Wicked!!! What an awesome, totally stupid, hilarious movie! I laughed my ass off (if only I could literally do that!).......
My favorite line..... "Blow that up your ass bitch!" (there have been a couple of female bosses in my past I would like to yell those precise words at - you know who are...)
Oh yes and the movie had some wicked Def Leppard tunes - I'm an 80's girl at heart! (minus the big hair and shoulder pads!)
Saturday, September 15, 2007
'Purity Ball'?!
How truly fucked up, is this world?
As I am reading the Rocky Mountain News this morning I'm quite taken aback by a picture on page 6. There are 7 beautiful little girls dressed in what look like prom dresses (all white, actually more like wedding dresses now that I think on it) walking/marching while holding a huge, crude wooden cross.
My first thought? This is some whacked, right-winged religious zealot shit. And of course I am not disappointed as I read the accompanying article.
The Father/Daughter Purity Ball was started in, where else, Colorado Springs back in 1998 by a husband and wife who wanted to live their lives by traditional values where the father takes the lead as the family protector, sternly quizzing potential sons-in-law and teaching all of their kids to wait for marriage for sex - and even their first kiss!
So that means that I can't elbow my husband out of the way if some dude disrespects or otherwise mistreats our daughter?! HA!HA! I'll probably cause significant bodily injury to him while I'm leaping in the air to go all Uma Thurman on the kid's ass. Father as the protector indeed! HAHAHAHAHAH!
The event, which attracts international media attention is intended to be a celebration of the father/daughter relationship as the founding father, so-to-speak, said he was sad to notice all those years ago that there was nothing in our culture to celebrate that bond.
Hmmmm. Wonder why he never thought of, oh I don't know, things like going for an ice-cream together, catching a concert, going for a walk.....? Should I feel somehow short-changed because my own dear father only ever saw fit to celebrate the bond he had with his only daughter by spending entire afternoons just the 2 of us sailing the bay in his boat, or hanging out at home listening to hours of favorite music and genuinely feeling like we "had it made". Why didn't he dress me up in a wedding like gown and have us pledge our purity to each other? It might have had something to do with the fact that it would be absolutely and totally creepy and might have landed him in the clink.............
So in the wedding like ceremony the 11-12 year old daughter pledges her 'purity' to a future husband and the father in turn pledges his purity to her.
Excuse me but if we use the word, pure, the way these folks obviously do, doesn't the fact that you procreated, are married, and presumably fornicating on occasion, we can only be left to assume you are not pure, right? Maybe they swear of the dirty, impure act altogether when they take the pledge with their child????
I could go on and on. Instead let me share my favorite quotes from the article:
"It's really a great time for dads to spend with their daughters in a pure and Christian way....
yuck, my skin is crawling...
"This is a wholesome relationship..."
fine, but if you have to say that I am automatically suspicious aren't you? sir, we'll give you the benefit of the doubt, you don't have to dress her up in a frilly white dress and parade her around like a child bride to preach that fact.....
"Purity is freedom for us."
I happen to think I'm as pure as the next gal (and hence free).....does the fact I had sex before marriage strip me of that title? I won't give it up without a fight!!!! Then again there was that time I scared off a randy guy (he had released his swollen member and invited me to touch it.....I was 18...YUCK!) by telling him I was going to tell my father all about it. I've never seen anything deflate so quickly since!
Don't think I'll be buying tickets to the Purity Ball for my hubby and our 8 year daughter .....they seem to find ways to celebrate their bond every day - they are off swimming as we speak. Oh, yes and I supposed the fact that we'll talk to our daughter about safe sex and putting off marriage until at least her late 20's, which obviously endorses the notion that she's likely to have sex before marriage, rules us out as likely participants anyway.
And, no there was no mention whatsoever about relationships between fathers and son, mothers and daughters, or mothers and sons. Hey wait a minute - maybe I'll haul my wedding dress out of storage (the one that comes almost all the way up over my thighs but not quite), dress my 12 year old in a tux and have us pledge our purity to each other. Na, forget my white, frilly dress, wrap me in the wondrous study canvas that is a straight jacket and ship me off ASAP if you ever get an embossed invitation in the mail from me inviting you to witness any such thing!
As I am reading the Rocky Mountain News this morning I'm quite taken aback by a picture on page 6. There are 7 beautiful little girls dressed in what look like prom dresses (all white, actually more like wedding dresses now that I think on it) walking/marching while holding a huge, crude wooden cross.
My first thought? This is some whacked, right-winged religious zealot shit. And of course I am not disappointed as I read the accompanying article.
The Father/Daughter Purity Ball was started in, where else, Colorado Springs back in 1998 by a husband and wife who wanted to live their lives by traditional values where the father takes the lead as the family protector, sternly quizzing potential sons-in-law and teaching all of their kids to wait for marriage for sex - and even their first kiss!
So that means that I can't elbow my husband out of the way if some dude disrespects or otherwise mistreats our daughter?! HA!HA! I'll probably cause significant bodily injury to him while I'm leaping in the air to go all Uma Thurman on the kid's ass. Father as the protector indeed! HAHAHAHAHAH!
The event, which attracts international media attention is intended to be a celebration of the father/daughter relationship as the founding father, so-to-speak, said he was sad to notice all those years ago that there was nothing in our culture to celebrate that bond.
Hmmmm. Wonder why he never thought of, oh I don't know, things like going for an ice-cream together, catching a concert, going for a walk.....? Should I feel somehow short-changed because my own dear father only ever saw fit to celebrate the bond he had with his only daughter by spending entire afternoons just the 2 of us sailing the bay in his boat, or hanging out at home listening to hours of favorite music and genuinely feeling like we "had it made". Why didn't he dress me up in a wedding like gown and have us pledge our purity to each other? It might have had something to do with the fact that it would be absolutely and totally creepy and might have landed him in the clink.............
So in the wedding like ceremony the 11-12 year old daughter pledges her 'purity' to a future husband and the father in turn pledges his purity to her.
Excuse me but if we use the word, pure, the way these folks obviously do, doesn't the fact that you procreated, are married, and presumably fornicating on occasion, we can only be left to assume you are not pure, right? Maybe they swear of the dirty, impure act altogether when they take the pledge with their child????
I could go on and on. Instead let me share my favorite quotes from the article:
"It's really a great time for dads to spend with their daughters in a pure and Christian way....
yuck, my skin is crawling...
"This is a wholesome relationship..."
fine, but if you have to say that I am automatically suspicious aren't you? sir, we'll give you the benefit of the doubt, you don't have to dress her up in a frilly white dress and parade her around like a child bride to preach that fact.....
"Purity is freedom for us."
I happen to think I'm as pure as the next gal (and hence free).....does the fact I had sex before marriage strip me of that title? I won't give it up without a fight!!!! Then again there was that time I scared off a randy guy (he had released his swollen member and invited me to touch it.....I was 18...YUCK!) by telling him I was going to tell my father all about it. I've never seen anything deflate so quickly since!
Don't think I'll be buying tickets to the Purity Ball for my hubby and our 8 year daughter .....they seem to find ways to celebrate their bond every day - they are off swimming as we speak. Oh, yes and I supposed the fact that we'll talk to our daughter about safe sex and putting off marriage until at least her late 20's, which obviously endorses the notion that she's likely to have sex before marriage, rules us out as likely participants anyway.
And, no there was no mention whatsoever about relationships between fathers and son, mothers and daughters, or mothers and sons. Hey wait a minute - maybe I'll haul my wedding dress out of storage (the one that comes almost all the way up over my thighs but not quite), dress my 12 year old in a tux and have us pledge our purity to each other. Na, forget my white, frilly dress, wrap me in the wondrous study canvas that is a straight jacket and ship me off ASAP if you ever get an embossed invitation in the mail from me inviting you to witness any such thing!
Being 40 is not all that bad is it?!
Well not if you're Halle Berry.........
For the rest of us lowly, ass-widening, facial hair growing, boob sagging, fat harboring gals, the big 4-0 is not so much our entry point to the second half of our earthly lives, as it is the finish line to not even remotely liking ourselves anymore. Try therapy you say? Freud was a fucking freak I say! And I should know what with a masters and a doctorate in clinical psychology - hey I happen to think my outlay of cash for the letters after my name, rather than years of lying on some asshole's couch 'hmm'ing' and 'hawing' I mean 'haha'ing me' was the more sensible route to take, no? Never mind that said letters after my name bring absolutely zero worth to my current life situation.......other than the fact, of course, that I can refer to myself as DOCTOR Hackett whenever I feel like it and not be lying - no I can't stitch you up or cure your yeast infection, but I can tell you how fucked up you really are! Take two dirty martini's and don't bother getting up in the morning.....
What's to like about gaining five pounds when all you do is look at the icing-glazed scones in the Starbucks display case while the barrista is whipping up your non-fat, sugar-free, $10 cup of java; and the effort to lose that five pounds is equivalent to huffing Mount Everest, only to find that once you reach the top, instead of losing that five pounds, your strenuous work-out and food/alcohol deprivation have actually led to that five pounds being joined by 5 others?
Let's face it ladies; we could easily enter into the realm of being 40, fat and royally fucked, but I say no way! 40 is NOT the new 30 as the assholes in Hollywood would have us believe; it's our ticket to embracing all that is good, bad and ugly about allowing ourselves to have that scone without needing to wash it down with an ativan tablet to keep the panic attacks at bay; and a much deserved free pass in engaging in any behavior we see fit (as long as it does not result in jail-time, yes, while there is a Starbucks on every corner they have not yet infiltrated the penal (hahahahaha I said penal!) system) in squelching the dreams and aspirations of any 20 something skinny bitch we encounter.
I am 40, fat, and fabulous fuckers!
For the rest of us lowly, ass-widening, facial hair growing, boob sagging, fat harboring gals, the big 4-0 is not so much our entry point to the second half of our earthly lives, as it is the finish line to not even remotely liking ourselves anymore. Try therapy you say? Freud was a fucking freak I say! And I should know what with a masters and a doctorate in clinical psychology - hey I happen to think my outlay of cash for the letters after my name, rather than years of lying on some asshole's couch 'hmm'ing' and 'hawing' I mean 'haha'ing me' was the more sensible route to take, no? Never mind that said letters after my name bring absolutely zero worth to my current life situation.......other than the fact, of course, that I can refer to myself as DOCTOR Hackett whenever I feel like it and not be lying - no I can't stitch you up or cure your yeast infection, but I can tell you how fucked up you really are! Take two dirty martini's and don't bother getting up in the morning.....
What's to like about gaining five pounds when all you do is look at the icing-glazed scones in the Starbucks display case while the barrista is whipping up your non-fat, sugar-free, $10 cup of java; and the effort to lose that five pounds is equivalent to huffing Mount Everest, only to find that once you reach the top, instead of losing that five pounds, your strenuous work-out and food/alcohol deprivation have actually led to that five pounds being joined by 5 others?
Let's face it ladies; we could easily enter into the realm of being 40, fat and royally fucked, but I say no way! 40 is NOT the new 30 as the assholes in Hollywood would have us believe; it's our ticket to embracing all that is good, bad and ugly about allowing ourselves to have that scone without needing to wash it down with an ativan tablet to keep the panic attacks at bay; and a much deserved free pass in engaging in any behavior we see fit (as long as it does not result in jail-time, yes, while there is a Starbucks on every corner they have not yet infiltrated the penal (hahahahaha I said penal!) system) in squelching the dreams and aspirations of any 20 something skinny bitch we encounter.
I am 40, fat, and fabulous fuckers!
Thursday, September 13, 2007
I'm really not that fat anymore
Technically, the official Body Mass Index (BMI) charts categorize me in the average range (albeit it is on the high end of average); but still I'll take what I can get you know? However, back about 18 months ago (4 months before I turned the big 4-0) I had the dubious honor of wearing the satin banner and crown declaring me "MORBIDLY OBESE".........seriously, doesn't that term alone just make you want to hang yourself up by the rafters?!
Hovering dangerously close (OK within 3 pounds, yikes!) of the 200 pound mark combined with the stark reality that I could not climb the stairs in my house without stopping for a nap and a snack before reaching the top - I was forced to admit that I had one major battle to take on. Yet again - oh yes I should have mentioned I have lost and found the same 50 or so pounds at least 15 times in my life...........Wobbling ever closer to having to declare myself a 40 year old!!! while the needle on the scale shimmied toward the 2-0-0 mark brought on barrels of panic, semi-truck loads of depression, and a glimmer of commitment that I needed to get this thing under control.
Rather than starving myself, reacquainting myself with the likes of Ms. Craig, the Watchers of Weights, etc, all of whom have played a vital role in my losing and then finding said 50 pounds; I decided this time I would try something really CRAZY! I was going to eat like a normal human being! OK, OK, yes I know 'why be normal' and 'what exactly is normal' were my automatic arguments to my crafty plan at first as well.
But see when you go through life eating enough food at every meal to feed a small country in Africa, perhaps being 'normal' is not so overrated after all???
Now I eat any type of food I want (Once I deprived myself of chocolate for an entire year - a personal best! - and managed to send Cadbury stock off the charts in the 3 year frenzied chocolate binge that ensued) but make sure I eat a 'normal' amount - you know instead of a 12 pack of chocolate bars I'll settle for just the one.
Guess what? Rather than being completely preoccupied with food I now only think/dream about it 23 hours a day! Even better - I managed to lose that pesky 50 pounds again and with the exception of creeping up the scales 5 pounds each Pass My Sweatpants time of the month (yes they go away when the psychosis does each month) I have been holding my own.
Hmmmmm - when I think of all the money I've spent and hours I've cried in trying to win that battle of the bulge.......
Anyway, never mind - it's fast approaching lunch time and I am off to find me some grub!
Hovering dangerously close (OK within 3 pounds, yikes!) of the 200 pound mark combined with the stark reality that I could not climb the stairs in my house without stopping for a nap and a snack before reaching the top - I was forced to admit that I had one major battle to take on. Yet again - oh yes I should have mentioned I have lost and found the same 50 or so pounds at least 15 times in my life...........Wobbling ever closer to having to declare myself a 40 year old!!! while the needle on the scale shimmied toward the 2-0-0 mark brought on barrels of panic, semi-truck loads of depression, and a glimmer of commitment that I needed to get this thing under control.
Rather than starving myself, reacquainting myself with the likes of Ms. Craig, the Watchers of Weights, etc, all of whom have played a vital role in my losing and then finding said 50 pounds; I decided this time I would try something really CRAZY! I was going to eat like a normal human being! OK, OK, yes I know 'why be normal' and 'what exactly is normal' were my automatic arguments to my crafty plan at first as well.
But see when you go through life eating enough food at every meal to feed a small country in Africa, perhaps being 'normal' is not so overrated after all???
Now I eat any type of food I want (Once I deprived myself of chocolate for an entire year - a personal best! - and managed to send Cadbury stock off the charts in the 3 year frenzied chocolate binge that ensued) but make sure I eat a 'normal' amount - you know instead of a 12 pack of chocolate bars I'll settle for just the one.
Guess what? Rather than being completely preoccupied with food I now only think/dream about it 23 hours a day! Even better - I managed to lose that pesky 50 pounds again and with the exception of creeping up the scales 5 pounds each Pass My Sweatpants time of the month (yes they go away when the psychosis does each month) I have been holding my own.
Hmmmmm - when I think of all the money I've spent and hours I've cried in trying to win that battle of the bulge.......
Anyway, never mind - it's fast approaching lunch time and I am off to find me some grub!
"Beached Whale" the book
yep - there really is a book in the works.......getting ready to send it out to agents soon.... The book goes something like this..... (and NO it is not an autobiography! sure you'll see some similarities between Rose and I, but the book is a novel - to prove it - Rose has a beautiful voice that can make grown men cry when she sings - of course I make grown men cry when I sing (or try to) as well but for entirely different reasons ;)
“Beached Whale”, is a fast-paced look at the twists and turns that have hurled Rose McNally, of Dublin, and a mere six months from her big 4-0, into the stale confines of a public bathroom stall waiting for the results to appear in the window of the little stick she just peed upon. Inexplicably, the normally well put-together and in control Rose, finds herself wallowing in the copious mounds of misery that come from being a fat, unemployed career woman, hell-bent of having sex with her solicitor instead of her devoted husband and contemplating peeling away the layers of the pungent onion that is the relationship she endures with her quintessential Irish Catholic mother.
Rose’s gargantuan PMS on steroids appetite has her devouring any food not nailed down. The only thing she has to show for her laborious venture with a spinning class is an inner ear problem her GP is pretty certain qualifies her for permanent disability. Her devotion to Dr. Atkins put a healthy dent in Ireland’s pig population, and precious little else; eating succulent sea food drenched in fat-laden creamy sauces while absorbing South Beach’s glorious sun rays was not exactly what the book recommended but she did score a bit of a tan while giving that one a try. Horrified by the near 200 pound body she has dieted her way up to, while everyone else, including her doting husband, insists she looks grand and isn’t she healthy as a horse, the horse itself more like it laments Rose, she is terrified that the big 4-0, her ever-expanding girth and lust-fections for another man will all but shore up her worse fear- she will indeed sabotage all that is good in her life, just as her mother has been predicting all along.
Narrated in Rose’s crisp, no-nonsense Irish brogue, “Beached Whale” taxi’s us back and forth through significant life events from her childhood through marriage and gives us a hilarious account of the lives of her family and friends and their right as rain interconnectedness with Rose’s own. Rose’s journey lands at a place that could be a devastating blow to her otherwise near perfect life but it just might be the impetus Rose needs to face down demons she never knew she had and to get on with her own happily ever after.
“Beached Whale”, is a fast-paced look at the twists and turns that have hurled Rose McNally, of Dublin, and a mere six months from her big 4-0, into the stale confines of a public bathroom stall waiting for the results to appear in the window of the little stick she just peed upon. Inexplicably, the normally well put-together and in control Rose, finds herself wallowing in the copious mounds of misery that come from being a fat, unemployed career woman, hell-bent of having sex with her solicitor instead of her devoted husband and contemplating peeling away the layers of the pungent onion that is the relationship she endures with her quintessential Irish Catholic mother.
Rose’s gargantuan PMS on steroids appetite has her devouring any food not nailed down. The only thing she has to show for her laborious venture with a spinning class is an inner ear problem her GP is pretty certain qualifies her for permanent disability. Her devotion to Dr. Atkins put a healthy dent in Ireland’s pig population, and precious little else; eating succulent sea food drenched in fat-laden creamy sauces while absorbing South Beach’s glorious sun rays was not exactly what the book recommended but she did score a bit of a tan while giving that one a try. Horrified by the near 200 pound body she has dieted her way up to, while everyone else, including her doting husband, insists she looks grand and isn’t she healthy as a horse, the horse itself more like it laments Rose, she is terrified that the big 4-0, her ever-expanding girth and lust-fections for another man will all but shore up her worse fear- she will indeed sabotage all that is good in her life, just as her mother has been predicting all along.
Narrated in Rose’s crisp, no-nonsense Irish brogue, “Beached Whale” taxi’s us back and forth through significant life events from her childhood through marriage and gives us a hilarious account of the lives of her family and friends and their right as rain interconnectedness with Rose’s own. Rose’s journey lands at a place that could be a devastating blow to her otherwise near perfect life but it just might be the impetus Rose needs to face down demons she never knew she had and to get on with her own happily ever after.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Should I save for my kids' college or psychoanalysis?
I think I may have seriously damaged my 12 year old son's psyche - again. For some reason my 299 previous answers that I was not feeling up to playing a game of cards with him right at the moment, didn't seem to register with him. After all isn't one's mother supposed to be at your beck and call whenever your little heart desires?
Finally, on the 300th time I shouted at the top of my lungs "NOT NOW I AM NOT FEELING WELL!" You'd think sound barrier breaking screams would have sent him scrabbling for cover - oh no - not my 12 year old who regularly reminds me that since "I'm a pre-adolescent Mama you need to be prepared for some attitude from me..." - I am not fucking kidding you - my response? if you are smart enough to label and anticipate life's various developmental stages you can bloody well spare me the torture; he just looks at me and says "you don't look sick to me." I swear I see a sneer as he spits the words.
Having never resorted to physically attacking my children, don't I get some points for that? -although my mother and grandmother constantly remind me "all is wrong with youngsters these days is they don't get enough good smacks" (and we wonder why I'm fucked up?!), I am momentarily overcome by a thunderous urge to start throwing punches.
Thank God that part of my brain that warns "you'll go to jail if you....." kicked in and my fists remained steadfast at my sides - granted I'll probably need extensive dental work to repair the damage my herculean teeth clenching spasms are definitely causing to the copious crowns in my mouth (bad, bad Irish teeth). My son throws me another 'I know you're faking it' scowl and I proceed to come undone!
"I AM NOT FEELING WELL!!" that would be me.
"huh"..... that would be my son now donning an unmistakable 'I definitely do not believe you scowl'
"Well excuse me, I guess it's not always easy to tell when you're 40 year old mother is getting her PERIOD!!!" yah, that would be me again.
I'm sorry but there simply aren't words in the English language to describe the transformation from sneer to horror that overtakes my eldest child's face.
Psychoanalysis savings account right?
Finally, on the 300th time I shouted at the top of my lungs "NOT NOW I AM NOT FEELING WELL!" You'd think sound barrier breaking screams would have sent him scrabbling for cover - oh no - not my 12 year old who regularly reminds me that since "I'm a pre-adolescent Mama you need to be prepared for some attitude from me..." - I am not fucking kidding you - my response? if you are smart enough to label and anticipate life's various developmental stages you can bloody well spare me the torture; he just looks at me and says "you don't look sick to me." I swear I see a sneer as he spits the words.
Having never resorted to physically attacking my children, don't I get some points for that? -although my mother and grandmother constantly remind me "all is wrong with youngsters these days is they don't get enough good smacks" (and we wonder why I'm fucked up?!), I am momentarily overcome by a thunderous urge to start throwing punches.
Thank God that part of my brain that warns "you'll go to jail if you....." kicked in and my fists remained steadfast at my sides - granted I'll probably need extensive dental work to repair the damage my herculean teeth clenching spasms are definitely causing to the copious crowns in my mouth (bad, bad Irish teeth). My son throws me another 'I know you're faking it' scowl and I proceed to come undone!
"I AM NOT FEELING WELL!!" that would be me.
"huh"..... that would be my son now donning an unmistakable 'I definitely do not believe you scowl'
"Well excuse me, I guess it's not always easy to tell when you're 40 year old mother is getting her PERIOD!!!" yah, that would be me again.
I'm sorry but there simply aren't words in the English language to describe the transformation from sneer to horror that overtakes my eldest child's face.
Psychoanalysis savings account right?
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