From Married Girl to Working Girl….

A year ago I got married.  I went from LA media executive to housewife faster than you can say “Honey, get me a beer.”    I left my big time gig and the big time city to move to the Midwest farmlands thinking that maybe I’d install my own chicken coop or possibly learn how to milk my own cows.   I didn’t get that far, but I did become a fan of scratch cooking.  By scratch cooking, I mean everything was from scratch.  Bread?  Baked it myself.   BBQ sauce?  Created my own recipe.   Pesto?  I grew my own basil.    A typical mid-week dinner could be chicken roulade, a gourmet pizza, or scratch made butternut squash raviolis in a bourbon cream sauce.  Every night was special.   I channeled my A-type personality and turned into a younger version of Martha Stewart.     When I was close to the brink of weaving my own cloth, I got a gig at a NYC based software solution company providing media buying solutions to all the big time advertising agencies.   It couldn’t have happened soon enough.   In my downtime preceding this new gig I had time to reflect on how much of me is my job and career.   I also reflected on how each of my different jobs shaped and educated me.

I’m not a feminist, but I am a realist and sometimes there are some facts that can’t be ignored.  My first jobs taught me this.  It made me wonder if the statistic that women make .75 cents for every dollar men make holds water.   I know the argument that women make less because women take time off for child rearing or don’t press for raises as hard has men do; that may be true or it may not.   I do know that when I was 14 and 15 years old, if I baby sat for the neighbors for an hour and a half I would get paid anywhere from 3-5 dollars.   When the boy down the street mowed our quarter acre lot, which took about 30 minutes, he got paid 10-15 dollars.  Babysitting was girl’s work, mowing the lawn was man’s work.  I saw that boys made more mowing the lawn, so I started pushing to have my parents and neighbors to hire me over the neighborhood boys.   I’m still confused as to what this lesson taught me but I can say this, mowing the lawn was MUCH easier work than dealing with a couple of kids.

My first “real” job, well, real as in taxes were taken out was Burger King.   I was a burger bitch.  I endured the humiliation of a really bad polyester blend uniform, name tag, and hair net.   I made $4.25 an hour.   I only worked there for two weeks because they suggested I be the one to mop out the men’s bathroom.  I had to quit.   I did learn my first and most important lesson in sales.  QSR’s (quick service restaurants) call it “rounding out the meal” or the “would you like fries with that” method of driving up a ticket.   This upsell philosophy has been used by me in each of my sales roles and, be it basic, it’s the quickest way to make your numbers.   Essentially, if someone orders a burger and a soft drink, you ask ‘do you want fries with that.’  Most likely the answer is yes, but if you didn’t ask, you never would have made the sale.

After my two weeks of burger bitch-dom, I became a hostess at a local restaurant and got myself a raise.  I was now making $5.00 an hour and felt like I was rolling in it.  Looking back, I was definitely rolling in something but it wasn’t ‘it.”    I ended up working in various capacities in the restaurant business – I was a bartender, bar back, hostess, caterer, food preparation person, dish washer, waitress and bus girl.  I worked at that restaurant for 8 years.   It inspired me to go to culinary school.   Once I made it to culinary school, despite my love of the restaurant business I learned that it was not what I wanted to do with my life.   Sometimes jobs lead you to where you want to be, others act as a directional beacon that steers you in a completely different direction.

I had this brilliant idea that I wanted to interview and party with the rock stars I listened to on the radio.  I moved to LA thinking that this plan would take me years to achieve.  At this point, I was caught with my proverbial pants down.    In just about a year I want from taking trash out to the loading dock of a restaurant in West Warwick, RI to hanging out in 20 million dollar mansions kicking it with artists who had number one hit records.   It was at that point I realized…oh shit, I thought that this plan would take a lot longer, I’ve done this so what’s next?   What did I learn from that?  Well, no matter how big you think your dream is, it’s closer than you realize.

Since this epiphany, I’ve used that knowledge to change direction in my life numerous times.   Take a step back to take a step forward.   I have gone from culinary pursuits, to performing art school, to a music industry career, diverting to a juris doctorate, realizing that a JD needed to be financed and then landing an interactive radio sales gig to pay for it all.     Now I’ve once again moved away from my comfort zone and on to the next phase.   I have been lucky enough to always follow my passion and my dream, I hope you are too.

The Local Library Peeping Tom

If you ever thought your deepest darkest secrets, desires or freaky obsessions were something only your therapist, spouse or nightstand drawer knows about; think again.   I have a special job that provides me insight into how you think, what kind of person you are and what you are up to.   No, I don’t work for Rupert Murdoch, the CIA or for Google.  My operation is way more low tech, yet highly effective.  I’m on to you – I know you are pregnant, have a parent with Alzheimer’s and that your 2006 Toyota Camry broke down and you are going to try to fix it.    I work at the library and I pick the books out of the stacks that people request.  I’m peeping on you and you don’t even know it.

 

Every week I walk through the stacks with sheets of paper listing out in perfect Dewey Decibel order what book requests we get through our library’s website.  It might not sound exciting or interesting but sometimes if feels like my neighbor left the window open and the lights on and they are standing there naked rubbing Jell-o all over their body.  I never wanted to see it, but it was there and you can’t help but to pause for a minute watching, thinking, “What the Hell is my neighbor doing?”

 

This past week I pulled some particularly disturbing or at least odd books.  Most weeks there is a solid mix.  The pregnant woman reading “What to Expect When You Are Expecting,” the obese person checking out “The Diabetes Diet, Lose Weight and Fight Diabetes,” or the “How To Operate Your Computer For Dummies” manual.    This week a pregnant woman was checking out “Orgasmic Birth.”  I had never heard of it, but I just had to stop and look.  Orgasmic Birth, really?   Apparently, this book teaches a pregnant lady how to have an “intense, ecstatic pleasure during birth.”  Now, I’m not an expert but I’m thinking nothing short of a serious dose of opiates and drugs might give you pain relief, but as far as ecstatic pleasure?  I don’t think so.   I hope the woman who checked out the book isn’t too disappointed when she doesn’t climax during labor.

 

After pulling “Orgasmic Birth” from the stacks, my next book was slightly more disturbing.   The book was about using Cognitive Behavioral Therapy to treat Obsessive Compulsive Disorders that focused mainly on obsessive thoughts of rape or murder.  At this point, I wanted to wipe my fingerprints off this book, thinking it might be evidence against a psycho who wants to rape and kill people.   Who else would read this book, a therapist?   I hope not, if they have a person obsessed with murder and assault and they don’t know how to handle it I am doubting the book would provide enough guidance.   At the very best of the worst, there is a person out there that is neither psycho nor psychiatrist but finds the OCD habits of rapists and murders interesting.

 

Today’s cook book was for gluten-free, egg-free, soy-free, sugar-free, dairy-free deserts.  No egg, no gluten, no sugar, no cream?  No problem!  It’s called not a desert!  I then picked up an AP Statistics book and really felt bad for some kid.   You know this student’s parents are pushing the kid to over achieve and the kid will eventually break.  AP Statistics, Booster Club and Science Fair winner this year, passed out on the college quad in a puddle of their own puke next year.   My final batch of books were for the desperate housewife crowd.   They were a bunch of those tawdry, poorly written soft cover, soft core romance novels.    I must have pulled about twenty of them.  I am assuming they were for all the same person and I’m not sure why they felt the need to take a good portion of the Library’s inventory.   In full disclosure, I’ve never actually read any of these kind of books, I wouldn’t even burn them for fear that even the smoke would stink.  I judge a book by it’s cover and when you write a series of books and each of the titles is almost the same:  “Guilty Pleasure,” “Lonely Pleasure,” “Only Pleasure,” “Wicked Pleasure,” “Hot Pleasure,” “Forbidden Pleasure,” etc, I don’t have high hopes for what is on the inside.  One story, swap names and swap places, print and repeat.   It’s bad that those books get published, it’s worse that they get read.

 

Every week it’s something.  Whether it’s the lonely lady with five cats who wants to learn how to knit a monkey from a sock or the man who checks out “Overcoming Sexual Dysfunction The Natural Way,” I’m looking into the window, please put away the Jell-o and get dressed.

 

Not Such a Boob

“I’m gay and even I like boobs.”    I think that quote says it all on how men feel about boobs.  Even if they are not attracted to women they still like them and are fascinated by them.   I’m not quite sure how it came up, but we were sitting around the table this weekend with some friends and I might have mentioned that I didn’t understand the obsession people have with our mammaries.   Sitting around with a bunch of guys, they just looked at me like I was crazy.  Even our gay neighbor had to add his two cents and affirmed his love of all things booby.   All the guys chimed in and they thought the bigger the better, fake is fine and at the end of the day, any size will do.  Indeed.

I am not a boob gal.  I mean I have a pair, small and perky.  My boobs will never be reaching my knees.  Maybe one day my they could hit my belly button but I would have to start hopping around sans a bra for the next 25 years.   I have always been fine with barely filling out an A cup.  It works for me.  I have very broad, almost linebacker type shoulders so I end up having to buy a size large in shirts, just so they fit me width wise.  The sleeves are always too long, but that’s okay.   I have always had a hard time finding a shirt that fit and if I had bigger boobs I would probably have to go to a plus size store just to get a top.   I got great legs and a nice butt, I don’t need a huge set of knockers.

InLos Angeles, I had a ton of girl friends that had, what my husband calls “bolt-ons,” or better known as fake tits.   I can say without hesitation, I love my friends, but every single set of those things just looked ridiculous.  Even if they were “well done” and “looked natural” as soon as I would hug them it was like pressing against a couple of hard cantaloupes.   I’ve never met a pair of squishy fake ones.   I never understood why any of these smart, attractive, successful women felt the need to augment their body.  I know their reasons, they were all straight forward.  They either felt like there boobs didn’t look like they did after child birth or they wanted to look more attractive in certain clothes or they felt that having boobs was a self confidence builder.   To each point, I still don’t understand.  The girl with the fake boobs after child birth looked like she was hiding two watermelons under her shirt, as for the better fitting clothes I always shop for clothes that fit me (not the other way around) and finally, I don’t see how a piece of silicone or saline infused bag can build confidence (if it could, why not just carry one in your purse and avoid going under the knife?)

I have been offered a pair of boobs.  I mean it’s hard not to live inLos Angelesfor 11 years and not have someone offer up some augmentative surgery.   I refused.  I tried to convince the “generous” donor to maybe hook me up with a new car or pay off my law school education but they just didn’t see the practicality of that.  (Obviously, by ‘practical’ they meant what they would find practical, not me.)   My husband would not be so bold (or should I say stupid) to request I go under the knife, instead he suggested one of those bras that is so padded you can go up three cup sizes.   Sure, when you put it on you look like you are hiding a football player’s should pads under your shirt, but dammit – you got BOOBIES!   I tried to sport that bra and I was really uncomfortable.  I feel like I look ridiculous and I can’t help but think that when I hug someone they are going to ask me why I am hiding what feels like two rolls of toilet paper in my bra.   I tried wearing it out in public once and I noticed exactly where all eyes were focused on and it really weirded me out.  I think I’ve gotten too used to people looking into my eyes….maybe that’s my issue?

Masochist, Cheap or just down right not that smart… My Return to Bikram Yoga

After my last posting about going to Bikram Yoga I received one question repeatedly, namely, “Would I ever go back again?”   To most the answer might seem obvious and that obvious answer would be a resounding “Hell No!”   Well, that answer would come from a reasonable person.  I am apparently not reasonable.  I might be masochistic, cheap or just down right not that smart and in the case of returning to Bikram Yoga today I am guilty of a little from column A, B and C.

Anyone who knows me knows I’m one of the more frugal people around.  I do not like to spend money and I don’t like to waste money.  I am the person that showers at the gym so I can use the shampoo and conditioner provided rather than spring for the $5 bottle of Pantene at the local WalMart.  I steal all the free soap from hotels when I travel.   I keep the house at 59 degrees in the coldest part of the winter to save on heating costs.  I never buy coffee out, I always home brew to save the $4 a pop at Starbucks.  Yes, I am that cheap and to a point some might say is detrimental.    I revel in my cheapness and those who know me grow to love it…well, at least tolerate it.   With my frugal nature there was no way I was going to spend $30 for unlimited classes and not try to make every class I could to take advantage of the deal.   That is not even a point I would discuss.

Deciding to go back after an hour or so of total discomfort and lack of oxygen to the brain might be construed as a bit masochistic.  Why would I subject myself once again to the horrors of the Torture Chamber?   Well, I refused to admit defeat.  I am in shape and by the appearances of the people I took the class with I looked like I was the more physically fit, so I should be able to do it.  I thought that maybe I needed to get used to it.  I needed to work on my breathing and once I get into a groove I would actually enjoy it.  I spend up to 45 minutes in the 165 degree sauna at the gym and love it, so an hour and a half in 104 degree heat should be a breeze.   With a positive mindset, I laid my mat and towel out and was ready to conquer the class.

Armed with a positive attitude a new instructor positions himself at the front of the class and begins.   If the previous instructor went Tiger Blood on us this guy went Dragon Blood.  But he didn’t just go Dragon Blood on the class, he went Dragon Blood on me.   The best way I can describe my Bikram experience today is to refer to the boot camp scene from Full Metal Jacket.   I was trying my best to do the poses with my physical limitations – I have a shoulder that is partially frozen, limited range and a bulging disc that causes neuropathy in my hands.  I am going to physical therapy and was cleared to go to yoga, as long as I didn’t push it and listened to how my body was responding.  My drill instructor, or in this case my Bikram yoga instructor, refused to believe that I couldn’t raise my arm or that I was in pain trying to do some of the positions.  He decided to single me out and when I tried to explain that I physically couldn’t do certain things he proceeded to argue with me.  After 15 minutes of being made to feel like the resident yoga gimp, I picked up my mat, towel and water and walked out.

I know I won’t be going back, but I’m still pissed I spent the $30 bucks

My First Time In The Torture Chamber

The other day I got an email from Living Social, that discount site that gives you 50% or more off on restaurants and various activities.   Most of the time the offer is for something in a town that is just a little too far away to even justify the cheap price of the deal, but the other day was different.   I got an offer for unlimited classes at Bikram Yoga in my town for two months for only $30!  The normal price for an unlimited month is $100 so this was a deal I could not refuse!   Without hesitation or investigation, I signed up and was so excited to be breaking out my yoga mat.

I had taken a few yoga classes in LA and always loved the Zen like meditative state I found myself in during a class.   The instructors were hypnotic telling us to breathe, close you eyes and honor your body.  It was about relaxation.  It was about connecting your chakras and becoming one with your third eye.  I never knew what any of that ever meant, but I always liked the way it made me feel.   With my Living Social deal in hand, I was ready to try my hand at Bikram yoga.

I didn’t really know very much about Bikram yoga except that they keep the room a little warm.   I looked up the place I was going to see what classes were offered and for directions.  While on the site, I noticed there was no beginner or advanced class, it was one size fits all.   Okay, I thought, this should be fine.  The site said to be there on time because they lock the doors once the class starts; easy enough, I’m punctual.   The site also instructed me to bring a mat, a towel to completely cover my mat, and a supply of water.    I could do that – this was going to be great!

I arrive early, sign in and ask if I can go in the room to lay out my mat.   Everyone was waiting outside the studio, which is why I was hesitant to walk in.  Once I got into the room I immediately knew why everyone waited outside.  The room was 104 degrees.   It was a little stuffy.  I lay my mat and towel down in the back of the room.  They want the newbies in the back so we can learn what is going on.   I was situated in the back corner where the wall heaters came together, so it was extra toasty.   When class began we were instructed that this was a 90 minute class and no one is allowed to leave the room early.   I immediately started to panic, what if I have to pee?  What if it’s just too hot?  Why are they locking me in here?   Didn’t I read on the website that they lock the doors once class begins?   Holy crap!  They are going to slow cook us!

I calmed myself down long enough to do our first breathing stretch.   In the nose, out the mouth, breathe in and breathe out.  I felt just like the Karate Kid.  Once our breathing stretch ended, we were told that for the remaining hour and twenty minutes we were not to breathe through our mouths.  We were only allowed to breathe through our noses.  This was a challenge for me because most of my deep breathing is done in the nose and out the mouth.  How was I going to breathe when it’s this hot and I am exercising?   We move through a series of postures and poses.  I am quickly learning that the level of heat isn’t the only thing that differentiates this style of yoga from what I am used to.  In all the other yoga classes I’ve taken the mantra from the instructor was “honor your body.”  In this class the teacher went Charlie Sheen on us telling us to tap our inner Bengal tiger.   Work through the pain, push yourself, this is your chance to change your life.

At this point I was beginning to feel that the only way this class was going to change my life is that I would go from being alive to being dead.  My heart was pounding but what was more disconcerting, was the fact that I could not breathe.  It wasn’t that I was out of breathe, it was that I felt like I wasn’t getting any oxygen into my lungs because the air was so hot and thick.    As I’m trying to Zen myself into a place where I can get oxygen into my blood cells, the instructor continues by saying that we all have come to the Torture Chamber and we need to work through the pain.  Really?   Where did this method come from… the offices of Josef Mengele?

I was at yoga and I was fearful for my life.  How did this happen?   I was out of air and was afraid to leave the room.  I didn’t know if the instructor would go tiger blood on me.  When it got to the point where I realized if I didn’t walk out of the room at that moment, I would have to be carried out by a stretcher,  I raised my hand and said I had to leave.  From the looks of the instructors and my fellow classmates you would have thought I just said I killed a baby seal.  They looked pissed, disgusted and disappointed.  Oh, well….it was hot enough in there; they can sweat all of that out.

In My Wifedom I’m becoming an Ideal Candidate for What Not To Wear.

I am so glad it is getting warmer out.  We break 50 degrees and I’m sporting shorts.  One of the best things about living in SoCal was the opportunity to wear as little as possible for most of the year.  One of the shortfalls of living in the Midwest is  that wearing as little as possible for most of the year might get you frostbite.   Sure, wearing layer upon layer of thick clothing can cover up a lot of the fat you put on while sitting in front of the TV all winter because you are stuck inside but that layering is binding and confining.   I love nothing more to prance around in a tank top and booty shorts.  It’s comfy.  It’s cool.  It reminds me to step away from the donut.

When I was a digital marketing executive in Los Angeles I didn’t prance around the office in booty shorts.  I conformed to corporate policy with a never ending supply of business dresses.  I hated dressing for work.  There is the underwire bra that digs into the ribcage.  Then there is the requisite Spanx, also known as my generation’s version of our Grandma’s girdle.  I actually have a nickname for my pair and I call her Ester.  In the winter, when you need to don nylons or tights over the legs the material restricts and tends to get itchy.  All of these articles that are meant to suck, squeeze and lift my body into shape are very binding.   At the end of the day, I would come home and the first thing I would reach for was my comfy cozies.  My comfy cozies consisted of a tank and booty shorts or if it was chilly, a sweatshirt and sweatpants.   The feeling of pulling Ester from my skin and unhooking the bra was so liberating, occasionally I’d rejoice around the apartment singing “Born FREE, Free As The Wind Blows.”   Life was good until I had to suck it all in the next day back into a form tailored outfit.

Through the winter and spring I’ve started to notice that my dressing habits have started to resemble more of the Born Free philosophy.   I have been avoiding dressing up like the plague.   I think I have taken a lot of liberties in the casualness of my dress for a few reasons.  First, somewhere in my being I think I’m still a teenager even though I’m getting into my mid-30s.  Secondly, I think because I’m not too well endowed up top the bra option, is well, optional and besides, who do I know that would notice if I look good or not.   This train of thought, or this train of rationalization was working good for me until I took a good look at my ragamuffin self.   Here I am wearing a t-shirt with a stain, a pair of sweats with a rip and my Sunday socks (they are holy.)    I’m a mess.   I have become a poster child for that TV show “What Not To Wear.”   I went from not going out of the house in LA if I was wearing nothing less than True Religion Jeans or the latest from Bebe to a perpetual state of comfy cozies and constantly looking like I just rolled out of bed.

I need this to change.  I have taken the philosophical approach to this.  If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around, does it make a sound?  If I walk around looking like a hot mess and no one I know see’s me, does it really count?   One thing is certain, I have to look in the mirror, which I did, and all I could say was OUCH.  I then thought about it, this is what my husband has to look at and I think two things:  first “sorry honey” and second, “I think you need to take me shopping.” 

The TOP TEN Blogs of 2010 (Apparently, This Is What Some People Find Interesting)

 Because people love Top Ten lists

Ahh, 2010…  I laughed, I cried, and I kissed another year good bye.  It was a good year; an eventful year.   An engagement, a marriage, a move across country, a house purchase and I’m still standing.   It has been interesting writing and commenting on my life and what I have seen around me.   I thought I would welcome in the new year with the top ten most viewed blogs from 2010.   So here you go….

Number Ten:

Fearing lame bridal shower games, cake with too much sugar and tacky door prizes, I prepared for my impending bridal shower.

http://newlymarriedgirl.wordpress.com/2010/08/20/pin-the-tail-on-the-bride-good-god-no/

Number Nine:

Marking the one year anniversary of when I first met my husband and a reminder that since bad crap can happen to you very fast and all at once, so can the good stuff.

http://newlymarriedgirl.wordpress.com/2010/11/09/one-year-ago-today-i-met-my-husband/

Number Eight:

A story of a reluctant bride who succumbs to the societal pressures of bridal showers, against her better judgment; this is a story of survival.

http://newlymarriedgirl.wordpress.com/2010/08/22/survival-%e2%80%93-a-post-mortem/

Number Seven:

Are you ready to face Clambo?  Get ready to quahog.  Don your sneakers, grab your rake and be ready to stand up to your neck in muck.  It’s a RI tradition and my family loves it.      

http://newlymarriedgirl.wordpress.com/2010/08/27/clambo/

Number Six:

Anyone for some Holmes on Homes?   Anyone who is a fan of Mike Holmes knows two things:  If there is a tiny crack, there is one thing to do:  Tear it down.  Tear it all down.  You also know, if you are going to do it, do it right the first time.    Words to live by.

http://newlymarriedgirl.wordpress.com/2010/07/27/we-all-need-a-hero-or-be-one/

Number Five:

I got some slack from some family members on this one.  They thought it was rude that I would call out non-RSVP’ers.   I thought it was a draw.   I know I am not the only one in the “Get Off Your Butt and RSVP” camp.   Who likes to be left hanging?

http://newlymarriedgirl.wordpress.com/2010/07/23/rsvp-pretty-please-and-with-a-cherry-on-top/

Number Four:

We have gotten to caught up in being too safe.   I say let’s play it fast and loose and let Darwinism do it’s thing.

http://newlymarriedgirl.wordpress.com/2010/08/24/how-did-anyone-ever-survive/

Number Three:

Be jealous.  Envy me.  I have a new red convertible and I’m taking it for a spin.

http://newlymarriedgirl.wordpress.com/2010/07/25/my-new-red-convertible/

Number Two:

To go from 30 dates in 30 days to randomly meeting a guy online to engagement 4 months later….by the way, this is my story. 

http://newlymarriedgirl.wordpress.com/2010/07/20/btw-from-first-meeting-to-engaged-in-4-months/

Number One:

Not sure how or why this comes in at number one.   I had faced numerous bug bites this summer.  This was the morning I had poison ivy (but didn’t know it yet.)

Please pass the Caladryl.

http://newlymarriedgirl.wordpress.com/2010/09/24/i-am-itching-to-stop-itching/

Let’s Go To The Movies – Or Maybe Not

 

This weekend I ventured out for the first time since I moved to the Midwest to the movie theater.  My husband hates going to the movies.   He says that ever since he got his 65 inch TV with surround sound home theater system he sees little use for going to the local SuperMax 36 for the latest blockbuster.    I guess he wants to take advantage of his boy toys, but I like going to the movies.   There is something event-like about going to a really hot movie.  This weekend it was Harry Potter.   My husband couldn’t make me wait for it to come out on DVD, I was going whether he was coming or not.   There is an excitement of getting to the theater early, buying your ticket before it sells out, lining up in the cue before the show and enjoying the sold out show with hundreds of fans just like you.  I love the big screen, the popcorn and the larger than life experience of it all.  I always did, until this weekend. 

This weekend’s movie experience was less than stellar.   It started with an ill-conceived ticket booth that required us to wait outside in 35 degree weather for 25 minutes for a show that was not being screened for another 2 hours.   After securing our tickets we were not ready to stand in the cue line.   There was something about standing around for two hours while an over zealous theater manager shouted into a microphone that the next Imax showing was sold out and that people who did have tickets needed to move to the left.  The theater managers were treating their microphone time as their own 15 minutes of fame.   I was over it.   With two hours to go we went across the street to TGI Friday’s for some pre-movie beverages.  This was a sweet diversion until I ordered a soda and it was $1 more than the beer my husband imbibed in; I digress.

We headed back to the theater and got in line.  I had to pee, so while my husband saved our place, I made my way to the ladies.  When I got to the restroom, something struck me.  I noticed that every single toilet seat was peed on and when I paused to wonder why not one lady has decent aim, I realized that I don’t think I’ve ever been in a theater bathroom that didn’t have piss all over the toilets.   Squatting over the toilet trying to get my pee in the pot while making sure I don’t drip down my leg, I finished my business and went to wash my hands.   I don’t know if it’s a movie theater thing but it’s like there is some unwritten dictate about the moisture level in the bathrooms.  First, the toilet seats are soaked and then around all of the sinks there is a pool of water which contaminates the remaining paper towels so you are left to shake your hands dry.   It’s just not pleasant. 

Joining my husband, the cue for the movie is moving so we make our way into the theater.   Entering the theater, I smell that familiar movie theater smell.  No, it’s not a popcorn smell, it’s something different and I’ve smelled it before.  The smell was somewhere between a frat house the morning after rush week and a day care center.  Think sticky goo and stinky diapers that pretty much nails it.  Through the stench, we make our way to our seats.  Half way up the aisle and in center seating we situate ourselves with our vat of over-salted popcorn between our legs.   Knowing that this show was a sold out event, we knew we would have people next to us, in front of us and behind us and we were cool with that so we readied ourselves for people to walk in front of us and knock the back of our seats.  

Sitting in the dark, the show started, well not really, the commercials started.  After 30 minutes of commercials and inane cinema trivia we were greeted with 30 minutes more of movie trailers.   If you are keeping track, so far we had a two hour wait, an hour of pre show and 3 hours of movie – this trip to the movies somehow became a 6 hour event.   When the show finally started the theater was quiet.  This solace did not last however.   About an hour into the film people started to need to go to the bathroom and it seemed like someone every 5 minutes needed to get up.  These people didn’t go to the bathroom alone, no; these people had to go in groups of 6 disrupting the whole theater.   Ignoring the ignoramuses that had bladder issues, I tried to just focus on the movie.   This worked until the teeny bopping boyfriend / girlfriend duo sitting next to me decided to play a round of boob grab.  It started with the fidgeting, then the giggling and then I was graced with a solid 20 minutes of whispering that annoyed the ever loving crap out of me.  When they finally got to my last nerve, I turned to them and said, “Seriously, you are going to talk through the WHOLE movie??!??!?”   After I made my disdain known, they shut their traps and I was able to enjoy the rest of my $20 movie experience.

I really thought I loved going to movies.  I thought I loved experiencing the movie with a crowd.  I thought the larger than life screen really added to my movie going experience.  I had given a pass to the owners of the SuperMax’s that have systematically increased the prices of movies to the point where you practically need to take a line of credit out to enjoy a show.   I think my love affair with the movies needs to end.  This may have been a co-dependant, dysfunctional, and ill-conceived relationship.  Maybe it is time to sever ties and to plop my happy ass on my couch, embracing the 65 inch screen and surround sound.   Pass the popcorn and while your at it, bring me a beer….the food, drink and service are way better at this theater.

BristolGate: Because DWTS Has Nothing Else To Hang It’s Hat On

 

I’d like to say this is surprising, but given the approach and faded line between news and entertainment shows I’m not really.  Just before Bristol Palin’s performance on Tuesday night there was commentary on TV – so called legitimate news sources down to shows like Entertainment Tonight, noting the fact that Bristol Palin was still in the running on Dancing With The Stars.   Rumors abounded that it was some sort of Tea Party plot to keep her on the show, even though she has consistently got the lowest scores.   As I watched the TV and read the stories I was just waiting for someone to talk to Hillary Clinton so she could let the world know that Bristol Palin’s appearance on DWTS was part of some sort of vast right-wing-tea party conspiracy.  Really?  This is what the news people are focused on?   All I can say is that it must be a really slow news day.

 

I like Bristol or at least I feel for her.  I can’t imagine that she chose to have a life spotlighted and ridiculed for the whole world to see, but all things considered she’s handled it with a certain amount of dignity.  She’s gone out and been an advocate for abstinence and it seems she is using her appearance on DWTS to further that.  Maybe, or maybe it’s her mom puppeting her onto the show for Sara’s political benefit.  If that is the case, then I really feel for Bristol.  People can say that she’s old enough to make her own decisions, that she is a big girl and she should not have mom calling the shots.  Anyone who has a mom knows that is sometimes easier said than done.   Who doesn’t want to make their mom or dad proud, happy, etc?   Can you fault the girl for that?  I really hope not. 

 

Ok, so Bristol hasn’t been the strongest contender on the show, but really what does that mean?  This show is a popularity contest.  Does anyone think that talent-wise the David Hasselhoff should have gotten voted of the first week?  He was better than Margaret Cho, at the very least; but he was voted off because people just don’t like him.  Middle America no longer wants to Hassel with the Hoff.  Middle America is running the votes on this show.  I can’t imagine that Margaret got voted off in no small part because of her Copacabana Gay Pride number.  Now, I don’t agree with that but as a good friend of mine once said, “never underestimate the extreme stupidity of the truly narrow-minded American.”  

 

Now let’s consider the rest of the competition.  Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino is not in the hearts and minds of middle America or middle aged people; he is the poster child for teens and those who still live at home in their twenty-somethings.  There was no way he was going to keep getting votes.  To that same end, I don’t care how beautiful Audrina Patridge is, that girl is one lonely brain cell looking for a friend.  She might be entertainment value for testosteroned hopped up boys and perhaps even the Viagra set, but really, I’ve stepped in deeper puddles and I think that came across as a real negative in competition.   On the other side of the coin, Florence Henderson stayed in as long as she did, not because she could move, but because she is Mrs. Brady.   The fans stuck with her until it became painfully obvious she might break a hip, no one wanted that on their shoulders, so buh-bye.   Michael Bolton seemed like he didn’t want to really be there and that some publicist talked him into the show to promote his tour; so when he got voted off, no surprise.   Rick Fox and Kurt Warner pulled through as long as they did because they had some appeal.  They had appeal, not charisma, which was not enough to take them all the way.  I also think that when it comes to dancing guys tend to not have to work at it as much, they stand their while their partner does all the work.   That never helps the voting cause either.

 

As for the finalists, Kyle Massey, is so cute and loveable.  There is something that seems true and nice about him –charisma seems to be oozing out his pores.  He seems to have always put forth an unpretentious effort that America seems to like, even if before this show, no one really knew who he was.  I am surprised that Brandy has made it this far.   Prior to watching the first show, I was rooting for her.  I knew she had been involved in a fatal car accident and I couldn’t imagine going through that.  I was a fan of her music and I thought she would be one of my favorites because I like cheering for an underdog.  My sympathies for her ended in episode one because I thought she came off as a pretentious diva bitch.  I have no patience for that.  I think someone in her camp must have brought her diva bitchiness to her attention because in subsequent weeks she seemed to have toned the attitude down – I am not a fan of that kind of fakeness.   My true favorite has been Jennifer Grey.  If she does not win I would be very surprised.  She is in the hearts of a lot of the viewers.  Dirty Dancing was a movie that struck such a chord across the country.  I’m not sure if people remember how truly popular this movie was; it was not uncommon for people to go see it in the theaters 2, 3, 6 or a dozen times.   No one puts baby in the corner.   Jennifer is amazing, the lady is 50, has gone through neck surgery and battled cancer and her body is in the same shape it was when she was 27 (when the movie came out).

 

This brings us to Bristol Palin.  I really am surprised that people are so surprised she is still in the running.  So maybe she hasn’t been the best dancer, she has improved.  So maybe she dropped a “WTF” that had to get bleeped out.  I’m certain I’d probably be cursing like a sailor if I had to learn all those dance routines and knew that millions would be watching me, but I don’t think that makes for a bad person.  She doesn’t seem to have let all of this go to her head, she seems to be giving it her all and taking it as it comes.  She’s not a performer.  It takes guts to do what she is doing and to have gone what she is gone through.  Maybe America feels the same.  Maybe we just want to give a vote for the underdog.  Not everything is a vast right wing conspiracy.

Mid 80′s Lady Rap, My Guilty Pleasure

Today I had some serious writers block.   When I get writers block I usually just cruise the internet until something strikes a chord with me.  Nothing hit me today, but I did find myself cruising out on You Tube.   Every now and then I look up songs from back in the day; it’s just fun for me.  I love checking out the clothes and I love how the music gives a snapshot to a moment in time.  The thing I don’t like is the comments from other people who have checked out the same videos.  These comments usually go something like:  “Wow, I wasn’t born when this came out.”   Or “Damn, I was 3 when this came out, that’s what the old days were like.”   I don’t perceive myself as old, and I have a hard time to swallow some music as being perceived as golden oldies. 

My feelings of feeling old aside, today I was checking out random 80’s-ish female rappers.   These are a serious guilty pleasure.   I want to dance, rap and dress like these ladies.  I’m the dorkiest white girl on the face of the planet and seriously, I’m so dorky I would make Vanilla Ice look cool.  No rhythm, no flow and completely tone deaf, that’s me to a tee.  

Unfortunately, fun lady hip-hop is pretty much an extinct species.  Sure, there are some that bring it – Eve, Lil Kim, Foxy Brown, Missy Elliot, Trina and others but every year there are less and less.  There used to be a category in the Grammy’s for Best Female Rapper – not anymore. 

So from cheese to groundbreaking and in to particular order, I give you some of my favorite lady rap from the 80’s to maybe the first year or two of the 90s.

Cars That Go Boom – L’Trimm

Boom I Got Your Boyfriend – MC Luscious

Supersonic – JJ Fad

Push It – Salt N Pepa

Ladies First – Queen Latifah

You Can’t Play With My Yo-Yo – Yo Yo

Ruffneck – MC Lyte