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Monthly Archives: February 2013
I don’t know, you guys. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been sleeping very well lately, or perhaps this winter weather is driving me a bit stir crazy. But I’ve been in a really bad mood.
I mean, everything seems to be getting on my nerves lately. Last night while watching the Oscars, my phone actually committed suicide because it couldn’t take any more of the pure snark streaming out of my Twitter feed:
“I don’t know who’s more excited, Anne Hathaway or her nipples.”
“I want to give 90 percent of the women in the audience a Twinkie.”
“So nice to know that with all these talented women in one place, untalented people can immediately put them in their place by hating their dress.”
“Just once I want the answer to the question “Who are you wearing?” to be “Your mom.”
“The Oscars are so long I can’t remember what it’s like to not be watching the Oscars.”
See what I mean?
It’s bad, people.
But the good news is that I’ve decided to do something productive with all this negative energy by creating a list of all the stupid (and mostly made up) words that I think need to die a very painful death and then be buried deep in the earth where no one can ever use them again.
First and foremost on that list: “cray-cray”
“adorbs”- Stop being lazy and just say the whole damn word. Also, for those of you that still use “adorkable” to describe cute, dorky girls, that was funny once, ONCE, and that one time it was funny was the very first time someone used it.
“sexting” -This one I hate not so much as a word but at what it represents. As a writer I can never really turn off my internal editor and so there is nothing quite like a typo to turn me off.
“amazeballs”- This is the acid-washed jeans of words. Outdated and never, ever due for a comeback.
“artisanal”- Stop using this word to make your stupid, homemade candles and soaps sound less pathetic.
“vajayjay”-Until we start referring to the penis as “panaynay,” this word needs to be shot, have some concrete blocks strapped to its feet and dropped in a river.
But by far, BY FAR, the one word that needs to die until the human race is mature enough to use it correctly is “literally.”
You guys, I feel so bad. I can’t believe I have been so selfish and near-sighted. Not to mention, so utterly unfair. I mean, to think! That I could possibly be the cause of so much financial strife and anguish.
I am so so deeply ashamed right now.
Yes, dear readers, it is with a heavy heart that I inform you my husband and I just finished our taxes and as it turns out, we have cheated our poor government out of their hard-earned money. To the tune of $800!!!
Quite frankly, I’m surprised they’re even still up and running considering this monetary injustice.
To be honest, I’m not even sure how it happened. I mean, I know that our taxes are automatically taken out of our paychecks but, what? I’m just supposed to expect the people getting paid to know this stuff to know they’re taking out the right amount ahead of time!?! Please. These are very important people with very important things to do. I think we can all agree that current bills in Congress, such as H.R. 82, which would establish and implement security procedures to reduce the likelihood of baby switching and H.R. 213, which would ensure that consumers receive notification regarding food products from crops, livestock, or poultry raised on land which contained sewage sludge* aren’t just going to filibuster themself.
I can’t believe I didn’t do my civic duty as a civilian of these United States and double check they were taking out enough every two weeks. Honestly, how lazy can you get? The tax code, at only a mere 70,000 or so pages, is available to anyone who wants to read it.
Gee whiz. Well, I sure hope the government isn’t struggling because they’ve had to try to make ends meet without my $800 so far. To think that they might of possibly had to have had a committee meeting with only bagels, croissants and doughnuts, instead of bagels, croissants and the good doughnuts from that one bakery or that, God forbid, some of them actually had to SHARE staplers. I just…I just can’t even fathom.
But hey, if Congress is reading this right now, let me assure you that I am taking the necessary steps to rectify this situation as soon as possible.
Yes, just as soon as I figure out which only semi-vital organ I can sell on the black market, you will have your check.
*These are real bills being considered right now
I now have a new reason to look forward to getting old.
Future Aprill now gets to be that old person who sits her grandkids down and forces them to listen to the story of how I survived the Great Blizzard of 2013.
Yes, dear reader, yours truly has finally joined the ranks of the privileged few (million) who have lived through a historic storm and therefore have earned the indisputable right to bore those who didn’t experience it with their endless tales of what it was like (tales that, trust me, we will force you to listen to until the day we die or the day you die of boredom).
And it’s about time. I can’t tell you how often in my life I’ve had to listen to some blowhard launch into yet another “ah, yes, the blizzard of ’78” when I was growing up in Ohio and “oh, I was there for Hurricane Carla, all right” when I lived in Texas and “aw man, Boston had the worst winter ever right before you came here” anecdote.
But now? Now I get to be that blowhard. Regaling everyone who wasn’t quick enough to jump out the window at the first sign I was about to launch into the well-worn story all about how the city shut down as two feet of snow was unceremoniously dumped on us by Mother Nature (although, over time, obviously some of the details will get a bit exaggerated, such as it was 20 feet of snow and 400 mph winds and people started eating each other and then got sick and then turned into White Walkers whom we survivors had to battle as they tried to storm the giant ice wall that Boston built to keep them out).
The only thing left for me to do is to perfect my story. And by perfect I mean ways to drag it out.
There’s the whole pre-storm saga, where my husband battled overly panicked soccer moms (the most dangerous breed of mom that exists) at the store, eventually eschewing the riot mobs going after bread, milk and eggs (because apparently everyone has the overwhelming need to make French toast during bad weather) and coming home instead with Captain Morgan and a giant ham. Meanwhile, I maniacally cleaned the entire house under the assumption that our power was probably going to go out and as a result we were going to die and thus, I really wanted the people who found our bodies five days later to say “Hey, these frozen corpses kept a pretty tidy home.”
And then there’s the storm itself, which, well, was a whole lot of sitting on the couch, drinking rum and eating ham, and periodically saying “look, it’s still snowing” to each other. I’m…uh…still working on this part.
But perhaps the best part was post-storm. Waking up the next morning, seeing all the snow, trying to get our dog, Buffy, to go potty in snow that was higher than his head and him being vehemently opposed to this plan. Standard stuff, really. But then came the digging out process that afternoon.
Now, being a native mid-Westerner, I’m sure at some point in my life I have shoveled snow before. Granted, I can’t think of a single, specific time, but I’m pretty sure you’re required by law to do it at least once in Ohio. Just like you are legally obligated to drive like a jackass every time it rains in that state.
But, suffice it to say, it has been many, many moons since I’ve picked up a shovel. However, wanting to be a good neighbor (re: not egged next Halloween…again) I dutifully dug in (heh) and helped my husband and the rest of the neighborhood try to make some order of the chaos that had become the sidewalks.
Well over an hour (and many, many “holy crap, I think I might die of exhaustion” breaks) later, I had made a path that maybe an anorexic pixie fairy could get through. Which we all decided was, screw it, good enough (or at least, that’s what I’m assuming everyone else was thinking since most of them are fairly trim, although a fair amount rounder than your average pixie fairy). And then I went inside for some more rum and ham.
It wasn’t even an hour later when the pain started.
By the next morning, I thought my husband had tied down my arms in some hidden kinky whim he decided to indulge in during the night and I had simply had too much rum and ham in my system to notice. When I realized it was simply only gravity holding them down, I started to worry. When I tried to move them, I outright panicked.
“BABE! I think my arms are broken!”
“Yeah, well, I’d love to come help you but my back is currently holding my body hostage at this delightful 90 degree angle.”
As it turns out, shoveling uses muscles you never knew you had. Or needed. Or wanted. Until it’s too late. My arms were so sore they refused to raise more than roughly two inches. I couldn’t even pick up my weighs-less-than-a-pound cell phone without my body screaming at me to knock it off.
As for anything heavier? Forget it. In fact, rather than attempt to bring my coffee cup to my face, I just jammed a bunch of straws together.
And as for washing my hair? I literally brought my head down to my arm’s level.
There’s more to this whole story, of course. But I don’t want to give it away all up front. I’m just going to bide my time until you’re stuck in a windowless room and someone happens to mention the weather.
And then, well, I’ll never forget where I was during the blizzard of 2013…
So, Valentine’s Day is coming up.
(And in case this font isn’t getting it through, that above statement should be read sarcastically).
Or, as I like to call it for us women, National De-Hair Your Entire Body Day.
Yes, every morning on February 14, or perhaps the night before (or for those of us who are in longer-term relationships, five days before followed by a brief shower inspection followed by the sentiment “screw it, the stubble isn’t that bad”), women across this great nation of ours will waste countless hours and hard-earned money systematically removing every single hair that is not in an approved zone on their face or body. To wit:
And may I present Exhibit B:
And just as a reference point, here are all the approved hair zones on men:
Now, I’ve always hated Valentine’s Day. But it wasn’t until recently I think I pinpointed exactly why (I mean, other than the whole “it’s a horrific commercialization of a real sentiment created to make people spend money on crappy singing stuffed bears that their partner won’t know what to do with the other 364 days of the year and a faux holiday that means you will spend two hours waiting for a seat at a stupid restaurant neither one of you really wants to be at anyway surrounded by other stupid couples who are pretending they want to be there too” thing).
It’s because Valentine’s Day, by its very nature, expects me to be in a loving mood and sex-ready at all times that day. And sex-ready means de-haired. And de-haired means I shave, tweeze, wax and bleach 80 percent of my face and body. And after that incredibly not fun ritual, I’m supposed to be in a romantic mood. Except I’m not. Because everything is stinging and I have a razor cut on my ankle that refuses to stop bleeding and is currently filling my shoe up with blood. But no, please, feed me another strawberry in front of the fireplace, jerk.
See what I mean? I hate this stupid day.
Of course, I can’t blame all of this on Valentine’s Day. We women are expected to do these de-hairing rituals throughout the entire year. And I, for one, think it’s more than about time we really examine just how ludicrous this whole thing is.
I mean, we’re the only creatures on earth that expect this from our female species. For instance, a male monkey doesn’t tell his monkey wife “Hey, there is no way in hell I’m ever going to do this, but I really need you to take a sharp instrument and remove all the hair on your legs every few days, m’kay?” A male dog doesn’t expect his bitch (it’s accurate, simmer down) to bleach the hair above her lip and pluck, one by painful one, about 35 percent of the hair directly above her eyeballs. And I have yet to hear of a male bear telling a female bear before sex, “Hey, you know what would make this way more appealing to me? If most of the hair surrounding your sensitive lady parts was cruelly ripped out from its roots, all except for a small rectangular patch centered directly above your vagina. Yeah. That’d be hot.”
Not to mention, standards of beauty are always changing. Look at any old painting. Chubby chicks were all the rage. And now we love the “I haven’t eaten in six years but also I’m toned” look. Having a sun-kissed “oh, I just got back from Cabo” tan was in for what seemed like forever until “Jersey Shore” gave us a reality TV funhouse mirror to look in and we all realized that no one looks good with an orange skin tone. And you can’t throw a pair of scissors these days without hitting some woman who has burned all the old pictures of her with the “Rachel” haircut.
So, the only question left is, when the hell is this trend going to die? When can women run around in their natural, hairy state completely free and uninhibited? And, dare I say, even considered sexy, hairy toes and all?
I say we ladies make a stand. Burn our lady Bics and march on Washington! The Million Hairy Ladies March! Damn the Wax! Save the Follicles!
Because if we all do it, all stop removing our hair, all at the same time, we can take away the stigma that generations of weird, hippie chicks who have a pet chicken have given to the Free Hair Movement.
So who’s with me!?! Huh!?!
Because, seriously, trust me, you don’t want me being the poster child of this movement by myself. Cause when I don’t shave, I look like the love child of a hairy Persian man and a female gorilla who has had testosterone injections.