Also in music: Dave Grohl is a NATIONAL GODDAMN TREASURE.

Trying to find a particular artist or song on the multitudinous channels of Sirius Satellite Radio is exactly as frustrating and annoying as it was to attempt the same feat on regular radio (usually in pursuit of the next track on my recorded-from-radio mixtapes) back in junior high, only it's way, way more chagrin-filled now because what I'm looking for is one song each from Taylor Swift and Lorde, both of which songs I've heard exactly once, don't really remember the names of, and find it hard to admit I'm pursuing on purpose.

Old Lady Gleemonex Tells All

35/40

--I do not know what a podcast is, I've never listened to one (or ... do you watch them? or ... liiike ... they're on your iPod? or your computer? the radio? anyway ...), would not have the first clue how to access one or why, cannot imagine spending a microsecond on finding this out, and am hella annoyed whenever that's the only way to get at something that I think would be interesting, because I'm not gonna do it and so that stuff is obscured from me forever.

--I write checks. It's kind of soothing. There are some bills I pay by phone or online, I know how to do it and it's fine, whatever. But I grew up with such financial instability (plus the weird emotional baggage surrounding money and where it comes from and where it goes -- both mysteries of the highest order in my family of origin) that it's deeply satisfying to keep the books in my check register, write things down with my own hand, have the numbers come out right, sign with a flourish, put a stamp on the envelope and mail it; that tactile experience stills a part of my brain that a few clicks on a computer don't necessarily work upon.

--I'd rather communicate via text than by any other means. I'd prefer a series of funny texts over a phone call, any and every day. That being said, I really do seriously, sincerely think less of people whose texting is entirely or almost entirely the abbreviations-and-numbers kind of texting. RU gz cmg 2nite? Yes -- but I'm going to judge you for asking me like that.

May the odds be ever in your favor!

For the fives of you who might occasionally check in -- I'm not gone, but every second of my time is either Kid Gleemonex birthday-related or sunk into this massive freelance project that I woefully underestimated ... ay yi yi.

But wait -- before bed, and while brushing my teeth, in the last week I read Hunger Games (first of three books) and OMFG y'all, it was good! Where has this been??? I mean, I know where it's been -- in the mind-ghetto I put it in, next to a bunch of good-for-nothins like Twilight, which is an actual good-for-nothin, but somehow this one made it out* and -- dannnng. Loved it, can't wait to read the other two, now must see the movie. Probably in 2029, when Danger Baby Toddler graduates high school and I have the time for a feature-length presentation.


-------------------------------------------------------
*Got into Head Start, had a couple of caring teachers, got into a weird fringe rich-person sport taught to it in afterschool club by some earnest my-parents-are-on-the-country-club-board-but-I'm-gonna-make-a-real-difference types (and participated in the heartbreaking but ultimately uplifting documentary on same), got a scholarship to a private school and is Ivy-bound. 

But Mommy isn't one of those, I've known her all these years

In Which the Blogger Tries to Work Out Some Issues, Hoping Not to Sound Like a Total Asshole and Probably Failing, Per the Usual

So I have talked in here already about the suburban moms who populate our little slice of the Silicon Valley, and how they kind of creep me out. It's not the Dallas-Royce-type moms who creep me out -- that, I can sort of understand (what with my issues about mani-pedis and such), and I'm still just as intimidated by them as I was by the really put-together girls in my own high school back in the day (the neurosis that keeps on giving!). No -- it's the Mom moms -- the bitchfaced judgmental Fox "News" demographic, the ones I have trouble believing were ever kids, or teenagers, or young single adults, the ones who look like they were born wearing slacks and blouses and talking about how little Reagan and Cheynee are enjoying the fourth grade at Saint Ballsacktious's Academy for Middle-Intellect White Childrens.

I find myself in these ladies' company quite often these days; as my kid takes up activities like dance class and this crazy-fun tumbling thing at the community center, and of course pickup time at preschool, I am, naturally, where the other moms are. And y'all -- I'm not one of them.

I mean -- yes I am. I have to confront and own the fact that I am a suburban mom -- a female parent whose domicile is in a suburb. I'm not purposely trying to Other these women, or -- wait -- it's been awhile since I was in kollege -- maybe it's myself I'm trying to Other?

Anyway. Point: I show up to the dance studio in shorts and a tank* top, same hair I've had for more than 20 years (long, straight, unbothered by any product except really good shampoo & conditioner and some Pureology smoothing serum), with my kid and my baby, and park it on one of the benches with the other gals while our various offspring do their dance classes. I'm flipping through Sullivan and my political tumblrs (Recall All Republicans, STFU Conservatives, Advocating Progress, etc.), playing peek-a-boo with the tiny guy and/or letting him teethe on my free hand, and there's a knot of them over in one corner, wearing actual shoes, and makeup, and shirts that require ironing (even though it's 93 fucking degrees out, thus my shorts and tank and ponytail, it's not a fucking political statement, ladies) talking amongst themselves, and I swear to you that in response to my cordial howdy smiles, they are constantly giving me the side-eye, like Who is this girl and why is she allowed to be here? This scene is for grown-ups, Missy! And it kind of gives me the blerghs.

What I'm saying is, I am a grown-up, goddammit, I just don't look like the local/default image of one. It's not a hipster thing, I'm not trying to hold on to my long-ago youth. I'm seriously, sincerely, not doing it on purpose, this Grownup Look Fail. It's just what I fucking look like. I haven't worn makeup on the reg since August of 1992 -- because I'm lazy and cheap and besides it's really fun to clean up good on the extremely rare occasions when I do paint my face with stuffs. I wear what I wear because it's comfortable -- it would be cool to be stylish and shit, and wear Outfits, but I'd need a person on staff to lay out my clothes every day and an independent income stream to pay for it all or else I'd revert to wearing the same navy BR cargo shorts and Gap Ts again (laaaaazy, cheeeeap).

I don't know. I'm overthinking it (again) -- and now the word "mom" looks weird to me. Mom. Mom. Mom om omom momooo. Heh. Mom.


-------------------
*BTW, these really are perfect tanks -- they cover bra straps, skim the cleavage, and hold up through endless wearings -- I LOVE them for everyday. I wear two different-colored ones at once, for a little better coverage and some visual interest. How's a J.Jill shout-out for increasing my hipster/riot-grrrl cred, y'all! 

Jackal Onassis after-party

Listen here: If you have white-boy dreds and you describe your occupation as "Infiltrator," then son, you got some growing up to do.

Killed a spider with a dollar cause I didn't have a tissue

Dear Mean, Pissed-Off-Looking Republican Women Driving SUVs In The Far South of the Silicon Valley, Harshing My Mellow:

What is y'all's deal? Why do y'all always look so pissed off taking the curves on a 40-MPH-speed-limit street at 65 MPH? Is it cause somewhere deep inside, you know your stupid fat behemoth of a car seats the exact same number of people and hauls the same amount or less cargo my Prius does, but costs fifteen grand more to buy and a lot more to fill with gas, thus leaving you less money to get a good haircut? (Cause seriously, y'all all have bad Suburban Mom Hair. Honestly.) You don't wipe that mean look off your face, it could set permanently like that.

Sincerely,
I Could've Seen and Judged This Human Vista Every Day in Texass for About One-Quarter the Money, GOD.

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PS, in honor of one of my favorite tags, via one of my favorite blogs on the entire Internets: the First-World Problems rap.

Big Ben, kids! Parliament!

Meditations Upon a Young Man Wearing a Baseball Cap, Riding a Packed SFO Long-Term Parking Shuttle Bus Quite Late of a Weeknight Evening

1.

"Sick Pig." Well, that is original. Off-putting, yes, but original.

2.

Does he know that is what his hat says? I am thinking of Engrish, which never fails to reduce me to helpless tears of laughter, the slight guilt of which is greatly leavened by my certain knowledge that if I were to attempt to create signage in a foreign language, my efforts would reduce the native-speaking reader to helpless tears of laughter, so. However. To the point. He is a non-white person, possibly of Hispanic or maybe Middle Eastern origin, but almost always and especially in the SF bay area, it is not a safe assumption to make, the assumption as to whether a person knows English, regardless of the person's look or presentation.

3.

Really, that is QUITE off-putting, the more I think about it. "Sick Pig." Why to put such words on your hat?

4.

Generally one would not think of the "Sick Pig" hat-wearers of the world as having the means or motivation to travel by air in a long-term fashion, would one? Are they not more like unto the juggalo type of human subspecies than to the rest of us vacationers, funeral attenders and businesspersons? But this young man -- traveling alone, not with some team of fellow Sick Pigs -- is otherwise dressed fairly unremarkably. Conclusions again refuse to be drawn.

5.

And why does a hat like that immediately set in motion such a complex web of elitist socioeconomic prejudices and assumptions in my head?

6.

The writing. It is off-center, white embroidery on a solid black baseball cap, almost entirely on the right side of the meridian as I regard it. This fact annoys me almost as much as the words themselves do. We cannot be having off-center writing on our hats. It is just Not Done.

7.

CHRIST HOW LONG IS IT TILL WE GET TO THE FUCKING PARKING GARAGE.

U Draw Ass

Can we please stop with saying "[something] cum [something]"? Please?

You'd think in the post Beavis and Butt-Head era of modern society that we'd avoid that particular construction, and yet you still see it all over the place. I know, I know, it's real and valid and all that, but A)please, and B)must we?

You can't think of any better way to put it? You don't want to go with the more modern "slash" -- either the word, or the character, or (as with Conan O'Brien) a small icon of the head of Slash? What's your point? You want to show you know how to use the construction, or that you totally know Latin shit, or that you're above the immature giggling that is everyone else in the world's first reaction? Well yay for you. But I'm asking all writers of the world: Please don't, okay?

Thank you, from Gleemonex.

"You can get seventy miles to the gallon on this Hog."

So hey, drivers of automobiles, could I ask y'all a favor? Could you please, if you go to the trouble and expense of getting a vanity license plate for your motor vehicle, go to the further trouble of making it something I can read and understand quickly, so that I don't almost rear-end you on the highway, or miss my exit, or get a spike of annoyance-adrenaline straight to the pineal gland because I don't fucking get whatever asininity you decided to scribble on the back of your stupid dumb Dodge Stratus?

Seriously. I get more goddamned annoyed at the ones I can't decipher than at the ones I can and am incensed by (e.g. the giant Suburban I saw at a gas station once with "BPROLIF", ugh, STFU).

But then again, I'm not one for vehicle personalization in general. One, stickers and decals and whatnot degrade quickly and thus look crappy quickly. Two -- and more importantly for me, having read way too much John Douglas -- the entire rest of the automobile-driving universe does not need to know anything about me or my family. Those stickers you can get that show the exact composition of your family? Yikes, really? Political bumper stickers? Way to get keyed, or piss off a cop and get yourself a ticket for going 37 in a 35. Places you've traveled, bands you like, alcohol you favor? Honestly, for once I'm not Judgy McO'Judgerson on this, it's just -- that stuff is just not something Jimmy Joe Jack on the turnpike or Marvin Creeply out in the parking lot needs to know, you get me?

Although I do appreciate the "W" people identifying themselves to me so that I may shun them, so there's that.

Well, what I wanna know is, where's MY stuff?

Sorry for disappearing, y'all -- Work/Life Balance, as it is HILARIOUSLY called around my office, got way the fuck out of whack, and then we went to the Olde Hometowne for some Thanksgiving good times -- but now I'm back so let's fucking PARTY.

Imaginary Excerpts From the House Style Guide for Southern Living Magazine

--Each article must contain at least one, and preferably half a dozen, "as Southern as ... " similies. Options for the "as" include but are not limited to: pecan pie, family get-togethers, iced tea, family, grandmother's fried chicken, yam pie, family recipes, old Chevy trucks, the flag, the Grand Ole Opry, tradition, traditional recipes, church, going to church, family pews at church, Sunday dinner. Unacceptable: government teat-sucking, abstinence-only sex-ed, redneck jackassery.

--If you must depict or discuss persons of brown coloring, ensure that they are shown in a service capacity, and that they display large friendly unthreatening smiles.

--Be sure to refer to Appendix A for explanation of our preferred code words, especially "heritage" and "whimsical."

--If your Design-focused article features a Gay (as surely they sometimes will, because the Gays are so delightful, with their design sense!), you must not refer to his housemate as "partner" more than once. Avoid using entirely, if possible. Photos must not depict a Gay touching or being near enough to touch another man, whether or not that man is himself also a Gay.

--When speaking of Family, the tone must be both reverent and intimate. Photographs must feature two parents (opposite gender only) and at least two minor children, unless the topic is a Family Business, in which case multi-generational photographs are acceptable.

--Articles about food which do not include the word "decadent" will be stricken from the magazine and the author blacklisted in perpetuity.

C'mon, wolf out. Wolf it. Wolf it up.

OK, so can we please talk about this Lautner kid? I mean, I don't really want to talk about him either, but his cheese-eating teenage mug cannot be avoided by sighted persons in today's America, so -- it is to you, Internets, that I turn with this issue.

The issue is: His face looks like it is made of WAX. Poreless, smooth, solid-seeming though the folds be fleshy and the eyes too-deeply set. And not poreless like preteen supermodel girls, either, in that way that can just break your heart -- poreless like, he was born with linoleum skin, which has been buffed to a high sheen. It's fucking bizarre and unsettling, and I find it impossible to believe that anyone, no matter how naive and inexperienced, could find that attractive. And more to the point: I just ... what is the fucking DEAL with this guy? Why the wax face? WHY?

"This corn is RAW!" "I know -- can't you just TASTE the vitamins?"

Rich kids – or, rather, the children of rich/well-off parents – are Special.

How special? Well, they’re apparently so special that they “can’t” eat a lot of foods the rest of kiddom can eat. I know this because I receive a magazine each month, free of charge, which in the current issue contains the information that 46% of this magazine’s readers’ children have food allergies.

Forty-six percent. Are you fucking kidding me?

Allergies. Allergies are bullshit. Made-up white-person bullshit.

When you were growing up, maybe there was that kid who got hives when he ate strawberries, or the other kid who had to go to the hospital when he ate a peanut, but those instances were few and far between, am I right? Like freakishly rare. Because genuine allergic reactions to food or food ingredients ARE UNCOMMON.

Unless your kid breaks out in welts or starts gasping like a goldfish extracted by the cat and flopping on the counter, he/she doesn’t have any fucking food allergies. That’s just something you made up so you can mince into the precious birthday party of your playgroup mom-friend’s kid and start making demands for special treatment – “Oh, lemonade?” [slight, judgmental head tilt] “Sadie-Tallulah is allergic to lemons, sugar, water and the wax on paper cups. She needs 100% pure organic pomegranate juice, and I think it goes without saying that it has to be served out of a glass glass – plastic reacts with her skin, she’s so so delicate, you understand.”

Ugh. Go lick a used flyswatter. Forty-six percent, my ass.

They use these delicate, tiny, very talented celebrity starlets, they use Alaska as a fundraising tool for their anti-second amendment causes.

Takin it from the top …

NOTABLE QUOTABLES
Holy silver-tongued Shatner, my friends – just when I thought I couldn’t love Caribou Barbie more, the Great One Himself shines his light upon her. NBC is being dickholes about running the whole thing on YouTube, but here’s a taste … and be warned: This will at last make converts of you all to the Church of Our Lord the Most High Shatner, may he bless every last one of us.

ONLY A LAWN IN YOUR GAME
Per the request I blog about a broken water sprinkler: Well, I don't know much about those, but I do happen to know an ugly racist joke from the pervasively racist milieu of my upbringing, involving three Chinese guys, three black guys, and the sound a sprinkler makes. Does that count?

HOT PROBS
Here's what's wrong with you, Guy Who Drives a Porsche SUV: You paid $55K+ for a car with the frames and doors from the Volkswagen Touareg, proving that you're one of those feckless idiots who buys the shiny logo instead of the real product. You took everything that's cool and kind of dangerous about a German driving machine, and bought the one that's ... an expensive minivan. I'm not sure what you do for a living, but I'm sure it involves professional dickery of one sort or another. And that's what's wrong with YOU.

Because, seriously.

I’m not sure if you can really claim the right to call yourself a musician if, by way of explaining my position in the group of drunken jackasses I like to call a band, I tell you, “Basically I’m Stu Sutcliffe, minus the head injuries and the German girlfriend,” and you look at me with the total blankness.

It might be better than Transformers 2, but I won't chance it.

Internets, I love John Krasinsky. I do, a real lot. And if you don’t, it’s probably because you are medically, clinically frigid. But I don’t love everything he’s in (that lump of dog schmear he was in with Robin Williams? If ever humanity needed proof that the Holy Shatner, while loving, is also cruel …). And this new thing, this Away We Go? I’m afraid I find it simply unsupportable.

It was written by Writers, y’all. Capitalization intended. Precious famous-indie Writers. Those are the WORST. When Writers go for to make a movie, the result is much more often than not a turgid, in-love-with-itself thing that nobody really likes, but they have to say they do so they can seem cultured and smart and high of brow.

I mean, come on. Krasinsky’s bearded. Maya Rudolph is involved and Mike Judge isn’t.

I could be wrong about this one – but I probably won’t find out unless I get, from y’all personally, a good reason to.