squishification

So. It's that time of year. We all know how I feel about that time of year. There is absolutely no reason to expound upon the angst that crushes my soul between Halloween and Valentine's Day. This year, however... well, no, this year would be no different except that this year J and I will attempt our first holiday alone together as our own little family unit. And that's a brilliant, wonderful thing, and I would want it no other way, and I am just a small bit frightened. Not about the spending a holiday together as our own little family - that's not a problem at all. The problem is that instead of spending that holiday at home where it's warm and comfy and there is carpet and a kitchen that I can actually use for things with directions more complicated than "mix with water," we are spending it in Chicago... where it is cold, and the floor is cold, and the new leather couch is far colder than I expected it would be, and it's generally just uncomfortable all the time because it's really, really cold (until 4am when the radiators kick on for their one use a day, at which time it gets really, really hot - enough so that I sweat while I'm blow-drying my hair - and then it gets cold again). Regardless, though... we're going to get through this. I have donned my holiday battle-armor with the grim determination of a kamikaze pilot (as Ron White says, "I don't want to limp away from this wreck") and I've already made what I make best for dinner (reservations). We will spend the weekend doing touristy things. Or we will spend the weekend hiding from the holiday in bed. Either way, it's the beginning of a new era because either way... I'm looking forward to it.

Dear Omnipresent Metaphysical Powers that Be,

For the sake of everyone else around me, please make those with whom I'm most closely associated (with the exception of my sister, who is particularly good at making people) stop having babies forthwith. Infants are not good for my delicate sensitivities, particularly the "whining" bone, which is more easily fractured the closer I get to menopause.

Also, I'd like to discuss the nutritional content of Coldstone Creamery ice cream. I'd never read the label before this weekend. I wish I'd never read the label. I'm pretty sure it's a typo, though, because you couldn't pack that many calories from fat into a pint sized cardboard container if you actually filled said container with bacon grease. Normally I prefer to take my excess calories in the form of alcohol, and so this deserves consideration. Perhaps we could have a "free day"? Like, one day a year where nothing we eat counts? 'Cause I could pack all Coldstone consumption into twenty-four hours, I think.

One last thing: could you please do something about Marbles: A Brain Store advertising on the train with complicated critical thinking puzzles which apparently have no answer? I feel as though I'm constantly trying to get into the Ravenclaw common room.

Cheers,
Me

Feeling much better today, thank you… needed the batteries in my biological clock forcibly replaced, but that – as I’ve learned – only hurts for a second. I continue to be graced with random universal truths, though…

There is no place in this universe or any which might be parallel where a child needs a Blackberry. And by child, I mean anyone under the age of twenty-five. I am aware that as I write this, RIM’s mission statement includes the promise to make “serious phones for serious adults.” I am also aware that most of the “serious adults” with whom I am acquainted only thank the divine universal powers that be for their smartphones when they can use them to harvest cotton in the FarmTown application on FaceBook during meetings. Which makes the whole dilemma a non-sequitur, I know. Regardless, and perhaps it comes from growing up in an age where, heaven forbid, we didn’t have cell phones (or email or social networking or Miley Cyrus), I have this strange… “thing”… about proverbially “paying one’s dues.” And there’s no kid on the planet that has paid enough dues to deserve to have unlimited texting. Hell, I was a 28-year-old married, college-educated, home-owning adult before I had unlimited texting. I believe that one should, at minimum, be able to actually read the phone bill before this becomes attainable.

Speaking of children reminds me that Halloween is right around the corner, which reminds me that I haven’t asked for a while… WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO HALLOWEEN? (Please keep in mind that I am trying to temper my own bitterness over the fact that I will be dressed like a complete goober because I will be wearing a red Nike University of Nebraska t-shirt and with beautiful fairy princess wings and ballet shoes, using my cell phone as an extension of my hand to check the baseball scores, because some brainless, witless moron scheduled Halloween on a Saturday in October.) When I was a kid back in Winchestertonfieldville, this was a big deal, and we took it seriously – Halloween was treated with proper reverence and respect. There really wasn’t much more in the world more important than the costume, unless it was firecrackers under front porches, consumption of upwards of five pounds of various candy in a sitting, or getting to play hide-and-seek around the neighborhood after dark (we called it ‘Ghost in the Graveyard’ – I have no idea why – but it was the mecca of childhood games)… point is, we celebrated the crap out of this holiday, and I’m firmly of the mind that today’s kids just can’t squeeze the sheer hedonistic joy out of it that we could because it’s been completely pussified. I remember being out way past dark – today’s trick or treaters are in bed by eight on some random night that isn’t even October 31st in which they did not, in fact, harass the neighbors for candy but dressed up in half-hearted costumes to go to some suburban mall-based movie-themed “all-ages celebration”. And don’t even get me started on “healthy alternatives to candy”. It’s gotten so bad that yesterday, a friend emailed me her “list of rules for trick or treaters,” including the following:

“I understand that they do make some adorable costumes for babies. However, if I don't know you or your baby, I'm not giving you candy. It's pretty shameful that you're willing to STEAL (that's right, I said steal) candy under the guise of trick or treating for a BABY.”

Seriously, people? Seriously? You’re willing to go through the work it takes to dress up your toddler as a pirate (your toddler doesn’t know what a pirate is, by the way) for a sack full of grubby little Milky Ways that every snot-nosed, swine-flu-riddled kid in the neighborhood has fingered, when you could just invest the same time and resources making a trip to the supermarket to buy candy and then sit on the couch and watch the Yankees bitchslap the Phillies? This needs to be an actual RULE? Someone needs to TELL YOU THIS?!? Apparently the kids aren’t the only one missing something.

In order to improve everyone’s sense of humor regarding this senseless holiday tragedy, a little pick-me-up courtesy of The Onion:

How to Find a Masculine Halloween Costume for Your Effeminate Son

Dear Divine Metaphysical Powers That Be,

Although it may be funny in a "ha-ha" kind of way from the outside, and while I may be able to appreciate the humor in the irony, I see, recognize, and have absorbed the lesson. I will, from now on, be more careful what I wish for... and more specific.

Frankly a Little Perturbed,

Me

Ooooookay, so I haven’t written hardly anything lately, as evidenced by the rejection of the only freelance piece I’ve written in six months – yes, that zippy little piece about boys and their mommies. Which is, as I’ve learned, probably for the goddamned best, because I’ve also reached a new level of clueless in the ongoing war between Kristin and things-with-testicles (completely unrelated to the piece – the piece was top-notch as far as I’m concerned, and I will post it once I’ve licked my wounds).

Anyway, I’ve made a new crop of discoveries surrounding the furrier sex, some of them being positive, most of them being about me. The most noteworthy about me, as a matter of fact. That’s right, a male creature is teaching me about me. I know. I can’t believe it either. Know thy enemy, know thyself, I guess.

Let’s start at the very beginning (a very good place to start).

( There's ALWAYS a boy. )

I am perplexed, intrigued… and most of all pleasantly surprised. I do believe I’ll keep him around. At least until he starts chewing on my shoes.

Has it really been since the end of July? I hadn't even noticed, to be honest.

Perhaps I'm outgrowing my LJ. I just don't know.

Regardless, please allow me to share a thought for the day:

These are the most comfortable underwear that I have ever worn. I would venture a guess that they are the most comfortable underwear on the planet. I believe that if I ever track down where they came from originally, I will buy twenty pairs. Why is it that the most comfortable/useful/loved articles of clothing in existence are the ones that seemingly have no origin? It's always the sweatshirt that got mixed up with your laundry at the laundromat, the pajama-pants that your ex-boyfriend's best friend left at his house and you stole from him, or (in this case) the underpants that your sister bought, never wore, and then left in her dresser and when she gave you her dresser the panties came with it. There are never any tags in these things to point you in the direction from whence they came, and if you do have an inkling regarding brand (in the case of the aforementioned sweatshirt, it was Champion) you can't find that particular style anywhere.

Perfect example: Eric's trusty black backpack.

Eric acquired this backpack "somewhere" - he doesn't remember specifically where - about seven years ago. He hauled it all over the world and the Potterverse with him, and the things that backpack has seen could fill a novel. Well, last year it finally breathed its last; literally came apart at the seams. I started thinking to myself, "Self, Eric is really attached to that backpack. Wouldn't it be cool if we could find him an exact replica for Christmas?" And then I examined the backpack. There is not a tag to be found. There are no markings of any kind on any of the zippers or fastenings. There are no brand names on the straps, or in the lining. It was as though this particular backpack was simply willed into existence and borne into Eric's hands by some distant alien race as a kind of social experiment in driving me completely batshit insane. I asked him several times if he - by chance - just woke up one morning and found this backpack just sitting in his room, or perhaps wedged in one of his roomier corporeal orifices. He insisted that he really didn't remember, but it was altogether possible. And where do you begin to search? I mean, google "black canvas laptop backpack" and see what happens if you'd like a taste of my frustration. I finally settled on a completely unrelated but very highly rated L.L. Bean commuter pack, which of course cannot even hope to someday grow up to be the original black backpack in Eric's eyes. And even I must admit, when compared, there are shortcomings which cannot be ignored. I blame the aliens.

Also of note:

Remember this entry?

http://narcissology.livejournal.com/88729.html

(Yes, I'm leaving the link naked on purpose. Don't judge me.)

I have met someone who - with no prompting from me - used the phrase, "crazier than a shithouse rat." No matter that he was referring to me at the time... I will marry him.

This was the worst decision ever made.

Please - make with the clicky HERE and learn the TRUTH about the "Humane Society of the U.S." - an animal RIGHTS group, as opposed to the American Humane Society, which has been protecting animals from abuse and neglect for 130 years... making it an animal WELFARE group.

Fill out the form on the Cattlemen's site asking BoA to reconsider, if you're of the mind. But even if you're not... bask in the truth for a minute. There is nothing "humane" about what these people do - they are hell-bent on crippling an industry that supports the entire middle of this country.

Dear Divine Metaphysical Powers-that-Be,

Hey there.  Yeah, me.  Down here.  No, the other one.  Yeah.  That's me.  The loud snowdrift wearing purple socks.  *ahem*  Sorry.  Little bit of a joke there.  I'll bet your sense of humor is way better than mine...

ANYWAY...

Okay, so I stopped asking for big stuff to happen in exchange for promises like faith and stuff about 23 years ago.  In fact, that's the time that I stopped asking for small stuff, too, and for the most part this has been a good balance.  I'm pretty low-maintenance, as far as that stuff goes, I'd be willing to venture a bet.

I mean, if that's allowed.  Otherwise, I'd totally frown upon that.

Oh, who am I kidding?  We both know that's not true.  Gambling just doesn't really interest me.

But I digress again.

So here's the deal.  I'm not going to make ridiculous promises and stuff that we both know that I'm not going to keep, and we both know that I'm just a tiny, tiny part of a much bigger plan for much bigger things to happen, really pretty insignificant when it comes right down to it... but that being said, since it's not a secret that in the grand scheme of things my one little life is just a speck of dust in the metaphorical sands of time...

Is it too much to ask for this one little, equally insignificant thing to go right?  I mean, not like other things haven't gone right, but I assume that's part of the plan... and maybe this is, too, I don't know, but really... if it's not too much to ask, and honestly, even if it is... I'm not asking to rearrange the cosmic alignment.  I just want this to go the right way.  And by "right" I mean that I'd like it to turn out in the way that benefits me, and not in that wishy-washy loosely-interpreted "this is for the best in the grand scheme of things" way, but in the way I WANT it to turn out, wherein I get what I want.

I guess that's it - that's the bottom line.  I really, really want this to happen.  Badly enough to swallow my pride and have this one-sided conversation in which I feel ridiculous.  I've been good, really, for the most part.  I'm good to other people, mostly.  I'd really like to have this for me.  Would that really disrupt the rest of the universe so very badly?  Just give it some thought, okay?

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Your Pal,

Cheers,

Best Regards,
Me

Apparently, 'Antichrist' offended certain sensibilities. Sexual violence is not for the squeamish. Or the British.

I don't think anyone is probably too shocked that the Brits have a harsh view on female self-castration... if the queen is just 'lying back and thinking of England,' then the rest of you are gonna damn well suffer through it with all sensation intact as well.

I'd still rather be there than about to schedule another WebEx on smackdown. Well, perhaps not the castration bit. But certainly England, while frowning upon the castration bit sternly.

In other Cannes twatwafflery (but not mutilation, mind you), withnailusa, could you please answer a question for me? How does 'Inglourious Basterds' have a release date when it is, technically, still homeless? Who's going to distribute it? Quentin himself? In a big truck?

YOU'RE JUST GOING TO ALLOW YOURSELF TO BE GUNNED DOWN BY ROSE CAFFEE?!?! HOW ARE WE GOING TO LEARN THE SECRETS OF THE SPACE-TIME CONTINUUM IF YOU DIE?!?!?

In honor of tonight's continuation of maternal child murder run amok,

Television Without Pity's Lost Characters We Want Dead

I can't argue with anyone on their list - I mean, if you set aside that a few of those characters are technically already dead... or were dead before we wound up in the fucking disco era... or assumed dead... or really on their way out... well, that and my list would include Sawyer. Because if he flies off the handle one more time (punching people and locking them in closets comes to mind) I'm going to beat him to death myself.

Today’s bitch-and-moan:

I am deathly tired of people who cannot dress themselves. And I don’t mean to be giant-air-quotes-sexist but most of these people are men. There is nothing that ruins my mood faster than discovering that a gentleman whom I find to be attractive only looked striking upon first encounter by some happy accident, and actually has taste comparable to that of a dead raccoon and when left to his own devices chooses to dress himself like a homeless person, or (only slightly better) a prison inmate. This is not acceptable. It’s also the reason that I prefer to see any given man only once. Please, let me help.

Rule 1: There is not a universal color that matches everything. No, not even (insert whichever drab color is giving you this misconception – black, brown, navy blue). Outfits are chosen on a case-by-case basis, and there is no mathematical formula for making the “staring blankly into the closet wondering what to wear” process disappear.

Rule 2: If the shoes don’t have toes, it probably indicates that the toes are meant to be seen. Please do not wear socks.

Rule 3: In fact, let’s talk about shoes for a moment. Lace-up lug-soled Doc Martens were the hottest thing happening in 1991. They are not now, nor will they ever be, appropriate for the office. I don’t care if you’re wearing your nifty company-logo-polo and you’ve managed to somewhere along the line purchase jeans that don’t make you look like a complete goober… when you pair them with those shoes… you look like a complete goober. Also, please apply Rule 1 to athletic shoes.

Rule 4: Never wear a tie with anything that doesn’t have cuffs. Ever. This is not negotiable.

Rule 5: You probably don’t still fit into the pants you wore your freshman year of college. And you probably look like a microwaved hot dog if you try. Please spare us by buying pants (and oxfords) that fit you properly.

Rule 6: I don’t want to see your nipples. Neither does anyone else. Wear an undershirt.

Rule 7: The only visible part of you that should have hair growing out of it is your head. If you look in the mirror and can see any other hair, please cut it off. Look closely, for everyone's sake.

Rule 8: If you want to get the same woman to take your pants off on more than one occasion, please wear underpants. Preferably clean, and not emblazoned with cartoon characters.

Rule 9: Cologne does not make up for the fact that you didn’t shower this morning, or the fact that you wore that shirt to the bar last night. The world isn’t going to end – no matter how late you’re running – if you take fifteen minutes to shower, and Calvin Klein would be very disappointed if he knew you were violating Obsession to cover up the scent of stale cigarette smoke and regret.

1. Let's get the random relationship linkspam out of the freakin' way right now. This really doesn't need my commentary at all - pick any one of ten reasons that this is true.

It takes a hell of a good man to be better than no man at all.

The pseudo-rebuttal is a bit less gilded and a lot more honest.

And Frisky brings the two together by reminding us that we're not perfect...

...much like the jackhole commenter the other day who suggested that chubby hit the gym and deal with the lunch-lady arms so she could catch her a (shallow) man.

The first two are excellent points of view. The third is a holy wreck, but it brought me to the first two and so I must give props where props are due. Please enjoy.

2. Eric is right now at the apartment sorting his Redbox movies by spreading them out all over my (was-clean-this-morning) living room and then putting them in piles. He is kind enough to let the dog participate when he does this. He has not, to this point, however, heeded the warning, 'If you can't SEE the Min Pin, the Min Pin is probably up to no good.'

( Instead, I get an email with the subject, 'I am not amused.' )

3. Star Trek tickets... I has them. I am also seeing 'Jesus Christ Superstar' (with Ted-freakin'-Neeley in it!) tomorrow night, but that is merely a distraction while I'm waiting for Star Trek. My only regret is that I have to see it in the loop instead of in my comfy-jammies theatre with the kick-ass popcorn, so there will be no celebratory mini-bottles of sparkling wine in my purse.

Puppy Mills: Exposed, tonight on Animal Planet

Watch the horribleness. Do not buy dogs from pet stores. Rinse. Repeat.

And that's all the energy I have today. Am currently up to my knees in issues which are forcing themselves to be dealt with, several of which have nothing to do with Dickmouth. Please, feel free to jump in and save me from myself at any time, really.

Cheers.

HUH?!?! NOW I HAVE TO DO HOMEWORK, TOO?!?!

Okay, so again I'm bringing up the "relationship" thing, because I had the misfortune to stumble across another article which may or may not directly contradict "He's Just Not That Into You", which may or may not directly contradict itself.

Here's an article which discusses the observations of several different "love professionals" on the benefits of "having a plan". It's a concept with which I'm not entirely unfamiliar, as on my spiritual and psychological journey to the center of myself I've enlisted in the help of a friend at work who claims to have succeeded with a book called... I think it was "How to Meet and Marry Your Soulmate" or something like that. Anyway, she insists that I need to make a list of the qualities that are most important to me - no matter how specific (or apparently how shallow) I think they are, and stick to it - no sense in dating outside of the list, you know? And that works, until she gets to the caveat, which is that the items on my list can't be "person-specific"... they must be applicable, across the board, to any potential candidate. Which is impossible. Because if I'm going to make a list that specific, I'm going to be thinking of the only person in whom I have any genuine interest at all, and thinking like that is going to skew the list. I'm just not interested in anyone else. And so I've failed before I've begun.

But I digress; I was talking about the article.

The article discusses what "hard work" it is to be honest about what you're looking for and actively seek out "your One". Am I wrong, or does this totally negate the "Don't play hard to get; BE hard to get!" concept preached in "He's Just Not That Into You"? I mean, where in my "active and fulfilling life" does this fit? Do I schedule it? And HOW do I schedule it? In the Franklin-Covey?

12:00-1:00 - Lunch with Michelle
1:00-2:30 - Budget Meeting
2:30-4:00 - Chase Men

Is that appropriate? And where do I chase them? Not near the street, of course - if anyone got hit by a car running from me, I'd feel terrible. Do I hang out in a different random "place where guys with qualities on my list would hang out" every week and see what happens? Because sooner or later, Home Depot is going to kick me out, especially if I'm chasing people.

And why is it that none of these articles ever discuss the issue of women that want to get married settling for a guy that fits MOST of the criteria AND is willing to marry them? Or what happens when you meet your soulmate - the guy who meets every one of the criteria set forth - and then you realize that you left out the most important piece: "wants to be with you"?

And last but not least, we arrive at the post-article comments and it's here we discover why - no matter what we do, despite our most valiant efforts - we are completely doomed to live our solitary little butterfly lives (ala the old "Men Are From Mars" stand-by) while these ridiculous buffaloes lumber in and out of our energy circles without even noticing that they're trampling pretty things like feelings when we find this gem of wisdom from 'Dave':

I visited her site... honestly, all she needs to do is hit the gym and those flabby arms will go away and she'll slim down. Guys will be turning their heads after that.

You might not want to admit it, but part of that initial chemistry has partially something to do with physical attraction too. If I see someone who isn't taking care of her body, I wonder what else they don't take care of: dentist check-ups? lives in a mess? I realize we shouldn't judge on first appearances and it probably sounds really shallow having mentioned this but being overweight can really limit your options. Take those 52 weeks and take a body pump class. I'll guarantee by the end of that year you'll have met someone.

Thank you, Dave, for reminding me why I shouldn't bother.

One Hundred Ways To Kill a Peep

Required viewing, people. I had this last week, but didn't have the heart to post it, due to my unusual feelings toward peeps.

I also didn't post it because I swore that there was a website dedicated to peeps in a microwave somewhere... as I learned this weekend, though, that was probably just a story from my middle sister's college days I was thinking of. Nevertheless, on my search I ran across this:

The Twinkies Project

I am speechless. And sorry that I'm not an alumnus of Rice University. Perhaps they have a graduate-level peep-murder program in which I could enroll.

Oh, Iko Iko, I pay thee homage.

Featured on Yahoo this morning:

The Ten Shows That Deserve to Return Next Fall But Might Not

Hm. Okay, I’ll bite… but I will also rebut. Everyone occasionally needs some constructive criticism, so here’s to you, Angel Cohn, oh mogul of pop-snark.

First and foremost, stop whining about ‘Pushing Daisies’. In this case, ‘critically acclaimed’ was a euphemism for ‘somebody’s nephew wrote it’. The facts are that Bryan Fuller should have stuck with what he knows (sci-fi in the form of mostly Deep Space Nine) because what happens when geeks try to be funny isn’t funny to anyone but other geeks, and no self-respecting geek would be caught dead watching anything billed as a ‘forensic fairy tale’. (Oh yes – autopsies are both magical and hilarious!) You KNOW ‘Big Bang Theory’ is written by the guys that used to flush your head down the toilet in high school. Just let go already.

1. Chuck: On the subject of fairy tales, this is beginning beautifully, because I’ve never seen this show – not once. Not even accidentally. I’m almost magnetically repelled. Geek makes good. Super-hero good, apparently. And gets the girl, too?

2. Life: I cannot argue with you here, Angel. Well played. The addition of Donal Logue to this cast took this show from ‘highly watchable’ to ‘nearly irresistable’. I’ve been begging for viewership since its inception, and while I refuse to give up hope all together, I’m seeing this one die the unfortunate and lingering death of ‘Arrested Development’, choking and spitting and refusing to let go until everyone gets that weird uncomfortable awkward feeling and a couple of the more distant family members gathered at the bedside sneak off to the cafeteria for a smoothie.

3. Fringe: I must admit that I didn’t want to like Fringe from the outset. In fact, I mocked the pilot so thoroughly that my viewing partner actually left the room – but come ON… what was not to mock? There were big three dimensional words floating in the sky. There was much rolling on the floor. Unfortunately for me, this was the one this season where I was very, very wrong indeed. I get sucked into this show every time that it’s on (doesn’t hurt that it’s post-Idol, but DUDE... did you SEE the Gollum-kid?!?!), and find myself oohing and ahhing over the trailers. I’m hooked, and ashamed of my initial mockery. I have appropriately flogged myself.

4. Better Off Ted: To translate for the heteronormative crowd, Portia de Rossi hooking up with Ellen Degeneres is like the John Mayer/Jennifer Aniston thing… we accept it with an understanding of the origins of the phrase ‘hot mess’. It’s all in your perspective. But I digress. Portia better watch it, ‘cause she’s once again party to the most underrated show on television, and pretty soon someone’s going to notice the common denominator. Just sayin’.

5. Dollhouse: I won’t do it. Not until there is a renewal contract under my nose. Because I won’t let Joss sweet talk me and convince me to come back if there’s a chance that he’s just going to abandon me again. My therapist says no, Joss.

6. Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles: Best concept in the history of television, until we remember that generally speaking, teenagers are whiny balls of hormonal angst who should be caged until age 21. In this case, they’ve managed to somehow even apply that particular generality to a fucking cyborg. Fire the limp-wristed writing staff and blow some more shit up, and maybe we’ll keep watching.

7. Kings: In this case, ax it. Go ahead. Free up the incredible Ian McShane to do something more worth his time (might I suggest another season of Deadwood, perhaps picked up by a network that appreciates brilliance?) because this show is an affront to everyone: the intellectual conservative crowd won’t watch it because of its blowhard political grandstanding and not so subtle jabs at the establishment, the redneck conservative crowd (think… Toby Keith) turned it off after the third multi-syllabic word, the la vie boheme crowd turned it off after the second ridiculously self-indulgent monologue (meaning that they missed the stand-off with the tanks, and the fuckery with the butterflies, which is actually too bad, because that might have appealed to their sense of peaceful anarchy and omnipresent spiritual oneness, respectively), and the intellectual libs don’t own televisions because of carbon emissions or some such made-up bullshit. Please don’t let this one linger – fix it or kill it quickly while we can still pretend it never happened.

8. Rock of Love: Are we going there? We did? Angel, I’m ashamed of you. Even hookers have standards. At least the expensive ones in Vegas do.

9. Celebrity Apprentice: Seriously, what WON’T Donald Trump do to make a buck? He’s exploited his family, his businesses, and patented the phrase, ‘You’re fired.’ Further to that, any show that I have to spend with my netbook on my lap and wikipedia open to decipher why I should care since no self-respecting ‘celebrity’ would be caught dead on it doesn’t deserve another season. Buh-bye.

10. Southland/The Unusuals: ANGEL! The second commandment of pop-culture snark is ‘Thou Shalt Not Condemn Something That Hasn’t Aired Yet’ (seriously, there are six of them… they were given to Perez Hilton by a flaming Starbucks cup)… we WAIT until we have confirmed that it’s complete shit before taking shots at it. Think ‘South Park’, Angel… the concept on paper was the most ridiculous thing to ever happen to cable and yet a couple of brilliant burn-outs were able to launch it beyond pop-culture phenomenon and into t-shirts and bedsheets. Not that I think Southland’s going to wind up on t-shirts, but jeez… let them create their own hot pool of post-production sick to drown in.

(And for the record, I really enjoyed ‘The Unusuals’ – I wouldn’t have sought it out, but it was post-Lost and has that guy that gets the snot kicked out of him in ‘Dazed and Confused’ in it… it was also ‘my kind of funny’, according to Eric, which – of course – involves a shot-gun blast producing an image of Christ and jokes about marital infidelity and terminal illnesses… I’ll try not to get introspective over that.)

You know, way back in the day (I love saying that - it never gets old) when Tim was still dressing up in work blues and going to a hangar every morning and saluting officers, he was a member of what he referred to as the 'He-Man Woman Hater's Club'. The basic premise was that the worse you treated women as a species, the more of them flocked to you like the salmon of Capistrano, to mock a phrase. Back then, it horrified me out in public, but secretly delighted me a little that I had tamed and domesticated the unruly beast. Of course, we all know that the truth was a rather harsh lesson learned for me (and for everyone that I dragged along on that particular roller coaster ride through the bowels of hell), and since then I've begun to realize both my naivety and my complete lack of skill in dealing with the opposite sex. I'm also realizing that I'm coming into this perspective both quite late (because of my circumstances) and with the uncommon ability to both analyze (by education) and expound (by gift of written gab)... hence I've found myself, in the last few months, with the unerring ability to write for hours on end about the horrors of relationships, dating, and men in general. Lora has suggested a website, both for my own entertainment, and my own catharsis... and because my LJ would then be free of the dead emotional weight that I've been throwing at it every other day and we could get back to happy fluffy bunny stuff...

And I am exploring the possibility.

Plus, hey... coding practice.

AHEM. I have had an epiphany due to errant and missplaced word usage. Give me (and Miriam-Webster) a little latitude here for a minute.

sen•si•tive
Function:
adjective
Etymology:
Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Medieval Latin sensitivus, probably alteration of sensativus, from sensates sensate
Date:
15th century

1: SENSORY 2 a:receptive to sense impressions b:capable of being stimulated or excited by external agents (as light, gravity, or contact) (pay attention, this is the important part!) 3: highly responsive or susceptible: as a (1): easily hurt or damaged ; especially : easily hurt emotionally (2): delicately aware of the attitudes and feelings of others b: excessively or abnormally susceptible : HYPERSENSITIVE c: readily fluctuating in price or demand d: capable of indicating minute differences : DELICATE e: readily affected or changed by various agents (as light or mechanical shock)

That seems self-evident, doesn't it? Everyone knows what sensitive means, right? Yes, of course.

But wait just a minute.

self•ish
Function:
adjective
Date:
1640

(again, focus here...)1: concerned excessively or exclusively with oneself : seeking or concentrating on one's own advantage, pleasure, or well-being without regard for others 2: arising from concern with one's own welfare or advantage in disregard of others

Now, since not everyone lives in my head (yes, yes, I've heard all spectrum of comments when I use that phrase), let me again demonstrate what I feel to be the point:

sensitive: delicately aware of the attitudes and feelings of others

selfish: seeking or concentrating on one's own advantage, pleasure, or well-being without regard for others

I could actually, honestly see how if you were wholly within one or the other, you could mistake the two. Actually, that's the principle upon which codependence is based - such complete immersion in sensitivity that it becomes selfish...

A sensitive man would know better than to utter the phrase, "You know I have a bad temper, so stop pushing my buttons." A selfish man, on the other hand, would assume that because he feels as though he is in touch with his own emotions, he must be in touch with emotions, right???

It all boils down to this:

I have never - before this point in my life - met someone that I did not at least partially understand. I'm feeling very Bella-to-my-Edward-Cullen about it - I am learning patterns, but they're nothing I've ever seen before, and every time I think I've got something down well enough to predict what's next, I learn something that turns the whole game upside down. I feel like the poster-child for teenage pop songs with all this brooding and angst swirling around... and for the first time ever, both the brooding and the angst are mine. Is it too much to ask for just a little piece of this to make sense? Or is this how all "adult relationships" work? I mean, I guess I can honestly say that since I was married when I was eighteen and, well, we know where I went next, I've probably never participated in a real, no-holds-barred (yes, I find my own choice of words ironic) adult relationship. Not that this is a relationship at all. But how adults relate to one another, you know? If this is that? I think I'll pass.

...so this is going under a cut, not because I don't think you can handle it, but 'cause you should have a choice, right? This is one of those things that I should probably post in someone's 'honesty meme' anonymously, but... being me, of course, I won't.

( It's funny 'cause it's about sex. Or not really funny, but still about sex. )

Meh. Que sera, sera. But I've discovered a bit more about my shifting paradigms today.