Open Letter To Burger King

A burger worth fighting over

Dear Burger King,
The fast food wars ended years ago, and because the outcome is unclear to you, you lost. Perhaps it was your terrifying commercials with a gigantic headed King terrorizing customers that turned people off, but most likely it was due to your shameless marketing campaigns.
The rainbow colored Whopper commercials were so overtly capitalizing on a marginalized group, I'm surprised the same people boycotting Chick-fil-a didn't come burn down your corporate office for minimizing their serious problems by comparing them to a burger wrapped in a different color package. Perhaps the shock people feigned after unwrapping their rainbow colored whopper was that there was and actual burger between their sesame seed bun, and not steaming dog doo. Being served up the infantile message, "were all the same under our burger papers," is more annoying than thought provoking and certainly not inspiring me to go buy a Whopper.
Although Demolition Man had the world thinking Taco Bell would win the fast food war, it ended up residing close to the top, I'd say as McDonald's court jester. Taco Bell keeps things funny with interesting food fusion, like the breakfast biscuit taco. Taco Bell hasn't gone completely mad scientists like the whack-a-doos over at KFC. KFC, with the Double Down Dog, is an example of what extreme right wingers expect to occur when genetic engineering becomes less regulated.
I associate Taco Bell with drunken college days, which illuminates it's funny presence. My friend Kelley and I were stopped by police after we got in a fight with some unappreciative sorority girls at a Taco Bell. I threw my burrito at them as we tore out of the parking lot on our bikes cackling like we were riding on broomsticks. I don't know why we were fighting, it was more likely rooted in socioeconomic reasons than burger chain preference, but we weren't going to stand for their intolerance of hilarious, loudmouthed hooligans.
Another time I went to Taco Bell with my sister and friend, Jackson. My sister drove us there after the bars closed and our binge drinking came to an abrupt end. The next morning when we woke up surrounded by Taco Bell wrappers, my sister looked at me and said, "When did we go to Taco Bell?"
Jaw dropped, I informed her that she convinced me she was OK to drive and took us on the late night excursion.
Unlike you, Burger King, I feel like I learned some valuable lessons from those tumultuous times. I would not  conceive any drinking and driving jaunts, or engage in a burrito chucking fight with people whose superiority complex is threatened by anyone who believes in free thinking.
I thought I read Burger King was being bought by Tim Horton's, but based on the pathetic full page ad in the The New York Times where you pretend to be in the same realm as McDonald's, I'm sad to learn the Canadian donut chain isn't spreading South of their boarder, just yet.
Burger King, I hope you realize your crown is gone, and will shut the fuck up. You're embarrassing yourself.

A site of my disorderly conduct

Straight Outta... Say What?

Baby be packing heat. Squirt gun heat.

I streamed N.W.A. to get reacquainted with the familiar tunes from high school before watching the new movie, Straight Outta Compton. I started out with easy-E, and then came to the old time favorite, Ain't No Fun. As DJ Eeeeasy Dick starts talking I was transported back in time. I'm sitting in the back seat of an SUV with friends, smoking weed, the music blasting. The bass is uncomfortably loud, but I'm too stoned to talk and the never ending conversation in my head distracts me.
If I were to engage in an activity like this now, I'd make it ten seconds before I simultaneously pee my pants and have a heart attack. I'd say it was the reckless behavior of suburbia white kids, but Tahoe doesn't have suburbs and we were an equal ratio Mexican to white. Paranoia that a cop comes to send me to the clink wouldn't be my only worry, I'd worry more that I'd never become unstoned.
Smoking weed turned into one of those nightmarish things for me, where I became super paranoid and being around people was excruciating. I once confided in this with a pot aficionado, and his advice was to start smoking more, to get over the paranoia hump. I figured the effort wasn't worth the reward.
Maybe the paranoia, loud bass and internal conversation muted the fucked up lyrics in Ain't No Fun because I didn't remember it being a woman hating anthem. After hearing the song through, I listened to it once again because I like degrading myself, and heard Kurupt repeat bitches aren't shit, don't give a shit about a ho, and other gems involving ball sucking and dick slapping.
I was probably impressed by the brazen terminology to ever analyze the overall meaning of the song, but adult Alicia, finds it appalling. I am OK with the word "bitch" because like Madonna says, "I'm tough, ambitious and know exactly what I want. If that makes me a bitch, okay." Bitch, actually is something to strive towards, being unafraid of getting exactly what's wanted. But in the context of Ain't No Fun, bitch is meant to mean "hole," "vagina" or "person I can put my dick into." In the end, all the woman hating in Ain't No Fun made me think more of Freud than Feminism.

History gets rewritten, as shown by Straight Outta Compton cutting the scene where Dr. Dre beats up a female reporter because she didn't give him a good review. Now Dr. Dre is richer than shit, and he could give two fucks who the hell he stomped on to perch upon his throne, but because he is affiliated with Apple, and Apple money is so sweet, Dre issued an apology for being a sociopath in the past, and since he has been married for almost 20 years, he isn't like that anymore.
There is a sequel to Straight Outta Compton in the works, featuring the next wave of West Coast rappers, including Snoop Dogg and Kurupt. We'll see how they spin Ain't No Fun. I'd love to see a closeted romance be the source of hate. I can give a pass on the overlooked violence, as long as we get a great gay sex scene, with lots of dick slapping and ball sucking.

Wide Legged Pants

Nice pants, they really blend in!

Boot legged jeans are back in fashion. This is good because... I don't fucking know, but it will be nice to use jeans I've held onto the last ten years because of a slight hoarding problem. Flowing, wide-legged hippie pants are also in style. I bought a pair at TJ Maxx for $7, even though they were 5 inches too long, and hemmed them to fit. I couldn't try the pants on in the dressing room because a friend from high school's mom was working there, and a stop-and-chat would ruin my shopping experience.
After dying my hair blonde, my ability to be incognito while in my hometown went from impossible to possible, as long as I move fast, never make eye contact, and keep my voice low. If I see someone at the grocery store who I'm familiar with from high school, I skirt past them, looking straight ahead, and by the time they register, "Hey, that's Alicia, but she has yellow hair." I ditched my cart and ran out the front door so I don't have to endure a How's-the-last-decade-of-your-life-been chat. If anyone gave two shits, they could look it up on Facebook.
Before I closed my Facebook account, I read a rant posted by a friend from middle school. She discovered her husband was sleeping with a prostitute, and instead of contacting Legal Zoom, she posted an essay on how he wronged her, including a picture of the prostitute, and detailing how her husband and her had sex the day before he met his hooker.
I felt bad for my old friend, but felt worse for her next month self. Her immediate rage led her to slander her husband's name without realizing their kids will one day read about how their brainless dad fucked their mom over by fucking someone else. Her intention was likely to alert her husband's entire family that he's a piece of shit, but she could have called them individually to let them know.
This exposing post was probably the most salacious one I read. Mostly, I read a narrative of people's day to day activities, which is boring. Someone once told me, "Facebook is like a high school reunion and Twitter is like a crowded bar," and I thought the analogy was perfect. Clearly, based on my desire to hide from a fellow high school alumnus when we cross paths, I prefer the latter. Thank goodness, I can order my groceries online!
And my fabulous wide legged pants turned out to not be so fabulous after I hemmed them. I felt like a yoga instructor who recently returned from Bali, pretending my expensive ass vacation was an enlightening experience. I showed the pants to my mom who cringed at the oversized shape. "Alicia, why do you want to hide your legs in those enormous pants?"
I defended my attempt at style by saying, "Mom, it's not like I'm going to a job interview. This is casual wear."
I don't fear the catch-up chat for any other reason than having to listen to the lack of change. I'd want to hear about the salacious, the struggle, or even the rocky road ending in triumph, but instead it is always, "Everything's great!" Thumbs up, giant plastic smile as I see their eyes welling up. I appreciated my old friend, not so much present day friend, telling it all on her Facebook rant because it was raw. Did it get me excited? I guess so. Perhaps I'd like the stop-and-chat more if people spewed all their grievances. A social schadenfreude opportunity lost with each cheery tale of how life is simply swell. I'm an unfulfilled masochist when it comes to catching up with people, even though I am just as great an offender while I give the standard, things are great here too, over smiling with a giant mess of yellow hair in enormous clown pants.

Any better?

Kids Club

Original Kids' Club

Lately, it feels as if the planets aligned, and I am doing things right. Another way of saying, "I have my shit together." Not that I usually don't, I get done what needs to get done with necessary enthusiasm, but I'd say my big picture thinking recharged.
Regaining this positive disposition can be attributed to many things; George getting older, consistent time for exercise and writing, not drinking beer so frequently (I'm giving this gluten free thing a try.)
I'm at the part in Bridget Jones' Diary when she takes back control of her life, the montage of her circling job listings in the news paper, hitting the gym, improving her reading material, and dumping her vices in the garbage.
My can-do-anything attitude inspired me to sign up for a gym membership, and two memberships for my kids to attend the kids' club while I exercise. The kids' club is the baby sitting room. A place, I was hoping to drop my kids off, and get some mommy reprieve, watching Real Housewives episodes on my phone while running, stepping or cycling.
My positive attitude must have affected my judgement because I thought dropping my kids off at the babysitting room would be a little difficult, but it turned out to be as I should have expected, both of them hysterical, displaying their extreme cases of mom separation anxiety and stranger danger. As I encouragingly nudged them toward toys spewed about the room, and to watch the Disney movie playing on a small TV in the corner, their grip on me tightened. I decided to sit on the ground and spend the hour playing with them in the kids' club instead of branching off to the treadmill outside the door. I told myself spending time with them in the kids club would get them comfortable, and make it easier to drop them off the next time.
Saturday morning after mentioning the kids' club, Kiki bawled in her room for ten minutes. I felt bad, so we ended up doing a jog in the jogging stroller. Saturday is a busy foot traffic morning, so I waved more frequently to other joggers, walkers and bikers. An old man walking on the other side of the street flipped me off after I waved at him. I burst out laughing and then a beaming smile lit up his face.
Sunday, I went to the gym alone so I could finally use the equipment. I see why the gym is cheap as fuck (my membership is $14 a month and the kids club was just a small up charge.) The atmosphere is not cheerful, but it has everything I need. After wandering around the poorly lit, abandoned looking upstairs fitness area, I was expecting to see a hole in the roof. I was happy to find a spinning class room, although they only offer class twice a week.
I walked by the kids' club and peeked in the window. It matched the shabby gym outside. The carpet looked dingy, and the toys were relics from the early nineties. A dust-bunny grey teddy bear sat in the corner dressed in a santa suit. I could picture it new, gleaming white with a soft velvet suit, but instead it sat slumped over looking like a hungover Bad Santa.
The door to the kids club is next to the gym entrance, without any lock, and only a clipboard is used to track kids coming and going. I started to frown thinking of those sad toys, and my kids crying in the corner while I'm in the gym burning off pent up energy. Aside from the sad sight of the room, there is the added stress of lack of security, and let's face it, we live in a time where someone can come into any public space guns blazing, so I don't like how the kids' club is the first room they'd come across.
I walked to the counter and cancelled the kids' club membership. I can use the gym early in the morning or late at night, and let the kids escape the trauma of feeling like I'm abandoning them. Many people told me, "They will stop crying the third or fourth time you leave them." I might feel positive changes in my life, but somethings aren't worth messing with. I'll just keep these two kids spoiled a bit longer. Even when things are going right, I still find myself running up against a wall, but thats really what going to a gym means.

Even in good times, I find myself running up against a wall. Literally.

Halloween Costumes

Shark costume comes in Pretty Woman hooker dress or frumpy pajama suit

I have an urge to make my kids' halloween costumes this year. Homemade costumes are much cuter than off-the-rack outfits. It's likely because they cost four times as much and take months to complete. The off-the-rack costumes are dirt cheap and temptingly accessible, but they lack creativity and look so common in the wave of children adorned as super heroes and princesses begging for candy.
When I was a kid, the opposite was true; store bought costumes were out of reach expensive, and homemade was much more standard operating procedure. I wore the same dance recital costume for three years in a row, and then was a ghost, a la Charlie Brown fashions, until I was able to construct marvelous costumes using fake blood and Salvation Army prom dresses. Then, the goal became dressing slutty enough to be able to drink recklessly and still keep all parts in tact. Now, Halloween is walking my kids around the block where they get a decent amount of candy that I have to throw away two days later because it turns into too much of a battle to keep their minds distracted from their score (I eat all the good candy before tossing it, mostly Milky Ways.)

We're going to do an underwater theme based on Kiki's wanting to be a starfish. I will be a shark and George can be an octopus or whale. I have been wasting a fuck ton of time on Pinterest looking at different costumes, and gauging what is doable for me, a crafting novice.
Since I am going to designate a lot of time and energy toward my kids' costumes, mine will be an easy construct. I thought I'd buy mine, and did some searches on Amazon, but found the women's shark costumes come in two options, slutty shark, or fat lazy pajama shark.

Im staying up late doing lots of pinterest research. Once I have to put needle to thread I will post a progress report. Two months till Halloween. If everything goes bad, I will just buy us each the pre made costume on amazon. It might be weird to see a 4 year old dressed as a slutty starfish, and a two year old as a slutty whale, but you gotta do what you gotta do to gets those Milky Ways.

So Hot Right Now

Little acts of kindness

When I left Target yesterday I found a message behind the windshield wiper. It was a business card, and scribbled in black marker was the note, "you're hot." It made me so damn happy I felt bad. I shouldn't get happiness from another person's opinion on how I look, but then again, why even get dressed in the morning if there isn't an ongoing need to be living up to expectations.
When I was walking into the store a young guy walked by me, and smiled so flirtatiously I nearly blushed, however, the kids quickly recaptured any attention I diverted, and restored my static disposition. His MILF grin left me fairly certain he was the person who left the note.

My friend came by this morning. She has three kids under three years old, which is like watching a tornado, although she does a good job of making it seem like her sanity is in tact. The kids played in the backyard as we sat in the shade talking about our summer and anticipation for the calmness that comes with fall.
She took her daughter potty, and when they returned her daughter looked clammy and sweaty as she laid on the cement crying that she needed a nap. My friend said she worried her daughter was coming down with the flu, and started gathering up their things to leave. My mind panicked, "She has the flu! We just got over the flu! Were going to get the flu again!"

Since we've been gone most of the summer the yard looked like it had been abandoned for years. The 105 degree heat destroys anything left exposed to sunlight. I spent the day before cleaning it up. Plastic squirt guns, sand buckets and bubble bottles crumbled after being picked up. The fear of toxins in melted plastic wasn't the worst part. The worst part was the spiders.

Spider webs covered everything, and I smeared them up like I was making cotton candy. Black widows lurk in dark crevices and, I assume, could crawl out from underneath the slide or a trike wheel and bite an oblivious kid. I went at the spiders with Lysol spray and a Birkenstock and in the end I killed 4 and an egg sack. I felt guilty after my murderous rampage, spraying and stomping spiders, but it is either them or us since I'm under the impression they are impartial to who or when they attack. 

After my friend and her kids left, I headed back outside with the Lysol, this time to disinfect everything they touched. As I scrubbed down the table, and wiped off toys, I felt sweaty and bloated from drinking a pot of coffee and eating pistachios all morning. The feelings were similar to how I felt as the flu came over me last week. I was letting heartburn and overheating turn into phantom flu symptoms. Since the flu can't set in minutes after being exposed to it, I let go of my flu feelings a bit after cooling off inside. I put my Lysol in a close (up high) place because I plan on being ready to bring the heat if I see a black widow by my kids. Thats hot. So hot.

Spiders? This kids is more of a danger to himself.

His Legs Don't Get Tired

My model baby looks good even when sick. Not kiddin, batch.

The flu hit, and it was awful.
My sister, kids, and I were out to dinner and my daughter was acting unusual from the moment we left. As I buckled her into her car seat she complained, "My head hurts," but she looked fine, so I figured she was hungry.
When we walked into the restaurant, a new gastro pub in Carson City (like the world needs another fucking gastro pub, but then I'm first in  line to try) she said, "It smells so bad." I thought she was right because the smell was so pungent of smoke flavor it was like being in a barrel of Rauchbier.
At the table she put her blanket over her head, and sat in her personal tent for a while, moving her head from the back of the chair to the table. After five minutes I told my sister, "She is sick, and is about to ralph all over this place. Will you take her to the bathroom?"
My sister picked her up, and they walked toward the front door. The napkin in my sister's lap fell on the floor a couple steps from the table, and she bent down to pick it up before making for the exit.
Kiki puked a few feet from the front door, but luckily it all went down my sisters dress. I saw tiny splattering when I went out to check on them after my sister banged on the glass windows pointing down to Kiki's sick face.
The food was packaged up, and we headed home. As I drove to my parents' house, I started to feel a little queasy, but couldn't distinguish if it was flu or repulsion from smelling vomit. When I carried Kiki inside, my sister was standing naked in the laundry room, and she said, "There is barf in my boob crease."
I gagged, but still couldn't distinguish the root of my desire to puke.
Laying with Kiki, it hit me. The entire scene lasted for about six hours. Both of us taking turns having to run to the bathroom.  I couldn't sleep because when I was enjoying the short reprieve after just having a bout of flu, I was getting Kiki to the bathroom or cleaning up whatever didn't make it to the bathroom. Around midnight I knew I was in the clear, and I looked over at Kiki and could see she was on the mend as well.
Since we were up, I asked if she wanted to go out and see the meteor shower. Of course, she was up for it, and she wanted to find Pluto and a blood moon as well, since she is up on her NASA twitter alerts. We walked outside and saw the stars, but not a single shooting one.
I filled her head with amazing stories of showering stars, which probably left her feeling underwhelmed, but being outside during the dark is exciting for her, so she didn't seem to mind.

During the day we went to the Children's museum, which is a strange name for a place that should probably be called an indoor playground. I surfed the web on my phone while the kids ran around. I read a funny joke on Instagram, and sent it to everyoneIi know.
I'd crawl back into bed with Kiki after having a bout of flu, I'd lay with my arm over my head feeling the relief from just passing a hurdle in my journey to normalcy, and think of this hilarious joke, laughing out loud.  My sister came in the room to check on us, and she thought I'd gone nuts, watching me laugh to myself, sweaty and clammy.

Thank goodness the flu only lasted one day. Today we had to work nonstop to prepare for a big party tomorrow night at my parents' house. After this soiree I am ready to go back to my house, and retire from all social gatherings until "the holidays." Everyone in my family had the flu except for my parents, which I assume is because they happily eat expired food and have somehow achieved a bacteria status in their gut that is supreme.

The timing worked out well. My sister had the flu the day before her final 10 page paper was due for her master's program. She learned a serious lesson in procrastination, I think. She pounded the paper out the day it was due, and found out a couple days later she received an A on the paper, and an overall A in the class.

As she sat on the couch with her laptop, she laughed, and said, "I wrote that paper in a day. I wonder what those suckers who spent three weeks on their papers think about that!"

Will I stop laughing? When I get a life! Soon?

Flu Countdown

Resting Duck

Three days before going to Tahoe, my niece was up all night vomiting. They suspected food poison from old macaroni and cheese. Two days before going to Tahoe, my sister was sick vomiting. They suspected food poisoning from a dingy breakfast diner. The day I arrived in Tahoe my other sister vomited all day. They suspected morning sickness. Today, George blew chunks all over the entrance of Walmart in Carson City, Nevada. We can safely say, these bouts of puking are not a series of independent illnesses, and there is a flu bug going through the family.

My sister, George and I had to go to Walmart to buy dog food. After George puked, he perked up instantly, so my sister and I figured we better get the dog food instead of go home empty handed. When George puked at the entrance I was carrying him, so a bit was on my shirt. Then my sister took him from me, brought him to a corner, and padded his back like a drunken friend, as he puked more. We smelled like melted Parmesan cheese as we quickly hiked through the mega store to find the dog section. The cashier was grinding her teeth so bad she hardly noticed we were a stinky germ infested troupe, but rather visualized her next break where she could vape crack on the side of the building.

The day I heard about my niece, I knew we were heading to a den of disease, but didn't want to miss out on the fun times. My mom, dad, Kiki and I are the last ones standing. I am starting to feel like I might be filling up with air, and my stomach is gargling loudly. I'm not sure if I'm hot or getting a low grade fever. The probability of me being wiped out by this flu is pretty high. I'm a sitting duck, and the anticipation is giving me phantom flu like symptoms. I'm screaming inside, and it sounds like this, "Come and get me, flu! Get it over with already!!"

He still has the energy to close my laptop

Fat Theory

Eating Taco Hell was not a sexual experience

I was walking around the mall in Sacramento yesterday. I bought a great jacket for fall, and then went from the air conditioned shopping center to the scorching outside world. Some of my family went to the California state fair a couple weeks ago, and my mom came back with only one thing to report, "I can't believe how fat people are!" I thought she'd complain about the asinine timing of having a fair in the dead of summer instead of waiting till the remarkable early winter temperatures, but it was the agonized looking subset of our population who teeter on immobile. I noticed the fat she was taken aback by as I walked around the mall. Severe obesity does't look good on people. There is no cheerful glow on someone who looks as if they can barely walk, and the tortured look while moving from one bench to another is communicable.
When I lived in London someone asked me, "Isn't is crazy how fat Americans are?" I had no idea Americans were so fat because I lived in Tahoe where there is an outdoorsy athletic disposition, even with stoners, so obesity was never an obvious problem. Then I lived in LA where the population is best described as amazingly good looking. The rest of the world need not feel bad, the LA population can just as easily be summed up as narcissistic, shallow and lacking intelligence.
I did not see Fat America until I moved to Sacramento. Wow, Sacramento has some serious fat people. Not chubby, or chunky or plump, but ass dragging on the floor, gimping on a cane, wearing a makeshift dress from a shower curtain, fat.
It is hard to imagine how one gets so enormous. After a certain point, say, the inability to walk up a flight of stairs without feeling like death was approaching, it would be an easy decision to eat carrots until falling back into one of the chubby/chunky/plump categories.

My best fat theory is that severely obese people are hyper sexual, and the sensations from consuming food is satiating sexual cravings and because they continuously want to feel these feelings, the compulsion to keep eating is impossible to control. It's easier to eat Oreos on the couch than have sex, or even jerk off, so the availability to have sexual sensations without having to do any work, aside from chomping on food, makes it easy to get fat as fuck, and feel good while doing it.
I came to this theory when I was thinking of the extreme passion a severely obese person must have. They've allowed their love of eating to derail them from living a mobile life. To have that kind of passion, a passion where personal health is an afterthought, well they must be sexually consumed. The biggest problem is they are too enormous to fuck, so I guess they just keep on eating because they need to fulfill their sexual cravings. The vicious cycle?

Since I'm not a psychologist, I don't know of brain trickery to divert pleasure from food to pleasure from not having food. Maybe there could be a pill where a person orgasms from walking, so they just fucking want to walk all the time. No time to eat because they are on a 10 hour pleasure path. That would really slim down the population. If you want to be addicted to drugs, food or sex, go ahead, it's your own damn life. But, like seeing crack heads or prostitutes, it's sad to see a severely obese person because it is like looking at death. I don't think everyone needs to look fit. Look at LA. The stupidity must be noxious to an intellectual. But lethally fat isn't painting to good a portrait of intellect either. Even if the pleasure pill could cure extreme obesity, I doubt it'd make it to the market. The FDA does't want people to get better if it means there will be a loss in spending somewhere else. How will they make up for all that unsought food? I guess severely obese people are fucked, which is exactly what this fat theory thinks they want. (not the same kind of fucked :( )

The Sound of A Retelling

Doe a deer...

My mom, Kiki and I were watching The Sound of Music. Kiki started going crazy, trying to do back flips off the couch. I assumed she was getting overtired since it was close to 9 pm. The movie went to intermission and I took Kiki to bed. I accidentally fell asleep with her so I missed the second half of the movie.
The next morning, my mom came downstairs and poured herself a cup of coffee. She was exceptionally sing songy and attributed it to the movie she began praising immediately. After sitting with her cup of Joe she said, "Alicia, you must watch the rest of the movie." Then, told me the second half in such detail it exceeded the actual length of the film.
As I was making breakfast for the kids, surfing the web and drinking coffee to keep awake, I listened to how the Von Trapp family left Austria with sound effects and best attempts at singing the songs.
At times I found myself laughing out loud from this hilariously unnecessary retelling, but my mom thought I was laughing at the humorous story line, and would say, "I know, Alicia. It's that great."

I really enjoyed the first half of The Sound of Music. My only complaint is Friedrich von Trapp's performance seemed a bit over the top. I'm looking forward to the second half of the movie, but I need to wait a couple months to forget a good portion of what my mom told me. The closing punchline will never escape my memory because of my moms reenactment of nuns holding up wires they stole from nazi cars, immobilizing them and allowing the Von Trapps to successfully escape. Watching my mom mimic the nuns, her shoulders up high with her hands in front like a kitten on its hind legs, was so good she could have easily played Friedrich. She'd need some singing lessons though.

Bird Lady

The Fish Lady

I am on a two year quest to find a babysitter. Our old babysitter was an anomaly who replied to every text, and loved taking jobs. A shopaholic whose expensive purse collection wasn't fully funded by her day job as a preschool teacher, she had the ambitious workaholic attitude capitalists wish all consumers had. Her love of shopping was a plus for Kiki who responds very well to fancy dressed, good looking people. If someone shows up in a skirt with dangling earrings she happily waves goodbye to me, but if they are wearing jeans with their hair sloppily thrown in a bun she clings to my leg and screams as I leave the house (which is strange because my daily uniform is the latter).

When my reliable, pretty, and workaholic babysitter informed me she was marrying her boyfriend who joined the NAVY and moving across the country to North Carolina I congratulated her and gave her a hug, but cried inside.
Since then, I ask people with teenage daughters if their daughter babysits. The parents always reply, "Yes, my daughter is great with kids, and she loves to babysit." Then, after I text or call this potential lifesaver, she never replies. Stone walled by the teenage girl. I am starting to feel like the frumpy, smart, dork in a coming-of-age movie.
I am not be deterred in my efforts. Lately, I approach nannies at parks to ask if they are interested in babysitting at nights. I asked the lifeguard at the swimming pool. It is such a great gig; I leave after George is asleep, and I pay them $15 an hour. They can make $60 watching cartoons and laughing with a three year old.
The potential sitters always tell me, "yes, I like babysitting," but then don't respond to my phone calls and text messages. I hope my desperation doesn't lead me to seek out a half assed child care provider. I will find a suitable lady, someone marvelous, like Mary Poppins.
We watch Mary Poppins frequently and I am beginning to understand the nanny culture of upper classes. How wonderful to keep your kids at an arms distance. It can only make the child love you more because they know how short their time is with you. The nanny has to deal with all the grunt work, and the parents get the kids when they're captivated, attempting to gain more of their parents' affection by being smart, funny and well mannered.
Surely, the parents miss out on heart warming times, like sing-a-longs in the car, or reading fifty books on the couch while guzzling coffee, or going grocery shopping and explaining that fruit snacks are the worst possible thing a person can eat while they scream and cry in disbelief.

We watched Mary Poppins last week at my parents' house. My dad stood behind the couch as Mary sang "Feed The Birds," then my dad asked sadly, "Is the bird lady going to die?"
Maybe its the nurturer in me, now that I'm a mother/full time nanny, but I gently informed my dad, "Eventually. We all die. But the bird lady lives through this movie." Worried it was a lot for him to digest, I suggested a spoonful of sugar. Then I rummaged through the cabinets and tossed him a bag of fruit snacks. Like a boss!

Osborne Trumped Perez

Maid To Order

I read Kelly Osborne said some racist shit on a faux news shows. It's the kind of show I call The Loudest Diarrhea Mouth Wins because it's a roundtable of people who are on extreme doses of Adderall shouting passionately regardless of logic or research.
Kelly Osborne thinks Trump should rethink sending illegal Latinos out of the country because then he will have to clean his own toilet. Wowza Kelly, did you just give away a bit of information about yourself? Now I'm skeptical Kelly has a couple slaves chained up in her gothic castle.
First of all Trump is so damn rich he is not hiring illegals, and based on his disdain for them, assumes they are all murderous thieves and wouldn't let them in his house. Trump is probably paying top dollar and hiring Merry Maids. He doesn't need to take advantage of illegals or bother finding a Groupon if he wants his toilets cleaned legally and cheap.

It wasn't shocking to hear Osborne sound like a privileged racist. What I find surprising is that Rosie Perez, another roundtable member, had to issue an apology to Osborne for confronting her on saying Latinos are the country's toilet cleaners and we'd be very sad to see them go because we'd need to find a new immigrant to fill those very big shoes, or even worse, have to do it ourselves.
I had to check if The View is a NBC show because there is some Trump vs. NBC battle going on in the upper circles, and it would have been nice to attribute Perez's unnecessary apology as some political propaganda. They wanted to squash her indirect anti-anti-Trump comment.
I will be baffled by her apology for a while. Perhaps it will come out in Perez's autobiography one day. Maybe Osborne is banging a show producer and threw a baby fit about coming across as a purple haired loud mouthed racist. The theories are endless. I'm letting my imagination run with it.

Slow Your Roll

While I was jogging a car slowed down, pulling up next to me with the window down. Before I was able to enter full blown panic and search the jogging stroller for an effective weapon to kill this kidnapper, my neighbor hollered out the window, "Go, Ashley. Go!"
Relieved, I shouted thanks and gave her a wave. It was surprising to see my neighbor. I haven't seen her in months, and the last time I saw her she looked worse than my Grandfather on the day he died. I assumed she had died, and her husband stashed her body in the garage so he could continue collecting her social security checks.
Her method of pulling up next to me is criminal, inducing fight or flight mode while I'm totally defenseless and usually with small kids. Since she has risen from the dead, in my mind, I will give her a pass. Next time though, I can't be certain I'll be able to refrain from spraying mace in her face. A life lesson from my mother is to always assume strangers are going to rape and kill me. I'd say this rule of thumb has put me on edge throughout life.
Last night on Instagram I read a post with the hashtag Bye Felicia. I googled "Bye Felicia" and learned its an expression used when someone you don't care about is leaving. My neighbor has called me Ashley for the last three years, and I've never corrected her because I don't care what she calls me since the depth of our relationship is waving hands at each other every couple months. I am the Felicia to her "Bye Felicia," but next time she sneaks up on me in her Oldsmobile I will correct her. I suppose the awkwardness, and the unlikeliness that she will remember Alicia, will make it so she never wants to pull over and say hello again. Non-violence wins again!

Being as paranoid as I am, I don't have any worries about the reverse situation; a pedestrian confronting me while I am in my car. My sister called me this afternoon, laughing as she told me how a man hollered at her while she was stopped at a red light. She was gnawing on her fingernail when she heard someone yell, "Hey Girl!! Stop chewing on your fingernails. That is a bad habit!"
She looked over and saw an older homeless man sitting on a stoop looking at her. She pulled her finger out of her mouth, and laughed loudly and smiled at the man for the friendly reminder. Then, they both said, "Bye Felicia," and she drove away (I made up that last part.)

Why Did I Say That?

Roller Coaster Ride of Reflection

A family friend was telling me about his newfound love of Electronic Music. He is eighty years old, and was smiling proudly as he said, "Oh, you haven't heard of this music? It's amazing. I think the average age of people at an EM show is 18. The median is probably 14."
I laughed at the thought of him bopping to the electronic beats like a sore thumb, and said, "Wow, you are pulling up the average."
Then he looked at me with eyes weighed down by dark bags, and flatly said, "Yah!"
With enthusiasm drained from his face, he said goodbye for the final time and left to go to the show.
I turned to my brother, and out of the corner of my mouth I said, "Why did I say that? Do you think that was rude? I was trying to be funny."
He started laughing behind a tight fist covering his mouth, and said, "No, don't worry about it."
I think he said don't worry so I'd let it go, rather than believe I was not rude, like pacifying someone who got drunk and embarrassed themselves by telling them, "It wasn't so bad."
Had I not noticed his excitement flatline after my joke, I wouldn't have wasted a thought considering if it had hurt his feelings. Instead, I spent the next couple days, and likely the rest of my life when this man's name come up, thinking about my awful joke.

Once I heard a comedian ask, "Did you ever do something awkward... and then think about it for the next seven years?" I laughed so hard, and thought, "Yes, all the time!" It's baffling, the endless space in my head for resonating feelings of acting like an asshole.
Later that night a relative started acting like an asshole when we sat down for dinner. He was probably shit faced, but since he normally speaks at megaphone volume it's hard to tell. He went on a rant on how he finds my little sister to be gorgeous, skinny, and having the kindest eyes he's ever known. After I watched my sister turn red, I felt like getting up and stuffing a bread roll in his mouth. Many Thanksgivings ago he made everything go silent and awkward when he blared an announcement on the impressive size of her tits. As I sat in my chair praying this wouldn't escalate into Thanksgiving nightmare part two, I kept imagining myself punching him in the face. After a while he changed the subject, but had proven himself to be very drunk and unable to shut up.
I doubt he woke up the next day and thought, "Wow, I sure do sound like a creepy pervert when I start to hone in on my young relative at family parties. I bet it makes her feel awkward to have me objectifying her in front of a room full of people. People must hope I don't come to parties anymore because I can send a good time down the toilet just by opening my loud mouth."
Nope, nope, nope. He doesn't give a shit. He wakes up, goes and takes a shit, and moves on with the day like it is the first page in his book of life, living without any history following him.
I'd hate to take a page out of his book because then it would be empty, but being an asshole, an oblivious asshole, might feel pretty good.