It could be worse…no duh and thanks
June 7th, 2010 § Leave a Comment
When I was younger I would call my house at snack time to see if it had burned down because I would convince myself I left my curling iron on or that my mom forgot to turn off the stove. Which, I understand is an irrational fear because I had a tragic perm and no real need for a curling iron and my mom didn’t use the stove. I reasoned that if the answering machine picked up, it still existed and hadn’t melted into the carpet engulfed in a ball of flames. Yes, at 7 years old I had worked the situation enough to come a solution of how to effectively deduce if my home was burned down, without calling the fire department to go check for me. At 7 I knew I was a lunatic and I should do my best to not alert others of my craziness. Once I had peace of mind that my house wasn’t on fire, I would go back to class and learn about the modernization of Western civilization without any competing thoughts.
My active imagination is probably why I hate the, “it could be worse” game. You know, it’s that annoying game when you tell people how crappy something in your life is and then they are all, “Well, look on the bright side, it could be worse.” That is when I want to punch them in their face hole. It could be worse? Really! Wow, thanks for putting things into perspective for me. It never once crossed my mind that things could possibly be any worse. I thought being unemployed and the fact that the car wash people didn’t put my floor mats back on straight were the worst things that could happen in a lifetime!!! What?Cancer you say, AIDS and poverty…hmm, never heard of em’. But, for someone like me, who has an active imagination, the “it could be worse” game is a slippery slope. It could be worse sets me on a downward spiral of imagining all the worse things that could happen. I got a ticket a couple of weeks ago for not stopping at a stop sign. But it could be worse, at any moment I could be driving behind a semi truck filled with freshly cut logs and the nylon tie holding them together could fray at just the right moment as I am driving behind it on the freeway, causing the lose logs to come crashing down towards me and undoubtedly a stray one will bounce off the ground and spear me through the windshield. So, you’re absolutely right, it.could.totally.be.worse.
People who know me understand (or try to understand) that I am an irrational being with an active imagination and they should always be prepared for me to find the dark lining in any bright and sunny day. Other than that I am pretty positive. I had a doctor for many years who failed to realize the importance of the pea sized lump in my cheek. When I was sick it would change from a pea to a small apricot and then back to a pea again. I would press on it, push down on it but mostly I would worry about it. For years I went to the doctor and would alert him of its presence and every time he would fain interest and tell me it was nothing. So, I switched doctors. I want a doctor who will give my lymphoma the respect it deserves. A doctor who is at the ready to stand next to me on stage as we conduct our first annual telethon to raise money for cheek lymphoma cancer and find me the donor for my hard to find bone marrow match. So you see, if there is anyone who realizes the idea that it could always be worse, it is me.
Don’t Call Me Ma’am Movement
May 12th, 2010 § 2 Comments
I don’t wear holiday themed sweaters. The though hasn’t ever flashed in my mind as a consideration. I wear low-rise jeans. I own a respectable number of high-heeled shoes and I have but one stray grey hair that sprouts from the center of my head which I pluck religiously. And, I’ve been in my thirties for less time than one spends on their high school career. So why the hell, on multiple occasions, on any given week, do guys refer to me as ma’am?
Ma’am’s are old ladies that babysit us across the street. Ma’am’s work at the corner pharmacy and as they hand you the penicillin for your father’s gout you reply, “Thank you ma’am.” Ma’am’s are old timey school teachers in the South, and I sir, ain’t no ma’am.
Is it a misguided term of respect? An old “manner” that hasn’t caught up with today’s guidelines of politeness? Or is it, what I have come to suspect it to be? A slap in the faint laugh-line wrinkled face of slightly aged women everywhere. An attempt to push us into early retirement from early womanhood so men can harvest crops of young women everywhere, newer younger versions, worthy of being called the oh so coveted, “miss”. I want to be a “miss”, I would even settle for honey, babe, “hey you”, anything else. But please dear God, don’t call me ma’am!
Ma’am makes me want to kick you in the balls. It makes me want to roll my eyes and curse at you. Ma’am makes me want to show you all the non-ma’am-like behavior I still have coursing through my non-medicated, young and nutrient-rich blood.
Sure I’m sometimes surprised police officers look younger than I do. And I do find it startling that many young kids today haven’t heard of the Beastie Boys. And yes, my friends are beginning to work on their second child, or their first divorce…but these things don’t make me a ma’am. So I beg you, men and ignorant boys of the world; if you work at Trader Joe’s and were a Freshman in high school when I was a Freshman, in college…do not refer to me as ma’am. If I am at Starbucks and order a caramel Frappucino with a cupcake for breakfast…I’m not a ma’am. If you hold the door for me at a bar while I am wearing skinny jeans and a halter top…yep, you guessed it, don’t call me fucking ma’am! And if I write something and drop an F bomb in it…well, clearly I am still an unrefined adult, incapable of bearing such a title. I would like to reserve the right to be called miss for another decade or two more. Maybe in my 50′s I will embrace ma’am but for now, don’t you even think about it!
This is how I do it….
December 10th, 2009 § Leave a Comment
One of my friends happens to be charming and witty and beautiful. She also happens to get all giggly and nervous around the opposite sex. So, I figured I would give her some advice on how to approach a new guy that she is interested in.
Below is how I suggested their next conversation should play out.
As a side note, both names have been changed to ensure their privacy and protect their identities.*
Ilya: Hey Clark…I wanted to set you up with someone
Clark: Really?
Ilya: Yes, so I needs to know if you have a lady friend or are otherwise engaged?
Clark: No, I’m not.
Ilya: Fantastic, I will let me know.
*That’s a lie actually.
