of taping and saying, “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Or maybe she did; that’s the power of sound editing.
It is present day and Elizabeth Wakefield is living in New York City, writing for a publication called Stage Survey, which she constantly describes as “a Zagat-type guide to off-Broadway shows.” Immediately, we see that our normally gentle, loving Liz is troubled. Why is she troubled? Where is Todd, her basketball player boyfriend from high school? Where is Jessica?! How could she have left the marshmallow filled streets of sunny Sweet Valley for the cold, bleak hardness of Manhattan?
Because Todd left her for Jessica. What? Daaaaaaamn. That’s right; Todd Wilkins and Jessica Wakfield live together a town house in Sweet Valley, agonizing over how they’ve destroyed poor Elizabeth’s life. There is lots of crying and moaning and writhing about what they’ve done. So much so that I have no idea why they’re still together.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, seems to have a pretty amazing life: she’s a working journalist in New York City, which is what she always wanted to be. She has a one-bedroom apartment. One bedroom. In Manhattan. Considering that Show Survey is a freebie that homeless people wipe their bums with, I’d say Ned and Alice are footing the bill for their daughter’s high-falootin’ one bedroom Upper East Side digs. She even has a doorman and an elevator. Who needs Todd?!
The book centers around Jessica and Todd’s impending wedding and whether or not Elizabeth will forgive them and be Jessica’s maid of honor. I’m going to guess NO because who in the hell would do that? “Ok, I forgive you.” “Oh good! Will you be in the wedding when I marry your former boyfriend, who I started sleeping with five years ago behind your back?” “Go fuck yourself.”
The book provides us with flashbacks that uncover how Jessica and Todd’s betrayal came to fruition. Apparently, during their time at Sweet Valley University, Elizabeth was sick one evening and begged Jessica to go with Todd to a college party, which he refused to attend alone. I’m sorry, but what is this guy’s problem? Are you 5? Can you not go to a party without your girlfriend? Anyway, Jessica begrudgingly agrees, even though she and Todd cannot stand each other. For no reason I can determine, they end up sleeping together. Sure, there’s some sexual tension in the air and they’ve had a few dozen cocktails. So logic would step in here and say, “Ok, they had a drunken fling one night. It happens. Moving on.” But no; they begin a secret affair that mostly takes place in Todd’s car. Gross.
Then, while on vacation in Paris, Jessica meets and marries a dude named Reagan. Reagan is loaded and hot. He showers Jessica with jewelry, handbags, clothing, glamorous trips and a yacht, and all she has to do is look pretty and provide the occasional blow job. This is not enough for her, so she leaves Reagan and moves in with Elizabeth and Todd. She could have moved in with her parents down the street, but because Jessica Wakefield is apparently an antisocial sociopath, she moves in with her sister and her sister’s boyfriend, who she was buggering not long ago.
Reagan shows up in Sweet Valley and picks up on the fact that there is sexual tension between Todd and Jessica that has its own zip code, a fact Elizabeth seems to miss entirely. Perhaps it was all the grief surrounding the death of Winston Eggbert, who, in his 20s made a billion dollars in the “dot com boom” and became a super asshole who died alone in his McMansion. Reagan blows the lid off Toddgate and Elizabeth flees to New York.
8 months later, she is convinced to return to Sweet Valley for the 80th birthday of her “grandmommy.” Because she is a planner, Elizabeth brings a hot Irish bartender named Liam with her in an attempt to show Todd that Jessica is still the whore she was in high school. Liam is all over Jessica and Todd gets mad and a big old fight breaks out at Grandmommy’s birthday celebration at The Sweet Valley Golf Club. Liz returns to New York but not before blaming Liam for the whole mess, which makes zero sense.
Todd accuses Jessica of flirting and won’t speak to her, so she does what anyone in this situation would do: she leaves him. One fight and she’s gone. She shows up at Elizabeth’s in New York, thoroughly confusing the doorman, who has apparently never heard of identical twins. There is sobbing and embracing and all is forgiven. The end.
The fringe characters make an appearance throughout the book. Lila Fowler, Jessica’s snotty, rich bestie in high school, has married Ken Matthews, SVH’s star quarterback who is now a professional football player. They are separated due to Lila’s need to share her snatch with the neighborhood. Everyone thinks Lila and Steven Wakefield, the twins’ older brother, are doin’ it but surprise! Steven Wakefield is secretly GAY, which his wife, Cara Walker, is not aware of. Jessica busts Steven and his boyfriend Aaron and decides to tell Cara that Steven is a fan of the skin flute, further proving that she is a complete and total psycho. No redeeming qualities. None whatsoever.
Enid Rollins, Elizabeth’s former best friend, is a gynecologist who is dating a younger, hot guy who works at the mall. This causes people to mock her behind her back but I think it sounds awesome. I’d say that, out of everyone, she’s got the best deal. Caroline Pierce, Sweet Valley’s resident gossip, is up to her old tricks, despite being nearly bald after a battle with cancer. In one fantastic moment, Jessica snaps at Caroline, “You’re sick!” and then realizes that she really is sick. Seriously, I’m expecting Jessica to start murdering and dissecting small animals any time now.
And finally, Bruce Patman, the swanky “It” boy who drove a Porche all through high school with a license plate that read “1BRUCE1” has become Elizabeth’s best friend. She sat with him at the hospital while his father clung to life after an accident that killed his mother. And now, he realizes he loves her. Bruce ends up slipping her the hot beef injection and then accompanies her to Jessica and Todd’s wedding. Call me crazy but I always thought Bruce was gay. His name is Bruce and he drives a Porche. Missed opportunity, Francine.
So here’s why it sucks:
1. Jessica is so unlikable, you’re practically praying that her ex-husband Reagan murders her and tosses her over the side of his yacht, Dexter-style. She was always despicable but she seems to have reached new, ultraviolet levels of awful. She does things like outing her brother and his boyfriend, stealing her sister’s one true love, and being a total bitch to a woman with cancer and we’re supposed to feel sorry for her because Elizabeth won’t take her phone calls. She’s lucky Elizabeth and Steven don’t perform Nazi-era medical experiments on her without anesthesia.
2. Todd is sooooooooo lame. Why any two women would fight over this guy is totally beyond me. He’s closed off, super jealous, has no personality and there isn’t even a passage about his amazing sexual prowess or anything that would explain to me WHY he’s still a part of this story. He’s like a piece of furniture through most of the book. He does nothing except fulfill a perverted fantasy of fucking two chicks that look exactly alike.
3. Steven Wakefield’s Journey to Gaytown doesn’t even have a bisexual pit-stop. He’s married to Cara Walker and then runs into Aaron Dallas one day and BAM. They go back to Aaron’s place and Steven plays pitcher to his catcher. Whichever ghost writer did Steven’s storyline has apparently never even sat next to a gay man on a bus. It goes something like this: “Steven always had a lot of male friends. He also had several girlfriends and currently has a wife. The idea that he might be attracted to men has never, for one nano second, crossed his mind. Once, he looked at a fellow basketball player’s balls and sack in the locker room but felt nothing remarkable. Then he plowed Aaron Dallas. Aaron Dallas is an interior designer, which is a really popular job amongst gay men, I heard.” Yep, that’s about all we get regarding Steven’s sudden affinity for buttholes.
4. Elizabeth is clearly an alcoholic. Every move she makes that has any amount of balls only happens when she’s had 4 or 5 drinks. The rest of the time, she moves through her life like a zombie, completely gutted over her sister’s betrayal. She leaves old food on the kitchen table, eats chicken that’s been in her fridge for a week and blames everyone else for her misery. Also, she sleeps with randoms and cries after every orgasm. She cries after every orgasm. I’m not making this up. Someone else did.
5. All old rich people are completely insane and Francine Pascal is no exception. Apparently, in a fit of unleashed crazy, she commanded her team of writers to use the word “additionally” as many times and they could. I imagine she was proofing pages of copy and let loose howls of rage, ripping the pages to shreds, screaming, “MORE ‘ADDITIONALLY' GODDAMMIT! WHEN I SAY TO USE THE WORD ADDITIONALLY TO EXCESS, I FUCKING MEAN IT! YOU SONS OF BITCHES! BUY COPPER! BUY COPPER!”
In conclusion, this book is terrible. You should read something meaningful instead of reading this book. However, it is sort of fun, in the same way ding-dong-ditch is sort of fun. Additionally, I imagine in a few weeks time it’ll be found on the bargain table for about 50 cents. Then you should buy it.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Monday, August 8, 2011
We'll Determine if Your Kids Are Blind, Deaf or Hypertensive Day
When I was a kid, I was a burgeoning alcoholic, desperate for attention. I could never have enough. I used to throw myself down the stairs so my mother would rush to my side and lavish me with concern, love and unconditional devotion.
And that is why I am nearly blind at age 35.
Not the stairs. Please; I was a kid, which means I was practically made of rubber and other bouncy material. An ass-over-tea kettle tumble down the stairs was a Saturday afternoon. No, my blindness came from my insatiable need for attention.
Here's how it works.
Remember all the tests you had to do when you were in elementary school? Blood pressure, hearing and vision. We all filed into the multipurpose room (which was used for a multitude of purposes) and made our way through the stations. You'd put the headphones on and raise the hand that corresponded with the ear in which you heard the beep. You'd have your blood pressure taken by a sadistic school nurse you were pretty sure was trying to cut off your arm using only her blood pressure cuff. You'd cover one eye and read the smallest line on the chart.
Incidentally, do they still do this? What was this all about, anyway? Were we a generation of children whose parents didn't take us to the doctor? My parents used to drop volumes of the encyclopedia on the kitchen floor to see if I was deaf because I talked so fucking loud. They also probably figured I would tell them if I couldn't see.
One year on We'll Determine if Your Kids Are Blind, Deaf or Hypertensive Day, I decided that my parents needed to show me a little bit more concern, dammit. I covered one eye and read the top line on the eye chart. The teacher manning this particular station looked at me with concern.
"Is that the smallest line you can read, Dresden?"
"Yes," I replied, with wide brown eyed innocence. She wrote something in my chart.
A few weeks later, I left school early with my mother for a real vision test with a doctor. My little legs swung off the edge of the creepy chair they make you sit in and the doctor talked to me like you'd talk to any 8 year old...who was an idiot.
"Ok, now, Dresden. What we're going to do is cover up your left eye with this little thingamajig here. When your left eye is covered, I want you to look at the chart out there--you see that chart on the wall? The one with all the letters. Ok, I want you to look at that chart and read the smallest letters you can see. Are you ready? Ok, now, I'm going to cover your eye. I want you to read the smallest letters you can see."
"K H O R."
It was the top line, the line with the biggest letters. Even in the darkened room, I could see the concerned look that passed between my mother and the doctor. He did the same thing with my right eye and this time, I read the line directly under the top line. You know, so they didn't think I was blind. Then the doctor put some drops in my eyes and gave me a pair of disposable sunglasses because those are eye exploding drops and if you look directly at the sun after they give them to you, you'll turn to dust in an eyesplosion.
Then one day, it happened. I went to get glasses. This was a big fucking deal. I couldn't see, so my parents were very concerned, which meant I got glasses. Naturally, like any good 8 year old girl, I picked out the pink plastic frames. As anyone who has gotten glasses for the first time knows, a new prescription is like putting two random round bottoms of drinking glasses over each eye. It's what I imagined dropping acid would be like: circusy and unbalanced.
Eventually, Dresden Getting Glasses wasn't a big deal and I was just another fat nerd. Then my sister--the bitch--had the nerve to have seriously crooked teeth and got braces. I begged my parents for braces but they said I didn't need them. Braces were even better than glasses; every time my sister got her braces tightened, she'd lay on the couch moaning and my mother would let her eat ice cream and NO ONE PAID ANY ATTENTION TO MEEEEEEEE.
Now, AT 35, I'm fucking blind. I can't see shit. Without my glasses or contacts, anyone could easily take me prisoner. Justin Beiber could be standing right in front of my face telling me he's George Clinton and The Parliament Funkadelic and I'd be like, "Well...if you say so." Sometimes I wake up in the morning and don't put my glasses on right away and try to do something. I usually just end up knocking over everything in the room before I think, "Shit, where are my glasses?" I've taken my contacts out at night before knowing the exact location of my glasses and then flown into a full-blown panic because it's really hard to look for something when you can't see.
And all because I needed some attention. I should have stuck to throwing myself down the stairs.
For the next two weeks, I have to wear my glasses because I'm going into see Dr. Skywalker, who will determine if he can shave some layers off my eyeballs with his light saber and restore my sight. Even though I'm terrified of the process, I know I'll be happy when I can see. Or I'll be totally blind because he burned my retinas and drilled a laser hole in my iris. But then maybe they can do an eye transplant and I'll get the eyes of a serial killer and spend the rest of my life helping the police find the bodies of his victims. That would be cool.
And that is why I am nearly blind at age 35.
Not the stairs. Please; I was a kid, which means I was practically made of rubber and other bouncy material. An ass-over-tea kettle tumble down the stairs was a Saturday afternoon. No, my blindness came from my insatiable need for attention.
Here's how it works.
Remember all the tests you had to do when you were in elementary school? Blood pressure, hearing and vision. We all filed into the multipurpose room (which was used for a multitude of purposes) and made our way through the stations. You'd put the headphones on and raise the hand that corresponded with the ear in which you heard the beep. You'd have your blood pressure taken by a sadistic school nurse you were pretty sure was trying to cut off your arm using only her blood pressure cuff. You'd cover one eye and read the smallest line on the chart.
Incidentally, do they still do this? What was this all about, anyway? Were we a generation of children whose parents didn't take us to the doctor? My parents used to drop volumes of the encyclopedia on the kitchen floor to see if I was deaf because I talked so fucking loud. They also probably figured I would tell them if I couldn't see.
One year on We'll Determine if Your Kids Are Blind, Deaf or Hypertensive Day, I decided that my parents needed to show me a little bit more concern, dammit. I covered one eye and read the top line on the eye chart. The teacher manning this particular station looked at me with concern.
"Is that the smallest line you can read, Dresden?"
"Yes," I replied, with wide brown eyed innocence. She wrote something in my chart.
A few weeks later, I left school early with my mother for a real vision test with a doctor. My little legs swung off the edge of the creepy chair they make you sit in and the doctor talked to me like you'd talk to any 8 year old...who was an idiot.
"Ok, now, Dresden. What we're going to do is cover up your left eye with this little thingamajig here. When your left eye is covered, I want you to look at the chart out there--you see that chart on the wall? The one with all the letters. Ok, I want you to look at that chart and read the smallest letters you can see. Are you ready? Ok, now, I'm going to cover your eye. I want you to read the smallest letters you can see."
"K H O R."
It was the top line, the line with the biggest letters. Even in the darkened room, I could see the concerned look that passed between my mother and the doctor. He did the same thing with my right eye and this time, I read the line directly under the top line. You know, so they didn't think I was blind. Then the doctor put some drops in my eyes and gave me a pair of disposable sunglasses because those are eye exploding drops and if you look directly at the sun after they give them to you, you'll turn to dust in an eyesplosion.
Then one day, it happened. I went to get glasses. This was a big fucking deal. I couldn't see, so my parents were very concerned, which meant I got glasses. Naturally, like any good 8 year old girl, I picked out the pink plastic frames. As anyone who has gotten glasses for the first time knows, a new prescription is like putting two random round bottoms of drinking glasses over each eye. It's what I imagined dropping acid would be like: circusy and unbalanced.
Eventually, Dresden Getting Glasses wasn't a big deal and I was just another fat nerd. Then my sister--the bitch--had the nerve to have seriously crooked teeth and got braces. I begged my parents for braces but they said I didn't need them. Braces were even better than glasses; every time my sister got her braces tightened, she'd lay on the couch moaning and my mother would let her eat ice cream and NO ONE PAID ANY ATTENTION TO MEEEEEEEE.
Now, AT 35, I'm fucking blind. I can't see shit. Without my glasses or contacts, anyone could easily take me prisoner. Justin Beiber could be standing right in front of my face telling me he's George Clinton and The Parliament Funkadelic and I'd be like, "Well...if you say so." Sometimes I wake up in the morning and don't put my glasses on right away and try to do something. I usually just end up knocking over everything in the room before I think, "Shit, where are my glasses?" I've taken my contacts out at night before knowing the exact location of my glasses and then flown into a full-blown panic because it's really hard to look for something when you can't see.
And all because I needed some attention. I should have stuck to throwing myself down the stairs.
For the next two weeks, I have to wear my glasses because I'm going into see Dr. Skywalker, who will determine if he can shave some layers off my eyeballs with his light saber and restore my sight. Even though I'm terrified of the process, I know I'll be happy when I can see. Or I'll be totally blind because he burned my retinas and drilled a laser hole in my iris. But then maybe they can do an eye transplant and I'll get the eyes of a serial killer and spend the rest of my life helping the police find the bodies of his victims. That would be cool.
Friday, June 24, 2011
I hope that you have girl babies and I hope they have terrible acne and get harassed by a little bitch named Allison.
If you were teased a lot in school (as I was), you will inevitably have weird, awkward moments as an adult with the people who made your life miserable as a child. You’ll be minding your own business in the produce section at Lunds when suddenly—
“Dresden? Dresden Jones? OH MY GOD, we went to ELEMENTARY SCHOOL together! How ARE you?”
If you’re anything like me, you will, at first, have no earthly idea who this person is. Then slowly, the recognition will start to wash over you. And while this person is chattering on and on about her job, her kids and “Hey, do you still talk to what’s-her-face,” you’ll be having a swell of dark, terrible memories about the girl who pantsed you in front of the whole lunch room in 5th grade.
Of course, you have your super fantastic fantasy reaction:
“Hey. Allison. Yeah, I’m just gonna stop you there and go ahead and remind you that you’re the stank ho who ruined my life when I was 11 years old. You may be wondering, how can she remember something that happened so long ago? Well, Allison, I’ll tell ya; because just like every other fucking kid in the world, I walked into the cafeteria with the hope that I could get my goddamned pizza burger with a side of French fries and sit my fat ass down with the 3 friends I had, have a lovely fucking time and go back to my business. But no. You decided that it would be hilarious to expose my pink floral panties to the entire 5th and 6th grade classes. And why did you do this? Because you were—and likely still are—an awful fucking person. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to purchase some goddamned arugula and pablano peppers in peace and not have to take a fucking trip down memory lane with your dumb ass. Also, I hope that you have girl babies and I hope they have terrible acne and get harassed by a little bitch named Allison.”
Yes. That is a reaction you have. In your head.
In reality, you stand there with a tense half smile on your face, nodding and wrestling with yourself. “God, get over it, Dresden. She was a kid, you were a kid. Yeah but…look at her, she looks like she’s still a big bitch. Oh my God, I don’t care that you have kids and work at an insurance company. What I would like to know is, why are you talking to me?! We were never friends!!!!”
I’d like to thank Al Gore and Mark Zuckerberg for making this dilemma ten thousand times worse. Because now, not only do I risk running into these assholes at the gas station; I also have to worry about them friend requesting me.
This horrendous girl who called me every single day the summer between 5th and 6th grade to tell me how fat I was keeps. Friend. Requesting. Me. I have denied her friend requests several times but we happen to have 3 mutual Facebook friends. Every time I comment on a mutual friend’s Facebook page (which isnt often), she takes this as an invitation to try again.
There are 3 paths I can take: the path of forgiving and forgetting, the path of silence or the path of “let me just lay this out for you, honey”.
The path of forgiving and forgetting means I accept her friend request and smile through as she “likes” things that I post. I turn it all over to The Big Guy and quietly move on with my life. Let’s face it—that just ain’t gonna happen. I’d like to be the picture of emotional health but I live in the real world part time and Dresden’s World the other part of the time.
The path of silence means I just keep ignoring her friend requests and chalk her persistence up to delusion. Or maybe she’ll stop. That would be cool.
The path of “let me just lay this out for you, honey” means I send her a carefully worded email about the fact that a) we were never friends and b) you were a stank ho. I’m paraphrasing, of course.
But more to the point, have you completely forgotten that entire 3 month period? At one point, my mother called her mother and they argued about it. Apparently, this child’s mother thought it was perfectly ok that her daughter was doing this. My hand to God, if I ever have a kid who bullies other kids, there will be hell to pay.
So I choose to send her a message about why I keep denying her friend requests. I’ll be gracious. For now.
“Dresden? Dresden Jones? OH MY GOD, we went to ELEMENTARY SCHOOL together! How ARE you?”
If you’re anything like me, you will, at first, have no earthly idea who this person is. Then slowly, the recognition will start to wash over you. And while this person is chattering on and on about her job, her kids and “Hey, do you still talk to what’s-her-face,” you’ll be having a swell of dark, terrible memories about the girl who pantsed you in front of the whole lunch room in 5th grade.
Of course, you have your super fantastic fantasy reaction:
“Hey. Allison. Yeah, I’m just gonna stop you there and go ahead and remind you that you’re the stank ho who ruined my life when I was 11 years old. You may be wondering, how can she remember something that happened so long ago? Well, Allison, I’ll tell ya; because just like every other fucking kid in the world, I walked into the cafeteria with the hope that I could get my goddamned pizza burger with a side of French fries and sit my fat ass down with the 3 friends I had, have a lovely fucking time and go back to my business. But no. You decided that it would be hilarious to expose my pink floral panties to the entire 5th and 6th grade classes. And why did you do this? Because you were—and likely still are—an awful fucking person. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to purchase some goddamned arugula and pablano peppers in peace and not have to take a fucking trip down memory lane with your dumb ass. Also, I hope that you have girl babies and I hope they have terrible acne and get harassed by a little bitch named Allison.”
Yes. That is a reaction you have. In your head.
In reality, you stand there with a tense half smile on your face, nodding and wrestling with yourself. “God, get over it, Dresden. She was a kid, you were a kid. Yeah but…look at her, she looks like she’s still a big bitch. Oh my God, I don’t care that you have kids and work at an insurance company. What I would like to know is, why are you talking to me?! We were never friends!!!!”
I’d like to thank Al Gore and Mark Zuckerberg for making this dilemma ten thousand times worse. Because now, not only do I risk running into these assholes at the gas station; I also have to worry about them friend requesting me.
This horrendous girl who called me every single day the summer between 5th and 6th grade to tell me how fat I was keeps. Friend. Requesting. Me. I have denied her friend requests several times but we happen to have 3 mutual Facebook friends. Every time I comment on a mutual friend’s Facebook page (which isnt often), she takes this as an invitation to try again.
There are 3 paths I can take: the path of forgiving and forgetting, the path of silence or the path of “let me just lay this out for you, honey”.
The path of forgiving and forgetting means I accept her friend request and smile through as she “likes” things that I post. I turn it all over to The Big Guy and quietly move on with my life. Let’s face it—that just ain’t gonna happen. I’d like to be the picture of emotional health but I live in the real world part time and Dresden’s World the other part of the time.
The path of silence means I just keep ignoring her friend requests and chalk her persistence up to delusion. Or maybe she’ll stop. That would be cool.
The path of “let me just lay this out for you, honey” means I send her a carefully worded email about the fact that a) we were never friends and b) you were a stank ho. I’m paraphrasing, of course.
But more to the point, have you completely forgotten that entire 3 month period? At one point, my mother called her mother and they argued about it. Apparently, this child’s mother thought it was perfectly ok that her daughter was doing this. My hand to God, if I ever have a kid who bullies other kids, there will be hell to pay.
So I choose to send her a message about why I keep denying her friend requests. I’ll be gracious. For now.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
When the zombie apocalypse happens, I hope I’m on your street.
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.
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.
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.
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