Sunday, August 28, 2016

No Trash Talking in Good Weather, People!

So this photo of an Ivanka Trump shoe really has nothing to do with the title of this post, other than to make the connection that I'm at a wedding in Girdwood this weekend, and stopped at the Anchorage Nordstrom store to look at shoes. 

I picked up this shoe, and upon seeing the brand name, was torn between dropping it like a hot fire poker and buying the pair simply so I'd get to put my gross foot scum all over Ivanka Trump's gold embossed name. But then I realized this plan would give Ivanka my money without the satisfaction of her ever knowing that I purposely smushed heel scuzz between her first and last names, so I chose a different pair surely assembled by exploIted Mongolian child labor instead. I have my principles, after all.

Hours later in Girdwood--and then again the next day--I learned the same lesson twice: don't trash talk strangers in good weather. 

A group of our friends was piled into a car in a convenience store parking lot, where we'd stopped for an errand. Not realizing the windows were open, one of us began loudly proclaiming that the 17 year-old boy behind the wheel of a red Triumph convertible parked beside us could not possibly be its owner. 

The rest of us shushed her at first, and she clapped her hand over her mouth in embarrassment; but then we saw that the object of her derision was in such rich desert of it, that we all just continued to mock him loudly through the open window of the car. 

"It's mine," the teen with a flat-brimmed baseball cap and zero sign of facial hair finally piped up in his own defense. "YEAH RIGHT! WHATEVER!," another woman in our group cackled loudly as he peeled away.

The next day, this same woman and I were returning from brunch with the initial perpetrator of the Triumph trash talk. During the meal, someone had parked incredibly close to us, so we had to squeeze our food babies into the back seat through the six inches of space that remained between our car and hers. "OH MY GOD! WHO PARKS THIS CLOSE TO SOMEONE?," asked the friend who had screamed "YEAH RIGHT!!" at the teenager the night before.

"Sorry!!" we heard from what turned out to be the open driver's side window of the car where the "who" in the "who parks this close to someone" made herself known. We all turned to each other in immediate recognition of the fact that this was the second time in 24 hours that we had talked smack to someone through the open window of a car.

And the moral of the story is: never talk smack about someone in nice weather.

Saturday, August 27, 2016

I Literally Only Recognize One Ingredient in This

What is this shit? No seriously. The only thing I recognize in this "Superfood Bowl" is "fresh seasonal fruit." 

"Organic Chia Pudding" sounds like something your Chia Pet from the 80's would make if he came to life and had diarrhea. "Organic Hemp Seeds" sounds like something I want to put under a grow light in my closet and smoke the shit out of in six months' time. And I wouldn't eat bee pollen, organic or not. What's the difference between bee pollen and honey? 

Who cares? I don't fucking eat pollen. Pollen goes into my nose and makes me erupt into a fit of sneezing and hives. Fuck pollen, bee or otherwise. "Cocoa Nibs" sounds like a pet name for someone's nipples or clit. And "Organic Goji Berries" is blatantly food you grow electronically on FarmVille or that you feed to your Pokemon character. 

"Superfood Bowl" my ass. Give me monosodium glutamate and yellow #6 any day. You'd have to pay ME $8.50 to eat this intestinal Roto-Rooter.

Friday, August 26, 2016

I Think I Might Already Know These "Secrets of the Male Mind"

I was recently thumbing through a spiral-bound paperback book called "Fundamentals of Avalanche Rescue" at the Juneau Friends of the Library store, but quickly realized I would totally be that person flipping to Figure 6.8 while my friends suffocated in a snow berm. 

So I put that down, and picked this up instead.

Who wouldn't pay at least $4 to "learn the secrets of the male mind" in order to find the Man She Wants and the Love She Deserves? Especially from this non-threatening, well-dressed, perfectly-coifed fit British television personality in a bow tie whose last name rhymes with "pussy?"

I personally don't need a book like this anymore, because I'm a haggard old MILF whose weak AF "F" game is slowly but surely turning me into just a run of the mill "MIL."

Be this as it may, I could have used this book a long time ago, when it would have been useful to know the "secrets of the male mind." Now that I know them, I don't even need them! Ain't that always the way? 

So I'm just gonna go ahead and guess a few of this book's "secrets":

Secret #1: The Man You Want wants you to pretend to love football and eat 8 slices of pepperoni pizza while still being fit and toned. He wants you to be secure enough to gobble down a box of Krispy Kremes and do all the boring shit he likes, and yet still manage to look bangin' in a cocktail dress. 'Nome sayin' ladies? 

Secret #2: The Man You Want wants you to take care of yourself, but not be high maintenance. Like, wear SOME makeup, but not a LOT of makeup. And spend like, 20 minutes getting ready, but not 45. 45 is too many minutes. Dress sexy, but not slutty. Sexy would be like, one of his tee shirts with no pants on. Slutty would be like something you got at Forever 21 and wore to your cousin's bachelorette. There's a difference ladies, c'mon. Don't make The Man You Want explain it to you.

Secret #3: The Man You Want wants you to be smart, but not TOO smart, otherwise it's threatening and bad for his self-esteem.

Secret #4: The Man You Want wants you to be communicative, but not needy. Don't text, call, or email unless he emails, texts, or calls you first. Don't be desperate. Also don't be cold. You need to walk that fine line between desperate and cold that makes you seem both accessible and indifferent. I know. It's hard to explain. But trust me: you'll be alone forever unless you figure it out.

Secret #5: Stop crying. Dear God, STOP FUCKING CRYING. Also: No "state of the union" talks. The Man You Want does not want to have "The Talk." EVER!!!!!!!

Secret #6: Do. Not. Say. "His." Name. Not your ex, not your brother, not your dad. As far as the Man You Want is concerned, he is the first person with a penis ever to appear in your life. Period.

Secret #7: And speaking of periods, don't speak of those. (GROSS). But speaking also of penises, forget eyeliner and push-up bras and perfume and all that consumerist shit that is keeping women enslaved by Sephora and Victoria's Secret. There's no big mystery here. It's: penis + mouth, penis + hand, or (preferably) penis + vagina. The end!

Secret #8: The Man You Want wants you to be nurturing, but not overbearing. Be gentle, but also tough. Be independent (financially and otherwise) but also let him do things for you to make him feel needed. I know, it's all very confusing. BUT TRUST ME YOU NEED TO KNOW THIS TO FIND THE MAN YOU WANT.

Secret #9: Don't be gross. Don't make the Man You Want have to tell you that. Don't burp, fart, or have your period (See #7). You are a woman and therefore were born disgusting. You must slowly and methodically conceal all your levels of disgusting humanity until you become the heroine of a John Hughes movie that the Man You Want has always wanted and deserved. Wait ... weren't we talking about what you always wanted and deserved? Wait. I'm confusing myself now.

I know, I know, I shouldn't judge a book by its cover. EXCEPT if the book has a title and cover like this. Then I feel I can act as judge, jury, and executioner. Time of Death: Now.

Thursday, August 25, 2016

It Happened to Me: I Raised a Total Punk

What if that's the title of my future memoir? If it is, tonight will go down as a particularly inspiring chapter in what is sure to be a future "how not to" cautionary tale of a parenting book.

I'm writing this while putting Isaac to bed, after having just read a depressing and terrifying official "AltRight manifesto" on Twitter. 

This thing basically read like an academic defense of white eugenics mixed with a neo "separate but equal" sort of ideal; all written by a social pariah with an associate's degree in polysci, who lives off Mountain Dew and Dominos in his mom's basement and moonlights as a skinhead internet troll.

And I thought to myself: Is this the world I want my son to grow up in? Wait...what If this IS my son? 

After all, I had spent all evening peeling Isaac off his sister, trying to make them stop fighting, and watched as he ripped off his shirt like he was an extra in Fight Club. I tried to explain how we need to respect each other's bodies and not hit and solve problems with our words.

It seemed to resonate, because he literally sat in my closet and cried in guilt and shame. "At least he's not a sociopath!" my psychiatrist mom has said cheerfully on similar occasions. "If he were, he wouldn't feel guilt or anxiety!"

Cold comfort.

Later, he asked me if it was "possible to get sperm when you're five." I think he was basically trying to figure out when he would get his boy-period, but having zero experience in this department, I just told him no.

As long as he never becomes someone who thinks it's a good idea to write a "manifesto"--ANY manifesto--I think we'll all be okay.

There's Something Deeply Satisfying About Swipe/Delete

Of all the modern marvels contained within the 6 x 3 x 1 inch confines of a smart phone (besides the eggplant and nectarine emojis, which--pro tip--make a pretty good dick n' balls substitute), by far the best is "swipe/delete." 

There is something deeply satisfying about swipe/delete. More satisfying, I mean, than just trashing emails the old school way with a mouse or touch-pad on a laptop or desktop computer. This meme I found really says it all. I fucking LOVE swipe/delete, and I wish I could swipe/delete the whole entire world sometimes, in real life.

But since I obviously can't do that without going to prison for a long time, I have to settle for relishing the feeling of swipe/deleting texts, emails, and Facebook Messenger messages. 

I pretend to be swipe/deleting these things to minimize electronic clutter and save room on my phone, both of which are true. But I mainly do it because I so enjoy the feeling of committing electronic murder/nuclear annihilation.

I get a sort of mini-rush of adrenaline when I swipe/delete something from a person whose name, face, writings, or memory I simply want to jettison into the deepest corner of the most remote Antarctic sea at that particular moment. There's nothing quite like that sensation of taking my finger, running it across the screen of my phone with a flourish, and watching this person's communication to me--and all of the seething rage and emotional baggage that go along with it--disappear into the red-labeled trash ether forever. 

It's like the virtual reality version of hanging up on someone, dropping the mic, slamming the door, throwing a plate against a wall, or punching someone in the junk. And it's even better than blocking someone on Twitter or unfriending them on Facebook, because they'll never even know you swipe/deleted them into oblivion. 


Image result for i love swipe delete

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Please Let Rush Limbaugh Be Right About Lesbian Farmers "Attacking" America

Human ham sandwich and sweat-drenched, tin foil-hat wearing, Oxy-gobbling hobgoblin Rush Limbaugh this week accused President Obama of recruiting lesbian farmers to "attack" rural areas of the country, and all I can say is Rush had better be right! 

Referring to a federal program that gives rural housing loans to farmers and happened to also be discussed at a recent LGBT summit in Iowa, the jowly, glazed Oscar Meyer bologna foreskin rind had this to say between puffs of Cuban cigar:
Have you heard about the agriculture department's financial grants to lesbian farmers? You think I'm making this up? See, this is how they do it. Rural America happens to be largely conservative. Rural America is made up of self-reliant, rugged individualist types. They happen to be big believers in the Second Amendment. So here comes the Obama Regime with a bunch of federal money and they're waving it around, and all you gotta do to get it is be a lesbian and want to be a farmer and they'll set you up. I'm like you; I never before in my life knew that lesbians wanted to be farmers. I never knew that lesbians wanted to get behind the horse and the plow and start burrowing. I never knew it. But apparently enough money can make it happen, and the objective here is to attack rural states. They're already attacking suburbs . . . They never stop, folks. They are constantly on the march.
OMG. PLEASE LET THIS SLEEPER CELL OF CORN AND SOYBEAN-GROWING LESBIAN ISIS RECRUITS BE REAL! There are SO many reasons I want the country to be invaded by lesbian farmers, it's hard to count them all, but here are a few:

1. I love lesbians and I love farmers, so suffice it to say I love lesbian farmers even more.

2.  Lesbians can fix everything, espesh farm equipment, Apple TV, and probably Second Amendment equipment too, so they are like, totes handy around the farm and will be suuuupes useful in the Zombie Apocalypse when we will all have to grow our dumplings from seeds and shit like that. "Self-reliant?" "Rugged?" Check aaaaaaand check!

3.  Lesbians drive Subarus (usually stick shift--bad ass!) which I can tell you from personal experience are like, the best cars ever. Plus, they always have Ani DiFranco or the Indigo Girls playing on their car stereo and in the fields while plowing.

4. Lesbians are amazeballs at gardening, and will make you a sustainable rooftop garden in Park Slope or the Mission District in like, ten seconds flat! Imagine what they would do with hundreds of acres? Kale and kolrabi salad for days, bitchez!

Clearly, the only lesbians Rush Limbaugh knows personally are straight strippers pretending to be lesbians, because real lesbians TOTALLY want to "get behind the horse and the plow and start burrowing." Rush, what are you even talking about, bruh? 

I feel bad for Rush, since he probably needs Cialis to "get behind the horse and the plow and start burrowing" himself, but that's another reason lesbians (especially lesbian farmers) are sorely needed to mend the tattered fabric of America. They don't need Viagra, and they definitely don't need Rush (or anyone with his equipment) for a roll in the hay.

Three cheers for the impending American lesbian farmer invasion! March on, ladies. March on!

Image result for female farmer

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

Do. Not. Read. This. Blog. Son!

If I tried to address every negative comment I get about O.H.M., I'd never have time to write it in the first place. Of course, I get plenty of positive feedback and tons of readers too, which is what keeps me going amidst the shit-storm of bullshit I regularly endure simply for calling it like I see it in the world.

Specifically, I take all sorts of criticism and abuse from every direction, including all the typical "you're a reprehensible cunt" stuff that all women who write online get. (By the way, most people who call me a cunt ironically ALSO love to tell me it's not "classy" or "lady-like" to curse). 

But guess what? I could seriously give minus 100 fucks what those people think. Today I got a comment (from a dude, natch) on my post about the Juneau non-discrimination ordinance that said:
Keep it classy Juneau. I love the ordinance, I hate the language. My kids read this. Hey, maybe don't be crude. If you can't express yourself without vulgarity, then please refrain from posting.
Bwahahahaaha! Wut?

In case there's any confusion here and just so we're clear, O.H.M. is a personal blog. It's my personal blog, and I am its sole author. I'm not a journalist or a public figure. I'm just a woman with some thoughts that I have every right to share and express in whatever language I want to use. No one has to read it, and no one has to like it, but I have the right to post it. This isn't communist Russia (or at least not yet). So please refrain from telling me to please refrain from posting on my blog, because your plea is futile and will go unanswered. 

Rather, please refrain from reading this blog, because here's the thing: I can express myself without vulgarity, as I do every day in my work life and in every social situation that calls for it. But I don't need to do that here, and I don't want to. Here, I can be honest and authentic, which is why, I can only assume, many O.H.M. posts are read and shared widely. In this particular post, I called most elected officials a bag of dicks, because that's what I think most of them are. And I was pointing out how awesome it is that the Juneau Assembly has chosen to buck that bag-of-dicks trend.

This blog isn't for the faint of heart, the prickly, or the easily offended. It's not for prudes, conformists, or religious zealots of any stripe who want to convert me to their belief system, and it's definitely not for kids. So if you have a problem with that, I don't know what to tell you other than please unsubscribe/unfollow, which, FYI, is internet for FUCK OFF!