Danielle's Confessions

Entitlement

2012-01-31T05:45:00.001-08:00

Imagine having a panic attack, or worse an actual heart attack. A wave of anxiety washes over you and you fumble for the phone, dialing 911 with shaky fingers. Or perhaps you suffer from severe depression, consume some alcohol and pills to numb the pain, and feel yourself overdosing. You groggily dial 911 in a desperate attempt for help. Regardless of what's caused any of the above to happen, the need to dial for outside help is scary. But we are fortunate enough to have emergency services in case the need arises.

With that being said, would you want that 911 tape released to the public? If you're an average citizen like me it's a non-issue; it probably wouldn't happen. Although there are plenty of emergency calls one can listen to on YouTube, the chances of you finding one of someone you know are slim. And when someone reaches that point in their life the last thing they need is to be judged.

America is obsessed with celebrities, myself included. I listened to the Mel Gibson tape on which he berated his wife, and the Alec Baldwin one where he called his daughter a 'rude thoughtless pig.' All of us watched Charlie Sheen through probably his worst year ever, and as a fan of Britney Spears I remember the umbrella incident. But that doesn't mean it's right.

It's kind of like seeing an accident on the highway. You don't want to look, but how can you not? As someone who has quite the driving record, I know how embarrassing it is to have people staring at your totaled car. There's no respect, just a sense of entitlement that's not welcomed. Although it's my firm belief that 'reality' television stars deserve any attention they get, whether it's good or bad.

The entertainment industry forces gossip in our face, and after a while you can't help but feel bad for celebrities who are clearly in need of some privacy. Like Demi Moore. There's now a discussion on whether or not her 911 tape should be released.

As I woke up to coffee and the news, that comment from Matt Lauer woke me up to our insatiable need for gossip. The fact that she had to even call 911 shouldn't be made known to the public, but of course it is. I don't even think being a member of the paparazzi should be legal. If celebrities want their picture taken while pumping gas, then let them hire someone to do it. There has to be a line drawn somewhere.

On my 29th birthday some girl took pictures of my best friend and I, just dancing with some guys we met at a bar. Apparently they knew these guys and were jealous.

Given the town we were in, they were probably all related.

A few days later I found those pictures of her and I on Facebook, and we were tagged. Apparently in my drunken state of fun I had accepted the guys as 'friends,' and after tagging themselves we were then also tagged. (On a side note I'm not cattle, so can Mark Zuckerberg please come up with a better term?)

I looked like complete crap, so naturally I untagged myself. To this day, over a year later, her and I still complain about those pictures. Which are still on Facebook.

I'll never reach a level of fame like Demi Moore, Alec Baldwin or Charlie Sheen; and that's perfectly fine with me. But I know what it's like to want privacy because I'm human. We all have moments of despair, whether we are famous or just someone who enjoys dancing with total strangers.

And if you've never been to my place for coffee, you have no right tagging me.

Hot Dog Relish

2012-01-30T15:52:00.001-08:00

My college sweetheart was ecstatic over a machine that toasted sandwiches. There he stood on Black Friday, anxiously awaiting a store associate to unveil the black sheet so he could make grilled cheese.

He was never a good cook.

For several weeks all he spoke of was this 'fascinating' machine that compressed bread against cheese, resulting in a tasty lunch or dinner.

Everybody has a panini press now.

When I was twelve I had a SONY WalkMan. There I sat on our back porch, bobbing my head to a Wilson Phillips tape while flipping through the pages of Tiger Beat magazine. Then came the DiscMan, which I proudly listened to on the bus ride to high school every day. MP3 players were just making their appearance when I started college, and I only recently upgraded to a smart phone that plays music. And when I say recently, I mean two days ago.

I love my panini press, am obsessed with a phone that I swear is smarter than me, and may even purchase a single cup coffee maker in the near future. (A previous blog entry will express my distaste for Keurig's, but I'm starting to be enticed.)

All of those inventions simply made the same task more enjoyable (although I didn't enjoy shelling out almost $200 on a cell phone). Nothing too incredible resulted, and our lives were improved slightly.

It's no surprise that someone who waited until her Blackberry wannabe died, even as it functioned with a cracked display, to upgrade shuns new technology. If I don't need it, I don't buy it. You can't miss what you never had.

But even Miss Simplicity is starting to embrace change. The good news is that I know how to get by in life without fancy electronics; I'd love to see a yuppie walk through downtown Binghamton without a cell phone.

Actually, that'd just be stupid.

Hot dog relish. Aside from a few varieties not much has changed. It's a delicious topping to an American favorite that's simple.

Hebrew National is an all beef hot dog, unlike other questionable varieties. Just a personal suggestion.

After cursing out my iPad for losing an Internet connection, fumbling through texting on a touch screen, and resetting my Wii remotes I was hungry. Sitting on the shelf of my fridge was relish, next to some baking soda (to absorb that questionable smell) and above a pot pie I made. Before devouring the savory pie I took a moment to appreciate the simplicity of the condiment. As much as I now welcome the joys of new technology, I will be pissed if relish suddenly comes in $200 jars. Unless those jars can post updates to Facebook, Twitter, and FourSquare.

And that smell was the pot pie.

Keep Calm and Drink Beer

2012-01-29T06:29:00.001-08:00

'Keep calm and carry on.' It's a phrase originally used during World War II to raise British morale, and as of late I've seen it all over the Internet. How could I, an England fanatic, have mistaken the royal crown for the Budweiser logo?

Especially since I prefer Coors Light.

Just saying the phrase brings me to a peaceful state of mind, where piled up bills and loud neighbors roll off of my shoulders. 'Keep calm and carry on,' I whisper to myself. For the most part it works.

Maintaining our sanity is what separates us from those trying to make us insane. Our ability to compose ourselves in front of negative forces makes us classy, even if we're shopping in pajamas. Did someone cut you off while driving on the freeway? Keep calm and carry on. Did the same person steal your parking spot at Wal*Mart? Keep calm and carry on. And did that same person cut in front of you on the checkout line, whip out their phone and proceed to yell into it, have at least 50 coupons for which 25 needed a manager override, and whose child threw a candy bar at you?

See, that's why I shop at Wegmans.

It's human nature to react defensively when attacked, but it's maturity that allows us to let it go. Ten years ago I'd have no problem arguing with someone, not wanting to have a casual debate. It was my goal to scream at them until they backed off, and even if I was right I was wrong. That's no way to get someone on your side. Maintaining composure, stating the facts, and knowing when to walk away. That's what makes someone 'winning.'

Side note: I hate that term.

So keep calm and carry on. The world is full of arrogant, self-righteous jerks who only want to hear their own voice. In fact the next time someone is arguing with you, be it over politics or a parking space, excuse yourself for a beer. I recommend Coors Light.

Brutes and Barbies

2012-01-28T21:03:00.001-08:00

My heart beat fast as I awaited his arrival. The woods were treacherous, killing even the strongest of brutes in all of Little Springs who dared to pass through. Vines that hung low, beastly animals unafraid of humans, and even a few barbaric woodsmen kept people out. But as I saw broad shoulders approaching and muscular legs straddling a horse, I knew my prince had come.

'Danielle, can you do a thirty minute lunch?'

I can't be the only one who daydreams at work. Perhaps mine are a bit fantastical (you'll never find me in the woods), but that's only because life is so mundane. The older I get the more I stick to the same routine, which is so boring I can't even bring myself to blog about it. Life is what you make of it, but while I'm planning a brighter future I'm stuck in the present. So why not have some fun?

It would be stereotypical to say that men dream about sex all day, of plastic women with no brain cells left catering to their every need. Yet I highly doubt they conjure up images of a woman discussing politics over a bottle of wine. Women want to be 'saved,' and men want to be 'heroes.'

Now that's a stereotype.

I have no desire for any man to 'save' me; well, at least not anymore. Twelve years in the dating game has left a sour taste in my mouth. I've heard every lie you could think of, cried my eyes out in every corner of my apartment, and run numerous people searches on former suitors. That gets old and exhausting. At some point you have to say enough is enough, and focus on yourself.

Still, it can be lonely. Yet another Valentine's Day is approaching where I'll be single (I'll probably read a Joan Collins book); it's Saturday night and once again I'm at home (I recorded Jersey Shore this past Thursday for tonight); and the rent will be paid this week by me and only me (so much for that Coach handbag).

But overall life is good.

In the end us women may daydream about being 'saved,' but we know better than to relinquish all control to men. While men might be simpler creatures with 'desires' to be met, at the end of the day they probably want a woman with whom they can have an intelligent conversation.

So go ahead and daydream, ladies and gents. Because even if you live in the middle of the woods, no man is going to venture through them on horseback for you; but he might show up smelling like perfume an hour late and blame the 'traffic.' Gents, unless you expel money into the toilet keep daydreaming about your 'perfect' Barbie Doll of a woman. Perhaps you have a trophy wife and are content; wonderful. I suggest you be prepared for the day when she meets someone even richer.

I've had my head in the clouds for years, awaiting a strong brute on horseback that will never come. It's gotten me through lonely nights, not to mention dates with men who spoke to my chest. Which, by the way, is not made of silicone.

Pants

2012-01-27T07:42:00.000-08:00

I believe everyone wants to lead a simpler life, despite our obsession with technology. But even technology isn't fully to blame. Every issue of Cosmo seems to promote a new type of pants; overall shirts don't change much. I could pull off my favorite GAP fleece from 1997, which still hangs in the closet next to my unused prom dress. But I don't because naturally I weigh more.

Perhaps it's time to do a closet overhaul.

Some shirts might go, but my pants will stay. Wide leg, flare, dark denim; I love them all. You wont find any boyfriend or skinny styles among them, because I'm not skinny nor a boy. Which is not to say those styles are ugly; they're just not my taste. I should be able to wear pants suited for my body type without worry.

Can the fashion industry please accept all styles of pants? Skinny, low rise, boyfriend cut, yoga, flares: what the hell? Yes, it's nice to have a change. Yet apparently my jeans that flare slightly at the ankle are 'out of style.' The tapered look is here to stay, and even at my thinnest I couldn't pull them off.

Jeans that cover my larger assets are designed to slim me, not point out every flaw I've had since the ninth grade. No one should be judged for their weight, and I don't tolerate any comments about mine. So watch what you say about this Scorpio: my heart is big, but my stinger is bigger.

I'm reminded of two incidents: one in high school French class and the other while recently shopping for groceries.

Flash back to 1998: I'm sitting in class and chatting with a 'friend.' Lee tapered jeans are covering my legs because I'm thin; not much to cover. My 'friend' looks at my ankles and laughs.

'Are those tapered?'

I was mortified.

Flash forward to a few weeks ago. There I am shopping at Wegmans for Weight Watchers meals (yes, I'm finally losing weight), deciding between their pizza or meatloaf.

I chose the pizza.

'Danielle?' I recognized the voice of my former snotty coworker, whose name I shall omit. After conversing a bit on how she's still unemployed, her eyes went to my ankles. And she laughed.

'Still wearing flares?'

'Still unemployed?' I said.

I think she'll avoid me in the future.

Dress for your body type and ignore snarky, condescending, negative people (including the fashion industry). And guys, just as I don't look good in a tube top please stay away from skinny jeans. There's nothing sexier than seeing a man with 'boyfriend' style jeans that sit low on the hips.

Shit, I just drooled on my iPad...

Thank You

2012-01-25T13:20:00.000-08:00

Last night I found myself on the same stretch of road, surrounded by the same buildings, heading to the same apartment after working the same job, and in the same car. Change can only come to those who seek it, and I'm halfway to a new beginning. My childhood dreams of becoming a corporate lawyer or ballerina didn't come true, but that's alright. I'm not a fan of corporations, but I am a fan of Oreos.

Over the years friends have come and gone out of my life, not to mention a few men; it's better with the ones not in it anymore. The painful memories of past relationships will, sadly, probably always be with me.

As a writer (and Scorpio), I've toyed with the idea of incorporating ex's and former best friends into my stories. Closure preceeds letting go; without the first the latter simply cannot occur.

I need closure.

Books about moving on strongly advise against letting your ex (or anyone who has wronged you) know just how badly they screwed you over; I believe there are laws against it, too. Wait no that's stalking.

The chances of me running into any of my ex's are slim to none; I've kept tabs on their whereabouts. Before anyone reading this screams 'stalker,' understand that I despise my ex's more than my morning breath. And that's bad. Perhaps 'despise' is too strong of a word. In fact, 'thankful' might be more appropriate.

Just like the chances of me encountering them are slim, so are the chances of them reading this blog. But still, I won't use names.

To my ex's: thank you for ripping out my heart, stomping on it until it stopped bleeding, then shoving it back in my chest. Because of you I've built a steel cage around it and am saving the key for a worthy suitor.

To former best friends: there's a reason we are no longer close, let alone speak at all. Some of you abandoned my friendship because we have simply grown apart; that's understandable. But some of you have wronged me, as in dating ex's of mine while we were friends. You broke the number one girl code. Others have judged me for the actions of my early twenties, even though they didn't directly affect you. In fact even after your judgment I remained loyal, loaning you money that was never repaid and giving you rides. Because that's what friends do.

To all who have wronged me, thank you. But more importantly, thank you to the people currently in my life. I have no doubt you'll always be in it.

And now, it's time for an Oreo.

Dear Coffee Maker

2012-01-20T06:57:00.001-08:00

Dear Coffee Maker,

We've had some good times. For several years I have greeted you before the sun even comes up, moaning obscenities as I pressed your start button. While doing some business in the bath room I heard you at work, brewing a concoction that would take me out of my misery. As I deleted spam from my inbox (because no one seems to email anymore) you'd gurgle, letting me know it was almost time. Within minutes my anger at having to wake up and face the shitty day ahead would subside, thanks to you.

But not today.

Today I heard something spewing out of you angrily, as though you'd have enough. With a toothbrush in my mouth I came running out, shocked to see the mess you left on my floor.

I watched in horror as thousands of wet coffee grounds billowed out of you and my dog licked them up. Since you lack a beating heart I shall clarify something: anything acidic will upset a dog's stomach. But lucky for me I have Pepto Bismol. Unlike you it's never let me down.

After getting him to drink the pink liquid I had to make a choice: drive to Dunkin' Donuts in pajamas or wait 5 hours until work, where I could consume coffee that tastes like dumpster juice.

I went to Dunkin' Donuts.

But you see it's winter here in New York, and that means scraping ice off of your car while warming it up. Something I only do after several cups of coffee.

So it is with great pleasure that I throw you out. Apparently washing you daily and feeding you filtered water means nothing. And after realizing I just wrote a detailed letter to a coffee maker, I think it's time for another trip to Dunkin' Donuts.

SOPA (something about pirates)

2012-01-19T11:31:00.000-08:00

There I was trying to amuse myself at work by going on Wikipedia. I had just ordered a Marilyn Monroe pop art poster and was interested in the JFK conspiracy surrounding her death. Right after reading a few lines into her life it closed out, and a page appeared explaining the site was blacked out.

'Pay your damn bill,' was the first thing that came to mind.

It was years before I was informed that anyone could contribute to Wikipedia, but the information I've read appears to be accurate. A recent Google search for 'hidden graveyards' led me to a YouTube video about Mississippi John Hurt, which had me visiting Wikipedia to learn more about him, which prompted me to view YouTube videos of his music, which resulted in me creating a Pandora station called 'Mississippi John Hurt.' While listening to that station I was introduced to other artists like him, decided to order a book about the life of this talented singer, gave Amazon even more of my business and helped Visa stay the preferred credit card in our amazing country. So in the end, several businesses profited from free knowledge.

If my employer is reading this, I did all of the above on my lunch hour.

Had I lingered on the black page I would have read it was done to protest some law that would prohibit me from using Wikipedia, not because they hadn't paid their bill. The Stop Online Piracy Act seeks to ban websites from passing along free knowledge.

But patience is a virtue I lack.

I 'get' what they're trying to do, but this isn't the best route. It's like punishing everyone for the crime of a few. In the end I don't see how this bill can be passed and yes, I signed the online petition. Other bloggers would insert a hyperlink directing you to the petition, but I'm on my iPad and can't figure that out. But chances are if you're reading this you're no stranger to a Google search.

Had Wikipedia not been blacked out perhaps I would have also ordered a book about Marilyn Monroe. But alas it was and my interest shifted to why Broome County has an unidentifiable stench, and I have yet to find anything written about it. Maybe that's a project I could take on: discovering and writing about why this area smells. And I assure you, the knowledge I'd pass on would be free.

Leave Well Enough Alone

2012-01-18T12:33:00.000-08:00

The other day I found myself picking at a healing finger, angry it was still infected. Nasty start to a blog entry, I know. I'm not sure how it ever became infected, but I suspect my habit of ripping out hang nails contributed. To save you any nausea, I won't post a picture. But it was nasty.

As a 30-year-old woman I should know better than to pick at healing wounds, yet I still peeled away. A layer of bright red skin exposed itself, and I realized the healing process was back at square one.

Fuck my life.

I like to push limits and test boundaries; maybe it's an attitude problem. Namely with authority, like when I was a waitress and loan processor. My Pal Hal was a manager at the diner I worked at, but we were far from being friends. He liked to bark orders at servers in front of customers, and dealing with him as a cook was a nightmare. One time he asked to be notified when the apple crisp got low so he could nuke another one.

'We're almost out of apple crisp, Hal.'

'I'm a little busy right now, Danielle. I'll get to it when I can.'

'Just letting you know per your request.'

'When I get a chance, Danielle.'

'I'm not demanding it, Hal. I'm simply following through with your request.'

'I said I'd get to it, Danielle!'

'Don't yell at me! You're the one copping an attitude when all I'm doing is letting you know!'

If it weren't for my best friend yelling 'Shut up about the apple crisp,' that could have been my last night as a waitress.

They say you shouldn't bad mouth your former employers, but I had another boss so awful it caused me to rack up debt at the local liquor store.

Alright, that might be a bit of an overstatement. But my wine consumption did increase dramatically.

I valued my banking job more than my part-time gig delivering food, so my 'attitude' rarely made an appearance while processing auto loans. But on one of my late nights I was hungry and started to enjoy a sandwich. My boss-who shall remain nameless-flew out of her office and over to my desk, practically out of breath.

'You're not going to eat that at your desk, are you?'

While reviewing a loan document I calmly chucked the sandwich into the garbage can, refusing to say a word let alone meet her gaze. She walked away quietly, and I can't say I'm surprised our working relationship deteriorated.

Perhaps it's time I leave well enough alone. Bad bosses, stressful work environments, and finger infections are a part of life. I could do without the latter, though.

Lana Del Rey: The Next Big Thing

2012-01-15T17:24:00.001-08:00

If it weren't for Pandora and YouTube my life would suck. One could argue there's a reason some music stays 'underground,' but I strongly disagree. Record labels don't want to embrace artists outside of a certain 'image,' and so many have missed their 15 minutes of fame.

Enter the Internet.

Pandora let's you create a station based on a singer or song, then plays said singer or song along with similar tunes. For example, my Britney Spears station has morphed into Britney/Coldplay/Metallica. It's amazing what a few 'thumbs up' will do.

YouTube a video on funny dogs and suddenly you're bombarded with dozens of similar videos. It's a great feature, although I've spent several hours watching dogs instead of playing with my own.

While watching music videos by Jem (whom I discovered via Pandora), YouTube suggested 'Born To Die' by Lana Del Rey. I hesitated since 'emo' is not my style. But over a million hits indicated it was either really good, or really really bad.

Lucky for me, it was nothing like Rebecca Black's 'Friday.' Although I've been known to annoy my coworkers with the 'Gotta get down on Friday!' song.

Think classy 25-year-old woman with old Hollywood style. There are simply too many songs for me to go on and on about, so I strongly recommend you hear for yourself. 'Video Games' is an emotional ballad to which she also made the video; 'Born To Die' is about a toxic relationship; 'Diet Mountain Dew' references things she likes but that only harm her, like a man and New York City; and 'You Can Be the Boss,' to put it mildly, refers to bed room activity.

Her voice reminds me of Marilyn Monroe wishing John F.
Kennedy a sultry 'happy birthday,' and her style is Audrey Hepburn meets Doris Day. Between her and Adele, the music industry finally has some talent.

Which brings me to defend her Saturday Night Live performance. I saw the video online, since I'm a loser who was asleep before 11 on a Saturday night. Critics lashed out at her, saying it was poor and not what they expected. They saw a woman struggle through lyrics and wondered why she had been booked.

I saw a woman who catapulted her own career be nervous during her first major performance.

Think about the first time you cooked chicken. It probably came out pink, right? A bit undercooked? So you put it back in the oven, but you probably overcooked it and decided on take out. Yet that didn't stop you from cooking chicken again, and each time you did it became easier. After a while friends and family wrote into Food Network about your chicken, saying it was star-chef quality. Your dream of becoming a chef might come true.

Now imagine being asked to make your famous chicken for every chef on Food Network. Hours of practice and preparation will help, but did I mention they'll be watching you cook?

Without a doubt, mistakes would be made.

Despite the chicken being a bit dry they invite you back to try again, because others have been raving about your chicken. You're given a second chance.

I can think of no other singer deserving of a second chance more than Lana Del Rey. So for all of the critics saying that performance ruined her career, I say bull shit. That's one talented woman who will prove everyone wrong.

My Wish

2012-01-12T06:23:00.000-08:00

My wish is that someday women can pursue their dreams without being criticized on their physical appearance. Singers like Adele won't have to respond to comments about their very normal bodies, thereby shifting focus away from her music.

My wish is that women, including myself, stop 'dieting' and simply lead a healthy lifestyle. That we won't be lured into fads that force us to go hungry, but rather learn how to fill up on fruits and vegetables.

My wish is for young girls to stop idolizing female celebrities who have undergone plastic surgery. That lifeless faces due to Botox will seem ugly, not pretty.

My wish is for the fashion industry to stop using only thin models, thereby forcing normal women into 'plus sized' modeling. Size 12 is not a plus size.

My wish is for teenage girls to stop getting wasted at parties for male attention. Any man worth your time will want to see you sober and in control.

My wish is for healthy food to be cheaper than unhealthy food. That dollar menus consist of lean meats, fresh fruit and vegetables; not double cheeseburgers and fries.

My wish is for every girl to mature into a strong, independent woman and for every boy to become a gentleman. For parents to raise their sons to respect girls, and encourage their daughters to respect themselves.

I also wish that my apartment would clean itself, but alas I don't see that happening.

Karma's A Bitch

2012-01-10T06:02:00.000-08:00

As a Scorpio I am vindictive by nature: hurt me and I shall strike back with my stinger. But in the long run an eye for an eye only leaves two people blind, and I have come to appreciate my vision. Which is not to say I don’t seek revenge on those who have betrayed me, but I have learned that bad behavior only produces more bad behavior.

Such was the case on ‘Dark Shadows.’

My mother grew up watching the soap opera, and as I grew up she spoke very highly of it. Eventually I found myself watching Barnabas Collins try and seek a replacement for his deceased wife, Josette Collins, on NetFlix. Who, I began to wonder, turned him into a vampire?

Apparently he had a little fling with her maid Angelique Bouchard, and she did not take well to the affair ending. Hence therefore she used her witchcraft and turned him into a creature of the night, killing anyone who fell in love with him. While it should be noted that he ended the affair upon falling in love with Josettte, it should also be noted he was fooling around with both at the same time.

What followed was centuries of destruction upon his family, including his father locking him in a coffin where he would stay for almost 200 years. I can’t imagine the stench that wafted into the face of Willy Loomis, who opened it in search of jewels. Josette jumped to her death after realizing he was a vampire, his mother Naomi committed suicide out of depression, and a woman was falsely hanged for practicing witchcraft (framed by Angelique).

I’m still watching the series, so as of yet I don’t know how it ends. But while one could argue that Angelique was a devil woman, one could also argue that Barnabas should have been monogamous. Hell hath a woman scorned.

So as you go about your life and daily activities, remember to act within the interest of others. Karma’s a bitch.

Never In A Million Years

2012-01-09T11:57:00.000-08:00

The term 'never in a million years...' has always rubbed me the wrong way. My belief in ghosts and the supernatural aside, I know of no one who is that old. But occasionally the term will pour out of my mouth before I realize what I'm saying.

Like last night while watching television.

I stumbled upon an Oprah Winfrey interview during commercial break, and it said Joel Osteen was on. In my sleep-induced coma I mistook him for Haley Joel Osment, from 'The Sixth Sense.' When I recognized that smile as not being the same Joel, I lifted the remote to change the station. But the words that began to come out of his mouth were inspiring, so I stayed. He spoke about living a positive, meaningful life without hate. I silently berated myself for continuing to listen; after all, aren't evangelists just out to extort money from people? He repeatedly denied his ministry profited from anyone, and that all donations went to a school to preach a positive lifestyle through religion. His books, he claimed, supported his lifestyle.

As a writer I aspire to earn enough royalties to lead his lifestyle.

Oprah got him to admit his belief that homosexuality is a sin, and while I myself have been boy crazy since the age of 5, gay rights is something I'm very passionate about. He went on to defend himself, saying he only believes that because it's in scripture.

A theology teacher once told me the Bible was half-written by man, and half by God. That’s something to consider for those who believe it word for word.

As I've gotten older my lifestyle has not included religion. While I don't believe there is a 'God,' I do believe in something other than what our eyes can see. Maybe it’s a non-physical world where we’ll be reunited with those we lost, or maybe we’ll be a guardian angel to someone in need. And perhaps there is a devil smiling up at me from below when I watch bad reality television, but that's a chance I'll take.

I mean, it's Jersey Shore.

Joel Osteen presented himself as a very good-natured, positive man with a knack for inspiring people. He preached the importance of not letting others get to you, and how that will result in a much happier state of mind. Now, more than ever, I needed to hear those words. In fact I think all of America needs to hear those words. Every day I read about a crime occurring just a little too close to home, see another local business close, or a homeless person sleeping against a building. The economy is forcing people to do unthinkable crimes just to get by, and I worry about our future.

Of course since he believes the Bible word for word, he must think himself the stronger vessel in his marriage. And while I'm not a fan of the word 'feminist,' I'm the first to stand up for my rights as a woman. But if we eliminate people from our lives for just a few flaws, whether it’s a personal friendship or a preacher that can change your outlook on life, then we choose to live in solitary confinement. That's not something I want.

And so I say through gritted teeth, give Joel Osteen a listen. He doesn't seem like a crook, and I have no doubt he's wrong about homosexuality and women being subordinate. But if he's ever caught having an affair or stealing money from his ministry, I'm sure the devil will force him to watch Jersey Shore.

Obsession

2012-01-06T13:15:00.000-08:00

Hot, soapy water drying out my previously soft hands. Scrubbing cheese off of a plate while bitching about my lack of any SOS pads. A sink so tiny it forces me to wash everything immediately after eating, not to mention a small counter for an even smaller dish drainer.

There are fewer things in life I despise more than doing dishes. I even find paying bills a bit rewarding...until I see my ending bank balance.

Despite my bitterness towards both, they are necessary chores in life. Perhaps one day I'll have a dishwasher and stumble backwards onto a pile of money, but until then I must suffer.

I found myself in a state of deep depression the other night, just staring aimlessly at the television. A digital video recorder full of shows about unsolved murders probably didn't help, but I'm sure the change in seasons contributed. Seasonal affective disorder, now that Christmas is over but the days are still dark and cold, is setting in. Lucky for me Jersey Shore is back on.

But I digress.

As I found myself in this fog of sadness-not to sound like a drama queen-I thought about what makes me happy. Dancing in the parking lot of Target, watching my neighbors argue, texting 'Do you have the pizza?' to random numbers; all are fun, but I suspect borderline illegal. And I knew this depression was more related to stress at work. A cleanse was in order. I needed to do something relaxing that would 'wash' away the anxiety.

Washing coffee pots. Now before anyone reading this says 'But you hate doing dishes,' allow me to explain. Coffee pots can be cleaned without having to get your hands wet, something I hate because I'm a moisture freak.

During my waitressing days I was the self-titled Queen of the Coffee Pots. Every night at the end of my shift, even if it wasn't part of my side work, I made sure they were cleaned. There was something very satisfying about seeing that questionable blue powder get every inch of residue off of those nasty pots. My best friend used to laugh at all of them lined up along the sink, soaking as I did the rest of my work. Yet even as my achy feet hurried me along to get the hell out of that diner, I stayed for the coffee pots.

Eventually I was able to quit waitressing and work full-time at my current employer. To say my job is stressful would be a slight understatement, and I used to be one of the first ones out of the building. But I found myself driving home feeling very burnt out.

So I started washing the coffee pots before leaving.

Sometimes I'm in such a rush to get to the liquor store they just get soaked overnight, which the morning shift may not appreciate. But as a coffee drinker (and possible addict) I know how much better it tastes in a clean pot. If my wine supply is properly stocked then I commence scrubbing. With a long-handled dish brush I scrub the coffee residue off of the bottom, watch as it changes the glass from brown to clear, and smile as the brown bits come billowing out in hot water.

The coffee at work rarely makes an appearance in my mug, which indicates just how obsessed I am with keeping pots clean. No offense, dear employer, but I suspect dumpster juice would taste better.

Somehow I peeled myself off of the couch and washed my coffee pot. I squirted a good amount of dish detergent into it then filled it with hot water. For ten minutes it soaked, and during those ten minutes I read in a nearby kitchen chair. Which is not to say my eyes never wandered from the pages of a Mary Higgins Clark book and to the coffee pot, smiling as the brown bits peeled off of the glass and floated to the top.

Perhaps it's a weird obsession, but after seeing 'Taboo' on National Geographic that's fine by me.

Postcards

2011-12-31T14:37:00.001-08:00

Like any other human being, I often wonder how other people live their lives. Are their homes messy? Should they be on an episode of 'Hoarders?' Do they bathe on their days off? What color is their toilet?

Perhaps I need a hobby.

Regardless, I couldn't get through even one episode of that show. It's sad that some people are unable to let go of items. I'm the opposite: if it holds no use to my current life, it gets recycled or thrown out. Any clutter is quickly removed from my apartment, especially junk mail. And as of late that's usually the only mail I get.

After nothing short of an awful day at work, I came home to a mailbox packed with junk the other day. Flyers, credit card offers, letters from more than one insurance company offering me a better rate, and an invitation to switch cell phone carriers. As I consumed an adult beverage I went through each piece of 'mail,' tearing it into pieces before aiming for the garbage can. Not one bill let alone a letter from a friend.

As I consumed another adult beverage, I thought back to when I was in high school. My Aunt Peggy and I wrote to each other almost on a weekly basis, since back then long distance wasn't included in calling plans. I used to rush home from school and eagerly dig through the mail, hoping to see an envelope with her name on the return label. I always wrote back within a few days, and since her passing have found myself rereading her words on paper. Had the technology of today been available back then, I'm not sure what pieces of correspondence I'd have from her. Text messages are deleted from my cell every day to clear up space for new ones; emails are filed away into folders, but they lack the personal touch of a handwritten note; and Facebook pages of the deceased are, to say the least, a bit eerie. Had she been on Facebook and then passed away, I'm sure I'd be on her page every day leaving comments she'd never read. And while that can be therapeutic at first, eventually one must move on.

Social networking is starting to replace actual socialization, to the point where I don't feel like being social at all. On the one hand I've enjoyed 'meeting' people, as in '62 of your friends are friends with so and so,' and so we become 'friends.' But that's replaced actual correspondence, as in posting updates on your life on my page for my 1,000+ other 'friends' to see. Ringtones tell me who is texting before I even open up the message: 'Judas' by Lady Gaga = Facebook update; 'Cyclone' by Baby Bash = Twitter; and everyone else in my contacts has their own ringtone. It's a double-edged sword: I miss the excitement of wonder, but hate wasting my time to read a text from a frienemy.

For once I'd love to come home, open up my mailbox and get a letter from a friend. Even better a postcard. And make it a weird postcard, because I'm sure mail carriers are nosy. For example:

Dear Danielle,

Just got our new toilet installed today, and we couldn't be happier! Now we can eat at Taco Bell without fear of having to call the plumber first thing in the morning! Speaking of which, are you still using Scott toilet paper? Wal*Mart has it on sale, buy a 12-pack get a 12-pack free. We stocked up on beans and would love to have you over for a bean fest! Say, did you ever get around to burying that body? Hope to hear from you soon!

~Your Name Here

I'm just saying.

Martha Stewart vs. Chris Brown

2011-12-30T12:13:00.000-08:00

When you think of inspirational people, hopefully Martin Luther King, Jr., Amelia Earhart, Abraham Lincoln, and Susan B. Anthony come to mind. People who have sought change in the world, pushed boundaries, and either have left or are leaving a mark in history. My mother, of course, is my number one source of inspiration. From her I have learned to never give up on anything in life, and to always make time for fun. But celebrities, like Martha Stewart, also inspire me.

She may not be someone I'd want to have lunch with, but as a woman Martha has achieved a social status usually only obtained by men. That whole going to jail thing was a waste of time and money; had she been just another man on Wall Street it never would have happened. The fact that she's able to joke about it now speaks wonders for her personality. She accepted it, did her time, and moved on. I even saw an episode of her show with her wearing an ankle monitor.

Now that's inspiration.

People seem to have forgotten what Chris Brown did to Rihanna, but as a woman I will never forget seeing pictures of her after the attack. After suspecting him of cheating, he physically abused her and left her almost unrecognizable. In typical celebrity fashion he admitted he was 'wrong,' and was seeking help from God. But then he became violent in a dressing room after being asked about the attack, stating he was only there to discuss his album. How could he have assumed people would just brush that incident under the rug?

He is a man with severe anger management issues, especially towards women, but sadly that hasn't stopped him from making music. Apparently a good song can make anyone forget what he did.

The other night I was watching television, and a group of young musicians were asked who inspired them. One of them said 'Chris Brown,' and my heart sank. He couldn't have been older than 14, and was already looking up to a man who savagely beat a woman. While the kid was (hopefully) referencing his music, it's important to really know who you're looking up to. But that's what Hollywood does to America: record an amazing album, maintain good looks, and suddenly you're not the man who almost killed a woman.

No one is perfect, but sometimes a person commits an act so heinous they need to be shunned from society. Just something to consider the next time you make fun of Martha Stewart, then proceed to sing along to Chris Brown.

If Life Were Like A Soap Opera...

2011-12-29T08:01:00.001-08:00

If life were like a soap opera, I'd wake up with perfect make up every morning. There would be no mascara stains on my pillow, because in soap operas it stays on your lashes.

If life were like a soap opera, I would eat my breakfast in a nook while staring out into a perfect garden. A man would be removing the weeds, and I'd flash him a flirtatious smile.

If life were like a soap opera, I'd kiss my husband goodbye before brushing my teeth. As he drove off in a car worth six figures I'd smile, then run into the arms of the gardener when he was out of sight.

If life were like a soap opera, I'd be more in love with my gardener than my seemingly faithful husband. I would tell my husband with pride that I was with child, unaware that he had a vasectomy.

If life were like a soap opera, I would lie to the gardener and say the child was not his. My husband would not leave me because he would be having an affair with the maid.

If life were like a soap opera, my husband would see the similarities of the baby and the gardener. He would confide in the maid who was also sleeping with the gardener.

If life were like a soap opera, the gardener and maid would use their knowledge as leverage to demand a raise. Both the wife and husband would give them money on the side to keep quiet, because their reputations depended on it.

If life were like a soap opera, I'd lunch with rich ladies who also slept with their gardener. All of our children would be fathered by men other than our husbands, but even the husbands would keep quiet because they are also having affairs.

If life were like a soap opera, my child would grow up and question who his father was. I would break down in a mansion and tell him the truth, then watch as he left.

If life were like a soap opera, my son would marry and father a child with a woman other than his wife. Ten years would go by until he and I reconciled on my death bed.

If life were like a soap opera, my husband would marry the maid the day after my funeral. But his new wife would reveal that she was in love with the son he never fathered, and they were running away together.

I'm glad life isn't like a soap opera.

Ode To Coffee

2011-12-28T21:17:00.001-08:00

Oh coffee, how I love thee. Sometimes I just sniff you to feel happy; sometimes I consume you. On the chilliest of days I watch as you drip slowly into my carafe, awaiting the taste of you on my tongue. Sometimes you are espresso, and sometimes you are country roast. Does that mean your beans were grown in a barn next to a cow named Moo Moo? It matters not, for you are delicious regardless. I shamefully admit to adding creamer, as you alone can be a little too strong. But it's nothing personal; I've always been sensitive.

I wonder if you get excited every time your lid opens. Do you realize just how many smiles you bestow upon us humans? Without you I'd fall asleep at my desk, snoring into the phone while drooling on my keyboard. Speaking of work, you don't taste very well at the office. No offense.

So as I lay me down to sleep, I say goodnight to you. In less than eight hours we shall meet again, so fear not. But as my head touches the pillow I realize you lack human emotion. You know, since you're not human. So really, this post was useless.

Be Thankful For What You Don't Have

2011-12-28T14:35:00.000-08:00

Remember the original 'Real World' on MTV, circa 1992? I was merely 11 years old and very much transfixed by this type of 'television.' Throwing total strangers into a home and filming their lives was, to say the least, out of the ordinary. But it was a hit, and MTV continues to film new seasons to this day.

I don't watch it.

Somewhere between 'Survivor' and 'Big Brother' reality television went too far. Most Americans seem to long for the days of just watching a drama or comedy, especially since the people on said reality shows are anything but real. After being screamed at for eight hours all I want to do is laugh, eat ice cream out of the carton, and forget about my day. But between 'The Real Housewives' of every rich city in America, 'Baseball Wives,' and 'Mob Wives' I almost gave up on television. Thankfully I decided to go up a few channels and came across Investigation Discovery, a channel that will make the biggest social butterfly a hermit in less than an hour.

After sitting through several episodes about murders stemming from passion, I was convinced I'd die alone. I then saw an ad for 'Prison Wives' and while the thought of dating an inmate is not even a option, I couldn't help but watch.

It was about a woman letting her guard down to a man in need of a green card. After falling in 'love' they moved in together, but surprise: his ex-wife was a stalker. They all agreed to go on 'The Jerry Springer Show,' a clear indication that maybe your relationship isn't what you thought it was, and he admitted to sleeping with his ex that morning. She was 'shocked,' but stood by her 'man.'

A real man isn't intimate with his ex-wife on the morning of their appearance on a talk show that includes him, his girlfriend, and his ex.

After the show, which was never televised, the ex-wife was found brutally murdered. The man and his girlfriend were seen fleeing his home, and when authorities caught up to them his bloody shoes matched those found at the horrific crime scene. The girlfriend was once again 'shocked,' but stood by him.

He is now in prison and she fights weekly to try and get an international prison transfer to his native country, Germany.

The show followed her daily life, which she lives out of a trailer and gets by with a van slowly falling apart. She even had to borrow a car to go see him one weekend, a trip so exhausting she must get there hours early for a place in line. Apparently other women stand by their 'men' behind bars.

It was meant to show how hard married life is when your husband is locked up. But if your husband clearly murdered his ex-wife, why are you still with him?

I felt very sorry for her, as she clearly had low self-esteem and latched onto the first man who showed interest. But there are worse things in life than being single, like spending every minute of your free time focused on freeing a murderer. Or having to rush home on a Friday night to get in a nap, only to get up at midnight and drive several hours away, sleep another few hours, then wait in line to see your murderer of a husband. Then drive back home, sleep, and repeat the same process the next day before returning to work the following Monday.

As a single woman I have grown accustomed to a quiet lifestyle, especially after some horrific relationships. It's normal to be lonely at times, but I'm thankful for the things I do have in life and even for the things I don't have. Like a husband convicted of murder.

Rewrite Your Life

2011-12-27T07:34:00.001-08:00

2011 was quite the year. A minor surgery, downsizing at my place of employment, my best friend moving across the country, and seeing the true colors of other 'friends' forced me to take a closer look at my life. Oh, and I turned 30.

I've had better years.

Yet I have no regrets, even when looking back at myself in high school. Dreams of attending New York University Law School fell flat as I settled on a community college education, but I wouldn't have fit in with that crowd anyway. I've watched enough episodes of 'Selling New York' to realize I'm not the upper-class type. Besides, they usually have dozens of skeletons in their closet. Which is not to say I wouldn't give my left arm to own a penthouse on 5th Avenue, but then how would I write?

I also pondered a career in law enforcement, specifically forensic science. But you have to stomach crime scenes, and I flinch at paper cuts.

Before high school I was convinced I'd be a dancer. For ten years I practiced ballet, tap, and jazz, and I attribute my lack of shyness to dancing on a stage to a packed theater. But at 5'8" and with large bones, my body type didn't make the cut. After seeing 'Black Swan' I'm glad I left my catty days behind me.

I've dabbled in everything from food service, banking, and cable; anything to earn a paycheck. When I was finally able to quit my weekend job I found myself with plenty of time to kill, something unheard of since high school.

It wasn't long before I began writing again.

An English degree was a brief consideration, but I don't have the patience to be a teacher. So naturally I didn't obtain one, especially after hearing 'A degree in English is worthless unless you become a teacher.' But the words began to flow, and I had a story. Not having a degree specific to writing, I've had to consult numerous sources to help me along the way. And lucky for me, this internet thing is here to stay.

I know people in high ranking positions who are extremely unhappy, and people who live paycheck to paycheck who love their life. I'm somewhere in between. A writer must know when to pick the pen up, but more importantly when to put it down. In the words of Ernest Hemingway, 'The first draft of anything is shit.'

So if you're like me and realize your childhood dreams didn't come true, relax. That was only your first draft. Pick the pen back up and keep writing. Some of the best stories were rewritten almost 100 times.

Celebrate

2011-12-25T08:38:00.000-08:00

Not everyone celebrates Christmas, and in a way I think that's a good thing. What a boring world this would be if we all belonged to the same religion. I love hearing 'Happy Holidays' instead of 'Merry Christmas.' It's a reminder of what a beautifully diverse world we live in.

Since my birthday is right before Thanksgiving, growing up that meant plenty of extra cash for Black Friday. Over the years friends have gone their separate ways, and I've favored those with whom I now simply exchange birthday cards. Priorities have changed, and any birthday money is usually put into savings. Unless Bath and Body Works is having like the best sale ever.

Our economy is still in dire straights, and hope seems far away. Milk, eggs, bread and cheese will now set you back almost $20, grocery staples that should cost less than $10. But just like it's now preferable to say 'Happy Holidays,' maybe we can use this financial downturn to change how we celebrate. This time of year should not put anyone into credit card debt. Of course that's easier said than done, but when I ask people why they hate Christmas the response is the same: money. If you can't afford to put food on the table, then how can you afford presents?

As a single woman I monitor my money very closely. I'm certainly not playing the victim, but it's not easy living on your own. Rent, utilities, car payments and repairs; no wonder most of us have credit card debt. But this year made me realize what Christmas is really about: family. It hasn't been an easy year, either. Without going into details, I'm very excited about 2012.

Even if you sit down to a tree with just a few gifts today, or maybe none at all, I hope you find some way to celebrate. Or perhaps you don't celebrate Christmas at all, and you find yourself scanning through cheesy holiday movies on television; hopefully you at least have some cookies. But if you are completely alone, just pull up to a house with a lot of parked cars out in front and make your way inside. Chances are that family is so big they won't even question your presence.

Be A Lady, Not A Slut

2011-12-20T17:59:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite holiday songs (although it wasn't intended to be one) is 'Baby It's Cold Outside,' originally done by Frank Loesser and Lynn Garland. Over the years various artists, including a creepy one by Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson, have done several recordings. It depicts a warm, cozy home that provides shelter from the blizzard outside. In it are two adults: a man entertaining his date, hoping she will stay the night; and a woman, realizing it's late and insisting she must go. It’s a seemingly harmless, romantic song.

But as I grew older, I paid more attention to the lyrics.

Perhaps it's my heightened paranoia about dating from too many Investigation Discovery shows, or simply my adult mind comprehending things on another level. But one day instead of singing along I listened. I mean really listened. And what I heard disturbed me.

'Baby It's Cold Outside,' dissected.

Female: 'I really can't stay' - 'Goodnight.'

Male: 'Baby it's cold outside' - 'Wouldn't you rather stay warm?'

Female: 'Ive got to go away.' - 'I said no.'

Male: 'Baby it's cold outside' - 'I won't take no for an answer.'

Female: 'This evening as been...' - 'I appreciate your hospitality, but...'

Male: 'Been hoping that you'd drop in.' - 'I put fresh sheets on my bed.'

Female: '...so very nice.' - 'You're creeping me out.'

Male: 'I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice.' - 'I forgot to pay the heating bill.'

Female: 'My mother will start to worry.' - 'My mother will run your name through the sex offender registry.'

Male: 'Beautiful what's your hurry?' - 'I forgot your name.'

Female: 'My father will be pacing the floor.' - 'My father is a member of the NRA.'

Male: 'Listen to the fireplace roar.' - 'They'd never find your body.'

Female: 'So really I'd better scurry.' - 'Seriously, are you a sex offender?'

Male: 'Beautiful please don't hurry.' - 'I gave you the wrong impression.'

Female: 'Well maybe just a half a drink more.' - 'I have a drinking problem.'

Male: 'Put some records on while I pour.' - 'Keep your back to me.'

Female: 'The neighbors might think.' - 'I'm not a whore.'

Male: 'Baby it's bad out there.' - 'You know you want to.'

Female: 'Say, what's in this drink?' - 'You slipped me a ruffie.'

Male: 'No cabs to be had out there.' - 'You're stranded.'

Female: 'I wish I knew how...' - 'I'm drunk.'

Male: 'Your eyes are like starlight now.' - 'The ruffie is working.'

Female: '...to break this spell.' - 'You've drugged me.'

Male: 'I'll take your hat, your hair looks swell.' - 'Time to undress.'

Female: 'I ought to say no, no, no, sir.' - 'This ruffie is really kicking in.'

Male: 'Mind if I move a little closer?' - 'You know you want me.'

Female: 'At least I'm gonna say that I tried.' - 'I'm going to file a police report against you for sexual assault once I'm sober.'

Male: 'What's the sense in hurting my pride?' - 'My ego is huge to make up for small body parts.'

Female: 'I really can't stay.' - 'I'm not too drunk to make a run for it.'

Male: 'Baby don't hold out.' - 'It's time to put out.'

Female/Male: 'Ah but it's cold outside.' - Female: 'I can't think for myself.' Male: 'I've won.'

Female: 'I simply must go.' - 'Wait, I don't want to be here.'

Male: 'Baby it's cold outside.' - 'We have already discussed this.'

Female: 'The answer is no.' - 'No means no, asshole!'

Male: 'But baby it's cold outside.' - 'I have enough back hair to keep both of us warm.'

Female: 'This welcome has been...' - 'I'm heading to the door slowly so you don't notice...'

Male: 'How lucky that you dropped in.' - 'I reserved a drawer for you in my dresser.'

Female: '...so nice and warm.' - 'You need to back off.'

Male: 'Look out the window at the storm.' - 'You're not going anywhere.'

Female: 'My sister will be suspicious.' - 'My sister works for the FBI.'

Male: 'Gosh your lips look delicious.' - 'Come closer...closer...'

Female: 'My brother will be there at the door.' - 'My brother is also an NRA member.'

Male: 'Waves upon a tropical shore.' - 'Let's change the subject.'

Female: 'My maiden aunt's mind is vicious.' - 'My maiden aunt served time in prison for killing her husband.'

Male: 'Ooh, your lips are delicious.' - 'I got you to kiss me.'

Female: 'But maybe just a cigarette more.' - 'You're intriguing me in a creepy way.'

Male: 'Never such a blizzard before.' - 'That's right, come to me...'

Female: 'I've got to get home.' - 'I can’t let this ruffie get the best of me.’

Male: 'But baby you'll freeze out there.' - 'You'll die if you leave.'

Female: 'Say, lend me your coat.' - 'I'm such an airhead I came over in the middle of winter without a jacket.'

Male: 'It's up to your knees up there.' - 'You won't make it.'

Female: 'You've really been grand.' - 'This is dragging out.'

Male: 'I thrill when you touch my hand.' - 'Can't wait for you to touch more than just my hand.'

Female: 'But don't you see?' - 'I see something bulging from your zipper.'

Male: 'How can you do this thing to me?' - 'I see the bulge, too.'

Female: 'There's bound to be talk tomorrow.' - 'People will know I'm now a ho.'

Male: 'Think of my life long sorrow.' - 'You can't ignore this bulge.'

Female: 'At least there will be plenty implied.' - 'You'll tell everyone we did the nasty.'

Male: 'If you caught pneumonia and died.' - 'You have to stay, lest you die.'

Female: 'I really can't stay...' - 'I really am too intoxicated to even walk.'

Male: 'Get over that hold out.' - 'Stop being a prude.'

Female/Male: 'Ah but it's cold outside!' Female: 'Fine, I'll stay.' Male: 'I'll turn down the lights and show you upstairs.'

So in the end, she stays the night.

Maybe I have read too much into the lyrics, and perhaps I need to lighten up. But I know many women (including myself) who have been in the same predicament. It's cold, the evening is drawing to an end, you've enjoyed an adult beverage or two, and you don't have four-wheel drive. So ladies, heed my advice: bring a warm jacket, don't consume alcohol, eye him as he pours your drink, and get a set of snow tires.

Run Kris, Run!

2011-12-14T07:46:00.001-08:00

I pride myself on not watching anything about the Kardashians. But being forced to look at magazine covers (because I subscribe) peaked my interest, and so I found myself watching them last night.

What the hell?

Scott Disick has to be the most narcissistic man in America. After telling Kris Jenner that Mason-his child with Kourtney-is the only thing she seems to love lately, he then discloses their sex life. Kris then briefly discusses hers and they high five their lifestyle.

Back at the homestead Kim confronts Kris about children, upset he wants them to raise a family in Minnesota. Kim doesn't want to give up her 'career' for children, but Kris indicates by the time that happens people won't remember her. She then has lunch with her friend who tells her to stay on the pill.

So now America knows her birth control method.

Later on Kris and Scott take care of Mason, where Scott could not have been less enthused. But for the cameras he expresses a huge 'love' of fatherhood. The next day he and Kourtney discuss their lackluster sex life, and he suggests she fool around with a girl while he watches.

Run Kris. Run far away from this family and pretend the marriage never happened. Find yourself a good, family oriented woman who doesn't want her life filmed for national television. And Kourtney and Kim, it's time you left New York.

Get On The Short Bus

2011-12-12T07:24:00.001-08:00

There are some movies that have me regretting I ever put them in my NetFlix DVD queue. You know, the ones where ten minutes into it you're looking at the sleeve to check the run time? And there are others that have me adding the creepy suggestions I get from Big Brother upon rating the movie.

Oops, I mean NetFlix.

And still there are some, like 'Shortbus' by John Cameron Mitchell, that force my mouth to stay open in shock from beginning to end.

Since this blog is not rated 'adults only,' I cannot go into detail about the film. But that alone should give you some clues (and I'm sure Wikipedia has a detailed entry).

This blew any adult oriented film I have ever seen out of the water. Every opening scene depicts acts of love with no censorship. Some shocked me (and that's a hard feat given my very open, very disturbed mind), some made me cry, and all kept me interested in the movie. At no point did I check the run time.

A sex therapist who has never experienced an orgasm, a gay couple consisting of a suicidal lover, and a dominatrix with emotional issues. They all come together and deal with their problems, but not without help from free spirited sex addicts.

If you enjoy movies that deal with real life issues without sugar coating anything, then I recommend this movie. But follow it up with a bottle of wine, because you will walk away thinking 'What the fuck did I just watch?'

Warrior + Virgin + Harvest = WTF?

2011-12-10T16:20:00.000-08:00

Over the years my inquisitive mind has read many novels, including a few of the adult genre. O.K., a lot. A general rule of thumb is that a graphic, descriptive cover means a dull, boring story with little or no adult entertainment. However there are some exceptions to that rule, and those can usually be found on my bookshelf.

'The Warrior's Touch,' by Michelle Willingham, is somewhere in the middle.

I don't usually pick up Harlequin novels at the book store or library, but this was a suggestion by a friend. Actually, it was more of a 'Hey there's a semi-naked man on the cover of a book in the break room, made me think of you' suggestion.

At 299 pages it's thicker than other ones I've read, and about 150 pages longer than it should have been. As an adult woman in 21st century America, I am thrilled my virginity was not saved for some warrior to ensure a fruitful harvest. In fact after reading this book, I'm fairly certain I would have tried becoming a man were I in such a situation. But that's not what Aileen O Duinne did, especially since she was in love with said warrior. However said warrior was in love with the town 'virgin,' and had planned on filling her with his harvest one night. When the 'virgin' told Aileen she had already experienced the carnal acts of love, Aileen agreed to substitute her place. After all, their food depended on it.

There, in a dark tent set in 12th century Ireland, a man stole a woman's innocence to make sure they had food to eat that year. Flash forward six years and that man returns home with broken hands from battle. He seeks help from the town healer, who is none other than Aileen. Of course he has no idea she had his love child, married a man who could have joined the AARP when she was a teenager, lost her husband due to illness, had her daughter taken away, and is one sick person away from being ousted as a bad healer. Oh, and he is clueless about their love making from six years ago due to the darkness of the tent. Needless to say, she has had to overcome many obstacles in her life.

Again, I love living in the 21st century.

Healing broken hands, coming to terms with being a father, accepting that two women deceived him, and becoming a warrior again. That's what Connor MacEgan must overcome. Poor bastard.

Short of playing the feminist card, once again the woman gets the short end of the stick. As usual these types of novels end well, but of course that depends on what you consider 'well.' No sane woman would marry a man who shunned her years ago, who chose to instead sleep with her friend (again, for some harvest). Imagine his surprise when she tells him it was her he slept with that night, and the little girl he met was his daughter.

I won't spoil when she tells him, but let's just say Mr. MacEgan 'finishes' despite being angry upon her confession. Speaking of which, kudos to the author for being descriptive enough to hold my attention.

Perhaps 'He's Just Not That Into You' made me a bitter woman, and perhaps Connor would have been the 'exception to the rule' they speak of in the book. But if my teenage crush chose my best friend over me on 'sleep with a virgin for the harvest' night, I would not be that into him six years later.

Once again I am reminded as to why I don't read Harlequin novels. But if your kind of story involves a woman needing to sacrifice her innocence to make sure crops grow, then perhaps this is the book for you.