February 2007


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Okay, so I realize the show is called Grey’s Anatomy, and she is Meredith Grey. But it should really be called She’s Never Coming Back because she’s Cold, Dead and Grey – Anatomy.
This is sort of like how I used to love Dawson’s Creek but absolutely could not stand Dawson at all. Mostly because he was an asshole but also because James van der Beek’s forehead is out of control.
Well, I’ve figured it out. It’s not just Meredith – I can’t stand Ellen Pompeo either. It’s actually very simple. Hollywood isn’t that picky. Not really. All it asks of you, in exchance for stardom are good looks and the ability to speak. Ellen Pompeo has neither. It all comes down to the S.
First the obvious.

  • Too fucking skinny! Seriously. I’ve been slender and attractive. She is way beyond slender and it is so not attractive at all. She’s skinny with a capital SK for skeletal. It’s gross. The costume people realize this and try to fake the audience out but it’s not working! She’s yucky and she needs to eat.
  • She is squinty eyed. I don’t mean that in a racial sense, I mean it in the literal, she’s constantly squinting her eyes kind of way. I don’t get it. Glasses? Contacs? Lasik? What’s the deal. She has pretty eyes, she just needs to quit squinting them.
  • She snarls. No really. I don’t know, maybe it’s some botched attempt at a pout to enhance her non-existant lips but she snarls. She’s a mouth breather who snarls. Not cool.
  • Snarling is not enough, apparently, she must smirk too. A lopsided, thin lipped, snide little smirk.
  • She has a lisp. She speaks with an incredibly obnoxious sibillant S that makes me want to strangle her skinny, squinting, snarling throat.

So here’s the thing. If you’re skinny, squinty, smirky and snarly, you’re not fulfilling the good-looking portion of the requirement and if you talk with a fucking sibillant S then you’re not accomplishing the speaking part either. So if you aren’t good-looking and you can’t talk right? You shouldn’t be on my television screen!!!

If I wanted to watch ugly, selfish people with speech affectations, I’d go outside and socialize!!
Television is supposed to be a haven from the outside world. What’s with the lowered expectations Hollywood? Remember when tv stars were beautiful and, oh I don’t know could actually act talk?

Curses on you Shonda Rhimes! You got my hopes up. I really wanted her to die, damnit!

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The only person who spends more time than I do dealing with Winifred and her neuroses, is Dr. Doormat. Granted he willingly entered a legal contract vowing to deal with her til death to they part, while I, thank god, am free to skidaddle whenever I get too fed up. Over the past two plus years that I have been under their employ, we have developed a unique sort of bond. (No, not like that, freaks.) We share a solidarity that is unique to those who simultaneously must live under dictatorial rule. Except for Princess’ mother, Winona, who shared an apartment with Winifred many years ago, there really aren’t any other people who can truly comprehend our daily plight. And so, we have forged a distinct relationship based on the fact that we alone must endure life with under Winifred. We help one another, lending a hand when we can, pitching in, so that neither has to deal with Winifred’s wrath.

Dr. Doormat casually informed me that Winifred would be home within an hour ready to clean the house as he rushed out the door on Tuesday, off-handedly adding that a friend was arriving from the airport later in the day. The arrival of houseguests ranks on Winifred’s top five list of serious stressers. One which instigates a cleaning frenzy worthy of a Clorox commercial. Dr. D then shouted an altogether far too cheerful “good luck!” as he left me with an as of yet, un-napped and clueless Buddha.

“She did quite a number on this place.” He nodded, surveying the now spotless house, upon his return.
“No kidding.” I replied.
“How fortuitous that I had plans.” He grinned.
“Yeah, way to abandon me.” I sulked, displeased.
“Hey, that’s why we pay you the big bucks.” He joked.
“No way. You completely set me up!”
“Oh, totally.”

So much for having my back.

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I was absently thinking about the word scrotum (okay, seriously, when will I ever get another chance to start a blog entry like that?) when this suddenly came back to me.
Bunny is an incredibly stubborn child. Moreso than your average kid. He is defiant and contrary and that’s just the way he is and nobody is gonna change him because they can’t because he’s the boss of himself, so there. When he was three, he was theoretically potty trained. As in, he was perfectly capable of knowing when he had to go, he would simply choose not to when he felt like it. When he did feel like going to the bathroom, he would insist on doing so in the most unique ways he could think of. For a while he would only go if he was straddling the toilet seat backwards. At one point, he insisted on peeing by laying across the toilet face down, so his penis was literally pointing straight down into the toilet bowl. And in moments when he was feeling particularly defiant, he would simply inform us that he was pooping or peeing in his pants, and then do exactly that.

Eventually, I learned to stop feeding the attention hoarding behavior of his and when he resorted to pooping as a control tactic, I would simply walk him to the bathroom, hand him a box of wipes and let him clean himself up. After he was through, I’d do a “heiner inspection” to make sure he was fully clean and we would go about our business, so to speak.
On one of these occasions, I was in the middle of something else when I realized that he was taking a rather long time in the bathroom. I poked my head in and asked what the hold up was, and he replied, altogether very chipperly “oh, nothing, I just have poop stuck under my scrotum.
Lovely.

… is the expurgated book. – Walt Whitman

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By the time I was five I could read and write in two languages. Reading was second only to breathing. There was never a limit to what I could find out, so long as I kept reading. Throughout elementary school, I was constantly getting into trouble with teachers and with my parents for reading at inappropriate times and for preferring to read than doing any homework. If allowed, I’d read rather than play with my friends or even eat. I would get so lost in whatever worlds in the pages that everything else ceased to exist.

I developed fascinations with certain subjects and would spend weeks reading only about those topics. I became obsessed with slavery and with the Civil War, then with WWII and with the Holocaust. I was completely fascinated by Ancient Egypt and then Rome. I couldn’t get enough of the Middle Ages and of Royal genealogy. I researched and read volumes about dynasties from the Romanovs to the Plantagenets. Ancient female figures and monarchs became my heroines. I would dream of being Aspasia or Cleopatra or Eleanor of Aquataine and in desiring to be like them I read everything I could about them, which sometimes included very obscure and mature literature.

My teachers both adored and detested my presence in their classes. I was enthusiastic and incredibly inquisitive but also indignantly precocious. Too often I would question the veracity of their information or often times simply inform them that they were wrong. And on many occasions, they were. No matter what subject we learned about in school, I would inevitably go home and read far and beyond what was in the curriculum, if it was of interest to me, and most things were.
My standardized test scores were through the roof. In the third grade, at age seven, I was admitted to a Gifted Children’s program. At ten, my vocabulary and reading comprehension were those of a college student’s.

But not because I was extraordinarily privileged in the quality of my education.
It was simply the result of being given the freedom to educate myself. My parents didn’t own a TV until I was nearly six years old, but we did have a two room library. When we lived in Central America, my mother made sure to speak with and read to us in English and when we moved to the states, she did her best to continue to do so in Spanish.

If I had a question about something, I was encouraged to look it up. And in the days before ubiquitious internet, we would pack up and head to the library. I was frequently irked by the 30 book limit upon my child library card. See, we could only go to the library once every two weeks. How was I to survive that long with only 30 books to read? The library at school was an absolute joke, as far as I was concerned. We traveled very frequently but I survived and actually looked forward to the many international flights and several cross country road trips we took because all I ever wanted to do was dream and read.

There was never a single moment that my parents denied me my right to read. Not on the basis of content, at least. On certain occasions when I really misbehaved I would get punished not by getting grounded from television but by having whatever book I was reading, temporarily taken away. It would get returned only upon completion of whatever chores or homework it was that I had been avoiding due to said book. As far as what I read, however, my parents never placed limits. At ten, when my fascination with the Holocaust reached it’s peak, my mother refused to allow me to rent Schindler’s List and I was livid. But it was a movie. I could read the book, if I wanted, but the movie was off limits.

I remember one particular instance when I was fifteen. At twelve, my younger brother had been turned on to the subject of satanic cults and came home from school filled with questions regarding the matter. My mother very calmly told him that she didn’t know much about the subject however she was sure they could find plenty of information at the library. And they did. It was less than a month before my brother lost interest, much to my mothers relief.

At ten, at the height of the Lewinsky/Clinton scandal, I was a habitual reader of every morning’s newspaper. My mother was not at all pleased to have to explain all about oral sex and the impeachment process to her sixth grader, however I was never forbidden to read about the sordid and horrible things going on in the world. And if I ever needed to discuss or have things clarified, my parents were very willing to help.

Growing up, we didn’t have a lot of toys, especially not by American standards. But we always had a steady stream of books coming to our way. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. What I lacked in dolls and videos, I more than made up for with words and dreams. I remember being so sad, when at eight my floor to ceiling bookshelf got so filled that I had to move some of my personal collections to a different shelf in another room of the house. I had no idea how truly fortunate I was to have such a dilemma.

See, my parents believe, as do I, that the only true evil in this world, is ignorance. Reading is the most important means of educating yourself. Without the freedom to read and learn at will, we have nothing except what other people tell us. The only way to form an opinion is to be educated on it. They also knew that denying us information could only bring about conflict.

There are a lot of things I dislike about how my parents raised us, but the way that they shared with us their appreciation and love for books is something I will always be thankful for.

Which is why it cuts me the core and really just pisses me off to read about yet another censorship story.

And for what? Because of the word “scrotum”?
Are you kidding me?

I won’t even go into the ethics and absolute immorality that is book censorship, because that is a whole other can of worms that I’m just too tired to go into.

But scrotum?
Seriously?

For the love of god. It’s a body part. One which 50% of the population is in posession of. I could understand if the word were something like copulation or ejaculation, as those are words much more indicative of something too mature for small children. But scrotum? A noun. A simple little noun. Just a run-of-the-mill body part is creating this uproar? What exactly is so threatening about this word? I don’t get it. A scrotum is just as much a part of the male anatomy as penis or testicles and most boys are well aware of what those two words mean. I just fail to see how a child reading or hearing this word could possibly be upsetting. What is it, exactly, about our sexual organs that make people so jumpy? These are children. They have bodies too. How is knowing the correct term for a body part going to negatively affect them at all, unless they are taught that it is something to be ashamed of or hidden? A scrotum alone is not dangerous or volatile in any way. Hiding the word away isn’t going to hide away it’s existence from the 3 Billion people that possess it. All boys, by the age of two are well aware of their scrotums, even if they don’t know what they’re called. What is denying them a word going to accomplish? What can possibly be accomplished by causing an uproar and trying hide such a basic and integral bodypart?

The problem is that people equate knowledge with immorality. It’s the age old apple in eden complex. Knowing and understanding their bodies isn’t going to instigate a sudden onset of hyper-sexualization in children. If anything, teaching them the scientific terms from an early age, could only improve their future sexual health as they will already be familiar with the concepts once they are old enough to be taught in greater detail. There are many things in this world that children need protecting from, but the knowledge of their own bodies is not one of them.

What kind of ridiculous, puritanical world are we living in where people will go to such astonishing lengths in order to do what? Delay in the inevitable? I mean, really. There are just so many other issues, much more worthy of distress than this word.
Knowledge, in and of itself, is never a dangerous thing. It is only the absence of knowledge that gets us all into trouble.

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When you stay up until two in the morning adamantly playing 20 questions, in an ultimately futile endeavor set on forcing a piece of plastic to read condom.

Apparently, it just wasn’t programmed into the little robot’s vocabulary.

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Even though we don’t particularly look alike, Buddha and I both have dark hair and similarly shaped eyes and mouths and there have been many occasions when we’ve been out that people have just assumed I’m his mother. This secretly thrills me as I would like nothing more than have him be mine. But I always feel incredibly guilty, as though not correcting people’s assumptions is a gross misrepresentation akin to plagiarism. Along with the guilt comes this sense of malayise, something that probably resembles what a kidnapper must feel like whenever they take their victim’s out in public; terror and uncertainty and underneath the abrasive fear, a tiny thrill. Sometimes it’s just easier to let people assume he’s mine rather than to try and explain ourselves but other times I just like to bask in the feeling of joyful pride that comes with being his parent and hearing how absolutely beautiful and charming he is.

What do you bloggers think about the ethics of this? I ask only because I have a rather warped sense of morality. One which allowed me to commit a certain specific but unmentionable felony crime without feeling the least bit of remorse but which also prevents me from ever littering.

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Leniency with Buddha’s diet varies from day to day. Sometimes Winifred is very specific about what I’m supposed to feed him. Like “sauteed broccoli, cottage cheese, pear and half a banana.” Other times, she’s more permitting and just indicates colors instead of actual foods. Like “he’s had orange. give him green and yellow.” And then sometimes I’m simply told what he’s not allowed to eat, like “bread, banana, apple sauce, pear, strawberries or oatmeal” and I’m left to choose from among any remaining food items. And then other times she spaces completely and I’m left to guess and hope that what I give him isn’t taboo today.

I was recently left with vague instructions indicating that I “push greens.” No, this is not drug lingo, it’s simply Winifred speak for give him green food to eat.

Rummaging through the fridge I decided that avocado on bread was a quick way to get some carbs and some greens into him. He loves bread and he likes avocado, so it worked out. I also fed him some humus as well as a pear. Overall, just an ordinary meal for little Buddha.

Upon her return, I was asked about Buddha’s lunch. I told her (despite the fact that I had written it all down on the list) and was met with disgust for hadn’t she told me to push greens?

Bewildered, I paused for a moment, trying to figure out if I had suddenly developed color blindness or if she simply hadn’t heard me properly.

Neither. Turns out “avocado doesn’t count because it’s a fruit.”

Duh.

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