what doesn't kill ya

The future was so bright I had to wear sunglasses at night

People may judge me for saying this.  Might think I’m some kind of retro-freak.  So be it. 

I MISS THE 80’S. 

Yeah, people.  I said it.  Now, I grew up mostly in the 80’s, so this may be part of the reason why I find myself remembering the decade with such fondness.  Then again, I DON’T THINK SO.  Growing up sucked.  I hated my home life.  But THE FASHION.  THE FADS.  THE TOTAL OBLIVION.  That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.  Welcome to my version of I Love The 80’s.

First, let me clear something up.  Do I wish I could wear leg warmers and acid washed jeans again?  Hardly.  But at the time, that was the shit.  I don’t want the fashion to come back.  In fact, coming to work and finding an office full of linebacker shoulder pads and Members Only jackets would surely frighten me. What I like about the fashion of the 80’s is how it felt at the time.  Hip!  Free!  Bold! Geometric! Cutting Edge! (You know you cut up a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans or two.  Don’t even front.)

Same goes with hair and make-up.  I don’t really want to revert back to electric blue Great Lash mascara or Mall Hair.  Back in The Day, though, the sun surely could not have risen without my crimping iron or my frosty rainbow eye shadow palette.

So you get my drift.  I don’t want it all back.  But I’d like to go visit now and again. 

OH 80’s, how did I love thee? Let me count the ways:

1. Video games:  Arcade style, none of this wussy, fart around on the sofa or play in your underwear crap.  Ms. Pac-Man just couldn’t be fully appreciated unless you were standing up.

2. Keds: Nice and pristine white ones.  Oh – and black worked too, for the right outfit.

3. Sony Walkman:  Discman is so 90’s.

4. Gum: Bubbalicious, Hubba Bubba, Tidal Wave, Tubble Bubble, Big League Chew.  Not that I chewed gum a lot or anything.

5. Banana clips: They made my hair look like a horse’s ass in no time flat.

6. John Hughes movies:  The Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, Pretty In Pink… if you scoffed at these back in the 80’s you were a dweeb, and, like, you would totally gag me with a pitchfork.

7. Anything neon:  Yeah, my nails were painted day-glo pink.  And???

8. Tom Cruise:  Is it just me, or wasn’t he way hotter before we knew he was gay, before he started lecturing us on vitamins and psychiatry, before he started doing acrobatics on talk show sofas?  PRESENT-DAY TOM CRUISE IS A FUCKING IDIOT.

9. MTV:  You know, back when they actually played videos.  Good stuff, like Duran Duran and Van Halen and…. um, Michael Jackson. 

10. Michael Jackson:  I don’t think I need to go into detail here, but we all know that the Michael of the 80’s (um hello, THRILLER!) blows the bleached, face-falling-off, young boy-fancying Michael of today out of the friggin’ water.  Did I say “blows?”  Sorry… allegedly blows.

11. Rubik’s Cube:  The love-hate relationship I had with this contraption contributed to the downfall of my mental health, I’m sure of it. Those dudes that could whip it back in to shape in like, 3.8 seconds?  I spit on them!  Get a life, neo-maxi-zoom-dweebie!

12. Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific:  Okay, this is more 70's, but I like things that smell good.  This smelled TERRIFIC.

13. Clairol Herbal Essence Shampoo:  The original, people.  Not this remake they have out now.  Clairol should have realized their mistake, just like Coca Cola did when they replaced the classic with New Coke.  That fell flatter than my chest before puberty.  Clairol should have gone straight back to the original: the thick green goo.  Also, the bottle.  The one that had the lady with flowers and birds nesting in her long blonde mane.  Mmm.  Herbal.  Good. 

14. Perms:  Okay, let me reiterate that I don’t want them back.  But I haven’t had as much fun with my hair since those days.  The days I spent scrunching Dep gel into it to achieve the maximum springy permy curl effect.  And I admit it: I had HOME perms (not Ogilvie, bitch). But I worked that home perm. Oh yeah, I worked it. 

15. Guess? Jeans:  Jean snobs could totally tell if you were wearing a knock off.  “I see that exclamation point on your ass!  Authentic Guess has a question mark, poser.”

16. The 80’s Dance:  You know, a la Molly Ringwald in The Breakfast Club.  Too funny.  Especially funny when the preppy dudes in their tight-fit polos, straight-leg Levi’s and white Reeboks busted it out.  GUFFAW!

17. The Ford Escort:  Just kidding.

18. Computers:  Ahhh, the Apple IIe.  That little rainbow-colored apple made me hot.  Or was it hungry?  Anyways.

19. The Olympics:  Now, I know the Olympics have been around forever, way before the 80’s were a glimmer in the 70’s little eye.  But the 80’s were the last decade when they still rocked.  Everyone sat around the TV for hours, and would plan their days around watching their favorite events. Talked about it at work or school the next day.  Nowadays?  “Olympics… wah?  Is that this year?”

20. Ronald Reagan:  The puppet version in Genesis’ “Land of Confusion” video.

21. Trans Ams & Camaros: ‘Nuff said.

22. Rollerskating:  Nothing better then busting your ass during a heated round of “Red Light, Green Light.”  The snack bar was the place to hook up, hopefully with some kid without sweaty palms to be your partner during Doubles Skate.  Favorite skate song:  “Another One Bites The Dust.”  Or  “Xanadu,” depending on my mood.

23. “Solid Gold”:  I can imitate a Solid Gold dancer like nobody’s business.  The only downfall of the show was having Marilyn McCoo as a host.  Boooorrrrring.

24. The Geometric Mod Haircut:  Okay, there’s a lot about hair in this list – but one must admit that hair was a big part of the 80’s.  Hair could have run for president and probably won.  Anyway, the Geometric Mod Haircut… the one with one short side and one long side?  Absolutely HATED it.  Why is it on this list then?  Because I loved making fun of the people who had it.  Hardy-har-har!  As if.

25. Breakdancing: And his close cousin, Popping.  I couldn’t make a top spin, let alone MY WHOLE BODY WHILE BALANCING ON TOP OF MY HEAD.  Nothing rocked like lunchtime at school, when these dudes would bust out the boom box and blast Herbie Hancock.  Breakin’ 2 Electric Boogaloo!!

Okay, so I’ve counted the ways and there were 25.  But there’s so much more.  I mean, I can’t possibly list everything I love about my Decade Crush – but it will hold a special place in my heart forever, in the Totally Rad and Gnarly section. 

Love is a battlefield, y’all.

There, I've said it - Part One

There’s some stuff I need to get off my chest. 

To the incessant whistlers:  What’s the deal?  Every time you walk by, you’re whistling.  What is it that you’re whistling, anyway?  Dixie?  "Singing In The Rain?"  Do nerves have you blowing air all day, or are you really that jolly of a fellow?  You should be aware that when you do this, day in, day out, that you are practically guaranteeing that at some point you will be tackled and have your pie hole sealed with duct tape.  Just so you know.

To the dude at the drive-thru:  I said I wanted ketchup.  Nevertheless, I pull out of the parking lot and get on my merry way, only to discover: NO KETCHUP.  A french fry without ketchup is like Tammy Faye with no makeup.  Not gonna happen.  Now, I don’t come there that often and all, but IF I DID I’m sure this would happen again.  Say, at least once a week.  But I don’t eat too much fast food, so it’s not a huge concern or anything.  Shut up.

To whoever is in charge of public restrooms:  Are you okay with sitting your bare ass on any old toilet?  You must be, since like over half of the public cans out there have no toilet seat covers.  I don’t like to sit my bare ass all over kingdom come.  Ahem.  And yes, I can squat, but this is not always feasible.  So I end up taking a crash course in Toilet Paper Weaving.  It’s serious business, getting the right amount of coverage required to protect my nether regions from all of the Bare Ass Germs in the universe.  Also, what’s with the 2-inch gap between the stall door and frame?  Having to do all the aforementioned is bad enough without an audience.  Restroom Follies are especially fun at the movie theater, when all the females who were watching the movie that just ended race to the bathroom to empty their diet Coke-filled bladders.  We all stand in the ridiculously long line, waiting our turn.  And what do we have to look at?  Flashes of ass and zippers and toilet paper.  And forget not looking, because we can’t help but see it thanks to the GREAT DIVIDE in between the door and frame.  And if we happen to be the lucky one on the inside of the stall, it’s all we can do to hold back our shrieks of glee as we exit to wash our hands, knowing the intimate moments we’ve shared.  Bluah.

Things about me sure to be forgotten in 5 minutes

I’ve been tagged by Bee, so blame her for this list of stuff about me that you really don’t give a rat’s ass about.

Four jobs I’ve had in my life:

1)     bank teller

2)     psychiatric practice manager

3)      research assistant at Stanford Research Institute

4)      salesclerk at Kids R Us

Four movies I would watch over and over:

1)      Napoleon Dynamite

2)      Office Space

3)      The Breakfast Club

4)      Boogie Nights

Four places I have lived:

1)      Rural Illinois

2)      San Francisco Bay Area

3)      Upstate New York

4)      Phoenix

Four TV shows I love to watch:

1)      Intervention

2)      The Office

3)      Everybody Loves Raymond

4)      Project Runway/America’s Next Top Model

Four places I have been on vacation:

1)      Disneyland

2)      Las Vegas

3)      Lake Tahoe

4)      Maine

Four websites I visit daily:

1)      People.com

2)      Msnbc.com

3)      Dooce.com

4)      Suburbanbliss.com

Four of my favorite foods:

1)      Almost anything Mexican

2)      Cheese

3)      Chocolate

4)      Spaghetti/lasagna

Four places I would rather be right now:

1)      anywhere with my husband

2)      on a beach

3)      at a bank, cashing a really big check

4)      at home

Audio Slave

One of the local radio stations here changed its format for the new year.  The music is still the same – a mix of rock and alternative.  The change has come in the form of radio talk shows.  The majority of the day is filled with them.  There’s a typical morning drive time show, and a mid-day group consisting of two “regular” guys and a token hot chick, who engage in mostly meaningless banter filled with double entendres and jokes about sex.  I’ve caught a few minutes here and there of these shows, mostly while channel surfing.  I hear these people and they are so ridiculous – but I keep listening.  It’s kind of like watching the dorky kid in high school doing a dance routine at the talent show, a la Napoleon Dynamite.  You aren’t expecting a great show or anything, but the mere fact that he has his skinny ass up there is enough to intrigue you.  The guy who hasn’t spoken more than two words since freshman year is gonna bust moves while lip-synching “Maniac?”  I am sooo there.

Similarly, I have made the mistake of listening to the evening talk show airing in the new format.  This show is different from the others in that it’s a one-dude show.  I’d name the guy and link to him, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.  Simply put, this Talk Show Host is an asshole.  His whole “game” is to cater to men, mostly younger guys.  That’s nothing new.  But his angle is crap.  His angle is:  women are bitches, sluts, and gold diggers.  (His words.) Do whatever you can to get laid and then dump them.  Don’t ever get married, because there’s nothing in it for you.  She’ll nag and smother you, and then probably cheat and go after everything you have.

This guy is incredibly narcissistic.  He admits that he is in the business for the money, he doesn’t care what people think, and that he’s only saying how most men, if not all, feel.  The morons that call in to the show call him “dad” or “father,” saying how Talk Show Host has changed their lives.  How yeah, they used to treat women with some respect, but Talk Show Host has shown them the error of their ways.  Now they understand just how really stupid women are, and they’re happy about this because this makes it easier to get them into bed.

Yesterday’s show was even more disturbing than usual.  A 23-year-old guy called in, saying, “Father, I have a story to tell you.”  Like it’s motherfucking confession time at St. Mary’s.  Dipshit.  The guy goes on to tell his story, about how he goes out every night with his buddies, trying to meet chicks to bring home and have sex with.  A few months ago he succeeded in bringing a woman home, and they had sex several times through the course of the night.  He tells Talk Show Host, “We were both wasted.  The first couple of times I used a rubber, but….” Need I go on here?  Long story short, this guy got the girl pregnant.  She is now at the end of her first trimester.

Dipshit says, “Father, she wants to keep the baby.  I don’t want a kid.  She won’t get an abortion or anything.  She says she won’t make me pay child support if I’m a part of the kid’s life.  But I don’t want to be a part of the kid’s life.  I’ve never wanted kids.  I don’t know what to do.”

Talk Show Host goes into a lecture about how Dipshit should have known better than to bring a chick to his house.  “They can always track you down that way,” he says.  Then he moves on to the matter at hand:

“You could always invite her over for some cocktails and a dip in the Jacuzzi.  Pregnant women aren’t supposed to go in hot tubs or drink.  Not that you would do that [wink, wink].  I mean, god only knows what could happen if she got in the hot tub or drank some alcohol.  Theoretically speaking, of course.  Not that you would ever do that or I would ever suggest such a thing [wink, wink].”

“Well that’s a good theory to know.  Not that I would ever do anything like that, you know.” Dipshit catches on quickly.

“Yeah, because that would be WRONG.  You would never do something like that.  That could jeopardize her pregnancy [wink, wink].”

So I’m driving in my car, listening to this miserable excuse for a man.  Why?  Because I’m infuriated and keep getting shocked by what Talk Show Host and his listeners are saying.  I realize this is exactly the point; to keep me listening.  But this asswipe is “suggesting” (wink, wink) that this guy try to induce a miscarriage. 

Let me break this down:  Talk Show Host’s two pieces of advice were to 1) never bring a chick to your house to have sex with; and 2) not invite a pregnant woman into a hot tub or offer her alcohol because that would be WRONG.

WRONG is teaching men that women are objects for sex, and are useless in every other way.  WRONG is lamely veiling your advice to induce an abortion as a “theory.” 

WRONG is not calling this dude on the fact that he didn’t wear a condom the entire time.

WRONG is calling some Talk Show Host “father” because he preaches crap and irresponsibility and you can’t think for your damn self.

WRONG IS ME LISTENING TO THIS CRAP. 

Suddenly A Shot Rang Out

Recently I have been thanking the Parenting Gods for finally getting Noelle to go to sleep on her own, in her own bed, for the entire night.  This miracle started after Christmas.  I am thrilled that this was accomplished prior to her starting Kindergarten this fall.  I no longer have to rub her back, hold her hand, or stroke her blonde curls until she falls asleep.  Gone are the days where I lull myself to sleep on the trundle bed next to hers while doing one of the aforementioned soothing techniques.  Now, I read her a story, tuck her in, and finish up with the Hug and Kiss Ritual – a hug and kiss combo, consisting of 10, 11, or 12 consecutive hugs and kisses.  Then I go to bed.  My own bed.  This whole process has been going incredibly smoothly, much to my delight. 

Most nights are peppered with a few extra good-night-I-love-you-have-a-good-sleeps called from Noelle’s room.  Last night she mixed it up a bit though.  Noelle decided she needed lip balm, and then she wanted Kleenex and then she wanted to talk about how she wants to be Kelly Clarkson’s little sister.  I told her that jibber-jabbering time was over, and that we would resume our conversation in the morning.

John and I were in bed, watching a movie.  Noelle had been quiet for a while, so I assumed she had finally fallen asleep.  We were about 35 minutes into The 40-Year-Old Virgin, when I heard Noelle’s voice.

“Mommy!”

“What?”

“Mommy!”

“WHAT?”

“How do babies get into your tummy?”

GRRRRRRRRRREAT.  Just great.  I was frozen, stuck in my dumbfounded-ness.  (New word.)

“MOMMY!”

“I heard you… um, well, yeah…” 

I looked over at John.  He gave me the biggest WHAT THE??? look ever.  I gave him a big HELP ME, WHY GOD, WHYYYYYYYY look.  I took a deep breath.

“Yeah, um…. okay - remember how I told you that baby girls are born with tiny eggs and sometimes when they grow up, the eggs turn into babies?”

“No.  When did you tell me that?”

“A couple of months ago.”  I really had told her this, when she asked me where babies are before they are born.

“Eggs?”

“Yeah, but not like chicken eggs.”

“Alright.  Good night Mommy.”

And off to sleep she went, probably while pondering whether or not Girl Eggs can be made into omelets, and if so, can she put ketchup on them? 

Fence Hopping

I’m all into this show on A&E called Intervention.    The show is about, as the producers term them, “addicts.”  The addictions range from heroin, meth, and alcohol to gambling and bulimia.  The show follows the addicts through their daily lives; you literally watch them shoot up, pass out, or vomit into a Ziploc bag.  You see them lie to their families and friends, and to themselves. The addicts think they are just part of a documentary and don’t realize that their families have arranged for an intervention.  The addicts’ loved ones confront them with an intervention specialist, giving them ultimatums which they will carry out should the addict not agree to go to treatment immediately.  “If you don’t agree to get help today, you will have to move out of my house” or “I will no longer accept your phone calls or give you money,” etc.  Basically the enablers are refusing to enable any longer.  I’ve cried more than once while watching this show.

I don’t know what it is about these types of shows that is so riveting to me.  I have always been fascinated by what goes on in other people’s lives.  Their upbringings, their tragedies and triumphs.  What never ceases to amaze me is how deceiving outward appearances can be.  I would never imagine by looking at or having simple interactions with some of these people that they are dangerously close to the edge.

Something I have never done is wish I were someone else.  Sure, I wanted to have Spoiled Rich Chick’s car, or Tan Aerobics Instructor’s body.   I have admired elements of other peoples’ lives, even coveted them.  But thankfully, I have always known that being someone else does not equal happiness.  What you see or know of others, aside from close family and friends, is very superficial.  Spoiled Rich Chick or Tan Aerobics Instructor could have a loveless marriage, non-existent self-esteem, a drug habit, or feel chronically empty inside.  Despite the images being projected, we do not know the whole story.

Think of your life:  all its details…  family, work, money, worries, dreams, hopes, anxieties, plans, regrets, insecurities, likes and dislikes.  Now think about the fact that EVERY SINGLE PERSON OUT THERE has these just like you.  It’s easy to look at people and just see shells. Everyone outside of our circle seems like an extra on the set of a movie; inconsequential,  moving in and out of the scene without making any real impact.  We are all guilty of this; it’s human nature.  I try to remember that each person has their own story, full of details and realities that I can’t even begin to be aware of by looking at them or speaking a few words to them.  There are literally BILLIONS of stories out there – as many stories as there are people.  The person who always seems to be happy at the office may be scared or content or depressed when they lay down in bed at night.  Or the person who seems like they have everything may be laying awake in bed at night thinking of how empty they feel inside, and what they can do to make the emptiness go away. 

I have innumerable intricacies in my life, just like every other person on the planet. I have my worries and my successes and my failures.  But they are mine.  I do not want anyone else’s.  Mine are familiar to me, even if they can be uncomfortable and knock me on my ass sometimes.  Some people may very well be happy or fulfilled underneath it all, in which case I am glad for them, but still don’t want to be them.  On the other hand, that green grass on the other side of the fence just might be Astroturf.  I’m thinking it looks mighty fine from a distance, how I wish my grass were that green and perfectly manicured.  But I take a closer look and realize that this grass isn’t real and lush at all, like it looked from my side of the fence, but is instead an artificial cover-up for the dead dryness that lies underneath. 

I’ll keep living life on my side of the fence – this is where I want to be.  But my fence will always be a short one.  This way I can see over the fence into all the other yards out there and maybe even go hang out once in awhile.

Things I was surprised to discover

At age 24: Roadrunners are real, and not just some creature made up by Warner Bros. to give Wyle E. Coyote someone fast to bust his ass over.  And over.  And over.

At age 10: Color is not an invention.  Color TV is.  This here misconception was rooted in years of watching The Brady Bunch reruns.  I thought I was clever when I deduced that, because the first season was in black and white and subsequent seasons magically appeared in Technicolor, that color, IN ALL FORMS, must have been “invented” circa 1970.  Sharp critical thinking skills at work here.  My mother shot this theory all to hell one day when I was looking through one of her old photo albums:

“Mom, it must have been so boring to be able to only wear black and white and gray clothes when you were a kid.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Um, you know – ‘cause there wasn’t any color back then.”

“No color? What? Of course there was color.”

“But The Brady Bunch….” I told her my theory.

“Heather, you think the sky and grass and flowers were all black and white? EVERYTHING?! Come ON!” Utter. Dis. Belief.

My mother went on to disprove my Color Invention Theory, point by Technicolor point. I would not have blamed her if she had decided to kick my ass back to Timbuktu that day.

At age 10:  The Washington Redskins hail from D.C., not Washington state, dumbass.  And while we’re on the subject of football, Joe Montana probably doesn’t know you just because you were born in the state he shares a name with.

As a young adult:  Not all women experience orgasms.  WHA??  And of those that do, a significant percentage can’t experience them during intercourse.  WHA-HUH?  These revelations saddened me, and made me realize just how lucky a bitch I was.

At age 9:  Those two mounds chicks have are breasts, not lungs.  For the longest time I thought to myself, and even out loud once or twice, “Wow, Dolly Parton has REALLY BIG lungs.  That’s how come she can sing so good.”

At age 19:  “Beaver” can refer to more than that buck-toothed thing that builds dams.  This discovery was especially bothersome because when I was a kid I had named a pet guinea pig “Beaver.”  Hmmph.

At age 16:  The “Mile High Club” has nothing to do with frequent flyer miles, skydiving, or hiking.

At age 6:  A Birthday Suit is not something you can buy at Sears or classify as “party clothes.”

At age 18:  Robert Reed, a.k.a. Mr. Brady, was gay!  This made me really happy that my Color Invention Theory was false.