Life’s little listy

I’ve been a list maker all my life. Grocery list, honey-do list, what-to-pack-on-my-trip list, birthday-party list, hell I even make errands-to-run lists. A former partner called them my “little listies.”

My list is purposeful, meant to keep me on track. It delivers a clear outline of what I need

and what to do, with a glance. It is NOT a primer for journalism.

Hold on, what? Yes, journalism. 

Lately I’m overwhelmed but the number of articles I read that are actually a regurgitated, or worse, opinion-based list. 

• “13 Signs the Person You are With Gets You.” 
• “5 Ways the Highway Crisis Could Affect You”
• “Best Hammocks for Summer Reading”
• “5 Healthy Habits that Regulate Your Appetite”
• “How to Beat the NRA in 7 Not So Easy Steps”

Even my beloved NPR has fallen into the pseudo list category, theirs with a fancy video and infographic, of course.

When I discuss with my journalist friends the state of the current media (abysmal!) we tend to agree that the 24/7 news cycle may be one of the worst thing that has ever happened to news. We simply cannot fill the need to consume. So the industry has resorted to the most base, useless writing tactic: the little listy.

Gone is research, investigation, interviewing, craft and editing. Instead you have a list that when put into practical use means you spend most of your day making a list, exercising, getting good sleep, meditating, shopping at the farmers market, clipping coupons, surrounding yourself with POSITIVE people ONLY and staring deeply in your children’s eyes so they can see you hear their needs.

Another triumph for shitty journalism.

That’s not to say that I don’t read anything meaningful any more. I do. The interview with Gary Oldman in Playboy magazine was great! But it was because of Gary Oldman, not the interviewer.

This article on the state of Israel and Palestinian relations was enlightening. But is really just excerpts from another interview.

  

And I continue my love affair with Pope Francis.

Oh and yes, there is a list for him also. “10 Things to Remember When Pope Francis Upsets You.” 

I’ve dedicated to two things in my life recently: less social media and more personal engagement. I’m adding to that list, "don’t read stories that are just lists."

I’ve read that one of the habits of highly successful people is that they make lists. Know where I read that? Yep, on a list. 

Here’s a list of some of the traits of successful people, just in case you were wondering.

Or just in case, try this one.

Weary

I cannot be the only person who is already tired of the 2008 elections. We put a moratorium on speeches, articles, news updates, etc. that have anything to do with the candidates at our house. It's no longer open for discussion.

Let me state for the record, I love democracy. I vote, for everything. I am ready for a woman president, I don't think it will be Hillary, but I am still ready. I like Obama. I would/will vote for him.

However, I am so sick of them already. And if the GOP hadn't shit on enough people, now you have idiots like Rush Limbaugh asking listeners to marr the democratic process. And for what purpose? To prove that it's already marred? Newsflash: We know it is. Just let it run its course so we can get rid of the shrub and get on with our lives.
In recent weeks, conservative talk radio stars Rush Limbaugh and Laura Ingraham have urged loyal listeners to vote for the much-despised Clinton in open Democratic primaries so as to prevent Obama from sealing the nomination, and there are some indications that their calls have already been heeded in states like Texas and Mississippi.

"I want our party to win. I want the Democrats to lose," Limbaugh said. "They're in the midst of tearing themselves apart right now. It is fascinating to watch. And it's all going to stop if Hillary loses."

One hundred plus ways to be a bitch

I'm still working on my extreme commuting story for the part-time writing gig, and it is depressing. Not only are we pissed off for spending so much time in the car, our asses are getting bigger as well.

Longer commutes are also linked to obesity. Researchers at Georgia Tech have found that every 30 minutes spent driving increases your risk of becoming obese by 3 percent.

Oh Good God.

I'm also finishing (just starting) our entry for the Bronze Quill awards for our magazine. Hmmm, too much like work.

So I flip around on my desk to see what my editor, MK, has left recently for my enjoyment. Thankfully, she never fails to disappoint. Today on my desk is a submitted article for the magazine titled, "One Hundred Plus Things Every Woman Should Know."

This writer has had a bad time with men. Some of her 100+ tips -- with my thoughtful edits -- include:

1. Money and sex are the keys to a good marriage. Rich women are always smiling because they have money. And the rest of us smile because we just had a nooner.
2. Plan your marriage as if you're going to get divorced. Or just stay single and screw around.
3. Stupid children make you look stupid. Wow, what does that say about your mom?
4. It's important to teach your daughters not to sleep around. It is 2008, and guys still talk. As opposed to banging rocks together like they did in the '90s.
5. Judge a guy by what he wants you to have. If he says "Mercedes for everyone," then you're in luck.
6. Always get the largest diamond you can -- you might need to sell it. To finance your cocaine habit.
7. Only wear open-toed shoes with a cocktail dress if you are in your 20s. I'm fucked. I'm wearing a pair today with pants.
8. Do not wear too much make-up, you will look like a two-bit whore. Again, not my day!
9. You really can never be too thin or too rich. Wasn't that Ivana Trump's line?

For the rest, you'll have to find your own copy. Or, if you're in a pinch, you can dig mine out of the trash. I don't think we'll be publishing that gem anytime soon!

Irascible

I feel irritable today. Out of sorts. Testy. Tempermental.

I went back to work at my lovely part-time writing gig to escape the dismal state of affairs known as "daytime television." But as I sit here -- with edits on my left hand and a 1,500 word article on collaboration at my right -- I am pinched by stitches, sore muscles and chaffing pants.

What I need (which is something I can't have for another week...) is obviously a new pair of shoes. Luckily I work near a discount shoe bonanza, which yeilded a funky pair of ankle boots that will be perfect for trekking through the cobblestone streets of Rome.

My friend JAC who is spearheading this trip, believes in the pointy-toe shoe philosopy. Pointy-toed shoes make your legs look longer. She's 5'7. I'm not. Her legs will always look longer than mine.

She's also much more of a shiny dresser with lots of bling, while I'm much more black clothes, Dr. Martens and black fingernails. So I bought the rounded toe boots that will look great with my jeans and serve me well if I'm cornered in a back alley and need to kick some guy in the nuts to get away.

Ok, now I'm hoping that happens just so I can try out these new black beauties.

Man, I am in a bad mood!

Is that a pickle in your pocket ...

It seems like my girlfriends and I spend a lot of time discussing guys. Round and round: What we like, what we don't like, why we like it. It's probably one of our favorite topics.

It would be ridiculous except for the fact that we all LOVE guys. It's true. We love men. We like the way the smell, the way they make us feel, the enthusiasm they generate. But damnit, they are so frustrating sometimes.

Lately, I find myself in a position of counselor to some friends with man trouble. Frankly, I am just very good at it. And it generates some of, in my opinion, the best of my writing skills:

Me: "I think he's a giant fuck bag. But I'm a bitch that way."

She: "I've come to realize that most guys are 'a-holes' (why a-hole is in quotes, I just can't say) and I should just learn to accept it. After seeing what my other friends went through ... things could be a lot worse for me."

Me: "Guys are like pickles. They start as cucumbers, then they soak in vinegar for a while. That's when they finally figure out what they are made of. If you're lucky, sometimes you get sweet pickle. But mostly you get JERKins.

Ok, how fucking awesome is that analogy? Seriously, it's going on my blog!"

Etiquette lesson

For those of you who may be unaware, the question, "When are you going to pop out another one?" is rude as hell.

My -- or any woman for that matter -- reproductive schedule is none of your business. It's like asking a man if he masturbated in the shower this morning. It's not your place to ask, nor should you care.

And you wonder why I don't like family functions.

My answer, "Never. I'm barren. Ball of fire was actually left on the doorstep by the stork. But thanks for reminding me that my uterus is a wasteland from which no fruit will ever grow. Happy Thanksgiving!"

Here endeth the lesson.

Fuckers.

Summer dreamin'

It was 72 degrees in Kansas City on Tuesday. Today it is 31. I live in the Midwest, so I have no illusions of great weather all year long. However, it still takes me by surprise at how damn cold it can get. I'm freezing my ass off!

But thanks to the genius of Crayola, I can open the back door and see green trees, sun-dappled flowers and a flowing stream. All in bright, washable, non-toxic colors!

Justice

I'm a big believer in free speech. I think that's a fact I have established. But I also know there comes a time when free speech is just a prop for others to be assholes and push their propaganda moral opinion down your fucking throat.

These people don't really have insight to share, but they are so assured of their moral superiority that they have to tell you how to live your life -- which should be just like theirs. I know this because I went to the University of Kansas which is right up right up the street from the hate-monger, Fred Phelps.

Phelps and his family regularly picketed at KU for just about any event, gay or not. He picketed the funeral of a musician who was rumored to be gay. He picketed both times I saw Elton John in concert. (He freaking rocked, by the way. Elton, not Fred.)

Since the war, Phelps and his band of malcontents have been picketing the funerals of soilders because they have made a convuluted connection that 9/11 was vengence for homosexuality.

Church members routinely picket funerals of military personnel killed in Iraq and Afghanistan, carrying signs such as "Thank God for dead soldiers" and "God hates fags."

Reverend Phelps and his family finally saw some justice this week. Proof that spewing hate and bigotry is not going to make everyone think like you.

In an odd twist of fate, when I worked at the national insurance association, I learned that the director of Human Resources is married to Fred's daughter, who also happens to be his stepsister. The DIRECTOR OF HR. By the way, those are his children in the photo.

Family values. Who says they are missing in this country?

I might have to use my freedom of speech to write letters to our state insurance commissioners, just to let them know what the director and his breeders have been up to lately.

Well read is well loved

I know. I've been prattling on lately about my latest book. I apologize. I am a voracious reader and it just seeps out sometimes. Especially when I haven't had anything odd happen at home -- not so much as a nicked nippled -- in days.
Apology aside, I found this interesting article on CNN.com about the reading habits of Americans. Did you know that one in four Americans did not read even ONE book last year? Not even one. How is that possible? I think even the hubby accidentally read part of a book last month. It was my fault. I'd left it lying open on the table and his inability to look away made it inevitable.

There are demographic factors to this phenomena as well. For example: Democrats and liberals typically read slightly more books than Republicans and conservatives.

So I'm a pretty liberal Democrat, so I have to read more than normal. It's a function of fact.

Among those who said they had read books, the median figure -- with half reading more, half fewer -- was nine books for women and five for men. The figures also indicated that those with college degrees read the most, and people aged 50 and up read more than those who are younger.

These facts make me wonder, though, about the New York Time's Bestseller List. Let me state for the record that I think that list is a bit of a sham, much like the Grammys. Obviously it's based solely on sales, and pre-sales, and half-sales and other than dollar signs, it has no real bearing on whether the literature is good or not. It's simply made a lot of money. Some great books make the list, but some not. Currently, Dog the Bounty Hunter has a top-selling book.

And then you have guys like Tucker Max and his book. I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell. The blogger at CUSS and Other Rants did an interview with him recently and reminded me of his presence.

His book made the list. And I wondered who the hell was reading it? He is the epitome of everything I hated about frat boys in college, but he is pretty damn funny, and thoroughly willing to throw his pride out the window. Read his blog about buttsex and you get the general drift.

According to the article on CNN the most-well read choices include, Popular fiction, histories, biographies and mysteries were all cited by about half, while one in five read romance novels.

So who is reading the wise words of Dog the Bounty Hunter and exploring the delicate intricacies of buttsex with Tucker Max?

That must be another survey -- for Republicans..

A rose by any other name would not cost so much

A local blogger and fellow writer had a post last week about her malcontent with her Ford Explorer. I'm having a similar trouble lately.

Before I had the ball of fire, I had this fabulous little red Honda civic. Two doors, six-disc CD player, moon roof, spoiler and 36 beautiful miles to the gallon. But after baby, all things change.

I once conked my head so hard on the low roof -- place baby in seat, stand up -- that I initiated a migraine headache that eventually made me throw up. I knew I needed to sell it, but I hated the thought. That car represented young, sexy, childless and car payment free days. I have great memories of that car. Memories I had to put aside for the benefit of my baby and my aching back, and therefore damn my misspent youth.

We are Honda people, through and through and the Honda gods had just come out with the Pilot. Oh how the hubby wanted a new SUV. He had a Ford Explorer when we dated but it died a horrible death, as all Fords do and we traded it in for the aforementioned cherry dream car. I negotiated, angled, jimmy-rigged and finally brokered a deal I could live with. Somehow, it became my car. And I hate it.

I hate hoisting myself and a 40 lb toddler into it every freaking day. I hate the 23 miles to the gallon, which translates in current gas rates to $50 a week. I hate that the maintanace on the thing starts at $300 and goes up.

Sure I can haul groceries in it, and every now and then some paving stones for the back yard. Yes, when pressured, it will seat up to seven. But are those benefits worth the delicious boil of hate I feel whenever I try to back it out of the garage? I believe not, but the hubby still has doe eyes.

I tried to reason with him. If we put one of my paychecks and the monthly car payment into the savings, we can afford to take that Mediterranean cruise that has taunted us for the past few years. He's sticking to his guns.

In the meantime, I find myself cruising the used car lot at the local Honda dealerships when I'm supposed to be at the gym. I'm starting to feel a little reckless. Next week, I might actually TALK to one of the car salesman.

Lord help us both.

Party like a rock star

This weekend, I had the distinct pleasure of accompanying my soon to be sister-in-law to a local dance club for a bachelorette extravaganza. Can I just say, Oh. Good. God.

I haven't been on the club scene in years, and now I remember why. I hate it. I hate weird little straight guys who can't dance. I hate being grabbed at as I walk by the bar or across the dance floor. And then, if you dare to dance with your girls, some idiot sneaks up behind you and starts grinding (out of sync to the music none-the-less) on your ass. After about three hours, I pretty much had my fill and stopped using the polite, "Sorry, I'm married." The next guy who grabbed me got whipped in the face with my hair when my head swiveled around, a'la Exorcist as I hissed, "Don't fucking grab me!" He didn't stick around.

At one point, my current sister-in-law and I were standing around the dance floor, just watching in horror at the display when she leaned over to me and said, "Do you remember that scene in 'Shallow Hal' when he's dancing with all the fat, ugly chicks but he thinks they are hot? I think we're looking at that exact situation here."

In the space of a few hours, I saw a chick who was extremely high dance for a full song with one tit hanging out. I saw a 40+ woman dry hump a pole. There was the older couple who thought that swing dancing was appropriate during "Party Like a Rockstar." And the endless parade of girls displaying the latest trend in muffin tops.

Despite the circumstances, my future SIL had a great time, we danced the night away and at one point, I snuck into the restroom with her camera and took some very candid shots of my breasts. Either she hasn't looked at her camera yet, or she thinks they are her tits because she still hasn't called me to ask about it.

100 calorie pack of bullshit

Yesterday I went to Wal-Mart to pick up some stuff. I had a small list, but for some reason -- probably because I was sans ball of fire -- I opted to stroll. Wal-Mart is not ususally a place I stroll, but I was intoxicated by my mommy-free freedom and temporarily lost my fucking mind.

As I strolled, I picked up random things that were not on my list, but I knew I needed them: paper towels, clorox wipes, plug-in refills in clean linen scent, apples and yogurt. I also wanted a package of those instant cappuccinos because I love coffee, but I'm too lazy to actually run the machine at home. Wal-Mart only carries my favorite cappuccino in those idiotic 100 calorie packs now. What the ...?

I looked every where but alas, I am obviously too stupid to choose the lighter version so the demi-gods of good nutrition have done it for me.

This pisses me off.

I make a concerted effort to make sure my family eats as much organic and home-prepared food as possible. I make meals with my own two hands and send the leftovers with the hubby for lunches. We drink organic soy milk for crying out loud. If I want to drink a calorie-laden instant coffee, I think I've earned the right! I realize there is an obesity epidemic in this country, you'd have to be retarded to miss it, but my weight and the issues surrounding it are still my concern.

I was still grousing to myself when I went through the check-out lane. My check-out girl -- who was fabulously gorgeous for a change, and if you shop at Wal-Mart then you know what I mean -- swiped my coffee packs and said, "God, they have 100 calorie packs for everything now!"

Well, with an opening like that, I couldn't resist. I bitched. "I'm sick of companies trying to r...... blah, blah, blah."

I ended it with a resolute, "If I'm fat, that's my problem."

The cashier looked at me for a minute, nodding. "I ain't ever seen a 100 calorie pack of french frys at McDonalds."

Exactly.

Gay old time

On Thursday night I attended what I would assume would be a dreaded Christmas party for the Human Right's Campaign. I do some volunteer writing for the group, through my good pal Dawn, who was my bitch (that's apparently lesbian for "date") for the evening.

Can I just say, gay men have amazing taste. The place -- because it was a little more than a house -- was a 1938 two-story refinished with beautiful detail. The furniture was an amazing mix of modern and exquisite Italian antiques. The booze included a bartender who liked to make up special drinks in your honor. The food was catered and included crab rangoon, which my two loyal readers will know, is one of my all-time favorite things to eat, EVER.

By far the best part of the evening was mingling with intelligent, professional people who were insightful and slightly perverted, my perfect mix. I like to describe myself as the well-read writer who likes to keep her mind safely in the gutter, this was a good party for me.

I was literally having a gay old time. I ran into a former boss, who after a couple of drinks, revealed a lot more about the yet-to-be-named-tax prepartion company that I needed to know.

As I sat there, soaking in the political discussion and sipping my drink, I knew it was too good to be true. And sure enough, the gay men's chorus decided to sing Christmas songs.

Well shit.

Knitted brow

I think we've established that I am a Christmas scrouge. I don't like the music, I lack good cheer and generally no one is getting yule tide joy from me. But today, while sitting in the doctor's office waiting on the hubby, I realized that I had overlooked an important Christmas tradition in my previous rant. Christmas sweaters.

More than four thousand items will appear for your perusal on ebay when you type in "Christmas sweaters," and each one is more ghastly than the last.

There are some fashion trends that died an untimely death for a reason: rolled jeans, mullets and fingerless gloves. Yet those damn sweaters refuse to die!

I also can't help but notice that the most common place you find a Christmas sweater is a menopausal woman with a bad haircut, shopping in Hollister for their teenager. Is this because they have no fashion sense so they cling to the generic ugliness of a holiday trend? I know not.

My mother-in-law bought me one during those first few years after the hubby and I were married. I donated it the next weekend. I think he nicely told her that I was not a sweater person -- unlike some people.