Jennette Fulda is the author of Half-Assed: A Weight-Loss Memoir. I read her blog and twitter feed religiously. Because, seriously, how can you not like it when someone names her first book "half-assed"?!
And, also: she lost 186 pounds and still dreams about having a removable stomach and then blogs about it in a post that refers to birth control that doesn't make you shit your pants. Therefore I worship at her feet and promise her my second-born. If she wants it, that is.
"Going to the gym is ridiculous. I think this every time I am at the
gym. I think this when I get in my car and drive two miles to go run
two miles. ...
There is something deeply ridiculous about watching the men and women
around me operating machines solely to exhaust themselves. They're not
sweating to manufacture shoes. They're not hunched over setting type to
print newspapers. They're not even running the machine that punches
holes in donuts. We're just running and rowing and lifting heavy
objects so we'll be able to run and row and lift heavy objects."
Holiday Visit Survival Tips (or, How to Avoid Family Dog Syndrome) by Allison Kaftan
I know many of you are in the same boat
as me and Chris right now -- we're in the midst of playing musical
family houses, each of us following the partner into their respective
family's houses and waiting until it's FINALLY time to go home.
Whether you're exasperated by playing ...[keep reading]
Dude. If this isn't proof she was a frat boy in a past life, I don't know what is.
Check it out... a fully clothed Zac Efron doll surrounded by three naked Disney princesses. I thought this would be proof enough, but when I showed this to Uncle Trevor in search of a familial snort, he one-upped me.
Hit the zoom button and what do we find but this very strategic positioning of a certain plastic hand: All hail Leah, the next great pornoisseur!
... because we couldn't figure out how to put this feeling down on paper and mail it.
Happy Holidays from all of us, and don't forget to love someone tonight.
Okay, so I thought I was being cutesy earlier today with my little snide comments about the "glorified babysitters" in the school system shirking their responsibilities for some water outage, and on the last day before the holidays, no less.
It's all part of the QueenAlpo persona, people. I'm much sweeter in person. And my punches hurt more. And besides, when else do I get to have a "persona" and live somewhere that doesn't have rubber walls or mandatory diaper check?
OF COURSE I was happy to have Leah home. And OF COURSE she didn't screw up my day... that much.
But then CK came home from his meeting and chewed me out for complaining in public when I had, in fact, slept until 11 am this morning.
Later, much later... as in way after I not-so-politely reintroduced CK to the definition of
\ˈsär-ˌka-zəm\, 3s-2t-2s-5s, SARCASM, as in ironic use of language meant to shove people's tongues up their umm... I mean ...er into their cheeks, I walked in as he was surfing the US news section of CNN and saw this: Boy, they weren't kidding. It was, tru-biz, an emergency.
So there was a water outage in our county.
But the teachers who paged me to make sure my kid would be dropped off in a safe place, um, forgot to include that "emergency" meant a water main break resulting in a "wall of icy water" that trapped several people in their cars, fearing for their lives as they were hoisted up by helicopter.
MCPS, I don't know... maybe next time, when you decide to stuff our spawnlets down our throats and cite some "outage," you might want to include the disclaimer: "PEOPLE COULD BE DYING RIGHT NOW. DO NOT BLOG ABOUT IT AND MAKE US LOOK STOOPID."
Deaf painter Hideto Noritomi publishes a book in Japan... article's good, but what I'm blown away by is the photo of the painter with his work in the background. Blue, white, black. Striking. Hands like ghosts. ME WANT. Unfortunately, every time I google him the results come back in Japanese. Damn me and my American bilingualism.
Two gay penguins get thrown out of their zoo colony for repeatedly replacing others' eggs with stones and taking the kidlets for their own. All together now: aw. Result: they get their own eggs to love. Totally reminds me of that book, and Tango Makes Three, which I need to get around to owning someday.
Finally got around to starting The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. Am shocked this is Wroblewski's first novel, and optimistic after finding out he's an MFA graduate. Book is gorgeous, substantial, enthralling. I don't want it to be over, but I can't stop reading. So glad I didn't let the Oprah pick deter me in the end. Thanks, MIL! Total plus: protagonist is mute and communicates via signs.
One of Leah's teachers just paged me to let me know Leah would be coming home early because all of the county's schools are closing so I'd know to meet her bus.
That's it. No explanation. It was a pager message, after all. Turns out there's some kind of widespread water outage.
Well, I'm home anyway, so it's not a problem. But dammit...
Did this have to happen the DAY BEFORE WINTER VACATION?
And how dare the school system shirk their responsibilities of taking my kid off my hands so I have the time to chill out and remember what it was like to be footloose and fancy-free? Or to take care of pre-holiday craziness, depending on how responsible I'm feeling?
Don't those people at the schools know their real job isn't actually educating tomorrow's generation, but glorified babysitters?! You'd think the paycheck and the hours would tip them off.
So, fine. Leah's coming home in an hour.
Which means I don't have time to return one gift I bought for her yesterday because I forgot someone already bought it off her amazon wishlist. And I gotta figure out a way to keep her busy while I bake Amaretto cakes for the neighbors. And we'll have to wrap gifts late at night instead of sleeping like normal humans. And I'll have to listen to her constant yelling that she calls "singing," no matter how many times I tell her to STFU.
Last week I gave Leah a little notebook, complete with purple glitter on the cover. Told her it was her journal, and she should ascribe in it her dreams and wishes and feelings.
She chose to christen it with this:
I don't know what to be more concerned about, the fact that she envisions herself as a cross between a Simpson and one of the Bratz, or the content of her dreams.
I always seem to mess up the discussions we have about self-image, as evidenced by her conviction that Kim Kardashian is ugly and needs to put a baby in her tummy so she can be pretty like Mommy ... so this time I opted for the latter:
"What's that?"
"A boy."
"Which boy? Who?"
"I don't know."
"Why did you put him there?"
"Because I want him!"
"Why?"
"Because I WAAANT TO KISS HIM! I WAAANT!"
And then there proceeded a very X-rated physical demonstration that I never thought I'd see between a pre-teen and a piece of paper. I'm blushing just typing that sentence out.
I think it's time to put her up for adoption. I'm clearly not fit for this task.
Starbucks 5x a week at $3.71 for a tall Pumpkin Spice Latte (I already forgot how much the ventis cost) = $74.20
for 20 drinks a month
Home-crafted coffee at home 10x a week... all the refills I can drink!
- $27.84 for a 6-pack of 16-pod bags via Amazon prime ($0.29 per cup!)
- $9 for a 3-pack of French Vanilla coffee creamer at Costco - lasts 2 months or so
- $5 for a generic 14 oz. canister of whipped cream for that fake-barista touch at the grocery store
*sound of calculator buttons screaming*
$21.10 for 40 drinks a month.
Per drink, that's a $3.18 difference.
The monthly difference is... let's see, $74.20 - $21.10 = part of the reason we've made it thus far through this recession and the loss of my regular paycheck earlier this year, rendering us a single-income family (that is, if you consider a teacher's paycheck an actual "income." I prefer to call it "slave labor").
Unless you've been busy throwing your shoes at your favorite idiot, you've also been assaulted by these cheesy spots by Kay and Target and other merchandisers desperate to tug your heartstrings and ravage your wallet. Not a great time of the year to be a shiksa.
See, apparently the way to tug your heartstrings is to throw a deaf signer in there, show them in a few frames, cue some cheesy music, and wait for you to go, "awww... fuck world peace, I need a piece of that cuteness."
Observe:
and you can see another signer here, this time shilling for Target. In neither commercial does the signing have anything to do with the product or the marketer's promise.
Funnily enough, the Kay spot is drawing the ire of other bloggers... even bloggers who have no ostensible connection to the deaf community.
It can easily be read as either "We haven't been together long enough
for me to get good at ASL but I felt society's pressure to buy you an
insanely expensive gift" or "I'm a jerk and haven't put much effort
into this whole sign language thing, but you're hot, so here's a bauble
to keep you happy a bit longer."
Her response when he asks if she likes it: "Read my lips." Kiss. I
guess it's laudatory of Kay Jewelers to recognize hearing-deaf
relationships in the service of selling watches. So, why does it annoy
me so much?
Here's why:
Because Christmas is a time for goodwill and connection and buying cool stuff for people you like in hopes that the things they give you will be even cooler. And if your attempt at capitalizing on such goodwill is to plunk a deafie in front of a camera in a sloppy (albeit possibly well-intentioned) effort at inclusion while still speaking FOR them or TO them instead of letting them be their own person capable of their own actions, well, good luck.
Because, trust me on this one, a blank-faced kid standing cluelessly in the middle of a crowd of stage-hogging costumed thespians apathetically moving her hands around isn't a great symbol of aforementioned goodwill.
Nor is the new girlfriend who sits there and sweetly tells her FWB of the week that his inability to talk meaningfully with her "is fine." If there's anyone who's being accommodated in that commercial... guess what? It ain't her. *snort*
Hey. Think about it. She gets a booty call and jewelry out of the deal. He gets to think that learning to sign "Merry Christmas" means he's a good person and that he's fulfilled his Christmas do-good obligation. Who's lying to themselves here? *snort squared*
I'm not slamming the Kay or Target marketers here. Their job is to make money by taking advantage of cultural tropes already present in our society.
And the hearing samaritan trope has been around forever, no?
