In Picking David Bowie Lyrics I Should Go With Chh-chh-Changes, but I'm Going With Moonlight, Serious Moonlight

My eyes are puffy and bleary which only means one thing! I've been crying like a wee baby and it was necessary to sing David Bowie at the top of my lungs on the way to work and marvel at the fact that if I had Karoke balls, I'd go out this weekend and rock the DB. I'd rock Mr. Bowie's tunes so freaking hard that you'd be all, "she is a hard rockin' (something that is surprising in how hard it rocks) thing".

And you see how I didn't rock hard at all right there? That's to add to the air of mystery that is going to shroud my hard rockin'ness.

So lately? I've been putting all this thought into how people are all judgy and waste their time thinking about things that make them seem cool. And by cool, I mean hip. And by hip, I mean, seriously? You take yourself that seriously? Or they do the opposite and they waste all this time thinking about how they are the opposite of hip. Or better yet... and this is my favorite. I am totally and I mean completely enthralled by people who think that the beer they drink defines them.

I could think of 100 things, wait no... (uh, 1, 2, 3...) Okay, I could think of maybe FIVE things that define me and my beer? It ain't one of them. But here is the thing, I find that I'm totally amused and want to be best friends with people who ARE concerned about how their beer defines them. And not because I think their awesomeness will rub off on me, but because I really, really want to get into their minds to find out what makes them tick.

All I know, is that by the end of that voyage? I'd want an icy, cold, Miller Fucking Lite. Because that is what is in my garage RIGHT NOW. Oooh, or better yet? A Michelob Ultra. Because I think THAT beer says, "I'm chubby, drunk and like the taste of fermented water." Because all of that? Is who I am. Well the drunk part is just a fraction of the time, but now we're getting into semantics.

I know, you? Yeah, you are fucking wowed right now. And I spent like a whole, I dunno, 5 seconds on my beer decision. I've mastered this.

Also? Yes, way back deep somewhere in my most reptilian mind, I probably feel that I'm just slightly more rad because I don't care that much.

But what makes me the hippest? Is that if I was in a bar that played, oh say, C'mon Eileen, I'd totally be all, "This place sucks!" and walk out after throwing my can of beer on the floor. But then I'd have to bend over and pick up my wood grain coozie.

***

PS BoomTube has moved to Saturday night and it's only a half hour now. Because you can't stretch this kind of fantastic out for a full hour. You just can't. So don't ask.

PPS This change already means that Jason and I are more than likely already pitted up against each other in the same time spot. He has an hour long set that might be aired at the same time. We're pulling out the cardboard dance floor tonight and having this crazy mad dance off to prove to just ourselves who is more awesome so that you, the people, don't have to.

PPSS If McCain and Obama had done that, we'd no longer be a democracy, but we'd be the coolest fucking nation in the Universe! You can bank on that!

I Don't Have The Balls To Speak For My Entire Gender

I guess you can call this a counter point: In case you missed it, Dell Computers launched a new site directed at women. Meet Della.

Della is evidently pissing women off everywhere. And, those women are saying something about it. Loudly, boldly, and all over Twitter. Running the risk of offending somebody, I'm just going to go ahead and say it. Kindly shut up.

All day long I hear women bitching that marketing isn't directed at women. Women who make the majority of the buying decisions in households across the country. And guess what! When Dell does direct marketing at women they then bitch that it's insulting.

It reminds me of the pain reliever campaign that tried to speak to the mommy world and insinuated that maybe, just maybe they had back pain from carrying their little ones in slings all day long. Mommy's everywhere railed against it and how insulting it was.

Really? Was it insulting? Or did your back actually hurt from carrying that little bastard around all day long. Because I don't know about you, but my kid is heavy and my back is a mother fucker at the end of the day, thank you, I will have a pain reliever with my beer when junior goes down for the count.

So, yesterday I tried to dig in a little bit and find out what was so insulting about Della. I'm not going to name anyone here, because I'm not representing anyone else, I represent my opinion only. But I was told that this site assumes that we're not as bright as men. Really? Is that what it is saying? Or is it saying that we like things in pretty colors? Because that's what I think it's saying.

And guess what? I fucking love pretty colors. And, when I clicked on the button to build my own computer guess what that sonofabitch did! Just guess? It started asking me technical questions, just like I was, dare I say it? A man! GASP!

Yes, once you go to order a computer on this site it asks you all kind of questions about what you want your pretty pink laptop to have for brains.

I guess what I'm saying ladies, is please stop speaking for our entire gender. I never felt like Dell was telling me I needed to have a huge set to order from their site. I felt like they understood that yeah, I like my shit pretty. Just because I bleach my hair, have boobs and wear the color pink every fucking day of the week, does not mean that I don't understand the tech world. I don't understand the tech world because I just DON'T! So when the tech world gives me a site where I can pick out whatever I want, just like a man, but with pretty colors all around, well... I'm kind of pleased about it. When the marketing world realizes that yeah, my back kind of hurts from lugging my big kid around, well gee, thanks for noticing.

They never said that I was less of a man because of it. They just told me they get it and if I don't like it then I'm more than welcome to strap one on and use the regular old site just like any dude, or any woman who just doesn't dig the Della site.

And, someday I hope that I can stand up for our gender and say, "yes, I like to bake, yes I like Hello Kitty, yes I want a free spatula with that, thank you! And now, I don't give a shit how much ram I have, can I get on Twitter? Can I blog?" Because I'm just a dumb shit girl who likes what I like.

Just like all the fuss over Twitter this week with their change in reply views, I have this to say: It's all free folks! It's free! The Della site is a choice, you don't have to see it. Twitter is a choice, you don't have to use. And frankly? I think you'd bitch if they hung you with a new rope.

Let's take it down a notch and realize the intent was not to insult. So don't treat it like it was:



Oh and PS? I work in marketing. Shhh.

I Have Found My New Favorite Person

With not a drop of Diet Coke to be found in the house this morning, I made my way to the drive through at the local McJerk's. The placebo effect of the Diet 7*up that I did have was only going to last so long.

I ordered my fruit and yogurt parfait and large Diet Coke and proceeded into the converging drive thru (it has to be spelled this way, the sign says so)lane because this McD's is all fancy with two lanes to order in. Pulling up to the window I reach out my hand full of my debit card and see neon pink and green acrylic nails on the end of a heavily tattooed hand, which was connected to a wrist with a tattooed chain wrapped around it. Looking into the face of the owner of the hand, I smiled at the crinkles around the corners of the 60-something year old that greeted me with a smile.

That's right, Grandma. You rock those jobstoppers! Because you, my friend, are my new favorite person.

And, I've decided that I hate my purse. If I see one more dumb broad carrying one just like it, I'm going to lob mine directly at their head. But only after I get my monkey wallet out of it.

PS. I should add that my new least favorite people are the two dip shits at the pizza joint yesterday, who obviously went to lunch together and then sat at the table across from each other, talking in loud, girly voices to other people on their cell phones through the whole meal.

Chew On This

I'm not sure how to start this post. Do I start off light and then whammy you with the shitastic thing that hit my email this morning or do I go opposite?

I would devote an entire posting to what I found in my inbox this morning if I thought it deserved my time, but it doesn't. The email I received was not only a knock on our President-elect but it was also racist.

The thing that blows me away is who it came from. I consider this person to be a friend and while I knew "flaming Republican" was an accurate portrayal of them, as well as "NRA supporter", I had no clue that racist could be thrown in that mix and I hope it's just a matter of ignorance. Also? As much as I fight against the stereotype that those labels denote, they are glaringly accurate here.

Please let ignorance be the case. I just don't know how it could be though. Last I saw, this person wasn't actually living under a rock.

I didn't address the racial issue of it in my response. I think I was in shock and just wanted to ignore it. Mostly? I just wanted to think that if I didn't address it at all, it would be understood how beneath me I really felt it was. One of my other co-workers received the same email and was equally as unimpressed and as surprised as I was.

We thought maybe it was sent to us because he and I live in the Southern most points that could still be considered rural parts of our city. I don't know, mostly I just want to ask if the dry cleaner hangs the noose neatly on the hanger with the white hood or do they come back bagged separately?

The email was subjected: Breaking News. The body read: Federal agents have uncovered what they say may have been a plot to kidnap
Barack Obama..........

This picture was attached:



Are you fucking shitting me? My response was:

Thought you should know that we’re card carrying Liberal Democrats in our house.

Thought my tattoos tipped you off on that one.

But what I really wanted to say was, are you fucking shitting me? Are your family photos still in black and white? Did you have a mammy? And do you have a lawn jockey? Oh and you forgot the fried chicken and orange soda, asshole. You'll never catch one like that.

And mostly I just wanted to say, do you have no shame? Aren't you even embarrassed by your views? Because while I know it's still out there, haunting us, I just really thought most people kept it deep in the closet, with the rest of their family skeletons.

So while I was all prepped to talk about how my booger headed kid is cutting four teeth at once while coming off of his rashy, double-ear infection awesomeness and how I found out he only throws fits for his father and me, and not anyone else who takes care of him - what it ends up as is that I'm mortified that he has to cut those teeth in a world that still possesses this ugliness, finds it funny and doesn't even have the good sense to hide that shit. Yeah, cut your teeth on that junior, and don't trip on the flaming cross in the yard on your way to school.

Oh and look at that, I ended up devoting an entire post to it. That pisses me off too.

State of the Union with Grandma Betsey

I was named after my grandmother. Well, I need to clarify, I was named after the assumed name of my grandmother. The woman is just quirky enough to boldly declare that her given name was not suitable and that she'd just go ahead and give herself a new one and everyone would call her that from now on. And THAT name was the name I was given. I'm not sure how much of an honor it is to be named after an alias, but hell, whatever.

I sighed deeply as I realized I needed to call this little 5 foot ball of fire that is my maternal grandmother to invite her to Thanksgiving. The last time she and grandpa came over for the holiday she called from her cell phone yelling, "What street do we turn on? All I see are streets named after fucking horses!"

So I begrudgingly dialed the phone. I was hesitant not because she isn't entertaining, but because...

Well...

SHE NEVER STOPS TALKING. If you call for a 5-minute chat you better invest an hour. And within that hour, I can put money on the fact that you will hear at least two stories you've heard 100's of times before and she'll never fail to mention that my uncle's wife is a nasty drunk and she hates her.

And she has reason to. That woman is wretched asshole. But moving on.

Grandma is a spitfire with sparkly eyes that you can't quite put your finger on their exact color. Are they blue? Are they green or gray? Much like my own, they change with our moods. She is flirty to a point of embarrassment and just taking her to go pick up fried chicken for her Sunday dinner turns into me, standing there, pink in the face, just willing her to shut the hell up and quit flirting with the mortified 17-year old behind the counter. She bats her eyes and preens her feathers, one hand on her hip, and the victim stands there, pubescent and frightened. I scan, desperately about, looking for rocks to crawl under.

For the record, fucking KFC does not have rocks. Not even the fancy ones that are combined with Taco Bells or Long John Silvers.

I've never been one to mince words or act in a delicate manner with my language. Often times I've hopelessly wished that I could be a wilting flower of a lady and mind my manners and my mouth.

But to no avail. It seems genetics have fixed me wrong in that area.

As I dialed her number, I hoped that she would pick up and not my deaf grandfather, who I adore, but yelling into the phone in my office is not cool.

Grandpa: "Hello?"

Me: "Hi Grandpa, it's Betsey!

Grandpa: "Who?"

Shit I have to yell.

Me: "Betsey, it's Betsey!"

Grandpa: "Hold on, just a second"

I wait as my co-workers glare at me.

In the background I hear: "Betsey, it's for you." "Well, who is it?" "Hell if I know, just take the phone."

Today I was regaled with tales of her hair dresser coming back from Argentina just in time to fix her hair that was nearly platinum at this point and of her upcoming jewelry party where she will sell the wares that she and my grandfather handcraft with their retired days. And then she says to me, "Did you know our new President is a Leo."

Oh here we go.

Most of our family was born in August, Grandma and I are included. Being a Leo is the highest compliment that could possibly be bestowed upon a person in her eyes. My 75-year old grandmother didn't catch me off guard with that one, but she was just revving up.

Me, playing along: "Yes, I was actually. I guess you can tell, really."

(I was only half listening, she asked if I knew, not if I was aware, it doesn't matter.)

Grm: "Of course you can. And it's no surprise that McCain is a Virgo."

Me: "No, I suppose not."

Grm: "And that thing,Sarah? She's just a nasty redneck as far as I'm concerned."

Me: "I guess I know how you voted?"

Grm: "Are you kidding me? I wouldn't vote for a Republican if Jesus Christ, Himself were running!!!"

Great, bring the pies, Grandma!

Dear All Y'All...

This is a letter to you, my dear readers. Though you are few and far between and quickly getting fed up with my lack of posting, I think it is important for you to know that this week has been less than ideal in the area of my children.

And by less than ideal, you should understand that to mean "if you throw a germ at my kid it will stick". And if one more germ sticks to him my head will explode. It will explode and become a planet. A planet that will have to be recognized in science books from here forward.

And you can say that you were alive when Obama was elected AND when 'Planet Betsey Went Boom' was discovered. You can tell your children that you remember where you were when you found out. And I'm going to go ahead and elaborate so that you snobs, who like to seem intellectual at cocktail parties, can do just that or when you watch the Discovery Channel you will know what Peter Weller or Leonard Nimoy are going to say before they can tell you in dramatic voices with awesome computerized, high-definition effects about how this planet came to be. And it's a real planet. Not some stupid dwarf-planet or some shit like Pluto is.

It all started last Wednesday at Crazyman's Halloween party. My kid, who is allergic to anything with mold, pollen and moldy pollen decided that rolling around in leaves in a lion suit was what all the cool kids were doing. Evidently, all the cool kids were also getting spider bites and giving their mother's nervous breakdowns. He's set to be Toddler Prom King and Junior Mint Class President at this point.

So for the next 48-hours I was watching that bite to see if it would be eating his flesh and becoming a cavernous hole. Two days later on Friday, his sitter called to say he's running a fever of 102. Which would have worried me more, but the bite was healing and not turning into a crater.

Saturday and Sunday were spent holding him and cuddling his feverish body while cleaning snot and eye boogers off his face. Our lame, married people date night that was going to include underwear shopping and dinner reservations had to be canceled. By Sunday afternoon he was fever free so I was pretty sure that only our weekend would be shit-canned and not the impending work week. Awesome, right?

Monday morning, still fever free we went to the sitter's. My gut told me we were jumping the gun but I was just so freaking gung ho about Monday morning and a fine day of work ahead of me, I just couldn't help it. By 1:00 I got a phone call that a rash was developing. This didn't strike me as too odd, he gets heat rash when he sleeps and some other rash when we just walk past him with a new laundry detergent. The last time he had a rash, I argued with the doctor on call that he needed something while he rolled his eyes at my husband and treated me like a panicky ass-wipe mother. So we agreed he should stay since it was nap time and Jason would pick him up after nap.

What Jason picked up was not our kid. No, because THIS kid had polka-dots from head to foot. He had spots on his cheeks, both sets. He had spots on his stomach and his arm pits. He had spots on his feet and the inside of his mouth.

No, this kid was not mine, this kid was the CDC's worst nightmare. This kid would not be allowed into any foreign country and obviously, they were going to have to create some new vaccination to name after this kid.

This kid was going to keep me from getting out and voting first thing in the AM and this kid was going to keep me home from work and this kid was going to make me go to the doctor's office, with all the other CDC nightmares whether I liked it or not.

As it turned out, when I got him to the doctor and he'd been swabbed, poked, prodded and inspected, they confirmed he was my kid. Which was not entirely a relief until I found out that he was not a toddling infectious disease, he was simply a kid with a double-ear infection and a virus. And like his mother, when he gets sick it shows up all over his skin.

Sorry kid.

As it ends up, I made it to the polls that night, taking my other, disease-free kid with me. Because while it was too late to save the other one from being a disease-ridden burden on society, I could still teach this one about her "civic duty". So she and I headed off to vote after having a discussion with my Communist mother. Who is not a Communist at all, but since she's never been registered to vote in her entire adult life, my Veteran father declared her to be so. Which I chided her that she really should get out to vote since an obvious Socialist Terrorist was in the running and since she is a Fascist and Marxist and all those other things that obviously should be synonymous and red-neck fear inducing, it was the thing to do. Because you know, wasted, un-educated votes are what make this country go round. Well you know what I mean.

I should tell you that I'm happy to be alive today, untouched by any flesh-eating disease my kid brought home and the resident of a country that woke up and smelled the Bush for what it was. And for the poor guy whose house I drive by every day and had the word "nigger" spray-painted on his Obama sign - I rear-ended a McCain/Palin supporter and spray painted "dumb shit" on his forehead.

I didn't really do that, but I did pull him out of car and rubbed my rashy kid all over his face and said, "Luckily for you, you'll be able to afford health care in the next 4-years."

Man, the inside of my head is a cool place.

With lot's of love,
Betsey

Figuring It Out

I had forgotten that the Presidential Debate was on last night. At 8:00 I wrangled the small, angry, blonde hellion into his bed, with teddy bear wound up and sweetly tinkering out music, he curled up on his side and finally sighed that little breath that said he was more ready for sleep than he would have ever admitted.

The house softly lit, Monkeygirl was in her room and Jason was downstairs curled up in a blanket, miserable with some cold that Autumn always brings his way. As I set up my sewing machine and laid out materials, I sipped a glass of cool water and flipped through the channels to see what was on. The debate.

I turned it on and let it play softly in the background as I set forth on my apron. It felt good to be sewing again. To slow down and do something that is relaxing and productive. In and out, I listened to the debate. And, finally I just tuned it out all together. I have felt so heavily invested in this, as every American should. As we are all supposed to do and really are bound as adults and Americans to help choose the future of our country. But the back and forth and the petty is just eating away at me.

I let the soft whir of the machine take over instead. Sewing straight lines that I can control. Stitches I can make close to perfect. That no matter what, they don't care about health care or taxes. They just are. The material running smoothly through my hands. My scissors cutting cleanly through the fabric. The pins, all different colors, working as one to hold the material together and then falling back into the pin box uncomplainingly.

And as I work, diligently, calmly, serenely, it strikes me. Sarah Palin is a fembot created by Tina Fey, Lorne Michaels and the GOP.

It's the only explanation that seems reasonable.

Let's Talk About How The Word Maverick Makes Me Ill Now

Or let's just talk about whatever memorized talking points we have while being entirely passive aggressive and snarky with our eye winks and inability to say the word 'you'.

You betcha!

It's Saturday

You're right, no it isn't. And, unfortunately, I realized that after laying there for about 30 minutes after I woke up this morning.

I woke up after dreaming that I was on vacation in Florida and somehow I ended up in a wheelchair and my husband was drinking with his friend and refused to push me around the resort. So I spent the whole dream trying to navigate the fucking resort and thinking how it was not wheelchair friendly at all. I had to keep getting out of the chair and pushing it up over curbs, etc.

Yeah, I know.

What woke me were the distant sound of sirens and a very tiny howl coming from the bottom of my bed. The howl was coming from the bed, not the sirens. And then Crazyman was at it, smothering me by laying his entire body over my face. It's really the sort of love you have to get used to. I could hear his muffled giggles while my one working nostril fought for air with his belly button.

And for the record? Day Five is non-existent because after a day of dealing with chemically unbalanced name callers and sitter interviews, I cracked open that Ultra and it went down so easy I had two more before falling into bed, exhausted, frazzled and apparently in imagination overdrive.

So now, I'm off to finish my Sarah Palin bingo cards for tonight's debate. Because if there was ever anything that I viewed as a joke, it's Sarah Palin in a debate. I hope I didn't offend all of Alaska with that, but really, I sorta do.

Reassurance

I just spent part of my morning re-reading my surgeons credentials following a freak out moment over the weekend. As I was talking to my cousin-in-law about her surgery, she had brought up a conversation she had with her doctor. He told her to get a second opinion, but to be sure that whomever else she spoke to was board certified.

Well, duh. Who wouldn’t check to see if their plastic surgeon was board certified? I mean, I did, right? Didn’t I?

Didn’t I?

Deep breaths, I did, I did. It’s okay.

And of course I had. What the hell?

So here I am, reassured and left thinking about how my jeans are way too long to wear with these slides. The hem keeps getting caught between my heel and the bottom of my shoe, in a kind of callous, denim, man-made material hoagy.

Am I the deepest bitch you know, or what?

Speaking of deep, am I the only jerk that watched the new 90210 last night? I tuned in, apprehensive and half-heartedly. I spent the first two commercial breaks thinking how stupid it was and then? Then, I found myself sucked into the silly fucking plot and remembering the feeling of watching the show as a teen. And it’s the same damn show! I swear it is. And I love it. Monkeygirl watched with me and I got to explain who was who and how they were related to previous cast members.

And now it’s official!

I suck.

Hard.

Does it give me any credibility as a human being that at 4:00 in the morning, Crazyman and I were watching a show about Rasputin?

No? Even if I leave out the fact that it did a fantastic job of putting us back to sleep?

I didn’t think so.

Okay, so I’m a shallow, silly twit.

There are worst things to be.

Like at the Republican National Convention.

The One Where I Lose All My Readers - All Two Of Them

Look, I've got nothing today because I have a rule that I stick to. As a matter of fact, as I write this, I overhear my co-workers discussing politics and it makes my skin crawl.

It is such a dangerous issue to approach with anyone as it creates such passion and is wrought with personal preferences that are established for reasons that are important to that individual.

However, I feel I have to say something. Just some little thing about the fact that I had the overwhelming feeling that I was witnessing a huge piece of history in the making last night as I watched the Democratic National Convention.

I don't think that I've ever pulled any punches when it comes to the fact that I am NOT a Republican. That doesn't always mean I'm a Democrat, it just means I am certainly not a Republican.

I tread lightly because of friends and family that I respect. But I would go so far to say that for the most part I might even be considered anti-Republican. Mostly because it really pisses my childhood friend off. She not only is a flaming Republican but she may or may not have even worked in Washington for a Republican Senator. Seeing her turn red in the face when I rail against everything she believes in, gives me tiny bits of satisfaction for all the crap she pulled on me in our puberty years.

So now that I've driven most of my readers off, let me go on to say this: my husband avoids politics like the plague. His take is that they are all liars and deceivers. That they are all in it for their own purposes and he is particularly displeased with the administration for the last 8 years regardless of the fact that he is from Texas. When election time rolls around the most I ever hear him say is something about the fucking commercials and what assholes they all are.

Last night I went to bed early. PMS struck and I wasn't pleasant. I laid there, cranky, watching TV and I clicked onto the DNC just in time to see Obama take the stage. I lay there, watching, nervous. More nervous than I had ever been while watching a candidate speak.

Shortly into his speech, I hear a great "whooooop" come from the basement. One I typically only hear during sporting events. Softly, I crept down our dark hallway, confused. I walked down the stairs and there is my "anti-politics" husband sitting there watching Obama's speech. He looked at me, bright eyed and said, "this guy is kicking ass!" I've never seen him hang on someone's words like that before.

I sat with him, carried away by his enthusiasm. While I've been solidly in the Obama camp, Jason's interest locked me in further. Something about sharing that moment with my husband made this Presidential race all the more personal to me.

This morning I used all my will power to not ram my car into a the back of a vehicle plastered with a NOBAMA sticker.

Sucka, puhlease.

But I drove on. This post swirled around in my mind in the dark, early, quiet hours as I lay awake this morning, still hearing Obama's words in my mind. I woke up and decided I wouldn't say anything.

But I've never been one to follow good, sound advice. Even my own.