"Holiday Shopping" or "Who Are These People?"

I love on-line shopping. I love mail order catalogues. Since I shop on-line, my name and address has been sold over and over, making me the recipient of a wide variety of catalogues. Come November, there is so much paper in my mailbox, I feel like I should apologize to trees. Sorry trees, I realize that Hickory Farms does not need to market to me. Tell them. I will never eat a "Meat Pop" but I do enjoy looking at the wide variety of cured offerings from HF.

Here are a few of my favorites so far:

~For the foodie on your list: Bacon Salt. Need I say more? Just think popcorn, people.

~Pickle Bandages. (Not made out of pickles.) I just like 'em.

~Sports Logo Snuggie. Me: "John, how about a Raiders Snuggie for Christmas?" John: "OMG!!! Are you #*?!-ing me?? I WANT one!!!" (I think it was a positive reaction.)

~Pet catalogue: Monogrammed orthopedic dog bed-couch for "Large" dogs. Awesome, but at $500 a lttle pricey when Rex will just sneak up on my couch anyway.

~Cashmere socks.

~Sephora Catalogue: Me: "Yes, please." Rick: "Which items, sweetie?" Me: "Yes, please." (He can't ever say I'm hard to shop for.)

~Nieman Marcus Holiday Catalogue: $4,200 Manolo Blahniks.
(Dear NM, We broke up a long time ago. "Broke" being the operative word. Please leave me alone. It just hurts. I'll always love you. Dawn)
Sigh....

With the good comes the bad. Here are some of the items that make the Singing Bass look like a classy, well thought out gift.

~Novelty T-shirt #1. I Married a Nun. Nun in the Morning and Nun at Night. Who wears this?

~Animated Santa. Can't Stop Passing Gas! Here is the catalogue copy: "Rip Von Kringle is tootin' and hootin' his way through the holidays! His legs kick each time he lets one loose!"
Some poor journalism major with $200,000 worth of student loans is questioning the purpose of his existance.

~Book title of the year: "How to Kick Someone's Ass" $12.95
Dang! Now I've wasted 13 years in martial arts classes.

~Novelty T-shirt #2. "I'm not a Gynecologist, but I'll take a look."
If you see someone wearing this, please refer to Book Title of the Year.

~Faeries and Dragons are making a comeback. Good news for the nerds and Emos on your list.

~Skull and Crossbones egg fryer mold. Ok, I like it. Don't judge me.

~Kitty gifts: Kitty Cat plate set, Cat Bottom pencil sharpener (oh just guess!), Cat angel, Plaque that reads: You cannot have too many BOOKS or CATS. Cat-Opoly, all methos of cat-themed jewelry and Cat-lady statuettes.
(Kill me before I get there, please friends.)

~Novelty T-shirt #3. CSI Can't Stand Idiots.
Considering who would wear this t-shirt, does this count as irony?

Oh I could go on and on....Lighted Musical Elvis Tree Topper, Darth Vader Lamp, Mooning Party Shorts (don't ask), Remote Control Fart Machine, "Jeans" Lounge Pants (actual jeans too dressy for some folks?) Nose Shower Gel dispenser, Family Guy shot glasses.

Oh I do love catalogues. They elicit a response....sparkly, glowing. Warm, luxurious, homey. They are full of things we don't need, but we wish someone would buy for us. See: Sephora (did I mention that already?) Victoria's Secret, Ikea, Williams Sonoma.
The flip side of that coin is any catalogue with Simpsons merchandise, bunion cream, or "Collectible" anything. Kitch and clutter make me have anxiety attacks. White trash pride makes me wish I were Hispanic. Or Asian. Or anything not associated with a redneck joke. (No such thing as an Asian redneck.)

I wish you joy in your holiday shopping this year. Whether "Old School" mall shopping, surfing the net, or throwin' elbows on Black Friday, choose well, friends.
Oh! And If I'm on your list, there's always Sephora!

just Dawn

The Funny Continues... (And it's Name is Dawn.)

This isn't breaking news by any means, but Dawn is pretty funny. And clever. Funny and clever. And pretty. Funny, clever, pretty....let's see.....,that's enough for now. The problem is, this isn't news to her either. Which means Dawn clearly doesn't get as impressed with her humor as I do, which is why pretty much on a constant basis, I'm yelling at her, "PUT THAT ON OUR BLOG! No, seriously. Do it, or I'll claim I came up with that funny bit myself. And then I'll be funny AND shrewd."

So that's why today's post is nothing more than a chance for me to draw attention to Dawn's latest show of cleverness....since she most likely won't believe my threat of shanking her unless she puts this on our blog. This is from her Facebook status (One thing of note: Dawn refers to where she lives as The Woods since she has a few more tall trees bearing a wider girth around her house than she previously had.):

Dear Verizon, I offer my own driveway for a cell phone tower. Please contact me (via landline) to let me know when. Residents of The Woods, you're welcome. Signed, Can You Hear Me Now.

And that, my friends, is how you do "witty."

Signed, Yours Shrewdly, Michelle

"Celebrity" obsessed!

I am having a few thoughts, and rants, as it turns out lately regarding our celebrity-rabid culture.

Sports hero worship: This one makes me crazy. Generally, professional athletes are egomaniacal, obscenely overpaid, classless, and completely catered to by everyone who stands to make a buck off of them. (Not you, Peyton!) Total "lipstick-on-a-pig" syndrome. I almost can't blame them. Everyone in their life has told them how great they are because of some form of skill with a ball. Attention Little League parents! Please instill some sort of value in your child beyond sports! Stop living vicariously through little Jimmy, the 4th grade shortstop! If you are a professional, overpaid, athlete, please stop shoplifting, driving drunk, buying weed from two-bit dealers in your old neighborhood, fathering random children all over the place, and dog fighting. (Enjoy hell, Mr. Vick.) You can afford drivers, clothing, purses, and condoms.
I'm going to add a pet peeve to this catagory. Grown men in professional sports jerseys. Bad if your jersey says "Bryant" on the back. Worse if it says your own name. Rule of thumb: If you are over 15, not on the actual team, or not the parent of someone on the actual team, STOP IT. I snicker at you.

Dancing With the Stars: Not the show, per se, just the name of the show. DWTS, you are playing a little fast and loose with the word "Stars". To me, a star is talented. Their screen persona is larger than life. There is something special about their movies. (Sorry Johnny Knoxville, this criteria disqualifies you.) A "Star" is Clint Eastwood, Leonardo DiCaprio. To me a star is luminous, mysterious, and has a quality of inner beauty. (Oh Kardashian gals, you're out.) A "Star" is Meryl Streep, Reese Witherspoon, Angelina Jolie. DWTS, if you could get these folks on your show I'd be ok with your name. But The Situation, Chuck Lidell, Kate Gosslin? Maybe we should call it: Dancing with White Trash in Skimpy Costumes....DWWTISC. I have a call in to ABC.

Reality Celebre': The fact that anyone knows the name of who "won" the last Bachelor makes me want to hurl. Show premise: Women line up to get some dopey rich guy to marry them. Much spit-swapping. Gross. "Mom, I'm competing with 2 dozen desparate, insecure, celebrity wanna be's to get some guy to marry me!" Yeah, I wanna make that call. Brett Michael's Rock of Love takes this concept beyond gross, into repugnant. And Jersey Shore Cast...when did being a loud mouthed blowhard from New Jersey, of all American armpits, make you red-carpet worthy? At least Fran Drescher was attractive. I'm not saying all reality shows are bad, just most of them. Want greed, pouting, and petulance? Tune in to Say Yes to the Dress. Want titalation and drag queens? Ru Paul's Drag Race. Want backbiting, bitchy, and entitled? Try on Project Runway or The Apprentice. Potential for injury? Check out Wipeout. (Ok, this one is freaking hilarious.) Shock value, pity, and an "OMG!" or two? Teen Mom, anything with Dr. Drew, or Sister Wives. We are truly a nation of cultureless culture when this is our contribution to the arts. I throw a figurative brick at my television.

Hollywood: I am not obsessed with Hollywood. I am largely unipressed by celebrity opinions, causes, or political preferences. I got a call this morning with a recorded message from Martin Sheen, urging me to vote for some candidate. Martin, I should heed your sage advice, why? Because you have done such a bang up job with your own household? How's that hooker, trashed hotel room, drug fueled rampage working out for Charlie? Oh, I know Martin, because you played the President in a TV show. Of course! Martin, you have insulted my intelligence beyond comprehension. I now snicker at you too.
Oprah, Sean Penn, Johnny Depp, please just shut up. Go be talented. I will continue to enjoy your performances. I will not look to you for advice, validation, or a political opinion. You are not necessarily smarter than me. (Ok, Oprah, you probably are.)

I know, not all celebrities are jerks. To those of you with class, grace, style, morals, and brains, the word "Star" is reserved for you. But I'm still probably not going to vote for your candidate.......

just Dawn

Some People are Pretty Clever. (And it's not us this time.)

The other day, Dawn said she saw a t-shirt that said, "No one reads your blog." I thought this was impressively funny and clever. And so, in the spirit of irony, I thought we blog owners should write a post for our blog about a shirt broadcasting the fact that most likely, no one is reading our blog.

We like clever stuff, so if anyone has another example like the t-shirt example, feel free to post a comment. It'll be fun because it will point out the ironic fact that, yes, someone is indeed reading our blog.

And then we'll all laugh, and laugh some more.

Just Michelle

The Comeback Kid. Or, Why I Temporarily Let Crap Interrupt Life.

Oh, blog, how I've missed you. And humor, in general - I've missed you too. As I said on one of my more recent Facebook status updates (What's that? You're not fortunate enough to be the recipient of my sarcastic, often super cynical status updates because we're not yet "friends" on facebook? Well, let's change that. Find me on the Facebook and let's play "Popularity Contest for Adults" along with everyone else. It's America's new favorite game, bumping out Boggle for the top spot.), I've been in need of a really good, stomach hurting, obnoxiously loud laugh. (If I were a bearded, low voiced man from 1892 weilding an ax with a pheasant slung over my shoulder, I might even use the word "hearty.") That's my favorite thing to do, after all. Laugh.

It's amazing how much one "blah" thing/situation in your life affects every aspect of your life. (This is me being vulnerable and mysterious. Enjoy it.) I've been very noticably "off" lately and the worst part is how it's affected my ability to laugh easily. Very, very easily. I knew something was wrong every time I'd consider writing a new post on this here blog, and then just go, "Eh. Not up for it." WHAT?! Not up for making myself laugh at my own witticisms as I type by myself all the while texting Dawn to let her know she needs to read the newest post NOW?! Who are you, Michelle?*Shudder*

Something had to change. And something has, and so I'm seeing myself return to "normal" (insert cliched comment about normalcy), and I've definitely noticed that I'm back on the laughin' wagon....thanks mostly to Dawn. On wednesday, she prompted a nice, long, stomach pain inducing laugh. It was like I had had a breakthrough in a therapy session. (Which Dawn is also known for making happen when she inadvertently counsels me. Check's in the mail, Dawn.) And, the greatest part is, the laugh was entirely at my expense....and I still enjoyed the moment. Immensely.

So, like Burt Bacharach (spelling? Dawn, you'd know how to spell that, right? Heh heh.) would exclaim at a Vegas lounge full of retirees visiting from Boca Ratan, "I'm back, baby!"

Old People.

Let me just begin this post by saying that I hope I do not offend anyone. (Ha! I should start them all like that.) Today's topic: Old People. Since I am more than halfway there, my hot, Rockstar husband just turned 50, I lead a Senior Ministry, and I live in The Woods in Lake Forest, median age 78, I consider my observations incredibly relevant.

It seems af if there are 2 schools of thought with respect to Old People. #1. Beautiful, joyful, servant-hearted, people who realize that life is a gift, and that each day should be lived in gratitude and grace. I'd love to name people that I am blessed to know here, but you know who you are. You are a married couple who lead a ministry of "older" folks, and you are in your 80s. (I want to be you when I grow up, by the way.) You are a high-spirited, wise-cracking, BEAUTIFUL, funny single lady who makes my life better. You are my mom, who can outdistance me at every turn, AND look better in a bathing suit too! You are my father-in-law who defies the number of years he has been on this planet. Seriously. You are my "West Coast Mom" who prays for my dopey kid. I love you guys. I am taking notes, believe me.

School #2. Cranky. Bitter. Jerk. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE TOO. You are never satisfied. You look for ways to complain. You are mean and intolerant. You think, because of your age, that you are entitled. You are not. What happened to you, CBJ? I want to help. I want you to see that being able to be "a certain age" is a blessing. I know, your friends die, your bones ache. Heck, my friends die and my bones ache too. You are my next door neighbor, complaining about a birthday celebration at 9.30 on Saturday night. You are resistant to technology. You are rude to waiters. You have no patience for children. (Ok, I don't either, but I will fight that, CBJ.) You gossip about neighbors and you have mean eyes.

What will we become? I know, we all want to be Old People School of Thought #1. But where is the divide? Attitude of gratitude vs. dwelling in loss.

It is to spend long days
And not once to feel that we were ever young
It is to add, immured
In the hot prison of the present, month
to month with weary pain.
(Matthew Arnold "Growing Old")

I want to understand. But I also want to choose. Consider the words of 12th century Chinese poet, Lu Yu:
Old man pushing eighty
In truth he acts like a little boy
Whooping with delight when he spies some mountain fruits
Laughing with joy, tagging after village mummers,
With the others having fun, stacking tiles to make a village pagoda.
Standing alone, staring at his image in the jardinere pool
Tucked under his arm, a battered book to read
Just like the time he first set out to school.

I want to laugh with joy. (Not bitch at my neighbors.) I want a good book tucked under my arm and memories of good times, youth, people I have loved, and crazy things I have been blessed to experience. I want a funny friend, a good dog, and dignity. With all due respect, Mr. Arnold, you can have your "hot prison of the present." If I get to choose, my present will be the freedom of wisdom, humor, music, and love.

Friends, should I grievously turn into Old Person #2, I hereby give you permission to remind me of the beautiful octogenarians that I have had the privilege of knowing. If that doesn't work, just suffocate me with a pillow. I'll be over me by then......

Gratefully,
just Dawn

San Francisco: I love you, I love you not

Let me begin by professing my love for the City by the Bay. Restaurants? The best anywhere outside New York. Live music everywhere. SF, you are colorful, hip, young, fast-paced and laid-back at the same time. You are cultural, literary, interesting and fun. (If I were describing a man here, I'd gladly introduce him to Mischa.) SFMOMA is as amazing the 3rd time as it is the first. The 5th Floor Restaurant served up gastronomic perfection. City bustling, views spectacular, company, THE BEST.

You're waiting for the "but", I can feel it. (Pun intended. keep reading....)
San Francisco, you made me love you, but I can't marry you. (Neither can Mischa.) You have dark secrets. Let's begin with our cab ride from the airport into the city.
Cabbie #1: Hispanic. (I don't think race is all that important to the story, it just seems funny as the weekend unfolds.) He told us, unprompted, about a wonderful cultural event in the city this wekend not to be missed! His excitement grew with each tawdry, nearly-pornographic description of the goings-on of the Folsom Street Fair. Among the less blush-inducing events: You can get a spanking for a dollar. Lots of leashes. (Uh, no dogs.) Piercings. (Icky ones. TEE. EM. EYE!)
I suggested that his time would be better spent at church on Sunday. Yes, I did.

Cabbie #2: Middle Eastern. We asked him about the claims of Cabbie #1 regarding the Street Fair. "That thing is for FREAKS!" Ok, I was gonna say that, but I didn't want to be judgey.

Cabbie #3: Indian. Suggestion for the weekend? Folsom Street Fair. Again, unprintable (or fathomable) descriptions followed. Dress code for the Fair? Naked, he claims. Advised us to stay at least 12 inches or more from the proximity of the "naked people". (Please hear this in your head in a thick, Indian accent. It was like a SNL sketch.) Thanks for the awesome advice, Padmaj.

Cabbie #3: Asian, probably South Pacific. Normal. Cultured, educated. Whew!

Cabbie #4: Jamaican. By this point, I was doing my own sociological study of city life through the eyes of the cabbies. (I wonder if I could get a grant for that?) This time, his taxi tactic was don't ask, don't tell. I asked him if there was anything happening in the city this weekend. (There was the above-mentioned event, attracting 20,000 people, a huge Octoberfest, another huge concert and art in the park. The city was humming!) "I don't know", he says. I asked him, jokingly, sort of, how many people get run over every weekend. "Oh, none. This city is full of good drivers." (That is a lie. It is full of freaking insane drivers, and thousands and thousands of oblivious tourist-cattle everywhere! Throw in the deadly, clanging cable cars and I'll bet a good weekend has only and hundred or so fatalities!) Jamaican cabbie was like he was on the San Francisco Image Comittee or something. (Also, awesome accent.)

San Francisco, it's not you, it's me. We can still be friends. I'll always love you. Thanks for a wonderful weekend with amazing friends, but I need a little space. Preferably, 12 inches or more.

just Dawn