Hi, dudes! Sorry I haven't posted in so long (Umm, over a year? Oops!). I've been super busy making a baby and then keeping said baby alive and not crying. Also, I personally find it really hard to think of blog posts when all I've done all day is stare at the kid. But, you guys, I've had something on my mind for a while now and I need to discuss it with y'alls. You see, I've been listening to a lot of R&B for the last few months. This is related to motherhood in the sense that I no longer get paid for my work and that makes it difficult to listen to rap music, as rappers talk about getting money A LOT. Some of them actually never talk about anything else (I'm looking at you, Baby the Birdman). R&B artists address cashflow issues significantly less, but they use the same producers so there are a lot of sonic similarities. I should be happy. But as I listen to these songs, something keeps bugging me oh so much, which is that these R&B peeps are always making INSANE sexual promises that no one could ever, ever keep. Let's take a closer look:
1. Robin Thicke
Robin Thicke (son of Alan Thicke) actually isn't too overpromisey. I mean, he totally is for a normal human being, but in the world of R&B his hyperbole is pretty average.
Now, in case you didn't catch all the lyrics, Rob here just promised to solve ALL OF YOUR PROBLEMS with his penis. We will accept that as our median for the purposes of this post, and that level of overpromising pales in comparison to our next offender. That's right, dudes, I'm talking about the King of Sexual Overpromise,
2. R. Kelly
Hoo, boy. You're gonna want to hold onto your hat for this one.
To recap: Kells is proposing an entire 24 hours of sex. There will be a round TEN, after which he will get a second wind, resulting in more sex, which is going to make you yodel. Not, as I would think, give you all kindsa chafe, but yodel. Oh, and he probably got you fired.
But that's not unusual for R. Kelly, a man who has sung of sex that takes place in outer space, for Pete's sake. I know better than to take him even remotely seriously. The thing that makes this so bothersome to me, so egregious, is that what we know of R. Kelly's actual sex life tells us that not only is he NOT going to make you yodel, but he's probably going to put on a Zorro mask and pee on you. It's like if I told you to come over to my house to watch the secret 6th season of The Wire and eat free pizza FROM THE FUTURE, and then when you got there, I put on a Zorro mask and peed on you.
3. Ciara
CIARA IS GOING TO DAGGER YOU.
4. The-Dream
Now that is more like it! For those of you not familiar with the vernacular, to "put it down" is to do a pretty good job. Way to keep expectations somewhere reasonable, The-Dream! The craziest promise here is that he'll make you sleepy. Sounds great! I hereby name you my boyfriend for the duration of this blog post!*
Well, that was fun! I'll try to be here more often, but no promises. I seriously don't understand how those Mommy Blogger people do it.
*Actually, who am I kidding, I totally pick Robin Thicke. I have an inexplicable weakness for white dudes with gross facial hair. See also KFed and my husband when we first met.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
PDXcuse Me
I owe Portland an apology.
In retrospect, I never had any real anger towards Portland itself. I'm pretty sure I was only mad because Portland kept luring away people I really like. And nothing makes me saltier than people I like moving away. Ugh. I'm sorry, okay, Portland? I was being a hater, and I apologize for talking shit. For, like, years.
I guess this change of heart has been in the works for a while. Me and the dude had a mini-vacay in P-Town (I can call it that now, right?) a couple years ago, and it was just lovely. Granted, we spent pretty much the entire time in strip clubs, smoking, drinking and carousing, and really, who wouldn't enjoy that? But I wasn't sold on Portland just yet. Until this morning, that is, when I found out about their food cart situation.
Apparently, Portland is awash with food carts, and nobody bothered to tell me about it.
View Portland Food Carts in a larger map
If that map were of Seattle there'd be, like, eight of those dot things. We are woefully lacking in food carts, which was much more of an actual problem back when I used to leave the house, but is still a blow to my hometown pride. What hurts the most, though, is that Junior Ambassadors cart exists and I have never been there. These guys specialize in weird ice cream flavors that make our ice cream "mavericks" look like a bunch of snivelling M.O.R. pussies (smoked salmon and cream cheese, you guys. Shit!), "panwiches" whatever that means, and being super fucking whimsical and adorable. Essentially, they are killing my life right now, and I will pretty much feel like half a person until I can convince someone (i.e. Landon) to drive me there. Look. This is how they choose to represent themselves:
AAAAAGH, why are they doing this to me?! You can read all about it at the Food Carts Portland blog. And while you're there, you might as well click around and start planning your food cart tour of Portland.
I feel good, you guys. I've never apologized to an entire city before (though there have been times when I certainly should have), and it's kind of delightfully cathartic. Maybe this will become a series. I have talked shit about a lot of places.
*
What it breaks down to is this: I kind of hate everywhere that isn't Seattle, just for not being Seattle. But what I am starting to realize is that just because I love my wife (Seattle), that doesn't mean I can't occasionally enjoy the charms of other women (cities). And maybe, just maybe, it's time to get me some strange. (Don't worry, this logic does not apply to my actual wife, by which I mean my actual husband, who, thank little baby Jesus, does not read this blog.)
* Did you know that if you Google image search "oops", you will see about a billion nip/labe slips? Neither did I, until about 3 minutes ago. Yowza.
In retrospect, I never had any real anger towards Portland itself. I'm pretty sure I was only mad because Portland kept luring away people I really like. And nothing makes me saltier than people I like moving away. Ugh. I'm sorry, okay, Portland? I was being a hater, and I apologize for talking shit. For, like, years.
I guess this change of heart has been in the works for a while. Me and the dude had a mini-vacay in P-Town (I can call it that now, right?) a couple years ago, and it was just lovely. Granted, we spent pretty much the entire time in strip clubs, smoking, drinking and carousing, and really, who wouldn't enjoy that? But I wasn't sold on Portland just yet. Until this morning, that is, when I found out about their food cart situation.
Apparently, Portland is awash with food carts, and nobody bothered to tell me about it.
View Portland Food Carts in a larger map
If that map were of Seattle there'd be, like, eight of those dot things. We are woefully lacking in food carts, which was much more of an actual problem back when I used to leave the house, but is still a blow to my hometown pride. What hurts the most, though, is that Junior Ambassadors cart exists and I have never been there. These guys specialize in weird ice cream flavors that make our ice cream "mavericks" look like a bunch of snivelling M.O.R. pussies (smoked salmon and cream cheese, you guys. Shit!), "panwiches" whatever that means, and being super fucking whimsical and adorable. Essentially, they are killing my life right now, and I will pretty much feel like half a person until I can convince someone (i.e. Landon) to drive me there. Look. This is how they choose to represent themselves:
AAAAAGH, why are they doing this to me?! You can read all about it at the Food Carts Portland blog. And while you're there, you might as well click around and start planning your food cart tour of Portland.
I feel good, you guys. I've never apologized to an entire city before (though there have been times when I certainly should have), and it's kind of delightfully cathartic. Maybe this will become a series. I have talked shit about a lot of places.
*What it breaks down to is this: I kind of hate everywhere that isn't Seattle, just for not being Seattle. But what I am starting to realize is that just because I love my wife (Seattle), that doesn't mean I can't occasionally enjoy the charms of other women (cities). And maybe, just maybe, it's time to get me some strange. (Don't worry, this logic does not apply to my actual wife, by which I mean my actual husband, who, thank little baby Jesus, does not read this blog.)
* Did you know that if you Google image search "oops", you will see about a billion nip/labe slips? Neither did I, until about 3 minutes ago. Yowza.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
I was gonna write about how I don't think Lil Wayne gets enough credit for being a really good dancer, but in the course of my research (read: watching YouTube videos with no real structure or purpose for, like, an hour) I ended up watching this video and realized that I had a couple things I'd like to say about it. But then when I tried to post it here it turned out embedding was disabled. So! Being the dedicated blogger that I am, I then spent way too much time trying to loophole the bitch. As you can see, since there is no video embedded in the middle of all this text, it didn't work. And now I can't really remember what I wanted to say about this video (same video, just linked it again to double the chances that you'll actually watch it so we're on the same page, dedicated reader that you are), except for that I like the part at 3:17 where Weezy says, "I hope your vagina's tight." I appreciate his candor/optimism!
Update: I worked it out!
Keri Hilson ft. LIL Wayne "Turn On" from triggerhappy on Vimeo.
Oh yeah, I remember what I wanted to say: Conceptually, I really like this using jewelry to signal sexual probabilities idea. It's succinct, non-confrontational, and rad-looking. Unfortunately, it would never ever work because it's always the dudes you want absolutely nothing to do with ever that think they can cajole/harrass/call you a lesbian into changing your mind and putting their genitals in your mouth. Like a damn hobo Andy Bernard trying to beer me his gonorrhea.
Update: I worked it out!
Keri Hilson ft. LIL Wayne "Turn On" from triggerhappy on Vimeo.
Oh yeah, I remember what I wanted to say: Conceptually, I really like this using jewelry to signal sexual probabilities idea. It's succinct, non-confrontational, and rad-looking. Unfortunately, it would never ever work because it's always the dudes you want absolutely nothing to do with ever that think they can cajole/harrass/call you a lesbian into changing your mind and putting their genitals in your mouth. Like a damn hobo Andy Bernard trying to beer me his gonorrhea.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
But Wait!! There's More!!
This morning I was chatting with Keehnan when the topic of infomercials came up. This, of course, led to a discussion of the beef between Billy Mays and Vince Offer (or, as I prefer to call him, That Young Upstart Tryna Usurp the Throne). Where do you stand on this very important issue?
Keehny is pro-Vince Offer. When I asked him to defend this stance, he cited Vince's delightful ridiculousness (exemplified by this statement- "Stop having a boring tuna, stop having a boring life!"), That he does his own commercials in Spanish (but clearly does not speak Spanish), and that he, unlike Billy Mays, does not yell.
I, on the other hand, am the fucking Captain of Team Billy Mays. First off, I am a creature of habit, y'all. I'm comfortable with Billy Mays. I know Billy Mays. Who the fuck is Vince Offer? What, he thinks he can just show up out of nowhere and sell me a highly absorbent towel, just like that? My head isn't turned that easily, I'm afraid. Also, he sounds like he's from New Jersey, which is probably the fastest way to get me to not trust you.
Billy Mays is great! He gets me all fired up! People complain about his constant yelling, calling it "abrasive" and "super fucking annoying", but I love it. I listen to a lot of mainstream rap music, you guys. I get uncomfortable if someone isn't yelling at me about their product preferences.
Also I am excited about this.
Keehny is pro-Vince Offer. When I asked him to defend this stance, he cited Vince's delightful ridiculousness (exemplified by this statement- "Stop having a boring tuna, stop having a boring life!"), That he does his own commercials in Spanish (but clearly does not speak Spanish), and that he, unlike Billy Mays, does not yell.
I, on the other hand, am the fucking Captain of Team Billy Mays. First off, I am a creature of habit, y'all. I'm comfortable with Billy Mays. I know Billy Mays. Who the fuck is Vince Offer? What, he thinks he can just show up out of nowhere and sell me a highly absorbent towel, just like that? My head isn't turned that easily, I'm afraid. Also, he sounds like he's from New Jersey, which is probably the fastest way to get me to not trust you.
Billy Mays is great! He gets me all fired up! People complain about his constant yelling, calling it "abrasive" and "super fucking annoying", but I love it. I listen to a lot of mainstream rap music, you guys. I get uncomfortable if someone isn't yelling at me about their product preferences.
Also I am excited about this.
Friday, February 6, 2009
A Vagina Monologue
Last night I saw a vagina on the Travel Channel. Straight up. VA...
I should clarify. It wasn't, like, on display or anything. It wasn't the focal point. It was just this naked-ass Indian lady who, by merit of being totally nude, happened to have visible lady bits. Somewhat jarring, but I got over it pretty quickly. And I get the whole National Geographic nudity clause, where indigenous tribes get a nudity pass because it's non-sexual and cultural and whatnot. Cool. I'm down. But I would like to argue that those standards should be applied to other peoples who have a culture of nudity. Specifically, I think these rules should apply to strippers and stripper-y ladies who go on reality shows in search of love. Or money. Or whatever. The kind of women who, when asked to "dress to impress", show up looking like this:
I watch a lot of VH1 reality programming, and I can tell you from experience, the nudity on these shows (which is always blurred, if not black-barred) is very rarely sexual. Usually, it is simply what has come to be known as a wardrobe malfunction. If you wear something that barely covers your nipples, at some point it will fail to do even that. Thusly:
See?! She's just wrappin' up some cords, and bam! Tit overboard. Non-sexual nudity.
What's more important, though, is that these women come from a nude culture, by which I mean they are strippers. Nudity is what they know. It is their way of life, and should not be blurred out.
They're just people, doing what they do, the way they customarily do it. Which is naked.
I just don't see the difference. Do you?
I should clarify. It wasn't, like, on display or anything. It wasn't the focal point. It was just this naked-ass Indian lady who, by merit of being totally nude, happened to have visible lady bits. Somewhat jarring, but I got over it pretty quickly. And I get the whole National Geographic nudity clause, where indigenous tribes get a nudity pass because it's non-sexual and cultural and whatnot. Cool. I'm down. But I would like to argue that those standards should be applied to other peoples who have a culture of nudity. Specifically, I think these rules should apply to strippers and stripper-y ladies who go on reality shows in search of love. Or money. Or whatever. The kind of women who, when asked to "dress to impress", show up looking like this:
I watch a lot of VH1 reality programming, and I can tell you from experience, the nudity on these shows (which is always blurred, if not black-barred) is very rarely sexual. Usually, it is simply what has come to be known as a wardrobe malfunction. If you wear something that barely covers your nipples, at some point it will fail to do even that. Thusly:
See?! She's just wrappin' up some cords, and bam! Tit overboard. Non-sexual nudity.
What's more important, though, is that these women come from a nude culture, by which I mean they are strippers. Nudity is what they know. It is their way of life, and should not be blurred out.
They're just people, doing what they do, the way they customarily do it. Which is naked.
I just don't see the difference. Do you?
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
I was listening to Rick James this morning, and I couldn't stop wondering why he was never as big as Prince. I think I have an Idea:
Sex sells, and they were both pretty sexual dudes, both in content and packaging, right? But while Prince's lyrics were far, far filthier (compare Superfreak to Erotic City), he had a leg up on Rick as far as accessibility goes, and there was nothing to be done about it. Why, you ask?
Because Rick James was a big, man-ass dude:
who looks like he may actually do something real crazy to you, whereas Prince is an elf:
And if I've learned anything since Peter Jackson's Lord Of the Rings trilogy came out, it's that bitches love elves.
Also, this.
Sex sells, and they were both pretty sexual dudes, both in content and packaging, right? But while Prince's lyrics were far, far filthier (compare Superfreak to Erotic City), he had a leg up on Rick as far as accessibility goes, and there was nothing to be done about it. Why, you ask?
Because Rick James was a big, man-ass dude:
who looks like he may actually do something real crazy to you, whereas Prince is an elf:
And if I've learned anything since Peter Jackson's Lord Of the Rings trilogy came out, it's that bitches love elves.
Also, this.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Baby, It's Cold Outside
About three days into Snowpocalypse '08: Nanook's Revenge, I was called out into the weather for a social engagement. By which I mean Ryann had me come meet her for coffee four blocks away from my house. It didn't seem that far, so I just threw on a sweater dress with leggings and legwarmers, tossed my coat and a scarf on top and headed out the door. Within two minutes of leaving my apartment I was miserable.
I warmed up pretty well in the coffee shop, but never to the point where I was totally comfortable. And then, in walked an object lesson.
A child!! (Not those specific children. I had to Google image search "bundled up", which is hella fun, by the way. But you get the point.) "Why," I asked myself, "did I not dress up like that?" The kid was covered from head to toe. Sweater, heavy coat, tough jeans, weather-appropraite boots, goofy little hat, gloves. The whole shebang! And it hit me! I need to bundle myself up as though I were my own mother! I don't know why this never occurred to me before. I am constantly momming everyone around me, offering them multivitamins and telling them they should get more sleep and when are they gonna bring me some grandbabies, etc. But momming myself! This is new.
Yesterday I made my first attempt at actualizing this concept. I donned thick tights, two pairs of tall socks, one pair of footie socks, jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, two sweaters, coat, scarf, gloves, hat, and huge rubber rainboots. And somehow the outfit even looked kind of chic, in a no visible flesh, New England-y kind of way. I was into it. So off I went, into this world of ice and snow, full of optimism.
And then came the heartbreak.
Seriously, you guys, I had barely made it across the street before I realized that my so-called "rain boots" had totally sprung a fucking leak and my feet were so wet and so cold and I had to go back home and try again.
I'm still a little upset. Give me a second.
Ugh.
Okay. So, now I'm thinking, "Wait a fucking second, I live in Seattle. How can I not have a functioning pair of rain boots? Because nothing else matters if my feet are wet, I don't care how warm the rest of me is. I need rain boots." But! I am still totally housebound, dudes!! Consequently, for the time being I am limited to internet shopping. I found some really great boots, though. Check 'em out.
1. Kind of Expensive, but Probably Worth It.
I could see myself wearing these boots pretty much every day until the weather clears up in like, mid-July. But I could also see myself getting bored because they are a little staid. So I found some more adventurous models.
2. Pucci!! Pucci!! Pucci!!
These boots are ridiculous and I love it. Plus I feel like they go really well with my imaginary dog, Miss J. Alexander.
Cute together, right?
3.I Am Not Sure If I Like These At All
But they seem sensible, or something. Y'know what? Fuck these boots. They remind me of a lady I used to work with at Starbucks that was really into those "Shopaholic" books. Gag me, right?
4. Yes, Please!
I was going to say that these are for when my inner eight year old girl comes out, and that you'd be surprised how frequently that occurs, but then I realized that if you are reading this you probably have a pretty good handle on that, in all actuality.
5. Also For The Eight-Year-Old
F! U! N! Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnnnn!!!!!!!!!!!!! Don't you wanna eat them? It's like a bag of jelly beans decided to band together to protect your feet from the elements.
I warmed up pretty well in the coffee shop, but never to the point where I was totally comfortable. And then, in walked an object lesson.
A child!! (Not those specific children. I had to Google image search "bundled up", which is hella fun, by the way. But you get the point.) "Why," I asked myself, "did I not dress up like that?" The kid was covered from head to toe. Sweater, heavy coat, tough jeans, weather-appropraite boots, goofy little hat, gloves. The whole shebang! And it hit me! I need to bundle myself up as though I were my own mother! I don't know why this never occurred to me before. I am constantly momming everyone around me, offering them multivitamins and telling them they should get more sleep and when are they gonna bring me some grandbabies, etc. But momming myself! This is new.
Yesterday I made my first attempt at actualizing this concept. I donned thick tights, two pairs of tall socks, one pair of footie socks, jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, two sweaters, coat, scarf, gloves, hat, and huge rubber rainboots. And somehow the outfit even looked kind of chic, in a no visible flesh, New England-y kind of way. I was into it. So off I went, into this world of ice and snow, full of optimism.
And then came the heartbreak.
Seriously, you guys, I had barely made it across the street before I realized that my so-called "rain boots" had totally sprung a fucking leak and my feet were so wet and so cold and I had to go back home and try again.
I'm still a little upset. Give me a second.
Ugh.
Okay. So, now I'm thinking, "Wait a fucking second, I live in Seattle. How can I not have a functioning pair of rain boots? Because nothing else matters if my feet are wet, I don't care how warm the rest of me is. I need rain boots." But! I am still totally housebound, dudes!! Consequently, for the time being I am limited to internet shopping. I found some really great boots, though. Check 'em out.
1. Kind of Expensive, but Probably Worth It.
I could see myself wearing these boots pretty much every day until the weather clears up in like, mid-July. But I could also see myself getting bored because they are a little staid. So I found some more adventurous models.
2. Pucci!! Pucci!! Pucci!!
These boots are ridiculous and I love it. Plus I feel like they go really well with my imaginary dog, Miss J. Alexander.
Cute together, right?
3.I Am Not Sure If I Like These At All
But they seem sensible, or something. Y'know what? Fuck these boots. They remind me of a lady I used to work with at Starbucks that was really into those "Shopaholic" books. Gag me, right?
4. Yes, Please!
I was going to say that these are for when my inner eight year old girl comes out, and that you'd be surprised how frequently that occurs, but then I realized that if you are reading this you probably have a pretty good handle on that, in all actuality.
5. Also For The Eight-Year-Old
F! U! N! Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnnnn!!!!!!!!!!!!! Don't you wanna eat them? It's like a bag of jelly beans decided to band together to protect your feet from the elements.
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