Maybe you’ve seen this show called House Hunters. I’ve watched it myself a time or two and I don’t even know why, because house shopping ranks way up at the top of my list of things that I’d rather stick sharp things in my eyes than ever do again. Much like car shopping, high school, and giving birth.
Nonetheless, I often find myself in pajamas with no plans that involve real people, in front of the TV, flipping through eleventy hundred channels unable to find something that grabs my attention. That usually ends up with me watching the food channel or HGTV. And since I’m on a diet and don’t want to tempt myself with a Cupcake Wars marathon, that means I’m watching House Hunters or one of the other 800 variations of that program. Caribbean Life often makes me wonder why I’m still living in Ohio…but I digress.
So every episode of House Hunters follows the same exact formula. Obviously it’s a winning formula or else it still wouldn’t be on TV. But just once I’d like to see a variation. Just to spice things up. Watching House Hunters is like being married for 30 years. You like it OK, but every now and then you’d like to be surprised. Not like a visitor at the back door surprised, but more like a coming home to a bottle of chilled wine and a little wrapped box from the jewelry store kind of surprised.
Nonetheless, every episode has some couple where each one wants something distinctly different. He wants a modern industrial contemporary and she wants a charming Craftsman. I don’t care what planet you live on, there will never be a compromise to this. Someone is going to lose and forever be resentful about it. Let’s face it; they should’ve broken up on the third date. If you can’t decide on this, what makes you even think you can decide on how many kids to have? FFS.
And don’t you just want to slap those little bitches in the face when they say they have five kids and she makes organic, vegan candles and he’s a freelance performance artist and their budget is $1.8 million? They also need a yoga studio and room to grow their own vegetables, because the kids can’t eat anything that pesticide has been sprayed upon. This is the point when I think I am doing shit wrong working 40 hours a week for the man, hoping I can contribute to the college funds, running around to various activities, and lucky if I can provide a hot fast food dinner twice a week. The last time I bought a house in 2011, I had to provide 20 years worth of financial statements, proof I had money to pay the mortgage, a blood and urine sample, a video proving I could do the hula hoop, and an affidavit stating I’d give over my first born if I couldn’t make the payments. Just kidding about the affidavit.
After all that, they look at three houses. And she just can’t live with those dark granite countertops. He can’t fathom a life without double vanities. And God forbid the guest room has a tiny closet. This will just not do! Listen here you fucking spoiled brats. I’ve NEVER had countertops I could live with, not in 5 houses. NEVER. But guess what? I have those horrid countertops and I’m still alive. I mean I have to be friends with someone for a considerable amount of time before I invite them over for cocktails and tapas, and not one visit occurs without my now well versed “I hate these countertops” conversation. After a couple of cocktails, no one gives a shit about my countertops. Actually, no one ever gave a shit about my counter tops, except for me. And apparently, I don’t give enough of a shit about my countertops to change them. You know, because I like eating…and electric.
Yet after the 25 minutes of drama, they settle on their “perfect home” and couldn’t be happier. Those counter tops aren’t much of a bother and they love the extra time they get to spend together in the morning because they have to share a bathroom sink. You know neither one of them is happy. They’re just yucking it up for the camera.
The show I REALLY want to see is the one where they’re fighting over that crappy house during their divorce proceedings. Not only do they want that shitty house, but they want that fucking Journey CD from 1988 that they left in your car.
That would be totally worth spending a rainy day in PJ’s in front of the TV. And I’m putting HGTV on notice…if you make this show, you owe me some royalties.
Did you know there are eleventy hundred things you are doing wrong every day? I didn’t until I started reading all the articles telling me so. I’m 45 years old and I thought I’d been getting along pretty good. But I’m starting to question how I made it this far in life, because every time I turn on the TV or look at the inter-webz, I see another ad or article exclaiming how I’m doing something wrong. If you’ve been living a sheltered life and don’t believe me, then you are obviously doing it wrong. Haha, JK. No really, type it in the Google and see. It’s really a wonder that humans haven’t gone into extinction like the dinosaurs, who were obviously doing it wrong.
Did you know that you are doing one of the most basic human functions wrong? That’s right, kids; you’re pooping wrong. All this time, you thought all you had to do was pull down your pants, maybe grab the latest People or Sports Illustrated, and sit on the commode to drop your deuce? Wrong. Apparently, our anatomy doesn’t fit well with the bum on the seat and floor full of feet method. In order to poop correctly, your feet need to be perched on a little footstool to aid in evacuation. Personally, this hasn’t been an issue for me, because girls don’t poop, but guys, you may want to start grabbing a stool (no pun intended) instead of that Hustler mag.
And ladies, you are not exempt from this conversation. It appears you’ve been washing your lady parts wrong, too. Even though I own one, I don’t even think I’m qualified to give advice on this subject. Why just the other day, I stopped over in a public restroom and wasn’t sure if the smell I was experiencing was me or the results of a sour mop. Luckily, my good friend Lo-Lo, confirmed it was an issue in her stall, which was two doors away, so I’m pretty sure it was the mop and we aren’t in dereliction of duty in our garden tending duties.
You remember when your mom told you to cover your mouth when you’re coughing or sneezing? Well, you’re doing that wrong, too. You thought you were being polite, but you forgot about all the people who have to come into contact with all the shit you’ve touched with your germy ass hands after you’ve coughed all over them. You are supposed to cough and sneeze into your elbow. Because nobody touches your elbow. Unless you’re a woman, and then maybe some old, creepy dude touches your elbow, but damn him and his obvious boundary issues. He deserves to get the flu.
Did you know you weren’t supposed to stick Q-tips in your ear? This is a company that has spent their entire advertising budget for the last 40 years on cleaning the earwax out of your ears. But it seems using these innocuous little cotton tipped sticks to clean out your ears is a huge no-no. Does anyone buy Q-tips for another reason? I will never feel complete after a shower again unless I can stick this little thing in my ear. FAKE NEWS! SAD!
Another thing you’re doing wrong is not using your Mickey D’s lid as a coaster. Who knew? I just can’t even. I’m so clumsy, I need that extra barrier to prevent spills on unsuspecting electrical like equipment. I mean what, in 2017, do you want to protect? Your 1950’s era desk valued at $25.00 or the $2K company Dell? I think people want me to use that scrap paper as a coaster and leave the lid intact. But I can’t even wash my vagina or poop correctly, so what do I know?
The world as I knew it before 6:39 p.m. today has ceased to exist. I’m retreating to my bed with a foil-covered pillow hoping I awake to a world where I can stick a Q-tip in my ear and eat my cereal in a nonjudgmental way.
If you’ve spent any amount of time in front of a TV recently, then you can’t help to see one hundred and fifty nine commercials about prescription drugs. Usually, they start off with a moderately attractive person who has some medical condition that is hindering their enjoyment of every day life. Then the ad will claim to be able to fix that medical condition with their special concoction. This immediately results in the moderately attractive person’s frown turning upside down. It’s magic!
Then while you watch moderately attractive person once again enjoying life with other moderately attractive people while they frolic by a lake with a picnic basket, a slightly generic, but nonetheless annoying voice, starts talking about all the things that could go wrong while taking this magical concoction. You know, things like anal leakage, heart arrhythmia, involuntary muscle movements, cancer, coma, and/or death.
Whoa…back the truck up! I’ve got my choice between psoriasis or cancer? IBS or increased liver enzymes? Depression or death by suicide? Um, hello? I don’t know about you, but I’m imagining people in white lab coats conducting experiments and then conversing amongst themselves:
Stan: Well, Fred, we found a cure for erectile dysfunction, but it’s going to make hair grow out of your eyeballs and result in uncontrollable farting.
Fred: Excellent, Stan! That’s some fine work you’ve done there. Let’s name it Xizirqibja! Everyone will love it! We’ll be rich and sipping Mai Tais in the Virgin Islands in no time at all. Insert evil laugh.
Never mind the fact that poor dude taking Xizirqibja will never find anyone to actually have sex with him because of his hairy eyeballs and incessant flatulence. What the hell are these people thinking? And do they get a bonus for every X, Q, Z, and J they use in the drug name?
First off, I’m not putting anything into my mouth that I cannot pronounce that doesn’t follow standard grammatical procedures. Secondly, I’m not going to trade off on a non-fatal condition with another thing that is just as much as an ass pain as the thing I’m suffering from to begin with. Tell me one person who’s willing to take a pill to cure a slightly annoying, albeit unsightly, yet non-fatal, skin condition with something that might result in cancer, which can KILL YOU. Really, just name that one person and provide me with their contact information. So I can slap some common sense back into them.
Since our lawmakers aren’t doing anything to rein these dipshits in, it’s your job as the consumer to say enough with this shit. Stop buying into this crap and take a stand. Demand something better for your money. Don’t settle for some run of the mill crap while paying big bucks to live a mediocre life. The money isn’t in the cure; it’s in the keeping you alive just long enough to where you’ll need more of their special concoctions. After they give you hairy eyeballs to cure your ED, they’ll come up with something to fix hairy eyeballs. But it’ll give you incontinence, which amazingly they’ll have another pill that can fix that.
Big Pharma isn’t into cures. They’re into dollars. And while you’re dealing with your hairy eyeballs and leaky anuses, their CEO’s are in the Caribbean dining on lobster while butlers bring them fruity cocktails to sip on.
Think about that the next time you feel compelled to ask your doctor for that fad drug you saw during a commercial break while watching the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
If it weren’t already apparent, I am a woman. I support and encourage other women. This isn’t a competition; there is enough room for us all to be successful. I have been looking forward to International Women’s Day for over a month now. When I first heard about the strike, I was all in. I was going to call in sick and take a stand. But after some consideration, I realized that in my current work situation, I would just be screwing another woman who didn’t have the choice to stay at home.
So instead, I proudly showed up to work wearing red. I excitedly looked around at my 95% female workplace hoping to see a sea of red. I saw ONE other woman. I asked her if she wore red on purpose, to which she responded no. I was sort of crushed. But I explained to her the meaning of red today, and she was fully on board and glad that it just so happened she wore red. And that made me smile.
What doesn’t make me smile is hearing other women express that they don’t believe inequality exists. I have a hard time believing that a woman living in 2017 has never experienced a situation that would lead them to realize that women are treated differently in our society. Are they saying they’ve never experienced discrimination in the work place? They’ve never been paid less money for equal work? That they’ve never experienced sexual harassment? That they’ve never been dismissed for concerns that are important to them? They’ve never been called crazy or hysterical for reacting to a situation? That they’ve never been dissuaded from pursuing something because they “are a girl”? That they’ve never had a domestic violence case dismissed because it was just a “misunderstanding”?
Nope. Not buying it. Just because you haven’t personally experienced any of those things, does not mean that another woman hasn’t. I’ve experienced some of those things. I know women who have experienced some of those things. I see women experiencing those things every day in the course of my work. I could tell you horror stories of the situations I’ve been in that would make your head spin, much like Regan MacNeil’s head did in The Exorcist.
If you think all of these things don’t exist, let me offer an alternative view. You say you don’t believe women experience inequality because you don’t personally see it in your life? Well, following that logic, you also can’t actually see carbon monoxide, but I assure you, it exists. If you don’t believe me, hook a hose up to the exhaust pipe of your car and stick it in the passenger area. Hop in, roll up the window, and turn your engine on. While you wait, turn on some Pink Floyd. I suggest The Wall. By Track 19 (Comfortably Numb), you should be drifting off into La La Land, and I’m not talking about the musical movie that was recently released. I urge you to tell me what happens at this point. Oh wait, you won’t be able to tell me, because you’ll be dead.
Obviously, I’m not suggesting that you should go commit suicide to prove my point (legal disclaimer for the less than intelligent folk). I am simply trying to illustrate the point that just because you don’t see something happening, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Is it going to kill you to believe a woman experiences this shit every day? Nope. All it requires is that you open your mind and show some love to someone who doesn’t have it as good as you do.
Women are not demanding you to give up something that you’ve worked hard to accomplish. We are not demanding a hand out. We are not demanding special treatment. We are simply demanding equal treatment. Is that really so hard?
For a country that touts freedom and liberty for all, we are far behind the curve when it comes to women and the issues that affect them. I know everyone in this country has a mother. Do you not want the best for the woman who gave birth to you?
Are you OK with that weirdo on the street telling your mom he wants to eat her pussy? Are you OK with your mom making 75 cents while the man working next to her makes $1.00? Are you OK with your mom’s boss telling her that she would be fuckable if not for her fat ass?
No? Then you should be supporting EVERY damn thing that supports equality for women.
But due to my advanced age and poor eyesight, I hit 😘 instead. After seeing what I had done, I immediately thought “oh shit” and sent the obligatory “what I meant to say” text. Lucky for me, I have cool friends.
But the whole thing got me thinking. What if Trump were texting some really bad hombre, Putin perhaps, and he meant to send a little 😉, but instead he hit 💣.
I mean he’s consideribly older than me, so his eyesight is probably a lot worse than mine and he has those bigly hands, which would make hitting the wrong emoji even more likely. Oh shit, indeed.
People. We are literally one mistaken emoji away from WWIII.
Quick! Someone get DT a Jitterbug. 😱
Recently a bill was introduced in Utah addressing the pay gap between men and women. That’s a good thing, right? I mean why should your pay be based upon the genitalia between your legs? One would think that it should be based upon the work you do and, quite possibly, whether or not you do it well. But due to the recent political changes in the US, some jack wagon thought it would be a great idea to write a letter to the editor of his local newspaper denouncing such a move.
Mr. James Green, the Vice Chair of the Wasatch County Republican Party, actually wrote words on paper and then sent them to media outlets for publishing, that stated he thought that men should make more money because they are the primary breadwinners in society and that paying women the same amount of money as their male counterparts ruins the whole makeup of the world. As a matter of fact, it just turns the whole world topsy-turvy because it encourages more women to enter to workforce, thus lowering the available jobs for the bread-winning men to support their families.
Obviously, Mr. Green’s contact with the outside world is limited to his DVD collection of Leave it to Beaver. He later apologized for his letter and resigned from his position, but defended his words by citing the “historical reasons for pay disparity”, one of which being that women sometimes take a break from the workforce to raise children.
I have a few words for Mr. Green, and anybody who still holds the same antiquated beliefs. Yes, some women are in “traditional” positions where they decide to stay at home and raise children. Should they be penalized for that? What happens when their husbands decide to take up with the “office secretary” and leave their wife and children high and dry to fend for themselves and the former stay at home mom has to enter the workforce to support kids that the “breadwinner” refuses to support? What happens to that secretary that he impregnates out of wedlock and refuses to acknowledge the child he produced? What happens to the child of the lesbian couple who has two working females making less than their male counterparts because they don’t have a penis?
Hello, it’s 2017, kids! I don’t know about you, but I was raised with the idea that you want your kids to do better than you did. That’s a pretty high bar that I need to pass for my kids. Nobody paid for my college education. I spent 10 years paying for that bitch, mostly in jobs that only women could get, while my male counterparts made more. To this day, my male counterparts, who do equal work, and who have been on the job for a lesser amount of time than I have, and don’t have a college degree (like I do) make one penny more than I do per hour.
But I’m the one causing this mess? If Mr. Green wants to pay for my four kids to attend college at $18,000 per year (in state), I’ll gladly step aside, and sip cocktails by the pool instead of busting my ass at my government job.
Until that happens, Mr. Green, and his counterparts, should STFU.
If you’ve been looking at the Internet in the last few days, you might have come across some news that people are body shaming Lady Gaga over the appearance her midsection during her Super Bowl performance. These must be people who live in LA, or maybe New York, where only super skinny women with six-pack abs exist. For the first time in, oh forever, I actually watched the Super Bowl. In the past I’ve not been much of a Gaga fan, but after seeing that performance, I have to say she’s converted me.
Regardless of what she looks like, Lady Gaga has proven herself to be amazingly talented. Girl has mad pipes. She’s a gifted songwriter. She’s extremely entertaining and exceptionally smart. She has to be physically fit to put on a performance of that nature. Hell, I can’t even walk up two flights of steps and hold a conversation without becoming breathless. And everyone was so surprised that she didn’t make some political statement. Are you sure about that? Maybe they weren’t in your face, Madonna-like, I want to blow up the White House statements, but they were there, formed in an intelligent, thoughtful, subtle way. I guess everyone was too hung up on that belly to realize it. And there’s where the shame should be – on the people too blind to look past a woman’s physical attributes and recognize her ability and talent.
If you are one of the Belly Watchers, then I hope your glass house is in order and ready for a big ol’ stone to come crashing through one of your walls. Women are not pretty little playthings for you to enjoy looking at. We come in all shapes and sizes, just like men. Some of us are extremely intelligent and talented, just like men. Some of us are even huge assholes, just like men.
I just wrote a blog on the things I’d like to see disappear in the New Year. Shaming was Number 4. Here we are, a month and a half into 2017, and Lady Gaga’s belly is Internet fodder for people who have nothing better to do with their lives. Are you kidding me? I’ve had 4 kids, 2 of which I birthed at the same time. My stomach wouldn’t look as good as Gaga’s if I had three rounds of liposuction, a tummy tuck, and only ate iceberg lettuce from now until the day I died (probably of malnutrition).
PLEASE, for the love of all humankind, stop this behavior. We MUST stop basing our opinions of all people, but especially women, solely on their appearances. I’m not saying you can’t have a negative opinion about someone, but for Pete’s sake, base your opinion on something substantive that makes a difference and works towards the betterment of our society.
That woman, with a belly roll or two (which Gaga does not have), might actually be an amazing person who turns your world upside down and introduces you a new way of thinking that will change your life for the better. But you won’t know that if you’re only focused on her midsection.