Cinco Cosas Para 23 de Septiembre 2013

Psych! This ain’t gonna be in Spanish. I don’t speak a lick of it, folks. Sorry.

1) So, I’m getting the feeling that my fellow humans are untrained in the basics of wiping one’s ass. I don’t know if it’s because folks are lazy as all hell these days, or if some feel that someone else should wipe their ass for them, or because they’re just fucking heinous in general. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was example number three.

Instead of folks getting off their lazy asses–so to speak–our friends in the asswipe industry, have come up with a few products to aid in the evil-eye wiping process.

(via Gawker)

(via Gawker)

They’re baby wipes for grownups, and bravo! What a grand idea! However, there’s a problem–you ain’t supposed to flush these things, and as a result, these wipes be cloggin’ up the sewer systems.

Via the AP.

“The problem got so bad in this western New York community this summer that sewer officials set up traps — basket strainers in sections of pipe leading to an oft-clogged pump — to figure out which households the wipes were coming from. They mailed letters and then pleaded in person for residents to stop flushing them.

“We could walk right up, knock on the door and say, ‘Listen, this problem is coming right from your house,'” said Tom Walsh, senior project coordinator at South & Center Chautauqua Lake Sewer Districts, which was dispatching crews at least once a week to clear a grinder pump that would seize up trying to shred the fibrous wipes.”

“My team regularly goes sewer diving” to analyze what’s causing problems, said Trina McCormick, a senior manager at Kimberly-Clark Corp., maker of Cottonelle. “We’ve seen the majority, 90 percent in fact, are items that are not supposed to be flushed, like paper towels, feminine products or baby wipes.”

Let me get this straight–some paper product companies have dudes on staff whose jobs are to set up traps for dirty asswipes, then go to the offending household and tell the denizens of said abode(s) to stop flushing the wipes and perhaps learn how to CLEAN ONE’S DIRTY ANUS WITH ACTUAL TOILET PAPER, YOU KNOW, THAT KIND THAT’S ACTUALLY FLUSHABLE?

Perhaps bidets aren’t such a crazy concept after all.

2) Go for it. I’m not done making fun of you yet, Mrs. Palin.

3) Neil Patrick Harris needs to sit down. I’ve never seen a more self-involved awards show host in my entire life. Due to his over-inflated ego (and the fact that he produced the show), we had to sit through two too many song and dance numbers which eliminated four ACTING categories from last night’s broadcast to make up for time. All of the guest performer awards were given out at the “You’re Not Important Enough for the Real Emmys” event that probably took place in a bathroom in Griffith Park.

(via entertainment.time.com)

(via entertainment.time.com)

Also, very short clips of of the nominees’ performances were shown–you know–like they do during the Oscars. Someone help me out here–the Emmys are an awards show for tee vee performances, yes? The performances are awarded, same with the writing, directing, etc. It’s not a venue for showing off your dancing and comedy chops to the audience. Hey, NPH, there is such a place for that act–tis called a one-man show.

4) See, this is why science is GOOD. It’s VERY, VERY GOOD. We get to learn tidbits like this.

via Discovery.com

Kaboom! Milky Way’s Black Hole Erupted 2 Million Years Ago

(via Discovery.com)

(via Discovery.com)

5) Veep Dickem Cheney got mocked by a dude in a kilt for being a shitty shot.

I’ll just leave this here.

Five for Friday: September 20, 2013

So, I’m going to continue with this Five Things idea for a bit to see where it takes me.

1) I got this little gem via a journo listserv I’m a member of.

“An unnamed digital media company in Chicago seeks stories at $7 a pop.”

I’ll keep the next few sentences simple since I’m sure you’re also in a state of shock due to what you just read. We want four AP style stories a day with a word count hovering around 400 per story. Great communication skills are a must. Please send your resume and 4 clips to fuckthewriter@bohica.com.

After I fashioned a bag of ice over my sore noggin (it’s sore from banging it against the wall after reading the listserv email), I tried to imagine the level of the mind that believes it’s okay to pay a writer a measly $7/post. Why the hell not? Them’s just words! Anyone can do it! You know, that makes total sense so sign me up!

I’d rather eat ground glass.

2) I wanna know the methodology that was used for this study.

Penis Map Of The World Exposes Weenie Size In Each Country

Plus, ain’t it kinda a cool that dong size has little to do with potency? See, that’s how it’s done denizens of certain South American and African countries. Not only are the Indians and Chinese kicking our asses in so many other ways, their wee schvantzes are helping to produce shitloads of humans to ensure that they’ll be kicking our asses for generations to come. In other words, size ain’t an issue … in some instances.

(via rosalie-schweiker.wikispaces.com)

(via rosalie-schweiker.wikispaces.com)

3) This is real. Not kidding.

(via Inquisitr.com)

(via Inquisitr.com)

It’s the latest Boeing 777 in Eva Air’s fleet of flying machines. Eva Air, by the way, is the Taiwanese airline. You can get in touch with your inner-confused hipster who sports ironic tats, facial hair, piercings and fedoras, by taking one of the three flights between Taipei and Los Angeles each week. Then, you can Instagram it, put pix of you acting all goofy inside the plane on one of your many Tumblrs, then get a tat of the plane on your lower back.

4) Now, this tat was on a “20 Tattoos That You Should Get Removed” page. I’m confused though–I don’t see what the problem is.

(via RedCastle83)

(via RedCastle83)

5) Aaaaaaaaaaaand I’ll just leave this here. Enjoy!

Reality TV: A New Crop of Crap

Or How We’ve Become A Nation of Fame Whores.

Reality tee vee has been the “It Girl” of Hollywood for well over a decade. Americans can’t seem to get enough of them which is why the tee vee industry feels compelled to keep churning ’em out. The shows are cheap to produce and they give ordinary folks a shot at stardom (refer to Andy Warhol & his 15 minutes of fame claim). We’ve witnessed ordinary people top the douchebag chart after stints on a reality tee vee show, and as a result, we are slowly turning into a nation of entitled half-wits who believe they are due for a spin in the spotlight at whatever cost.

Mark Burnett and Andy Cohen need to be taken away and reprogrammed since they’re both partially to blame for the dumbing down of American society. Well, Mr. Cohen more than Mr. Burnett. All Mr. Burnett really did is introduce us to watching relatively thought-free, yet pretty people, run around nekkid in some of the more remote locations on Earth. So, he opened the flood gates a titch. And, to be fair, I watched maybe 3 episodes of “Survivor.” I just couldn’t get into it, and I found that watching my toenails grow to be much more interesting.

Now, Mr. Cohen, probably believes it would do society good by giving us the “Real Housewives” series. Again, I watched more than my fair share of those shows, but when I realized that the women featured in the episodes were basically the lowest common denominator, I had to change the channel. In a weird way, Mr. Cohen should be commended for elevating mediocrity to an art form. <slow clap>

Of course, there is a plethora of crappy tee vee–not just the reality sort–scattered about, and no one is forcing me to watch it. But watching such low-brow tee vee is better than me cutting myself to take away from the pain from witnessing those with room temp IQs profit nicely while the public watches.

Since my three readers are curious as to which shows have my Costco knickers in a wad, well, here they are.

This idea just hurts. Seriously–what woman, in her right mind would want to plunked down in the middle of the wilderness, all nekkid with NO feminine hygiene? Yes, that’s the first thing I thought of when I heard one of the participants was a woman–how is she gonna deal with getting her little red friend when she’s fighting off bahrs and other wild life? Don’t get me started on the whole not bathing deal and having to forage for food in order to FUCKING STAY ALIVE part of the show. There must be an easier way to achieve your 15 minutes–how about blowing a d-list celeb in a Gremlin and having a friend record & post it on the Internets? Or, cause a ruckus (preferably with breastesses flinging about) whilst being arrested for stealing a chicken leg and get a friend to once again, record  and post it online? These folks surely coulda come up with something better. “Naked and Afraid” is just a few clicks away from entertainment–it’s almost sadistic–it’s misery wrapped up in pit viper bites, chafed testicles, malaria and uncontrollable diarrhea.

It premieres on June 23rd on the Discovery Channel.

Screen shot 2013-06-17 at 5.57.13 PM

Full disclosure here–I’ve watched all three episodes of this next show. Honestly I couldn’t help myself because not only is it scraping the bottom of the reality tee vee barrel, but I gotta see if one of these broads actually hooks up with some dude. I’m talking about “Pregnant & Dating” which airs on WETV on Fridays. Oh, and this show is a huge self-esteem booster for someone like me. Why, you ask? Hey, I may not have a job or a ton of money, but at least I’m not single, pregnant and so fucking desperate for some dick that I’m hauling my pregnant ass out on dates OR hitting up a matchmaker for help instead of concentrating on having a healthy baby. That’s exactly what these women are doing.

Don’t believe me? Take a gander, won’t you please?

These women are the apex of awful. So are their friends. Call me crazy, but shouldn’t your first concern be when you discover you’re in a family way, be to make sure you spew a healthy spawn from your haunches in nine months time? Oh wait! How dare I forget! Kids are accessories these days and it’s more important for most pregnant women to look good (“don’t gain too much weight now!”) than to make sure their time on the nest is as worry-free and safe as possible.

Screen shot 2013-06-17 at 6.25.54 PM

What gets me is the women get upset and pissy when the dudes they’re out with act all aloof and shocked upon learning that their date is with child. It’s also apparent that if the cameras weren’t rolling, these men would leave skid marks as soon as their date uttered the words “I’m pregnant.” No offense to the men, but who would want to date a woman who’s carrying a child that isn’t even theirs? Yes, yes, I’m sure there are men out there who would step up to the plate, but the men featured on “Pregnant & Dating” so far have the depth and character of a shoelace. In short, I don’t see it happening. But, it’s early in the season, maybe they’ll each find someone who won’t mind recording the episiotomy for posterity, and will help make shampoo and other yum yums out of the placenta.

WETV has turned out to be Darwin’s Waiting Room when it comes to reality shows. The people featured on their shows aren’t the best or the brightest. Case in point: “Bridezillas” is now entering its tenth and final season. Thank dog. For those of you not in the know or aren’t into watching people who have as much class as a fart in church, this show is about bridezillas, or horrible women who are about to get married. These women are so awful, they’ve even left me speechless at times with their unty-cay behavior. If you know anything about me, it takes a mighty display of largess to render me speechless.

A taste. (Warning: you’re gonna need a sedative–or 12–after watching. Fuck it, take ’em before watching the pre-matrimonial mayhem)

At first, naive me thought, “Naaah … no way. People don’t act this way. Nuh uh! Noooo waaay! What would their mothers say if they witnessed such abhorrent behavior?” But after ruminating about it for a bit, it became obvious to me that why yes, people DO act like assholes no matter who’s around. It’s the way we were wired, and it can be quite profitable if there’s someone filming it.

However, “Bridezillas” is not the main focus here. “Marriage Boot Camp: Bridezillas” is. Surprise, surprise, some of the bridezillas have found themselves smack-dab in the middle of shitty marriages, and since they’re trying to stretch their 15 minutes out for as long as possible, they’ve decided that fixing their poisoned unions is best done in front of millions of people.

Jesus be a fence. That’s all I can say about the whole, sordid subject.

Yes, it does get worse. But this time, with a real bad wig on an adult thumbsucker.

 

The Lure of the Sideburns

One of the hidden joys of being unemployed is the amount of craptastic tee vee watching I get in on a daily basis. I’m not just talking about the political shows, but shows from the days of yore like “Bewitched”, “Murder She Wrote” and my personal fave “Emergency!”

When my sisters and I weren’t putting on our version of “Godspell” for our patient parents and our slew of household pets, we watched shows like “Emergency!” Hey, what can I say? We were kids growing up in the ‘burbs of Chicago, and there wasn’t a lot to do at night except chase fireflies and spy on the neighbors. Even after a while, the spying became tiresome. I mean, how many times can one watch the neighbor across the street get drunk and pass out on the steps?

“Emergency!” was special because it introduced me to my first tee vee boyfriend, Randolph Mantooth. He was tall, dark and handsome. And for some reason, he never combed his hair and that made him all the more foxy.

Mantooth1

Also, the show introduced me to that dynamic duo of Bobby Troup and his wife, Julie London. You may know him better as the guy who wrote the classic song “Route 66”, and she was a fine lady crooner in her day.

Then, there was Kevin Tighe (Roy DeSoto) who went onto portray, according to Weebs, “some of the meanest, mother fuckers ever.”

kevintighe

Of course, the supporting cast was just as memorable as the stars. And, they sported the best sideburns and porn star staches ever.

cast-station2-bw emergency_cast

“An English Visitor”: Season 3, Ep. 04, (1973) A paramedic from England has a stint with Station 51 observing Roy and John, whose rescues include: a structure fire; a gunslinger’s partner; a car accident; and a man trapped in heavy machinery, where the visitor saves John’s life. At the hospital, Dr. Brackett treats a rock singer in a diabetic coma and Dr. Early has problems with a defiant nurse. (courtesy imdb.com)

Above is the official version, but the following is what I saw.

The episode starts out with the station treating some burned-up cop in an elevator shaft of an old building, which anyone with a trained eye can tell is a building on the backlot at Universal Studios. Guess someone started a fire via Molotov Cocktail which is causing all sorts of drama. God damn militants! Stay tuned…

So, there’s a fella from the other side of the pond visiting Station 51. He’s sportin’ a big-sexy, 70s style ‘stache. Who knows what he’s up to, guv’nuh. Jason (his name), the Brit, is only staying with Station 51 for a few days, then he’s off to Miami to check out another program and hopefully chillax with some ex-pat Cubans. I’m not sure about the ex-pat Cubans part, I just made that up since this particular scene was cut with an axe–it’s that bad.

Meanwhile, a lovely lady who appears to be some sort of  rock star, is passed out in the ER. Dixie thinks she’ remembers her, and is certain she has seen her somewhere before. Cue ominous music…

Gage and DeSoto then go out on yet another call to some sort of Wild West Show gunslingin’ has-been, Homer, who has retired in the north Valley (why there is anyone’s guess). Homer’s wife, Martha, has some sort of cut and is quite scared. He was the best, Martha opined whilst DeSoto worked on her. Then, Homer fired his wee gun at an ugly flower-pot in the beige living room, and the boys skidaddled outta there before they too were covered in beige plaid and bullet fragments. Good riddance, was my reaction.

Back at the hospital, there is dissention in the ranks as Dixie dresses down a nurse who has been defiant with Doc Early. See, there have been complaints against this one particular nurse and she has to realize that she works for Dixie now and that’s that. No if, ands or buts about it! You see, folks, Dixie, is the only one who gets to have ‘tude around Rampart and don’t YOU forget it. 

Patsy, the comatose rock star, has diabeetus, the flu and is exhausted and Doc Brackett AND his sideburns are seeing to it that she gets the proper care. So, he’s never going to leave her side which should be, well, interesting …

Now, a dude with something that resembles a JewFro is wondering why his client –Patsy– is still so sick. He thinks it was the militants, Brackett thinks that maybe she was doing some illegal pharma ingesting and maybe took too much brown acid, or it could the myriad of health problems mentioned above. Who knows, but we’ll find out in the 3rd act. I just want Brackett and this guy to get into a whole “My hair is foxier than your hair” type duel.

Update on the policemen.. Doc Early and Dix are discussing him, now Dixie is whining about the nurse with the ‘issues’, but I really wish they’d break into a version of “route 66″–that would make the scene so much more enjoyable.

If the catheter passed through the tourniquet, it could float in his lungs..” something no one wants to hear EVER. So it’s off to the cath lab to retrieve that sucker. Side note here: you know a scene is uber-dramatical when you hear the swelling of the strings section over the rest of the orchestra.

Oh no, Patsy is circling the drain, but dammit! Doc Brackett is gonna do everything in his power to save her! He said something like “I WANT YOU TO LIVE! I WANT YOU TO LIVE!” while holding her face and probably dislocating her jaw.

Back to the wayward nurse, Sheila. She blames herself for the tourniquet oops and now Dixie is trying to calm her–not through song, but through reason and a comforting tone. So hot–I hope they go at it later.

Uh oh, Jason is hitting on the nurses which ain’t cool since that’s Gage’s MO. See, Johnny Gage is hot–everyone thinks so, and the running joke of the show is how many nurses he can bang. However, since this show was on in the 70s, ‘bang’ was not a euphemism used to describe ‘screwing,’ and come to think of it, ‘screwing’ wasn’t used on the tee vee then either. Hmm. I’m perplexed — I don’t know what term they used.

Next rescue: A major truck accident on the WB backlot–er, I mean in the “North Valley”. The boys had to use some version of the jaws of life to pry the demin-clad Waylon Jennings lookalike from his rig. They had to be careful considering he was wearing some rather rad bell bottoms, and no one in their right mind would want to harm that fashion goodness. Poor dude has a busted ankle and Johnny ain’t feeling too great.

You know why?

Because the truck is loaded with HOOCH! MOTHER NATURE’S HAIR! MARY JANE! POT! All of the fireman instantly ran to the truck to “help” while Vince the ever-present LAPD motorcycle cop looked on with a creepy smile on his face. Yeaaah…it was alll so….niiice…

I bet those folks never figured that the pot would be legal today in California. My oh my have the times changed.

Back to the rock star– Doc Brackett thinks she’s burned out with being all sick and shit. She’s not responding to treatment, and “she may die.” Dumbass Manager JewFro doesn’t quite get it because “you gotta hit it while it’s hot.” Just as Doc Brackett is finishing up his lecture, Patsy crashes! It doesn’t look good folks, but they made sure they covered up her lady bits before saving her life, and kept them covered.

“If we don’t kill this infection, this infection may kill her!”

The finale emergency involves a mishap at a gravel pit. Wait..did LA ever have gravel pits? Really?

So, Jason gets to join Gage and DeSoto on this particular rescue, much to Gage’s chagrin. Hmm..I think something nefarious is about to happen to our guest. Back to the initial rescue, turns out this dumbass guy is trapped in a rock grinder. I mean really, so much for being careful. And just as the rescue was happening, Gage goes and slips and Jason saves his sweet ass from plummeting to his death, and Gage ends up getting a nice wedgie in the process.

“Pull man, PULL!”

Meanwhile that other guy’s legs are dead I bet.

No, no–of course they aren’t! This isn’t “ER”! He ends up getting rescued–of course–and his tuchas is shipped to Rampart for further treatment probably by .

And speaking of Rampart, Patsy is out of the woods, for now. Dixie has re-applied her nude lipstick, and Doc Brackett’s sideburns are still all kinds of awesome. Jason cock-blocked Gage from getting that hot nurse up in orthopaedics AND we learned that our English visitor is a real, live genuine hero. Tally ho, pip pip and all that then, guv’nuh.

I think I’m in love all over again.

Nocturnal Emissions

Insomnia sucks for the most part, but what it doesn’t suck at is getting me to gaze into the deep, dark crevasses that make up what’s left of my soul. Some nights I think of fluff — like fuzzy kittens, soap scum and sweaters made out of love, merino wool and sunshine.

Then, there are the nights when I can’t get the frightening images of acid wash jeans, people who insist on wearing PJs out in public, post-WW1 German porn and the Dave Matthews Band out of my noggin.

Tonight is no exception and here’s what’s rattling around in what’s left of my once-semi-brilliant mind.

1) When the first-time writer of a hit movie tells an interviewer that he/she just simply sat down with a “How To Write A Screenplay In One Weekend” book, and wrote that semi-literate–but funny celluloid sensation–they’re lying to you.

Here’s what really happened: The studio wanted to work with this person because they’re popular and funny. So, these clueless execs buttered them up, then asked them for an idea and maybe a rough draft of a script. Upon first the reading, the must-hire D-girl who’s fucking the junior exec, quickly learned that this particular popular person is much better at doing late-night sketch comedy. Ahem–mum’s the word, see. So, the studio then hires a team of script doctors (at about $200k a pop) et voila–hit movie!

2) While I’m on the Hollywood trip, here’s another tidbit: When an actor/actress/singer thanks their assistant in their Oscar/Golden Globes/Emmy/Grammy acceptance speech, they’re really thanking their drug dealer. True story.

3) Bulimia never, ever goes away–it just manifests itself in other forms–like the urge to dye one’s hair purple, or start a blog, or build the original Roman Empire out of unused tampons.

4) Naming your children the correct name is vital to their future. Adorning them with monikers like Brittany, Tiff’ny, Zephyr, Madison, Schylur/Skylar, or Savannah, well, they’re bound to grow up to be total assholes, and will either yank their puds for money or spend a lot of time spinning nekkid around a steel pole at a dank truckstop bar on the interstate. I can’t believe that unimaginative parents in this country feel the need to sully the awesome reputations of two of my favorite cities by naming their sub-mental spawn “Madison/Madysun” or “Savannah” because both names are “unusual.” Get over yourselves because you’re only doing your kids a disservice by bestowing them with awful names. Stick with the classics.

5) If you insist on naming one of your kids Marquis, at least have the fucking sense to pronounce it correctly–it’s “Markee” not “Markwiss.”

6) The more I think about it, the more I believe that Stalin was just misunderstood.

7) Write Yiddish and cast British. Never fails. Ever.

8) Once I deem you to be a douchebag, there’s no way to recover. It’s just best to move on and realize that me calling you a douchebag is actually a gift–a kick in the ass of sorts–to get you to fix your douchebagness. Trust me on this–I’m a damn good judge of character.

9) OJ did it.

10) I’ve said this before, but there is no such thing as a social media/content management guru. If you introduce yourself to me as a social media/content management guru–and say it with a straight face–well, you’re about to be called a word that rhymes with schmoucheschmag. Gurus can only be found in ashrams in India, by the way.

11) My god–I love peonies.

12) You know, that rug really DID pull the room together.

13) I can really see a future with this gentleman. He’s all sorts of secksy in his thong, and not to mention his pathway to adventure, which has me a-quivering by the way.

Picture 3Is that a cat?

14) There’s nothing wrong with nom-nomming on chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream frosting for breakfast, lunch and dindin. But you must realize that stuffing your face with all that chocolate goodness will cause you to resemble a mutant hamhock after about a day of this diet. Never fear monkehs–that’s why god invented eating disorders.

15) Everyone should own this album.

ffym

For those of you who have difficulty reading the above image, it’s Ben Harper’s “Fight For Your Mind.” It’s haunting, sensual and beautifully produced.

One of my fave songs ever–

You’re welcome.

16) Elvis is king–Costello, not Presley. Puh-leeze–I’ve never cared for that drug-addled twat.

 

 

 

A Somber Anniversary

This week marks a frustrating and sad anniversary for me: Two years ago–January 21, 2011–was my last day at my editing gig at a trade/B2B publication here in Chicago.

First, allow me to back it up a titch and regale you about how the fun began two weeks earlier.

I arrived at work on that crappy cold-as-fuck morning, had just enough time to put my stuff down on my desk, take off my coat, and say hello to my co-workers before the Editor-in-Chief asked me to take a walk with him. I found this a bit odd since he never paid me much attention, unless it was to gripe about something, or if he needed me to order some sort of pen.

So, when we rounded the corner that separated the newsroom from sales, and into a small conference room where the resident HR drone was waiting, my stomach flip-flopped. My mouth went dry and my chest felt like it was going to resemble Kane’s in “Alien”–but with my heart bursting out & smacking both the EIC and HR right in their mugs instead of a parasite that would eventually kill the entire fucking masthead. A wry smile crossed my lips for a brief second at that thought, but it quickly vanished when I heard the following:

“Um, yeah. Julia. We’re going to lay you off–it’s nothing personal of course–we’re just eliminating your position so we can add more to the sales team.”

What happened next few minutes was a blur. I do, however, remember giving the EIC a look that would kill a planet, tightening my jaw until it ached and feeling the tears starting to build up. Sadly, the death glare didn’t land because he wouldn’t look me in the face, but he did manage to set the land speed record for waddling out of the conference room so he could alert my colleagues of my fate.

You know, to save face and look like a fucking hero.

“Gosh, we really like Julia, but tight budgets are preventing us from keeping her on. So, I know she’s looking for work, so please help her out if you can.”

My immediate boss was absent that day so when she got my tearful phonecall an hour later, needless to say, she was furious. The next couple of weeks were a blur of phonecalls to friends slash possible employers, resume prep, buckets of tears, lashing out at everyone, allowing my shocked soon-to-be-former co-workers take me out for lunches and post-work drinks, and trying my damndest to not kick both the EIC and ME in the balls. It took alll of my god-given strength to NOT throw my ass in the shitastic Chicago River when I learned that an intern would be doing my job.

Not personal, eh? Go fuck yourself.

The last couple of years hurled all sorts of puke/jiz-filled crappy crap at me. I don’t know which moments were the most fucked-in-the-head: Was it the the snow storm that hit the area about a week after I was canned? Or was it the pubic-hair freezing cold that pounded Chicago in the ass afterwards? Or, was it going out to LA to look for work and have many jobs dangled in front of me only to have them taken away just as I was making arrangements to move my life west? Maybe it was three interviews I had with a certain Chicago media outlet that always hired someone too young and inexperienced over me, only to have that person leave a few months later because the work was “too hard.” This happened three times.

It coulda been the publisher in Florida who flat-out asked me my age during a phone interview, and when I gently reminded him that what he was asking me was, gosh, ILLEGAL, he proclaimed he didn’t care. I ended the interview soon after.

Perhaps it was the approximately 500 carefully crafted resumes with the appropriate key words and phrases I sent out that were probably mocked, laughed at and tossed in digital circular files–I have no idea which one of these events have helped push me down Crap Mountain the fastest, but I do know this much–

THE LAST TWO YEARS HAVE BEEN A MAJOR PIG FUCK.

Somedays, I can’t move. I don’t leave the apartment. I read my New York Times, the New Yorker, maybe watch my stories on the tee vee, watch porn on the computer–anything to distract me from the fact that I am a miserable failure. While I am well aware that there are many in my situation–and in worse situations–I can’t worry about them. Does that make me cold & heartless? Naah, it makes me realistic because I highly doubt they give a red rat’s ass about me.

Other days, I work on my book that no one will ever read, do Bikram yoga and consider cooking meth in my kitchen. I help other friends find work, read reports and a thesis or two for a pittance. I cheer when my friends find work, and am sad for them when they lose their jobs. My happiness for their successes is genuine, but so is my anger and resentment. It’s difficult to be around friends who are successful and have jobs, so I don’t go out much. Plus, this city is expensive.

I’m thankful for my health (knock on wood), and the facts that I’m well-educated, and don’t have a mortgage or kids to worry about. I don’t want to think about where I’d be if either of those were a factor.

I felt some cold-comfort upon learning that both the EIC and ME were canned under new management. Since it’s not my style to revel in someone else’s misfortunes, my happiness immediately turned to concern because they both have families and mortgages. But then again, they’ll probably find work before I do, so fuck ’em.

So, what am I to do? Keep getting out of bed every day. Keep on with the writing because my book is turning out to be a gem.

And most of all, not listen to those folks who tell me I can’t succeed. One of ‘those folks’ happens to be me, but that voice is getting fainter and fainter with each passing moment.

I think Madonna said it best below.

My Uh-Duh! Moment

Remember Oprah? You know, the one-woman media magnate who revitalized Chicago’s West Loop, gave audience members cars, did Stedman and maybe Gayle, got people reading again, is responsible for unleashing the hackfests that are Drs. Phil & Oz and Suze Orman, and who empowered millions of upper-middle class women the world over? Yep, that Oprah–the one and only.

During her media tenure, Oprah had several positive, love thyself phrases that were seen as avenues her fans could travel in order to live better lives. (Nothing wrong with trying to better one’s life, of course.) One was the whole “Remembering Your Spirit” vignettes that were popular in the early aughts, and one of the last ones was “Aha! Moments.” Basically, Aha! Moments are similar to “Come to Jesus” moments or EPIPHANIES as they are known to us non-religious folks. Some person (usually a woman) figures out somewhere along the line that her life is more than a dress size, her baby-making abilities and by being a dutiful daughter/sister/niece/wife/aunt, etc.

Oprah’s magazine and tee vee show featured mainly the Aha! Moments of famous folks, who have all the money ever but decided it’s necessary to give back to us serfs. Most efforts are to be applauded because, dammit, they should be giving back. Some of these moments are just famous folks engaging in navel gazing and that’s just boring as all hell.

I’ve had a few Aha! Moments in my life. (this ain’t one, but the vid still works)

One moment urged me to go to school in Southern California, then another brought me back to finish my studies in Madison. Oh, then there was the engagement that ended badly in my 20s…then the switching of careers and moving back to the Midwest….yeah.

What else? Yes, getting a master’s degree which lead to me getting my ass kicked in a new, but fab, career. Super fun!

Most of my Aha! Moments have been good for my soul, but then there are those that kicked the ever-lovin’ crap outta me, watched me crumble, then came back and kicked me AGAIN just for shits and giggles. I’ve realized since that life is one, big, fat, steaming pile of chunk-filled Aha! Moments. The trick is learning how to handle them with grace, humor and a pair of handwraps, boxing gloves and a heavy bag.

Now that I’ve got THAT figured out, onto what Uh-Duh! Moments are. Simply, Uh-Duh! Moments are “what the hell did I just do?” moments. I’ve had a shitload of them in my life and it’s safe to say that MOST of those moments have occurred in the past couple of years. I’m not exactly proud of these “oops” either, but I figured I’d share them here so y’all can either point & mock, or nod your heads, sigh and utter ‘Yeah, I’ve done that too, Julia.”

The first one involves honey.

This particular Uh-Duh! Moment made me realize that I truly hate honey. Loathe it actually. I think it’s disgusting and tastes like what I imagine rancid bee sweat mixed with bee urine tastes like. I’ve given it my all–tried to develop a taste for it by serving it on toast, in my tea, my oatmeal, and I even used it in my hair–what the fuck for–I don’t know. Well, I thought I’d be the bigger person and give it one more shot.

This time, I used it on my face because the woman who waxes me (shut UP) said it made a great facial mask because it was all natural and has some sort of healing qualities. Ok, ok, I said to her as she was putting wax on places that don’t normally need wax (ahem), I’ll give it a try. Again.

So, a couple of nights ago, I had a couple of gals over for a semi-nude slumber party and we decided to try the honey facial mask treatment. We each put our hair in pigtails, giggled A LOT, slipped into our silk camis, Hello Kitty! tap pants, and our Uggs, and then slathered our mugs in warm honey.

Then, we left it there for about 15 minutes and during that time, chose teams for the midnight pillow fight (my team won, natch). After rinsing the golden ooze from my face and hair, I kept waiting for the healing qualities to happen. Five minutes went by–nothing. Fifteen, 20, 25–still nothing. At thirty minutes, my skin was starting to tighten and darken like the skin on one of Ed Gein’s lampshades. Feeling the anger starting to rise and my feet starting to sweat in my Uggs, I slathered my face in uber-hydrating moisturizer, and kicked my Uggs off. After a brief tickle fight with the gals, I tossed the bottle of honey in the trash.

The following morning while I was cleaning up post-semi nude slumber party, I wondered why I had given honey another chance–I hated it years ago–how was that going to change now?

Hmm…maybe it’s not only a Ah-Duh! Moment, it’s an I’m frickin’ stupid moment too.