What Gets on My Tits

Join Me at My New Site!

2011-04-15T15:48:00.000+01:00

It's been a long time. I shouldn't have left you without a dope post to step to..step to. *record scratch*. Alright guys, the jigg is up. I'm sure you've realized that I have not posted anything here in quite some time. WGOMT is going on hiatus for a while I will make this site private so that I can keep up my shenanigans or continue spewing random venom in 140 characters via Twitter.

BUT wait...there's more. Most of you may already know that I have plunged myself head first into my new beauty venture, Ace Your Face. I am pursuing my interest in make-up, beauty coaching and beauty blogging. This site is updated daily (minus weekends), sometimes twice a day. Things still get on my tits, but I don't want anyone to mistake me for an angry person, worse, that horrible archetype the "angry Black woman". So I've got helpful beauty, hair and makeup tips along with yummy food reviews over at http://aceyourface.co.uk/ . Come drop by and say hi :o)

Say My Name: An Epic Tirade in Brief

2010-10-07T12:10:00.001+01:00

Not me.

Dear people of the world:

I have had enough! My name is Kunta. Kunta Ki….I mean Kadian. It’s not Kate, Katelyn or Katie. While those are lovely names, none of them belongs to me. I know “Kadian” is somewhat of an unusual name, but it’s not that far out in left field. Ok, so my mother cannot locate the so-called river in Africa from whence commeth my name. Minor mix up on her part, but I've gotten over that. Seriously, for the love of my mother, stop being lazy and listen to my enunciation when I tell you that my name is Kadian. I don’t rush through its pronunciation, but neither should it have to roll as slow as molasses off my tongue. Why? Because it's an undeniably awesome name. In fact, so awesome are the nine letters that make up my full name that I refused to change my name when I got married. And guess what?! I am the kind of woman who is not afraid to correct a sucka for getting my name wrong. The very least you can do for me is to say it right. Strip me naked and take all that I possess in this world, but my name will always be mine. So get it right, bitches. Thx.

Any of you out there with unusual names that people continually get wrong? Do you bother correcting them?

Please Mind the GAP

2010-10-01T18:09:00.009+01:00

It’s ok to pretend I don’t exist? To plough right through me, hoping I don’t become a hood ornament?

Say what you will about The United States, but at least they have stop signs for pedestrians in residential areas. I am livid right now after smashing my lovely pink and purple GAP umbrella on the window and roof of a car after it nearly ran over me. I am still shaken by the experience. I have been hit by an SUV before, the victim of a drug addict’s blatant disregard for red traffic lights and pedestrian crossing signals. At the age of 14, walking home from school in DC, I was hit so hard that I flew in the air, landed on the hood then tumbled to the ground. The passing Metrobus narrowly avoided my fingers as it swerved around me. Thanks to 230 pounds of padding I had back then, I escaped with a sprained knee and some bruises. 17 years later, I still suffer with pain in that knee.

Today’s incident smacked of the same fuck-a-pedestrian attitude, minus the drugs. It is another nasty, rainy and windy day in Birmingham, UK, and I had to walk to work. I approached a closed intersection in which there was only one street to my right and the other side of the intersection was a no-thru way littered with apartment buildings and small businesses. The corner at which I stood had huge apartment buildings on either side, so clearly this is an area frequented by pedestrians trying to cross the street. But this country only does pedestrian crossings on busy roads. You have to fend for yourself otherwise. I learned the hard way at age 5 to look both ways before crossing the street. Yes, at the tender age of 5 I walked to school by myself in Jamaica, on occasion. I didn’t know how to cross the street so I just followed the adult in front of me. I would later learn that she was jaywalking. Young and trusting, I ran behind her only to hear the screeching brakes of a white car to my right. You’ve seen movies where a driver jams on his brakes only to stop millimetres in front of a pedestrian? That literally happened, except I felt the tap of the car. Jamaica being a small island, it was of little surprise that the driver knew my teacher and so drove me to school.

Ruined GAP Umbrella

Today’s idiot was nowhere near me when I decided to cross. With a fuchsia-hued leather bag, pink and purple umbrella and stone-coloured trench coat, I was not invisible. I was nearly in the middle of the road before the car got anywhere near my corner, but he decided I was not worth his brake fluid. Narrowly missing my new black leather boots, he belatedly slowed to turn the corner in front of me. I was so enraged I took my umbrella and quickly smashed it on the roof and rear passenger window of his car, while cursing the fucker to high heavens. He noticed and had the nerve to stop, AFTER he veered around the corner, to give me a lesson in crossing the street.

“There’s no crossing there, no sign*, ” he said in an attempt to scold me and justify his actions. What the fuck, does that mean? It’s ok to pretend I don’t exist? To plough right through me, hoping I don’t become a hood ornament? It’s symptomatic of a larger traffic issue in this country that is becoming higher and higher on my tit list. Why the fuck are there no stop signs or pedestrian crossings in residential areas where people actually live and walk?! The worst part about my incident was that I had to walk the next mile and a half with a disabled and completely busted umbrella. I can’t tell you how many strange stares I endured holding up a piece of cloth with busted spokes that looked like they had severe arthritis. SMH.
____________________________
* For the benefit of all pedestrians, UK motorists please familiarise yourself with rule 206 of the Highway Code, and remember you are required to give way to pedestrians who are already crossing the road!!!

No One to Blame but Me

2010-07-26T10:25:00.003+01:00

When I was seven years old, my mother relaxed my hair without asking me. I can’t say that it was totally out of the blue as the clues were there. Tugging my hair in resentment, her frustration with my hair—and me by extension—was palpable each time she put her hands in it. Sadly, my story is not unique.

Between ages of seven and twelve, I had little control over my hair, which in some ways is a good thing. A child who has had a relaxer forced on them has no business trying to take care of their own hair. I lived with my grandmother and saw my mom every couple of weeks. With my grandmother, it was thick blue or green grease, barrettes and plaits. When my mom would see my hair like this, she thought it unacceptable and would promptly deliver me to her favorite salon du jour.

I was eight years old on one of these salon trips when she left me under a hooded dryer to run an errand. I had already been at the salon for hours and my hair was still not done. By the time I climbed up into the stylist’s chair I was struggling to stay asleep. I remember muttering something about my bangs before drifting off to sleep. I woke up to the stylist patting me on my shoulder and shoving a hand mirror in front of my face. I looked in the mirror, my eyes quickly bulging in disbelief. My bangs! My beautiful, beautiful side swept bangs. What had she done to them?! They were several inches above my eyebrows and greased to an inch of their lives. This was 1987, so 1940s Betty Page bangs were not in. I had to go to school like this for several weeks until they grew to a reasonable length. In addition to my lingering Jamaican accent, this was yet another thing the kids at school would make fun of. I could feel the blood rushing to my face as I felt a mix of rage, sadness and disappointment. I was eight, dammit. How could she do this to me?!

I turned to meet the expectant gaze of the stylist. She wanted feedback and I wanted to strangle her. Barely managing my disdain for her, I quickly muttered “it’s fine,” as I leapt out of her chair to go sit and wait for my mom. I sat fuming in anger and holding back tears as I waited for my mom for half an hour. When she finally arrived, she looked questionably at my hair. I told her what happened, expecting her to tear the stylist a new one. To my chagrin, she blamed me for falling asleep. Me for not standing watch over a professional to ensure that she cut a child’s bangs to a reasonable length. Me for looking like someone she didn’t want to be seen with. On the way home, the anger subsided, but the disappointment lingered even after my bangs had grown back.

It wasn’t until much later that I understood what my mother was trying to tell me by blaming me for the bang debacle. Sure, she may have been a little tough on me (did I mention I was eight?) but her point was sound. She taught me that just because someone is a licensed professional, my own common sense and intuition should not go out the door. Whether it is a haircut or chemical treatment, it is I who am ultimately responsible for the way I present myself to the world.

Arizona's Immigration Stance and the Third Reich:

2010-04-29T23:40:00.008+01:00

A U.S. Border Patrol Agent searches a man
in Pima County near Three Points, Arizona.(c) San Francisco Sentinel

Let's be clear. Crystal, in fact. Arizona's new immigration law, set to take effect in a few months, is definitely about you. Yes, it puts undue scrutiny on Latin populations. In a state like Arizona, who else would it be aimed at? But all Americans need to watch out, especially those of color. This law is definitely abotu race. Americans--my recent European residence be damned, I am still an American--have a tendency to look the other way when we think a law does not apply to us. This is doubly true when it comes to immigration. But again, let's be clear:

If you are a law-abiding, legal, Green Card-totting resident of Arizona or any other State: this is about you.
If you are a non-white US citizen: this is about you.
If you are a person who intends to drive through the state of Arizona: this is about you.
If you are a person who likes to travel, and whose plane may land in Arizona, expectedly or unexpectedly: this is about you.

You may say that you have no plans to visit Arizon or ever head west of the Mason-Dixon line, so why should you be concerned? The state of Arizona has just aligned itself with the Third Reich of 1930s Germany. (Yes, I went there.) Arizona has made scapegoats of illegal immigrants, blaming them for the ills of the state--and perhaps the entire country. Now, for residents of the State (and anybody passing through) proof of identity will not suffice in a police check. A passport or alien registration card will be required to satisfy the new law. The aim is to identify the "problem" folk and expel them from the US, thereby ridding Arizona of its burden. Or so they think. Immigrants today, who's next tomorrow?

Consider the ban on gay marriage. In 1975 Arizona became the second state--only bested by Maryland two years previous--to ban gay marriage. Since then more states have viciously gone the distance to suppress the rights of this minority population. The bold bigoted actions of the state of Maryland in 1973 eventually led to the 1996 Federal Defence of Marriage Act (DOMA). What has Arizona's new immigration law got to do with a ban on gay marriage? It's yet another example of people successfully organizing and lobbying on behalf of discrimination. Arizona's immigration law creates another dangerous precedent that will undoubtedly lead to similar laws in other states. This divisiveness knows no bounds.

If this law isn't rescinded, it will be just the tip of the iceberg. To paraphrase Pastor Martin Niemoller: when it's your turn, who will be left to speak for you?

My Christmas Tit List

2009-12-25T10:00:00.029Z

Jesus, where do I start? For the most part no one remembers that sweet baby born to bring us all together in peace, love and understanding. But at Christmas, this baby is used as an excuse for all kinds of artificial merriment and celebration. Let's forget about what Christmas is supposed to mean and look at what it's become:

Enforced Jollity

'Tis the season to be jolly or so they say. What about the other 364 days of the year, fuckers?

Cards

I love receiving cards. It's good to know that people think about me...if only once a year. What gets on my tits, however, are the lengthy messages from self-important people who brag about how achingly wonderful their year has been. These people have climbed mountains, run marathons (in record times!), been promoted (twice!), and their progeny have accomplished more in twelve months than I have in three decades. Nobody ever mentions that they've gained twenty pounds, gone bald, had their house repossessed and haven't had sex since last Christmas. Next year, I'm going to send cards about all the shit that life has dumped on me. Merry fucking Christmas.

Gifts

I don't like buying gifts for other people as a general rule. But I loathe this tradition even more at Christmas . Maybe it's all the expectation and the unfulfilled promises. The disappointment on people's faces when they see that you've failed them. Equally bad is opening an unexpected gift from your mom's friend thrice removed and having to feign surprise and delight when you realize that the wrapping paper cost more (but is less tacky) than the actual gift. In brief, why do people spend money they can't afford on gifts nobody really wants? Why? Why. Why? Because it's Christmas. Ho ho ho.

It's A Wonderful Life/Miracle on 34th Street

These movies typify every cliche I hate about Christmas: redemption, forced family togetherness, end of year miracles, return of the prodigal whoever, caroling, Santa as savior. All served with a generous dollop of sugar.

Pop Remakes of Christmas Classics

Dear Christina and Mariah:

Shut the fuck up.

Merry Chriihihihihistmaaahaaaahaaasss!

Just Drug the Kid, Please!

2009-09-10T11:53:00.006+01:00

This is the thought beating in my head whenever I get on an airplane and realize there are kids under the age of 12 aboard. It seems to me that only selfish, annoying or ultra liberal parents take their kids on an airplane with them. Either that, or these kids just have no home training. The parents think being on an airplane equals being in an alternative universe whereby letting their child do whatever the fuck they want to do is totally acceptable. This is especially true if the parents are marginally well-off. Somehow their kids are more spoiled and entitled than most others. Here's a litany of common behavior by children that parents don't correct:

Letting the ankle-biters kick the back of the chair in front of them.
Incessantly say "mom"/"dad" as a desperate plea for attention (note: the parent is usually reading while this is going on).
Use their "outside" voices more than a few times.
Watch their portable DVD player / games console without headphones
Encroach on the personal space of others, etc.

These parents have usually built-up the ability to totally zone out while their kid is inches away, bawling their head off. When is this ever acceptable parenting? Obviously the kid is either in need of some attention or a warm cup of shut-the-hell-up.

What sets me off is when parents act like everyone else should cater to them and their kid (Note: this attitude can also be encountered in non-family restaurants and theaters showing PG-13 & R-rated films). Rather, they should tell the kid to shut the fuck up or stop the offending behavior. Parents, it's not your God-given right to be a parent. It's your choice. A choice that I didn't make, so stop making me suffer. While children can be full of light and provide pleasure, they are also downright annoying- especially when in confined places. So next time you are boarding a flight-for the love of everyone involved- bring some Benadryl or cough syrup for the kids. They won't remember a thing.

Stop Looking At My Ass

2009-06-10T14:08:00.005+01:00

What is it with some men? Before you're even out of sight, they're already wearing a dumb look on their faces, eyes downcast waiting to zero in on your ass. It seems as instinctual as the rubbernecking response to a crash on the highway. However, my ass is not a disaster--it's a piece of me. I'm not a walking body part. I shouldn't take it too seriously because I know that neither me nor my ass is particularly special to these ogglers.

I had a friend who seemed to think that her ass was something special. She would regale me with tales of her daily experiences on the Metro. What I saw as familiar harassment, she took as compliments to re-enforce her self esteem. But there's a distinct difference between "you look lovely today!" and "damn, you thick as shit, ma!" Comments like the latter make me wish I carried a Samurai sword so that I could pull a Kill Bill. As sinister as that fleeting thought is, far more sinister is that this type of behavior is condoned, even welcomed by other women and men. It sickens me that some women even respond positively and flirtatiously to these comments. Have some self respect, for crying out loud. I'm not letting the assholes off the hook, but I firmly believe that if women AND other men called these suckers out on their harassment, there would be less of it. Or maybe we just need some Samurai swords.

Posted with LifeCast

Gifting an Ingrate

2009-04-22T16:16:00.003+01:00

I can be a cheap motherfucker sometimes. I suffer most from this condition when I have to buy birthday or Christmas presents. I’ll spend money on taking people out for a nice meal or an experience that I know they are sure to enjoy. But I can’t stand the uncertainty of gift-buying. I especially don’t like buying toys for children. I’m about to sound like a real asshole here, but I don’t care. It burns me up when you get a kid a toy that you think is cool, then twenty-minutes later you find that toy in pieces in the corner. It’s worse if the toy was for a little girl. Poor Barbie will be found under the couch in a split with a butch-ass haircut and nail polish all over her face. You sigh and think, “what a fuckin’ waste of money that was.” But before you can really begin to feel salty, the kid’s parent usually says something like, “oh, you know how kids are!” Do they know how my bank account is?! Shiiiiiit.

What really gets me salty is when an adult does something similar. I got an ex-friend of mine a couple of cute tops a couple of years ago. One was much more expensive than the other. When I watched her open both, her perfect teeth revealed a fake plastic smile upon seeing the expensive one. Do you know this bitch never told me she didn’t like it? And we were really close. What’s worse is that her sister came up to me a few months later and told me how she didn’t like the shirt either, but that the Contempo Casuals reject was cute. Arrrrrrrrggggh!!! I don't care that she didn't like it. I care that she wasted my fucking hard-earned money by not telling me. I could have returned the shirt or given her the receipt so she could get something else, if only she would have shared her dislike with me. Now that shirt is either stuck in an attic somewhere or is being worn by a really lucky Goodwill customer. Ingrate.

Divorcing Your Family

2009-04-09T20:45:00.022+01:00

Do you ever want to divorce some of your family members? Maybe just do a trade like they do in professional sports? Don’t give me that look. You know you’ve thought about it. Even you fuckers who think that your family is all you need. I love my family, but sometimes they make me wanna choke a bitch.

My grandmother is a sweet and loving woman who has sacrificed dearly for the sake of her family, but she too gets on my tits sometimes. She doesn’t check her voicemail during crucial times, says passive-aggressive things like, “if you loved me, you would iron this shirt,” and then upon ironing the shirt tells me how much I suck at that job. She has a tendency to mispronounce things in a hilarious way (she once referred to Shaquille O’Neal as Chicken O’Neal). She calls me, but proceeds to talk to everyone else around her while I sit there trying to figure out if she’s talking to me or the guy in the produce aisle. But perhaps her most frustrating quality is her inability to apologize even when she is blatantly, patently, unquestionably wrong. Why does this make me want to choke her? Because she gets me all riled up; yelling and screaming all over the house and making up bizarre tales about me taking her best Tupperware and not bringing it back. And when she finds said Tupperware at the back of the pantry, who doesn’t get an apology or even a sympathetic glance? You guessed it.

My aunt is one of those people who can’t greet you without begging for something. If she gives me a ride home, she wants gas money or comes in to see what she can take from my fridge, pantry or closet. I’m not kidding. She’s loud for no reason and walks around other people’s houses turning on unnecessary lights. Sometimes I wonder if her vision is going. Worst of all, she’s one of those people who thinks that she deserves a cut of whatever good fortune befalls you…just because.

They know when they’re getting on my tits because I’m not shy of telling them (not in quite so many words). Although their quirks drive me crazy, none of their foibles thrusts me into emotional turmoil. That is the job of my mother. She hosted me in a nice little warm pod for nine months, and allowed me to squirm my way into this big, beautiful world via her vagina. Thanks for the trip because it’s great to be here.

For a woman who has been out of my life more than she’s been in, I don’t hate her. But, I do feel too much for her. I still care about pleasing her. I hang my clothing inside out and keep my shoes stuffed with tissue, like she once showed me. I made a pledge to myself at the age of 12 to land on the honor role because at a school awards ceremony (the only one she ever came to), she had been disappointed that I wasn’t on that list. I never broke that pledge. Even when she was behind bars, I did as she said, not as she did. She became my anti-role model in some ways in that I wanted my life to be the total opposite of hers. She made her choices and I made mine. But her absences throughout my life reverberate like a gong. Coming in and out and requesting more and more of me each time has taken its toll. I’m not a whore, so I can’t be easily bought--pretending that every wrong has turned right because of an apology. I still have this emotional battle that takes me from guilty to angry to faux indifference and back again.

People always say blood is thicker than water, meaning that your family will always be there for you. But do you always want to be there for your family, especially when they pile drive you between a rock and a hard place? I don’t know. I fantasize about moving someplace far away from here, hoping that my appreciation for them will grow while my annoyance dissipates; that they will need me a little less, but want me a little more. I am not a romantic, nor am I a broken little bird complaining that my mother fucked me up. I am just a woman who wants to check my baggage so I can move through life with a little more ease.

Give Me a Ride, not Attitude

2009-04-03T14:33:00.005+01:00

I live on a hill. Because of this, I run down the hill most mornings to ensure that I don’t see a bus swooshing by just out of my reach. Usually, I make it down in time to wait on his/her majesty the bus driver to grace me with their presence. This morning, struggling in shoes that were flopping off my feet, I ran for the bus. I usually try to be graceful while running, but this morning I was not too cute to run my ass off. Of course the bus left me by the time I got there. I looked back and with no other bus in sight, decided to pit my flopping shoes and agility against the lumbering bus.

I made it to the next traffic light where the bus was waiting for the green signal . I stood in front of the bus’s door, and the bus driver looked at me as if to say, “So? And, what do you want me to do about it?” Clearly he was being an asshole, but I tried to be charming and give him a smile and little knock on the door. He was unimpressed. In a desperate plea, I even clasped my hands in prayer begging him to open the door. With a cold, dead look in his eyes worse than that of Audrina Partridge, he stared at me like I was a crack whore offering sucky-sucky for $2 . I thought, “Is he going to want me to tap dance before he opens this door?!” After what seemed like ages, he finally relented and said, “This isn’t the only bus in town, you know!” What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Did he think I was begging him for a ride in his personal hoopty mobile? It’s a city bus for Christ’s sake, and you are a bus driver—not my personal savior. Just do me a favor and keep the bus moving…with me on it.

Close Encounters of the Turd Kind

2009-03-27T19:19:00.011Z

Like most people, I don’t like using public lavatories or the bathrooms of non-family members. I especially do not like to use the bathroom at dinner parties or other festivities held in anyone’s home. You see-I have a mortal fear (yes, it’s that serious) of being blamed for something I didn’t do, especially when there’s a bathroom involved. Absurd or not, I finally came face to face with my fear and it wasn’t pretty. Read on only if you can stomach it.

I was at an all female dinner party with women I had never met before, in a home in which I had never set foot. I realized I needed to pee, so I briefly excused myself and headed for the only bathroom in my friend’s apartment. 20 minutes later, with sweat on my brow and a spooked look in my eyes, I regained my composure to return to the dinner table unable to return to enjoying my meal. I could barely speak, only stare at Gilda Radner’s twin across the table, whom I was sure was to blame for my 20 minute absence. I wanted to tell everyone what a nasty little bitch she was.

What did she do? Have you ever passed a fine bakery and admired those beautiful plaited French loaves? Now, imagine such a loaf as a giant turd, standing to attention in the toilet bowl. This is what greeted me went I went to pee, and what steadfastly refused to go away despite my increasingly frantic efforts to flush it away. My feelings vacillated between disgust and shock at the gall of the Twin for not assuring the disappearance of her brown bundle before leaving the bathroom. Strangely my desire to pee evaporated as I became all-consumed with the destruction of the toxic turd missile.

What to do? I was all in now, with total annihilation of the brown challah loaf my only option. I couldn’t leave it there because whoever came next would surely mistake the bundle as mine. I couldn't very well alert the home-owner, stridently refusing ownership of the loaf. What do they say—possession is nine tenths of the law? Yeah, I would have been royally fucked if I drew anyone else’s attention to it. In that moment I could only be thankful that no one else knocked on the door to use the loo! After four rigorous flushes, I was sweating. Heart palpitating. Mind racing “what if it won’t go….what if it won’t go”. I thought about crying, but that might draw too much attention. The more maniacal I became about flushing the more convinced I was that the plaited loaf was grinning at me in defiance. I’d only had one glass of wine, but it was like I was tripping on ecstasy and the turd had both a life and will-power that would outlast mine.

I was pumping that toilet lever like Jed Clampett before he struck oil, but to no avail. Under better circumstances I’d be thinking it was a good workout for my biceps and triceps, but I was so overcome with embarrassment that all I could think was ‘go, go, go damn you!’ I felt like using faux Gilda’s head as my toilet brush. Don’t tell me that little bitch didn’t know she left an uninvited house guest in the toilet. Whom among us doesn’t do a quick check to make sure that their pooh has disappeared before leaving the premises? Was she really that nasty? Did she even wash her hands before she brushed past me on her way out of the loo?

Eventually my efforts started to pay off. The girthiness of the misshaped loaf began to wear away. My heart started to lift, just as I was wondering how Gilda managed to give birth to that thing in the first place. After what seemed like the millionth flush, I was free of that thing. I could face the rest of the party, but I knew I would be forever scarred. There was only one thing left to do. pee!

Don't Tell Me How to Feel

2009-03-25T22:10:00.011Z

I've been mourning the theft of my ipod since the incident took place yesterday. It happened on an otherwise positive, impactful and rewarding day. Yes, I feel violated and extremely disappointed that someone dug through my bag to find my purse, then carefully removed my ipod out of its case (thanks for the consolation prize, btw), then had the goddamn nerve to eat pizza with me. I organized a successful advocacy day for youth and youth providers at the Wilson building, but the day's success will forever be marred by that violation.

Now on to the part that really gets on my tits: Don't fucking tell me that "oh, it could have been an adult, you know. It probably wasn't a youth," or "someone was just really misguided to feel the need to take your ipod. They're not a bad person." Fuck that shit. I'm not demonizing the person who took it. I'm just fucking salty that I worked my ass off for this day, endured my first panic attack, flared up an illness and lost sleep only to be out of pocket $350. So the least you could do for me is let me be angry or disappointed or whatever the fuck I want to feel. I know that the person who took my ipod may be less fortunate than me--or they might have taken it because it was just there. You don't know how fortunate or unfortunate my life is just because I own an ipod. The point is you don't know the person's motivation for stealing, so don't try to defend them against the anger I'm feeling. Just don't. I know that it was just an object, but that shit was MINE. I like my stuff and I work hard to have that stuff. So do me a favor and don't try to mollify my emotions. Let me feel whatever the hell I want to feel because that's the only way I'll get over it.

Am I the only one who feels like this?

"If she wanna be a freak and sell it on the weekend: it's none of your buisness!"--Salt-n-Peppa

2009-03-06T22:23:00.014Z

I am a reformed Facebook hater, who became a Facebook tolerate-r(I signed up). Now, I suddenly find myself defending it (not because I respect it--no). It's a matter of privacy-yes "privacy" on Facebook. Read on and I'll explain.

I read an article the other day about a young girl who got fired because she innocently wrote on her Facebook page that her work was pretty boring at the moment. Who among us has not proclaimed the exact same thing umpteen times a day to someone? Hell, we've even said it while doing said boring work--audibly in some cases. At one of my former jobs, the phrase "my job blows" became my mantra. It was cathartic to say it out loud or write it in an email, somehow alleviating my boredom. Nevertheless, I did a competent job. To think I could have gotten fired for uttering those words to a non-employee? Come. The. Fuck. On.

First, let me say that if you are that much of a dumb-ass as to not set mad privacy settings on your profile and/or idiotically "friend" people with whom you work, then read no further because there will be no sympathy here for you. Just last week, I had to turn down FB friendship with a co-worker. That's right: I'm a c-c-c-cold hearted snake. Ah ah ahhhhh. And I don't play by rules. Oh ohohhh, you shouldn’t be a fool (break it down, Paula).

Ahem--back to what I was saying. When most people accept a job, they are to abide by company rules while on company time. Our employers do not own our lives 24-7. I can completely understand, from an employer’s point of view, that it's unacceptable to post things about yourself or work on your personal blog (guilty!) during work hours, on the company computer. Everybody does it, but everyone dreads the consequences of being caught. Howevs, I'm fucking flabbergasted at the thought of an employer firing someone on the grounds that they posted pictures of themselves looking high and downing a bag of Doritos in their underwear to their FB account on the weekend. That's none of your employer's god damn business. So long as an employee is punctual, competent, and groomed what the employee does in their off-time is not open for discussion at work.

With the proliferation of online social networking sites, we've become a nation (world?) of over-sharers. Some of us share a little more than others (just as some of us are a little more annoying than others). YES, there are inherent dangers in plastering anything on the internet and attaching your name to it. However, if you do it in your own private time, using your personal property, sharing in a semi-closed community (which does not include your employer), then employers should abdicate their self-appointed "right" to be watchdogs over their employee's personal life. However, don't be an asshole by calling in "sick" with the stomach flu then moments later update your status as "recovering from a hang-over". Clearly that is ass-hat behavior and you are asking for it. And while I'm on this topic, to all the slags (asshole co-workers on FB) out there: stop trolling around people's pages looking for dirt on fellow co-workers. Stop doing "right click. Save as. Send as attachment." Thanks.

Am I crazy to believe that some things about our lives are restricted territory for our employers? Or do you think they are being reasonable? In some ways, I think we're all learning what's appropriate sharing for the inter-webs as these forms of social interaction are still being explored and studied. It's all still relatively new! But, if we continue imposing Bushian retaliatory measures on individual privacy--even as what it means to be "private" is being renegotiated--it stifles our sense of freedom and breeds resentment. And resentment is always counterproductive.

Yes. I like Eating at my Desk, Fuckers

2009-01-28T14:18:00.003Z

Yes, I like eating at my desk, fuckers. Why should we feel the pressure to artificially socialize with our colleagues during the one hour when we aren't doing work? (Mind you, this doesn't apply to government workers who stop to socialize at cubes whenever they feel like it, and take two hour lunches to buy ugly green sweaters at Club Monaco). An invitation to dine with specific people is different, as is the natural inclination to want to have lunch with colleagues with whom you have a natural affinity. I'm talking about the jerk-offs that expect you (rather than invite you) to gather in the lunch room as a means of social initiation into a new office environment. It's like creating a junior-high lunchroom situation all over again.

And what really gets on my tits is when someone comes up to your desk while you are eating and says, "you don't have to eat at your desk, you know. We have a lunch room!"

And when you reply that you are actually choosing to eat at your desk, the person awkwardly manages "oh, I guess it's your lunch hour so you can do whatever you like with it."

Gee thanks--you're super informative. Maybe it's me. Maybe I like to have a little moment of zen in the middle of the working day, so I can call my spouse and be cutesy on the phone. Maybe I want to use that hour to pay my Comcast bill online and read blogs about my favorite show because it relaxes me. Sitting down to an awkward lunch and forcing myself to make conversation even though it's the last thing I want to do, is not my idea of lunch-time fun or relaxation. It actually feels like work. Yes, I'm speaking to the people who judge their co-workers for not being a "team-player" by joining with the cool kids at the lunch table so they can get all up in your bidness. Get a fucking life.

For the Love of God, Somebody do Something!!!

2009-01-12T15:57:00.007Z

The people of Sderot "can't do normal things day to day" like get soap in their eyes in the shower, for fear of rockets, said America's most famous plumber, whose real name is Samuel J. Wurzelbacher.

"I'm sure they're taking quick showers," he said. "I know I would."

Wurzelbacher's status as a rookie was evident when he stood in front of a pile of spent rockets and said: "I have thousands of questions but I can't think of the right one."

The Huffington Post

Joe, Sam--who-ever the fuck you are--I want you to STFU already! Seriously. For reals. I've watched and read your Neanderthal, meat-head, asinine ramblings on many a news outlet for months now. Don't worry, I too am still asking myself why. I want you to come close, closer, no even closer because I have a huge, warm cup of STFU for you and I will force it down your throat, if necessary.

It's rare that I go from complacent to heart-poundingly incensed in nano-seconds, but such was my reaction when I read on The Huffington Post that you dare to call yourself a reporter now. Nay, not only do you dare call yourself a reporter, but you have the unmitigated gall to go to Israel and report on the conflict in Gaza. OMFG, please tell me I'm in a Zyrtec-induced nightmare!!! No? Sigh.

"Joe," I can't blame you too much because you are a blatant opportunist trying to finally pay for your plumbing license and pay back Uncle Sam the taxes you owe. However, I can unabashedly excoriate the fucking idiot who has put you on a plane to Israel and endowed you with credibility. WTF?! "Joe," (and "Joe"'s handlers), do the world a favor and keep your nutbaggery to Right-wing radio shows and tea time with Elizabeth Hasselbeck. That is all.

The Rick Warren Question

2009-01-06T22:13:00.004Z

"So, what do you think about Rick Warren as Obama's pick for the Convocation?" This question began to pop up quite a bit in conversations I was having. It wasn't just among gays either. I don't know if people were asking me directly because they know I'm in a relationship with a woman or just as a topic of conversation. Anyhow, some people had definite opinions: "How could he, after he mentioned [gays] in his acceptance speech?" cry the liberals; "I guess he's got to bring everyone to the table" rings the refrain of those who don't really have an opinion. Still others suggest "Well, it's a deeply personal decision to make in determining whom he wants to deliver the prayer at his Inauguration."

Stop. Rewind. What?

Why, in the 21st century do we even have a minister praying at the swearing in of the POTUS? This is the question I think people need to react to, not Mr. Warren's religious or political beliefs. I don't know of another country which likes to profess to high heavens the so-called separation of Church and State on the one hand, then present the Christian Bible as THE holiest book of all books upon which justices, court witnesses, political officials and the goddamn POTUS are supposed to swear an oath. If one does not believe in Christianity, does it not negate the promise made when swearing upon that book? The problem is, we cannot have a president (or any government official) swear upon a religious book and then cry foul when that official either invokes religion to justify discrimination, war or bad decisions (I'm looking at you, W).

Why are officials considered to be more electable if they prove their faith anyhow? And why is that faith almost always some evangelical brand of Christianity? We as citizens of the US must question the vestiges of Christianity that permeate our government and judicial system. Last year I watched as two presidential candidates struggled with religious groups. Barack Obama nearly became unhinged during the Primary all because of his reverend’s freedom of expression; John McCain bowed to pressures of the Christian Right and took on a hillbilly running mate because she new how to speak to “the Base”. While I am a proponent of religious freedom, I am not a proponent of running a country based on religious indoctrination (commonly though of as "values"). However, before the Bible-thumpers get their goddamn knickers in a bunch, please understand that religious expression is a private or public choice. CHOICE. I cannot drive that fucking word home enough. Just because people do no live according to the "values" or belief system “people of faith” have come to adopt and vehemently believe in, does not mean they are being persecuted. They’re being ignored as they damn well should be. If you want to keep hatred in their hearts, by all means keep at it because the government is not legislating against that (yet). But by attempting to impose a belief system, which they presumably arrived at by choice, is taking choice away from others. And that’s not what the U.S. of fucking A is about, is it?

Is anyone else concerned about the relationship between religion and public office?

New Year's Eve Bullshit

2009-01-06T16:46:00.016Z

Why? Why? Why, do people feel the need to be more special, move lively, more outgoing, cooler than they actually are on New Year's Eve? For reals. It's not enough that people barrage you with the very pregnant-with-anticipation question of "So, whatchya doin' for New Year's Eve?" Say anything woe-fully uncool or spinsterish and it's like you're bringing down the whole concept of NYE by violating the apparent imperative to partaaaaay! What the fuck ever, dude. And if you are under 35, woe unto you for not having anything fun planned, even if it results in you puking your guts up and spending the next three days regretting the last five vodka shots.
Well, I've been officially done-zo wth NYE for years now, but carrying a bit of guilt, thinking I should be doing something worthy of a fun tale in the days following NYE. I haven't had a great story since the NYE of 2005 when I kissed a random hottie (it was goooooood). But I don't thrive on great stories because I don't need them to define my perception of who I am to other people. Uh, no, I'm not writing this out of bitterness. I enjoyed my NYE 0f 2008. All I'm saying is, if you're a natural party animal, then by all means do that. BUT if you're not, there is no need for anyone to feel down on themselves, feel the need to spend riduculous amounts of money to attend some function in skimpy clothing and riduculous heels in sub-zero temperatures just to feel like they participated in the artificially imposed merriment.

It doesn't matter how you spend your NYE. The clocks will roll on, the calendar will change. And whatever life has for you in the new year will come to fruition (or not) either way. Am I wrong?

Speidi--Spawn from Hell

2008-12-14T18:54:00.012Z

This "relationship" is pure fuckery. Have you ever looked at someone and hated them instantly? Well, that's how I feel about this axis of evil. I fucking hate these bitches and their money-hungry farcical venture they call a "relationship". I hate Heidi's fake tits, her restructured nose and that god-awful man jaw of hers. Her bod is ok, but that's the nicest thing I can say. Don't get me started on Spencer's monotonous, talentless being--replete with flesh-colored beard. First of all, who the fuck made them successful on that goddamn snoozefest called The Hills? Granted, I was a fan of Laguna Beach, so much so that I still (embarrassingly enough) use "done-zo" (thanks Stephen!). But The Hills is the most vapid thing on television in recent history. This judgment is entirely based on clips that I've seen on The Soup and The Dish, as I refuse to devote 22 minutes to a single episode. Yawn.

So, why do I bother to talking about these bitches? Because US magazine has devoted several cover stories to their obvious staged fuckery this year. Why? Why. Why? I don't peruse your magazine to see man jaw and flesh-colored beards. I hate these motherfuckers so much that the mere sight of their Hollywood grins incites me to violence (well not really, but you know what I mean).

Speidi, do us all a favor and get the fuck off our screens and magazines. Ding! I think that's the timer on your 15 minutes. The many 2008 end-of-year reviews will not be kind to you. But I don't give a fuuuuuuhhhck. Peace, bitches!

Blogs and Kisses,
CheaperThanTherapy

An Explanation

2008-12-14T06:08:00.008Z

For those of you (mainly non-Brits) who don't know the term "Gets on my tits", let me explain.

Actually, let's let Urban Dictionary explain:

1. Verb used to signify a singular subject that bothers you 2. Verb to describe someone who pisses you off 3. ~ get on my tits ~ verb for plural subjects. i.e. Senseless violence really gets on my tits.

You're probably saying to yourself, does this woman really need to devote an entire blog to what gets on her tits? Aren't we faced with enough useless information already?! Why am I even on this godamn site anyway?! Gaah! To that I say: so you assume I'm a woman? Interesting. No, really I've started this blog because my health insurance does not view my the effect of life's annoyances as an actual condition. Give them time. Also, my spouse has me on rations when it comes to cursing :o(. You see, I am a lover of the word FUCK and all its iterations. I won't enumerate them here, but I will share my favorite, passed down to me by my mom: FUCKERY. This word is especially hi-larious if you hear a Jamaican woman say it. Just so you know, I plan to curse a lot in this blog. Like, really a lot. Like, I should come with a parental warning. Like, Deb Morgan on Dexter is my idol:

While I don't have any venom to spew right now, rest assured it's only a matter of time before some kind of fuckery gets on my tits. You'll be the first to know.

Blogs and Kisses,
CheaperThanTherapy