Burn, Birkin, Burn! And This is What Happens When Art Has to Fart!

To complement my last post, I felt it was necessary to add a background to the story of  Eastwood's daughter, Francesca Eastwood, burning an Hermes Birkin bag.  I did a little fact-checking, and it seems that Crocodile leather Birkins will run you somewhere in the neighborhood of $38K, but, let's get real, that's still a substantial chunk of money.  It's no $100K, but I'd eat that purse with ketchup for $38K, so that tells you what that sum of money would mean to me right now.

Eighteen or nineteen year old Francesca is dating thirty year old Tyler Shields who is a celebrity and fashion photographer.  The one thing that Tyler Shields does share with Clint is a penchant for the May-December relationships, obviously.  Tyler fancies himself an artist with his controversial photos that have shown Lindsay Lohan as a blood-sucking vampire, and he's also the one who photographed her with mascara-stained eyes fiddling with blood and guns.  And here's Lindsay playing possum with Tyler Shields:

Here's some more shock art Tyler Shields's did using Lohan as his muse:

There was the time he collected blood samples from 20 stupid ass celebrities for an exhibit in LA for a piece he titled "Life is not a Fairy Tale."

Oh and here's a photo he took of Heather Morris, a star on Glee, of which he had to issue a public apology, and make a donation to a domestic violence charity as damage control.

I'm digressing terribly, so I'm returning to impressionable Francesca (who I really shouldn't let off too easy) and Tyler Shields's latest publicity stunt.  They get a bag that is digustingly expensive, and Tyler decides to pale out her face and put red fire lipstick on her,  and burn said disgustlingly expensive bag while she acts seductive with her pouty lips blowing air to fan the fire, and, as a contrast to the kewpie doll fire blow, goes all S&M with her teethy dog clench on the bag.  What a proud papa moment!  Was there a purpose to these photos?  I don't think so, but he did get himself in trouble again and her too.  If that was his purpose, he succeeded.  As to do more damage control, he said he would donate $100K to a needy family if someone bought one of the photos.  I ask who the hell is going to buy one of those ART FART photos, and why does someone have to buy that shit in order for him to donate money to a needy family.  What an asshole.

I think the kind of art he produces is intended to shock and outrage people, and it's him grappling to stay in the news and keep current, so he doesn't go under and become vapor.  Plus, everyone wants to see life imitating art as we all watch Lohan melt down into a hot mess in real time.  Until people look away, he'll keep on keeping on, and foolish, young girls like Francesca will worship him as they get to be a part of art fart and some asshole's muse.  Scroll down to see photos from this piece de resistance of art farts.

Harping on Dirty Harry

Clint and his "Empty Obama Chair" speech at the Republican National Convention will go down in infamy as one of his most peculair moments in the public eye.  To me, it was a terribly weird, psychotherapy session in which his therapist asked him to talk to Obama about his thoughts and concerns while pretending Obama was present and sitting in a chair to his side.  It left me wondering if the next exercise would be his therapist bringing out a foam bat for him to hit the invisible Obama as a way to release his anger.

Getting to the meat of the issue, like many Republicans, Clint is oversimplifying the issues Obama and the United States are confronting today.  He mentions Gitmo to the invisible Obama and asks why didn't you shut it down.  It takes Congress to make these things happen.  Remember that, Clint, when things don't happen quick enough for you.  Also, you say Mitt would bring the troops home from Afghanistan tomorrow rather than give a projected date like Obama has done.  Well, again, you oversimplify.  It takes a number of years, months, and days to get the soldiers and equipment out of a war zone.  Equipment has to be decontaminated; soldiers must be brought home orderly, and, from an administrative standpoint, it could be a disaster without standard operating procedures in place to bring them back to the states; then, there's the issue of leaving with some semblance of diplomacy.

Let's not forget all the empty promises that he accuses Obama of making to the American public.  You know politicians do that, Clint.  It's par for the course.  Any person around the globe who trusts a politician campaigning for an office to fulfill each promise he makes is wackadoo.  Maybe I'm jaded, but politics makes you jaded when you learn a little bit about politics.

I think my favorite moment is at about the 4:19 mark when Obama tells him to shut up, and he replies, "What do you mean shut up?" Then there's the bawdy line at about the 6:20 mark when Clint says to Obama, "What's that?," and he says "I can't tell Romney to do that to himself. You're crazy." Crazy, psssh! You bought a one way ticket to Crazy Town, Clint, when you gave the mystery guest speech at the RNC.

It could be that Clint lost his mind when his wife signed on to do a reality show on E!.  I know that if those idiot fool daughters and wife were mine and were running around my house burning Hermes Birkin bags that cost around $100,000 while millions of Americans are unemployed I'd be talking gibberish to an empty chair too.

Whether you are Republican or Democrat, I think we can cross party lines to agree this was very unconventional behavior.  Get it?  Get it?

Ornamental Flower Pot or Chamber Pot? You Decide.

I went to Ross today, and I stumbled upon this thing.  Now I ask you is this a flower pot or a chamber pot?  Look at the ornate ironwork, and it is chair after all complete with arm rests.  There's no disputing that.  Could Louis XIV have used this ornate, iron-worked pot when he was younger and didn't have as much girth as he did later in life?  Of course, he would've called it a pot de chambre.  Hmmm, this thing could even be used for potty training.  That's no joke.  I'm kind of serious, because the pot can be removed from its frame.  I checked.  If you don't want a hot pink training potty with Dora the Explorer on it or a red one with Lightning McQueen on it for your toddler, this is an alternative.






There is depth to that pot.  Depth for roots and soil, or, well, I can't bring myself to type it despite my love for scatological humor.















Here's a side view to give a bit more dimension, so you can come to your own conclusion.

Honey Boo Boo Chile Makes Me Wanna Holla Gimme a Season 2, TLC!

"Here Comes Honey Boo Boo" is one of the latest additions to TLC's line-up of reality shows.  It's a spin-off from  "Toddlers and Tiaras" starring Alana (Honey Boo Boo) who is a 6 year old beauty queen from McIntyre, Georgia, which has an over-crowded population of approximately 700 people within its area of 5 square miles.  Mcintyre's only store is called Kuntry Stoe, and, then, there's the train that runs through Honey Boo Boo's backyard, which is surprisingly tidy with its maintained lawn and junk free carport. The smallish, white-washed house in which they live is tidy and organized too even with the extreme couponing purchases, and the house isn't tackied with the decor you might expect like rebel flags, Nascar figurines, stuffed animals won from county fairs, Budweiser lamps, a half empty Mountain Dew bottle with smoked down cigarettes in it, and so on.  The decor isn't in bad taste, and it has more of a "person doing the best with what they have" theme going on.

Alana (Honey Boo Boo) is a cocky, little sassified deeva with a Buddha belly, and I love her, and her whopper of an ego and her Buddha belly!  She knows how to give someone the what for too.  She's on the plumpish side and makes fun of her belly, but not in the way you might be thinking, not in a self-defacing way, but in a "I ain't got no prob'em wid my belleee" with some head shaking thrown in with the backtalk.  I think her (I can't believe I'm writing this) but I think her super mom has something to do with this. Her mom, June (Mama), tips the scale at a little over 300 pounds, has three other daughters with different baby daddies she says, and a live-in boyfriend who is also Honey Boo Boo's daddy named Sugar Bear who hovers at about 5 feet tall, dips tobacco, loves his girls, and ain't much of a talker. 

Well, June is great with Alana and with her other girls!  Alana is not your pageant brat freaking over a Grand Supreme title because of her mom.  Her mom makes her feel like you win, you lose, who gives a shit, Baby whereas the other moms are basically like "you, idiot, fug child, you ruined my crown for not blowing a kiss at the perverted and skin crawl creepy judges."  Other things make her mom great too.  Like she knows how to throw down and have a good time, and she cares about her weight enough to initiate a diet with one of her other chubz daugthers, but she isn't hard on herself or her daughters about their appearances or weight, and Mama doesn't obsess over what she calls her va-jiggle jaggle.  Like I mentioned, Mama keeps a clean, organized house, and doesn't holler at the girls or Sugar Bear.  This is a woman who chose to have a good life despite having a child at fifteen, another at seventeen, another child somewhere along the way, and Alana (or Honey Boo Boo) last.  She's embraced life and is, dare I say it, an inspiration for me.  She still hasn't embraced one of her toes, which was deformed when a fork lift ran over her foot.  She did, however, show it when she and the girls were at the water park, so she's coming around.  One detail that should be shared is that she wore a sock on her foot all day at the water park until the girls told her they'd be ready to leave if she showed it.  I can say I've fully embraced her toe and all.  Oh, and the subtitles that have to be read to understand what the hell she and others are saying is fine with me.  It doesn't destract, but, then again, I know their language.

If you're still unconvinced, this show is worth your time.  Here are some of the lines that had me stomping my foot and parrotting Honey Boo Boo.  Before I write these I need you to know that these are self-aware people.  They are in on the joke.  If you think you're laughing at them, you're dead wrong.  They flawed, funny, and know it.  That's what makes them lovable and endearing.

___________________________



Honey Boo Boo (Mama spraying Honey Boo Boo with tan in a can): "Spray tan's like poop in a can." (tan from can running out of and down from Honey Boo Boo's belly


Honey Boo Boo prepares herself for the water park: "I hope I don't see a bunch of wedgies at the waterpark. Vagiggle jaggles gonna be hanging out, though."


Honey Boo Boo:  When my belly hurts, it's usually gas. Or too many chicken nuggets.

_______________________________

To all the uptight people who think this show is an abomination and an effront to society, calm down.  Really?  It's a reality show on TLC, the same people who brought us "Hoarders" and "Extreme Couponing."  What did you expect from Honey Boo Boo?  Second, people do live like this, accept it, and remind yourself you have no right to change their lifestyle; however, you can change the channel.  Let that be your protest, but I'm going to assume that you can't turn the channel, and doesn't it piss you off that I know that?

Harping on Total Recall (1990) and Rotten Tomatoes

I watched Total Recall (1990) last night, and it was terrible, a good terrible though.  It was campy; the acting was abominable (Schwarzenegger being the worst offender); and the lines were beyond cheesy.  Here's a sampling of some of the lines that had me rolling my eyes or pausing the movie and laughing: 

Lori (played by Sharon Stone):  Doug, honey... you wouldn't hurt me, would you, sweetheart? Sweetheart, be reasonable. After all, we're married!
[Lori goes for her gun, Quaid shoots her in the head, killing her]
Quaid (played by Arnold Schwarzenegger): Consider that a divorce!

________________


Benny (played by no one I or you know): Hey, Quaid! I'm gonna squash you!
Quaid:  Benny! Here!
Benny: [shouts] Where the fuck are you?
Quaid: [killing him with a large drill] SCREW YOU!



Overall, the movie was nothing more than a bad action movie set in Mars year 2029 with people jumping through glass-plate windows, karate-ing it up, shooting magazines of bullets, running and turning corners with a film of sweat on their skin all while breathing heavy.

If it was 1990 and I was more of a critical movie goer than I was when I was ten, I'd be pissed I spent my money on that movie.  Twenty-two years later, I can laugh at it and get sucked into it being that it was checked out of the library for free.

On Rotten Tomatoes, of which I have relied on for over ten years, this movie has an 84%.  It SHOULD NOT have an 84%, and this is where Rotten Tomatoes upsets me. That 84% was given retroactively.  It wasn't given when the movie was in the theater, and, if it had been, it would probably have no better of a rating than the Total Recall remake out in theaters now, which has a 30%.  The reason the original has such a high rating has to do with inflation from those nostalgic critics who have fond memories of the movie or those geeks (excuse me, I mean people) who live for Sci-Fi action.

Inflation doesn't have to be from nostalgia or those who live for a certain genre.  Retroactive ratings happen for other reasons too.  A movie may not be realized for its greatness until well after it has left the theaters and is collecting dust.

If you come across an old movie and check it on Rotten Tomatoes, be mindful that the rating was given retroactively or that new reviews were grandfathered in with the old reviews to blow up the rating.  I shouldn't be too hard on Rotten Tomatoes, because its purpose is to compile reviews and assign a percentage based on those reviews, so it is doing its job.  I just want to put out a beware.

Halloween and My Top Ten Horror Movie List

I love Halloween!  I've always loved Halloween.  There's something about it and the fall that's atmospheric, and I just love it.  The winds are blowing colorful, crispy leaves; it's the end of Indian summer; pumpkins are for sale; the candy corn is fresh and not stale like the other times of the year; trick or treating; costumes; and horror movies. 

Out of all those things, my favorite thing to do is watch horror movie after horror movie after horror movie while carving pumpkins and eating Halloween candy.  I start watching horror movies about two months in advance to set the mood.  Try "The 60 days of Halloween" intead of "The 12 Days of Christmas."

Here's a list of ten horror movies that I make a point to watch every Halloween. 

1.  Halloween (1978)




2.  The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920)



3.  House of 1,000 Corpses (2003)














4.  Friday the 13th (1980)



5.  Scream (1996)



6.  The Shining (1980)




7.  Halloween II (2009)



8.  The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974)



9. Nosferatu (1922)



10.  Trick 'r Treat

QVC: Don't Turn the Channel Lisa Robertson Is Hocking! or Yes, It's the Quacker Factory!

When I can't sleep at night, which is too often these days, but not quite as often as it used to be thanks to ZzzQuil, I'll watch QVC.  QVC, for some reason or other, lulls me into that space between real time and sleep time.  I just drift, but, if I'm really in to  what QVC is selling or who is selling it, I'll fight the sleep.  When Lisa Robertson is selling something, I get mesmerized.  She loves herself, is in love with herself, makes love to herself.  And I love it most when she is selling clothes or make-up and skincare items.  She always make a point to wear the clothes that she's trying to help the designers or companies sell.  She twist her hips, angles her shoulders, sucks in her cheeks to make more defined cheekbones, and hoists those eyebrows.  Girl got bitchface.  She has to tamp that down though sometimes to reach out to people without ideal figures, so she'll say things like, "For those of us with problem areas in our hips and tummy like me, this bias cut, lycra top is perfect.  It hides all those flaws.  Oh, and you get all these beautiful jewel tones that go great with any hair color or skin color."  Here's a video of Lisa loving herself.

Then, there's The Quaker Factory.  If you don't know about the Quaker Factory, you need to know. Jeanne Bice, the founder and creator of The Quaker Factory, turned herself (well, now it'd be her estate) into a billionaire selling her clothing line on QVC.  The Quaker Factory clothing line is a lot of watermelon cotton tee shirts with black sequins standing in as seeds, chunky knit Christmas sweaters wth fuzzy kittens stitched on, you get the idea or the vision or whatever. The woman, God rest her soul (she passed away a couple of years ago), was the best thing ever on QVC. I'd get my bag of Cheesy Poofs and soda and snuggle in for some fun.  She had (probably still has) a cult following, and when callers were taken live on the air it was like the second coming of The Beatles.  They'd call in go, "Quack, Quack," and Jeanne would quack, quack back.  She was well-loved and her clothes always sold out.

So Jeanne Bice passed away, as I mentioned, and QVC put together this tribute.  I loved Jeanne, and I miss the Christmas specials at her house in Florida.  Of course, I want you to watch all of these videos, but, if you don't, you are missing out.  The last video posted has really naught, dirty, bathroom graffiti words in it.  At the very least, watch it.

Be Honest, Do You Need that Motorized Grocery Cart? Maybe You Do, but Maybe You Don't.

I went to Publix today with Brad to pick up a few ingredients to make stuffed bell peppers for his mom, myself, and him to eat for dinner tonight.  When Brad and I were walking through the parking lot, we happened to cross paths with this nice, cheerful woman, driving a motorized grocery cart, who appeared to be in her late to early seventies.  She was obviously in poor health and had limited mobility.  She gave us a yell and half-laughing, half-jokingly asked us if we would drive it back to the grocery entrance for her.  Well, I thought she was joshing us, so I told her, "No, but can you give me a lift in your basket?"  Then it dawned on me that she really did want us to drive it back.  Upon noticing her sincerity, I told her, "Absolutely!"  I ran over to her, and she sort of hauled herself out of it to make the 3 feet trip back to her car.  For some reason, she thought I was embarassed to drive it back, but I wasn't embarassed at all.  She protested that Brad should drive it, so I wouldn't have to be embarassed.  I nicely protested back that I wasn't embarassed, and it clicked right then that she was embarassed she had to use a motorized cart.  She said with a sad face that she never thought she'd have to use one of those, and she continued to say that now she has no choice.  It tugged at my heart a little and tugged at my heart even more when I drove the cart to the entrance and got stares and some dirty looks from walkers.

Yes, yes, yes, I know that I don't have any physical maladies.  People were probably looking at me disgusted that I was in the motorized cart with the full capacity to walk on my own two legs, and I wanted to yell at them, "Be nice to me, I was just being a good Girl Scout.  What have you done today?"  With that said, I do still think that people stare a little longer when you are not as lucky as me and have no choice but to drive one of those carts.  Being stared at too long makes anyone uncomfortable especially if the reason they are staring is because of some physical ailment or limitation.  This elderly woman's situation was one in which she honestly needed the motorized grocery cart to shop, because of her poor physical health.  And, whew!  Another reason I feel sorry for her and others who have to drive those things is that they move so damn slow.  It's like a turtle taking a shit.

Then, there are times when I catch imposters who don't need those carts.  I just get pissed over that.  It's the same offense as using the handicapped bathroom stall and coming out to find that a person with a handicap is waiting on you to get out.  Imposters are taking from those who really need special accommodations. 

Around Christmas, Brad and I were in the same Pubix, and we happened upon an imposter.  The imposter had to be in her late eighties, she was in great health, so great it was obvious.  The grocery was terribly crowded, since it was Christmastime, and being in one of those carts was like being able to throw elbows at a crowded bar or a crowded concert.  All of us hustling shoppers had to get out of her way and make room for her.  Brad and I first noticed her criminal behavior on the produce aisle.  She left her chair, walked briskly over to the fruits, made her selection, and walked briskly back to her cart with excellent posture.  I'm talking 'bout she drank her milk, no osteoperosis for her posture.  Then we noticed her at the butcher getting cuts of meat, leaving her cart while her cuts were prepared, standing up reaching for items off of high shelves, and moving from the milk selections to the cheese selections all without her cart with the greatest of ease.  When she got in her cart, she bulldozed, parting the Red Sea of pissed off Christmas shoppers.

We were speechless, but speechless for only a little while.  For the better part of the trip, we did reconnaisance on her following her from aisle to aisle and argued whether to steal something from her cart or let her know we were on to her faking it.  We didn't do anything but conspire and laugh.

The thing is though that I've always felt sad for people who have to use those things, but now I feel even sadder knowing that those things go so damn slow that it takes them hours to pick up a couple of things when it takes me minutes.

The Evolution and Just Plain Mean History of Brassieres

I read an article over a year ago about bras on one of my favorite, snarky, new wave feminist websites, Jezebel.com.  The article was titled "Behold Super Olde-Tymey Brassiere Devices."  I want to share what I learned from the article and what I learned doing my own research on these angry, hateful bras.

When you think about bras today there are many, many oftentimes even confusing choices.  To name a few, there are convertible, strapless, tee shirt, chicken cutlets, backless, push-up, demi cup, full coverage, sports, underwire, cotton, satin, sateen, lace, and more.  We women weren't always so lucky though.  Curse your bra all you want, but be glad they've come as far as they have in the last eighty years.  Prior to around 1925, women had virtually no options.  The bra is a relatively knew invention, a 20th century invention, and, at the end of the twenties, the bra was given considerable attention.  Sure, there were your prior forerunners, but nothing like the modern bra we've come to know and wear.

Around 1930, inventors, mostly ignorant men (the ones who still fiddle with a bra hook), tried their little brains at constructing bras.  Their inventions were more fitting for the construction of a building or scaffolding or even a cantilever bridge.  If the bras weren't designed with a building or bridge in mind, they were designed with medical science in mind, and they resembled medical braces or, even worse, medieval torture devices.

Here are a few pictures, with my own commentary, that I stole from the United States Patent Office.


This bra was patented in 1929.  Please look at the sad, little face on that good time flapper with her cute bob haircut.  No gin fizz or champagne was going to cheer her up, and she could forget doing the Charleston in that angry, mean bra.

 

This might be my favorite.  It was designed in the 1920s by a man, of course, you shouldn't be shocked.  He had to be an architect given his cruel, little cantilever there.  Then again does that look like columns leading up from the high waist to the underboob?  If you're trying to figure this one out, let me help you.  Yes, there is no fabric covering the boob its self.  That triangular shape you see does, however, cover the nipple lady bit.

Lets give thanks to the bra we tug at, the strapless one we pull up, and the underwire that cuts at the most tender places.  It could've been worse.

Alfred Got Pimpy with Tippi



I love Alfred Hitchcock movies and Alfred Hitchcock Presents.  I own several of his movies, and, if I don't own one, I've most likely seen it.  As for Alfred Hitchcock Presents, I've watched every episode.

A few of my favorite Hitchcock movies include Stage Fright with the glamor puss Marlene Dietrich; Rope with it's ingenious, deceptive one shot camera trick; Strangers on a Train and its deviant lesson in how to get away with murder; and The Birds because of its sex kitten-ish Tippi Hedren and her near fatal trip to the idyllic Bodega Bay.

An HBO movie titled The Girl has aired or is going to air soon, and it portrays the sexual harassment and harsh, abusive physcological torment that Hitchcock forced upon Hedren during the filming of The Birds.

It's no secret that Hitchcock had a weakness for beautiful, cool, somewhat aloof blondes with maybe the exception of a warm Grace Kelly in Dial M for Murder and Rear Window.  These blondes who Hitchcock collected like china dolls were always coiffed with no hair out of place despite rain, wind, birds, murder, and being chased.  Books have been written about his penchant or obsession for blonde leading ladies.  Read Spellbound by Beauty if an insider look into old Hollywood fascinates you like it does me.

What The Girl has promised is to give an insider look into the specifics of Hitchcock's abusive relationship with Tippi Hedren.  Hedren was an unknown actress when Hitchcock cast her to play the lead female role in The Birds, and she had to be overcome with excitement to have been cast in a movie directed by the Great Hitchcock.  It's safe to say that her excitment quickly faded when he ordered real, live birds be thrown at her.  In one scene, he order the birds be tied to her.  She made no objections being an unknown actress with her first big break as an actress in the hands of Hitchcock.  During the one of the violent bird scences, she narrowly escaped having one of her eyes pecked out by an especially predatorial bird.  She was injured, scratched, and shat upon by the birds. 

Despite the shit and bloody cuts, Hitchcock sexually harassed her, and, when she refused to cave in  to his sexual advances, he got angry and unleashed hell on her.  He paid staff to do surveillance on her, and she couldn't shake the gum shoes.  They tailed her too closely, and Hitchcock knew intimate details about her that were not meant to be for his eyes.  He told her he'd ruin her career for not bending to his will, and he told her she'd never work for anyone but him ever again, because he was not going to allow her to break her contract.  He supposedly kept her on contract without giving her any work, with the exception of Marnie, and she continued to recieve wages without working because of her contract.  As a result of not working, her career went South and when her contract ran out there was little interest in her anymore.  We'll never really know whether Tippi had the acting chops that The Birds suggests she did, and isn't that just sad?

Little Foo Foo Bunny or is it Little Bunny Foo Foo?

Everyone knows the Little Bunny Foo Foo song, and, if you don't, I'm sad for you.  It's such an important song in kindergarten.  I can remember sitting Native American style (for the sake of being politically correct) on that ABC rug with Mrs. Perrou sitting in her small people chair leading us in the Little Bunny Foo Foo song with our little kindergartener bathroom right behind her and her small people chair.

I loved that song, love it now!  But I can never seem to get the lyrics right.  I bungle it really, really bad.  Murder it.

One day, a long while ago, I asked Brad if he sang the Little Bunny Foo Foo song in kindergarten, and, of course, he did.  Then I broke out in song.  It went something like this; I'm ad-libbing:

"Little Foo Foo Bunny, scooping up the the snails and pulling off their heads.

Down came the goon and bopped him on his head.

The goon told him I'll give you three more chances, and, if you don't stop, I'll turn you into a rat.

More wrong lyrics

POOF, you're a rat!"

After bungling the lyrics, we laughed and laughed and went Ninja with potty humor versions of the song.  You can imagine what you can do with Little Bunny Foo Foo.  What rhymes with Foo Foo?  Poo Poo and Doo Doo.

Here's a worse version of the song than mine.  If you don't watch South Park, this is Butters singing "Little Bunny Foo Foo."  Whether or not you watch the show, you are going to love this.

It's Manager's Special in the Cafeteria

Public school is starting soon, and I keep thinking back to the food or what passed as food being served on those plastic, rectangular, partitioned lunch trays at my elementary school.  Every now and again, there'd be styrofoam trays; I never undestood that.  That's a digression though.  Cafeteria food is the purpose of this post.

The food was usually beige.  There were no naturally colorful foods like fresh fruits and vegetables.  The only colorful food items were ketchup and mustard, and there seemed to always be a piece of yellow cake on holidays with artificially colored icing.

Each month, I'd get a calendar with the foods listed for each day of that month.  If you went to public school, you did too, probably. The foods I remember most are tacos, tater tots, french fries, vegetable soup with gritty ground beef in it, chicken tenders, fried chicken, baked chicken, corn dog, mac n' cheese, rectanglur sliced pizza, whole milk, chocolate milk, fruit punch for an extra 25 cents, sloppy joe's, syrupy fruit cocktail, icy birds (a freeze pop), ice cream cups, country fried steak, soybean hamburgers or cheeseburgers, and I'll never forget my favorite, Manager's Special!  That was usually cobbled together left-overs.  Oh, and there was always a choice 1 or 2 entree for that day, and you told your teacher that morning what you choice was.  You knew better to ask for the other choice when you got to the lunchroom, because of the Cafeteria Manager.

I was frightened of our Cafeteria Manager, Mrs. Hatchell.  She had a glass eye, and, no, I'm not making this up.  Sounds like the makings of a replacement for Chef on South Park, but this is no joke.  There was the milky blue, glass eye, the stout figure, steel wool hair, stained apron paired with sensible crepe-soled shoes, husky voice, and a roughness toward kids. God knows, I'm glad she  slinged that roughness around.  Kids can be assholes about things like glass eyes, but her rough ways scared everyone.  There were circulating rumors that if you pissed her off she'd take out her eye and shove it in your mouth.

Mrs. Hatchell was the keeper of the fruit punch for an extra 25 cents, and you had to ask her for a fruit punch, tell her what flavor of fruit punch (orange or purple), and hand her your 25 cents.  I always had 25 cents, because I always wanted the fruit punch, but a lot of days I was scared to ask, so I saved the 25 cents and got chocolate milk.

I wouldn't mind having a elementary public school lunch today, as an adult, to see whether the fare has changed or has remained the same.

Punking an Interview

After going on so many interviews, I've got this idea that I'd really like to punk a few interviews.  If I was independently wealthy, I'd do it for a good time.  Maybe for one interview requiring a power point presentation go in with the narrative recorded, and tell them I've got to run a quick errand to CVS, so I'm going to play it for them while I'm gone.  Wear a bathing suit, impersonate a star, wear a trashy, clubby outfit with visible hot pink bra straps.  Fart during an interview and tell them I just sharted while walking away clutching my pants.  Go in asking when I start and how big my desk is.  Eat a hotdog while interviewing.  Tell them my weaknesses are drugs and alcohol, but I'm on Step 6 of the 12 Step program, so there's nothing to worry about, and my strengths are being able to color in the lines of my Hello Kitty coloring book (or not; they don't need to know).

The Chair of Eew, Ick and Who put that There

This La-Z Boy chair has been around my parents' house since time immemorial.  It was the first La-Z Boy out of a long string of La-Z Boy chairs in my parents' house.  While the others got donated, this one has stuck around like a bad cold sore.  Its been retired to the apartment above the garage since it became a tattered embarassment that my mom didn't even want the UPS man to see.  Despite my dad's protests to keep the chair in the house, my mom won, and it got retired. 

I think the chair was bought around 1987.  It was originally a dark brown and didn't have the slouch it has now or strings hanging off it.  Just think, this chair is 25 years old.  That's an accumulation of 25 years worth of crap, grit, sticky, junk, stains, and cigar and cigarette burns.

A few months ago, Brad lost his iPod into the dark depths of this chair, and he couldn't find it by reaching his hand in the many crevices and holes.  I warned him if he continued reaching in there he might need a tetanus shot.  He eventually had to flip the chair over to find the iPod.  What he found during his search was an Airhead candy wrapper, little Nerd candy pieces, a set of keys with a flip flop keychain, pens, sticky fabric, a dead moth, Kool-Aid stains, an Andy Capp hot fry, and other unmentionable offensive objects.  In a sick way, it was kind of fun to find all that grossness. 

For the record, my mom is a clean freak like Monica on Friends, and the contents of the chair are no reflection on her cleaning.  The contents are a reflection of a well-loved, sat upon chair that survived two kids, a former cigar and cigarette smoker, pets, and being moved from hither and yonder.  I love this eyesore of a chair (stains, sticky, and all).

If you're wondering, Brad did find his iPod.

ParaNorman is Anything but ParaNormal

I went to see ParaNorman with Brad last night, and it was terrific.  The animation is a feast for the eyes.  It's new and somewhat experimental.  There is nothing about it that makes it similar to the animation movies we are accustom to now like the Pixar movies.  The Pixar movies are amazing, and I will never forget my amazement when I saw Sully's (Monsters, Inc.) fur blown by a breeze.  It was palpable.  But there's something so special about the animation in ParaNorman. 

The animation in ParaNorman is reminiscent of the 1964 Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer special that we've all loved since the time we believed in Santa Claus.  ParaNorman is an updated stop-motion, claymation-ish kind of animation that's been revamped and given a modern tweak.  Much more sweat went into its creation than that of CGI movies.  The clothes were sewn by human hands and doll bodies were moved and manipulated by human hands.  One detail that should be disclosed is that the many facial expressions used were printed with a 3D printer, but that doesn't detract from the overall appearance of the movie.    It only adds.

As for the plot line, it was entertaining, comical, and delivers several meaningful messages for kids, tweens, teens,and adults too about bullying and not fitting in.  The messages weren't too heavy-handed for me, but might agitate someone less tolerant of morality tales.  The movie will also get you excited about the approach of fall and Halloween.  Nothing to harp on about ParaNorman!

One last bit of advice I do have is to not shell out the extra $3.50 for the 3D version.  I didn't see it in 3D, and I can't recall any scene in which I thought to myself, "Erg, should have seen this in 3D." 

Dolly Parton and Cracker Barrel

First I want to say that I love Dolly Parton.  I own several of her albums,  I even own a Dolly Parton tribute album, follow her on Google+, and listen to her on my iPod from time to time when I'm working out.  I can't count the times I've played "Jolene" during a break-up. 

Dolly has teamed up with the restaurant chain Cracker Barrel to create a new CD/DVD album, "Spend a Night with Dolly". . .oops I meant "Spend an Evening with Dolly."  Can you imagine a more perfect union than Dolly and Cracker Barrel? So happy she didn't choose Walmart. Included is a  DVD of one of her performances in London and much more.  I might have to head out to Cracker Barrel on Hwy 52 for my own Cracker Barrel and Dolly Album.

Advertising Sucker

Have you seen the ZzzQuil commercial?  Yes, there is a product called ZzzQuil.  I know a lot of you out there don't have cable what with Netflix, Hulu, and the ilk, so you've missed out on being blasted by corporate America.  I, on the other hand, have cable, and I've realized I'm a sucker for commercials, labeling, or new products like ZzzQuil for example.  I have a history of being a consumer sucker.

There was the time I bought Heinz ketchup.  The Heinz ketchup had "Gone Dipping with Gorton's Fish Sticks" (see image below), and I was the sucker dipping those fish sticks in the kethcup.  It was almost subliminal with me.  I know, I know there's a giant fish stick sticker on the label, smarty pants, but I swear it was subliminal or whatever you want to call it.  After buying the ketchup, I was at the grocery on a regular trip, and I was thinking I have a craving, a gross one, for some fish sticks.  Bought, ate 'em, grossed myself out.  Then, my boyfriend asked if I bought those Gorton's Fish Sticks, because of the ketchup.  I didn't know what he was talking about until he pointed out the bottle.  Sucker!

As for ZzzQuil, I love this product.  The commercial did it to me.  There is the cutest girl with fair skin and dark, bird's nest hair knotted all over.  She has her hand scrunching her face and she is out.  The kind of out where you drool.  The voice over explains ZzzQuil is a nighttime sleep aid without the cough medicine ingredients.  I saw the commercial maybe two times, and I went to CVS.  The woman checking me out said that about three people had come in before me and bought ZzzQuil.  She asked if it worked, and I told her I didn't know, but I did know the advertising worked.  Guess I wasn't the only sucker.  What I can tell you is that I don't regret buying ZzzQuil like I do the Gorton's Fish Sticks.  ZzzQuil is effective, and I'm not groggy when I wake up.  I give it five stars.

Job Interviewing or Dating?

While I've been looking for employment, I've had no shortage of job interviews.  My resume gets noticed and attracts a lot of attention.  I've been called in for interviews several times, but haven't been extended a job offer.  As I go on more and more interviews, my mind keeps flitting back to the disasters of dating.  There are so many parallels between interviewing and dating that I hardly know where to begin pointing out the similarities. 

Let's start with the scheduling of an interview/date.  As a girl, you're usually ready to go out on a date as soon as possible, which is what I tell the hiring manager when I'm called for an interview, "Anytime that you're available is fine."  Then, I get all excited.  "Oh, yes, yes, yes, he likes me, he really does."  I start planning my outfit at a minimum of two days in advance.  Should I wear the khaki skirt suit or the gray pant suit?  I'll wear the pant suit, because I don't want to feel too prissy, and pants make me feel in command of the situation.  As for shoes, I can't go sensible on those.  It's not in me to wear a sensible shoe, so I go for my 4 inch, black patent leather, round toe heels.  Then, the nails.  I love a flashy color like a margarita green or a neon orange or a vampy purple, but I decide demure is best for this type of guy, so I go with a ballerina pink or a clear lacquer.  As for jewelry and hair, is a brooch too costumey and glitzy, what about pearls and a headband--too preppy, maybe a professional blow-out for my hair? I decide on a pair of diamond studs, a dressy watch, and a sleek pony tail with no hair amiss. 

I can't sleep the night before the date, because of all the excitement and the what could be and the ever after.  The day of I spend two hours getting ready.  I think of conversation that he might like and answers to questions I can anticipate being asked.  I'm nervous until we shake hands and then I feel confident and ready to impress and charm.  I leave the date thinking about negotiating the salary and whether relocating for him is worth it.  Then, he never calls me back.  I keep thinking why didn't he like me.  What could I have done differently?  Was I confident to the point of cocky?  Was I just not good enough?  Did my outfit look budget or thrown together?  Did I say something dumb?  And, if he does contact me, it's a cryptic email, not a phone call, saying he's found somebody else.  Like most of the guys I dated, I get sad for a day no more no less.  Then, I'm like "meh" and on to the next one and on to the next one and on to the next one.  I dated a lot.  I'll find my Mr. Right Job soon enough.

A Dinner Fit for Candlelight

I got a little decadent for dinner tonight.  I had a pint of Ben and Jerry's "Peanut Butter World," and told my boyfriend to fend for himself in our kitchen that is reminiscent of The Hunger Games as in there isn't shit in there.  The ice cream is milk chocolate (do you really need me to go on describing from here?) with natural peanut butter swirls and chocolate cookie crumbles.  There may be four servings in that pint, but I ask four servings for whom?  Shoe cobbler elves, gnomes, pixie fairies maybe.  The USDA has got to do something about what's an appropriate serving amount.  A pint is the perfect serving for one, and I'm not going to argue with any fools who think otherwise.  The fools can go munch on celery stalks minus the buffalo wings and blue cheese dip.  The horror.


This flavor, "Peanut Butter World," is exclusive and it's only available for a limited time at Target.  As if I needed another reason to go shopping at Target.  Target and Ben and Jerry's joined forces, much greater than any Jedi's, to create four ice cream flavors-"Peanut Butter World," "Berry Voluntary," "Voluntiramisu," and "Brownie Chew Gooder"--to help foster volunteerism.  They're undoubtably fostering a muffin top on my mid-section.

The Strings of the Harp are Plucked

She might pluck a string at any time.  You could be the next victim of her harping.  There'll be a string of harped victims.  I'm getting ham-fisted there, I think.  Nonetheless, she harps all day long and all night long.  No topic is safe from her harpings.  You never know when she may pluck.  Read with caution.  She may pluck at any time.

JUST PLUCK IT!  That attitude is making my life easier.