Leezer

For those of you Googling “American Idol,” welcome to my blog.  As I’ve learned from my Stat Counter, there are many avenues to my blog, none of which I’m particularly proud.  Apparently, Googling, “Bleached Anus,” will get you here, as will “I ruv it asian,” as will “poop.” (No surprise there.)  I’m expiramenting a bit to see if I can win Time Magazine’s Blogger of the Year award just by using a common pop-culture term in my title.  Tune in later for the results.

In the mean time, I was tagged by Expat to complete the following exercise:

- Post the rules on your blog
- Write six random things about yourself in a blog post
- Tag six people in your post
- Let each person know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog
- Let the tagger know your entry is up

This is not going to be easy because I have no secrets to share. I’ve actually written just about everything there is to know about me, which frightens me into oblivion. 

Now, Expat indicated on her blog that we are virtual twins. This is true.  There are a few minor differences, however. First, Expat does not have the same hang-ups about religion as do I.  Second, Expat considers listening to others’ differing points of view as a challenge and a growing experience, while I consider the same experience merely annoying and a waste of precious time. Third, Expat is a true adventurer, having lived all over the world and having raised a kind, well-functioning family unit at the same time.  I could not do this.  Here’s to you, Expat!

Here are six random things, hopefully heretofore unpublished:

• Every night I wear a t-shirt to bed that says, “Ask me about my explosive diarreah.”  My husband thinks I’m irresistible.
• I scored in the thirteenth percentile in the Spatial Orientation section of the pre-college tests (this is out of 100, folks).  This is the exercise that requires you to figure out which way the wheels are turning. If you think THIS is bad, Leezerslawpartner, one of the best attorneys in the whole US of A, scored a SIX! He told me, “I didn’t even think this was possible.”  Adorable, that one.
• I secretly think I’m sort of funny-looking.
• I am so weary of telling my seven-year old, roughly seven times a day, how old our two-year old Shih Tzu is in “human years.”  Now I just tell her “Two. same age as he is in dog years.”
• My best friend Ruthie from childhood died in 1994.  She’s in nearly every dream of mine. Recently, in such a dream, I asked her,”why are you always here.” She said, “that’s our agreement. I’ll always  be here whether you need me or not.” It’s sort of comforting.  MCS reminds me a lot of Ruthie but I don’t tell her very often out of fear I’ll creep her out.
• In the fifth grade, I held two older girls hostage in the girls bathroom.  They couldn’t leave until they said the secret password, “shoes in your mouth, yeah yeah yeah.”  After the bell rang and we were discovered missing, the sixth grade teacher found us, sent the hostages back to class, and told me I would be the first female in Lake Youngs Elementary School history to receive a hack. He pounded the hack paddle into his palm, then at the last minute he let me go, sans hack. I’m sure a lawsuit from my parents was the only thing that stopped him cold.

Tagged:  Mae, Lisa, Lengli, Naynay, Pixie, Kitkat

I’ve been a little out of sorts lately. Either it’s the Saturn retrograde or it’s close to the end of the season for my two favorite shows, American Idol and Dancing with the Stars.  Now, I have a professional degree. I’m not opposed to using latin terms when I want to appear like a know-it-all.  But I hoard my childrens “Littlest Pet Shop” toys because they’re the closest thing to living in a pod I can come up with - I mean the little toys live in the pod, not me, but I can live there vicariously.  And I love mind-numbing tv shows made for imbeciles. Oh well.

So last night’s American Idol featured Neal Diamond songs.  This is really scratching at the bottom of the barrel.  I love Neal Diamond and all, but I just can’t watch him without thinking of Will Farrell’s impression of a Neal Diamond concert in which Will (as Neal) talks to the audience about picking up a drifter - a man - and having sex with him.  Some mental images will live on.

And I find it a little upsetting that my favorite, Michael Johns, was voted off before Neal Diamond night. I can imagine him crooning, “Cherry,” - She’s got the way to move me, Cherry! -  with his shirt open to his navel and all the girls in the audience taking off their panties and throwing them on the stage. 

Speaking of panties, I heard yesterday on the radio that Roger Clemens and his friends are big fans of some up-and-coming fifteen year-old country western singer. They attended one of her concerts in which Roger stood in the front row and threw her one of his jerseys.  The media is reporting that the two have become “friends” and the relationship is purely “platonic.”  Now let’s think about this a bit.  Roger Clemens has two or three sons.  I believe the oldest is a grown man, or at least he’s in college. His wife is a body builder who abuses steriods and other prescription drugs.   Not that her bad habits have anything to do with his unhealthy relationship with a minor, it just makes the story a little more salacious.  So apparently Roger’s adoration of the jail-bait singer has progressed to the point that he’s now getting more attention from this spectacle than he did for perjury (remember his testimony before congress that he never used steriods).  All I can say is “Ewwww.”  And to the girl, where are your parents?  I wonder if the girl (Mindy) knows if Roger had to take little round bandaids wherever he went so the injection site on his buttocks wouldn’t stain his designer slacks.  Maybe she put his bandaids on for him.

That’s all for now. I wish I had something a little more interesting to share with all of you, but I’m a working mother of two small children whose back always hurts and one of the children is home with a cold.  

oh wee little man with the giant q-tip

won’t you clean the rims of my 1972 chevelle today

would that i had a man servant

to stroke my hair and sing olivia newton john songs

who wears a man-cape and rides to sturgis on his harley

 i would ride with him, my man servant

and when the turn-overs are baked i would remove them

with my ov-glove

Today as I sat in my office reading George Will in order to delay accomplishing anything of value, I ate a Combo Number 1 from Thai Castle which theoretically is supposed to contain phad thai but usually is screwed up in some manner so I get extra curry or too much sticky rice.  The lime wedge included in my meal was far too tiny to be taken seriously, even as a Corona-accompaniment.  In any event, I gripped the little nugget between my thumb and forefinger and pressed as hard as I could, aiming for the congealed glob of carbohydtrates.  Pulp and juice squirted over the front of my blouse and down my forearms, then the little bastard shot out of my hand and behind the prefabricated office shelving upon which I’ve appropriately arranged my Dwight Schrute bobblehead and photos of my children. 

“Ah screw it,” I thought, not rising to locate the renegate citrus wedge.  “I’ll smell it when it starts to rot, then it’ll be easier to find.”   I went back to my meal and unfastened the top button of my J.Crew Heritage Chinos.  If only I could belch unnoticed.

And speaking of eating too much, today is the first full day of the calendar year in which the sun is in the sign of Taurus the bull.  Taurus is the sign of good food, good drink, and material possessions.  Never give a Taurus a card that says, “I owe you ten kisses,” or “Good for a free afternoon away from the kids.”  A Taurus doesn’t want this crap. He wants a bottle of Dom Perignon or a Rolex or a cabin next to a river.  A Taurus is all about the bling, baby.

Not so with Scorpios, who generally eschew luxury to make some kind of statement.   I am a Scorpio, the sign of death, rebirth, regeneration, and reinvention.  The symbol for the sign is the Phoenix, the mythical bird that is consumed by flames then is reborn from his own ashes.   The closest I ever came to this experience was when I was eleven and my family went to see our neighbors, the Battles, on Christmas Eve.   In the downstairs guest bath was a lit Avon candle (Mrs. Battles was an Avon lady) inside of a ceramic representation of Holly Hobby.  (Holly Hobby looked a little rough - more like Janis Joplin).  I leaned over to sniff the patchouli scented wax and one of my braids caught fire.   I interrupted my Mom as she set the Triscuits and the cheese ball on the dining room table and asked her I smelled like Joan of Arc. 

My daughter is a Scorpio, also.  This doesn’t surprise me in the least because I believe in poetic justice, therefore I forsaw having a daughter exactly like me.   Granted, you’d have to be a believer in astrology to accept as truth the proposition that those born under the same sign possess similar personality traits, however, she does happen to be like me whether or not the stars have anything to do with it.   My mother thinks it’s amusing when I cojole my daughter at the dinner table as she drags her hair through her soup.  

But then there are  the Capricorns (goats).  I don’t know which I’d prefer - being born under the sign of the goat or (in the Chinese Zodiac) the cock:  “Hi! I’m a cock!  What’s your sign?”  My mother is a Capricorn.  If she’s representative of her sign, then Capricorns have no tolerance for throwing away broccoli stems and they can read the Exorcist cover-to-cover without losing a wink of sleep.  This is, obviously, entirely unfair to my mother, whose lovely attributes defy description in a silly blog such as this.

This said, I don’t believe in astrology.  I do, however, believe that one’s blood type should dictate the types of foods one should have in his or her diet.   O-Positive.  Steak, steak, and more steak.

• Wow! I’ve never seen this shade of beige before! How have I missed it! I must add it to my inventory!
• This particular shade of beige brings out the beige flecks in my eyes.
• Beige - the color of honest and manly men.
• It would be nice if this beige was accented by a darker-beige windowpane plaid; then I’d buy it.
• I’m looking for a specific shade of beige - think cooked-just-right pizza crust or the inside of an overly-ripe pear.  Perfect!
• Why Lisa, you labor under the misimpression that I have this shirt at home. I do not. The beige one at home has long sleeves and a blue window-pane plaid. This one, while it has long sleeves, has two-button cuffs, not one, and a light-blue windowpane plaid.
• Maybe I should paint the walls the same shade of beige as my shirts.
• Did Costco sign a contract with the Beige Shirt Company? Maybe I can contact the company directly and cut-out the middleman!

The Dalai Lama has been in Seattle for the past five days promoting his new movie “Dalai Does Dallas speaking about peace and compassion to sold-out crowds.  He’s likely staying at the Embassy Suites at the Space Needle because there are kitchenettes in the rooms, allowing the Dalai to safely heat his Hot Pockets.  (He burned down a Motel 6 in Indianapolis when he set his hot-plate too close to an issue of Redbook Magazine.  He now routinely demands a kitchenette).  

There’s a lot that people don’t know about Mr. Lama; they think that he prays all the time and eats crickets while pondering his next life as a lotus blossom.   Actually, the Lama is more complicated and surprising.  For instance, he travels with the complete DVD anthology of Melanie Griffith’s career, from Working Girl to the voice-over for Stuart Little.  He’s also a bit of a booze hound - the Lama’s handlers demanded a case of Modori Melon liquor and two litres of Sprite be placed in his dressing room at the Key Arena so that he could “lubricate” a bit before going onstage. 

The Lama doesn’t pray all the time, either.  When he’s not speaking about compassion, he’s pitching his line of clothing, “Green Jeans”  on QVC.  Made of recycled PVC fibres, the garments don’t  require washing between wearings; you just leave the garments outside overnight to “air out.”  Sadly, he’s currently defending a class-action lawsuit brought by female wearers of the garments who developed the human papiloma virus (HPV) after several wearings.  Settlement discussions are ongoing.

The Pope is also in Seattle at the moment, but he’s staying at the Inn at the Market because he doesn’t travel with a hot-plate. The Lama is a bit jealous of the Pope “stealing his thunder,” so the Lama has developed juvenile names for His Holiness - The Poop, Caspar, and Brillo-Head are among them (I don’t understand the last one).  In an effort to show Seattleites who’s “boss,” the Lama sent out for a tether ball to be installed in the Embassy Suites and Lama has challenged Pope to the best out of five.  Fox 13 at Ten is covering the event. 

More surprising than any of the above is this: there is a Mrs. Lama.  She’s back in Tibet until - as he puts it - she “can learn how to behave herself.”  The last time Mrs. Lama - who bears a striking resemblance to Nancy Pelosi - travelled to Seattle with her husband, she wandered into an Ivar’s Seafood and Chowder House and asked for a job as a night-hostess so she wouldn’t have to return to Tibet as the forgotten spouse of that country’s biggest rock star.  They have entered couples therapy and are currently building a hot tub in their back yard next to the trampoline.

• One rock-hard, half-eaten Eggo waffle;
• Seven year-old daughter’s prescription eye glasses;
• Fourteen miscellaneous Polly Pocket accessories;
• My flute;
• Three empty water bottles;
• One unread copy of “Navy Seal Workout Program,” to be returned to Barnes & Noble because, while I am happy to do the running part of the program, the obstacle course will be be difficult because I am without a ten-foot wall in my backyard;
• Blockbuster copy of “Spongebob - The Movie” which I now own because I rented it two years ago;
• Three (unused) tampons;
• Seven Hot Tamales;
• Five barrettes;
• Copy Junie B Jones is not a Crook;
• My PLU sweatshirt

     Many of you are laboring under the misimpression that we no longer need you.  We make our own money, we know how an internal combustion engine works, and we can order sperm out of catalogues and become impregnated during lunch.  Many of you – especially if you’re white – believe that you have become the iconic schlemiel for the modern age.  One must look no farther than television commercials in which male-female pairs discuss any manner of things from cutlery to diarrhea to steroid use.  Consistently, it is the female who must inform her male counterpart that he is, indeed, an imbecile. 

     Please forgive us the We Are Superior! call to arms.  I am weary of it, so I assume it must be tiresome to you.  And while I do not speak for all women, I am one, and I am a keen observer of the strengths, weaknesses, and desires of the same.  The following is offered – not as a peace offering; this implies there is a war, and there is not – as another perspective on our relationship.  Take note of that which will make our future together more harmonious:

     1.  Not all of us get the whole Brad Pitt-thing.  Sure, we like to look at good-looking men, but we also like to look at good-looking women.  Further, some of us don’t think Brad Pitt is even all that good-looking.  His eyes are sort of squinty, and he has chipmunk cheeks.  Conversely, consider the manliness of Mike Rowe from the Discovery Channel’s “Dirty Jobs.”  He’s a lot more appealing than Brad Pitt:

On this topic, we don’t care if you don’t have six pack abs (they look like the underside of a turtle), and we don’t care if you’re not six feet tall.  (However, tall is always good, too). We don’t care if you’re bald and we don’t care if you need glasses.  We do care if you’ve never visited a dentist.  Otherwise, you need not exert energy trying to meet a standard on which we did not weigh-in.

     2.  If you make a lot of money, it doesn’t mean we’ll like you more.  Any woman who loves a man because he makes a lot of money isn’t worth getting to know.  Tell her to make her own damn money.  If you fall in love with such a woman and she breaks your heart (and takes your money), well, don’t do it a second time.

     3.  Being naked except for the black socks you wore to work doesn’t do a whole lot for us, sexually speaking.  After you kick off the shoes, bend over and remove socks.  Invest in the effort.

     4.  The reason we bitch at you because you can’t multi-task is because we secretly wish that we, too, had no ability in this regard.  It would make life a lot simpler to finish one task before starting another.  Better yet would be the ability, like you, to feel o.k. about your powerlessness to wash a pan while talking on the phone while eating a sandwich while emptying the cat box.

     5.  There will never be a replacement for the way it feels to be treated like a lady, by a man.  No level of sexual equality will change this.

     6.  Please give us the remote control once and awhile.  The remote control is not an appendage like an arm or a penis.  It is made of plastic.  Giving it to us does not mean you will have to watch the Lifetime Channel.  We may even turn it to ESPN or the Speed Channel.  We like this stuff too, not just a steady diet of it.

     7.  Just as men are visual creatures and can there fore become – ahem – excited by what you see, women are auditory creatures.  It’s a function of our well-developed language centers.  This means that although you paid a compliment to your wife/girlfriend in 1983, it is useful for her to hear it again.  The bargain men and women struck is quite simple: we agreed to present ourselves in such a manner that is pleasing to the eye – your eye – in exchange for you saying within earshot something nice to us about said manner.

     There will never be a replacement for the way a man looks in a well-tailored suit or a baseball uniform, or the way he smells when just a little (but not a lot) sweaty.  These things are mysterious and magical, and they defy analysis.  God or (insert the name of your own monotheistic Creator here) made the world this way, and no amount of equality on our behalf will diminish the attraction.  We’re sorry if you have ever doubted this.