Tuesday, July 08, 2014

At the beach, at the beach, it's a great day under the sun

So there was this pair of gal pals on the beach, ladies in their ... probably mid-60s, and not the yoga-at-sunrise, charity-board-meeting-at-one, cocktails-at-Muffy-and-Biff's type of mid-60s; regular ladies, like your mom or mine, with all the original physical equipment and whatnot. They were both out and about in fun swimsuits -- I particularly liked Madge's screamin-orange one-piece with the creative cutouts, but Debbie's blue swirly thing was great too. Neither one wore those apologetic, don't-look-at-me old-lady dark suits. And these gals were having FUN, man -- Debbie flat-out lied to Madge to get her into the water to snorkel ("Oh, it's warmer than bathwater -- just come ON!") and Madge yelled at Debbie ("Debbie! You liar! You know I can't stand it when it's cold!" "I know, that's why I said that!" [ancient-pals laughter]) and they both enjoyed some cocktails in plastic cups from the beach club, soaked up the sun, went into the water whenever they felt like it (it WAS warm and lovely, I must say; Madge is even more of a wuss than I am, w/r/t water temp, and that's saying something), just generally had a blast. THAT is the kind of older lady I want to be.

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Saturday, July 05, 2014


Of all of the things you can find on a beach, why is a used Band-Aid the most loathsome?

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Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Need to get this in front of my exec team by EOD Monday so hoping to sync up EOD Sunday.

I do not ever miss my old job. Some of the people, I miss; I miss being in the city, eating in non-chain restaurants, taking a lunchtime walk along the San Francisco Bay. I miss office in-jokes, skiving off work to go get Blue Bottle, meeting up for drinks. I even miss, a tiny bit, actual editing, writing and website work -- I was good at it.

But I do not ever, EVER miss 98% of what I did, or the people who sent me goat-horned bullshit like this.

8 – Can we get more livestock and wild animals that move along the ground according to their kinds? Again, the passion points for our target users (slide eighteen) are ground and animals that move along the ground. Whatever we can do to increase the amount of ground will go a long way toward converting our users from passive consumers into brand evangelists.

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Wednesday, June 04, 2014

This is what a feminist looks like

So the kids're into a new-to-them show, a bland and ultra-formulaic computer-animated thing apparently written by Google scriptbots, called Paw Patrol. It stars six "pups" -- as in, puppies -- and one teenage (?) boy who is their ... idk, their minder? Scout leader? Whatever, he's the one who receives the incoming distress calls of various types at HQ, comes up with a plan, and gives the pups their orders, after which the day is, inevitably, saved (often, this involves apps, like on an iPad -- it's kind of confusing). There's a Moustache Pete type character (who does not have an Italian accent), and the town's mayor is a black woman, so -- I guess there's diversity kind of? Anyway, all the pups have cute short sassy names (e.g. Rocky -- I'm pretty sure Rocky is one of them) and some type of special skill with equipment to match, all of which are called into action -- COLLABORATIVE action -- with each mission. Aside from its general kiddie-show banality, my main beef with it was that there's just one female pup. Really, Paw Patrol? Grrrr.

But so then one night at dinner, Kid Gleemonex, age six, randomly muses, "I love Paw Patrol. But only one of the pups is a girl."

I say, "Yeah -- you noticed that too, huh?"

"Uh-huh," she says, with champion-level eyebrow. Then, sunnily and with an air of utter conviction: "But it's OK. She can fly."

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Tuesday, June 03, 2014

It's kind of like the time I forgot how many times they say "fuck" in The Big Lebowski, and by the end of it, I think she wanted to kidnap me and send me to some kind of Goodthinkful Re-Education Camp.

Here's how come I can't watch TV with my mom: Because no matter what show, movie, miniseries, or Spectacular Television Event it is, which is either on randomly or has been specifically selected by me to be Mom-Safe Viewing(TM) -- Bubble Guppies, Psych, a Yankees game, The Brady Bunch, an infomercial about coin collecting, Antiques Roadshow, what have you -- it's going to be The One With All the Sex. Guaranteed.

Those HBO GO commercials've got nothing on what it's like when me, my mom, and a televising device are in the same room. I'm fuckin 40 years old, married with two kids, a full-grown well-adjusted liberal feminist, and I still just vibrate with anxiety, waiting for the inevitable -- ahh, yep, there it is, the goddamn couple on House Hunters just made a bedroom joke and wouldn't let it go, repeated it five fuckin times, with variations and lots of awk laughter, while my mom seethes on the couch next to me and I die inside. Thanks guys.

And it's not like I'm safe from this when the TV isn't on, either. We were talking -- just talking! -- about The Americans, which -- FYI -- is one of the most awesome shows on TV, and my mom says she watched "One part of one episode!" -- and guess which one? Guess! Yes, the one where the teenage girl walks in on her parents* "DOING SIXTY-NINE!", Mom half-yells, with more disgust and contempt than Donald Sterling talking about black people. If I could've, I'd've burst into flames and perished right there.

All you people with, like, these healthy adult relationships with your parents specifically w/r/t sexy stuff -- my Shatner, how does that work?

*Who, btw, are married. To each other. Which you would think would blunt the fury somewhat? But, as my mom put it, "They just HELD on that shot! For way longer than anybody needed to understand what was going on! They WANTED us to see that girl's reaction! It was GRATUITOUS!" It ... wasn't gratuitous. There's a ton of sex on this show, plenty of it gratuitous, but this particular scene actually was important to the plot. So. 

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Tuesday, May 27, 2014


At the gym I go to -- which is a low-cost but perfectly adequate operation, full of parents of young children (whose children go, like mine, to the Kids' Club to watch random snippets of Frozen or else that one about the princess and the frog?) and cranky retirees who look put out that it's come this, at last -- there is a car always parked in the far end of the lot with the license plate FXYNANA. It's one of those Cube thingies, or whatever -- like a literal box on wheels, marketed as like a rolling dorm room for The Kids Today but bought exclusively by the 55-plus crowd.

And for the entire three years I've been going there, I've suffered a stupid twinge of annoyance whenever my eye falls upon this license plate (I have a longstanding problem with non-witty, non-easily-understood vanity plates). I couldn't figure it out. I thought it was something about "fixies," which apparently is some sort of annoying hipster thing about bicycles?  Or ... is it ... an acronym? Should I read it right-to-left? Goddammit.

Today -- TODAY -- I realized: it means FOXY NANA. As in, a grandma who is (still? or perhaps newly?) foxy. And right away -- well, as soon as I got over berating myself for missing it all that time -- my brain said to me, in the Seinfeld voice when he's complaining about the pirate shirt, "But I don't WANNA be a foxy nana!"

I'd like to be -- you know, fit and healthy, and take care of myself, and dress well and have good hair and all, and I hope Mr. Gleemonex still finds me doable forever and ever -- but I don't wanna be chasing "foxy" when I am a grandmother (or of a grandmotherly age). Is there nothing, NOTHING, that we can just let go about our youth? Have some pride! Gosh!

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Friday, May 23, 2014

California is both the greatest, and the worst.

Goddammit, we have to talk about vegetable lasagna. Or, rather, vegetable "lasagna," because that is some air-quote-deserving bullshit right there.

Why do people think that people who don't eat meat or just don't feel like it today would rather eat a goddamn panful of wet gross zucchini and wrong-textured bell peppers sliding all around over the noodles instead of: CHEESE LASAGNA? The kind that is just like the traditional meat version, but without the meat? It's the same people who, if you say you don't want meat on your pizza, will come back to you with a pizza-like item that is fucking covered with two pounds of broccoli and red onion and (again -- AGAIN -- with this fucking stuff) zucchini. What the fuck is that? I didn't say I wanted a fucking farmer's market on top of some bread, hippie! And listen, don't try to tell me that the vegetable "lasagna" or the Jolly Green Giant "pizza" is healthy, or even "healthier," because it's not -- you already made the decision to eat something that is basically carbs and cheese, so own it, and get that cock-knuckled vegetable shit out of my face.

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