Tag Archives: Oprah

Bitch, Pleeze!

Here is the link an interview that my sister sent today with that bitch person who “lived Oprah” for the year and then wrote a book about it. You need to watch it. It’s like 5 minutes of the worst TV I think I’ve ever seen.

Have you watched it yet? Yeah, now you know why I am understandably incensed about this on multiple levels.

A) That should have been my idea because I live Oprah anyway.

B) How dare she question Oprah’s taste in footwear?

C) If that bitch bought everything Oprah told her to, it would add up to a lot more than $4700.  So she cheated.

D) Oprah made her do good for others, like provide books to female felons and save a cat’s life – what’s not to love? What sort of ingrate bites the hand that feeds the world?

E) Finally, when has Oprah ever ruined any normal person’s marriage or sex life? Well….I take that back. Forget point E.

F) She said people view Oprah like their BFF in a way which suggested that somehow that was crazy.  I didn’t dedicate my life to making Oprah realize I’m her soul mate so this dumb broad could come along and ridicule me.  I swear if I ever see her on the street, I’m going to give her a really mean look. Like, seriously mean. And then I’ll report her whereabouts to Gayle, and you can bet Gayle will give her the beat down she deserves.

That is all I’m going to say about this topic, which has wounded my soul very deeply.  If she can’t see Oprah for the omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent spiritual healer and teacher who wears really good shoes most days, then she clearly doesn’t understand her subject matter and should be revealed to the world as the charlatan she is. You know who she reminds me of? Debbie Mathers. Eminem’s mom. When she made up that song about him to get rich just because she was mad that he has spent most of his professional life telling stories about how she was the worst mother of all time. I just don’t like when other people try to get famous off the back of someone with the Awesome in them.

I just hope when Eminem isn’t on the phone getting drug counseling from Elton John, he’ll reach out to Oprah to provide some support.

And I would ask that my loyal readers, though none of you like Oprah, light up your cell phones, wave them slowly in the air and watch Eminem’s “Cleaning out my Closet” video I’ve provided access to here:

Now you have just a little taste of the rage I have and the angry poetry that I’m about to write about this woman and her dumb book and send to Oprah and her producers in a beautiful laminated album. If you have any worthy submissions, I will consider them, but they have to be really good. I mean, really Oprah-worthy.

“That’s it. I’m done!” (Ben Affleck, Boiler Room)

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Please Don’t Be Mad at Me, Blog.

Dear (Love) Notes to Self Blog,

I apologize for being away so long. I have promised you many of my life stories and I will absolutely deliver, but you see, I have finally admitted a long standing addiction to the internet and I’ve been trying to quit.  (No. Not cold turkey. That’s all kinds of crazy…) But writing you, dear Blog, requires time on the Internet, which I now realize has stolen so much time out of my life.

When I’m not on the Internet, I’m free to spend quality time with my children, cook healthy, delicious meals for them, clean my house, and massage my husband’s feet.  It also gives me the opportunity to focus on my career and exercise and volunteer —

What’s that, you say?

Well, no, not exactly. I haven’t actually done any of these things yet. But I totally plan —

Well, no. Most of these things I have no interest in.  Except the kids part and the volunteering, but I am entitled to dreams of being a better person,  right? Anyway, as I was saying —

Gah! Stop interrupting me! If you must know, YES. I have been on the Internet. But only to catch up on Grey’s Anatomy because it’s on during the Office and 30 Rock. I am not responsible for network TV shenanigans. I am a victim. We all are. Network TV is wrong in a million different ways – TV execs just want to torture us the rest of the week by putting all the good shows on Thursday. But I’m trying to cope as best I can and watching them later on abc.com.

And watching You Tube clips with spoofs of “All The Single Ladies” with my kids is completely justified. Yes, even the fat guy. They need to be exposed to freak shows early so I can tell them its okay to laugh at a fat man dancing  in a leotard on the internet, but in real life they need to run away. Really fast. It’s called QT.

And Facebook!? I haven’t updated my status in TWO whole days! TWO! So I’m making progress.  That I posted my face morphing into Katherine Heigl’s last night doesn’t even count because it isn’t a status. It’s an update or something. It doesn’t even count. And plus, if MyHeritage.com says I’m an 87% match to Izzy, I’m not just going to let that go.  I mean, compliments like that don’t come along everyday. What? No. Okay. No human has ever said I look like her, but computers are smarter than humans and the computer says so so leave me the fuck alone on that one, kay?

Sure, I read other blogs. They’re good! Some make me laugh so hard I cry. Especially this one, which I guess isn’t a traditional blog, but is a site I never tire of.  AHHAHAHAHA. Oh, oh, oh, let me catch my breath…the tears are still rolling down my — God, you are such a jealous little blog.  Get over yourself. I could probably name a lot of other blogs that are awesome – you will find many of them on your right side bar.  No, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I’m just saying, you’re in really good company. And it isn’t my fault you don’t win awards because even if you got nominated – no offense – you wouldn’t win, because I don’t spend enough time making blogger friends and plus I wouldn’t even vote for us because — No! Don’t cry! What I meant was, I would vote for us, but then I’d probably vote for some other ones like 5 times, and – I’m not helping myself here.  The thing is, I’m not even supposed to read other blogs anymore because I have an addiction and I do not have a Dr. Drew and blogging celebrities to sober up with. So I have to do this on my own, and I’m going for low internet dosages. And I swear I’ll ignore my Google Reader at least 1 out of 8 times today. Can we be friends again? Please?!

Wow! You’re pulling out all the stops now, aren’t you?! I tell you something honestly and then you throw it in my face?  I mean, well, so yes. A little.  I do have another blog, but you know she is just a friend. I had her before I even conceived you!! I write about my kids there. It’s totally innocent! And they’ve done a lot of stuff lately that I had to write down, because that blog is my little family’s history and I’m the historian. And if they have a huge gaping hole in October 2009, they’re going to think I was living a double life and had a family somewhere else or something, so yeah, I guess I spent some time there too, but you know how much I love you! That blog is like a sister to me.  You’re the love of my life. Really. Don’t be mad. Seriously. I love you! C’mon, don’t be like this.

I’m in recovery! Don’t I deserve just a little compassion, considering the hours I’ve blown writing entries on you? Not to mention the emotional exhaustion and the atrophying of all muscles not directly involved in thinking or typing? I used to be buff as hell and strong enough to lift two gallons of milk at the same time.  Now I’ve gotten all crookedy and bendy and hunched over writing on my small, unergonomic MacBook.  I’ve sacrificed for you!! When is it time for ME?

OH NO YOU DID ENT! Of course I made time for Oprah. I mean, for fuck’s sake, she had Mike Tyson on crying the whole hour and then there was the whole incest update that I didn’t really want to watch, but I mean, how can you not look? Oh, and that Oprah’s favorite families episode? So good. Except for the Osmond’s part, but I fast forwarded through all that.  Oprah is therapy. Not entertainment. Why am I even justifying this to you? We’ve been over this before. Oprah is off limits.

Oh, so now you’re ignoring me? Fine. Fine. Well, it might interest you to know that I’m going out to lunch with Kirsten tomorrow.  Our first date in two years. And I got off the Yaz. My doctor put me on another one and it’s too soon to tell if my husband and I will be having sex this week, but I’m not as hungry all the time so I may not be nicknamed “Porky” by December.  And my Big Boobed Sister just had a birthday. So she is getting older and boob saggage has to be just around the corner, right? (Happy birthday, sis!) Oh, and today I’m going to a “bead party” today to save Ugandan women at the house of my ex-best friend that kicked me out of her wedding. Well, yes. I said yes because it’s for Ugandan women and everybody knows I’m a bleeding heart liberal and you know I can never say no to any charity that benefits women or children. Even if it means I have to buy beaded jewelry and that I have gone to her house twice in the last six months, breaking my once-every-year rule.

Okay, okay? So are you going to be here when I get back? I promise I’ll be back soon. Its just…when my kids pretend to be the mom and they make me be the kid, they want to play on the computer and say “in five minutes I’ll come play with you. Mommy has work to do!” and it makes me feel guilty. So then I try to to get them back and make them feel guilty and just start chanting “MOMMY! MOMMY! MOMMY! MOMMY!” until their ears bleed and then we stop playing because it isn’t that fun and we don’t like each other. So I have some work to do.

So when they go to bed, I’ll come back and snuggle with you. If I’m not having sex with their dad.

Love you always,

Love


Hellz Yaz!

I’m pretty much done having my own kids.  Physically, I just don’t think I can do it again.  Although the thought of having more kids delights me. If I could snap my fingers and have a potty trained 3 year old delivered, I’d do it.  I’ve also tried to talk BD into us getting an Indian surrogate mother, or better yet adopting a few Liberian choir boys (all Oprah’s ideas) but he is not for it.  At all. Sure, these ideas do seem a little far-fetched, even for me, but I’d be lying if I haven’t fantasized about each for days on end. I’m not sure if it is because I might be able to get on Oprah if I did it or because they’re the best fucking ideas I’ve ever heard.  Probably the latter.

My deliveries were traumatic, and I’m not that psyched to get strapped down again while they cut me open while I’m still fucking conscious.  I honestly believe history will look back on this time and shake its head in disgust with the c-section rate at 46%.  I hate to admit it, but I have to side with Ricki Lake for once (please don’t tell Oprah I said that, or she will never leave Gayle) – but all of these medical interventions during the process of childbirth is going way overboard. Routinely cutting women open to deliver children is not okay. It really isn’t. It’s fucked up. But this post isn’t about that. Not really.

It’s about Oprah , I mean birth control.  Right now the point is to avoid giving birth again and I would be kind of surprised if I changed my mind about that.  But here is the rub – I’m stuck in a terrible Catch-22 of Epic Proportions. I’ve spent the last 15 years on birth control pills except for when I’ve been trying to have babies.  Until I was off the Pill, I had no idea I actually wanted to have sex. Really wanted it. I suppose this is because in nature, people are supposed to have the urge to procreate. But, at least for me, the Pill is like the ultimate sex kitten killer. And nobody likes killing kittens.  Especially the sex ones. And I had no idea that a side effect of the Pill is asexuality non-existent libido. I just thought I was tired or my vagina was extremely anti-social or something. But I didn’t realize that was just the Pill talking.  I think my vagina is an extrovert.

But here is where the Catch-22 happens: off the Pill I look like an oily teenager riddled with zits all over my chin.  I went out to lunch with my old PhD advisor the other day and — I swear this is true — when she saw me she screached, aghast, “What happened to your face!?” Uh, thanks. Good to see you again too. Yeah, so she lacks a certain tact, but I appreciate honesty. She told me I should go to the doctor immediately because something must be very wrong for me to have my chin boiling in huge puss-filled cysts. Sorry I have to use that verbiage, but I have to make it clear how disgusting my complexion gets.  Apparently that is me being off the Pill.  That is the trade-off. Libido or zits. Nobody wants to have sex with me when I remind them of Anthony Michael Hall in Sixteen Candles, but when I get that all cleared up on the Pill, I don’t want to have sex with anybody. Since I’m only allowed to have sex with one man, the world isn’t suffering, but we sure as hell are.  A conundrum, see?

So I relayed this information to my doctor recently. Her answer was Yaz. I was like, “Isn’t that the one for crazy people?” and she said, “Yeah, but it will clear up your skin. For God’s sake, you need it!” So I’ve been on it two weeks. Hmm.

Here are the pros:

  • relatively certain I won’t get knocked up because I don’t foresee sex happening ever again.
  • no new exploding painful zits on my chin.

Here are the cons:

  • relatively certain I am now completely asexual. ” This is bad, real bad. Michael Jackson.” – Kanye
  • relatively certain I have eaten several times today, but my body thinks I’m a lying SOB.
  • relatively certain I will gain 25 pounds by next week if I stay on this drug.
  • relatively certain I lost my mind at each of the 1745 slightest infractions by one of my dear, sweet, young insane children this last week. “Now I’m mad, real mad. Joe Jackson.” – Kanye

(Ooh. I’m excited!! Did you catch that? I just crossed the threshold of blogging where I describe all of my medical issues with prescription drugs in detail. YES!.  Now I just have to wait to be nominated for some type of blog award. I’m pretty sure I also have to be hella funnier and have more than 6 people read my blog too, but those are just technicalities. I have a prescription drug problem everybody – Put your hands up, ya’ll. Woot. Woot. Holla. Holla.)

So I will have to say “Hellz No!” instead of Hellz Yaz. But that puts me back at square one again. I have a bad feeling that zits and sex drive are linked to the surge in the same hormone.

Okay, dear Internet. It’s time to pull your weight and tell me which way to go on this – is it better to be un-pregnant, asexual and beautiful, or an un-pregnant whore with grotesque chin zits? And just to sweeten the pot, if you find a solution that allows me to be an un-pregnant beautiful sex kitten, I will send you the Oprah quote magnet featured here:

I have one of these on every magnetic surface in my home.  You can start your collection today, if you can solve my Conundrum of Epic Proportions.  I will also nominate you for a Genius Award, and who doesn’t want one of those?

Ah, crap. I have to go eat again.

Leadership school dropout

Over my 30-odd years on this planet, I have amassed a wondrous pile of stories that I love to retell over and over. And I have a whole arsenal that is waiting in the wings for me to spit out on to this blog.  However, the old stories will have to wait as I record for you a brand-spanking-new story delivered to me on a platter yesterday, courtesy of the HR geniuses at my esteemed company and the crazy-ass woman they hired to help mold me into the next top model corporate leader of the future.

GAH! That is the only logical place to start.

Okay, so I wouldn’t consider myself the best employee in the world. I’m kind of a smart ass and I checked out mentally months ago, but if I learned anything from Office Space, it is that as soon as you just don’t care anymore, your career will take off in ways you never knew possible.

So I get an email on Monday from my manager that says that the powers that be had identified me as a woman with high management potential and, as a reward, they wanted to send me to a “professional development seminar series for business women”.  I was kind of shocked and surprised by the distinction since I thought that I had pissed enough people off that they would not want to give me any kind of reward for what they would call my bad attitude and general disregard for the B.S. they hand out in large, inedible chunks each day.

However, on paper I am a wet dream for the The Man because I went to top schools, earned top grades and impressive degrees and I sell a lot of shit, which is my official job. Somehow I manage to help my clients spend millions on the company’s crap stuff — and not just because I’m their walking, talking “hot librarian” fantasy. (I’m actually not lying about this – you wouldn’t believe how much my glasses, coupled with a quick and dirty wit,  turn old dudes on. I mean, its enough to make them completely not notice I don’t have boobs).

But day-to-day, I’m the antithesis of a corporate citizen, since I generally make it my other job to counsel coworkers I like to leave the company. I send them job postings all the time.  Because I think they could do better. We all could.  This recession has brought out the worst in corporate America, or at least in my corporate ghetto, and most days I just want to puke that I’m part of it. They kind of treat their employees like beaten dogs, but I don’t quit because I like going to Banana Republic and having Leonardo, my gay BR sales associate, dress me up in today’s latest fashions. Because I can’t dress myself and if I were unemployed, I’d be a big hot mess. I make a pretty good living for someone who mostly just sarcastically mocks all of the corporate drone bullshit while protecting my customers from my company and making my coworkers laugh.

So anyway, I should have surmised that this “opportunity” to go to this “professional development” seminar for “high potential” women was a boondoggle when I got invited on a Monday and it took place on a Thursday. I mean, shouldn’t high potential leaders have stuff on their calendars a few days out that would stop them from spending the morning at this thing? Well, I didn’t. Not really, because I was able to use my powers of persuasion to extricate myself from yet another fruitless corporate exercise scheduled for that day so I was free to learn how to develop my leadership potential.

I’m not really sure how to explain what happened when I showed up to this thing.  It was SO. BAD. that it will be hard to convince anyone on the planet that this actually happened. I am physically wracked with convulsions as I recall this Thursday.  I can usually laugh at anything, but this one was so totally fucking unbelievable that the fetal position is really the only safe, appropriate response. But – I have a blog, and for my own sake — my own truth — I must tell the story of what happened to me and the other inmates high potential talent held captive in a room for four hours while some random woman gave us her take on what “leadership” is.  Please have patience as take off the straight jacket and collect my thoughts.

Okay, so the only information I had on this seminar was that we have to meet four times a year for four hours each time. We have to read books and network and do all kinds of stuff that corporate people value.  And we’re going to meet all these other beaten dogs women from other big corporate goliaths that we can get to know and just network the hell out of each other and steal away talent when necessary. I guess. I’m an introvert, so I’m not really into meeting random people and talking about meaningless subjects, and you already know I don’t like other women that much either, but for all I knew, one of Oprah’s producers may be at one of these things and then I could give her my “elevator pitch” – another darling of corporate training programs – about how Oprah and I are soul mates and she could hook me up.   And I don’t hate all women – I love the smart sarcastic ones, so I was thinking maybe some of them may have been included in this thing too? I would be able to figure out who they were because when they inevitably play those stupid “ice breaker” games, we would probably collide in our desperate dash for the door and we could hide in the bathroom together swapping 30 Rock quotes.

So I show up and find myself in a smallish conference room with a very big table, that apparently we’re all going to sit around.  There was seating for 15, but barely enough room to walk since the table filled the room. There was a woman at the head of the table that kind of looked like Cruella DeVille. Except she wasn’t wearing a Dalmatian stole, thank god. I think it was fox. And she wasn’t smoking a cigarette through one of those long plastic things either. Probably because it was a no smoking zone,  but I was sure she’d bust one out at break time.  I guessed she was our “facilitator” and the founder of this company that was going to be professionally developing me for the next year.  AWESOME.

Okay, so we were told to show up at 8am. It’s about 8:15 and most people seem to be there, because it STARTED AT 8, and then she says “the seminar actually starts at 8:30, but you can’t tell people who or else they’ll be late. So I always tell people to come a half hour earlier than they are needed – and look! It worked!” Oh! So I busted my ass to get there on time and didn’t feed my children that morning because I had to be somewhere so damn early when really, I wasn’t “needed” for an extra half hour. Thanks, bitch.  I started wondering if I could take her in a cage match (and I totally could). She proceeded to say that as leaders we have to anticipate that people can’t follow directions and work around it, just as she had just done. So in other words, we’re fucking idiots that can’t follow directions. Hmm.

Okay, so 8:25 rolls around and she wants everyone to introduce themselves.  Say our name and who we work for and what our job is.  Easy enough. But then she tells us that many women have trouble with this.  We need to speak slowly and clearly and loudly enough so everyone can hear us.  Really? Because as top talent at our companies, this never would have occurred to us and we’ve never done such a unique and bizarre activity before, like introducing ourselves.

With that hurdle behind us, she starts to rattle off the “rules” about our seminar. We are expected to listen to others. To participate. We have to do our homework. We must conduct ourselves professionally. We have to go to these networking events her company does. No exceptions. She gave us a book, but we don’t have to read it.  She wants us to read another one she wants us to buy for the next class. She will hold phone calls every month from 8 to 8:30 where we will “talk about whatever is relevant”. They may last 5 minutes or 30. It just depends on what people want to share.  Whaaaat?! It kind of sounds like I just got brought to the orphanage with a locket around my neck from my company and Miss Hannigan was laying down the law. I did not see an impromptu performance of Hard-Knock Life coming, but I thought I would begin humming it, just to see if I had any comrades in the room.  Not so much.

Okay, so then she gets to the heart of the matter – women as leaders:

“As women, its very hard for us to be leaders in business because we are so much more emotional than men.  One thing you absolutely cannot do – that I do not recommend – is crying at work.  We’ve ALL been there. We’ve ALL cried at work before. Raise your hands if you’ve cried at work.” None of the ashen faces of women around the room raise their hands. “Well, I know its embarrassing to admit, but if you want to get ahead, you have to stop crying at work.” Ummmmm…. “Have any of you ever seen a MAN cry at work? If you have, raise your hand. Exactly.  His career would be over. But you can get away with it because you’re female, but people will stop taking you seriously.”  Ummm….Whaaaaat?!  Okay. There has been a mistake. This woman was supposed to be heading up the red table in my son’s kindergarten class. Yeah, I’m pretty sure there is a mix-up. But nobody gets up to leave. And neither do I. Maybe this will get better…?

“You know why we as women are disadvantaged? It was because as little girls we were raised to be in the home with our mothers — cooking, sewing, taking care of our siblings — while the boys were doing things outside the home like playing sports and making decisions on their own.  So when women get to work outside the home, it’s often hard for us to speak up and make our own decisions and realize that the corporate world is a game that we need to play because we just never learned that when we were little. Only the boys did, so they know more than we do and we have to work harder to learn that stuff.”  GAH! Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? I think Cruella may be a little two-thousand-and-late. 1572 called and they want their school marm back.

“Along these lines, you have to learn to stay neutral at all times at work. Don’t be one of those women who is always happy. And don’t be someone who is always crying. Don’t let your emotion show. Because you know what? People don’t care about all of your drama. They care about themselves. And if you’re always talking about yourself and your problems, nobody wants to hear it.  But the people who get ahead in this world –and as women, we’re good at this — are people who ask other people questions about themselves. If you do that, people will think you care about them. And nobody at work does this. You can really stand out if you do.  I mean, think about it. When is the last time someone at work asked you a question about yourself?”

One participant looks around baffled and says, “Yesterday…?” and everyone murmurs and nods. Cruella isn’t convinced. She says, “Well, that is very rare. You must have some very nice working conditions with companies that are ahead of the times. Most people don’t care about you and don’t want to know what is happening in your life.  But that’s really what people want, so you have to be the one person in your company who does that.  I know we have some sales people here. They are probably much farther along at doing this than the rest of you. But we’re going to practice now.  We’re going to go around in a circle and you’re going to turn to the person on your right, shake her hand, introduce yourself and ask her a question.  The other person isn’t going to answer, because the answer doesn’t really matter.  We’re just trying to get you used to knowing how to ask another person a question.”  Someone asks if we all have to come up with a different question and if the question has to be business related.  “No. You can use the same question as someone else. I just want to teach you how to ask a question about someone when you meet them.   After this, we’re going to go around again and then the person can answer with a short answer and then that person has to ask a question back.”  By golly! This kind of strenuous mental activity was really wearing me and the other ladies down. I mean, however could I think of a question so quickly to ask the person next to me? And then answer a question and ask one too? All together!?  Gee, was she asking us to start a conversation with another person? Isn’t this more Level 2 training? I mean, it’s only our first day of training.

Even though I was sweating bullets along with all of the other MBAs and lawyers and executives in the class, we all somehow managed to ask the person next to us a question without anyone bursting into tears. Amazingly. Cruella was delighted and so pleased. She sees why we were hand selected for her seminar and she decided we could move on to the next exercise.

She asked us to name leaders we admire and she was going to write them on the board. I was first. And you know who I said. Cruella:  “Oprah… Yes… Some think she is a leader.” Some, mother fucker?! I almost jumped across the table and strangled her wrinkly throat. SOME?! More like EVERYONE. Don’t talk smack about Oprah or you’re going to get jacked. So she writes Oprah on the board, correctly, and then says “Did I spell that right?”  Yes. “Oh, because it looks so funny written down like that.” For fuck’s sake.  “Anybody else?” Someone asks if they have to be famous. “No. They can be people at your company if you want”. So somebody is like, “Debbie Smith.” and then someone says “Eric Johnson” or whatever the hell and nobody else in the room knows these people, but I’m sure they are probably the people who hired this demented woman from 1572 to teach us about leadership.  So then somebody suggests the mayor of Chicago. (This took place the day before the IOC bitch slapped Chicago for the 2016 games). Cruella writes, “Mayer Daily” on the board. Ummm….

Okay, I need to just put this out there – I cannot tolerate when people misspell stuff. It’s a mammoth pet peeve. I’m a nerd and I expect that if you’re going to get up to a board in front of people and write something, it sure as hell better be spelled right.  I mean, maybe she is dyslexic or something, but then don’t fucking write on the board. Delegate, bitch. Seriously.  But I digress.

MAYER DAILY?

If this seminar took place in Alabama, I might be able to let this slide. But we live in fucking Chicago. He has been mayor for 21 years. He and his shenanigans are detailed in the paper every. single. day. I had to hold myself back from running up to the board, punching her in the teeth and spelling it right. I don’t know if she spelled all the other people’s names right since I don’t have any clue who the fuck they are, but I guess it was really a miracle she got Oprah right, so I just started my deep breathing exercises, so I didn’t lose my shit in front of my new band of brothers sisters.

So then she says, “now that we have our list of leaders, lets talk about the traits that we admire in them.” People suggested traits, and she recorded them on the white board. Here is a partial list of what she wrote:

  • influncial
  • motavated
  • intigrity
  • smart
  • compasion
  • power
  • love to what do

You get the gist. I feel a panic attack coming on. How did I get here? When is Ashton going to come in and tell me I’ve been Punk’d? Because if it isn’t soon, I’m going to have a fucking heart attack.  And if this thing has the power to kill our company’s burgeoning woman leaders, preventing us from becoming the future Commander and Chief, you can bet HR, OSHA  and the ACLU are going to hear about it from me. I take workplace safety and discrimination very seriously.

It is at this point in the seminar that I blacked out. I really can’t remember anything except floating above my body and kind of watching the horror show unfold. I saw lips moving, but I couldn’t make out the words. I think I may have split into several different personalities at that point as a coping mechanism.  But the young 5 year old girl personality named Cassie that was born told me later that Cruella asked if anyone in the room ever read the New York Times because she thought it was a really “neat” paper because it had stories from all over the world in it!  She said we might want to look into it one day so we would have more to talk about with our male colleagues, because chances are that they read it, and it would make us sound very smart. Apparently you can read it even on the Internet.

At some point, I saw my body walk out of the room. And go into the bathroom and light myself on fire wet my face. And get in my car. And drive away. On auto-pilot. I woke up at McDonalds. Only an Extra Value Meal #2 could begin to bring me back into my own body again. And then I went back to my office and told my boss what took place, trying not to hyperventilate.  She thought I was shitting her. No. I am dead serious. Serious as cancer, something both she and I probably have and don’t even know it right now.  Louise Hay (one of Oprah’s esteemed guests, of course) says that if you get cancer it’s because you have some resentment you haven’t let go of, which is why I probably only have a few months to live.  But the bright side is that if I die next month then I wouldn’t have to go back there again. I told her I couldn’t live another minute if I have to complete the program and that I quit.  NO WAY I was going back there.  I was already recognizing the signs of PTSD.

And, God love my manager, she got me out of it. She made me tell HR about the whole ordeal. It was at that point they revealed that we got this leadership series “free” with our corporate sponsorship of Cruella’s company. So I was fucking Punk’d.

HR – 1. Love – 0.

I am a leadership school dropout.  But now I need a fifth of vodka and some major therapy.

Cruella has her own damn business and is the biggest fucking idiot on the planet. And I’m a “high potential” corporate drone working for The Man and getting Punk’d by HR. I’m the fucking idiot. FUCK.

Love Bites. Love’s Mom Crush Part II

Please forgive the delay in getting back to my Mom Crush story, but I have a good excuse.

It was my birthday and anniversary this week, so my husband has been busy taking care of all of my whims and most don’t involve my laptop.  One of those whims included the cutest Coach bag EVER. So I’ve been spending hours in front of a mirror admiring myself wearing it.  I’m a one purse kind of girl, and I haven’t had a new bag in three years, so it was so long overdue.  I feel like now that it is mine, maybe people will think I have some idea of how to dress myself.  But probably all they have to do is look at my shoes and realize I’m hopeless.  Forgive me for hating designer high heels – I like how they look on other people but I look like I’m a drunk prostitute when I wear them because I’m walking down the street tripping and swearing like a sailor and my clothes have fallen off and my hair is all tousled in the process because it takes a lot of energy to make the walk from the train to my office and then bandage up my mashed up, bloodied feet. So I stick with simple Naturalizer kitten heels, the favorites of corporate butch lesbians everywhere. I’ve explained how one of my greatest fears is being butch, but I have to side with those ladies on this one.

All of that was almost enough to take my mind off my mom crush story for a few days.  Okay, so I think where I left off was how I met this sparkly, beautiful rarity (you know, a mom I might actually welcome a play date with) named Kirsten through a daycare forum. So we had our conversation where I fell in love with her, and then it all came to an abrupt end when the conversation about the daycare we were thinking about sending our sons to was over.  Then I vowed to make her mine.

This took some strategy.  I went about it much like I would pursue a boy crush – and let me tell you, BD didn’t make it easy for me to land him, so I thought this might be a piece of cake compared to my stalking pursuit of BD back in the day.

So here is an outline of my general pursuit strategy:

  1. Find someone/something that I absolutely cannot live without.
  2. Make sure said someone knows who I am, and ideally wants me to stalk them even if they don’t know it yet. You can determine this by whether or not they file a restraining order. If no restraining order, proceed to Step 3. If restraining order, abort mission. Chances of success are quite low.
  3. Find a common interest. If none exists, manufacture one.
  4. Ask for their help, preferably on something that requires a lot of quality time with them.
  5. Show them how cool I am and subtly persuade them that they cannot live without me.
    1. Try sober humor first.
    2. Follow up with lunch/dinner/cocktail invitation. Drinks optional.
    3. If 5.1. or 5.2 fail, get drunk and dial, unless you know where they are.  Then get drunk, find them and profess your love. (You’ll see this one in action here)
    4. If 5.3. doesn’t work, flash boobs.
      1. Avoid 5.4 if this is a mom crush, unless you are currently breastfeeding a child under 12 months old.
      2. Avoid 5.4 if you don’t have big boobs.
      3. In other words, 5.4 is totally out of the question for me, but some others might find this a useful strategy.
  6. Get target to declare their love for me. Solidify bond through exchange of bodily fluids.
    1. In the case of a non-sexual pursuit, a secret handshake will suffice.
    2. In the case of a food item, gentle mastication and prolonged digestion will suffice.
    3. In the case of a celebrity of the same sex who has her own talk show, write emails to her or her producers every day/every other day about why you should be a guest on her show and write a blog that proves the depth of your loyalty by giving her a shout-out every day, along with constructive criticism.  When she finally sees you are The One and invites you to be on her show, admire, then touch, then ask exactly how she did her hair (see example here).
  7. Never let them go. Never. Remember how much work it was to land them?

Simple plan, right? Oh, and for those of you who can see the genius in this strategy, all this stuff is copyrighted and will be in my memoir one day, so don’t even think about reproducing it in written form.  I know it’s a risk to publish that list now, since they are ideas that the world has not seen, coupled with the fact that they have been proven to work every time, in every situation.  However, by all means, use this strategy in your own life and then tell Oprah about how it changed your life and who told you to do it.  Don’t forget that part about who told you to do it.  Oprah and I are still struggling to get through step 6.3, but I have total faith one day it will happen. Perhaps with your help.

So sorry – back to Kirsten. My dearest Kirsten. The Mom that was born to be my best friend. Okay, so we get off the phone and I decide that if Kirsten is sending her baby to that daycare, then I should probably send mine there too. I trust her judgment. Her little boy started there only a few weeks before our first call and mine was due to start within the next few weeks.  This daycare was a home daycare where the lady made you spend two days with her and your kid there before the kid could go on their own.  Kind of a pain in the ass, but it seemed like a good idea and it turned out to be for sure.  When I went there I met Kirsten’s little boy, E.  E was the cutest baby (besides mine) in the world. But he was unhappy at that place. He cried a lot and the lady said he was just really hard to soothe. I agreed with her. Whenever she just put him in a saucer by himself, he cried. Whenever I gave him attention or picked him up and played with him he giggled. Go figure. He may have been giggling because he was happy to get love and affection, or it could have been because he wanted me to be best friends with his mother and call me Aunt Love one day. I’m pretty sure it was the latter. But still, it bugged me that it didn’t seem like this daycare lady was very compassionate to this little guy. He did not like her. So after my first couple of “observation days” there, I called Kirsten.

I told her that E didn’t seem that happy at the daycare and I was a little concerned. Was he always cranky? She said he was the happiest baby ever, but he’d been home all summer full-time with his dad, so there was probably just an adjustment happening.  The daycare lady’s assistant was very kind and I saw that E liked her. Kirsten noticed too. She was a little nervous, but was pretty sure it was all good since he liked the assistant so much. I suggested we keep talking and keeping tabs on the place. Pursuit strategy step 2 – check.

(Note: I kept looking but didn’t find any better daycare options and I was running out of time for my guy, so I paid the deposit for this daycare.   To make a super long tangential story short, I didn’t wind up sending my son there. That lady was just too batty. By the grace of God, the day before we were supposed to start, I found another daycare that I loved.)

I called Kirsten again, but only got voice mail. I told her what we decided and suggested she come over to our new daycare. She emailed me back. She was going to stick it out at the one she was at. CRAP. No, FUCK.  Now Kirsten and I no longer had a reason to become BFF, besides that destiny dictated it.  Still though, I think I cleared the Pursuit Strategy hurdle Step 3.

It was time to up the ante move on to Step 4.  Asking for assistance.  So at this time I’m a PhD student and I’m in a class based on ethnographic research in marketing.  For simplicity’s sake, ethnographic research involves interviewing people as a form of research and observing them in their natural habitat.  I decided that my paper for that class was going to be called “A Postmodern Exploration of an Emotional Consumption Experience” which really meant that I had a really good excuse to ask Kirsten to be a participant in my new study, because it was about choosing daycare.  So I emailed her about it and asked her if she would be willing to be a subject in my research. Actually, she was the only person I emailed about it. And she said she would do it and she suggested we meet at ——- wait for it ———– McDonalds.   My heart leapt out of my chest. McDonalds!? Kirsten likes McDonalds?! We are so, so right for one another. Pursuit Strategy step 4 – mission accomplished.

Before you thought this story was creepy, but now you can see the genius of this plan, no? So I have to interview her about her decision as a mother to choose a daycare and now I can ask her all kinds of background questions so I can figure out if her husband is right for mine and make totally, completely sure that she and I agree on all things.  So far, we were totally in sync.  And she was willing to give me 90 minutes of her weekend – a huge deal for a working mom.  I was beginning to think she was starting to fall in love with me too.  And I was doing research. Killing two birds with one genius stone.  God, sometimes I can’t believe how good I am.

We met at a McDonalds playland, sans kids, and I bought her lunch. She ordered a salad. Not a Quarter Pounder with Cheese.  But maybe she only ordered a salad because that maybe that is what I was going to order and she didn’t want to seem like the sort of person who loved Value Meal #2.  Well, that is what I told myself. I was a little disappointed with her choice, but I remembered that she was the one who picked McDonalds, and there is nothing wrong with salads, right? Right? Right. Of course not. It’s all good.  She and I were the same height, she was probably a dress size smaller (salads, probably) and she was good looking in an all-American kind of way. She would look really good at the family J.Crew inspired garden parties I had been fantasizing about for so long.

After I got over all of my nervous giggling and tongue-tiedness, we were finally able to make it through the interview.  I learned much more about her life and circumstances and I loved her even more and her husband and her kids and I think at that point I was pretty pissed that I hadn’t gone out to Jared the Galleria of Jewelery and bought matching half heart pendants that had “Best Friends” written on it when you put the two together, because I was ready to get down on my knee and present it to her if I had it.  I mean, Step # 5 had come for sure.  It was time to ask her out. But I couldn’t do it then because I was thinking that maybe she would think my research was bogus and that I just asked her because I was obsessed with her which was true. I had to be professional and not let her know the depth of my personal interest. Plus, I had to buy some time to pick out our matching pendants.  Silver or gold? I just wasn’t sure what she’d prefer. It would take many more hours of thought to make such an important decision.

So a week later, I decided to plan “The Kirsten Party” at my house (I kept the theme to myself). The only problem was that the only people I knew that would come to a party I had were people I’ve known my whole life or were my neighbors or were my colleagues at school, who all knew each other.  She’d be the only person there who didn’t know anyone. And that might be fishy. But what the hell? I had to get her and the family to my house.  So I planned a BBQ, in her honor. But I didn’t tell anybody except BD, who told me I was psycho. He warned me against it. But I think that he was secretly afraid that her husband was going to turn out to be his BFF after all and he just wasn’t ready for the emotional depth a commitment like that might require. Or he thought I was psycho.

I sent out Evites. And waited. Some people said they’d come, but they weren’t really important except as proof that I had a life and friends that Kirsten could easily assimilate into.  Kirsten didn’t reply. Not Yes, No OR Maybe. So I made Evite do that thing where it reminds you that you haven’t replied.  And no reply. IN FACT, there wasn’t even a record that she had viewed the Evite. But I had the right email address. What to do? Did this mean she didn’t realize that we were meant to be? Or that it just went into her junk mail? Or that Evite was blocked on her work email?  It seemed like I’d be forced to call her.  And you know how I hate the phone. And if I called, what if she said no or sounded like she wanted to say no but didn’t know how to and it was totally awkward when I started sobbing and moaning softly on the other end? I didn’t have her home address, so a paper invite was out of the question.  While I have no moral dilemmas to stalking someone if I’m only trying to give them the gift of me, I don’t want it to be obvious to them. Step 5.2 was not working as well as I had hoped. It was almost time for the drunk dial as required in Step 5.3.  I had two glasses of wine. I was feeling a bit more bold. I was going to call her, dammit, because it was really for the good of everyone involved.  So I did. And I dialed the wrong number and the person was mean and my swagger dissipated and I drank another glass of wine and passed out. And then I tried to cancel my party. But BD wouldn’t let me.  So we had it. And Kirsten didn’t come. But my other friends did and they were cool and why did I need another friend anyway? I am SO busy. I mean SO BUSY.  I don’t even have TIME for another friend, you know?

So I let go of my dream of Kirsten…kind of.  Except for when two years later and eight months pregnant with my second son I decided it was time to rekindle my love affair with her.  I’ll save that for my next post: Hysteria! Love’s Mom Crush Part III.  My fingers hurt now. And my ego too. But it gets better…

Love’s Laws #2 – #21, a.k.a What Oprah knows for sure

I live to talk a lot about Oprah. You know that already if you’ve read anything I’ve ever written, or had a conversation with me that lasts over 3.4 minutes.

Hopefully, you have read Love’s Law #1. I have found further recent proof from one of my favorite blogs that I’m not the only one creeped out by mustaches.  Meg from 2birds1blog wrote yesterday:

– Speaking of ridiculous things my sister has said, the other day we were discussing her intense love of mustaches when she mentioned how excited she was because it’s almost, “mustache season.” Apparently, mustache season begins after Labor Day ends, in a sort of reverse White Pants Rule kind of way. Or as Becca puts it, “When the white pants go away, the mustaches come out to play.”

I have never felt so completely molested by a sentence in my entire life.


Wowsers! Her sister is fucked up! But I see that the first thing that entered her mind was molestation.  I’m not the only one.

Anyway, Oprah always asks people what they know for sure. From my last post I learned a few more things for sure:

  1. John Mayer is indeed a douche. But we wouldn’t kick him out of bed.
  2. Michael Jackson is asexual. Except it appears that Nel doesn’t think so and she was x5. However, now I know for sure I don’t want to know what MJ did or didn’t do with small children. Oprah didn’t even weigh in on this in her tribute to Michael Jackson. She is of zero value here.
  3. If you marry a rock star or pro athlete (except Herschel Walker) you’re ridiculous if you think they aren’t going to screw around on you. Read: buy your famous husband condoms so you don’t get any of that nastiness coming home.

But I will admit to the world today that Oprah wrote down in the November 2008 “O” Magazine all the 20 things she knows for sure and I carry it around with me everywhere. (Stop it. At least I’m being honest).

So today I’ve decided to recreate that list as Love’s Law’s #2 – 21, but know that they are straight from Oprah’s mouth because I don’t want her to sue me because I don’t even have a lawyer. On second thought, if she sues me does that mean I get to see her in court? That might be so worth it.

Love’s Laws #2 -21 – What I believe (and you should too) since Oprah knows it for sure:

  1. What you put out comes back all the time, no matter what.
  2. You define your own life. Don’t let other people write your script.
  3. Whatever someone did to you in the past has no power over the present. Only you give it power.
  4. When people show you who they are, believe them the first time.
  5. Worrying is wasted time. Use the same energy for doing something about whatever worries you.
  6. What you believe has more power that what you dream or hope or wish for.  You become what you believe.
  7. If the only prayer you ever say is thank you, that will be enough.
  8. The happiness you feel is in direct proportion to the love you give.
  9. Failure is the sign post to turn you in another direction.
  10. If you make a choice that goes against what everyone else thinks, the world will not fall apart.
  11. Trust your instincts. Intuition doesn’t lie.
  12. Love yourself and then learn to extend that love to others in every encounter.
  13. Let passion drive your profession.
  14. Find a way to get paid for doing what you love. Then every paycheck will be a bonus.
  15. Love doesn’t hurt. It feels really good.
  16. Every day brings a chance to start over.
  17. Being a mother is the hardest job on earth. Women everywhere must declare it so.
  18. Doubt means don’t. Don’t move. Don’t answer. Don’t rush forward.
  19. When you don’t know what to do, get still.  The answer will come.
  20. “Trouble don’t last always” (A line from a Negro spiritual)

I believe in all of this, except for a caveat on #17.  I think being skid row prostitute is the hardest job in the world.  And after that, being a person who lives with me. And then maybe motherhood.

More Love’s Laws to come, including #22 – People living in Seattle are cool I guess, but unfortunately they are the worst looking population in the continental United States.

Testosterone will transform any good person into a mindless sex machine. Which explains a lot.

Women need a reason to have sex. Men just need a place.

— Billy Crystal

I know exactly what it’s like to be a man.  Well, mostly. I guess I’ve never felt like publicly scratching my crotch, jumping up and bumping chests with another man or fantasizing about giving myself head.  But I know what its like to be a man in the sense that I have had thoughts about fucking anything or anyone that came into my line of view, including garbage collectors, geriatric patients, homeless men and even Trekkies.  Elevated levels of testosterone will do that to you. For real. And yes, you read that right. I said I even considered doing a Trekkie.  And Love doesn’t do Trekkies. EVER. Not for any reason.

But before I can explain how on earth I got to such a ridiculous point, you need some background.  Beginning when I was about 5 months pregnant with my first son, I began waking up in the middle of the night, in mid-orgasm.  Yeah. I would wake up orgasming.  So that’s fucking great, right? Kind of.  Except I would have insane dreams about doing sex acts that should be illegal, if they aren’t already. I dreamt of things that I can’t even imagine crossing my mind ever, EVER, consciously and if they did, I would arrest myself right after I puked everywhere.  If I relayed them here,  it would create a complete and total barf-o-rama for my readers, except those of you with mustaches. You guys would probably love for me to expound.  Go find some porn, dudes. Suffice to say these dreams were explicit and filthy. But waking up most nights in the middle of an orgasm created only by her filthy subconscious thoughts?  A girl could get used to that.

I know. I know! You’re all, “Bitch, please!”  But I am a victim. Of hormones.  I mean, if I sat all day and consciously tried to orgasm with no physical contact, I’d have a better chance of figuring out the cure for cancer.  But when I was asleep? Good Lord. I came more than Jenna Jameson and Briana Banks together in Briana loves Jenna.  So that was kind of a bizarre, fun and often disturbing side effect of pregnancy (homeless dudes? Trekkies? REALLY?!).  When the pregnancy ended, so did the nightly dreams and their accompanying orgasms. And I went back to normal.

I’m not sure what caused this phenomenon, but I’m sure it had something to do with pregnancy hormones.  I would have asked my OB-GYN about it, but every time I imagined the conversation, it wasn’t working for me.

“So, everything looks good.  Do you have any questions for me?”

“Um… yeah. I was just wondering – is it normal for me to be having fantastic spontaneous orgasms every night which stem from all the extensive whoring around I do in my dreams, several times a week?”

No.  There are only two people on this earth that I could really share my secret question with, so naturally I wrote to Dr. Oz.  Via Oprah’s handy site.  Here is a man who regularly puts his hands in people’s intestines and can talk about poop for a whole show.  He’ll even humor Oprah and go through Past Life Regression exercises.  But will he delve into my pregnancy induced sexual perversion? Nooooo.  I mean, they feature ladies who have gas or smell bad or are fat. But they’ve no love for the orgasming pregnant lady.  Obviously, one more thing Oprah doesn’t care about.  Sometimes I like to think my issue was so fascinating that Dr. Oz just saved that question for his upcoming series, but then I think maybe Oprah didn’t want him to take such important intellectual property from the Oprah Winfrey show.  Or maybe Oprah was scared of the powerful emotions I might stir in her heart, were she to invite me to appear on her show.  We all know Oprah doesn’t like surprises.  That, or once again, I reach out to Oprah for help and I am summarily dismissed.  But I will not be deterred. We were meant to be together. Not as lovers, but surely as BFFs (cue Keri Hilson and Kanye).  Ah fuck – I’m off on another Oprah tangent again. Am I the only person this happens to?

Okay, so fast forward 3  years. Five months pregnant again. The nightly sleeping orgasms return. Sweet, right?! I swear some of my son’s testosterone is seeping out of the uterus and into my brain. But then I give birth, sad to bid adieu to my effortless, spontaneous nightly orgasms and all that extra testosterone.  But something else altogether happens –  I’m exhausted, sore and drugged up from the c-section and all I can think about is sex. Sex anywhere, at anytime, with anyone.  With everyone.  All the time.  Day and night.

Picture this, if you will: I’m up feeding my newborn son at 3am and trying desperately to find porn to watch on TV. I become extremely hostile and resentful toward my husband for not having porn in our house. “Where is the porn?! There must be porn!? Where can I get it?” I feel like a crackhead who needs a fix. But I have to settle for the poor man’s porn — Cathouse episodes on HBO – because there is no porn in our house.  This causes me to think unkind things.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Shouldn’t you have an entire library hidden somewhere in the floorboards or by your tools or something? WHERE IS THE PORN?” I screech, desperately clawing at BD’s face and chest, like a daytime soap star that finds out after a bout of amnesia that her husband was abducted by aliens, but not before sleeping with her twin sister, who she thought was dead all these years.  Yeah. But so, where was I? Oh yeah, so I politely suggest that he go out and buy us some hard core porn before I take off to the Bunny Ranch with our family savings. He tries to talk some sense into me. I threaten to go myself with the newborn strapped to me in the Baby Bjorn and tell him if our son and I catch some sort of STD while we’re in there, it will be all on him.  He stood firm. He was not going to be an enabler.  Or a co-dependent. No porn for me.

One would think that this turn of events would be a boon to BD.  A horny wife demanding porn? Yes, please! But there is that pesky little problem of no sex for 8 weeks after the baby, but we’re Irish so we probably could have chucked that one out the window pretty quickly. But then there was the other pesky problem that I was practically hemorrhaging for a full four months after giving birth.  That was my penance for all of those orgasms. The universe always has a way of evening things out, doesn’t it?   Was that TMI? Sorry. That was probably TMI. But relevant right? At least I get points for relevance? Anyway, my testosterone surge, along with my burning desire for porn, was finally extinguished after three or four excruciating weeks.

But I swear I’m getting to the point of all of this over-sharing. Here I am, supposed to be nurturing two young children and baking apple pies and doing other stuff that I’m pretty sure all the good moms are doing, and all I can think of and pout about is sex. Sex that I can’t have.  And suddenly it dawned on me. “OMG – I am a man! This is what it’s like to be in the head of a married man or an ugly one every.damn.day.” It was one of my only most important Aha! moments, which is why I’m sharing it with the Internet. If this is what its like to be a man, then how on earth does any man stay faithful? If all they do is think about getting laid and every household object can somehow elicit some type of sexual reference, how do they keep their dicks in their pants for most of the day? How do they get any work done? How do they have room to think about Fantasy football or remember what the square root of 125 is? How do high school boys even make it through the day with all the slutty girls that attend high school these days?

So here it is, the finale: To men around the world, Love salutes you. Especially those who have made the choice to be married and stay faithful, even though all you do all day, every day, is think about getting laid by every woman who walks by.  Holy shit. Now it’s so apparent and understandable why many of you can’t do even the simplest things.  You only have about 10% of your cognitive capacity available for anything unrelated to sex.  Love (channeling Bob Dole) has walked a mile in your shoes. I know your pain. How do you stand it?!

Note to BD: Stay strong, brutha.