Monday, February 27, 2012

Green flag booty

We've been kind of excited around here (at least Anna and I have been excited) about this year's Daytona 500. What woman wouldn't be? There's a girl in a bright green car and we want her to win, maybe show the boys how it's done. Admittedly, NASCAR is a tough sport for most feminists to contend with, but I will take what I can get. A few years ago, I was not above using Eight Belles, the big filly at the Kentucky Derby, as my sports mascot. That is, until she broke both front ankles and had to be put down on the track right after coming in second...
Anyway, back to the chick with the race car. So, Danica Patrick. She's competitive, serious, charitable, drug-free--Everything you could want in an athlete. Anna wanted to see pictures/footage of Danica's previous races so we used trusty Google to get some info.

Big mistake. Big, disappointing mistake.

The first six photos were of her in her racing suit, bright green. And her car, also bright green, and sponsored by Go Daddy.

The next 500 pics displayed a young woman in a string bikini barely covering her ass. Her poses were typical; chest out, legs splayed, skin oiled like a new saddle. Think Playboy without the nipples. Anna looked at me, then looked at the photos, then looked at me.

"Where the hell are all her clothes?!" she asked, shaking her head.
"Good question. Maybe they burned up in the qualifiers."

I didn't want to believe it. In the hopes that it was all just media crap and Photoshop gone wild, I took a stroll to Danica's official website.

Another big freakin' mistake.

Her site looked and read more like a singles ad than an official sports figure. There she was, all 100 pounds of her (that little tidbit was the second number displayed in her profile, the first is her height, which is apparently 5"2') decked out in black leather shorts and a bling-bling black tank top. According to the "Danica File" as it is so named, her off-track "credentials" are as equally impressive as her "on-track" resume. These credentials include "gracing" the cover of Sports Illustrated (Swimsuit Edition 2008, of course), SHAPE and ESPN, the Magazine. She has also "starred" in two Go Daddy commercials. One in which she is clad in lingerie as a dream and the other in which she and Jillian Michaels (supposedly America's toughest trainer) are applying body paint to a naked model (like live woman, we're talking here). At the end of the commercial the "artists" step back and realize that for all their hard work, they "missed a spot."

After my traumatic navigation through Danica's official site, I had to, for comparison's sake, visit Dale Jr.'s page. Of course, he was not wearing a bikini. In fact, I didn't see much skin on little Earnie. Most of his pics were of his car, or him suited up and at a press conference. There was a cute one of the dog, too.

No skin, no sex, no objects, just an all-around nice guy with some pretty impressive racing stats.

And yesterday, during the pre-race hubbub, all three announcers referred to Danica Patrick, professional racer, as "sweetheart."

It is now noon on Monday, the race is slated for 7:00 p.m. tonight on FOX (shiver, I know, FOX, ugh). I still want Danica to win, but the wind is almost gone from my sails. I can only imagine the flesh-eating, objectifying commercial offers she will get (and most likely take) if she is the first to meet the checkered flag.

Apparently, the race is still on, and we are still way behind.





Thursday, February 23, 2012

Stupid girrrrrls

My 11-year-old daughter announced last week that she had a boyfriend. Or, that "Skippy asked me out."

"What'd you say?" I asked, silently crossing my fingers behind my back.

"Um, yes. I like him."

I bowed my head in resigned silence while quickly scanning my memory bank as to what pistol on the market was the most silent yet most accurate.

"So, what does that mean, exactly? What, do you hold hands in the hall now? Or mope around at recess like an Emo couple?"

"It means we eat lunch together more often. I already laid down the ground rules, Mom, relax."

The ground rules? She hasn't even gone through puberty yet and she's already talking about the f***ing ground rules.

"What are those? The 'ground rules'?"

"No physical contact of any kind, basically that's it."

Now that's what I am talkin' about! I guess I won't have to hire a sniper after all. She could just be paying me lip service, but knowing what I know of this impudent child, she doesn't do lip service well. It kills her to be fake. Her eye starts to twitch and she can't keep her right brow from shooting up in jaded disgust. I think she would, like her mother, rather eat sh*t than kiss somebody's ass. No matter what the personal gain.

But still, she has a boyfriend. Or a lunch buddy or whatever you want to call them before their genitals drop and they get a driver's license, job and apartment. And boyfriends tend to carry the "stupid girl" disease so rampant in today's society. I know Anna is at risk for this terrible disease because she announced to my mother and I that Skippy is a "bad boy" and that's what she prefers.

"Papa was a bad boy," my mom chimed in. "He had a brown leather jacket and a motorcycle and I thought that was so cool. Your mom likes bad boys, too."

I almost punched her. This was a "do as I say, not as I do moment" and she blew it. UP.


So, what is a stupid girl, exactly?

Before I go any further, by the way, I will admit that I carry this disease. It has, thankfully, gone into remission for the time being, but it lurks, and I can feel its rise every so often.

A stupid girl, for starters, cannot stand to wake up alone. She is the one who dreams of the knight in shining armor and will bring the armor suit around with her, trying to force the breast plate over puffed out chests; cram the helmet on a big head or watch a small head swim in it; she will even go so far as to build a king's pedestal (or a white horse, whatever works) and throw a giant heap of shit up there in the hopes of crowning it at some point with a ceremony. This ceremony often comes in the shape of an overpriced, crinoline and frosting coated party, also known as a wedding.
Once the king and queen are crowned, there is an awful void of reality which stupid girl must fill if she is to keep the gnawing feeling from tearing her guts apart. Then comes baby, 'cause that'll fix everything, right?

Other stupid girl species include the girl who makes bracelets out of man beads, adding one bead at a time, no matter how despicable (or how wonderful). The beads are notches really, in a tight-fitting, f*cked up belt that only looks good when you're drunk or self-loathing.
Now don't be fooled, stupid girl may have an excellent education, a good job, the experience of years, nice family, you name it. But in the end, she cannot be alone in her intelligence. She cannot laugh at herself. She hates the way her stomach creases when she sits down at the dinner table, as if this is somehow a measure of her value as a human. She clings to the odd belief that happiness comes from Real Simple magazine and that true love does conquer all.


Horseshit.

Here's what this stupid girl learned from being stupid:


1) Never, ever f*ck anyone because you feel sorry for him (or her).
2) Earn your own cash. Whether it's selling kitchen supplies, landscaping, high-power corporate swinging, tarot readings, whatever, just make sure you can make your own way. This world is changing, better prep your daughters for that now.
3) Natural birth and breastfeeding your kid for 5 years do not make you a better mother or more of a woman.
4) Big, strong thighs get you places.
5) Laughter is the best medicine, don't take yourself so goddamn seriously.
6) Feeling embarassed about your period is useless, it's gonna happen. So is menopause. And childbirth. Nothin' you can do but bleed, sweat, bleed and sweat some more.
7) Speak up, 'cause nobody else is going to speak for you.
8) "The Obvious" usually carries a sledgehammer, it does not like to be ignored.
9) Whatever you say while your kids are in the car, they will surely repeat at school.
10) Gas is a part of life.
11) Heartache is worth a good cry, not criticism. Very unprofessional.
12) Size does matter.


I know I will be eating my words at some point. That's what smart stupid girls do. Fortunately, I know who to invite to share the meal with.

Thursday, February 9, 2012

With all these years...

A few nights ago, I attended a dinner for women professionals in the area. It was a mixed bag crowd, to say the least. I thought I had dressed appropriately for the occasion, my geometric knit dress from a local consignment shop, knee high black boots, a scarf, you know, young but not too young. But when I walked into the room I found that I might have over done the brightness factor. Two steps into the room, I thought to myself, "I need to buy a suit." Three steps into the room, "and a wide belt, and black heels."

It went on from there. The awkward factor was pretty high, I didn't know anyone, or hardly anyone, having been holed up in my writer's cave these last few years, and before that the teacher's chasm. My social graces were, ahem, rough. A few women had the courtesy to laugh at my off-color remarks about kids and sneaking cigarettes at night while they slept. I tried, just not in the right way. Maybe if I had a blazer on things would've been easier???

The dinner was an awards ceremony for two young women who were making a difference in the community. Beginning heavy-hitters so-to-speak. When I told my mother about the event, she asked "why don't you apply for next year's award?" I looked up the application process and called her.

"I don't think I will make the cut next year. It says 21 to 35."

"What, well, maybe if they have it before your 36th birthday?"

Maybe, but that seemed like cheating.

As the young women were giving their speeches, I was suddenly snapped back to a moment in time, a few years ago, when I was sitting in a very posh office in the middle of summer, sweating profusely while two men grilled me in an interview. It was light, at first, I tried to put my best foot forward, rattling off my credentials and smiling a big smile despite the fact that I had just busted my nose two days prior and was praying to God that the make-up wouldn't run down my neck onto my shirt. Or worse yet, the expensive couch.

That's when the BIG question came. The one that knocked the wind out of me (the angry wind).

"So, you're what, 30? Can you tell me what you've been doing with your time. I mean, this is your first editorial job right? Why so late?"

I wish he hadn't asked me that.

My first inclination was to stand up, give him the finger (him whose wife was probably at home taking care of baby while he sat in the grand tower of his office wallowing in his presumed success). I did not leave, just sat there stunned for a moment, then out with the terse reply.

"Eating bonbons, mostly. Oh, and raising two kids, that takes up quite a bit of time, you know (wink, wink). Teaching teenagers how to be human beings, putting myself through graduate school, writing, editing, oh and occasionally watching a movie and going for hikes. Managing a household, you know, that sort of thing."

More laughing. Then I was outta there. I think I hadn't even left the building before I lit a cigarette and stormed my way to the car.

What have I been doing?! With all my time?! Dude, I haven't taken an uninterrupted crap in like 6 years. I've had bouts of insomnia and poverty you can't even think of in your worst nightmare. Two heart attacks, three tumors, at least 15 short stories and 900 poems about death and love, burlesque classes, soccer practice, all-nighters grading papers, making three meals a day, praying my car doesn't die, therapy, chaotic family feuds, helping people time and again with resumes, applications and debt, cleaning up puke, administering advice, discipline and love, trying to prepare my delicate children for a tough world, organizing anniversary parties, chasing fire calls in the middle of the night, investigating the possible meth trade in Berkshire County...

What've I been doing?

The real question is, what've you been doing, Scooter? What've you been doing up in that tower of yours? Rolling in at 10 a.m., leaving at 2 p.m. for a lunch with wifey (or sneaking out in a pair of ridiculous sunglasseses, like I didn't notice where you were off to, Jesus, man!)?

Moral of the story, who knows. Maybe it's a "put yourself in someone else's shoes thing." Or, it could just be as simple as keep your damn mouth shut if you don't relish the idea of getting blasted with a verbal firehose 'cause you're too stupid to know what's what in this world.

On a funnier note, the State of Massachusetts just sent me a "Notice of Intent to Assess" because they are suspicious of my $400 refund. How much did Mitt Romney make last year? And he paid in 15%. And you have time, my beloved state, to wonder if my $400 refund (out of the gross 20k I made last year, swear to God) is valid? I may laugh myself into another heart attack...