I’m walking to the bank yesterday and the strangest thing catches my eye. It isn’t a new thing. On the contrary, it is something I have seen many, many times – so many times that this time it looked peculiar. There was a group of African American young men walking toward me. They were wearing the baggy pants; I can’t understand for the life of my how that fashion statement has remained so long. It looks like Bert the chimney sweep when he was dancing with animated penguins in the movie Mary Poppins. Now here’s the peculiar part: one of the young men was clearly holding his johnson. Just walking down the street with his package in his hand. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I normally don’t pay attention to such vulgarities as they are quite commonplace in our ever so hip-hoppy MTV society, but with my staring came the realization that this guy isn’t holding his johnson, he’s holding his pants up! The poor kid’s waistband was at weiner level, and what appeared to be some ishy Michael Jackson crotch-grabbing gesture was in fact a desperate attempt to keep from losing his pants!
I ask you, why would anyone want to wear clothes that don’t stay on the body of their own accord? Is it a black thing that I wouldn’t understand? Am I too old to appreciate current fashion trends and statements? Am I just unable to get down with my bad self? Am I not fly? Am I a total nerd because I wear clothes that fit? Or are the fly completely ridiculous?
June 27, 2006
June 26, 2006
The Season Of Black Cats and Beer
I read the blogs, I laugh at the blogs, I surf the blogs, but do I write the blogs? Oh, I know I can make up an excuse like, “my dog ate my blog,” but you’d never believe me. I won’t give any excuses today, but will simply state what is going on in my life.
Boyfriend and I went to an Indian Casino on Friday afternoon. I use the term “Indian Casino” (that would be the “feather, not dot” variety of Indian) to distinguish them from the mobster casinos in Las Vegas. While there is nothing on earth that compares to the casino life in Las Vegas (except maybe for places like Atlantic City and Monoco and many other places famous for gambling that I’ve never visited) the Indian Casinos at least give you a chance to take a chance, even though it is usually in a most unsophisticated style. I’m not really clear on why Minnesota Indian Casinos will not allow roulette tables but Wisconsin Indian Casinos do. OK, I’m not even sure if that is the case, but the Indian Casino closest to our house does not offer roulette, which is very, very sad. I love roulette. I get big adrenaline rushes when I play roulette. I feel like a glamorous movie star when I sit at the roulette table drinking and smoking and tossing my chips around like nobody’s business. (Note to self: next trip to Vegas, wear strapless evening gown and long white gloves to prove even more glamorous. Note #2 to self: buy strapless evening gown and long white gloves.) Instead of watching a little ball find its way into a little, numbered cubby on that spinny wheel thing on the table, Boyfriend and I watched the spinspinspin of the video slot machines. Carnival of Mysteries is my favorite these days. It makes really cool noises, even if you only win five credits. (One time I won 15,000 credits and the cool noises went on and on and on like a dream.) We finished the afternoon with a wonderful trip to the Indian Casino buffet where we had a two-for-one coupon. All in all, it was a very inexpensive, somewhat exciting, gastronomically satisfying diversion from regular life.
This coming weekend is, as you all know, the biggest summer party weekend of the year. The 4th of July has never been that thrilling for me, even though I am proud to be an American and I am legally able to drink. (Didn’t congress pass a law making it mandatory that one drink at least twelve cans of beer and three Long Island Ice Teas throughout the course of the holiday weekend? I don’t make the rules, I just follow them.) However, it is a nice, long weekend, and for that reason alone I can celebrate. I will spend the weekend with my entire family, blowing up the likes of a Ken doll with firecrackers, watching those poopy-looking ash snakes growing on every flat surface in sight, and enduring the prickly pain of sparkler sparkles landing on my hands while I do the dance-with-sparklers, which is done by everyone under the age of sixty-five at one point or another during the holiday weekend. This is also the biggest pot luck holidays of the year, and I have to decide what and how much to make.
In addition to the massive eating, drinking, and otherwise blowing things up, there is a craft show in which I will be showing my various works of art – or rather, various trinkets I pass as art. Lots and lots of things to do to get ready for that. Boyfriend and I like to attend these shows because there are just so many people to meet and talk to, not to mention lots of money to be made. I haven’t actually made all that much, but I know there is lots and lots of money being exchanged by other people. It’s taking me quite a bit of effort to gather up all of the things I want to show, in addition to all of the other things necessary when showing at an outdoor craft show, like a canopy, tables, chairs, and a cooler filled with those mandatory 4th of July beers.
I’ve been so busy lately that I haven’t had time to know the news of what’s going on in the world. Is there anything exciting happening? When I’m shopping at the grocery store for the ingredients of my 4th of July potluck food items I’ll pick up an issue of the Weekly World News and get all caught up. Until then, my pets …
Boyfriend and I went to an Indian Casino on Friday afternoon. I use the term “Indian Casino” (that would be the “feather, not dot” variety of Indian) to distinguish them from the mobster casinos in Las Vegas. While there is nothing on earth that compares to the casino life in Las Vegas (except maybe for places like Atlantic City and Monoco and many other places famous for gambling that I’ve never visited) the Indian Casinos at least give you a chance to take a chance, even though it is usually in a most unsophisticated style. I’m not really clear on why Minnesota Indian Casinos will not allow roulette tables but Wisconsin Indian Casinos do. OK, I’m not even sure if that is the case, but the Indian Casino closest to our house does not offer roulette, which is very, very sad. I love roulette. I get big adrenaline rushes when I play roulette. I feel like a glamorous movie star when I sit at the roulette table drinking and smoking and tossing my chips around like nobody’s business. (Note to self: next trip to Vegas, wear strapless evening gown and long white gloves to prove even more glamorous. Note #2 to self: buy strapless evening gown and long white gloves.) Instead of watching a little ball find its way into a little, numbered cubby on that spinny wheel thing on the table, Boyfriend and I watched the spinspinspin of the video slot machines. Carnival of Mysteries is my favorite these days. It makes really cool noises, even if you only win five credits. (One time I won 15,000 credits and the cool noises went on and on and on like a dream.) We finished the afternoon with a wonderful trip to the Indian Casino buffet where we had a two-for-one coupon. All in all, it was a very inexpensive, somewhat exciting, gastronomically satisfying diversion from regular life.
This coming weekend is, as you all know, the biggest summer party weekend of the year. The 4th of July has never been that thrilling for me, even though I am proud to be an American and I am legally able to drink. (Didn’t congress pass a law making it mandatory that one drink at least twelve cans of beer and three Long Island Ice Teas throughout the course of the holiday weekend? I don’t make the rules, I just follow them.) However, it is a nice, long weekend, and for that reason alone I can celebrate. I will spend the weekend with my entire family, blowing up the likes of a Ken doll with firecrackers, watching those poopy-looking ash snakes growing on every flat surface in sight, and enduring the prickly pain of sparkler sparkles landing on my hands while I do the dance-with-sparklers, which is done by everyone under the age of sixty-five at one point or another during the holiday weekend. This is also the biggest pot luck holidays of the year, and I have to decide what and how much to make.
In addition to the massive eating, drinking, and otherwise blowing things up, there is a craft show in which I will be showing my various works of art – or rather, various trinkets I pass as art. Lots and lots of things to do to get ready for that. Boyfriend and I like to attend these shows because there are just so many people to meet and talk to, not to mention lots of money to be made. I haven’t actually made all that much, but I know there is lots and lots of money being exchanged by other people. It’s taking me quite a bit of effort to gather up all of the things I want to show, in addition to all of the other things necessary when showing at an outdoor craft show, like a canopy, tables, chairs, and a cooler filled with those mandatory 4th of July beers.
I’ve been so busy lately that I haven’t had time to know the news of what’s going on in the world. Is there anything exciting happening? When I’m shopping at the grocery store for the ingredients of my 4th of July potluck food items I’ll pick up an issue of the Weekly World News and get all caught up. Until then, my pets …
June 22, 2006
E-Coli Runs Rampant
As I was cleaning the master bathroom the other day I thought about my ex-sister-in-law. I always think about her when I clean the bathroom – any bathroom. Not when I’m using the bathroom, just cleaning it.
It’s a really long story; suffice it to say when my brother announced that he was getting married I so sexistly thought, “maybe now that he’ll have a woman in the house the dishes will get washed once in a while, the bed will get made once in a while, the carpets and rugs will be vacuumed once in a while.” I couldn’t have been more wrong. Serves me right for assuming all women are compelled to keep house and most men aren't. In fact, one of the reasons my brother fell in love with this woman was because she didn’t put a lot of value in the “superficial practice of presenting a home for the approval of others.” More simply put, she didn’t care that he was a slob because she was one too.
The women in my family are plagued with a specific gene which generates the need to present a neat house. We know there are good feelings that come from keeping a house – nesting, per se. We value our homes and want to make them comfortable for our families. We keep things clean to keep the rodents and bugs outside where they belong. We incorporate cleaning, laundry, and cooking into our weekly routine. It’s just as natural as breathing.
However, my brother’s wife came from a completely different type of family. They didn’t put a lot of stock in the value of, say, a stove that doesn’t have five years worth of grease baked onto its surface.
One day the ladies (me, my mother, my sister, and my then-sister-in-law) were talking about housekeeping, for some weird reason or another. I think we were trying to subversively turn my brother’s wife into someone who could take pride in her home; in other words, make her into someone she wasn’t and never would be. Anyway, we were talking about the parts of cleaning we liked least. My then-sister-in-law said she hates to clean the bathroom, which nevertheless, she manages to do on a quarterly basis.
Then came something out of her mouth I simply couldn’t believe. She told us that she cleans that little area of floor behind the toilet with … the toilet brush! Not a toilet brush used solely for the purpose of reaching behind the toilet, the toilet brush, the same one used for scrubbing my brother’s disgusting skid marks out of the bowl itself! I thought we “clean” girls would just die, while my then-sister-in-law looked at us wondering why we were dry-heaving. Needless to say after hearing her confession I never used their bathroom unless it was absofuckinglutely necessary.
So now, every week when I’m cleaning a bathroom, scouring the tub, polishing the chrome, and wiping down counters and mirrors, I think of my ex (thank God)-sister-in-law and wonder if she’s still flicking that poopy toilet brush all over her bathroom floor. Oh my God. Oh my effing God.
It’s a really long story; suffice it to say when my brother announced that he was getting married I so sexistly thought, “maybe now that he’ll have a woman in the house the dishes will get washed once in a while, the bed will get made once in a while, the carpets and rugs will be vacuumed once in a while.” I couldn’t have been more wrong. Serves me right for assuming all women are compelled to keep house and most men aren't. In fact, one of the reasons my brother fell in love with this woman was because she didn’t put a lot of value in the “superficial practice of presenting a home for the approval of others.” More simply put, she didn’t care that he was a slob because she was one too.
The women in my family are plagued with a specific gene which generates the need to present a neat house. We know there are good feelings that come from keeping a house – nesting, per se. We value our homes and want to make them comfortable for our families. We keep things clean to keep the rodents and bugs outside where they belong. We incorporate cleaning, laundry, and cooking into our weekly routine. It’s just as natural as breathing.
However, my brother’s wife came from a completely different type of family. They didn’t put a lot of stock in the value of, say, a stove that doesn’t have five years worth of grease baked onto its surface.
One day the ladies (me, my mother, my sister, and my then-sister-in-law) were talking about housekeeping, for some weird reason or another. I think we were trying to subversively turn my brother’s wife into someone who could take pride in her home; in other words, make her into someone she wasn’t and never would be. Anyway, we were talking about the parts of cleaning we liked least. My then-sister-in-law said she hates to clean the bathroom, which nevertheless, she manages to do on a quarterly basis.
Then came something out of her mouth I simply couldn’t believe. She told us that she cleans that little area of floor behind the toilet with … the toilet brush! Not a toilet brush used solely for the purpose of reaching behind the toilet, the toilet brush, the same one used for scrubbing my brother’s disgusting skid marks out of the bowl itself! I thought we “clean” girls would just die, while my then-sister-in-law looked at us wondering why we were dry-heaving. Needless to say after hearing her confession I never used their bathroom unless it was absofuckinglutely necessary.
So now, every week when I’m cleaning a bathroom, scouring the tub, polishing the chrome, and wiping down counters and mirrors, I think of my ex (thank God)-sister-in-law and wonder if she’s still flicking that poopy toilet brush all over her bathroom floor. Oh my God. Oh my effing God.
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