I think you missed one - a love letter to my family.

As you may have gathered, I do pretty much all the cooking in our little household.  I don't mind it, generally, because I am pretty particular about my food [Let's talk about crazy food issues! I'll see your eating disorder and raise you crazed paranoia about potential allergies and possible poisonings!] and I'm also that person who says stuff like, "I'm hungry," and then shoots down everything offered as an option by anyone ever in the history of the world.

I'm fun to be around! Let's have a sleepover!

Anyway, the upside to doing all the cooking is that, in general, I'm relieved of clean up duties.  The husband usually does them and lately we've tried to get the girl to be exclusive kitchen cleaner since it's summer and she has no other obligations and we don't want her to lack in the womanly arts department.

I still end up doing the dishes sometimes.  Mainly when it's supposed to be the girl's turn and she's tired or it's late or there are so many dishes to wash.  Evidently I want her to be soft and unskilled, like veal.

We have a double sink, but limited counter space, so I came up with the ingenious idea of putting a dish drainer in the sink that doesn't have the garbage disposal in it, since we so very seldom handwash ANYTHING. God bless whoever invented the dishwasher.* We don't really need two sinks and we really do need somewhere to put the microwave and the coffee maker, so it worked out perfectly for everyone.  I think that's what synergy is.

However.

Every once in a while when I'll do the dishes and actually handwash something and it will sit in that fucking dish drainer until the End Times because both the husband and the girl evidently have transitory hysterical blindness and can't see anything in that part of the kitchen.

Please ignore the water spots in my stainless steel sink.  Thanks!

See? That martini shaker has been there since July 4th.  That tile that the girl painted when she was maybe 4 years old and we use as a spoon rest?  Has been there at least 3 months and is now completely wedged into the space.  It's never coming out.  The meat thermometer?  A couple of weeks, at least.

WTF, people.  WHAT THE FUCK?

*Shockingly, it was a woman named Josephine Cochran in 1886 who invented the first working dishwasher.  Or at least that's what the internet tells me.

_________________________
Many thanks to the lovely Poppy from Funny Or Snot for coming up with this delightful posting topic.  Kudos, dear Poppy.  Kudos to you.





________________________In BIG GIANT AWESOME NEWS, I'm over at The Misadventures of Mrs. B doing a guest post.  Go take a look - if you think I've gone over the edge with my cheesy goodness mac & cheese recipe yesterday, wait until you see this.

He just needs to stop. Seriously.

Scenes from a marriage:

SCENE ONE

The husband: I'm gonna light the grill.  Is the chicken ready?

Me:  Almost.  Hey, I haven't been able to light the grill the last couple of times I've tried.  Is that ignition thingy broken already?  What the fuck?

The husband:  I dunno.  It worked last night.  I'll check it out.

[A minute or so passes.  I rinse and season chicken.  The husband is out on the deck, making fire, like a real man. He comes back into the kitchen.]

Me:  Did it work?

The husband:  Yes.  It works fine.

Me:  Well, what the fuck?

The husband: . . .  Did you turn the propane on?

Me: . . . .

The husband: . . . .

Me:  . . . No.

The husband:  Well, see, you have to turn the propane on -

Me: Shut. The fuck. Up.

END SCENE

**************

SCENE TWO

[We don't have cable, so we usually end up watching Hulu or Netflix or DVDs. Every once in a while, we'll watch something on one of the regular channels that come through the air.


The other night, it was The Hardy Boys.]

Me: Oh, my god, they're driving a Rape Van.

The husband:  This acting is terrible.  Is that Valerie Bertinelli?

Me:  Yes.  Parker Stevenson looks as good as I remember.

The husband:  You know what we should do?

Me:  What?

The husband:  We could totally make this into porn.

Me: . . . .

The husband:  Just hear me out.  You can leave the show as it is - wooden acting, terrible plotlines, cheesy dialog.  They've already got the porno music; you just add in sex scenes.

Me: . . . .

The husband:  Seriously.  I mean, listen to that dialog.  And Valerie Bertinelli as some multiple personality chick, where one of the personalities is a crazy biker?  This writes itself.

Me:  Are you kidding me?

The husband:  No.  See?  Right there, where they go off to "take care of it," even the Hardy Boys could get some guy on guy action. Wouldn't you like to see that?

Me:  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  NO!  I mean, Parker Stevenson, sure, but not Shawn Cassidy.

The husband:  It's a gold mine.

Me:  I seriously doubt that.  The acting is terrible.


*************

SCENE THREE

The husband:  I need new pillows.

Me:  I just bought new pillows a few months ago.

The husband:  These pillows suck.  They're too flat.

Me:  I purposefully asked and checked on pillows to get you pillows that would be comfortable because you sleep on your face.  Those are the pillows.

The husband:  I don't like them.  I need new ones.

Me:  Well, go get them.

The husband:  I can't go get new pillows.  I don't know what kind to get.

Me: THE KIND THAT YOU LIKE.

The husband:  You're better at picking out pillows.  You're the pillow expert. 

Me:  So even though you hate the pillows I just got you, you want me to pick out new pillows for you.

The husband:  Yes.  That's the rule.  You're in charge of pillows.

Me:  You deserve bad pillows.

Not as erudite as I thought.

Last week I got an email asking if I wanted tickets to go see Bizet's Carmen.  Well, sure.  I actually like opera and classical music and getting dressed up and going places. 

Granted, this wasn't New York or DC or even LA.  It was a Midwestern performance of an opera which, for some reason, I thought was Italian.  It's not.  It's French.  Strike one for my aura of smartitude.

Anyway, the tickets were cheap. 

So yeah, sure, the husband and I decided to go.

We get to Will Call and find that the tickets are so fucking cheap because the seats are in the LAST POSSIBLE ROW of the balcony.  I knew they'd be in the balcony, but last row? COME ON.

Did I mention to you that I get vertigo?  And not the Jimmy Stewart kind [which, seriously @modinkpeeb ? Jimmy Stewart is in no way sexier than Cary Grant.  NO WAY.].  The swoopy kind of vertigo.  It's not fun. 

So we climb and climb and climb stairs and finally get to the BACK of the place and sit down and I'm deep breathing [o.k., almost panting, whatever, I'm starting my water aerobics this week, let's relax, o.k.?] and trying not to look down except you know what? DOWN IS WHERE THE SHOW IS.

So I spent the show with my head turned sideways and looking out of the bottom corners of my eyes.  I highly recommend this viewing method next time you are at the opera.

ALSO - why the fuckity-roo do operas have to have those supertitles?  I first saw them about 15 years ago when we went to see a Wagner opera [of course I don't remember which one.  It was in German and had a boat.  Das Boot, maybe?]  I mean, I've got the libretto so I know what's going on, and I may not be fluent in the language, but I don't need to see exactly what words the people are singing, I can get that from the whole ambiance of the play, and also? The person in charge of the supertitles at Carmen? Was high or drunk, because they never matched up with what was going on.

So I kind of felt all superior and thought, "Screw these infidels, I'm not looking at the supertitles anymore because I am SO ABOVE ALL THAT [And not just because I needed a sherpa to get to my seat.  And also not just because it made me dizzy to look at them.]."

Until I recognized Carmen's first big number, Habanera, in Act I.  Because I recognized Carmen's song from Sesame Street.



I get props for it being Denyse Graves singing on Sesame Street, right?  [If you have never seen this, please do.  It's amazing.]

Then in Act II, I recognized the Toreador song from Gilligan's Island.  I was pretty mortified and leaned over to mention this to my husband, who said, "That's o.k., I recognize the songs from Bugs Bunny."  Yeah.  We're together.

At the end of Act II, I asked the husband if we could leave, because it had already been well over 2 hours of sitting with my head twisted & there were two more acts, which meant at least 2 more hours and frankly? I was more than willing to just get a DVD and watch the last two acts.  Don't get me wrong, I really love the music and I am a HUGE fan of live theater, but I realized that I am a huge fan of live theater on the main floor only.

So we left, after I carefully made my way down down down down down the stairs. 

I highly recommend classing up your day with opera to see how much of a rube you are.  I bet I win.

People Who Are Assholes - Shopping Edition

The other day, I picked the girl up from school, because I coddle her and didn't want her to walk home 2 blocks from the bus stop in 95 degree heat.  I am a coddler.  I just am.

Anyway, she asked if we could swing by Target, and since I am ALWAYS up for going to Target [except for using their fucking pharmacy], we did.

And I swear to god, every fucking asshole in the universe was there, too.  Here's just a sampling:

The asshole who decided to back his rape van into the parking space right next to me.  Dude.  Seriously.  You are already an asshole for owning a van that immediately makes me start blowing on my rape whistle while rooting around for mace, do you have to add to your asshole-ish-ness by holding up all kinds of pedestrian and motor vehicle traffic so that you could back that piece of shit up into a parking spot?  Are you going to be in that much of a rush to leave?  Why?  Because all I'm imagining is you heading into Target and then being driven from the store due to fondling yourself in the juniors department.

The asshole who decided to stop her cart RIGHT IN THE TRAFFIC FLOW of everyone else who was getting a cart to root around in her purse for . . . I don't even know what.  What could be that important to find in your voluminous bag that you can't get past the $1 bins?  Do you have a shopping list dedicated to $1 items?  Because there is an ENTIRE STORE that would better suit your shopping needs.  GO THERE.

The asshole who decided to write a check to pay her bill.  Who does that?  Why are you not using a debit card?  Do you have that many extra checks in your checkbook and need to use them before they expire?  Or do you want to order new ones with Precious Moments figurines on the background?  And why, if you ARE going to use a check, didn't you fill everything out but the amount?  People have shit to do, lady. 

And finally, the assholes who let their feral kids roam free in Target, like it's a giant daycare center.  Get a goddamn leash. 

How was your weekend?  I missed you.

Never again. Yes, I know I say that every time, but I'm serious now.

I am a volunteer-er.

I just am.

I raise my hand.

I host political get togethers.

I donate stuff.

I say I'm not going to, and then I do.  I end up in the girl's classroom, on the PTA, running programs, organizing events for attorneys, being a big part of the community.

Usually, I'm o.k. with it.  Usually, I like that feeling of giving and helping.

I have, however, had enough.

I got stuck putting together what I consider the most stupid-ass stupid bullshit stupid thing in the world.  Something that I think is a massive waste of time and energy.  Something that is pointless and egregiously annoying - the end of the school year party.

Fuck.

I got stuck because no one stepped up to chair this.  And because I am a person who picks up when others are slacking, I am CONSTANTLY getting emails like this:

"Yeah, I said I'd help, but it looks like you've got it under control, and I'm busy, and there are plenty of other people who will help, and maybe I could do something, but you seem to have it under control, so I'll just not do anything.  Ok?  Great."

And what I want to reply is:

"Listen you stupid fucking twat, not that I want your help because obviously you are completely fucking useless and should be hidden away so that your douchiness doesn't cause some kind of black hole of fuckitude and suck the world inside out, but DO NOT offer to help and then say you are TOO BUSY to help.  EVERYONE IS TOO BUSY, you fucking cunt bag!  EVERYONE!  I AM! But I'm doing this, because I SAID I WOULD.  TWAT!"

God.  What is WRONG with people?  How are they so fucking self-involved that they think an email telling me that they are too important to do something they said they'd do would be fine?

I fucking hate people.  I swear to god.  I really, really do.

But not you.  I LOVE you.

Oh, NOW I get why people hate lawyers.

As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I was one of those happy Americans selected to report for jury duty.

This was my first time getting a summons, and I was kind of excited, except I wasn't going to be in the criminal courts, which kind of put a damper on my thrill ride.  But still! Jury duty! I'd hold the fate of someone in my hands! Do you understand how much a bossy, controlling person would enjoy that?

Ah, if only it was so sweet.

I got to the courthouse at 8:20am.  As an attorney, I am allowed to bring my cell phone to court.  But, because I am a rule follower [except for posted speed signs and evidently, from my driving record, those No Turn On Red signs], and jurors are not allowed to have cell phones, I did NOT bring my cell with me.

I was pretty much the only one who didn't.

I brought my newspaper, a notebook [I'd spend my time writing! In longhand! Like the pioneers!], a bottle of water and not nearly enough Motrin.

I ended up at a table with 3 kind of older men.  Two of whom would not stop talking.  To me.  About cars.  And delivering stuff.  And cars.  And their kids.  And the new diets they're trying.  And cars.  And their jobs.  And cars.  And how many times they've been on jury duty.  And property issues.  And cars.

The third guy?  FEIGNED BEING ASLEEP.

We spent the morning waiting to be called.  There were only 2 cases that needed jurors.  We all had fingers crossed that we'd be out of there by lunch.

Nope.

I went to lunch and sat alone, enjoying the quiet.  And the lack of talking about cars.

Back to the jury room. 

At which point Jury Overseer dismissed half the group, since one of the cases adjourned for the day. 

I was not lucky enough to be in that group.

The two talking guys were, though.  And Fake Sleeper?  Started laughing about how they wouldn't stop talking to me.  I almost punched him.

We sat back and waited to be called down. 

You know what's awesome about being in the courtroom either as an observer or as an attorney?  You get to see everything that happens [it's actually pretty entertaining - I highly recommend going, but go to a criminal trial.  A LOT of stuff goes on there.  Opposing counsel arguing for evidence to be brought in or kept out, families giving each other the evil eye, attorneys gossiping about everyone in the courtroom.].  The juror room?  NOTHING HAPPENS.  You wait and watch the clock and wait some more. 

As noted, I wasn't going to be in the criminal courts.  I figured [rightly] that this would be an insurance issue.  Is there anything more dull?  Maybe a property issue.  Maybe.

We were FINALLY called down to the courtroom for jury selection.  I kept tensing up as the clerk called names and questions were asked of potential jurors.  I kept looking out the window and at the clock, hoping that the jury would be selected soon, before finally giving up and reconciling myself to the fact that I would have spent the entire work day in jury duty - and make $25!  WOOHOO!

At which point my only prayer was that I wouldn't be selected.  During a break, a couple of people and I were discussing whether or not we'd be selected.  The guy said he'd tell them he was going to wear his iPod.  The woman said she worked checking disability claims.  We all hoped we wouldn't be picked.

They were picked. 

One after the other.

And they were kept on the jury.

And I escaped, having done my civic duty by showing up and sitting around.

Did I tell you about that time a near-stranger found our stash of porn?

If I did, you can ignore this post, or just read all about it again.  It's pretty entertaining.

Many, many years ago, the husband and I bought a house in a very religious city, in a whitey-white American town, in a conservative area, basically, in a place we never quite fit into.  I mean, we're not building tributes to Burning Man on our lawn, but we do tend to listen to a lot more Public Enemy than our neighbors.  That kind of thing.

The main reason - the only reason, really - we moved to this city is because of its schools.  The district has the only gifted magnet program from 1st grade on [which gets less delightful as time goes no, but that's a whole other post] where the nerd kids are in their own school being nerds in all classes, from math to art to gym.  I highly recommend it as an elementary school program.

Anyway, we moved here when the girl was in preschool, because her preschool was in the area and we liked the city [leafy parks, nice swimming pools/clubs, good neighborhoods] even though it had no soul [no real downtown, 1970s era school buildings and city hall].  The people were nice.  I mean, not all kinds of demented fun and they tend not to swear as much as I do [but then, who does?], but nice people.  Churchy.  Conservative, but not in that Newt Gingrich-y sleazy kind of way.  Just whitebread America.

So we bought the house and a few years later, our house had appreciated [remember when houses did that?] and mortgage rates were dropping, and we decided to refinance for a lower rate.  Smart, sensible, what everyone else was doing.

Well, in order to refinance, your house has to be reappraised.  I made an appointment with the appraiser and set a day and time.  At that point, I was working part time and going to grad school [totally worth it!], so my schedule was more flexible than the husband's.  Also, he hates dealing with people, so I'm usually the person who has to make appointments and call for carry out and send emails to teachers.

Anyway, the appraiser shows up, and I start showing him around the house.  He says, "I think I know you from somewhere."
I think, "Great. I'm getting either hit on or ready to be fileted, neither of which is a great option right now." I say, "Hmm. . . I'm not sure I recognize you."

He says, "Oh, our kids go to preschool together.  My daughter is Blond Girl."

Oh. Sure. Fine.  I've been president of the cooperative preschool for about 3 years and know his daughter, and I'm kind of whatever. Small world, yadda yadda.

We continue our tour through the house and head down into the basement, which has been refinished into a really nice rec room area.  There's thick carpeting, drywall, and block windows that have been trimmed out with blinds hung from them.  There's also a fuse box that has been trimmed out with blinds covering it.

Him:  Can you show me the electrical box?
Me:  Sure, it's right here.

I walk over and pull on the cord for the blinds, yanking them up and displaying the utility box and:

Yeah. Pretty much this. Source.

At which point I die.

And grab the giant VHS boxes and say, "Huh, I'm not sure why these are here," and stuff them behind a blanket on the couch.  

To give him credit, the man continued his appraisal in a very professional manner.

God really is in the details. So be sure to take a magnifiying glass to the details.

I'll tell you all about my day at JURY DUTY FUN TIMES later, but first, by request, and fasten your seatbelts, because this is a long one:

How I Accidentally Sent the Girl to Bible Camp:
A Sadly True Story.

Years ago, when the girl was in elementary school, her class went to a nature camp about an hour away from where we live.

I, of course, did not go, because I hate nature [and Nature], and pretty much all children and probably most of their parents and for sure the experience of sleeping in a bunk bed.

The husband did not go because he is a workaholic and this was not a field trip to a sporting event, like a baseball game, which is the only field trip he magically found time to chaperone.

So the girl went with her classmates and those parents who are better at being outside/more patient with children.  A win for everyone! 

Needless to say, she LOVED IT.  Loved being outside and loved camping and campfires and camping games and ziplining and making campfire stew and scratching bug bites and all that other stuff that people do when communing with the great outdoors.

A few weeks after she came back, we got a brochure from the camp advertising its various summer camps - stuff like Outdoor Survival and Live Like Hill People and The Many Uses of Pinecones.  The girl lobbied to be able to camp - a whole week in the outdoors! How exciting! - and the husband and I were trying to figure out what to do with her while we worked during the summer [probably throwing kibble on the floor and making sure the water bowls would be filled was not going to work].  We looked at the brochure, checked it out online, and it looked like a good, American, outdoorsy place to be.

While we were checking this out, friends of ours were also looking for a camp to send their son to.  They were thinking of sending him to a Catholic camp up north.  The husband asked if they were really sure they wanted to send their 11 year old boy out into the woods with priests. 

We met for dinner and lots of drinking and decided it would be nice for the kids to go to camp together.  They'd know someone, they already knew the layout of the camp, and why not? Fun, right?

So my friend got on the phone with the camp and did more checking around and let me know that she was pleased with the camp and impressed with their credentials.  I figured, great, between our information pool, this should be a great place for the kids to be for a week.

We told the girl she and her friend would be going to camp together.  They were excited.  We got applications and sent in the check. The husband, as he was filling out the check, said to me, "You know this is run by the Detroit Presbytery, don't you?" I was busy playing SuperMario or something and said, "Yeah, sure, that's fine," because although I had no idea what the Detroit Presbytery was and though it sounded kind of religious, I figured it was like the Girl Scouts or the YMCA.  Sure, that Christian thing is in the YMCA, but I've not really seen how it affects their day to day operations of a swimming pool and tennis courts.

Then we got the information packet from the camp, including the packing list.  Here are the first few items, which may have caused a more aware person to pause:

Bible
Pillow
Sleeping Bag

The girl and I looked at it and went, "Huh."  I said, "Well, maybe people like to take their bibles with them places." I don't know.  I mean, people do, right?  Or is that just Jehova's Witnesses? How would I know?  I was raised Muslim and am currently . . . a lapsed Muslim, the husband was raised Catholic and is currently an atheist/agnostic [depending on the day] and the girl was raised without much religion at all, except for random holiday visits to mosques and churches and exposure to kid's books such as The Children's Bible and What is God? and What is Islam? [Can you guess that the grandparents were suppliers of reading materials? Except for What is God? I got her that when she started asking all kinds of questions that I had no interest in answering.] and so she's identified herself as an atheist.

So we packed everything, except the bible, and, on beautiful summer Sunday, we drove an hour to the camp and dropped her off, meeting up with our friends so we parents could head out and enjoy some FREE TIME!

My first clue that something was not what I had thought it would be [yes, besides the whole Detroit Presbytery and instruction to pack a bible] was that the guy directing traffic into the camp was wearing a t-shirt with a tree that had a cross in it.  I thought that was kind of Jesus-y, but what do I know?  People wear religious t-shirts everywhere - the gym, court, hoedowns.  Why not while directing camp traffic?

Ignoring this omen, we unloaded the girl's stuff, signed her in, and helped her set up her bunk.  There were a number of other girls already there, and they seemed nice, as did the counselors.  The building was set near a lake and in the midst of all types of greenery and probably near where a lot of woodland creatures made their homes.  The girl's friend was to bunk on the other side of the building and we checked out his space and they looked like they were ready for us to leave, so we left.

And had a lovely dinner.

And enjoyed our week at home, with the quiet and the knowledge that the girl was having the kind of nature-inspired fun she'd never get from us personally.

So a week went by and we drove back out to pick her up.  She looked tan, tired, and happy.  We got in the car and headed home, basking in a parental job well done.  And I asked, "Well, how was it? Did you have fun?"

The girl: It was a bible camp.

Me: What?

The girl:  It was a bible camp.  I was the only person there without a bible.

Me: What?!?

The girl:  BIBLE CAMP.  We had vespers and said grace and they had religious sing alongs that everyone but me knew the words to and people were supposed to read from the bible every day and IT WAS BIBLE CAMP.

Me: I am so sorry.  Oh, my fucking god, I am sorry.

[Meantime, the husband and I are avoiding eye contact because I can see he is going to burst out laughing and I am about a second away from losing it.]

The girl:  It was fine.  We got to swim and stuff, but I was the only person there who was not Christian.  And I didn't have a bible, so I had to borrow someone's to read when it was my turn, and I still don't even know what vespers is.

The husband: Vespers is something something [I forget what].

Me: Oh, honey, I'm so sorry.  I'll do a better job of checking out where we send you from now on.

The girl: Yeah, thanks.

The husband:  I told you it was run by the Detroit Presbytery.

Me: I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT THAT WAS! I'm sorry!

The girl: It was fine.

Me: Do you want to go back next year?

The girl:  NO!

And so I spent an hour's drive apologizing and trying not to laugh.  The girl suffered no long-term ill effects and still enjoys the outdoors.

A few weeks later, I was cleaning the girl's room and ran across her journal from the camping trip.  Now, I am a pretty big stickler for privacy because I was afforded absolutely none as a child, but I couldn't help myself, I had to see what she'd written.

There were only a few pages with writing, and they all had a variation on this theme:


I 
Can't
Believe
My 
Mom and Dad
Sent Me To BIBLE CAMP.


WHY?


WHY????????

We still periodically ask her if she wants to go back. She always says no.

Week in Review - Fuck you, Blogger.

How have I spent all week forgetting that I'm supposed to watch out for interesting bits of news or finding interesting bits of news and then forgetting them? HOW? 

Oh, because the weather is actually warming up and I haven't turned on the AC [even though I will, get over your environmental hate now, please, I just don't care, I need to be cool] because it's not quite warm enough to justify turning on the air [even for me, or for my neighbor who honest to god, must be part . . . what is it that lives in a cool climate? Polar bear?] and then I go to sleep and it's Dante's Inferno and I end up waking up at 4am UNABLE TO SLEEP ANYMORE and then I watch an episode or two of Cougar Town [how I love you, truly] and then drift off have weird sex dreams about REALLY. OLD. MEN.

I need Lysol for my brain.  Please.

Anyway, here's what's been happening:

Microsoft bought Skype for $8.5billion.  Great. Just when I was ready to start using Skype.  Now I'll have to find some other way to communicate with people online.  Ah, Twitter, there you are.

Speaking of Skype, in Australia [hi Sarah!], several Australian Defense Force Academy cadets were involved in a sex scandal. IMPOSSIBLE! Yeah, so two guys ended up filming two other cadets [boy and girl] having it off and then broadcast it over Skype.  They've been booted from the academy and face criminal charges.  I don't think Sarah's involved.

And in other news that actually makes me want to move to Australia solely to have a child grow up in a country that values her, there's an ambitious program on the part of the Federal Government to start mental health screenings for children.  This, so that any developing issues can be caught and addressed early on.  Excellent job, Australia. 

In Canada, the Federal Industry Minister wants oil companies to explain how they price gas. My guess? Take the real price and add $3/gallon.  I'm not sure what this will solve, but what the hell, maybe they'll squirm.

In Germany, John Demjanjuk, who was deported from the US two years ago, was found guilty of being an accessory to murder when he was a concentration camp guard.  The 91 year old is facing 5 years in prison.  Better late than never.

Evidently, this is a thing now?  In the US, adults, who should know better, are having proms.   For themselves.  Really? Stop making me sad for you, America.

But then there's this: the Presbyterians have approved ordaining gay people as their clergy.  YAY! Equality!  

Also, did I ever tell you the time I accidentally sent the girl to bible camp?

UPDATED: Oh, Gwyneth K. Paltrow, you make my head hurt [Like John C. Mayer]

UPDATED:

Looky what we did, PRANKSTERS:

Oh, yes we did!

You may know how I feel about a certain someone.  A certain someone who . . . well, let's just say is kind of GOOP-y.

NOT Gwyneth K. Paltrow's GOOP.  This one serves a purpose.

Gwyneth K. Paltrow, as you may be aware is not only the daughter of Blythe Danner and Bruce Paltrow, but also an Oscar-winning actress [for Shakespeare in Love] [on par with Marisa Tomei's Oscar, in my opinion], wife of that guy from Coldplay, mother to Apple and Moses [oh, come on.  Really?], and the purveyor of the website GOOP.

Oh, Gwyneth K. Paltrow - Oh, you and Goop.

Your silly, silly online magazine/newsletter.  Your self-involved regurgitation of empty-headed silliness.

I've written about you before.  I still don't like you.

Other people have written about you, Gwyneth K. Paltrow, you and your cleanses and BE.  How insane is it to try and survive on basically water?

Gwyneth K. Paltrow, you think of things and then spew them, and most of the time, it sounds like idiocy.

Read a book, Gwyneth K. Paltrow.  Read a book and stop talking.

Gwyneth K. Paltrow, you are a proponent of being gluten-free, but I don't think you are allergic to gluten.

Gwyneth K. Paltrow, you and your BFF Madonna are silly.  I have zero patience for people who air their fueds in public and online [oh! WAIT! THE HYPOCRISY!]

Gwyneth K. Paltrow, you have no concept of reality.  I mean, I guess you shouldn't, because you are the child of pretty famous actors, so your life is pretty privileged.  Can't you just admit that?  Can't you, Gwyneth K. Paltrow?  Own your privilege.  You cannot relate to the rest of us.

Gwyneth K. Paltrow, you are ridiculous.

Alexander McQueen's biggest mistake.


Gwyneth Paltrow, you have been John C. Mayer'd.

Wow. You are so annoying.

Dear Gwenyth Paltrow:

I'm not so sure what it is about you, but you really rub me the wrong way.

Maybe it was the undeserved win for Shakespeare in Love [did you see that movie after you made it? Not that great.  And even you have to admit that you are nowhere near being in Cate Blanchett's or Meryl Streep's league. Although you are pretty full of yourself, so maybe not.].

Maybe it was when I first realized how out of touch with real life you are.  I was at the doctor or dentist, reading People or something and in the letters to the editor [those are my favorites in any magazine or newspaper, because even if I haven't read the previous issue or know what the person who is writing is all bent about, they are ENTERTAINING], people were blasting your for blathering on about how you needed to take at least a year off from work to recover from your father's death [sorry for your loss.  Really.  Sorry, that sucks.] and one of People's readers wrote in and said, in effect, "Must be nice.  My father died and I had to go back to work two days later."

Maybe it was when you decided to be BFFs with Madonna [ugh, really?].

Maybe it was when you decided you were also a singer [seriously? TWO movies where you sing? You are NOT Julie Andrews.].

For sure, it was when you were cast as Sylvia Plath in that movie that no one saw.  You? As Sylvia Plath? Angsty women and teenage girls everywhere are STILL pissed that that happened.

For sure, it was when you thought you could be Emma.  You are not Emma.  Alicia Silverstone is WAY more qualified to be Emma than you.  WAY MORE.  Jane Austen?  Not one of your fans.  I know this to be true.

For sure, it's the whole GOOP phenomenon [no, I'm not linking.  I hate it that much.].  Of all the ridiculous things that I've ever heard of, this tops it.  How do you give this type of "lifestyle" advice and not want to punch yourself for being so vapid?

Seriously.  Go home, continue making movies I have no interest in, and I'll ignore you as much as I usually do.  Just stop trying to insinuate yourself into my world.

Best,

Suniverse