Barbara Walters just said matter-of-factly to Ricki Lake on today's "The View", "As a kid who [wa]s overweight, you probably didn't have friends." And Ricki didn't say a word.
I need a moment to breathe. One second.
Ok, so WHAT?!?!??!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!!? Have we really reached the point as humans that saying absolutely any horrible, even false thing about fat women, even and ESPECIALLY if you're Barbara Walters, is not only acceptable but also deemed instantly true?? And Ricki, seriously? You were such a charismatic young woman with your own talk show and Broadway starring roles and fun personality that I would be APPALLED to learn that you didn't have friends. You couldn't speak up? Have you joined some new "not fat" club where you can't admit you used to be fat? I'm writing a letter to The View about this right now, but I really wonder if anyone else will???
For one thing, I was a fat kid. And guess what? I'm a big fat fat lady now too. And I've ALWAYS had friends. I daresay, I had more friends than I could handle. Being fat didn't get in my way making friends. You know what, this pisses me off gloriously.
As much as kids say what's on their mind in any situation, the truth is, adults are still, and always have been, the ones instilling hate and prejudice into kids' minds. Kids don't know that they're supposed to hate fat people. Adults tell them to hate fat people. So they listen.
If even one kid was awake during The View today and heard Barbara's comment, they might go be mean to the fat kid at school that they would have otherwise befriended, or at the very least left in peace. FUCK YOU Barbara Walters, and the other Barbara Walters' of the world.
As a fat woman, I am constantly reassured by people like Barbara Walters, random males on the street of all ages, Michelle Obama, and pretty much any form of media, that I am committing a huge crime by merely existing publicly. The number of times I get harrassed for being fat is shocking. Any time I walk by a group of men, I get tense. You know why? Because people like Barbara Walters are saying that it's normal, and indirectly inferring that it's acceptable, to be mean to, shun, and dislike fat people. Which automatically translates to fat women, and even more so since we don't have male privilege on our side. So men driving by me in cars can scream "oink oink" and cackle at me when I'm walking down the sidewalk. True story. One of many. Maybe one day I'll tell you more.
Thanks, Barbara, for making my point for me. You're disgusting, and so are all of your loser counterparts spreading these messages. You should be ashamed.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Showering and Flossing
Personal Hygiene. Ruminate.
Ok all set? Awesome. So now that you have your notion of personal hygiene fresh in your brain (hahahha fresh! That was so deeply intentional.), let's discuss.
I myself am a proponent of personal hygiene!! It's cool, to like, shower. YAY! Here's the thing, though - when you're home alone for...4 days in a row, and you left the house maybe 12% of that time, and then just to get gas and go to Subway, do you need to shower every day?
Do you really?
Really?
Here are my thoughts: NO. Showering every day is a weird American thing. There, I said it. It's weird. And I've noticed that any time a discussion of showering comes up amongst people here, everyone is very quick to flash their eyes around the group, silently guessing who showered within the last 24 hours, and then being prepared to heavily judge and perhaps shun them if they haven't. However, I kind of doubt all of these people truly shower every day despite their lemon-faced but heavy expressions. AND these same people readily confess to not flossing!!!!! When did flossing become the approvable method of personal hygiene to skip????? Maybe it's my dentist mother talking through my fingers here, but EWWWWWWWW!!!!!!! Floss!! That's an order!!
In most countries of the world, heck, I'll just go ahead and say every country but the USA (maybe Canada too - Canadians, can you chime in here and advise?), people shower once every 3 days, AT BEST. Like in Iran, when my Dad visits and insists on getting into the shower every morning, everyone thinks he's a huge freak show weirdo. In the USA, though, you'd become a social pariah if you hinted at, let alone mentioned, that you don't get in the shower but for once every few days.
Friends, Imma put it out there. I shower every other day. Exclusively. BAM. Deal with it. EVERY. OTHER. DAY. SHUN ME!!!!!!!!!!!!! And I floss with reckless abandon up to several times a day. AND SO SHOULD YOU.
xoxoxoxoxo
DH
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Too Tired to Blog
Here's a secret of unemployment that many people won't tell you - sometimes, you're just too tired from doing nothing to actually do anything. For example, me, right now. I'm exhausted, and for no explicable reason. I've slept 20 hours of the last 48, I'm spending the day watching Bravo, and, oh wait, what's that sound? Ohhhh, it's the sound of a 140,000 toilets flushing $1 each of my college education.
Sometimes when you're unemployed, you have these days.
It doesn't help that the thought of having a "real" job gives me hives. It actually makes me tense up and hyperventilate. I am not one of these lucky folks built for a 9-5. What I am is one of those weirdos with the capacity to work 27 out of 24 hours a day when doing something I care about, but it's just that I don't care about much these days.
Any brilliant suggestions for how to revive oneself, and/or off the beaten path jobs? I'd love your ideas in the comments. Thank you, lovely readers!
Sometimes when you're unemployed, you have these days.
It doesn't help that the thought of having a "real" job gives me hives. It actually makes me tense up and hyperventilate. I am not one of these lucky folks built for a 9-5. What I am is one of those weirdos with the capacity to work 27 out of 24 hours a day when doing something I care about, but it's just that I don't care about much these days.
Any brilliant suggestions for how to revive oneself, and/or off the beaten path jobs? I'd love your ideas in the comments. Thank you, lovely readers!
Monday, March 21, 2011
Happy New Year, Grandma!
Happy New Year everybody!! Iranian new year (Norouz) is the first day of spring, and here we are!! So for all of you who have been looking for a day where you can start things fresh, or retry your resolutions, here it is! Above is a picture of the Iranian New Year's traditional table - the Haft-Seen (7 s's - everything on the table starts with an "s" sound).
Of course we called my Grandma in Iran to wish her a happy new year, and this year since my dad and sister are at her house visiting, it was very important that we call immediately upon the arrival of new year's.
Grandma loves herself a phone call. A typical conversation with her revolves around saying hello, telling her she has a big butt (she thinks that's hilarious!), and then her asking me about Fatty. Grandma knows what counts. Which is why the change in tone of our conversations recently is all the more jarring. She's never been the type, but recently she's focused on instilling Grandma guilt from halfway across the world. She is my mother's mother, after all. The following is a transcript of my conversation with Grandma yesterday, of course translated from Persian:
DH: "Hey Grandma!"
G-ma: "Hi Desperate Housedaughter dear!"
DH: "How are you?? Happy New Year!"
G-ma: "Happy New Year!! I have a big fat, big fat, BIG FAT WHAT????"
DH: "Butt, Grandma. You have a big fat butt."
G-ma: "HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH"
DH: "Oh, Grandma."
G-ma: "HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAH"
DH: "Grandma! Focus!"
G-ma: "HAHAHAHA....[deep breath]...So how's Fatty?"
DH: "She's good. She likes to eat, sleep, the usual. She doesn't do much else."
G-ma: "Really? Why not? Doesn't she have things to do?"
DH: "What things would she do? She's a cat."
G-ma: "Right. So DH I'm wondering something. When are you going to, you know..."
DH: "Huh?"
G-ma: "Well, I mean, I'm 87, and it looks like I'm sticking around for a while, but..."
DH: "Huh?"
G-ma: "WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO GET MARRIED???????????"
[DH internal monologue : "Um, Grandma, we talk maybe a few times a year from over 6,000 miles away, and you're spending this time to guilt me about when I'm going to get married? Are you serious? I'm still kind of afraid of boys, Grandma! This is so cliche! Again, are you serious? Why do you care? We talk about big butts, Grandma!"]
DH: "[Sigh] Grandma, my sister's right there with you, and she's 10 years older than me. Why don't you ask her and focus on when she's going to get married instead."
G-ma: "Ok, DH dear. Make sure you drive carefully and not too fast."
DH: "Ok Grandma. Happy new year!"
G-ma: "Happy new year!"
Yeah, I threw my sister under the bus to avoid discussing marriage with my Grandma. I'm classy. Sometimes it's cute to be related to people with archaic (perhaps simple) values, but only when it doesn't affect me! Alas, my Grandma is who she is - a nice 87 year old Iranian lady with a big butt who just wants to see her grandkids get married, and then of course make babies.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
My Cat, Kathy Griffin?
I'm watching the Kathy Griffin stand-up marathon on Bravo right now (thank you, Bravo - I pretty much love all of your programming. Although I think your awesome daytime marathons might be contributing to my unemployment.), and I'm suddenly attuned to the strangest noise circling the family room. Upon further investigation, I have discovered that my cat, Fatty, is purring loudly and delightedly, while sleeping. This is a first for Fatty, so I'm intrigued.
Fatty was upstairs, napping on her armchair (which we've covered with a soft tablecloth in order for her fur to be easily removable from said surroundings), until I turned on Bravo. Then she suddenly appeared downstairs, rolled around briefly, and then jumped into her pink cadillac where she is currently asleep and purring.
Here are the possible explanations:
1) Fatty is having some kind of delightful dream involving chasing birds and bugs. This is unlikely because when Fatty sees a bug in the house, she walks over to it, sniffs it gently, and then attempts to befriend it by lying down next to it and rolling over. She really has no killer instinct at all.
2) Fatty is dreaming about romping through fields of butterflies with the cute boy dog next door. Again, this is unlikely because he moved away a while back, and I'm not sure cats have long-term memory. But she was kind of in love with him. He'd come visit her when he escaped his yard, and they'd chat and hang out and have a drink. Yeah, I don't know, she's a weirdo, and evidently open-minded in terms of interspecies love. So maybe she's progressive!
3) Fatty might love Kathy Griffin. Fatty enjoys and is well accustomed to loud, mean-funny women in her immediate surroundings and prefers the company of gay men to all other people she meets, so signs point to yes.
Fatty was upstairs, napping on her armchair (which we've covered with a soft tablecloth in order for her fur to be easily removable from said surroundings), until I turned on Bravo. Then she suddenly appeared downstairs, rolled around briefly, and then jumped into her pink cadillac where she is currently asleep and purring.
Here are the possible explanations:
1) Fatty is having some kind of delightful dream involving chasing birds and bugs. This is unlikely because when Fatty sees a bug in the house, she walks over to it, sniffs it gently, and then attempts to befriend it by lying down next to it and rolling over. She really has no killer instinct at all.
2) Fatty is dreaming about romping through fields of butterflies with the cute boy dog next door. Again, this is unlikely because he moved away a while back, and I'm not sure cats have long-term memory. But she was kind of in love with him. He'd come visit her when he escaped his yard, and they'd chat and hang out and have a drink. Yeah, I don't know, she's a weirdo, and evidently open-minded in terms of interspecies love. So maybe she's progressive!
3) Fatty might love Kathy Griffin. Fatty enjoys and is well accustomed to loud, mean-funny women in her immediate surroundings and prefers the company of gay men to all other people she meets, so signs point to yes.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
When Moms are #1's
My mom rocks on occasion. That's right, she's sometimes so supremely awesome that I temporarily forget that 98% of the time she's giving me stony lectures about the value of grad school.
Janet Jackson was in town last night!!! She's one of my top 5 favorite singers of all time. I used to have 5 minute dance parties many years ago in college to take breaks from writing my thesis, and I'd call into the dorm hallway for anyone to come into my room, and we'd shake it to Miss Jackson with the lights off, in the glow of my lava lamp and pink holiday lights around the windows. It was classy, obviously. You could say that without Janet, I wouldn't have made it through college! I love Janet so much that she's one of my ringtones - people, you know that's a special place to be.
*Sidenote: If I tell you the other four of my fav singers, I worry that you might stop reading this blog, so don't ask (cough cough one of them might be R. Kelly cough cough).*
I spent most of yesterday scouting craiglist for ticket deals - I love Janet, but I don't love that she was asking $150 per ticket. Since I have lots and lots and lots and lots of free time, I figured, why the hell not spend it trying to find some bona fide awesome but under face value tickets! People weren't budging, but then around 5 PM clear desperation set (the concert started at 7:30), so I managed to score tickets WAAAYYY under face value! And of course my date to the concert - Mom!!!
There is nothing cooler than showing up to the Janet show with your Mom. No, I'm serious. Most of the audience was women of varying ages and their gay boyfriends (shocking); there was also of course the requisite dragged along boyfriend/husband (I happened to be sitting next to one, and at some point during the night, the switch flipped from bored to AWESOME and homey was feeling the groove thang! All 6 foot 7 of him, which required watching out for flying limbs on my part).
BUT in the midst of all of this, you should have seen the attention my Mom woman was getting! She was the star of row R, Orchestra section RC, without a doubt!
Mom was shaking her ethnic parent bootay and clapping on 1 and 3 like that makes any kind of sense! The drunk girls in front of us kept turning around to dance with her, and she was high fiving them and finding the cameras they dropped on the floor for them. Oh Mom, how you rocked the house!
Janet put on a SHOW. YES. It was OFF THE HEEZY. Voila proof:
The crazy robot outfits and skintight pleather were expected, but I must say that I hope the power of her boobs comes through in this picture, cause she looked A-MA-ZING. When she stepped out, I was like a 12 year old boy - all my brain thought was "BOOOOOBS". And she was unstoppable - she sang four sets with 5 minute interludes between them, each 20 minutes long, nonstop singing and dancing. She was on fire. It was incredible!
And Mom was also incredible - after a long day of seeing patients, she came to a concert where she had no idea what to expect, couldn't name a Janet song to save her life, and she ended up being the perfect date. ROCK ON, MOM!
Monday, March 14, 2011
Snarky Disaster Coping Strategies
Laughter is the best medicine, blah blah blah, of course not if you really need help, in which case food or medical attention may be the best medicine. Like right now in Japan, they'd probably prefer clothing and shelter and nuclear shielding.
I'm not trying to make light of the situation in Japan. I'm so sorry for those people and their loss of life and livelihood. Here is a link to the Red Cross if you are able to donate.
Please note, though, that the rest of this post includes snarking about disaster scenarios and may offend those who are feeling sensitive: reader discretion is advised!
I am in the midst of this gchat conversation with one of my besties, Sarah:
D.H.: sarah!
sarah: I got home thursday night and my roommate was watching TV... what the H*** is wrong with news reporters they just flew over all these ppl calling for help and left them! D.H.: oh man, yeah i have no idea sarah: I'd rather deal with an earthquake than a hurricane sarah: there are these crazy ppl who are driving up and down the country saying the apocolypse has started and the world will end in November.... maybe not so crazy ;) D.H.: yeah for real D.H.: i'm waiting for the yellowstone caldera to erupt any day now D.H.: i feel like no matter what, though, it'd spring a leak sarah: somthing with an escape hatch, but nothing else above ground? D.H.: well hav eyou seen that thing on the history channel sarah: no? D.H.: so they're buying the underground bunkers in th emidwest sarah: hahah omg D.H.: i kind of want to put an opinion poll up on my blog about this sarah: if the end of the world comes when in I am in LA, I hope I just get wiped out with the rest of the population D.H.: yeah that's what i'm saying! D.H.: yeah agreed, however in any other scenario sarah: love it! D.H.: you can come join me sarah: haha, I'll make the trek with an extra box of powdered milk for the mac and cheese
Dear readers, I ask of you - what would you do in the event of a disaster of epic proportions? Run, fight, or join me for mac and cheese? Please RSVP if so - I need to know how much to make. Let me know what you would do in the comments!
I'm not trying to make light of the situation in Japan. I'm so sorry for those people and their loss of life and livelihood. Here is a link to the Red Cross if you are able to donate.
Please note, though, that the rest of this post includes snarking about disaster scenarios and may offend those who are feeling sensitive: reader discretion is advised!
I am in the midst of this gchat conversation with one of my besties, Sarah:
D.H.: sarah!
what is going on in the world? specifically japan????
it's crazy overall
makes me definitely not want to move anywhere near the pacific ocean
also makes me sure the apocalypse is night
nigh*
D.H.: well now it seems like earthquakes come with tsunamis
which are basically meaner hurricanes
apparently earth hates us
which, let's face it
duh
sarah: yeah, I'd hate us too
now moving to my own private island is less appealing
unless of course my island home is at an elevation of at least 2000 feet
sarah: hahaha
it would be awesome.
maybe an underground, waterproof bunker could work?
but then you would drown and that would be super sad
about people fearing the end of the world in 2012
yeah, no joke
there are realtors just for those!
i can't believe people are buying bunkers!
like, i'm nuts, for sure
but here's the thing - if the world is coming to an end, like for real
i'd rather just expire quickly myself than fight it out in an underground bunker
that is awesome
there isn't any water here -- it is a desert!!!!
anyone who survives is going to just die of thirst
totally not cool
it's like, if you're going to have to fight for survival
then f*** it!
why wouldn't you just be like, PEEACE OUT B*TCHES!!! and just face an immediate death rather than the potential for a drawn out one that is relatively unpredictable
sarah: haha, well it might be fun in the northwest, but I'd only do it places where they still have widllife and natural water.... and the midwest doesn't!!!! if you are going to be a survivalist, they should at least choose the right area!!
no point in struggling in a non sustainable area... that is when I just hole up and find something fun to do for the last few days ;)
i'd make some mac and cheese and hug fatty until the certain end arrived
so on the same page with that
though I guess I'd be hugging my dog
assuming you can get to me
i'll make extra mac and cheese
as I pass all the silly ppl trying to survive on my way to boston, i'd say no thanks, I am just heading to a friends to eat mac and cheese and laugh at the world for our last few days
D.H.: they'll all be terrified and you'll be like, whatevs we're watching Supernatural and eating dairy
Dear readers, I ask of you - what would you do in the event of a disaster of epic proportions? Run, fight, or join me for mac and cheese? Please RSVP if so - I need to know how much to make. Let me know what you would do in the comments!
Mrs. SusanWong, please stop emailing my parents.
I awoke this morning to the following email, with a document attachment:
From: One of DH's parents (frankly, they've both done this so let us not accuse)
Subject: WORLD BANK UNITED NATIONS
To: DH
Right. So the thing is, unnamed parent, obviously this is SPAM, because WORLD BANK UNITED NATIONS a) doesn't exist as that entity, but two separate entities and more importantly b) would never be emailing you an attachment and c) would never send an email that just says "WORLD BANK UNITED NATIONS."
It is not infrequent that I receive these kinds of emails, and I've had to remind my parents that the United States Visa Lottery wouldn't contact them, let alone by email, let alone asking for wire money transfers, and that they definitely didn't win the visa lottery since they've been US Citizens for about 30 years now.
SPAMMERS, take note - you should just stop what you're doing re: pretending to be the US Government or other important sounding entities. It's rude, and additionally, it annoys me to have to explain your stupidity to my cute ethnic parents. STOPPIT!
Love,
DH
From: One of DH's parents (frankly, they've both done this so let us not accuse)
Subject: WORLD BANK UNITED NATIONS
To: DH
I received the following E-mail but it was not in my Spam. I did not open it. Does it look like a virus?
--- On Mon, 3/14/11, mrs.susanwong <susan.wong288@gmail.com> wrote:
From: mrs.susanwong <susan.wong288@gmail.com>
Subject: WORLD BANK UNITED NATIONS
To:
Date: Monday, March 14, 2011, 4:09 AM
WORLD BANK UNITED NATIONS
Right. So the thing is, unnamed parent, obviously this is SPAM, because WORLD BANK UNITED NATIONS a) doesn't exist as that entity, but two separate entities and more importantly b) would never be emailing you an attachment and c) would never send an email that just says "WORLD BANK UNITED NATIONS."
It is not infrequent that I receive these kinds of emails, and I've had to remind my parents that the United States Visa Lottery wouldn't contact them, let alone by email, let alone asking for wire money transfers, and that they definitely didn't win the visa lottery since they've been US Citizens for about 30 years now.
SPAMMERS, take note - you should just stop what you're doing re: pretending to be the US Government or other important sounding entities. It's rude, and additionally, it annoys me to have to explain your stupidity to my cute ethnic parents. STOPPIT!
Love,
DH
VIOLATION!
I slept for 9.5 hours last night, and I'm starting to feel human again after spending the last few days in, or in a daze from, PAX East! I went with a group of my gamer friends, and while I myself do not game frequently, I did enjoy the overall atmosphere, as well as some rousing games of Ms. Pac-Man and Super Mario Bros on NES (or as I like to call it, OSN - Old School Nintendo)! I also particularly enjoyed meeting Lesley Kinzel of Two Whole Cakes. She's ridiculously awesome.
I'm taking this moment to b*tch, since on Saturday night I came home from PAX to discover an effing parking ticket on my car! F**k you, City of Waltham! YOU SUCK. I'm going to dispute it, obviously, because nowhere are there any signs, at all, indicating that parking on the street after 2 AM results in a ticket. Super! Massachusetts, are we just supposed to KNOW this s*it? For real!
To add insult to injury, I attempted to dispute the ticket twice through the city of Waltham website, and get this - the officer hasn't even entered the information yet! Thanks, you lazy asshole!!! If you see Officer Piantedesi walking around Waltham, please kick him in the nuts for me.
Ok, b*tching accomplished - thank you.
I'm taking this moment to b*tch, since on Saturday night I came home from PAX to discover an effing parking ticket on my car! F**k you, City of Waltham! YOU SUCK. I'm going to dispute it, obviously, because nowhere are there any signs, at all, indicating that parking on the street after 2 AM results in a ticket. Super! Massachusetts, are we just supposed to KNOW this s*it? For real!
To add insult to injury, I attempted to dispute the ticket twice through the city of Waltham website, and get this - the officer hasn't even entered the information yet! Thanks, you lazy asshole!!! If you see Officer Piantedesi walking around Waltham, please kick him in the nuts for me.
Ok, b*tching accomplished - thank you.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Potty Time is Private Time
I don't know about you, but while I'm using the bathroom, I prefer not to converse with anyone. This applies to public restrooms as well, even when I enter one with a friend and we're mid-conversation. Frankly, especially then! It should be girl code that you just shut up while you pee. For real. Even when I'm home alone, I close the bathroom door lest the cat decide that she's interested in what's going on in there. Bottom line is, in Desperate Housedaughter's world, potty time is private time.
My mom, either disrespectful of boundaries or generally oblivious, somehow has fine-tuned NASA level radar for when I'm on the toilet. She may not speak to me for hours, but the second I use the bathroom, she has something pressing to say to me. I've had, embarassingly, more than one talk with her about the fact that I'd prefer that she wait until I've exited the bathroom before speaking to me about anything. She obliges for a few days, then one day she knocks on the door to chat because she really needs to know right away how to spell the word "omelette."
Here's a list of fun questions my mom has asked me during my potty time:
1) Where is my purse?
2) Why don't you brush your hair? I don't understand why curly haired people can't use hairbrushes!
3) Are you thinking about grad school? Or a job?
4) Do you want to be a dentist like me? I know some great post-bac programs.
5) Are you serious that curly haired people don't brush their hair?? That's disgusting!
6) PHONE! PHONE! Please pick up the phone!!!
7) Do you think our kitchen needs more cabinets?
8) Can you come help me change the sheets on the bed now?
9) Do you have a spare shower curtain?
Mom! I love you! Let me pee in peace! It'll make me less grouchy, trust. You know what I think is at play ultimately here? I think she knows that while I'm in the WC, she has me cornered, and when I'm cornered, she can ask me life's important or mundane questions and I have NO ESCAPE. Dang it all. In the matter of bathroom chatty time, the score is: Mom 1, D.H. 0.
I just told my mom about this post, and she goes, "I know what this is going to say! Every time I go to piss, my mom wants to talk to me." See where I get it from?
My mom, either disrespectful of boundaries or generally oblivious, somehow has fine-tuned NASA level radar for when I'm on the toilet. She may not speak to me for hours, but the second I use the bathroom, she has something pressing to say to me. I've had, embarassingly, more than one talk with her about the fact that I'd prefer that she wait until I've exited the bathroom before speaking to me about anything. She obliges for a few days, then one day she knocks on the door to chat because she really needs to know right away how to spell the word "omelette."
Here's a list of fun questions my mom has asked me during my potty time:
1) Where is my purse?
2) Why don't you brush your hair? I don't understand why curly haired people can't use hairbrushes!
3) Are you thinking about grad school? Or a job?
4) Do you want to be a dentist like me? I know some great post-bac programs.
5) Are you serious that curly haired people don't brush their hair?? That's disgusting!
6) PHONE! PHONE! Please pick up the phone!!!
7) Do you think our kitchen needs more cabinets?
8) Can you come help me change the sheets on the bed now?
9) Do you have a spare shower curtain?
Mom! I love you! Let me pee in peace! It'll make me less grouchy, trust. You know what I think is at play ultimately here? I think she knows that while I'm in the WC, she has me cornered, and when I'm cornered, she can ask me life's important or mundane questions and I have NO ESCAPE. Dang it all. In the matter of bathroom chatty time, the score is: Mom 1, D.H. 0.
I just told my mom about this post, and she goes, "I know what this is going to say! Every time I go to piss, my mom wants to talk to me." See where I get it from?
You're Only as Sick as Your Secrets!
Confession time. Deep breath in and out.............ready? My name is Desperate Housedaughter, and I'm afraid of airplanes. Yeah. Like, terrified of them. Like, just the sight of them makes me gag a little and then want to cry. The worst part of having this fear is of course that generally speaking, I have to get on an airplane now and then, although I'm getting creepily better at avoiding that wholeheartedly, but the next worst thing is when my family members get on one. EEEEEEKKKKK let the crazy ensue!
My father and sister are going to Iran to pay a visit to the homeland today, and frankly, I'm all unhappily aflutter. For you English majors (or English lovers) out there, please note that this is an inappropriate use of the word "aflutter," but suffice it to say that DEAL WITH IT IT'S HOW I FEEL. I'm tingly from my fingertips to the ends of my mop of hair, and not in a good way.
What makes this particular fear quite horrible is that I didn't used to be afraid of flying! I used to see and touch and sit in airplanes with ease and even delight!! Aren't they so cool?? They take you places quickly and you can see pretty mountains and valleys from above! Super! Take me to Paris!!
Oh airplanes, if only you and I still had these lovely feelings between us. Instead, I now have panic attacks in you, fear your tiny seats with no room to move or breathe, cower in terror at your TSA agents poking and prodding everyone like we're about to be startin' something, get testy and spazzy with any weird noise or bump you make, and let's just face it, hate your atrocious entertainment programming (except for one time when they showed Ugly Betty reruns. That show rocked the s*it.).
Today I have to drive my dad (and all of his clean underwear) to the airport, and basically once I get near there, I'll stick my fingers in my eyeballs and say "LA LA LA LA LA LA LA" which I realize doesn't exactly assist in driving safely or otherwise making me feel good, but I'll wait to do it once I've come to a complete stop.
Universe, please help me get over my fear of airplanes. I'd like to go to Paris again sometime, and I'd also like to not choke on my swelling throat when I drop off my loved ones at the airport. Take care of my Dad and Sister on their journey to the homeland!
Love,
D.H.
My father and sister are going to Iran to pay a visit to the homeland today, and frankly, I'm all unhappily aflutter. For you English majors (or English lovers) out there, please note that this is an inappropriate use of the word "aflutter," but suffice it to say that DEAL WITH IT IT'S HOW I FEEL. I'm tingly from my fingertips to the ends of my mop of hair, and not in a good way.
What makes this particular fear quite horrible is that I didn't used to be afraid of flying! I used to see and touch and sit in airplanes with ease and even delight!! Aren't they so cool?? They take you places quickly and you can see pretty mountains and valleys from above! Super! Take me to Paris!!
Oh airplanes, if only you and I still had these lovely feelings between us. Instead, I now have panic attacks in you, fear your tiny seats with no room to move or breathe, cower in terror at your TSA agents poking and prodding everyone like we're about to be startin' something, get testy and spazzy with any weird noise or bump you make, and let's just face it, hate your atrocious entertainment programming (except for one time when they showed Ugly Betty reruns. That show rocked the s*it.).
Today I have to drive my dad (and all of his clean underwear) to the airport, and basically once I get near there, I'll stick my fingers in my eyeballs and say "LA LA LA LA LA LA LA" which I realize doesn't exactly assist in driving safely or otherwise making me feel good, but I'll wait to do it once I've come to a complete stop.
Universe, please help me get over my fear of airplanes. I'd like to go to Paris again sometime, and I'd also like to not choke on my swelling throat when I drop off my loved ones at the airport. Take care of my Dad and Sister on their journey to the homeland!
Love,
D.H.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Rare Victory! Dad Emails, Part 2
He learned!!! The following is an email I just received from my dad regarding while he is on vacation, the things I should do. Please note his appropriate use of a newly learned idiom!:
From: Dad
Subject: While I am out
To: DH
Hi,
You already have the roofer's phone number just in case.
Please ignore the bills (but keep them somewhere). I have already
scheduled the payments. Make sure you pay any bill you may get from places you hold a credit card (like department stores,....).
Xoxo :-)
MD
From: Dad
Subject: While I am out
To: DH
Hi,
You already have the roofer's phone number just in case.
Please ignore the bills (but keep them somewhere). I have already
scheduled the payments. Make sure you pay any bill you may get from places you hold a credit card (like department stores,....).
Xoxo :-)
MD
The Fat Cat Diet
Fatty is my weight-challenged cat who is also unemployed and living with my parents. Unless you consider napping to be full-time employment, in which case, give this kid a raise!!
She's adorable, kind, gentle, and quite...large. Like in November at the vet, she was 18 lbs of large. BUT NO LONGER! Thanks to, of course, The Fat Cat Diet.
The Fat Cat Diet (henceforth to be mentioned as TFCD) is a complex system of English and Persian dialogue and can opening that can only be described as an abysmal daily debate that sometimes comes to shouting. Seriously. To feed a cat.
Granted, I'll take the blame for the crazy levels to which TFCD has risen and continues to rise. After all, it was my desire to avoid my babycake getting diabetes that forced one and all to participate in TFCD. But I know this! And I'm anal! So I made charts, graphs, and even put out a food scale to assist in the feeding of the cat. A typical day is as follows:
6 AM: Dad wakes up. Fatty becomes terribly alert at the possibility of being fed any second now. Poor thing still hasn't figured out that she won't eat for another hour, even though this happens daily. Sometimes she meows her displeasure, but usually she keeps it together until...
7 AM: Dad feeds Fatty her breakfast - 2 oz. of wet food. Oh the joy Fatty feels coursing through her somewhat whittled down kitty body - "YES! I get to eat chicken and herring first thing in the morning!!!!!" she muses.
9:30 AM: I wake up. Fatty gets out of her cat bed that is shaped like a pink convertible (complete with wheels and a windshield. all plush. i'm not kidding.) and jumps on the floor to roll around at my feet in greeting. What a muffin!
2:30 PM: Fatty looks at me from her convertible with laser eyes of rage. "I'M HUNGRY, B*TCH!" she thinks at me with furry thoughts and just a twinge of crazy in her eyeballs. I think, hmmmm. To feed the cat now, or wait until after 3. Can I risk it?
3 PM: Rendered incapable of thought or sense other than food and hunger, Fatty plops over on the floor and stares into space, in that creepy way where her eyes are open, but she's not seeing anything. It might be time to feed her now.
3:30 PM: Fatty shakes awake as if roused by some unseen source, runs over to me, and gives a hearty, "MEOW!" She knows I'm an idiot and need to be reminded that she's hungry. After all, I'm watching Real Housewives of Beverly Hills reruns, and let's just say I'm engrossed.
3:34 PM: Fatty gets 1 oz. of food. "WTF????" she thinks to herself. "All of that work and only 1 oz of food!!!!!!! In the morning I get 2 oz and all I have to do is wake up!"
4 PM: "MEOW. MEEEEOW," she says heartily. Yeah, you're not getting more food, cat.
6:30 PM: "MEOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" she screams, the second she opens her eyes from her late afternoon nap (not to be confused with her morning nap or early afternoon nap). Ok fine, I feed her 1 oz of food.
9 PM: Fatty circles my feet like a shark attack while I'm using the computer. Cat, I have emails to write. And by that I mean twitter to check. I don't have time for this cute nonsense.
9:30-10 PM: Fatty gets her 2 oz. of dinner, which oddly she never eats in full right away. She prefers the eating in shifts method. Maybe she's having a dinner party over there all alone - appetizers, main course, dessert. I have no idea.
Though this is a typical day of cat feeding that doesn't warrant much discussion in the family circle, suffice it to say that if I have band rehearsal one night that starts at 7, or I won't be home until after 10 (OH NO!!! THE AUDACITY!!!), I am pummeled with slanty eyes and the guilty consciouses of both parents and a cat, their heads shaking at me in unison.
Hey, Fatty lost 1 lb since November! It's working!!!!
She's adorable, kind, gentle, and quite...large. Like in November at the vet, she was 18 lbs of large. BUT NO LONGER! Thanks to, of course, The Fat Cat Diet.
The Fat Cat Diet (henceforth to be mentioned as TFCD) is a complex system of English and Persian dialogue and can opening that can only be described as an abysmal daily debate that sometimes comes to shouting. Seriously. To feed a cat.
Granted, I'll take the blame for the crazy levels to which TFCD has risen and continues to rise. After all, it was my desire to avoid my babycake getting diabetes that forced one and all to participate in TFCD. But I know this! And I'm anal! So I made charts, graphs, and even put out a food scale to assist in the feeding of the cat. A typical day is as follows:
6 AM: Dad wakes up. Fatty becomes terribly alert at the possibility of being fed any second now. Poor thing still hasn't figured out that she won't eat for another hour, even though this happens daily. Sometimes she meows her displeasure, but usually she keeps it together until...
7 AM: Dad feeds Fatty her breakfast - 2 oz. of wet food. Oh the joy Fatty feels coursing through her somewhat whittled down kitty body - "YES! I get to eat chicken and herring first thing in the morning!!!!!" she muses.
9:30 AM: I wake up. Fatty gets out of her cat bed that is shaped like a pink convertible (complete with wheels and a windshield. all plush. i'm not kidding.) and jumps on the floor to roll around at my feet in greeting. What a muffin!
2:30 PM: Fatty looks at me from her convertible with laser eyes of rage. "I'M HUNGRY, B*TCH!" she thinks at me with furry thoughts and just a twinge of crazy in her eyeballs. I think, hmmmm. To feed the cat now, or wait until after 3. Can I risk it?
3 PM: Rendered incapable of thought or sense other than food and hunger, Fatty plops over on the floor and stares into space, in that creepy way where her eyes are open, but she's not seeing anything. It might be time to feed her now.
3:30 PM: Fatty shakes awake as if roused by some unseen source, runs over to me, and gives a hearty, "MEOW!" She knows I'm an idiot and need to be reminded that she's hungry. After all, I'm watching Real Housewives of Beverly Hills reruns, and let's just say I'm engrossed.
3:34 PM: Fatty gets 1 oz. of food. "WTF????" she thinks to herself. "All of that work and only 1 oz of food!!!!!!! In the morning I get 2 oz and all I have to do is wake up!"
4 PM: "MEOW. MEEEEOW," she says heartily. Yeah, you're not getting more food, cat.
6:30 PM: "MEOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" she screams, the second she opens her eyes from her late afternoon nap (not to be confused with her morning nap or early afternoon nap). Ok fine, I feed her 1 oz of food.
9 PM: Fatty circles my feet like a shark attack while I'm using the computer. Cat, I have emails to write. And by that I mean twitter to check. I don't have time for this cute nonsense.
9:30-10 PM: Fatty gets her 2 oz. of dinner, which oddly she never eats in full right away. She prefers the eating in shifts method. Maybe she's having a dinner party over there all alone - appetizers, main course, dessert. I have no idea.
Though this is a typical day of cat feeding that doesn't warrant much discussion in the family circle, suffice it to say that if I have band rehearsal one night that starts at 7, or I won't be home until after 10 (OH NO!!! THE AUDACITY!!!), I am pummeled with slanty eyes and the guilty consciouses of both parents and a cat, their heads shaking at me in unison.
Hey, Fatty lost 1 lb since November! It's working!!!!
The Cleaning Lady Pre-Show
So, like good upper middle class "Americans" (in quotes since I'm the only one in this house actually born in America), we have a cleaning lady. Yes, it's slightly shameful, and admitting it makes me cringe for a second. But then I remember that that glorious woman keeps me from having to vacuum or clean my bathroom, and then all I can feel is intense thankfulness that she's willing to do it for me.
I realize having a cleaning person come by is a privelege, so let's get that nicety out of the way. My mother, however, likes to make us feel the burden of this particular privelege to the point where I sometimes wish we'd just move to a tiny apartment just to avoid having more than a couple of rooms to clean!
The Cleaning Lady Pre-Show is a longstanding tradition in our house. It goes something like this - one hour prior to the scheduled arrival time of said cleaning lady, my mom turns into a tornado of OCD crazy and picks up literally every item off the floor of the house, depositing it on either a bed surface or haphazardly throwing it into a closet. Sometimes, she'll even vacuum the floor or scour the sink (her argument - we don't want to embarass ourselves with this filth!)!!!
Then there's the pre-show lecture. My mom wants to be certain that I don't forget that the cleaning lady shouldn't open closet doors, should pick any furniture she can up so that she can clean under it, and shouldn't spend too much time vacuuming the guest room. These sound like simple concepts, for sure, but please note that my mother cannot tell me any of these things without detailed visual demonstration. Because otherwise I don't know what "opening a closet door" means.
In true HouseDaughter style, though, I remind myself that since I'm unemployed and living with my parents, the least I should do is stay home and help supervise the cleaning lady while my parents goes to their real jobs and make real bank so that I can continue living here!
The cleaning lady has just arrived! HURRAY! Well, I'm off to do the laundry then. At least I have something to look forward to!
I realize having a cleaning person come by is a privelege, so let's get that nicety out of the way. My mother, however, likes to make us feel the burden of this particular privelege to the point where I sometimes wish we'd just move to a tiny apartment just to avoid having more than a couple of rooms to clean!
The Cleaning Lady Pre-Show is a longstanding tradition in our house. It goes something like this - one hour prior to the scheduled arrival time of said cleaning lady, my mom turns into a tornado of OCD crazy and picks up literally every item off the floor of the house, depositing it on either a bed surface or haphazardly throwing it into a closet. Sometimes, she'll even vacuum the floor or scour the sink (her argument - we don't want to embarass ourselves with this filth!)!!!
Then there's the pre-show lecture. My mom wants to be certain that I don't forget that the cleaning lady shouldn't open closet doors, should pick any furniture she can up so that she can clean under it, and shouldn't spend too much time vacuuming the guest room. These sound like simple concepts, for sure, but please note that my mother cannot tell me any of these things without detailed visual demonstration. Because otherwise I don't know what "opening a closet door" means.
In true HouseDaughter style, though, I remind myself that since I'm unemployed and living with my parents, the least I should do is stay home and help supervise the cleaning lady while my parents goes to their real jobs and make real bank so that I can continue living here!
The cleaning lady has just arrived! HURRAY! Well, I'm off to do the laundry then. At least I have something to look forward to!
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Dinner Plans (subtitled Dad Emails, Part 1)
NB: "morghe pokhteh" is Persian for roasted chicken. Also, D.H. connotes me, the Desperate Housedaughter, and MD is an abbreviation of a nickname I call my dad - Mean Dad.
The following email chain just went down between me and my dad re: tonight's dinner situation:
From: Dad
Subject: Dinner
To: D.H.
Hi D.H.,
Should I buy morghe pokhteh on my way home?
Anything else?
Love, dad
From: D.H.
Subject: Re: Dinner
To: Dad
DH
From: Dad
Subject: RE: Dinner
To: D.H.
From: D.H.
Subject: Re: Dinner
To: Dad
are you serious? morghe pokhteh is funny sounding - you could have just said roasted chicken, hence the hahahahahah. then, xoxo means kiss hug kiss hug. but now i take it all back, MD!
From: Dad
Subject: RE: Dinner
To: D.H.
The following email chain just went down between me and my dad re: tonight's dinner situation:
From: Dad
Subject: Dinner
To: D.H.
Hi D.H.,
Should I buy morghe pokhteh on my way home?
Anything else?
Love, dad
From: D.H.
Subject: Re: Dinner
To: Dad
hahahaha yes MD! I have band tonight too.
xoxo
From: Dad
Subject: RE: Dinner
To: D.H.
What was hahahaha about? What does xoxo mean? I just asked a question and did not want to buy Sushi’s unless you ask for them.
From: D.H.
Subject: Re: Dinner
To: Dad
are you serious? morghe pokhteh is funny sounding - you could have just said roasted chicken, hence the hahahahahah. then, xoxo means kiss hug kiss hug. but now i take it all back, MD!
From: Dad
Subject: RE: Dinner
To: D.H.
I still cannot detect what is funny about mor….
Anyways xoxo ( I learned something new),
Love dad
Desperate Housedaughter Weekly Task 1: Laundry
It's that time of the week again! That time when my father lets me know, "Hey. I'm out of underwear." Yeah, it's weird when your dad discusses his undergarment situation, but the thing is, I'm the one you gonna call when you need some fresh undies!
Ohhhhhh laundry time! How I love you! Gathering clothes, seperating them anal-retentively according to color, knit, and to whom they belong. Yes, to whom they belong! Why not pre-organize!
Those who have never had the pleasure of doing their parents' laundry will not know what I'm talking about, but for those that have, just think of the things you can discover from sorting through someone's clothes! It's like an archeological dig of what they've spilled that week, whether they went with boxers or briefs, and then bigger questions can be answered such as whether they really need a his and hers gigantic closet the size of a small studio apartment when they really only wear the same 7 shirts every week... it's its own reward, really.
So I've postponed laundry day until tomorrow, seeing as how my father is going on vacation for three weeks and needs all the underwear he can get. Oh yeah, don't be jealous! I'm just that good at managing the clothing situation in this house. No wonder they keep me here!
Ohhhhhh laundry time! How I love you! Gathering clothes, seperating them anal-retentively according to color, knit, and to whom they belong. Yes, to whom they belong! Why not pre-organize!
Those who have never had the pleasure of doing their parents' laundry will not know what I'm talking about, but for those that have, just think of the things you can discover from sorting through someone's clothes! It's like an archeological dig of what they've spilled that week, whether they went with boxers or briefs, and then bigger questions can be answered such as whether they really need a his and hers gigantic closet the size of a small studio apartment when they really only wear the same 7 shirts every week... it's its own reward, really.
So I've postponed laundry day until tomorrow, seeing as how my father is going on vacation for three weeks and needs all the underwear he can get. Oh yeah, don't be jealous! I'm just that good at managing the clothing situation in this house. No wonder they keep me here!
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