Overheard, in the kitchen

Posted on 5/7/2006 by cheesefairy

Saint Aardvark (on the phone with his brother): Every woman has two men. The man she’s with and Wayne Newton.

Discuss.

Posted in funny | 4 Comments

Kids Today!

Posted on 5/7/2006 by cheesefairy

“You could open a window for more freshness. Or you could just open your arms.”

– from a commercial for Tide Special Outside Smelling Laundry Soap (or something)

Not my arms, lady. I’d go with the window if I were you.

*********************************

I was sitting here yesterday morning, merrily gliding, resting my plantar fascitis’d foot (who says a pregnant woman can’t hike! Who?? YOU? yeah, you’re right), eating a piece of leftover pizza and a grapefruit and watching Saturday morning TV. The MuchMusic weekly countdown, which I haven’t seen since I was 15 was on. (this week in the cheeseblog: once, I was 15!)

The number 29? 30? started up and it was Snoop Dogg and The Pussycat Dolls. It went: Snoop wants to have sex with the alpha doll. She shakes it a little but then is all “no, because you’re a funny looking pothead with some boundary issues and a serious speech impediment. On the other hand, there is a car named after you. On the other other hand, you’ve just been arrested – “

Then Snoop went away and the Doll broke into song, joined by her 5 sisters (I think – they didn’t stay still long enough for me to count) and they took off all their clothes (it must have been hot in therrre!) and made love to some chairs. One of them was wearing a turtleneck bodysuit but the others were dressed in regular stripper bodysuits. I felt like there should be an $8 pint of Canadian in front of me and Sarah beside me, that’s how much it felt like The Cecil. (No, that wasn’t when I was 15. I think I was 20 by then)

They danced for a while and at one point lay down on the ground and writhed in what looked like a CGI pool of fire. Snoop came back at the end and was all, “yeah? you don’t want me? fine! I’m married anyway,” and then it was over.

I blinked a few times. Then, like the Mack truck you never saw coming, Billy Talent started screaming angrily about something so I shut him out to consider what I had just seen and what could possibly have prompted it to have gone from somebody’s jerking off fantasy to the big(ish) screen. There’s probably a message, right? So being a Pussycat Doll – or just hot like one – is OK most of the time, but then if you’re intimidating men with your talent and you’re attracting all the wussy men, you still go home at night alone and wanting. And it does happen – some guy will be all over your humps all night long in the club but when you get him alone in the parking lot and actually thrust said humps in his face, he becomes paralyzed with fear and indecision.

It’s really very sad.

The first I had heard of the Pussycat Dolls was more than a year ago when I saw them on TV. A few months ago I realized they were responsible for the horrendously annoying song about how they are so much hotter than your girlfriend. (apparently it is actually about female empowerment. “The lyrics are, ‘Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me,’ ” [one of them] admit[s]. “But if you see the video, it’s all about being who you are, having fun and being confident — and feeling hot. It’s not so much about looking hot … although looking hot is important.”)

After weeks with the song in my head (and its banishment made ever so much more difficult by hearing it as a cell phone ring periodically and having one of my co-workers sing it in a poor falsetto on a semi-regular basis,) I eventually blocked it out and slipped into a blissful ignorance around the Pussycat Dolls. They lived their lives; I lived mine. Until yesterday.

In the course of digging up the links for this entry I have learned – against my will! – that they are the messengers of another overplayed song about female empowerment, called “Beep.” When I heard “Beep” for the first time, I thought gosh, this shit is worse than “My Humps” although, admittedly, this is a matter of personal taste and judgement.

Observe:
from “My Humps”

My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump,
My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump.
My lovely lady lumps (lumps)
My lovely lady lumps (lumps)
My lovely lady lumps (lumps)
In the back and in the front (lumps)
My lovin’ got u,
She’s got me spendin’.
(Oh) Spendin’ all your money on me and spending time on me.
She’s got me spendin’.
(Oh) Spendin’ all your money on me, up on me, on me.

VS: “Beep”

(boy sings)
It’s funny how a man only thinks about the…
You got a real big heart, but I’m looking at cha…
You got real big brains, but I’m looking at cha…
Girl, there ain’t no pain in me looking at ya…

(Dolls sing)
I don’t give a…
Keep looking at my…
‘Cause it don’t mean a thing if you’re looking at my…
Ha,I’m a do my thing while your playing wit cha …
Ha, ha-ha, ha-ha, ha-ha

One of these is worse than the other, sure. But who can say which?

Anyway, who is the boy singer? It’s not Rob Thomas, no. It’s not Enrique Inglesias. It is none other than the thoroughly-crippled-by-punctuation Will.I.Am from the Black Eyed Peas. And who are the Dolls opening for on tour? The Black Eyed Fucking Peas. And suddenly, it all made sense.

Evil, thy name is legumic and thy reach pandemic.

Posted in music, television | 6 Comments

Here’s What I Like to See in My 32nd Week of Pregnancy

Posted on 5/4/2006 by cheesefairy

Woman gives birth to 14 lb preemie!

“I was always tall for my age,” said Brandy, who is 5-foot-9. “I just think she’s going to be a big girl.”

Uh, GOING TO BE?

I want more info! Is there gestational diabetes involved? Could she not afford regular prenatal visits? How does a 14 lb not-full-term baby SNEAK UP ON YOU? (sounds like the run-up to a bad joke) Did her feet hurt? Because my feet hurt and I’m 5’10 and have gained half the amount of weight she has.

Ah, it’s all about me after all.

In other news: yesterday in prenatal class we talked about doulas. We each get a doula assigned to us – some came in person yesterday and others couldn’t make it. Mine just got married a week ago so was indisposed. The doula coordinator is an energetic, hilarious woman who, based on a very short questionaire and a slightly longer telephone conversation acts as matchmaker between doula and expectant couple. (Have I mentioned? How much? I love? My prenatal program?)

We all watched a video about doulas. As I watched this one doula in the video talk to some clients, she began to look very familiar. Turns out she is – we were close pals in grade 10 and 11. In 11th grade she got pregnant and went back to a different school after her baby was born. I saw her once or twice after that but we lost touch.

She had an older boyfriend who drove a bitchin’ camaro and had a mustache. She loved him a lot but I had no idea why. He drove around and listened to loud classic rock and smoked cigarettes and was very jealous if she talked to guys at school. But because she was kind of wild and had a smokin’ rack, she got lots of attention from guys at school. She also had a delightfully foul mouth and was really smart, plus she wore 2 kinds of eyeliner at once – black along the rims of her eyes and blue above it to set off her brilliant, clear blue eyes. She had eyes like a husky.

She and I went to a friend’s 16th birthday party and she helped me do my hair. For a couple of years in high school I was desperate to achieve the perpendicular bang action but could never do it. She showed me how much hairspray I needed to use: about 7 or 8 times as much as I had been using. She teased and sprayed, teased and sprayed until I looked like this. She helped me with my makeup too – I got black rims and green liner above them to highlight my green eyes. Then she rinsed out the hairspray bottle she’d emptied on my head and filled it with whisky.

We went to the birthday party thusly armed and while the other party attendees played an impromptu game of volleyball in the park, she and I sat on the slide in the nearby playground and took swigs out of the hairspray bottle, stashing it back in her huge purse when anyone looked over to see what we were doing.

We were sitting in class the next year – science, I think – and she passed me a note that said, “I think I’m going to get pregnant.” Her mother had had my friend’s older sister at 16 and my friend at 18. My friend thought it would be cool to have a baby. She knew she loved her boyfriend and would always be with him.

I think I tried talking her out of it, but she was pretty adamant. She could do it – she’d seen it done – and she wanted to. There was no downside. So she went ahead and had a baby.

I’m really glad she’s out there and doing something so wonderful with her life. Even if I had known about doulas in high school, I would never have expected her to end up working as one. But from where I’m sitting now, it makes perfect sense.

Her daughter would be about 16 now. I wonder what she’s like.

Posted in babby, outside, people | 5 Comments

Scary Things To Say To Co-workers After Blowing your Nose Noisily for the 17th Time Today for the 11th Straight Day

Posted on 5/3/2006 by cheesefairy

1. (examine tissue closely) I just know there’s a pony in there somewhere!

2. (wave tissue at co-worker) Don’t worry, I’m totally not contagious anymore!

4. (while co-worker continues to stare, wave tissue more emphatically) Boogeda boogeda boogeda!! I love the cocaine! I love the cocaine!

5. (singing often works in an office environment. try this, to the tune of “Sexuality” by Billy Bragg)

Snot-snot-snot-ot-y
warm and clear and wet and free
snot-snot-snot-ot-y
why will you not leave me be?

6. It’s the mucous membranes. They’re overproducing all through my body. (wait a moment for this to sink in) Of course, not in this quantity in other parts of my body, thank god. (wave tissue vaguely in direction of crotch)

Usually this clears them out. The gawkers, that is, not the snot. The snot is here to stay.

Posted in babby | 3 Comments

Confrontational

Posted on 4/29/2006 by cheesefairy

There is a distant relation who emails me – albeit infrequently – terrible dirrrty jokes, warnings about the lead that might be in my lipstick, instructions for women on how to get to our cars safely, “pass this on and you will be blessed by an angel in 2 days and save the lives of 42 puppies,” you know the drill. Everybody knows somebody like this. Well, everyone knew somebody like this 10 years ago; maybe everyone else’s somebody like this has long since wised up. Dunno.

This morning the man is on FIRE! I have had 5 emails from him; one about the beauty of women over 30, courtesy of Andy Rooney, god help us all, one consisting of badly altered photos where a lot of “eh” had been added and the subject line was “If Canada Ruled the World.” Two that I have already mostly forgotten (something about eye colour and sex drive?). And one snotty little piece imploring Canadians to – and I’m paraphrasing – “go to a foreign country to live and then demand they change to suit you” implying that “immigrants sure got it good in our country and it’s at our expense!” and stating outright that Canada is – this is a direct quotation – “Canada, Land of the naive and stupid, idiotic politically correct politicians.”

Usually I just delete. Delete, go wash my hands, think about this particular distant relative for a few minutes, be glad I don’t live in the same province as him and that our relationship is so distant and get on with my day. But today I want to write back. I want to tell him he is an ass. I want to tell him he is a racist and a hypocrite because I know his lineage and he ain’t part of no First Nation. I want to take it too far and tell him he’s one of the smarmiest short men (oh, you know it’s true) I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting let alone being related to and I’ve seen him looking at my boobs and those aviator sunglasses don’t make him cool and he has a drinking problem that he should probably address sooner rather than later, considering his family history and he’s not as fun at parties as he thinks he is.

But instead I think I will delete the email. Because none of the above will engage him in a productive debate – hell, even pointing out the racism inherent in the email he sent won’t do that – or change his mind. (And if you can’t change somebody’s mind, what’s the point? See below for more on this.)

Is that crapping out? Would it be more significant to write back and say, “I don’t share your views; please stop emailing me; hope you and your wife are well; take care” and then I don’t have to worry about reading his emails anymore and feeling uncomfortable?

On the other hand, when I receive emails like this, or have conversations with people outside my usual sphere, people who think different things than me, it keeps me aware of the differences between people; that not everyone thinks like me. Like when I used to get petitions to sign to ban the homosexual agenda from my other relatives, I never responded, just was aware that the anti-homosexual agenda is still real and as close as a bloodline away.

But who will tell him that not everyone thinks like him? I find it valuable to know that I’m one person who thinks one way and he is one who thinks another. But by not responding, am I perpetuating his idea that I’m just like him? I think I will write back and say I disagree. Leave it at that.

It’s good to feel uncomfortable because it means I’m still aware. I’d rather be uncomfortable and aware than comfortable in my belief that everyone in the world is just like me. For example, I do know that not everyone loves midis – or Journey – like I do. I’m just testing your comfort zones.

In other news, I no longer have a cold, but I still must wrestle 17 lbs of snot from my nose every 30 minutes or so and am manufacturing it with a speed that would be more appropriate were the country’s factories run on snot instead of electricity and were the END TIMES fast approaching.

Why is the human body not smart enough to differentiate between the mucous membranes in different parts of the body? Am I going to birth this babby out my nose? No, I am not. Someone hone the gene or whatever that grows the mucous where it’s needed and stops it growing in my face. Or – let’s evolve more. Or something.

Posted in babby, outside, serious | 10 Comments