So today's looooong overdue post is brought to you by the letters T, M and I.
Into everyone's life a little information must fall. When you are a later teen/early twenties the information sharing is about who you're currently sleeping with and how he/she measures up to expectation and past lovers. This can be a bit creepy because if you're like me, a visual learner, you get pictures flashing through your mind with people you know having sex. This can also be a turn on, if that type of thing turns your crank.
Once you hit your reproductive years, (the ones where you WANT to get knocked up, not the ones were you bargain with God that if you're not you'll do whatever he/she desires), the sharing of birthing babies enters the scene. This can also be gross if you have a friend who's particularly graphic in their description, had a traumatic or long labour/birth, or if you don't want to think about your bff's vag or perineum in any detail.
Then you move onto parenthood where nothing is sacred. Poop, pee, puke, infected circumcision sites, scrapes, broken bones, explaining the birds and the bees, getting caught in the act, it's a free for all. Usually you can distance yourself enough that it's not too skeevy, or commiserate because you have gone through almost the same experience.
Then there's the informer. You know, the one person (usually not a friend, but a neighbour or co-worker), who continuously over shares personal information.
I have several such people in my life, but one continues to outdo themselves. Usually I just shake my head like a wet dog, sigh and then look to my compatriot who also shakes her head and gives up.
Today, however, a line has been crossed.
When you are experiencing a medical issue, you should probably let people around you know so that if something were to happen to you, they wouldn't be caught to off guard. Epilepsy, hemophilia, spontaneous combustion, those are all appropriate information to share with your workplace. If you've started a new drug that could cause side effects that might warrant a trip to the hospital, also points to share.
Telling me that you've got a doctor's appointment because every time you shit, your asshole bleeds, none of my business. Seriously!!! All you need to say is "Hey, I've got a doctor's appointment today and __________ is going to switch shifts with me." Done. Settled. Finito.
I don't care that you're bleeding out of your hoop unless it's going to cause me hours of paperwork or a WSIB claim form. There's no box to tick for anal bleeding on a WSIB form, I looked. I don't even know what category it would fall under, other than injury not done at work.
Now I've got a mental image in my head of her bleeding every time she craps. Did I need this? Oh no I did not. Why she would feel the need to share something so intimately personal when it had no bearing on anything at all boggles my mind. I wouldn't have said no or questioned the timing of the appointment. If the work is being covered and there will be no disruption in the day, I DON'T CARE!!!! STOP TELLING ME THIS TYPE OF PERSONAL STUFF!
It's not making me a better person, seriously. I'm not keen on this individual anyways (not that she'd ever pick up on this fact since she's too dense to pick up on the interpersonal clues and snide comments that slip out occasionally).
Now of course the evil Mel has taken over and I'm (independently) coming up with reasons this might be happening, none of them nice nor likely.
Reason one: She's crazy (okay, this one is likely).
Reason two: Trying anal sex for the first time in your mid-forties is just a bad idea. Your butt will be super tight and dry due to age and so of course any inroads are going to cause bleeding and discomfort. This one has visuals to go along with it which make me nauseous and want to lie down in the dark.
Reason three: Stop sticking things up your ass!
Reason four: Even her tapeworm has had enough and wants out.
Reason five: Fiber, baby Fiber!
People, think about how much information is being shared when you speak. Stop giving too much when the minimum is adequate. Don't elaborate, embellish or fish for sympathy. Just say it in the simplest terms possible.
Thanks for not sharing,
Mel
Of course I realize the irony of this posting is, in fact, TMI, but if you didn't have the catalyst story to accompany my reasoning behind my position of TMI, then the full scope of my frustration and disgust would be poorly explained.
That said, I promise not to over-share in the future.
Through countless conversations with a wide variety of people, I have come to the very scientific conclusion that 95% of the world's divorces are caused by one of two things, and they aren't what you think.
During the course of any relationship where you are living together, there are ups and downs. He's a hoarder, you're a pitcher. You fold the laundry as soon as it comes out of the dryer, he wears it out of the laundry basket. Children get sick, parents come for unexpected extended visits, one of you has an office flirtation, the cat pukes all over the couch right before your real estate agent brings in potential buyers, you know: Life happens.
You weather these storms together, working through them, coming out stronger on the other side. Maybe you need some counseling to move past some of the harder things, but in the end you are more connected as a couple, stronger in your love and confident that having come through the fire, nothing can break the iron bond you've forged.
Then, shaking your relationship to it's cornerstone comes issue one: The Dishwasher.
In my conversing with fellow humans (women AND men), this can put a greater strain on a relationship than anything else. In fact, I'm fairly certain that it accounts for more divorce filings than people think, but there's no box to check on the papers and people are too embarrassed to say that's why they're throwing 25 years of marriage out the window.
I'm going to point the finger at the men on this one, but am in no way unaware that there are women who fit this mold too.
Most men can Tetris the entire first floor of your home into the 5X3 space in the back of a small SUV, but these same men can't get more than five plates, a spoon and three glasses into a regular sized dishwasher.
"Honey, the dishwasher is full." That's not possible, it's breakfast time and it was emptied this morning. Opening the washer you find that there are three cereal bowls flat on the top rack and two small juice glasses. The cutting board an oatmeal pot and four spoons fill the bottom rack.
There's no more room in the dishwasher.
Now not to brag, but I can get dishes from an entire Thanksgiving dinner for eight into my dishwasher, serving platters included (but minus pots). And our dishwasher isn't full sized, almost, but not quite.
I guess these people should take into consideration that the opposite would be worse. Filling the washer with so many dishes that the water can't circulate and nothing actually gets clean. Nothing sucks more than pulling out dish after dirty dish that now needs to be hand-washed to get the baked on stuff off.
I can see how this would be a frustrating situation and could cause some disharmony in a relationship.
(As an aside, the thing that makes me mental is people who wash their dishes first, and then put them in the dishwasher. Now rinsing off rice and small food particles is fine, but as soon as you add either soap, a cloth or a scrubby, you're an idiot.).
Now the second biggest cause of discord is......The Tupperware Cupboard.
Added simply for nostalgia.
We had these exact ones and yes
they are actually that ugly in real life.
NOT my cupboard at home, but close!
This is usually a large cupboard with high shelves that are most likely impossibly designed for any useful storage, so it becomes the catch all and plastic container corral (I don't want to be prejudice towards the copyrighted originators, but everyone calls the damn stuff by the generic identifier).
In my personal cupboard of insanity, I try very hard to keep it tidy, but I swear to God the damn stuff jumps around by itself once the door closes.
I stack all my same size, same shape, same brand (because you're fucked if you try to mix Ziploc and no name tops and bottoms together). All the round ones together, nestled, then the lids on top. Same for square, rectangle, diamond, trapezoid etc. This way (in theory), when you grab a medium round, the lid should be stacked on top and they go off in happy leftover saving contentment.
So where's the problem you ask? Well, once you've used them and washed them, they require CONSTANT organizing in order to remain in any type of visual continuity.
How many times have you just thrown in a couple of pieces and thought, "I'll put them back properly later?" Then you go to open the cupboard and a tsunami of mis-matched, non-biodegradable plastic containers.....where none of the lids match....pins you to the floor.
Help, I'm under here somewhere.
Oh wait, there's the lid I was looking for!
This cupboard is a constant battleground, both literally and figuratively in my house. Literally because it makes my S.O. MENTAL! He hates it, even when it's all neat and tidy I know he hates it. I do too but I'm not sure what people did prior to 1946 with their leftovers. Actually, upon reflection, I guess during the "war years" there weren't leftovers. There wasn't even butter as everything was rationed.
I wonder if Crown Royal qualified
as a "rye product"?
And this time I actually have, for almost a month. Pretty impressive huh? Go ahead, bask in my awesomeness for a moment.....okay, stop. You're not leaving enough awesomeness for me.
So there you have it. The two secret reasons that couples actually break up: Tupperware Tsunami's and Dishwasher Dishabille.
Mel
And for no reason, here's a clip of the Honey Badger:
Whatever happened to music? Yes this is another lament on the current state of music.
Now my music history is wide to say the least. Growing up our home played the following music:
Scottish Bagpipes (I wish I was kidding)
Show tunes
Barbra Streisand (You don't bring me flowers...)
Roger Whittaker (I'm gonna leave old Durham town)
and on the radio CFRB back in their hey day of Anne Murray (physical shudder) and rousing choruses of Oh-Bla-Dee courtesy of the Beatles.
Thank God for my cousin who is nine years older than me! She introduced me to The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Queen (play the Coffee Crisp commercial song again!), Men at Work, Platinum Blonde and various others.
When I was in Grade 7, Madonna stormed the air waves (meh) as did Michael Jackson (No thank you. Didn't like him then, don't like him now--"musical genius" or not).
High school brought me to Duran Duran (LOVE them!), Depeche Mode (seen them four times in concert, they rock), Morrissey (that charming man, love him), The Cure, and various other Brit Pop/Alternative bands.
As I grew even older, I changed radio stations from CFTR 640, to The Hog, to CFNY 102.1 The Edge. Here I stayed for many years. I enjoyed the alternative music scene. It was edgey, it wasn't fluffy, it was machine sounding, it was hard without being metal band-long hair flipping-tight jean wearing hard (Sebastian Bach I'm lookin' at you).
It was the Nirvana/Pearl Jam/Oasis/Smashing Pumpkins years. It was angst, and anger, and passion. My favourite band of all time is Nine Inch Nails. Trent Reznor (Academy Award Winner btw), is a genius of mixing various sounds and beats together to create layer upon layer of music you can feel the beat of in your soul. Yes his videos were mild disturbing, his lyrics controversial, and his music loud. But there's something about it, maybe it's almost primal. Anyways, my Mother never complained about it when it came blasting through the floors at 11 on the speakers.
So you see where my musical tastes are coming from. Now in the past say, 10 years, I noticed that the "alternative" music offerings just weren't my cup of tea. They all started to sound the same, and as my daily music background changed to nursery rhymes and Elmo songs, I started to be out of touch with the new music scene.
When I went back to work full time between the OC and YC, I was working retail management with team of young people (comparatively :) ) and started listening to The Edge again. Most of the music on there did nothing for me, but a few bands did stand out Billy Talent and The White Stripes particularly. Very Green Day and the music and singers voice was raw sounding. So maybe alternative was making a come back. Alas, no.
So after we moved from Met-roc-ity to Smallville, the only radio stations which seem to come in with any clarity are the local Top 40/Pop station, the County music station, and the Christian station. You can safely assume which one I chose.
Although I changed my main music listening to fluff about wanting a piece of Britney and being informed that Backstreet's back alright (I wasn't aware they'd left), I still enjoyed listening to my (now retro) alternative music when the opportunity arose.
About two years ago I realized that I was actually enjoying the happy, upbeat poppiness that is today's music. I liked not being dark and angry, and the words to what was on the radio were relatively upbeat and meaningless. I knew the songs, the singers and could still happily vacillate between music genres as the mood struck me.
Then it began. Rhianna and SOS. Okay, now she's not the first musician to use a track/beat/song and mold it for her own chart topping/itunes selling purposes. The Beastie Boys did this "sampling" with great success, adding a clip here and there amongst their own cool beats and catchy lyrics.
Vanilla Ice was the first culprit that I recall doing this with his Ice, Ice Baby ditty. Still one of the most annoying songs that you just can't turn off if you catch it on the radio. It'll be stuck in your head for the entire day so just let it play, do your bad running man imitation and with a final Word to Your Mother, it'll be done in 4 minutes. Of course, one should be careful when stealing from Queen and the omnipotent Freddie Mercury.
My biggest beef isn't that people use other musician's music or songs (ever listen too Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, The Alphabet Song and Baa Baa Black Sheep? You don't hear Mozart bitching or asking for royalties), but I do have issue with remaking a song and hoping that between a familiar tune and some Auto-Tuning software, it'll catapult you into the charts, hopefully within the top 5.
My current biggest peeves are these singers:
Karl Wolf. With his bad George Michael scruff, hat that's too big for his head (worn to the side of course), he's not only "remixed" Africa by Toto, he's done Glory of Love by Richard Marx (retitled Ghetto Love). Mr. Wolf (if that's your real name), having an equally unknown rapper repeatedly chant "Ghetto Love, Ghetto Love, Ghetto Love" does not make this a good song, nor a new song. You obviously have no talent and should go back to the ghetto from which you sprung. You are the weakest link, goodbye!
DJ Sammy et al, "Heaven". Yes I can't believe that I'm defending Bryan Adams, it is a sign of the Apocalypse and you should be getting your affairs in order. In the Summer of '69 I wasn't even born yet so I can't relate to your twaddle about a boy band that failed miserably.
It took me weeks to figure out why I knew this song, why it seemed to resonate deep in the inner memory of my brain. I finally had to sit down, slow down the music in my head and ping! Ah, video with tv's and Bryan Adams' pitted visage, raspily crooning about how young he is.
I actually like the newer version mostly because it's upbeat and doesn't have Mr. Adams in it.
Heart was one of the biggest rock girl bands of the 80's. Those girls could belt out a tune like few others. Ann and Nancy have a set of pipes each that are immediately distinguishable for any true 80's music lover. Oooooh barracuda is now running through your brain, don't lie, I know it's the first song you thought of.
So back in 2007 Celine Dion (gag) apparently did a cover. This is disturbing to me, mostly because Celine Dion is revolting and a viscous audio assault who should be stopped at all costs. I realize that I've just alienated the gay men following my blog, but seeing as there's only three of you actually reading me and none of you are gay men (or if you are, awesome hiding the fact), I don't give a shit.
Now some young upstart named Alyssa Reid has taken the core music and chorus, added a few words of her own and (another) unknown rap "singer" and is singing the songs of my youth. The video for this looks like it was shot in a high school. Sad. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uep94GnfiOI
Now someone whom you would not have thought to enter into the ring of song theft, recently "made" a "new" song out of two very recognizable tunes. AAAhooooo Sweet Home werewolves of London. Now, I love this song, it's got a catchy beat, the lyrics aren't bad and it makes me want to roll down the car windows, sing at the top of my lungs and start a road trip. So I guess if he's doing it, it's alright. Of course, his video is full of girl-on-girl action, a mast-humping bikini clad trollop oh and Kid himself in all his scrawny, dirty 'stachedness.
Now before you get up on your soapbox and wax poetic about the great re-recordings, stow it. I have a number of songs that have been covered by other artists. In my opinion, when you cover a song you do so as a sort of tribute to the original artist, not to make a name for yourself on the Top 40 with Ryan Seacrest.
Here's a few of my absolute faves:
Topping the list is NIN's cover of Get Down Make Love, by Queen. Trent Reznor, Freddie Mercury, raw beat, primal sexual humping commence.
The Lemonheads did a version of Mrs. Robinson that just makes me feel happy. If I recall my Ongoing History of New Music I believe they did it originally as a sound check and when it got out, they recorded it as a B-side (remember those? yer old!). Anyhoo, it's a fun little song.
Echo & the Bunnymen, People Are Strange. Now Jim Morrison should also be sacrosanct much like Freddie Mercury, but if you can make it work and add an eerie goth/vampire twist to it, I'm in.
Johnny Cash, Hurt. The Man in Black had a distinct voice, a deep baritone that resonated within your ribcage. Whether it was Ring of Fire (yes, I laugh at the title too), A Boy Named Sue (how do you do?) or I Walk the Line, you knew when Johnny was singing.
His rendition of Trent Reznor's Hurt song, is heart-breaking. His voice is sad, it causes the loneliness of the song to penetrate within you and the sepia tones in the video, along with clips of Johnny in the past, make you feel the pain he still feels for June Carter's passing. This video is a must see and hear.
Paul Anka, Rock Swings album. This album is awesome. I heard the Nirvana cover on the Ongoing History of New Music (Alan Cross is phenomenal) and was singing along before I realized who it was and what they were actually singing. He covers Oasis, Bon Jovi, Soundgarden, Billy Idol and The Cure, just to name a few. It's done in a big band swing style and you'll be singing along and laughing when you realize what song he's actually singing. I have this on disc if you're looking to borrow, otherwise iTunes purchase it, it's worth it. I enjoy playing it during dinner parties and watching the guests faces when they realize what's playing.
The Cult, Wild Flower. Hard rock, Ian Astbury, Long Black Hair. 'Nuf Said. Listen and rock out. Bang your head, it's mandatory with this song. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1yLVufAfby0
Lenny Kravitz, American Woman. What was missing from the original Guess Who's version was a sexy "Huh" from a fit, pouty, tattooed man, a wicked guitar riff and a female drummer. Really now, how could Burton Cummings and Randy Bachman compete? Oh that's right, they can't.
Now Glee is on a level of it's own. They remix the songs and I'm okay with that. In fact, there are a number of songs I like better with the remixing. So I don't count them as cover artists per se, but acknowledge the creativity and ingeniousness of them doing so.
Another awesome album of covers is Punk Goes Pop. Apparently, in my Google searching, there's a whole listing of Punk Goes Albums that I will now need to selectively download. I highly recommend the Baby One More Time by Nicotine cover. It makes me laugh.
So there you go, apparently there's no new music any more. We've reached the pinnacle of our collective musical talents as a species and must now rely on the tragic reworkings of past musicians brilliance to make up for this fact.
Let me know what your favourite cover song is, or better yet, which song you feel should be covered and by whom. Maybe we can start a petition.
So let's face it, although we live in an "enlightened" society, prejudice is still rampant. It's not socially acceptable, it's not nice, but it's out there.
We seem to have all understood that it's not nice to comment, judge or slander someone on their race, colour, sex, sexual orientation etc. but there is one hold out it seems that is still socially acceptable: weight.
Now I too, tend to make disparaging remarks on random people's size/shape/girth, but it's never personal, not that that makes it okay. I have a number of people in my life whom are "personal size" challenged, and I love them just the way they are. I don't berate them for eating something unhealthy (unless they've given me permission to in order to help keep them on track for diets etc.), I politely suggest that something needs to be in a larger size for proper fitting (when my opinion is asked), and I don't make comparisons between them, myself or any other persons because really, who actually looks like Hollywood people?
So that said, the rest of y'all should shut the fuck up and leave the skinny girls alone! Yes I said it. People pick on the skinny girls all the time and apparently that's okay. If there's a group of women chin-wagging (read: bitching) and you walk into the room, like hungry, bloody-beaked vultures they turn on you.
"It must be nice to have legs that go on forever!"
"Look at what she's eating, I wish I could do that and still look like you."
"Must be nice to not have to worry about your weight." On and on it goes.
Are you fucking kidding me?!?
Let me set a few things straight ladies.
Let's do that whole travel back in time thing:
Picture the youth, almost the tallest in her classroom grades 4-8. Not only is she completely uncoordinated (read: not athletic), she's also flat as a board. I don't just mean no boobs, I mean from her shoulders to her ankles there are no indentations. No hips, no waist, nothing but knobbly knees, a showing rib cage and two arms and legs that would look healthy on a starving African child. If you laid me down on a piece of paper you could use me like a ruler.
Speed up slightly to high school. Now I'm not only tall and skinny, I'm in a new pond of very well endowed fish. So now's there's a new set of social cues that I've got to figure out (I'm still working on them). Hair, make up, hugging friends you'd seen only a period before. Oh yeah, and low cut shirts (Madonna was big back then), tight skirts (so were Metal sluts), and I still am skinny, no bewbs, still haven't got my first period (I know, I know, looking back it was a blessing but in the midst of girls who are obviously having sex [you could tell since they were pregnant] having your period was pretty important for fitting in) and completely uncomfortable in my own skin.
Grade 10 arrives, as does the social pressure to remain skinny. So I stop eating, pretty much. For the entire year of Grade 9 I consumed a Snickers bar and a can of Coke for breakfast purchased from the coffee truck outside the school. Just to give you an idea of my eating choices =)
So I eat an apple and a bagel each day. And that's it. Why? Good question. I always wore clothing that was too big for me to hide my body so it wasn't like I was prancing around in all my long-legged coltishness flaunting my flat tummy (looking back I certainly would have). So began my year with anorexia. I was hungry. All the time. It sucked.
Towards the end of Grade 10 I decided I had enough of being hungry and went back to my stellar eating habits of fries with gravy, Jamaican patties from the cafe and a Mars bar and a coke for breakfast every day. Did I gain weight? Nope, but I had a new appreciation for the hungry girls at school.
In my late teens I was approached in a mall to be a model. I have since learned that those people are like telemarketers and will say this to any girl who's tall and skinny. By now my bewbs have come in (yay), I've gotten laid (bigger yay) and I'm over hiding my body under layers of clothes that are too big for me. I've moved onto the inappropriate clothing that Mother's of teens have hated for decades, but (as seems to be the case for me) later than others.
So I convince my parents that this is career for me, we meet with the agency people who happily take my Mother's money and they snap some pics of me. The pics were gorgeous (this was before photoshop, hell it was before digital, so they did a good job) and the agency proudly told me that they would love to represent me.......after I lost 20 pounds. FULL STOP. Say WHAT?!? At 5 feet 9 inches and 125 pounds unless I lost a leg there was no where for me to loose 20 pounds. I'd also played the anorexia game and there was no way I was joining the B&P crew (Binge and Purge. I HATE to vomit and will avoid it at all costs, unless tequila is involved at which point all bets are off). So I told them to stuff it and walked away, $1000 poorer but with my eyes opened a bit more.
So I was pretty but not skinny enough, and skinny is what you wanted to be. Whatever. I was 19, had the metabolism of a marathon runner. I could eat anything I wanted and it didn't matter, I was skinny. Cool.
So for some time after entering the workforce I endured the comments about my height, weight, length of legs etc. I'd always be self-depreciating and say something derogatory to myself to brush aside the comment/compliment. It's just my body type, I guess I lucked out.
When I got pregnant with the OC, my body went along with it. Okay, so now we eat for two, whatev. I craved Mick Chickens (no copyright infringement here) with extra mayo....daily. In fact, after the second month I ate one...daily. Could be 11am in the morning, could be right before bed at 10:30pm, didn't matter when I just had to have it. So I gain a whopping total of........25 pounds......my entire pregnancy.....don't hate me, I tried, really I did. This was my chance to gorge myself and no one would stop me. I was eating for two, I had cravings, etc. etc. etc. I also had an awesome metabolism. From behind you couldn't tell I was pregnant, and then I'd turn around and there was this little ball where my belly should be. I was so proud of being pregnant and wanted this big baby bump and people around me to turn and think "There goes a woman with child! She's huge, you could see that thing from space!". But no, not to be.
So I finally hit the wall a couple of years ago when a family member who has a weight problem and would comment consistently about my size, pushed me to the edge.
"Must be nice to eat whatever you want and stay skinny."
"You know what __________? The thing is, skinny girls are ALWAYS hungry, but we've just learned to keep our mouths shut so we don't get fat." That shut her up.
Seriously, I do eat what I want, usually when I want it but I also know that I'll have to do some type of exercise to work it off, that or not eat as much a few days later to balance out the fact I've just eaten an entire side of ham and poutine and chocolate cake and, and, and.
My job keeps me busy so there are days where after being up since 5:30am, (still not a breakfast eater either) if there's a birthday at work and there's cake at 11am, that's completely respectable to eat "for breakfast". There are also a lot of days where I don't eat until 12 or even later.
There are downsides to this body type (no really).
Being tall means that finding pants that fit properly is hard. They're usually not long enough in the leg and/or to get them to be so, you have to buy them in a bigger size so they don't fit right in the bum/waist.
Long arms mean that finding jackets, coats and shirts that fit across the back and down to the wrist is difficult. Making sure that they fit your torso can be a challenge too. No one wants to see you flashing your waist/muffin top.
When you are tall you usually have big feet so finding shoes that don't look like scuba flippers is a challenge (I swear sometimes I feel like a drag queen trying to find shoes that fit and look respectable).
Being tall means that you don't blend in well with the crowd. I usually am at least a head taller than many of the people around me so I feel like a giant half the time (actually when I worked with a "little person" it was worse). Our posture tends to be more hunched as we have spent years trying to get out of the back row of pictures so we round our shoulders (which causes back problems).
Being tall means that you get noticed whether you want to be or not. You get asked to reach things and then have rude comments made about the fact you don't need a chair/stool/ladder to get them. If you don't want my help then don't ask. You can't reach it and are too lazy to get a chair to do so, so you ask me and then insult me. Bite me instead, hey, how about that?
You get asked to slow down because your stride is too long, or you shorten your stride to accommodate people with no leg range and end up tripping yourself and looking like a dork. Hey, how about this Tiny Tim, run a little. Then you can keep up and loose some lbs too.
Yes I'm tall, deal with it.
Yes I'm thin, can eat what I want to and not worry that it'll send me into a downward spiral of eat/regret/gain/repeat. Although my metabolism is slowing down as I reach 40 and I have to watch a bit more and exercise a bit more, so be it. Balance is the key. So is not having gravy on everything. Just sayin.
Guess what, you could be thin too if you exercised and shut your mouth.
In fact shutting your mouth would solve a number of problems.
So I'll stop making remarks about people who are fat, if you stop picking on the thin girls. Deal?
In layman's terms, to mock mercilessly with the intent of making others laugh.
In my past, I would make up parody's of songs to describe co-workers (one summer I redid all the Grease songs). I would also do up annual invitations to a girls weekend and Christmas party. These have always been well received and I seem to have a bit of a talent for it. I also have the uncanny talent to just come up with stuff off the cuff.
So, enough about my amazing talent! The whole reason that I've started today's post is to pay tribute for some of my favourite parodies.
I almost ranted about singers who talk not sing, which is a growing musical trend. Think Ke$ha, Britney, Rhiana, Chris Brown, Usher they all speak their lyrics with a sort of sing-song type of cadence that apparently is considered singing.
I'm a huge Star Wars geek and this was sent to me by a friend (who also likes to send me web links to stuff that completely distract me from a productive working day).
Now I realize that there are lots of others out there. Family Guy is always doing something hilarious with songs. The Simpsons began that years ago. My favourite Simpson's one, the one that literally made me fall of the couch was the one where Mr. Burns sings "See My Vest". I was working for the Dis ney company back then and to this day I remember the first three verses. Unfortunately Fox doesn't like people to share their video clips so you'll just have to be satisfied with the audio. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qsFHEK_o9U8
I could keep going, but I think you've got the idea.
Let me know what your favourite parody is. Link it if you can and I'll check it out!
I also hold no responsibility for any productive time lost while you surf any of the main sites my links may take you too (esp. collegehumour).
What the hell's with music these days?!? (you may now picture me with thin hair, false teeth and a cane).
Back in the day (read: 80's & 90's), you knew who was singing a song because the band/singer would usually have a distinct sound (think Rick Astley, really could you confuse him with Howard Jones?, No. Pearl Jam and Nirvana sounded distinctly different too, although both were grunge).
Even if the bands were similar in sound/genre you could tell one from the other (New Order/Depeche Mode/Erasure).
Nowadays in order to make sure your audience knows it's you singing, you apparently have to state your name (at some point) during the song for identification purposes.
Examples:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=elueA2rofoo Britney Spears Gimme More. Apparently if she didn't inform me that "It's Britney, bitch", then I wouldn't be able to pick out her over processed voice out of the hundreds of other singers who speak more than sing. Thanks Brit!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DUT5rEU6pqM Shakira's Hips Don't Lie. This was the first song that I recall doing the whole naming who it is. Since I don't listen to her music I did need the prompt to know who it was. But really Wyclef, did you have to say "Shakira" 10 times in 3:39? That's once every 34 seconds!
Usher, you rock my socks. However, you've reached the level of fame where you don't have to introduce yourself to us. Case in point: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-dvTjK_07c and Pitbull needs his 10 seconds too.
Enrique gets two entries due to this one too (and the fact that I think he's kinda hot. Shut up, it's my blog): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UecPqm2Dbes and Ludacris gets double whammied with this ditty: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y_SI2EDM6Lo. Really makes you wonder if anyone has their own career, or if the music industry has become so incestuous no one just works on their own music anymore.
David Guetta has pimped himself out to just about everyone these days.
Flo Rida http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SgM3r8xKfGE
Nicki Minaj
LMFAO (with Fergie too)
Akon http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N9hazmsUxrM
Rhianna
Just to name a few.
Ever notice how much he looks like Ken Paves of Jessica Simpson's hair fame? Strange. And Owen "penis nose" Wilson.
I don't recall the Beatles introducing themselves. Or Duran Duran, Nine Inch Nails, U2, Elvis, even Michael Jackson didn't need to introduce himself (and between his face and falsetto he could have been mistaken for any number of his siblings).
The Stones did, but at lease they tried to make a game out of it.
Seems to be an interesting time for collaborative music. Hopefully someone with a distinct enough sound/voice will come along who needs no introduction. In the mean time, it makes it easier to download songs from iTunes when you know who the artist it.
Are there any other four words in the English language, when strung together, that can make you internally cringe as much? Usually they are the preceding line to a request that one would mind doing (i.e. giving your cat a pill, assisting with a pre-op enema, carrying something heavy, helping a friend move).
So last week wasn't a banner week for me. Work is making me exorcist-crazy (for confidentiality reasons can't get into it but needless to say my glass was completely empty, no half-way about it!), and a fellow school parent was making ridiculous requests for their allergic child the day before our bbq (seriously, that post would have gotten me lynched but I've come off the ledge since then). But just when I was wondering if I'd have to write the music post along comes my MIL (mother-in law for those who aren't in the know).
Now my history with this woman isn't sterling. As much of a bitch and sarcastic as I can be, she's got crazy all wrapped up. This is nothing new and we deal with it as best we can, although it almost came to a crescendo recently, we've pushed past that.
Just to give you some back story so today's post makes some sense, five years ago my FIL (do the math), celebrated his 60th birthday. He's a wonderful man who's quiet soul speaks volumes, especially considering the circus he's lived with for 43 years. The IL's have a huge party, everyone's invited. If you met them in the grocery store, they'd invite you.
Day of big party arrives and MIL has decided that the SIL and I will be the servers/food preps/security/bar tenders/clean up crew, while she visits all her friends and family (much to SIL's and my surprise). So we hit the ground running, organizing food for 80, appropriate placement of buffet, clean up etc. As the FIL is giving his speech, he thanks everyone for coming and celebrating, MIL for having party, etc, etc,. He's a man of few words so the speech is short but heartfelt.
After everyone has left and he's opening his gifts, MIL LOOSES HER FUCKING MIND! I mean, completely postal. Up one side of us all and down the other. We're ungrateful, unhelpful, she wasn't thanked for her part in organizing this party, why does she bother blah, blah, blah. You get the picture.
Now there are six grown adults and two small children completely frozen in the living room as she rants and shouts, bangs around and finally leaves in a huff. "What the fuck was that about?" questions one brave soul. "Obviously Mother doesn't feel that she was the centre of attention nor thanked enough for her effort today and felt we all should know that." answers another.
Seriously?!? The SIL and I did all the hostess duties, she visited and ate and sat back and took all the credit! Then she screams at her (long suffering) husband for not acknowledging her (enough) and ruins his birthday! You actually see him shrinking. White-hot anger floods me but, coward that I am, I say nothing in the face of this storm. Vowing never to allow her to do that again to him (or anyone else), I promise myself to stand up the next time that happens (and no doubt it will at some point).
Fast forward to Sunday.
FIL has decided he wants a 65th birthday celebration. (Did I mention that his b-day is July 1st?). So invitations were sent, potluck, July 2nd (yes the Saturday of the long weekend). Sigh, okay it's family, we're going. No problem. Figuring that we could bring dessert (which I'm quite good at ) I offer. "Oh, your hubby said he'd do a turkey." is MIL's reply.
WTF?!? Not sure when this is getting done. Friday our city always has a big day down at the beach for July 1st complete with fireworks. We're usually down there the whole day, back for dinner, and down again for fireworks. Party is Saturday at 2. When are we cooking a turkey? I pose this question to hubby, who informs me that he'll take care of it (which he will, he does a better turkey than I do but you can't exactly leave the oven on for four hours and leave). (Okay, I have issues leaving the room with the crockpot on, fuck off and stop laughing at me. I have a healthy fear of death by fire).
Then, as we're hanging outside on Father's Day afternoon before dinner, I'm folding laundry and the MIL and hubby are chatting. I'm politely ignoring as I'm running in and out of the house and can't really participate in the conversation. "What time does the party start?" innocently asked hubby. I continue to fold laundry. "It starts at two, but if you don't mind, I was hoping you could come early to help." is the reply. "Sure", he says. I continue to fold laundry muttering curses and threats under my breath. I know this game, I've played before. I prefer euchre.
"What do you think Mel?" asks the MIL. Bite tongue, bite hard. "Well we come as a set so I guess I'll be there too." <---- actual reply.
I now realize that I've been conscripted, again, to run the show. The woman should have worked for the British Navy convincing young men to have a quick pint. Unfortunately I saw my silver piece too late.
So I'll put on appropriate clothing knowing that I'll be prepping/serving/cleaning and generally running the backstage portion of the show again, with no billing.
But this time there won't be a repeat performance of crazy train. I'll stand up for us all this time.
Oh, and I found out that the BIL and SIL can't come that weekend, lucky ducks, they'll miss all the excitement. Wonder if I can get a wicked case of chapeau tete between now and then?
Sniff, sniff, feeling sick, maybe I should stay home.......
I think I was about 13 when I first received the curse. No I don't mean my link with the moon was finally broken, I mean the curse of the Mommy.
"I hope you have twins JUST LIKE YOU!" said in a scathing, fit of rage from the mouth of my Mother. I'm sure that I did something to warrant it too. You see, when I was hitting that very exciting time of pre-teen/teenage hormone-induced insanity, my poor Mother (other than dealing with me), began menopause. Thus ensued numerous years of bickering, sarcasm, veiled threats, outright threats, vocal outbursts, tears and yelling matches. Poor woman, I'm not sure why she stayed, or didn't kill me in the dead of night and hide the body in a deep hole in the backyard.
I finally hit 18, got a boyfriend, got laid and become more human. Mom went on hormone replacement therapy and learned to ignore me and we all get along quite well for some time. She's even sad when I finally move out at 26 (shut up, I had it good).
Fast-forward to September 2000. I find out that all the copulating with my spouse has proved fruitful and I'm with child. Excitement galore. First grandchild on the way. There's a set of twins in my husbands family but I'm assured that neither my advanced age (29) nor his cousins arrival on earth have saddled me with more than one wee one. Of course, I've forgotten the curse but I think my Mother might have held out hope.
Baby arrives, healthy, beautiful and everyone's happy. As the OC (oldest child for those who didn't read my last post) grows, they show sure signs of being their parents child. In looks, temperament and all around personality. My Mother laughs behind her hand on a number of occasions.
Now let me stress, that I was not a bad child and back in the 70's (again with the shut up), there was a lot more freedom allotted to children with regards to "free roaming". I loved to read, play with friends, ride my bike etc. but I really fell down in the school side. Many things came easily to me so there wasn't much that I had to do to get by. (Those of you in the same boat see where this is headed I'm sure).
The phrases "applied herself" and "full potential" and "enough to get by" began to follow me around like dark shadows. Showing their evil grins in the deep of night when no one was around (okay, quarterly when the report cards came out). Some of you are now laughing outright. I can hear you.
Let's face it, unless you are a brown-nosed keener, no one puts effort into anything that they can succeed at with basic output unless they're really motivated. Example: English was easy for me and once I hit high school and really started to read some good stuff and report on it, little effort was needed to pass an English assignment. Math on the other hand required intervention from God above for comprehension, completion and passing marks. (My grade 10 accounting teacher Mr. Leask actually gave me a mark for my name on the final exam so that I got a 50 to pass the course.)
So OC begins school and is, naturally, brilliant like it's parents. Things come pretty easily and aside from struggling with handwriting (totally the Father's side of the tree), OC has done well in school. Not a genius but no dunce either. OC loves to read, watch movies and tv and procrastinate. Just like Mom.
So first the science test comes home. Not good. The OC had brought home their science notes but assured us that the knowledge about sedimentary rocks was solid and they had a firm grasp of the work. I figured this could turn into a learning experience and allowed the tv watching instead of studying to commence. Mentioning the test the night before, I was again assured it was all under control, complete with "I've got it Mum." Alrighty then.
Of course the science test comes home with a failing grade. OC is horrified and extremely upset having to inform me of the situation. "What have you learned?" I ask. "That I'm no good at science." "Wrong, you're very good at science, what's the real lesson here?" asks Mum calmly.
"That I need to study so that I can answer the test questions." "Right." (and here's when my Mother's voice came out of my horrified mouth) "You need to take your time. Instead of reading or watching tv, if you had studied for a few minutes each night you would have done much better. You also need to take your time, read the question carefully, write clearly and review your answer to make sure it's right." (you bet your ass I checked the mirror to see if some Freaky Friday moment happened and my Mother's face was looking back at me, but no, that was all Melissa).
So when we arrived home I told OC that they had to explain to Dad what had happened. All I said to him when we came in was "Don't react". As OC recounts the events and ramifications of the science-avoidance week, he comes back with exactly the same responses I did! I can't even tell you how much I love this man! Almost word for word he had the same answers, comments and final consequences if this happened again. I truly picked the perfect partner.
So, OC feels better, Dad feels good, Mum feels good and the voice retracts to the inner circles of my brain to wait and plot it's revenge.
The next week the math test comes home. It is not good. "R" apparently stands for "remedial", I figured "retarded". 14 out of 40 on fractions, my old nemesis (damn you Miss Card and grade 10). Fractions have decided to take their revenge on my sweet baby. Bastards.
I immediately feel the anger rise up in my breast. Didn't we just have this conversation 4 days ago? Was there homework or notes that OC should have been studying from? Was there less applying and more procrastinating going on? What the Fuck! This is not acceptable and, unexpected. I can understand a low math mark, I'm okay with that, but 35% on a test!?! (yes I figured out that percentage myself).
OC knows that their evenings of tv, computer and movies are over. We immediately go out and purchase a workbook which has the entire Canadian grade 4 math curriculum, and the grade 2 for the YC because misery loves company.
Again, so thankful for the husband who had the exact same response right down to the tv ban.
So tomorrow morning I have a meeting with the teacher to see if she's noticed a steady decline in the OC's math/science comprehension. Were they doing fine throughout the unit but shit the bed when it came to the test? Or did the OC struggle with the concept of fractions through the entire unit, classroom instruction included? How has the OC done since the last report card (upon which I asked for a meeting with the teacher to discuss and received no response. I didn't really have any concerns but wanted to see if she'd follow up. I'm still waiting. Nuff said about this years "educator".).
Yes I realize that there's only two weeks left and that everyone's pretty much mentally checked out, but if the OC is failing math somebody's gonna get hurt real bad. I mean, the failing tests didn't even require me to sign and return proving that the OC had 'fessed up to flunking them. When did that stop?
So, back to my "curse". Although I don't have twins (thank God), I appear to have a child who doesn't apply themself, looks for the easy out, would rather read than do school work, and isn't striving to fulfill their "full potential". I'll have to sit and take it from the teacher, much as my Mother did from the time I was 5 until I hit high school at 13 and I banned her from parent/teacher interviews.
That sound you hear, it's the maniacal laughter of my Mother, finally realizing the curse has taken affect and I'm getting my comeuppance. Well at least it took 6 years of school before we got here.
(aside, the other day the OC rolled their eyes at me while I was giving some sage advice that due to my long years on earth and experience. I suppose I'm really getting my own back now.)
I officially apologise to my Mother for all the crap that I put her through. I doubt that apology, even with the sacrifice of a small, baby harp seal, will get me out of the next 10 years of bullshit coming my way between the two children. Oh well, I guess that there's a Sainthood on the other side.
Either that or I'm changing my name to Job.
Mel
I'd also like to point out that this is a fairly long post, and although I could have taken the short cut and put in the least amount of effort to get my point and frustration across, but I didn't. I carefully worked out my topic, how I'd explain it, tied in my past and present and even had a pretty solid last paragraph (I even threw in something for my Squirrel_e_girl). I've come a long way baby.
Of course, I also typed this post at work where I should be doing something else and not fucking the dog, but really, baby steps people. I can't be expected to go against my internal grain completely. Can I?
Posting my first blog entry. Wow, that's pressure. So what to say. Well there's lots I guess, but why am I here? Aside from the cosmic reasons (which still elude me so don't continue reading if you think I've got something profound or enlightening to say), I guess I just like the idea of being able to blather on about things that amuse/upset/confuse/titillate me; and in a forum where no response is necessary and I can be my real inner evil, non-PC self.
Things happen day to day that I wish I could comment or vent on but when I talk out loud to myself I feel a little crazy train so this seemed like a good idea. I've a number of friends who write blogs, hilarious and amusing, and I've been considering it for quite sometime. The fact that I could write something inane that means nothing to anyone else or share something that will (hopefully) make someone laugh appeals to me on several levels.
I always wanted to be a stand-up comedian. I find so many things funny and always seem to go for the laugh whenever I can in conversation etc. This is not a real possibility as there's no way I could change certain details about people/situations and them not know I'm talking about them (if they were in the audience). So this is a perfect forum.
So I guess those are my reasons for blogging.
Why today finally? Well as I was standing in the bathroom drying my hair (I do a lot of deep thinking during that time. I think the white noise is conducive to deep thought), and decided that I don't have the self-discipline to write in a diary each day, but I'm on the computer constantly and blogging is just an online diary. And it makes it look like I'm working when really I'm romancing the dog.
Now the disclaimer: I am not PC, I swear like a sailor, I don't care if I hurt anyone's feelings (at least in this forum), so if you get offended, c'est la vie and you were warned. Also, if I'm just about to start my period or my co-workers are making me insane, that day's blog may seem a bit more...well just more.
So the title.
I start work at 6am which means I am up at 5:30am or earlier. Anyone who's spent any amount of time with me knows that daylight hours are not my prime time. So it is a challenge for me to be the PC/positive/happy/toeing the line person that I portray during business hours.
Last night was a mini grocery shop to get us through to the weekend. Just a few basics and a quick 20 minute race around the store so that I can get back home for hubby to go to his sports training. Seeing that the self-checkouts were all full (did I mention that I work in a "customer service" type business AND hate people. Not just individuals although there are a few of those, but the human race in general?), I deeked (<-- apparently not a work but you know what I mean), into the next shortest line, placed my groceries on the belt, moved forward to bag (because I'm helpful like that) and pay. The child at the till who will never raise above her current job as UPC scanner/food bagger, informed me as I (I!) packed my few things up that for the next time, this was the 8 items or less aisle.
I, of course, was appalled at myself for being one of "those" people and apologized sincerely for the oversight. I didn't mention to her that while she was lounging all day in her flannel jammie pants, yelling at her 3 kids under four that my tax dollars help support, I had put in a 10 hour day that consisted of several staff confrontations about things that were out of my control, that I hadn't slept well the night before, that I had 20 minutes to get groceries and was at the end of my personal rope.
"Just remember for next time."
PING!
If you've never heard someone snap before, that's the sounds that precedes the final straw, the end of the frayed knot, the last thing heard before someone goes completely postal.
But instead of releasing a spewing force of profanity filled vitriol all over this individual, I decided that now was the time to begin sharing my thoughts with the world. You lucky little hot dogs you.
Along the way I hope that you have a laugh or two, can commiserate on a few shared experiences, and maybe be inspired to share your life with me and the world too.
