Snap Out Of It

Thursday, George and I had a really slow-paced day. Our intention was to clean the house, but I got caught up in a cyber loop that was soporific I had little strength to do much of anything but complain about how sluggish I felt.
By the afternoon, I perked up a bit. It helped that I stopped eating leftover garlic pizza and peanut butter cups. After dinner, I got dressed to go do a tutoring job, and headed out.

After making it to my student's neighborhood in record time because I sped in the carpool lane, completely absent minded to the fact that I was not driving with another passenger, I had a couple minutes to kill, so I decided to get a latte at Starbucks drive-thru.
After pulling up to the student's house, I had half the cup, and figured I'd just chug the rest so I wouldn't have to bring my cup inside the house, a cup that would be empty just a couple minutes after sitting down.
So I gulped, it was uncomfortable, but I was quickly down to just having a quarter of the drink left. At this point, I had committed to finishing the coffee before going in to the house, so as I started to sweat and my upper chest burned a bit from the hot liquid, I was not turning back, and bringing in my cup that now only contained a couple sips. I finished it with a second to spare, and quickly walked up to the house.
Her parents left to take the little brother to a basketball game. I was a little nervous the girl would morph into a new person in her parents absence. She'd pull out her smart phone and tell me she isn't listening to me and for me to quickly do her homework and get out of her house.
She didn't. She was still the shy nice person she always is, who occasionally gets a look on her face that says, "What the fuck are you talking about."
I was reading problems out loud before we'd work on them. These problems were overly wordy, so my narration was long-winded, and I'd catch her laughing to herself. I felt like I was back on radio, delivering news, but I just smiled a little and finished up the problem.
We made it through all her work, and I came home. As I changed into pajamas, and went into the bathroom to wash my face, I realized I forgot to brush my teeth that day.
I was delivering word problems with the passion of a bad stage actress, and probably had the most god awful smelling breath; latte on top of non-brushed teeth, with undertones of garlic. I couldn't help but snap out of the funk. I basically punched myself in the cheek, while shouting, get it together woman. I'm blaming my funk on eating McDonalds the day before, but it really could have been due to many other things; not sleeping enough, too much time online, a RHOBH overdose, or pizza breakfast. In the morning, I'll make a double of my breakfast shot; spinach, garlic, fish oil swirl. That will definitely energize me, but my breath will probably still be disastrous.

Brush your teeth, batch

Bitches in High School, Bitches in RHOBH

George gets it, and he's just 2 years old.

George and I are eating leftover pizza and garlic cloves this morning while watching Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, procrastinating cleaning our ramshackle house.
When Erika Girardi discusses why she doesn't have a group of close lady friends to Katherine, she was being honest. There are people that have their girl gang, and there are people who don't. When a group of women shit all over you in middle school or high school, it has lasting effects. I can understand what she means. The movie Mean Girls exists for a reason, there are real-life groups of Mean Girls that act like vicious turds when together. Independently, they could be genuine sweet dear pals, but for some reason, in the group dynamic, shit-talking becomes a source of empowerment.

So after Katherine absorbs Erika's heart felt reason for not having a girl gang, she turns around and mocks her to the RHOBH bitch-core, sans the ano-trout, Lisa R, by saying, "She shed 6 tears, and then talked about how Lisa V is the silent shit disturber."
Eileen, had the sense to know Katherine was acting like a mean girl, and did Erika a favor by turning the conversation away from her, and to her personal problems with Vanderpump.

And with that, Eileen gets promoted out of the bitch-core, to be with the women who are not deranged when in the female pack, Yolanda and Erika. I'm not sure what it is that makes Kyle go from a seemingly normal person to a hardcore asshole when she's engaged in a clique. Her poor sister took the brunt of it the last few years, so I suppose thats why she tried to single out Yolanda this season.
Hey Kyle, we all saw you shit talking Yolanda's kids at your stupid-ass ritzy non-barbeque, so stop pretending your an innocent bystander. Kyle implied Yolanda's Lyme's symptoms were the result of depression rather than a legitimate illness. She is a gossip, and this makes the ano-trout, Remmi, pleased till the ends because they can cruelly say wild, hurtful things about people and then wipe their hands of it with an, "I'm sorry, but..."

Gossips are the worst, and sometimes it is easy to fall under the spell of shit-talking but keep in mind, gossips pay that shit forward, so they'll air all your dirty laundry to the next listening ear. One of my favorite quotes is, "Great minds discuss ideas, average minds discuss events, and simple minds discuss people." by Eleanor Roosevelt. I'm not sure what that means about my RHOBH analysis (please don't be simple minded) but I'm taking from this episode a bigger meaning; sensitive people are often ridiculed by groups, but they are insightful, creative, observant and decent people with good hearts, and when things turn mean in the group environment, go ahead and defend appropriately, but exit stage left since gossips lack two thing, common sense and decency.

Get up, George. We have toilets to clean.

The big short

Big, Medium and Small

At the end of The Big Short, Ryan Gosling blah blah blahs, and the credits roll, where we see a written summary of the main characters' since coming out rich-as-fuck from the bank collapse and market crash.

We learn one-eyed Christian Bale lost his love of making money because that shit comes too easy for him. It's like taking candy from a baby. Anyways, now he's only interested in one thing, buying, trading and selling water. 

This had me thinking, so what's the big hoax going to be about water in ten years. I drive to LA a couple times a year, and the I-5 is decorated with many billboards advocating farmers' rights, begging for water, and pointing out the ridiculous levels of residential water.
In my mind, the drought has become a media driven entity, where I don't see much ground level difference. Last summer on my street, for example, there were houses with brown lawns, and houses with green lawns. It was pretty clear who was watering their lawn with disregard to the drought crisis.  If, in fact, we were coming to a point where California dries up, then why wouldn't there be a mandatory no-lawn-water law? It seems like the most pointless waste of water if in dire straights.

I told my bother my drought-hoax theory, "Matt, I think that the drought is perhaps an excuse for the exchange of water rights. Farmers are forced to sell them to LA, and then their farm land will be sold off for cheap. This will lead way to a fuck ton of wide open spaces in central California to be developed, and the billions pour into the pockets of developers as these new cities are created to accommodate California's population."
Matt said, "California's the 8th largest economy in the world, and their main resource is agriculture, so why would they push out industrialized farming."

"I have been wondering that too. What would fill the void?"
Maybe the goal is to push industrialized farming South or East, even possibly to Mexico and Central America, although, relying on another country for our food source seems like a bad idea. Perhaps, after realizing that sending US work overseas left the population undignified and hapless,  factory work will come back to the US, and these California cities will be the centralized site of work.

Then I went on to explain the lack of concern regarding residential lawn-watering, and he said, "No, dude, I heard a story on NPR, about people in the Oakland Hills being fined for watering."
"NPR! NPR! Matt, you can't trust NPR! Of course, they will be a main source of propaganda."
He called me Glen Beck.

The big short was a good film, sad really, capturing the helplessness and carelessness of people. But it had to add the paprika, as we say in the potato salad business. They sprinkled on some color simply for show. The gratuitous stripper scene was, well, really the cheapest trick ever at getting tits on screen.

It wasn't even as if Steve Carell's character needed to be butched up, he never came across as gay, so why the reaffirming of his manliness. His side-kick was pretty smoking hot, all angry and shit while tapping a baseball bat in his hand. So perhaps the tits in Carrel's face was to demonstrate Carell wasn't under the spell of his hot-agro sidekick.

I don't know. I'll just add that to the list of things to think about. That can go on the long list, and California's new landscape goes on the short list.

Modern Girl, Gender Solid

A book slut threesome. (In your dreams)

This morning I woke up from a sex dream with Carrie Brownstein. Due to an influx in Brownstein media I think I've developed a bit of a crush on her. I recently finished Transparent season 2, I am reading Hunger Makes Me A Modern Girl, leading me to listen to a lot of Sleater-Kinney, and Portlandia sometimes plays in the background at night when I'm working. I have a lot of stuff to get done today, like run through my powerpoint and write up a quiz, and don't have time to spend wondering if I'm a lesbian.
I think this might fall under what millennials call, Gender Fluid. However, I don't have any question about my gender, it's more of a question of who I'm fucking's gender. I am Woman, thank you very much, and I have a nice wet hole, that couples as a partial mitten after waking from sex dreams, to prove it.
Maybe I can  modify today's lecture. "Class, today we will lecture on Subjective Probability, then lets make a prediction of the probability Professor Alicia is a lesbian."
All their hands shoot up.
"And no one is allowed to say 'gender fluid'."
Their hands start to drop, slowly like leaves from a tree, except for the lady in the back of the room, whose closer to my age than the other students.
"Umm, professor, could your love of oversized suit jackets factor into our analysis?"
"YES! Very good. Were moving in the right direction, Elsie!"

I'll probably finish Hunger Makes Me A Modern Girl tonight, then I'm moving on to the next book in my Tsundoku, After Many A Summer Dies A Swan by Aldous Huxley. It has been sitting on my bedside table for a while so I've built up quite a story for Mr. Sexy-pants Huxley. I'll caress the cover a bit before diving in to the pages. Maybe my sex dream with Aldous will play out like this, he's perched on a stage with an audience of people screaming and applauding him. I tear through the crowd like I'm hacking down sugar cane with a machete. The people I'm passing are pulling at my clothes and hair. Once I get to the base of the stage, I crawl up and over to Huxley, where I lay my head on his lap. At this point my hair is ratted to a giant cotton candy cloud on my head, and my clothes have been shredded to a barely-there bikini. It helps that I started out wearing head-to-toe leopard print.
Then I look into his eyes, and say, "Me Alicia. You Aldous. Take me to your cave. Lets fuck and then Barbecue a steak."
Then he grunts, and tosses me over his shoulder and we walk off stage to live out the rest of the story.

At this point, you might be thinking, "Alicia, you are reeeeee..."
And I'm going to stop you, "Don't say it, fucker. That shit's not politically correct! I'm personality fluid."

The New Yorker Presents

I started The New Yorker Presents on Amazon Prime. I was laughing through the 50 cups of coffee segment, and thought the Truman Show Syndrome was interesting. I might suffer from it a bit. When they mentioned people convinced their neighbors are vampires, well, I felt certain two years ago that devil worshippers lived in the house next door, and they were plotting against my kids and me. Sleep deprivation, it does things to a person. Thankfully, they moved out, but unfortunately, I'm not too sure if I've recovered mentally by getting back on an eight-hours-a-night sleep schedule, or if I was right, and when they moved away so did my worries.
I had to quit The New Yorker Presents when a segment began, starting out with, "Blah, blah, blah. Terrorists. Terrorists. FBI knew. Terrorists. Blah, blah, blah."
I rolled my eyes, and turned it off, and returned to the boring, non confrontational, white noise of House Hunters International.

I like The New Yorker magazine, most of the time. I am a subscriber, but I can honestly say, the magazine pisses me off as much as it makes me happy. The articles that are good, are really good, but the ones that are bad, they keep me awake at night, fuming over the content.
I read an a article about an Iranian woman who had her son taken away by CPS because she was a truly shit parent. She left her kid, at home, all alone, in his crib, with a pack of crackers and a Spiderman toy, and went to work. The New Yorker, in no less than 100,000 words, made the case that the mom was being unfairly treated by CPS because of her race, and she had no where to turn because she lived an isolated life, so really she was in between a rock and a hard place; leave her baby at home, all alone, for twelve hours, or loose her job. That issue turned into my favorite fly swatter.
Another article that really got my heart pumping was about the lawyer who defended the youngest brother in the Boston Marathon bombing duo. The article, instead of toeing the "Death Penalty is always wrong" line, went in a fucked up direction where they were trying to make it seem like this terrible murderous monster was not as bad as a death sentence warrants. Instead of arguing that the death penalty is wrong, they tried to argue that a dude who set a bomb off in a crowded public space wasn't sooooo bad, it was his brother, and he's an immigrant, and he had to live in a two bedroom apartment. It was all so fucking contrived, and beside the point. We do not need to sympathize for a monster when refining the moral debate on death penalty. They are disjoint matters, and if the point of the article was to highlight a woman's efforts in over turning the death penalty, it was lost, buried in their bleeding heart burble.

Anyways, The New Yorker can really piss me off, but I think thats why I'm a loyal subscriber. It's good to read irritating shit. People who only ever read things they are in agreement with are BORING. And because of that, I'm going to watch the rest of The New Yorker Presents, my curiosity will get the best of me.
The New Yorker is cripplingly liberal, making it the mirror image of Fox News. Today's political landscape is showing us Democrats and Republicans are dying parties, and were seeing the emergence of new parties, Democratic Socialism and whatever Trump's got going on. The New Yorker is a party liner, which is obnoxious, but in ten years, I'll likely find myself griping about them being too Democratic Socialist. I will have to rely on House Hunters International during those times too. That's is, if the vampires haven't orchestrated it's demise by then.

It's A Boy

The 2nd time, I looked like I was having twins. An improvement.

Both of my sisters are pregnant, and the excitement is boiling over with their due dates approaching. My older sister is 8 months pregnant, and this past week she has been approached twice by strangers who seem clairvoyant as they tell her about the baby and upcoming birth.
My sister works in health care, so the first person she spoke with was a patient. The lady told my sister she is having a boy, she can tell the baby is moving down into position, and the birth will be relatively easy. She believes the baby will be a boy because my sister is vibrant, smiling a lot, and has such shiny hair. The lady took it a step further by discussing my other sister's pregnancy, who resides on the other side of the US, giving details about her upcoming birth.
Lacey didn't really take this lady too seriously, but I was intrigued by her all knowingness, I had to get details. "What was she like?" I asked.
My sister said, in a much more medical way, that the lady is a junkie on the mend. I never really thought about it, but I see how someone with unrecognized psychic abilities would turn to drugs and alcohol. They'd be picking up on all these added emotions or images, and along with the good comes the bad, and be overwhelmed by the sadness and crave the relief drugs provide, dulling receptors.

The second person Lacey spoke with is an eighty year old man who said he could tell she is having a boy because she has such a strong, loud voice. He said he delivered his best friend's baby in 1968. Guessing accurately on the baby's gender, given the odds, doesn't really make him a psychic, but his confidence in the guess was impressive. Thats what delivering a friend's baby in an emergency will get you.

My sister looks really good. When I was pregnant with Kiki I spiraled from adorable Zoey Deschanel hipster looking gal to, umm, well, I don't want to say it because it could come out as ugliest.
My office friend Tiqua told me a month in that I should not be showing so early on, and I better watch it or I'll turn into a blimp. She was speaking from her personal experience, but I didn't listen because I'm on my own journey. A month later, I developed clinical acne from my hormones going fucking crazy, and Tiqua said, "You're having a girl. I can tell. She stole your beauty."
I didn't know the baby's gender then, but Tiqua was right. I told her on the elevator after finding out, and she laughed, in an I-told-you-so moment. I completed her prophecy by gaining over seventy pounds. The last few weeks of the pregnancy, I busted the seams on most of my maternity pants. The week before I gave birth, I was told by a dickhead, middle-aged man at 7-11 that I looked like I was having triplets.
A year after my daughter was born, I returned to my old self, and the next week I found out I was pregnant again. I decided I'd do things differently the second time around. I wasn't going to eat a giant burrito and follow it up with a pint of ice cream every night, and I succeeded in only gaining fifty pounds. I was terrified expecting the the zits to pop up, and when they didn't come, I knew I was having a boy. My beauty remained in-tact.

If anyone asks me, "Are you having more kids?" I make a face like I'm going to barf, and scream, "Noooooooo!" because pregnancy, child birth and not sleeping for a year is rewarding, but very very hard. Secretly, I would have another one, but only if I knew for certain it'd be a girl, so Kiki could have a sister. That's not going to happen before my ovaries stop dropping eggs, so I'm very happy with what I've got. We've got our health, happiness, and good looks, even if it went dormant for a little while.

Talk Smart To Me

Say what? Say it again!

Yesterday, George and I were waiting in line at the grocery store to buy brussel sprouts. We just ate ice cream, and my stomach felt queasy, so I said to him, "My tummy hurts."
I was holding him in my arms, and he looked me in the eyes, put his hand on my cheek, and with pouty lips said at top volume, "Do you have diarrhea?"
People around us chuckled, which eased my embarrassment, but I made a critical mistake, and said to him, "Shhhhhh!"
George is my little shock-jock, and once he realized he struck a cord by shouting, "Do you have diarrhea?" he said it over and over again, until we were in the car.
A long time ago, when he said "fuck" after overhearing it, and all eyes locked in on him, he realized a fast way to captivate an audience was to do something naughty. That attention seeking appetite has become insatiable lately.
The silver-lining to his two year old Howard Stern persona is that I can write about it, and make funny jokes when talking to people.

Lately I'm not carving out the writing time I used to, and need to get back to a story I'm writing about my sister and I traipsing around Philadelphia for three days, guzzling beer and blowing off pent up steam. There was a time, we'll call it a rough patch, when I figured the silver lining to getting divorced would be dedicating my weekends, or every other weekend, to uninterrupted writing time. The not-so-silver-lining would be that I'd spend every other Christmas alone. My solution to that was having great, big, blended, family Christmases, where me, my new partner, ex, and his new partner would come together and have a great time, keeping the kids happy knowing neither of their producers has to spend the holiday alone, drinking heavily and chain smoking.
For being such a normal seeming person, I have anger mismanagement issues, and one thing that sets me off is that horrendous green monster, whose so hard to fight off, jealousy. So, although I'd like to maintain a positive disposition when faced with the new stepmom, I'd likely be sitting across from her, and without even being able to talk sense into myself, I'd hurl a bread roll at her head after she asks, "Could someone pass me the green beans?"
I'd spend hours hoping she develops a thyroid issue, gaining 200 pounds, not because I'd want to punish her, but because thats something that would really burn the kids' dad, and I'd want to punish him.

Me, I don't really have any beauty criteria when sizing someone up for potential soul-mate. I guess my husband, in this scenario he'd be the ex, would have to hope my new husband was stupid because I like my men big brained. I don't care if he's missing an eye, an arm, growing a tail or missing a dick. I'd just masturbate as he talked smart to me. Every night would be like a learning annex. I'd pet his shoulder, and nuzzle my cheek into his chest, and say, "Can you tell me about dark matter."
He'd get a look on his face, thinking, "again!" simultaneously annoyed and happy by my voracious appetite. Then I'd jerk off to his science lessons. "Say 'cosmic microwave radiation' again. Oh yeah!"

Wow, this went in a weird direction. Shock jock begets shock jock. Silver lining... I don't fucking know.

Throw Me A Bone, Dentist

A non-love note to my new dentist's office

Today I went to the dentist, and didn't even get my teeth cleaned. I had this on the books for months and was excited to get it over with, seeing how this was the first time I went to the dentist in five years.

When I walked into the dentist office I felt my stomach clench. It looked like a fucking spa, not a doctors office. The receptionist asked me, "Would you like some water?"

I shook my head no, anticipating the forty dollar added charge for a cup of tap water. She gave me a couple forms to fill out. The last form was a questionnaire asking the type of patient I am, ranging from doing the bare minimum to optimal, something I equate with willingness to mortgage your house for veneers, Invisalign, bleaching trays and a night guard.
The receptionist took me to a consultation room, and input the forms, as I did a whistle looking around the room, thinking, "Get a load of this place. The rent must be a fortune. Flat screen TVs all over the place. If there wasn't such cheap DIY artwork on the walls, I'd think I was at Massage Envy."

After the check-in paperwork, I was brought back to an examination room. A technician pulled out a professional grade camera, with a long lens, and took around forty photos of my face, profile and teeth, all the time saying, "Great. You're so photogenic," like I was a nervous amateur model. After the photos, she took my x-rays and told me the doctor was coming to talk to me about treatment options. 

I asked, "Aren't you cleaning my teeth?" thinking she was the hygienist.

She laughed, "Oh, not today. We just want to tell you all your treatment options," smiling like it's completely normal to waste half a day at the dentists office.

The dentist started with some chatter, and I complimented him on the calm ambiance of his clinic. He said, "Thats what we aim for. Some people have such bad anxiety about the densit. We also offer sedation dentistry, or sleep dentistry, where you're under sedation during your dental work."
While the dentist was poking around in my mouth, I nearly dozed off to take a nice restoring power nap, so I can say, aside from a dentist scamming me with ridiculous up charges, I don't have anxiety about dental work. Being sedated while a man is poking around in my mouth gives me anxiety. Wake up with a dick in my ear, and that's best case scenario.

After the dentist checked my teeth, I was taken back to the consultation room. On the walk back, I rolled my eyes, I'm not getting a fucking boob job here, whats with the damn circus. Another girl went through the laundry list of shit the dentist noted when poking around in my mouth. After the costs were laid out, I let her know I was taking care of my cavities and the teeth cleaning.  She looked at me disappointed, a bare-minimum type of patient. 

My Nickname is Snickerdoodle

Hair Flip

I had a Superbowl party and didn't watch even one second of the game. It wasn't because I was face deep in Buffalo Chicken Dip, but because someone has to watch the children. I spent most of the time outside with another mom, as the kids ran around.
A nine year old girl came with her mom. She wasn't very interested in the game, and bounced around from watching the game, to outside, to the playroom, or chatting by the food buffet.
I rarely find myself in the company of a nine year old girl, but she was absolutely delightful. The first thing that came out of her mouth was fabulous, like so fabulous it sounded like something a contestant on RuPaul's Drag Race would say.
Her mom put some cookies and crackers on the table and said, "Do you like Snickerdoodles, Kiki?"
Kiki, being the little ray of sunshine that she is, said, "No, I don't!"
Then my friend said, "They are Sara's favorite," pointing to her nine year old.
After which, Sara said, "My nickname is Snickerdoodle," and flipped her hair off her shoulder to her back.
Sara and I hit it off like a house on fire. Sara talked about herself, and her dog, for an hour straight. She told me how good she is at making flowers out of tissue paper, and was visibly disappointed when I told her I didn't have any tissue paper for her to show me.
It was sad to see her go, "Please, don't leave, Snickerdoodle! I don't want to go back to talking about boring things adults talk about. I can't talk about the weather, anymore! I don't want to talk about Donald Trump! Please, don't go. I can't talk about gas prices, summer vacations or the last bout of the flu. Tell me more about the flowers, or your dog who ate half a fake Christmas tree. SNICKERDOODLE!!!!"

Real Housewives Say Cunt

Keep on moving, cunt

Last night I watched this week's Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I was shredding chicken for my Buffalo chicken dip when Katherine put on her schoolmarm cap, and gave Erika a talking to on why she shouldn't say the word cunt. She kept saying, "You're too pretty to say such an ugly word. You're too pretty to say that awful word."
I said something like that to Kingsley once when she was crying after I wouldn't let her lick my deodorant stick. I think I said, "You're too pretty to cry like that."
After I said it, I felt stupid. It's one of those old school things moms say to reinforce submissiveness through flattery. She didn't fall for such a stupid tactic anyways, and screamed louder.

Today, while I was cleaning the house in preparation of Buffalo Chicken Dip Day, the kids played outside. The weather was perfect, and they sat on lawn chairs drinking juice in the sunshine.
I was finishing up the dishes and Kiki yelled, "Moooooom! G is saying, 'Fucking Bridges.'"
In my head I'm thinking, "The neighbors. The neighbors just heard my four year old say fuck."
I dried my hands on the towel and power walked outside, and said in a low voice, "Kiki, ignore George when he talks that way. He only does it for attention."
Then I looked over at George who was smiling, very happy with himself, and swinging his legs in delight. Then I made a phone call to the tutoring company I work for. I explained to them that I can't continue working for them unless they pay me more. They would not budge, and I sense they will likely be involved in future lawsuits because of how they won't be able to fulfill client needs based on undercutting tutors.
Basically, their business model focuses on front end. They charge the client a minimum of $65 an hour for a tutor, and they pay the tutor $20 an hour. The $45 dollars an hour paid to the tutoring company, is allocated to marketing and sales, and the company neglects customer retention and quality.
People who are looking for Statistics and math tutors are usually desperate because if your high school kid fails math, they won't get accepted to a four year university. I could tell the tutor representative I was talking to had her bitch breakfast flakes, and I was about five seconds from starting my period, so we were having a discussion that was no nonsense and efficient. She told me I'm already on the high end of their pay scale, and I can't be paid as much as I'm requesting, which was in no way outlandish, leaving the company with 50% of the fee. I had to give my two weeks notice. I don't see how their business model will be able to sustain the fact that I can reenact Jerry McGuire, and rattle my briefcase while shouting, "Whose coming with me?!" to kids who are finally starting to understand shit they usually cry through.

There are serious issues with public schools, and because of this I'm thinking I will have to pay to put my kids through a montessori education, and then send them to after school Hagwons like Kumon, to make sure they know their math. It's like paying for your kid to go to two private schools. Even if I have to tutor after work to pay for their secondary education, I won't go back to this company because they are cunts, big stinky cunts.

After eating my way through the Superbowl, I'm so fucking full, I could seriously explode. I ate four pieces of cake, a couple brownies, a pork sandwich, chili and like two pounds of Buffalo Chicken Dip. So I have to watch the new X-files in my chonies and moan to promote digestion. No one's going to lecture me on being too pretty to say cunt. As it should be.

Buffalo Chicken Dip Day

Tomorrow is Buffalo Chicken Dip Day, also known as Superbowl Sunday. It's one of those weird holidays, where the party overshadows the actual event being celebrated, a smidgen like Christmas. So what are we actually celebrating, Buffalo Chicken Dip or boring ol' football?
The Superbowl is the best eating day of the year, and even though I find football to be an utter waste of time, the only kind of TV that can make me fall asleep, I spend a lot of the year dreaming about the holiday because of the marvelous spread of food favorites. The Pièce de résistance on our Superbowl buffet line will be buffalo chicken dip, although some people (I call them fools!) might believe otherwise. Next were making pulled pork, chili, and a vat of guacamole. It's going to be a gut busting afternoon, and I plan on watching zero minutes of TV.

So why not make Buffalo Chicken Dip year round? Well, aside from the lack of consideration it'd be to the exit hole, it would be sacrilegious, like making cranberry sauce in July. No one eats Cranberry sauce unless its Thanksgiving. Similarly, with stuffing or pumpkin pie. The short five week window from Thanksgiving to Christmas is a free for all, and whenever presented with, say pumpkin pie, one must say, "I'll take two pieces, because this might be my last opportunity until next year." Since Superbowl food is extremely glutinous, see bacon-wrapped tater tots or bacon-wrapped Sriracha onion rings or bacon-wrapped bacon, eating it in greater frequency than once a year would likely be lethal, causing arteries to close up from pig fat after just five days.

That fucking guy who made the Super Size Me documentary should try and eat Superbowl buffet for five hours a day for a month. In Super Size me he barfs after his first meal (puss-face, btw.) Imagine him after his first Super Bowl party. He'd be immobile, shit himself, in the corner with a frozen smile, drooling, while looking at the TV, laughing at a commercial where a woman with big tits jumps up and down screaming go-daddy.com, never once thinking, "Why the fuck is that funny?' Just laughing, without any questioning, because he knows it was intended to be a joke, no mater how off-mark it ended up being.

If we ate like Superbowl Sunday everyday, we'd all just be sad people. It'd be hard to tell from the frozen smile, but surely the shit stench would give notice.

The Neighborhood

Learned where to drop the land mines

My neighbors had a party in their driveway. I guess, because it has the best sun exposure during that time of day. They set up lawn chairs and a canopy, and mingled. Kiki occasionally ran to my room, stood on the bed, and threw open the curtains to look at the crowd. She'd rap on the window, shouting, "The neighbors are having a party."
Horrified by the sudden audience, I'd crouch low, under the window, and plead, "Leave them alone. Stop doing that." Then she'd jump a bit, and eventually plop down on the mattress, out of sight from the neighbors.
The last time the neighbors had a party, I woke up to screaming and a fight breaking out around 11pm. The screaming didn't stop till well after midnight, and by that point I realized this was the scene of drunkenness rather than horrible violence. If someone was going to truly bring a beat down, then it would last much shorter than an hour and a half. So when the guy who seemed to not want to go home, even after being attacked by what sounded like a group of fifteen people, started shouting, "I'm going to get my gun, and come back to shoot all you people!"
I took Kiki and headed to the back room to sleep. The next day when I saw my other neighbors we discussed the spectacle. Both of them took guard of their house. Grabbing a baseball bat, sitting on the front porch. I was impressed by their bravery, and desire to get involved in a rather ridiculous situation, and said, "Really! I went and hid in the back bedroom."
They both had the sense to know that drunky-pants couldn't even manage to get himself home, based on his lingering, so even if he left a Hansel and Gretel trail of joints and Coors Light, he wasn't making it back to shoot anyone.

Last night I watched Straight Outta Compton. Aside from feminist politics, I found the film to be good. Personal bubbles need to be confronted with truths about other ways of life, ways that are hidden from mainstream media. NWA brought attention to the people left abandoned and harassed by the government. The fearlessness of the group was what stood out to me the most. Violence would erupt from out of nowhere, like riding an escalator to the building lobby, and everyone just starts beating the shit out of each other. No one runs to go and hide in the bathroom stall, or stands very still next to a ficus plant hoping to blend in.
Ice Cube is The Man, not taking shit from the systems constructed to take complete advantage of his art. I resolved their inhibitions to engage in conflict is because they grew up in a war zone. There is no hesitation, no fear. For the excessive levels of violence, I was surprised how easily resolution and forgiveness were accomplished. Forgiveness was not something the members of NWA withheld from each other and maybe it is because they have a deeper understanding of the delicacy of life, and their bond was so strong, much like solders who fight in the same unit.

The nineties was an eye opening time, and the following 2000's have been more eyes-half-massed. There has been a shift in coverage, where the ghettos are not reported on as much as they should, and this lack of coverage by the media, leave troubled cities to fend for themselves.
Take Flint, MI where a pediatrician compared lead levels in children to past data, and discovered an increase in lead poisoning, leading to exposing the city's negligence and disregard for its citizens. Flint, MI is one of the top 25 most dangerous cities in the US, and has an unreliable government to protect it. They are left to suffer, and the celebrities who drop flats of clean water into their neighborhoods get more publicity than the actual crime, disasters to follow, and how this wrong will be made right. I'm sure shamelessly greedy attorneys are lining the streets looking to take advantage of people who need to seek retribution for damages, and in the end their fees will eat up the entire hefty settlement, and citizens will be left even worse off. There is not protection from the aftermath, but a continuation of wrong doing. Attorneys will buy more vacation homes, Leonardo DiCaprio will send Flint, MI some clean water, and The media will only cover the ghettos when making Top 10 Worst Cities in the US to live in lists. NWA brought a voice to a group of people who were not being heard, and it was a voice that came from within, not from an outsider, or an observer.

My neighborhood is far from a ghetto, but there are still things that piss me off. Like the people across the street having rowdy parties, or the next door neighbors crack head grandkids, who don't ever seem intent on moving into their own place. I show my fearlessness when eating raw garlic cloves, and don't have to worry about tainted water, I think. I will always avoid confrontation with my neighbors who let their gross dog shit on my front lawn, and alleviate the problem by letting my lawn guy deal with it, walking on the cemented path to the mailbox, and refraining from having get togethers in my driveway. And my neighbors, unbeknownst to them, do not have me as an ally. I will not go into battle for them, but run to the back of my house and hide. They can rely on the other neighbors around us, the one's who don't have land mines of dog doo in their front yard.