Archive for February, 2007

ask britney!


Dear Britney,
Luv your new bald look!  Do you think I should shave my head also?

Dear Curious.
You must be livin’ on another planet, Curious.  Did you not see Jack Nicholson at the Oscars???  He totally shaved his head just to copy ME.  So if you want to be a COOL person, you’d better shave your head too

Dear Britney,
My mom says you’re just trash.  Is that true?
True Fan

Dear True Fan,
This is what happens when you’re forced into child stardom like myself.  I totally blame The New Mickey Mouse Club for all my current troubles.  Justin Timberlake spiked my Kool-aid with Ecstasy on the set, then later took my virginity!  I can’t prove it, but a girl knows what a girl knows – know what I mean? Now I have a “problem”relating to my own vagina.  Oops, I just said vagina!  See what a slut I’ve become? Your mother is right, True Fan.   Damn you, Justin Timberlake!

Dear Britney,
Do you think K-Fed will get custody of Sean Preston and your other kid?
Hates K-Fed

Dear Hates K-Fed,
If that backwoods, gold-digging, can’t dance worth a damn, can’t sing either, piece of shit, soon to be ex-husband thinks he can take my babies away from me, well – um… I forgot what I was gonna say. Oh yeah.  If he thinks he can take baby Sean, and that other baby away from me, then he’s just as stupid as he looks.  All he’s gonna have left of our life together is his stupid Nickelodeon award.  Which he can sit around and look at all he wants now, since I won’t be around to laugh at him when he practices his posing in front of the mirror with it.  He’s a loser and as soon as I get out of rehab, I’m gonna tell him that.

Dear Britney,
My little brother thinks you’re hot!  Is that true?
Big sis

Dear Big Sis,
I used to be hot, but mama always told me when I was growing up down in the swamps of Louisiana, “Britney Jean, if you’re hot, just shave your hoohoo.”  So I did! And gee whiz, I’m ain’t hot no more! 

Is that what you meant?  It’s not?

Oh.   Never mind.

Dear Britney,
You’re always riding around in a limo, which looks really cool!  Is it?
Awkward Teen

Dear Awkward,
I wish I could say that it is, but the truth is that I long for a normal life away from the spotlight.  My every foray into public is a nightmare of flashing lights and pushy papparazzi.  Even the safety of a limo is no protection for a star like me and my friends Paris and Lindsay, who also long for a quiet evening out at the most prestigious discos once in awhile.  But we are stalked! Like wildlife in Africa!  By poachers!  My every move and leg-uncrossing is photographed and posted on the internet!  It’s enough to make a girl want to reserve an entire wing of an upscale rehab facility and wait for her hair to grow back…


we are stardust, we are golden…

Ken and I went out to eat the other night, then wandered over to a new store in town that resells CDs, DVDs and other collectible stuff like comics – which I don’t give two hoots for – and action figures – which I also don’t give two hoots for.  BUT, they also had three bins of old vinyl LPs, which I immediately attached myself to, and spent 30 minutes or so poring through them, noting smugly that I owned many of them already (and that mine were in pristine condition, thank you very much).  By the time I reached the Ws, I was about to give up hope of finding anything worthy of my hard-earned money, when suddenly I found the holy grail of albums – The 1970 3-album Woodstock set, on the Cotillian label, beautifully preserved with NO SCRATCHES.  

For some reason, I had never procured this album for myself, (probably because I usually had a roommate or ex-husband who owned it), and had resigned myself to never owning it – not being one to purchase things on EBay (because I lack EBay confidence – don’t ask, just accept).  I snatched that baby up, quick as a bunny, fearful that someone else would reach their arm in and yank it out of my hands, although there wasn’t anyone else around.  Oh boy, was I proud of myself!  I then spent a leisurely few more minutes perusing the DVDs and picked up an SNL Best of Chris Farley, then mosied up to the front of the store to pay for my treasures. 

The skinny little teenage boy manning the cash register started ringing me up and then exclaimed “Wow, you got the best one!” 

“Oh the Woodstock album?  Pretty great, huh?”  I replied, trying to act all nonchalant.

“Actually I meant the Chris Farley.  He’s so freakin’ funny!”

Was he kidding thinking the Chris Farley DVD was more cool than the Woodstock album???  Why wasn’t he drooling over my Woodstock prize like a NORMAL human being would?  Did this poor child have no idea about the cultural significance of the three-day festival of peace and love???  What kind of parents did he have anyway??  What were they teaching these kids in schools these days?

I briefly thought about preaching a sermon about the coolness of the Woodstock album over the Chris Farley DVD, but after another look at the kid I decided against it.  While he could have definitely used a quick lesson in baby boomer coolness, the effort would probably have been wasted on him.   Obviously if this poor child lacked proper knowledge of this most important of cultural touchstones, then he needed more help than I could possibly give him.  I decided to let well enough alone.

Later, I told the one teenage child I knew would properly appreciate my treasure – my 19 year old son. 

“Wow mom, that is so cool.  When can I listen to it?”

And his mother was sooo proud.

overheard at the panda express

Chinese lady to clueless customer:  Is this for here or to go?
Clueless customer:  Both
Chinese lady:  No, I said for here or to go?
Clueless customer:  Um….both
Chinese lady:  I don’t get it.
Customer:  Well, I’ll eat some here, and then I’ll take the rest home.

sleepy monday

I’m tired today.  I’m so tired I feel like I’m swimming underwater.  My head is fuzzy and if I close my eyes, I immediately start dreaming. 

There is no reason whatsoever for me to feel this way.  I slept all weekend.  I took several naps – naps in my bed and naps on the couch.   I’m beginning to believe what I’ve long suspected – that I spent a past life as a cat. 

I could so be a cat.


potty mouth

There is now another woman in this little company where I work.  After 10 years of being the only female among 25 males there is finally someone else here with two X chromosomes and a full supply of estrogen.   This has been a wonderful experience for me because now I can show someone else my new ______ (insert appropriate word such as purse, nail polish, perfume, etc.), and she will at least act interested or will be able to converse about it intelligently.  So what if she has a pretty raw vocabulary?  I mean, big fucking deal, right?   

I am old enough to be J’s mother; in fact I am old enough to be practically everyone’s mother here.  As the financial guru of the company, I hold a position of respect and authority.  The guys generally try to behave more or less like gentlemen around me, and have a habit of calling out “woman on deck” when I step out into the warehouse – meaning that everyone should watch their mouths.  If a “motherfucker” slips by their lips, they will usually quickly look over at me and apologize.  I worked really hard on cultivating that kind of atmosphere around here, as I sadly realized that most young men these days seem to lack basic knowledge of how to behave around ladies. 

J, on the other hand, has been hired as one of their peers.  As a woman in a traditionally male job, she needs to be able to roll with the punches, plus be able to dish it out as well as take it.  This is why she has a pretty colorful vocabulary. This morning, she used the C word in front of a bunch of guys.  You know, the word that starts with C, that means Hoochee, but ends with U-N-T.  I can’t say I’ve ever heard a man here use that word.  I’ve rarely used it myself, and never around a guy.  As soon as J___ dropped the C-bomb, I immediately noticed a couple of pretty shocked looks from the guys, who may have been waiting to see how I was going to react…  

I guess I was feeling rather emboldened by my newfound sisterhood.  This is the only explanation I can come up with for what I blurted out next, which was “Hmmm. Not used to hearing a chick say the word CUNT, are you?  Just saying the word gave me a little thrill because, really, it’s a pretty nasty word, and for it to cross that male/female barrier, especially when it’s female-to-male – well it’s almost taboo.  As soon as I said it, I wished I could have scooped the words out of the air and swallowed them – any way to take them back – but such is the nature of speaking without thinking first.  And then I got my figurative fanny slapped when the guy closest to me said  “I know SOME girls say it, but generally not in mixed company like that.     

That is when I had the flashback… 

When I was 14 or 15 years old, my mother caught me and my boyfriend making out on the couch, his hand up my shirt.  The boyfriend beat a hasty retreat from the house, and I was called in to my parent’s room for a “talk”, where my dad gave me my first introduction to the concept of The Double Standard.  He lectured me on the various reasons why young ladies needed to set higher standards for themselves, and ended with the ominous warning:  “Boys talk about fast girls, and fast girls are never respected. You do not want this to happen to you.”  I’d like to say that I heeded his words, but it was the 1972, and nearly everyone was reveling in the sexual revolution. So I learned to limit my sexual explorations to the back seats of cars, away from the watchful gaze of my parents, but from time to time, I would occasionally overhear snippets of conversations in the hallways of my high school, amongst teenage boys about “slutty girls who put out.”   Years of experience later, I now fully grasp the importance of what my dad was trying to tell me in his awkward way:  It may not be fair, but females are held to a higher standard of behavior than men.  I believe this is just a cosmic fact and serves to keep the scales of human behavior balanced.  I’ve not always been the model of female decorum, especially in my younger, faster years, but after raising a son to be a respectful young man I can now say that I get it.

Do I think I in any way damaged my reputation or my credibility with the young men here?  Not really.  I’ve been far harder on myself than they would ever be.  But it was a quick reminder to myself about how easy it is to sink to a level that I’m no longer comfortable in.  Ah, such is the nature of getting older and, hopefully, wiser.

beware of sharp objects (or how I was fooled by a letter opener)


You: A new bright blue letter opener. The kind with the razor-sharp blade on the end of a poker-thingie that goes under the envelope flap.

Me: Overjoyed to have a new letter-opener that will actually cut the envelope flaps with its smooth, unused razor edge instead of mangling them to death like my old, overused, dull-edged letter opener.

You: Picking up on my eagerness

Me:  Hastily ripping open the stubborn cellophane packaging to get at my new bright blue letter opener.

You:  Making sure blade is positioned “just so” as I manage to finally tear the package open.

Me:  Feeling the razor-sharpness slice neatly into the sensitive fleshy part of the “naughty finger” of my left hand, then using appropriately naughty language to express my dismay at the copious amounts of blood seeping out of the wound which appears to be at least two inches deep and six inches long (warning: all wounds appear larger when first observed).

You:  Acting all innocent-like, as if to say “who me?” then just sitting there on the desk as if nothing had happened.

Me:  Cursing the day you were born and wishing you a nice life IN HELL as I resign myself to spending the rest of the day typing one-handed, while making sure I don’t bleed all over the place.   I fling your bright blue carcass into the trash bin.


Later, after the bleeding has completely stopped and I have peeled back the band-aid protecting my cut, I find it is neither two inches deep nor six inches long. As I retrieve the letter opener from the trash, I begin to question the sanity of attributing human characteristics to an inanimate object.  Could it be that I am responsible for my own careless actions?  Could it be that the letter opener does not actually “have it out” for me?  Could it be that I subconsciously hurt myself because of my own guilt over some rude and provocative snarky comment I made to Ken the night before?   

I tape the band-aid back onto my finger, settle back in my chair, and firmly address the newly retrieved letter opener: “Don’t try anymore funny stuff or I swear to all that is holy that I will feed your sorry ass to the shredder next time.”

I’m keeping my eye on that one. Oh yes indeedy.

overheard in the warehouse

I frequently read a blog called Overhead in NY, where you can read snippets of conversations overhead in the NYC area. It’s hilarious. Yesterday I overhead this conversation right here in our warehouse. Since it wasn’t overhead in the NYC area, I’ll just submit it here…

Employee #1: President’s Day is a totally bogus holiday.
Employee #2: Yeah. They should have a day for us and call it Hard Ass Worker’s Day.
Employee #1: They have one of those already, bitch meat; it’s called Labor Day.
Employee #2: Do we get that one off?
Employee #1: Yeah. Duh.
Employee #2: Oh. Ok then. (thinks awhile)
They really ought think about changing the name to Hard-Ass Worker’s Day.

I concur.

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