One small leap for hicks; One giant leap backwards for women's rights.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
I love when people send me links. It gives me the freedom to share them without the obligatory assumption of, "Yes, I just looked up doggy sex toys." Phew! With no further ado, behold a real life, honest to G-d, canine sex toy:
And, as if that weren't enough in the sick way humans personify their pets, I present to you the Dog Snuggy:
So, if I am following this correctly, you can wrap your dog up in felt, with the assumption that constricting felt with enhance his or her natural coat. And then, you can help your dog to reach it's more intimate moments by supplying it with a piece of plastic, with the assumption that thousands of years of evolution will fall by the wayside and these living, breathing creatures will no longer crave living, breathing creatures on a carnal level.
Do you want to know the irony? It's if you were to purchase both of these products, the only assumption that can be made is that you yourself will be cold and lonely.
Mojo's eyes are aglow with the frantic, fiendish fury that fuels his everyday life. They're only cute until you realize that they are stepping on the forbidden "guest bed," and staring at me confused and concerned as I shriek to no avail. That's the fury that fuels my everyday life.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Maury: “Did you ever hear of 360 degree peer review pay method?"
Me: “No, but I kinda figured it out in the clearly labeled title."
Maury: “It's great! It's famous -- was pioneered by GM in the 60's, and it's the only pay method that has a statistical correlation to incidence of suicide."
Author and personal hero, Frank McCourt, passed away on July 19th, 2009 at 78 years old. I met his brother, fellow author Malachy McCourt when I was sixteen years old, and I met Frank about a year later. I loved hearing him speak, with his unmistakeable brogue and immensely rich personal history. The first time I read Angela's Ashes, I re-read it four times before I could even think to write a school paper on it. And I was so embarrassed to admit to my teacher, in a room filled with apathetic boredom, that a light was ignited inside of me and that I vowed to myself to appreciate this life more than I ever had.
If I could find that paper now, it would probably be personally edited to the point of mild excitement and decent review. I held back so much in high school, afraid to be more different than I always felt. Frank was a writer to had no airs, no hidden haikus and great morality. He was gritty, but sweet. Unfortunate and desperate, but prosperous and somehow satisfied. His writing was mystifying and I am so thankful that he felt as passionately about writing as I do about reading his work. It's hard to explain, but his imagery was transported through his beautiful choices of words in a way that seemed so unpretentious, I thought for a while it couldn't actually be as special as it was.
His one lasting influence on me will definitely be the way I see other people. Someone with an accent, what was their mother like? A man with white hair, what has he survived on this Earth? A woman with a scowl, what has been taken from her?
Friday, July 24, 2009
Me: “I can be your DD.”
Jordan: “Double date?”
Me: “What? Your designated driver!”
Jordan: “In Fort Lee, there’s no such thing as designated driver, we all learned how to drive drunk.”
Me: “I google searched DD. Three things came up. First thing: Designated Driver. Second thing: big breasts. Third thing: Darling Daughter. I am all of the above!”
Jordan: “Disgusting and horrible.”
Me: “You’re the one that thought I suggested we go on a double date….”
Thursday, July 23, 2009
I got sucked into a nature show last night, and it haunted me as I tossed and turned, and it's mortifying to admit the affect PBS has on me, but the truth will set me free! I hope. None of this is new, or news to me, but I feel renewed to help.
There are a handful of animals and locations that could draw me into to sit in front of channel three for more than a nanosecond. The animal most likely to get me to sit and watch would be any kind of bear. I like bears brown, and white, and mean, and cuddly, and you can barbecue it, boil it, broil it, bake it, saute it. There's uh, bear-kabobs, bear creole, bear gumbo. Pan fried, deep fried, stir-fried. There's pineapple bear, lemon bear, coconut bear, pepper bear, bear soup, bear stew, bear salad, bear and potatoes, bear burger, bear sandwich. Shit! Wrong diatribe!
In all seriousness, this special was about Grizzly Bears encountering Polar Bears, and how Polar Bears in this melting world of depleting ozone's and heartless former governor's of Alaska (you betcha!) are finding themselves misplaced and hungry. Ice caps are turning into muddy, grassy expanses with nothing but migrating Polar Bears and baby bears and the sound of my heart being viciously ripped apart as their bellies rumble. In this special I watched, Grizzlies are relatively unaffected by the changing weather, as they are following the patterns inbred into them. There are Polar Bears missing the fishing season where waters are filled with salmon, simply because they didn't know it was happening.
And so these Polar Bears pick through human garbage, trying to sustain their own lives whatever way possible. This one mama bear reached into a pile of burning garbage, where people lit their refuge in an effort to keep bears away, so that she could nourish herself enough to produce milk for her traveling companion: her baby. These bears are being shot at as they near civilization, the same world that ruins their life completely. Some are lucky enough to be trapped and kept in a holding prison until the cold season really takes over and they are put back into what's left of their habitat. I want to hug every person who made such a holding cell possible, and I want to hug the documentarian for not taping what the inside of these facilities look like, because I might have not slept at all last night.
I can't explain why I can see a mother bear struggling to feed its child, and I feel the same way I do as if that starving mother was a human. But my fitful sleep reminded me every thirty minutes or so that there are hungry moms and babies out there, and it doesn't matter to me who they are or what they look like or if they would maul my face for the fun of it if given the opportunity.
I ache to help.
Ah, summer. This is my father last summer, good old Rich, lounging by the pool. I often wonder what fellow pool loungers do with their summer time when the weather isn't as fair. Because me? I try to not peer outdoors, sit in front of an air conditioning vent, and day dream about a cool breeze and the colors of leaves turning gold.
This elusive season that has only peered out from it's humid veil of moisture a handful of times this 2009. There's been flash flooding, gray skies, never-ending rain, oppressive humidity, and did I mention gray skies and rain and humidity? And people wonder why the summer isn't my favorite season. I will let you in on a little secret. I hate oppressive heat; humidity and rain give me migraines; and gray skies make me feel so pleasant and happy that suicide sounds like a reasonable Sunday afternoon activity.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Rocco, Lourdes, Mercy, Apple, Moses, Bronx Mowgli, Sunday, Zuma, Kingston, Ammon, Romeo, Cash, Harlow, Ryder, Alabama Luella, Everly Bear all have one very lucky thing in common. Their parents can afford to send them to years and years and years of psychotherapy, which otherwise wouldn't have been needed if their parents weren't following suit in the latest trend of bizarre baby names. I like strange names, to be honest, but I think these parents should really consider what images come to mind with certain words.
MSG's put together this slideshow, and I got to see a handful of shots that I haven't seen before. (Of course, I've been way out of the loop lately.) There are just some word associations that don't add up to me. For instance....
When I think of Everly Bear, this image pops up:
But in reality, it's Anthony Kiedis's son. Anthony, you named your son EVERLY BEAR.
The one name that is right on the money is Kingston. Because who isn't a king when you look like Gavin Rossdale? Answer: Nobody.
I just love how this father of five actually had to spend an entire day arguing with his bank and credit card company to deny this charge. Because who doesn't spend thirty times the U.S. national debt over a nice dinner in Texas?
This is for the gymnast who can't/won't/shouldn't stretch in public.
* Do some stretching exercises
* Always warm up properly
* Do not attempt whilst inebriated
* Do not attempt on a full stomach
* Always dress in loose attire
* Check sturdiness of structures
* Push it to the extreme
* If you get the fear, go further
* Have a spotting partner with you
* Stay focused
* Think of the aesthetic
* Always carry a camera
* Document everything
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
I'm pretty excited about this virtual nose job website I stumbled upon, FaceTouchUp.com. Why, you ask? Because like every good Jewish girl, I have wondered what it would be like to augment my nose. That is NOT to say that I think Jewish girls need to change their noses more than anyone else, or that anyone should ever get their noses worked on. It's just that after a stereotype gets thrown in your face so many times, you can't help but wonder "What if?" What if my nose really is too big? What would I look like with a feature adjusted ever so slightly?
For the most part, I am anti-rhinoplasty. After seeing it performed on TV once, and almost throwing up, I knew it would never happen for me. But I always go back to the notion that I could have a daughter one day. How could I tell her she is beautiful and perfect and should feel comfortable in her own skin if she has the same nose I was born with and then changed, because I didn't like it? And let's not forget the lesson heard around the world: Jennifer Gray. Nobody puts Baby in the corner, but Baby disappeared, and Hollywood's put Jen in the corner for decades.
Dangling carrots are another thing though. It's easy to say no when it is cost prohibitive, but I couldn't say no when all I had to do was upload my picture!
Monday, July 20, 2009
Isn't it funny how a term of endearment suddenly lets otherwise forbidden terms to be used in describing loved ones? Like, "What a cute little smushy faced chubby baby boy you have there!" My friend Michele dubbed Mojo "Splintahhh," after the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles character "Splinter" the rat. And I was all, "Oh, you're calling him a rat?!? Just because you say it in a squeaky voice doesn't make it cute, dude."
Sadly, she isn't far off.
Friday, July 17, 2009
From my Aunt Leslie, sharing with me life's only two questions:
1) Should I get a dog?
2) Should I have a kid?
This reminds me of this time about 2 years ago, where I walked in to my couch shredded and white fluff covered every inch of my entrance and living room. And Marley, the perpetrator of destruction and all things costing me large amounts of money, was hiding in the corner. She couldn't have looked guiltier than if she had been O.J. himself, slipping on his murder glove in front of witnesses. Mojo, on the other hand, was sitting dead smack in the middle of the largest tear, with white stuff knotted around his face, completely oblivious to any yelling coming his way, because it was his sister that had done it all. My reaction? I laughed. I laughed as I picked up white stuff and as I was removing it from his fur. I laughed as Marley tentatively creeped out from her hiding position. A friend thought I was laughing, because I was looking to buy a new couch at that point anyway. But that wasn't it. There are times in your life where you either laugh, or you shoot yourself in the face with a rifle in your mouth as you jump off of a bridge into shark infested water. And I was too tired to look for sharks.
I think the only real question becomes: Is your couch or your TV more expensive?
Thursday, July 16, 2009
...to be TERRIFIED of:
I know, it sounds ridiculous, but if you happen to sitting on a gas-cylinder-based chair right now, to adjust height, don't write it off just yet. Or better, yet, throw it out.
On a slightly lighter note, look what these awful people put this baby cub through:
Jillian: “I just baught a pair of 300 glasses haha there awesome I feel like an idiot but my other ones broke. There Gucci aviators they look good on me.”
**I will not comment on this, as I did not reply to this when it actually happened. I can’t. I love her too much to comment. I won’t say a thing. Nope.**
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
I would like to warn you that the picture at the bottom of the post, found below, is horrifying.
Quoted from PAWNATION:
Smokey, a 12-week-old chihuahua puppy, ended up with a large barbecue fork in his brain after the utensil snapped in half on the grill, flew through the air, and impaled the poor puppy's head, reports the Telegraph. The terrified pup then ran off into the woods, where he hid for two days.A sitting toddler could have easily been the victim, and either way, I truly believe that legal action should be brought against the manufacturer of such cheap and faulty utensils. We're not talking about a bent spoon, but rather, a loose double bladed weapon. It's scary. And another thing to add onto my list of everyday fears.
When his owner Hughie Wagers finally found him, Smokey was taken straight to the Cumberland Valley Animal Hospital, in London, Kentucky, where Michelle Duncum was on duty. Duncum said, "When he brought him in we couldn't believe our eyes."
X-rays showed that the fork was actually in the dog's brain, so the vet, Dr. Keaton Smith, only gave Smokey a 50/50 chance of surviving its removal. The operation itself only took about 30 seconds -- they just shaved Smokey's head and pulled the fork out. Thankfully the pint-sized pup is recovering wonderfully.
Is there anything more rustic and inviting than a seafood shack with an open window to order through and a view of the ocean? Tully's, in Hampton Bays, NY, is open year round and it is one of those places that makes you experience eastern New York. My father is ordering some lobster bisque, and next time I go, I'll be more adventurous. I'm not sure why this sounds like an advertisement, but it's more of a summer memory solidifying itself in time.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
I've prided myself, until now, on being soley addicted to non-Real Housewives shows on Bravo. Then came the New Jersey edition, and I fell in love with it not unlike Entourage. Their key similarity is that when people ask my why I like them so much, I have no reasoning at all. I drool and stutter out a simple, because they are fun to watch. I like their interactions. Period. And I thought I could stop there, and not jump into this franchise that I hear husbands near and far bitch and moan about.
Seldom right, and wrong again. I credit my coworker, ahem, with supplying me with this ammunition that can only lead to addiction: Two separate fights with a seemingly reasonable woman who is arguing/being attacked by a woman clearly so far out of her mind that I am now drooling and stuttering in anticipation. Thanks, coworker!
Monday, July 13, 2009
This weekend, I ventured out to a movie theater.
Thought I'd let you catch your breath for a moment. Yes, that place where normal people go to watch movies. My DVR has obviously made me abnormal. Thanks to fast forwarding, I no longer see movie trailers, I no longer catch a clip, or see people really ever speaking about a movie. Therefore, the only way I have any desire to see a movie is through word of mouth. And even with that ever powerful marketing ploy of friends and family, I have a DVR. On that fine piece of machinery, there is an ever-growing list of approved and desired TV. With a movie, especially one I have only heard about through word of mouth, there is a chance it is something I don't actually want to see. On my DVR, there is a 100% chance that I will be watching something that I do want to see. Follow the odds? Because for the past couple of years, the odds are I am sitting on my couch with the dogs and a pause button and sometimes friends and family, all with no out of pocket cost.
So when my cousins and I entered this dingy, dank movie theater in New City on Saturday, everyone was disappointed with the screen size, and I was jittery with excitement. I was sitting in a chair! And it smelled like popcorn and something strange! And there were no dogs blocking my view as they stare bizarrely into my face for hours at a time!
Everything was lined up beautifully, and then the atrocity that is Bruno began. After seeing Borat, I knew to expect shocking, over-the-top sub-humor. And even those expectations were miles too high. The movie was bad, with a few funny lines or actions, but mostly, it was uncomfortable and sexual and bizarre. So much so that I now have to go see another movie, so that my last movie experience will never be that.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Who wasn't in love with Dylan McKay? Liars. What was their not to love? He was a bad boy who read Keats and quoted dated poets. He was an unsupervised teenager with his own craftsman style bungalow in Beverly Hills with a shiny black Porche. He like surfing, and curling up in front of the TV watching a movie. And while he was a cheater, and a drug addict, and always the alcoholic, he was a romantic. Sure, he suffered from severe PTSD, was addicted to guns, was indecisive and stubbornly "too cool" for socializing with the common folk, and he had a severely receding hairline for a high school student. Still, if anyone denies loving Dylan, I say nay.
Thanks to a 'Member Them on TMZ, we can all know that Dylan McKay was bigger than life, and Luke Perry's forehead is now bigger than life. See for yourselves:
Dog Walking 101:
Your lunatic yorkie will be most interested in rubbing his body underneath bushes, and not in meeting people, letting kids pet him, catching the breeze... walking. And if your luck is anything like mine, his favorite bush will have branches that look like this one above. And if you ever see this branch specifically, please note that each and every little round ball of frustration is covered in a sticky, hair knotting solution. It was a nice walk.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
I have been completely slacking in the uploading new pictures department. I want the Canon Powershot G10, and I keep thinking everything else isn't worthwhile. I am putting up some of the pictures I took of the fireworks Saturday night. My camera's "fireworks" setting makes everything really abstract and not at all accurate, but I found a number of keepers. And I took most of the pictures in a parking lot in front of an Old Navy, as is evident in the bottom right hand cccooorrrrnnneeerrrrssss....
The rest of the pictures can be found HERE.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
This is the face Mojo made when I told him I shared with the world wide web a picture of his head being humped by a puppy. He didn't mind the sexual preference thing, he's comfortable in his own skin. But a puppy? What will the world think of him??
Monday, July 6, 2009
That's right. I said it. My dog hates white dogs. The smaller and fluffier, the angrier and more violent his reaction. And it took me almost three years to figure this out?! I feel like a parent who's 18 year old son didn't graduate, because he can't read, but you thought he was "Doin' just fine."
Mojo lives with a white human (Me) and a black sister (Marley) and he himself is white, gray, black, silver, gold, tan and brown. You'd think he would be open-minded! This enormous realization reared its ugly head Saturday night, as I walked the dogs up and down the Hudson River in order to see the Fireworks, while also scoring some stranger love. Long story short, we didn't get the best seat on the dock, and Mojo has this crazy pathetic limpy gimp thing going on from his intolerance of hard surfaces on his feet. There he goes being intolerant again!
After his third irate reaction towards a small, white, fluffy dog, and his completely placid and friendly reactions to every other dog and person we encountered, it hit me over the head. And just as Jim Carey's memories flooded him an a shower of sadness and shame after he realizes he made out with a man in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective, I too was flooded with every memory of Mojo's hatred. The poor, severely unattractive white Maltese down the hall with the four inch underbite? He tried eating her. The larger white poodle walking outside of my building? My arms are still scratched from trying to detain him. The time I watched Ben's mostly white Cockapoo, and Mojo had to be physically detained for a twenty minute cooling off period until they could become frick and frack. Can this aversion be real? Could it have something to do with Ben's Ollie humping his head for hours at a time that one night.....
Thursday, July 2, 2009
I remember college, when I could sit on my high and mighty throne and judge all of those Reality TV Watchers. Those awful people that had nothing better to do with their lives than watch someone else's mediocre lives being lived out after being sliced and over-dubbed and dumbed down to satiate the masses. And the truth is, either I was really wrong and stupid and awful, or I morphed into one of them people over night. I guess it doesn't matter to anyone, except my poor future husband. I am holding out some hope that by that time, men can get their sports fixes injected into their skulls before they cozy up on their couches with their women to watch fifteen old naked one-hit wonders wrestle around to see who can bake the best cake with no baking equipment on a remote island in under five minutes. Fox, I am expecting your call any minute now.
An admittedly low point was when I watched "Pussycat Dolls Presents: The Search for the Next Doll," back in 1997. I had missed most of the season, thankfully, but by the time I had tuned in, I HAD to see who would win. Not because I like the Pussycat Dolls, or because I liked the girls, but obviously because I had mentally picked a winner, and I had to see who was right. Me, or the TV. It's all about the gambling.
I lost. Bronx native, Asia Nitollano, won, and I haven't heard a single thing about her until just now. She is trying out to be a Knicks City Dancer, and I thought I'd pass along the voting info.:
According to the Press of Atlantic City:
BARNEGAT LIGHT - A Long Beach Island health department official confirmed Wednesday that home medical waste, including 20 syringes, washed up along the island's beaches Sunday afternoon.If you read the article, something just jabs out at you, pun intended. Nobody is notifying the beach goers or community. Well, nobody "official," anyway. Why not? Would it be such a big deal to be forthcoming and risk a weekend of lost revenue to get the areas combed through and cleared properly? Better to just risk a small child stepping on a diseases hypodermic needle, I'm sure. Good job, local health department!
The debris was found along eight miles of beach, from Barnegat Light to Surf City.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
As teenagers and adult females alike swooned, and continue to swoon, over Mr. Robert Pattinson, I hear of very strange things. People vacationing in remote villages in western Canada to stalk him as he films New Moon. Grown women putting up posters of his face as if they were still 11 year old girls when that is acceptable. I can only imagine the tattoos, and sacrifices, going on in his honor around this country. And now, parents can pay for their daughters to kiss this young, hot, hollywood heartbreaker who has hundreds... (I got carried away with the H-sounds.)
I found this link over a month ago, and I forgot about it! But I wanted to share it with you here, from msnbc:
I'm going to pretend that I am appalled now.CANNES, France - Millions of “Twilight” fans would die for the chance to kiss Hollywood’s hottest vampire — but would they pay over $56,000 for the opportunity to lock lips with Robert Pattinson?
Two kisses from Pattisnon pulled in a hefty sum at the amfAR Cinema Against AIDS 2009 benefit auction Thursday night in Cannes, the charity organization confirmed to Access Hollywood.
According to E! Online’s Marc Malkin, who first reported the news of the pricey smooches, movie mogul Harvey Weinstein reportedly joked that his daughters had changed their last name to Pattinson after seeing “Twilight,” and then asked Pattinson to step up for charity.
Big Brother's massive claw is mostly retracted for now... It is now legal to catch rainwater in Colorado, which means until recently, it wasn't!
If you read the article, it is explained that no small scale water catching will be punished by the law, which is admirable. But then the question of judgement comes in, and some Super Troopers can't always control themselves. But little baby steps is fine for now...
According to CNN, FDA advisors have voted to take Vicodin and Percocet off the market. Apparently, they have decided that the risk of overdose when you combine acetaminophen with narcotics is too great. Also, it can cause severe liver injury. The whole article can be found Here.
I'm not sure how I feel about this. Don't get me wrong, I like the idea of functioning livers and being alive as much as the next person, but isn't it the responsibility of a doctor to appropriately prescribe amounts and times to take pills? And isn't it up to the user to be smart enough to not take too many pills? And if they want to commit suicide, aren't there other just as easy ways to do so? Vicodin has helped me through three bouts of back pain a few years ago, and if there is another pill that can be prescribed to me to substitute it, my alliance only extends to functionality. I don't care if it's Vicodin, or advil, or a generic chewable multi-vitamin, whatever eliminates an unbearable pain. I am just not convinced that pulling two pills off of the market can save everyone's liver. There would have to be a lot more pulled. And liquor stores closed. And water nationally purified. Is the FDA covering our asses, or theirs?
This was taken on Million Dollar Mile. But that could just be my dad's cute name for this little strip of paradise. This long, thin almost peninsula-like pice of land is its own island just off of the shore of Westhampton Beach. The intercoastal is on one side between it and New York, and on the other side is the open Atlantic Ocean. I love driving up and down this Mile, looking at these spectacular homes with indescribable views, and splashing in ever-present flooded spots on the road. What is most interesting, though, is that there is no flood insurance given to these homes. People build them for $20 million, or more, and they live with the knowledge that a storm could come and wipe their homes out completely. And that stops nobody there from going all out, because when money is no object, fear doesn't come into the equation. So I drive by in my $20,ooo car and fear for them.