Liking to like

I deleted my account with Facebook due to the developers’ refusal to acknowledge that the application allows a platform for the dissemination of fake information.  It is like The National Enquirer gone rogue.  Plain and simple, my belief in journalistic responsibility outweighs my need to hear about my friend’s pets in Florida.

It has been over a month and I am profoundly glad I made the choice.  When discussing it with my sister, I had a revelation. The Facebook application is like a hoarder house where there is too much “stuff” on the walls.  The paths in the application are lined with piles of old newspapers, magazines, catalogs and trash people refuse to take out.  She said, “I just ignore it and go to the stuff I want to see.”  I am of the disposition that a house should be clear of debris so one doesn’t fall or step in poo.    

So, what is wrong with this application.  Hmmm.  After thinking about it, Facebook doesn’t provide the shield that humans naturally provide when participating in society.  This inability within the application is having unfavorable consequences in the complexity of the human relationship.  For example, I am a completely different person at home than I am at work.  I am completely different as a daughter than I am a mother.  The ideas I present as an employee are different than the ideas I present when I’m in party-girl mode.  When a person opens the Facebook application, they are viewing, judging and ultimately making decisions that are based upon their perception of a picture, a link or something that someone else has tagged.  There is not an ability to provide the filters of complexity when you post.  I would hate to imagine that my lovely granddaughter would see me in any other light than that of Gma K, an image I hope is fun and loving.  It’s bad enough that she is subjected to what her parents say about me!  Trust me when I say, a grandma is very different personality than a mom.  There is not an application in the world that can provide that algorithm.

My biggest relief is not being put in a position where I feel I dislike the people that I like liking.  And that relief is worthy of an Instagram posting. 


Tuesday, as the voting results were displayed, my meltdown began.  By Wednesday morning, it was full blown.  I allowed myself to mourn for the rest of the day.  Not only for our nation, but for the perceptions I had about people very close to me, that were so terribly wrong.  No one likes to have their eyes forced open.  It causes a lot of tears.

Thursday, I broke out the big girl panties and began the task of administering therapy sessions that have helped me deal with utter disappointment.  After talking-to-my-dad therapy, retail therapy, cleaning and rearranging every room in the house therapy, I made my way to picking up the pen.  So here goes my writing therapy session.

For centuries, men have excused the sexual assault of women as easily as person changes out a picture in a frame.  There is a bit of effort but in the end, you have a new look to the old frame.  The Steeler nation excused Big Ben of rape because after all, he won them a Super Bowl.  Remove rapist picture, insert Super Bowl Champ.  Isn’t that more palatable?  He still committed rape; he just got excused. 

America continued to remove and replace their sexual predator pictures on Tuesday.  The population excused incompetency, vulgarity and sexual assault for a man seeking to be elected to the highest office in our nation.  What disturbed me on the highest level and caused me to delete my Facebook account, was watching young men continue the tradition of excusing sexual assault.  One by one, they lined up on Facebook, posting their admiration of a victory by an incompetent sexual predator over “that fucking bitch.”  Yet again, another generation of men, being groomed that the sexual assault of a woman is excusable and voting for one to represent our nation on an international platform is acceptable.  Enter the fall of Rome. 

If you’re not familiar with the history, Rome’s empire declined because of the literal health of their population and the incompetency of their Emperor and civil servants. 

Fall of Rome, Part 1:  The Affordable Care Act’s cost was underestimated because the program’s manager underestimated how sick the population is.  We are a sick people due to our environment, food sources and life style. 

Fall of Rome, Part 2:  We have now elected the most inexperienced person ever to hold our highest office because we didn’t “like” the qualified person.  On this one, I am going to expand my commentary.  If I have a business and I want to be successful, do I hire the incompetent guy I find entertaining but wouldn’t trust alone with my daughter or do I hire the qualified bitch I hate?  This is my business; this is how I feed my children.  I hire the qualified bitch because 1) Bitches get stuff done and 2) It’s my business, not my country club. 

Fall of Rome, Part 3:  The public has hired, across the board, a group of people that have excused incompetency, vulgarity and sexual assault in their leadership and believe that climate change is a hoax.

Many Americans chose to believe the snake oil salesman that came into town.  For the people of Iowa and the farmlands, you did an absolute disservice to Secretary Tom Vilsack of the Department of Agriculture. If you want to know what your tax dollar has been doing while you’ve been eating deep-fried Oreos, here you go.  The American public owes this man an apology.  His work will now be dismantled.  Spoiler alert, you will cry.\

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it – George Santayana


Making it after all.

Making it after all.

Everyone has an array of friends that meet a need.  You have the friend you call when you need to be inspired or you are the friend that inspires somebody.  You have the friend that you go out with to be wild for a night but who has a life style you wouldn’t want in a million years.  You have friends for cultural diversity, intellectual stimulation or for no reason in particular, you just like them.  You will eventually have friends from your school days that you share nostalgia and friends that have the same interests as you whether it be children, hobby or sports.  Then there are the people that pass through your life to serve a purpose and eventually they or you move on.  But somewhere in your life, you will find a person that becomes your confidant.  Your joy, your pain, your sorrow, your disappointment, your fear, your dreams, your desires… everything is shared in complete confidence.  This person will not judge you.  My confidant died last week and I thought share my friend Wendy with you.

Wendy and I met each other at the bathroom in the 200 area at the White Sands Test Facility.  It was a single stall and was adequate when there were only a handful of women in the laboratory.  When Wendy was hired with a new contractor take over, the site had a sudden influx of women and therefore, the one stall was being used quite frequently.  The rule of engagement was that if you opened the door and saw feet, you stood outside to allow for privacy.  As in all places, the women started waiting in line and chatting.  This is where we started chatting.  And where I’d eventually tell her several years later when it became a two-seater, “It sounds like you have a sex toy in here from the hallway,” when she would pump during the day in our bathroom.  I always wondered what the guys thought about her breast milk in the lab fridge.

Our relationship went social after the December 1995 Christmas party, when Wendy and her date, whom eventually became her husband, attended the party.  They were sitting at a fairly empty table so my ex and I sat next to them.  We had a wonderful evening and after that, Wendy always made sure that I was included in any lab girl social activity.  We liked going together and always brought bottles of wine and a lot of laughter.  We would take turns driving and made sure the other got home okay.  It was during this social period that she and I developed a trust and started confiding in each other.  We shared our victories and our agony of defeat.  Everyone needs a cheerleader and we were each other’s.

Wendy took life with a grain of salt and handled what was handed to her, the best way she could.  She used laughter and her famous line… “What the hell…” to get herself through it.  People were not always kind to her, yet she forgave them and carried on without resentment.  If a hand was extended in friendship, she took it.  Everyone always got a second, third, a hundredth chance with her.  Her forgiveness was endless and ensured her a peaceful soul.  Wendy was a woman that forgave.

She was brave in so many ways that I am not.  She took chances with her career that would have made me vomit.  In the end, she had her dream job and loved every minute of every day doing it.  She was frustrated by management, as she got unfair shakes of the money tree, but it didn’t matter because she couldn’t believe how much she loved selling her wares, traveling and meeting the most interesting of people.  Wendy was a woman that loved her work and if she didn’t, she wasn’t afraid to change her scenery.

Wendy adored her kids and usually proclaimed them to be the most beautiful creatures on earth.  She loved photography and dabbled in it, taking pictures of the outdoors and of course, of her kids.  She was a woman that liked to take pictures.  She did not like scrapbooking.

She wanted her children to have a path to a good career.  She loved that Jake was making connections working at the country club and knew those connections would take him places.  We were always planning on sending headshots of Bekah to modeling agencies so we could become her manager and travel the globe while she worked it.  Wendy also knew her daughter had a brain and she loved what was between her ears just as much.  Wendy was a woman that was passionate about her children becoming adults.

Wendy loved to eat lunch.  Seriously, she was always about lunch.  She ate lunch every day with someone.  She ate lunch with a co-worker so much that when she got engaged, everyone thought it was to him!  We had such a good laugh over that one in the bathroom.  Wendy was a woman that loved going out to lunch.

She loved the Vikings but I hate them so that’s all I am going to say about that.

She loved being liked and was deeply hurt if she thought someone didn’t want her around or ignored her.  She loved being included and was devastated when an invitation was withheld, even by the yuckiest of people.  She never excluded anyone and didn’t have it in her to understand that concept.  She loved being appreciated and shined in roles that meant she was helping someone.  Wendy was a woman that was sensitive and caring.

She wanted to be a doctor and always had medical school in the back of her mind.

I loved shopping with her because no matter what I brought to the dressing room, she tried it on and it looked fabulous on her.  She was a fun doll to dress.  We were always planning our wardrobe for some event.  Our most memorable shopping event was day drinking at Applebees and walking over to the mall to try on gowns in July.  The sales lady said, “What’s the event?”  We said, “A Christmas party.”  Then we laughed and laughed.  We were trying on sunglasses and made a note to buy a pair on our way out.  We sobered up during our adventure and came back to the sunglasses and laughed because they were so ugly after all.  Wendy was a woman that was a lot of fun to take shopping and enjoyed day drinking.

The last day we spent together was such a great time.  It ended up being a Farris Bueller Day Off.  The only thing missing was a parade.  I was so happy that my original plans had taken a turn toward Poo Central and I got to have the day with Wendy.  I made it a point to have our picture taken by Mary Tyler Moore because that’s who Wendy reminded me of when she moved to Minneapolis.  A girl who could turn the world on with her smile and a “What the hell…” even when her own life was on Poo Central.

Our last phone call took its usual place in our history.  She calling me on her way to work, us sharing war stories of the work place and coming up with ideas for each other to be our own boss.  An hour later we decide, we better get to work before we get fired, as she sits outside her office in her car.  She sends me off with her laughter and a “talk to you later.”

Wendy was my good friend.  I will just have to talk to her later.

Who can turn the world on with her smile? Who can take a nothing day, and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile? Well it’s you girl, and you should know it With each glance and every little movement you show it Love is all around, no need to waste it You can have a town, why don’t you take it You’re gonna make it after all You’re gonna make it after all

Nerd Table

I really don’t have an idea for a story this week. I have been hard at work, rewriting code and making instructional videos for procedures on a system redesign. This means I’ve had to ramp up (for coding) and then dummy down (for the videos) my brain and therefore, being clever is not an option for me this morning.

I used to think I was being conceited (because I was told I was) when I would say to my boss, “time to dummy down,” but after years in the work force, I know for a fact that the “dummy down to meet the weakest link” on your work team is a reality. I wish employers had teams like we did in 1960’s classrooms, where we were put in groups based upon our intelligence. Nothing was more thrilling then finally getting to sit at the smart kid reading table. Scoot the hell over nerds, I made it to your table. It took me all freaking year but I made it. I never once thought, this makes me a nerd.

So, what to write about today with my brain still in dummy-down mode. I was looking through the Grammy pictures and I could make A THOUSAND comments on these people but how easy is that to do? Seriously, if I earned my living on making comments about what other people are doing while I am doing nothing in particular, I think I’d have to shoot myself in the head (as I sit here reading the lines next to the pictures).

I did watch the Grammy’s and chose to turn it off half way through because I felt like I was being “taken to church” versus being entertained. But not before listening to Kanye sing his new song with a synthesized voice (very annoying). One verse in the song struck accord with me. It was something like, “You’re not perfect but you’re not your past mistakes either.” I liked that line a lot and figure Paul McCartney put that in there for Kanye, so that’s what I am going to write about.

I have often thought that when the media exposes a 50 year old person for what they did when they were 20 as really poor journalism. Really? When they were 20? What I want to know is “Are they still doing that?” Give me a story with a content of, “This guy was scum when he was 20 and guess what, he still is!” Or “This guy was scum when he was 20, but he learned and gained wisdom and now he is this person.” If I were judged on what I did when I was 20, all I can say is, we’d be talking about poor fashion, bad hair and jumping to conclusions for a week.

The best place to see an example of “I’m not my past mistakes” is weirdly, the reality shows that my husband likes to watch. I would never turn these on – EVER – but I watch about gold digging, crab catching and frozen tundra living with him on cold, dark winter evenings. What I do like about these shows, are the true relationships between fathers and sons, without the canned laughter or false story line making mom the smartest one in the room. Every person in the group gets to be the smartest in the room at one point or another. Last night, we watched one about the Yukon. I have seen previous episodes of it so it was good to catch up with the families. The one young man was a hot mess a few years back, fighting with his dad, sinking his boat because he thought a sticker could seal a hole in it, etc. Guess what, he was 19 and just like the lower-48 wanted to deport the Biebs, I think the Yukon folks wanted to deport boat sinker. Now, he is in his early twenties and the village is having a problem with wild game leaving the area and food supply. The young man comes up with an idea, puts forth a plan and the older men chat about it and everyone agrees to do it. The episode literally is about this young man’s transformation into manhood. He even says, “I used to do this but now I know better.” The best part was all of the older men not saying, “Remember when you did this… Remember when you did that…” Instead, each man took their turn talking about how proud they are of his accomplishments. The episode could have been called, “He is not perfect but he’s not his past mistakes either.”

Now that my brain is back to normal after writing, I am going to make a point to practice this with myself. I am not perfect but I am not my past mistakes either. Scoot over nerds, I’m back at the table.

Penis Games

We first met our builder a few weeks ago. I assumed the point of the meeting would be to go over the drawing, find out if he could build it, how he would build it and if it could be done within our budget. After working alone for five weeks of design, enough appliance research to make Consumer Reports start calling me and two weeks of gathering builder quotes, I was ready to meet with just about anyone. The homeless by Minute Maid Stadium were even looking like potential prospects for house conversation.

I walk up to the builder’s office and meet his administrative assistant. I get a glass of water and set my computer up in his conference room. My HP laptop is my life and she usually goes where I go, as I have the Desktop Housewife loaded on it. I recently added modules for Home Improvement so information about anything related to the project is at my fingertips. We do a meet and greet. I want to get started talking about the house immediately but I have to be patient and go through social formalities. UGH. I can hear my husband walking up the stairs so he was able to clear his schedule for the meeting as well. I am about ready to pop out of my skin – let’s do this! We do another meet and greet and the builder lays out my design on the conference table. There she is, in all her glory on a really big piece of paper.

What ensues for the next two hours is what I call the “penis measurement” phase of a project. I try to talk about the design and I’m put on shut down. I pop open the laptop and say, “Here, look…” Totally ignored. I have not been in a collaboration meeting of a new project for 5 years so I am out of practice. About 30 minutes into being shunned, I finally remember – it’s penis time. Penis time is when all the men gather in a room and establish alpha male status before a project begins. I close my computer and put my pen and paper away and just shut up because as the only woman in the room, I could be sitting there completely naked, drinking a long island iced tea with an alien going down on me and the men in this room wouldn’t even notice. I might get a glance and hear a comment like, “Dude, is that an alien?” But that would be it. This is going to be a while.

The builder, who is also a certified building designer so he will be drawing and building the house, every once in a while turns to me and says, “You know, I will be changing your plans, right?” I just nod and say, “Sure.” Work experience stories ensue about who has done what and how long they have been doing it. The builder doesn’t want to talk about my plans but keeps going over to a set of plans he has drawn up and wants to look at the foundation plan. My husband, the civil engineer, is refusing to even take a glance. The builder wants to go over the drawing product he will provide and my husband wants to know about building materials. Back and forth, back and forth and I just keep looking at my work on a big a$$ piece of paper. Every once in a while I ask, “Do you think you can build this within our budget?” And I get the answer, “It will be tight and I will be changing your drawing.” My inside voice is screaming, “The point of THIS meeting is to KNOW if you can build my house within MY budget!” I remain quiet as the other point is to make sure my husband will get along with the builder. I have already kicked two builders to the curb because after meeting them, I knew that was not going to happen.

Two hours into the meeting, penises are out, laying on the table, both are about the same size when my husband asks, “Where did you go to school?” There it is. I knew this wasn’t going to end well for the builder. My husband wins the penis game. The fact that the builder doesn’t have anything on display about any college and hasn’t mentioned “HIS” university, already indicated to me that he is not degreed. Having experienced the penis game for 30 years, I knew this was coming. When you do not have a degree (like me), this is the moment where you get to suck it up and take it. The builder gracefully put his penis back in his pants. It doesn’t matter if you have worked over 30 years in a field, it doesn’t matter if you out-perform everyone in the room, it doesn’t matter if the body of work that you have laid before the world in all of its glory surpasses theirs, somehow, someway, the college graduate will play that card and you, the un-degreed, get to suck it. I pat him on the arm and say, “I don’t have one either,” as he makes his case for not finishing his degree. He gives me a look of, “Whatever girl with an alien between her legs, why don’t you just drink your long island iced tea.”   No one likes to put their penis back in, even me, so I let it go. Penis game completed, we walk out and let the builder know that we will be in touch if we choose to use him to build our house. After all of that, he repeated that he should be able to bring the house within our budget with some really fabulous features, and of course, he’ll be making changes to the plan.

We decide to use this builder and I send over the latest drawing in a PDF. I ask for another meeting because my husband has more questions that he wants answered before we sign on the dotted line and I want to know budget and discuss the drawing. The builder agrees and we head over there. We enter the conference room and I open my laptop, get out my pen and paper and think, “Let’s do this…” The builder has my latest drawing printed out on a big a$$ piece of paper. What ensues for the next two hours is what I call, “Bromance.” Penis game over, the two go into bromance mode so I close my laptop, put my pen and paper away and like the girl in Frozen, I let it go. I am relieved that my husband likes the builder and the builder likes him, so I change my attitude and accept that bromance will be the point of the meeting. Where’s that alien and long island iced tea? On our way out, I hear, “You know I will be changing your drawing.” Yes, yes, yes… I know… you will be changing my drawing.

The sketch and elevation arrive and I am thrilled. He has somehow managed to combine several of my ideas from the thousands of my drawings. Okay, there were only 7 but you get the jist. He added rounded windows on the art studio and master bedrooms, which I had in drawing 3. He added art niches in small hallways entering the bedrooms from drawings 4 and 5 (which I had in the first drawing I sent him) and split the area I had in drawing 1 as a toilet/utility room into a small guest bath and my art closet. The elevation is Texas Hill Country, which my husband requested, and it looks fantastic. The only thing that he really “changed” was the layout of the his/hers master baths and closets. I never thought to add a dressing hallway, which then allows both baths to have windows. He also moved the fireplace from the back wall to the left wall so he could put in a block of windows. Everything else, to include square footage, remained the same. And then I notice on the bottom of the sketch, he put his copyright mark. My five weeks of design work now bears his copyright. I suck it up, my dream house is the point of the exercise, not the copyright. I let him slap his penis on my drawing. He left the kitchen design basic as we will need to discuss it so I make another appointment with him and another at the appliance showroom.

My husband and I attend the morning appliance showroom appointment.  He is finally on board with why I chose the appliances I chose. I sing hallelujah to the heavens when I hear him say, “Now I get it with the second dishwasher…” We head to meeting 3 with the builder at 2pm after a nice lunch. This time, I choose to bring my Surface Pro (it doesn’t have Desktop Housewife on it) but why lug my HP around when there is no point. We get into the meeting, with penis game and bromance established, I think I may have a shot of being heard. I get to explain how I want the kitchen laid out, where I will put my appliances and all that jazz. Bromance is still full force but I’m making head way. I say, if there is anything you think needs to be added because my house is weird, let me know. He says, you need a wall here. Yes, the wall I had in drawings 1 through 4, which when I had it there, was told, why do you have a wall there? Yes please, put it in. And then it happens, the builder turns his body towards me and makes eye contact. The alien, long island iced tea and nakedness disappear. I am finally visible. We shake hands as we leave, with the builder finally looking at me in the eyes instead of anywhere in the room but there.

The next step is to submit the drawings and material list to the bankers, both men. Wish me luck in the next round of penis games…

Derma Rollers and Love


I have been listening to Selena’s song, The Heart Wants What It Wants, since I changed my Pandora station from Christmas to Adult Hits. I always think, “Her torture song,” when it comes on. Today, my friend sent me a link to a video she wanted me to check out and I saw Selena’s song on the pick list next to it and clicked it. And then I had to watch it again and again.

Back up a few hours: While I was going tinkle and having my constant inner dialog about this and that, I came across the conversation I have with myself about beauty. I looked over at my counter and saw my new derma roller which houses needles on a roller that you use to prick your skin. The pricking and thus damaging of the skin tricks the body into producing collagen to repair it. It’s my new attempt at stopping the hands of time. Rumor is that you should see a difference in 3 months. Diet, exercise, lots of water and damage to create a beautiful canvas. Not being in a hurry to wipe, I looked at myself (a large mirror is on the wall in front of my toilet) and tried do something with my hair. I concluded, this is the reason why artists always seem tortured. They create the beauty in the world from the awfulness they experience and are brave enough to share it. I studied myself again. I think I am more beautiful now than when I was physically more attractive, all thanks to pricks. I laughed at being what I thought was clever, wiped and got on with my day.

Forward to the video click: Selena’s video brought back memories of all the times I found myself so tortured with matters of heart. I have spent the afternoon thinking about those gut wrenching moments when you squat down in the shower, put your hands over your face and just cry, hoping no one in the house will hear you. I thought about the times of loving someone who didn’t love me back (we all remember 5th grade, Jr. High, High School, adulthood), to loving someone who liked me well enough but wanted someone else so I would do in the meantime but I didn’t know that.  I thought about being used for my body and having someone love me but I didn’t love them back.  I thought about being in an obsessive love where I couldn’t breathe and being in love where it is safe.  I thought about being in love where it is dangerous. And you’re thinking – girl, you a ho! But alas, no… Long-term relationships are like the seasons – always changing but returning again to be the same yet the landscape is different.

I am really glad that Selena put this out there for her fans. Young people need to see that they aren’t different when it comes to matters of the heart. Everyone, even the beautiful and talented Selena, gets to experience sobbing in the shower or at a party over total and utter emptiness in a matter of the heart. And they just need to remember that like the derma roller, three months of healing after a prick will make you beautiful.

Hell and its freezing

Growing up I learned the shun game.  I knew how to shun and was a victim of shunning, with friends and family alike, and was very good at it.  If there was a disagreement, it was generally stated that Hell had to freeze over before any kind of compromise could or would be reached.

I was 30 when I learned a different and far better way to make my way in the world.  A co-worker and I had become very good friends.  He then became my boss.  We got into a huge work fight.  I mean HUGE.  When he pulled out the “I’m the boss” card, I was fuming and responded with the “whatever” comment.  He then asked me if I wanted to go to lunch.  WHAT?  I responded with, “Are you kidding me?  I’m effing pissed right now?  How can you ask me if I want to go to lunch?”  My inside voice was saying, “When hell freezes over…”  His response was the game changer.  “What does that have to do with lunch?  I’m hungry, I’m going to the cafeteria, do you want to go?”   I rolled my eyes and chose to say “Yes.”  We had a nice lunch and didn’t even speak of work.  Two relationships with the same person was doable.  Hell did not have to freeze over.

After learning this, I tried it out with parenting skills.  I love my children and want to be their friend but as a parent, I also need to keep that relationship intact.  Two separate relationships mixed together in a house where we must all live.  I’m glad to report that it works here too.  Hell did not have to freeze over for me to be a friend and a parent to my children.  My sons and I enjoy healthy relationships where we can say what needs to be said without fear of the shun.

Of course, I have to share a story.  My oldest went off to college and decided to get a credit card.  I got the bill and opened it.  My son did not like my response and decided not to answer my phone calls.  I drove to his apartment and forced the discussion which turned out to be, “Don’t you ever think you can shun me,” and  “How does getting a membership at the college golf course save ME money?”  We discussed the “shun” and how “Hell would have to freeze over before I would allow it in our circle.”

Now, I’m not saying become BFF’s with the person who took you for a ride on Crying My Eyes Out Avenue.  Or don’t get rid of the negative weight around your neck called a black hole of a friend.  What I am saying is when there is a disagreement, look at the facet of that relationship that has the problem and work it there.  Just as a person has many characters to play in their life, (woman, wife, mother, lover, daughter, daughter in law, sister, cousin, friend, and on and on and on and on…) a relationship has many divisible facets, too.

In conclusion, when your friend-boss, parent, spouse or even your child tells you to get your $hit together, Hell does not have to freeze over before you can go out and play with them again.  You can divide and conquer a relationship.


Last week I made the fatal error of commenting on a political statement made by a friend on Facebook. I had made a vow to stop responding to what I feel is ridiculous and just color on my own page. But this one just kinda irked me. I made my comment and suddenly I was transported to the sofa of Fox and Friends. I apologized to my friend about my statement as he felt I was being insulting by referring him to a course on American History and ended my participation then and there.

After a lot of thought as to why his statement bothered me, I came to this conclusion. The ignorance of our people when it comes to American History is shameful. When a grown man thinks that minimum wage came into play when McDonald’s went national and teenagers needed a way to put gas in their cars, “America, we have a problem.”

Our problem isn’t the media spewing out bogus crap, our problem is a population having a difficult time deciphering the difference between fact and fiction.  If you were to perform root cause analysis, it would point to education or a lack thereof. If an immigrant knows more American History and how to utilize the opportunities and offerings of this nation than you, you need to crack open a book. Hopefully not one published by Rupert Murdock.

My Space

Over the past few weeks, I have been given flack over the fact that I want two small bathrooms (his and hers) off the master suite versus a large ornate one in the house plan. I just want my own bathroom. End of story. My husband didn’t seem to buy into the idea at first, but over the weeks I have seen him get into the groove. He is now adding man elements to his bathroom, like a urinal. No more putting down the toilet seat for him.

This weekend, I was looking through “pictures of the week” on Wonderwall and there was one of Taylor and Lorde walking some trail in California. These types of pictures have always bothered me. Why do we need to see this? Isn’t seeing them together at the award show after party last week enough?

While doing my duties in the shower, it struck me that the picture bothers me so much because it invades privacy. Just like sharing a bathroom with my significant other has always bugged me, seeing pictures of people having their personal space invaded bugs me too.

Here is my point: I do not want to witness or have my husband witness the things that we must do in order to present ourselves. We don’t need to witness each other’s landscaping the nether region, plucking weirdo hairs that grow from not-hair-growing regions or any of the other personal hygiene things we do in there. I like seeing him when he comes out all squeaky clean and smelling awesome and I like to present myself that way as well. In a previous life, I must have been a Geisha. And this is how I want to see my movie stars, prepped and looking like they smell awesome. I don’t need to see them grocery shopping, coming out of the gym in their yoga pants, taking their kids to school or drinking coffee at Starbucks. How bored are we as a society that we are entertained by this – wait, Kim K is famous why?

I fear it will be impossible for the famous, infamous or notorious to go back to having any kind of privacy because of the insatiable lust that the public has to know all things about them, to include when they take a hike and with whom they are taking it. I can only do my part by not subscribing to the dissemination of those pictures and limiting my entertainment appetite to Instagram and award show red carpet pictures. Rihanna, if you’re reading this, TMI on Instagram!!

Meanwhile, my builder is getting into the groove of my master suite bathrooms. I am hoping to make this configuration a standard in all custom homes. I believe if we start privatizing our bathroom habits, maybe our need to see how the famous look without their makeup will diminish. But then again…. Bruce Jenner is wearing fingernail polish why? Help us.

I’m back!

I’m officially back to making earth shattering commentary on the ordinary as the house plans are in the hands of the designer. Yes, after careful consideration and enough analysis to make the anal retentive and my husband scream, “You’re annoying,” I put down my tracking ball. Now my curiosity will be killing me as I want to know what he’s doing with it. I won’t know until Tuesday. Enter control freak phase. I did tell him that I was Varuca Salt and he said, “Who?” It’s not like I didn’t warn him.

I’m sick of seeing Bill Cosby’s old face. In celebration of Elvis’s birthday month, we should have throwback pictures of movie stars in trouble during the whole month of January. Which Elvis picture do we all like – Vegas Show Elvis, not the fat old Elvis.

My other comment on the Cosby situation: Where were these women’s BFFs? Seriously. These women didn’t have the girlfriend that the chick in Ben Roethlisberger’s rape case had. She raised the effing roof and everyone in the bar knew something was going down and she was not going to let it go unnoticed. Ben got off, as all rich people do because that’s just how the system works, but the young woman can walk around knowing that she has a kick a$$ friend and everyone knows Ben is a rapist. Models, apparently do not have good friends.

I’m sick of seeing J. Lo’s “globes” all over the internet. We have to look at those for a year? Whatever happened to her a$$. Remember spending the 90’s viewing red carpet pictures of her “behind the scene” shots? And why did she have Steven Tyler do her makeup? Seriously, surf the internet and you’ll see.

Having J. Lo in the spotlight though, does bring a social issue to the forefront that no one seems to be tackling. Why is it okay for everyone to sexually harass her? Ryan Seacrest is the absolute worst with her on American Idol and he needs to be FIRED for it. Yet she endures like a big girl is trained to do by men in power, but why should she have too. Why does any woman have too? Then she’s presenting an award and the dude makes comments about her “globes,” and she responds with the embarrassed laugh that all women do to save face in public. Not once have I heard anyone say, “Dude, that was so inappropriate.” People have said lesser things and had their careers plummet into the toilet but make a sexual comment about a woman’s breasts or what she is wearing and it’s a joke.  All the men get to laugh and insecure women get to sneer and say, “She should have known better than to wear that.”  Why can’t she wear what the eff she wants without being sexually harassed?

If Hollywood can get all up in arms about saving the owl, why not the sexual harassment of Jennifer Lopez? Jenny from the block, I would have your back. Get better girlfriends and quit dating boys. I’m glad to know that I’m married to a man that would not allow me to be sexually harassed. I pity the fool that did it. Ryan Seacrest would have his mouth punched. This situation has also made me assess my girlfriends. I’m pleased “as punch” to report that my group of girls are kick a$$ women.  A roof would be raised and probably set on fire by them if I found myself in a Crosby situation.

That’s my soapbox stance today. I know I’ll have more tomorrow but until then, Varuca Salt out.