What the @*! are These Women Thinking?!

Ohhhhhh, Gwyneth. And Reese. And Beyoncé.  Is it not enough that you are so well-known that you can go by one name?

Do you not realize that because you are celebrities, people look up to you, emulate you, want to be you. And by people, I’m referring to teenaged girls and other speculative members of our species who have a spotty sense of “self.” (Closeted gay guys, I’m looking at you.) 

Why do you celebrities insist upon thumbing your noses at good sense and common decency? Disclaimer: I swear like a fucking gangbanging career criminal with an incurable case of crabs, but if our featured ladies exhibited only a dirty mouth for bad behavior, I’d invite those sistahs over for snacks and shit. The prob is that they just drip and ooze with poor choices. 

Disclaimer 2: Okay. It’s not like I’m saying I’ve never made any poor choices. God. I mean honestly. I have a string of ex-husbands as long as my arm, and have you seen my hideously lumpy thighs lately? But I’m not on magazine covers.

First up. Gwyneth Paltrow, who has to be THE most clueless woman on the planet besides the mother of the Tsarnaev brothers, who claims that “America stole her sons,” and that “they were framed.” I did not know women of her faith were even allowed to smoke weed. 

But I digress. Gwyneth. Gackkk. Even her name makes me want to puke up food I haven’t eaten yet and re-eat it just so I can puke again. It’s like her parents prayed to the god of myshitdon’tstink for a name that would just scream Park Avenue and organic-produce-that-costs-more-than-your-car-payment-because-I-can. I am entirely convinced that she pays people to clean her poor children’s asses with gold-infused and lavender-scented moist-wipes so that their psyches will not be soiled. 

The woman—who just received the prestigious “World’s Most Beautiful Woman” award from People magazine because after a series of American Idol-like rounds through which every, single female on the planet was judged on beauty, Gwyneth WON!—posts her every whimsical idea about how people should live and “nourish their inner something or other” on the most condescending website ever created. Is it ironic that its name rhymes with poop?

Ms. Paltrow enlightens her subscribers with all kinds of useful advice like how to make life all meaningful and cozy with yoga at the $1000-a-month gym, and $90 t-shirts, and $300 family dinner ingredients. And then she shows up on the red carpet for the premier of her latest superhero sequel—for which she is a shoo-in for another Academy Award nomination, I’m sure—in a dress that has peek-a-boo panels, like, all over. 

I’m thinking somewhere along the line, the meaning of “penthouse view” in her mind went a little wonky. One little fabric slippage, and we’d have been all up in her business. Frankly, I don’t want to be that intimate with Gwyneth’s “inner something.” Although I’m sure it smells like lilac and crystal stemware. 

Speaking of wardrobe issues, is there something that celebrities have against pants? Maybe they give Beyoncé a rash, but that girl hasn’t seen a pair of pants since 1982. Has there ever been a woman more in love with her own crotch? She seems to be stuck in an eternal pose that is hell-bent on proving how good her Brazilian waxer is. I’m thrilled shitless, Ms. Knowles, that you have the stubble-less bikini zone of a toddler. Yay. You don’t have to keep showing everybody. 

And speaking of “showing everybody,” boy did that Reese Witherspoon prove to the world what a “somebody” she is. She went down to Georgia and may or may not have gotten her ass good and drunk, and then when her husband got pulled over for drunk driving, she played the old “Do you know who I am?!?!” card. Yes, yes! We know who you are! Just another in a long line of entitled, spoiled, rich girls whose souls were on the bargain table at the devil’s garage sale. 

Now that we’ve all seen way more of these class acts than we ever wanted, couldn’t we get a little reprieve? I promise that will be all the inner nourishment we need.

Boston Bombers REDUX.

Okay. One of the most incredible take-downs in the history of law enforcement happened last week in Boston after a swarm of good-guys shot and/or captured the two asswipes who killed and maimed Americans with pressure-cooker bombs at the Boston Marathon finish line. After the bombings, disembodied voices on NPR droned on and on about how this would be a “lengthy investigation” that would take “years” to solve. Well-heh-heh-hellllll, maybe for NOT Boston. As much as I rue the overuse of cell phones, I hereby acquiesce temporarily so that I can pay tribute to their part in throwing a super-nova spotlight on the Tsarnaev brothers. 

Dear Terrorist Asslickers, 

As long as we exist, you will not escape our ever-vigilant surveillance. We see you. We record you. And suddenly, everybody knows your name. Especially in Boston, you fucking morons. Didn’t you watch Cheers? Oh. Wait. Nevermind. You aren’t baseball-, hotdogs-, apple pie- and Chevrolet-lovers, now, are you?? No, no. You are turdlets; steaming, putrid, and mustardy-yellow. And you are going DOWN.   

Boston Strong, bitches.

Love, cellphones

NOW. Can we STOP with all the pictures of the murderers? Every freaking time I turn on the news or open a news site on my computer, I’m assaulted by the faces of Tsarnaev 1 & 2. Give it a fucking rest. 

How about plastering up the face of the 26-year-old MIT cop, Sean Collier, who phoned in a disturbance and set up the downfall of the Brothers Grim? His face is one we shouldn’t forget. Likewise, we need to focus on Martin Richard, Krystle Campbell and Lu Lingzi, who were killed; and the scores of bombing victims who were seriously injured. We’ve gotten so negative in America. We're so fascinated with evil. And all we do is carp, carp, carp. There is a never-ending stream of negative voices filling the airwaves with so much shit, it’s no wonder the ozone is thinning. 

And another thing with which I’ve got a grain-fed beef: What happened to patriotism in America? It takes a terroristic wake-up call for Americans to stand together and declare their love for our country. What is wrong with you people? Yes, yes, our country isn’t perfect, for God’s sake. But America is the best place on earth. If you disagree, then go somewhere else. No one is stopping you, and plenty of people are waiting in line and jumping fences to take your fucking place. 

Don’t forget it.

Boston Bombers are ASSHOLES.

What. The. 

Once again, we are reminded of the incredible genius lurking in the brains of some animals in our world. Doesn’t it take super smarts to work out an equation such as this? 

anger + hatred = lemme kill and maim somebody 

Brilliant! Hate your local abortion clinic? Bomb the place because killing the folks who work there MAKES. PERFECT. SENSE. I must kill people who kill! Dumb asses.

Despise Western culture and capitalism? Bomb federal buildings or crowded market places because blowing people’s bodies apart is the surest way to bring an end to an economy in which people other than the evil dictator have an opportunity to get rich. And nothing will stop infidel women from wearing shorts like a good mass murder. Morons.

Now, let’s say that the Boston bombing had domestic foundations—such as a distaste for the US government’s income tax requirement, as some pundits have posited. Well, then. There is obviously no better method for protesting all things American than by blasting an 8-year-old to bits and shearing off his 6-year-old sister’s leg. Idiots! 3 people were killed and more than 180 injured. For WHAT? There is no such thing as a sane reason.

No matter who is behind the heinous attack on innocent by-standers at the Boston Marathon, I’m sure we can all come together in our desire to see the bastard(s) located and put away. Somewhere dark and dank and shit-filled. For life. With endless loops of Lee Greenwood’s I’m Proud to be an American playing for eternity. Whoever you are, you spineless, fucking coward, you don’t deserve a second of freedom on American soil—or anywhere on earth.

What My Hair Says...

My hair says, "Sex? What's that?"

In one of my beloved weekly magazines, there’s a page devoted to what one’s choices or characteristics reflect personality-wise. You know what I mean: what your favorite television sleuth or love song or restaurant type says about “who you are” and whatnot. This week, the insightful tidbits concern hair color. Before the breakdown of each hair color, there is a brief discussion that mentions how the hue of your hair sends critical signals about you to the world. All I know is that my hair color says “$8.99 a box at Wal Mart.” Or if I wait long enough, “What the fuck is this silver shit coming out of my head?”

The article takes a whole lot for granted, namely that any of us know what our natural hair color actually is. I barely let my roots escape before I’m hunkered down in the privacy of my own bathroom mixing up some ammonia-free, hair-coating concoction. (And side note, if you dab a little conditioner around your hair line before coloring, you won’t end up with those dead-giveaway skin stains. So don’t say I never taught you anything.) If you happen to remember the color “you were born with” and you want to know what personality you’re supposed to have, all the info you need is right here. 

Blondes are “spirited and whimsical.” Blonde hair reminds most of us of childhood days at the beach when the world was still intriguing and sparkly like a shell or an ocean crest or handcuffs. True blonde is for babies. On older people, blonde hair is about as believable as Amanda Bynes’s latest tweet-excuse for her bizarro behavior. Some aging celebrities just can’t seem to let nature takes its course. Take Robert Redford. I know he’s as beach-bum as they come, but if his light locks don’t come out of a very expensive bottle, I’m a fucking virgin. Okay. Probably not the best adjective for virgin. But on a second side note, what in God’s name happened to Redford’s face? Is he part Sharpei or what? 

According to the hair article, redheads are “empathetic and fiery.” Since fewer people in the world have red hair than any other color, there is something special about auburn tresses. Redheads may appear hot-tempered because they seem to be blushing all over. But since less than 5% of the universal population sprouts real red, most of the flat-out gorgeous shades of red out there aren’t fooling anybody. And you know what they say about the “carpet” not matching the “drapes” although for the life of me, I can’t figure out who they are. All you have to do is sneak a peek at any ginger’s privates, and you’ll see that most of them aren’t natural auburns. Bonus: it’s a great way to find out what life in the pokey for a sex crime is like. 

Now, brunettes are supposed to be “ambitious and affable.” That means that folks with brown hair are simultaneously friendly and clawing their way up the corporate or social ladder. I don’t know how those two qualities co-exist without some degree of schizophrenia, so yeah. If your loved ones have chocolate hair, it might be time to lock up the Ginsus.

If you have black hair, you’re “secretive and independent.” In other words, you are creepy and probably have sex with a dead body you keep stashed in your crawl space. Or Elvira called, and she wants her wig back. 

Silver foxes are supposed to be “real and cosmopolitan.” Yeah. Right. This description implies that you don’t want to cover up who you truly are and you are elegant, like some sterling tea set. Pssshhh. The truth is that if you have silvery strands, you are just too damned lazy to get your hair colored. You pad around in your pajama bottoms and some tattered slippers and a hole-y t-shirt with Spaghetti-O’s ® stains from 1973. Or you make a lot of hemp macramé and smell like Patchouli. Or you’re on life support. 

To be honest, I’ve fit into almost all of the hair color categories at one time or another. I tend to go dark in the fall and winter, and then lighten up for spring and summer. My first stint as a redhead was for a character I played in a stage play. Now, I haven’t purchased black hair dye because of that “causes cancer in lab animals” scare. And I’ll be damned if I’m going around with Christmas tree tinsel on my head.

I don’t know. I haven’t reached the point yet at which I am willing to accept whatever really grows out of my scalp. There is no telling what it might be. And since like most people, I’ve exhibited all of the magazine article’s personality traits of every hair color at various times, my personality indicators are no help in determining my true color. I give up. I guess what my hair really says is that I care enough about my appearance to shell out nearly ten dollars every couple of months so that I don’t have to be reminded of my mortality every freaking time I look in the mirror. And that’s saying a lot.

Mammas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up.

Or become ugly country singers like this one.

The other day my BFF mentioned through sniffles that her younger daughter had just celebrated her 20th birthday, which signified the “no more children in her household” era. I know exactly why she pines because my younger offspring will turn 20 in April. Sigh. How could 20 freaking years have slipped right through my fingers? 

I clearly remember the night before my second daughter was brutally sliced from my tender abdomen. I lay down for a nap around Wheel of Fortune time, and when I stirred about 9 P.M., mild contractions were threatening the rest of my Tuesday night t.v. schedule. I timed the contractions and casually waddled into the den to alert my husband that we might want to head to the hospital. The birth pangs were two minutes apart, and we were 90 minutes from my doctor. Because the C-section was scheduled for two weeks later, I was unprepared. 

This was, incidentally, the very last time that child was fucking early for anything. 

I packed, made all kinds of arrangements, and called my parents so that they could meet us and plan to take care of my older daughter during my recovery; and we were off.  Once we arrived at the medical center, the fun began. First, I had an epidural—my favorite. The epidural is better than no pain meds at all, especially when you are having a massive opening cut in most of the layers of your guts. BUT.  I don’t care what anyone says. Nothing can prepare you for a drinking straw of steel being rammed into your spinal column or the violence that follows. The first time I had a spinal block, the nurse said, “You will feel a mild electric shock down one side.” I still dream of finding that lying bitch and beating her mildly with a crowbar. 

After the block successfully kicked in, the night duty nurse came by to explain that my doctor hadn’t arrived, so I’d have to hold on. Apparently all nurses who have assisted in my children’s births are liars. It wasn’t that my doctor hadn’t arrived. He was out of the freaking country and wouldn’t be back for days. Still, the nurse kept poking her perky little head in with my doctor’s ETA. After she went off duty hours later, I began to get suspicious. When a doctor I’d never seen before sauntered in about 7:30 Wednesday morning, I knew I’d been duped. I don’t even remember the guy’s name, but a little over 2 hours later, he was sawing open my flesh. 

Aside from the fact that I almost died on the delivery table and actually left my body, which I could see from a freaky aerial perspective, the birth went well. My teeny-tiny precious was screeching mere moments after being slurped out of my midsection. 

And now. Twenty years have disappeared. I can live without ever again having to hold my breath through green-goop-smeared diaper changes or that time I accidentally put a disposable diaper into the washer. Unless you’ve done it, you can’t fathom the destruction that the gel beads inside Pampers ® can cause when they are already full of shit and then quadrupled by 40 gallons of washer water.

I can live without the crying and shrieking and tantrums of yore when my children didn’t get their way or had to wait more than 36 hours for food. Jesus. Some of us had to sleep. How hard was it for them to drag a stool to the counter and operate a microwave anyway? Fucking whiners. 

I can live without the icy grip on my heart every time my daughters suffered or hurt although that will never change. 

But what I would give anything— anything— to have again are their soft, tiny fingers in my hands as we crossed the street. Or their warm, plump, summer-bronzed arms hugging my neck before there was more than one chin. Or their saucer-eyes that gazed at me with more love than the universe can hold. Or the sight of my daughters sleeping, their smallness and vulnerability so apparent under fleece blankets. Or their precious voices saying, “I love you, Mama!” Or the infectious laughter that bubbled up from the bottoms of their pink feet when I played the “five more minutes” game or the “wilting flower who needed water” game. I cherished being their clown, their font of knowledge, their support, their pupil, their greatest love. 

Sometimes I look at my daughters, all grown up, and I wish for just a second that I could have one day with them at each of their most adorable phases when they saw the world with wonder and awe and saw me as invincible and infallible. But they’ve learned that I am not their God, that the world isn’t always kind, that they can’t have everything that they want. How I wish I could’ve prevented those lessons. The truth is, I want my babies back. And I’m not talking about ribs.