That Damn Family Christmas Card
I have a good relationship with my parents but one area of discord over the years has revolved around Mom’s annual Christmas card. It’s always a time-consuming creative endeavor that’s sent to everybody who has voluntarily (and sometimes not) provided my parents with their home address.
The problem I have is that the little blurb on me never seems to portray me accurately, or at least, not in the best light possible. For example, one year when I’d traveled overseas to entertain military troops and was writing for a national magazine, my portion only mentioned that I’d bartended for Wolfgang Puck. Last year’s card said that I made frequent trips to Arizona to see my nephews (i.e. Jenée has no life of her own).
It’s not that Mom deliberately discounts my activities for the year, she just makes odd choices sometimes. And it’s not always in regards to my recap. A couple years ago, my brother worked on the season’s number one new tv show. Mom’s card that year mentioned how he’d moved into a new apartment with a lovely view of the Mormon church. If I recall correctly, the card included a picture of that view and none of my brother. But I’m the bad sheep because I complain about that stuff and my siblings don’t. I strongly suspect their Christmas envelopes weigh more than mine.
So yesterday I received this year’s card. It’s a small booklet and each page contains a photo in an ornament and around the ornament is a couple lines about some of my parent’s activities through the year. With so little room for text, I figured it was impossible for me to get screwed this time.
I was wrong.
First of all, my name is written as “Jenee.” I’m used to people leaving out my accent mark and, while I always notice, it usually doesn’t bother me. But she’s the one who gave me the name with the accent mark. She’s the one that sentenced me to a life of having to press “Alt 1-3-0″ every time I type my name (and on my laptop, I have to press “fn” and “num lock” as well). All I’m asking is that my own Mama spell it right.
The bit on me contains all of five words and Mom probably thought she was safe from my ire. Unfortunately, those five words happen to be, “Jenee (right) & friend Carrie” on top of a picture of me posed very cozily with an old friend. Now, if I were to receive this card from someone, I’d probably think, “Hmmm… Jenée’s not married… she’s a comic…she’s always been pretty tough… the picture could have easily been cropped to just her face but it wasn’t so there must be a reason why her ‘friend’ was included in the family Christmas card. I guess this is her mom’s way of announcing Jenée’s a big dyke.” Not that there’s anything wrong with being a big dyke, I’ve just found that sort of marketing isn’t particularly effective for meeting men (well, lesbians definitely attract guys’ attention but can only hold it for maybe 5-10 minutes at a time).
On top of it all, it’s not even a good picture of me!
I didn’t say anything to Mom this time, mostly because I don’t think any of her friends have hot single sons who need to know the truth. But it sure would be nice if she’d give me final script approval in the future so the world could finally learn about my torrid affair with George Clooney and this cure for cancer that I found.
No Ho Ho Ho’s
This is the first Christmas I’ve missed with my nephews and I’m pretty bummed. The older one, Zach, and I always track Santa’s travels on the Norad website then leave cookies and carrots for Santa and his reindeer. I’m worried he won’t believe in Santa much longer because he’s closing in on the wise old age of five and has a lot of questions. Last year he wondered how big fat Santa gets down the chimney. This year Zach was anxious to sit on Santa’s lap at school but his dad refused to wait in line so he said they could head over to the mall and meet Santa. Most kids his age would accept that without question, but young Zachary Holmes turned on his light sabre and grilled Dad on how Santa could possibly be in two places at the same time. I’m sure later today Zach will notice the half-eaten cookies and carrots and immediately send them off for DNA testing.
With the stores already closed, I’m second-guessing some of my gift selections. In the past, shopping for my nephews was always a breeze. This year while cruising the kiddie aisles I struggled to find anything they don’t already have. What do you get the pre-schoolers who have everything? I ended up getting them soccer boppers even though the box says they’re for ages seven and up. I figured, how dangerous can they be? Then I told a friend about the gift and he said years ago his drunk dad and uncle brawled with soccer boppers and his uncle broke his dad’s nose. That really doesn’t tell me if soccer boppers are too dangerous for a two and four-year-old just that they probably shouldn’t be used while intoxicated. So instead of returning the gift, I think I’ll just add a breathalyzer to it.
For my parents, I purchased Sirius satellite radio for their car. I don’t think they’re big radio people but I know Dad will love all the sports coverage and Mom will enjoy the Martha Stewart channel. Plus, it sounds like they plan to make frequent trips to Arizona next year and after 40 years together, I’m sure they welcome anything other than conversation to pass the time. But I just saw a commercial for the Playboy channel and discovered it costs exactly the same per month as the satellite radio subscription. And I realized that after 40 years together, THAT’s probably what they’d welcome more than anything. However, my parents are the type who repeatedly comment on the last gift you gave them. I don’t think I could bear to hear them tell me how much they enjoyed Memoirs of a Gay Slut and The Liar, the Bitch and the Whore Probe. Satellite radio it shall be.
Maybe next year, I’ll save myself some trouble and give the present everybody can use: gift cards to the 99 cent store. Then my parents can tell me how much they love using their new shampoo and toothpaste and impress me with all the Spanish they learned in the process.
Impulse Buys
As I stood in line at Sav-on today, I browsed through the baskets leading to the cashier. They contained the usual items: batteries, candy, water, EPT Plus.
Huh? A home pregnancy test???
Yes, the brilliant minds at Sav-on determined that EPT Plus fits into the category of “impulse buy” (and/or “stocking stuffer”). Don’t they realize a pregnancy test is always the first item on the shopping list and never an afterthought? No woman gets in line, sees the boxes of EPT and says to herself, “Come to think of it, my belly’s getting quite large and I haven’t had my period in six months. Maybe I should buy this.”
A home pregnancy test is one of those items a person goes to the story specifically to buy, like Depends or Kaopectate. And nobody wants to pick up these products with a bunch of other shoppers watching. They want to find them on the middle shelf of an empty aisle so they can throw them in the basket quickly. Then they find wrapping paper, balloons, a card and a rubber chicken so it looks like some elaborate gag gift. At least, that’s what I’d do, because with my luck, I’d grab one of these items then run into some guy I’d been dating for only a week.
If they’re going to display a home pregnancy test as an impulse buy, the least they should do is fill another basket with condoms. That way, if any of the tests come back negative, maybe the store will get some repeat business from the ones who “learned their lesson.”
I’m tempted to return to the store and purchase 10 boxes of EPT. When the cashier shoots me the inevitable look, I’ll give her a wink and say, “Thanks for the reminder to load up before spring training begins. This could be my last year to nab a pro.”
My New Year’s w/ Rickles & Spelling
As I alluded to yesterday, one of the comps I got out of the Paris Hotel and Casino was two free nights room and a couple tickets to see Don Rickles on New Year’s Eve. I don’t recommend Vegas for New Year’s. The drive, which usually takes me a little more than three and a half hours took eight. I’m not exaggerating. The casinos hike their table minimums way up and close their doors to non-hotel guests. My friend and I actually had to play the “We know the pit boss” card to get into the Barbary Coast (it’s crappy but I love it there).
Back to Rickles. I brought a couple friends to Vegas but could only bring my partner in crime (or so I thought) Courtney to his show. We were delighted to find that our fourth row center seats were a couple rows better than the ones Aaron Spelling, Paramount Studios chief Sherry Lansing, Ernest Borgnine, Linda Thompson and a few other movers and shakers had. My friend had seen Rickles in Vegas before and promised he was awesome. He started out strong and then… plunk. I was a bit disappointed. Almost half of his hour-long show was singing and the response to much of his comedy material was somewhat tepid. But it was free, so I couldn’t complain.
When the show was over, the audience worked its way out and we noticed Rickles on the edge of the stage talking to some guests. Courtney and I decided to hang out a bit and see if we could meet him. Neither of us is the starstruck type so we probably had some delusional notion that he’d see us as two cute female comics and want to make us his prot?g? ‘s. Believe me, we wouldn’t cut into our gambling time just to meet some celebrity unless we thought he could help our careers. We stayed in our seats a little too long and by the time we got up to approach him, he’d left the stage.
We noticed all the VIP’s being led to a side door. I grabbed my friend and we jumped in line. She was nervous about being caught. I asked where her sense of adventure was and told her to just act like we belong. I figured what have we got to lose? The worst that could happen is they’d kick us out, which in itself would be a funny story. The best that could happen is we’d leave with development deals to star in the next bad Spelling vehicle.
She wasn’t thrilled with the idea but she went along and we made our way through the door (even the security at the Paris sucks). As we were all standing in a hallway waiting to squeeze into a small reception room, the Borgnines made small talk with us. Fucking Courtney panicked and blurted, “We must have gone through the wrong door. We shouldn’t be here.” I inflicted multiple mental stab wounds upon her. “We’re just a couple comics who wanted to meet Mr. Rickles.”
Tova Borgnine, who’s a close personal friend as opposed to a MySpace friend of Don Rickles sweetly said, “It won’t be a problem. Go on in and meet him.” Cool! I had my pass. I squeezed my way in (the room was seriously that small- conversation with the bigwigs was inevitable) and grabbed an appetizer and a glass of champagne (I had to look like I belonged there, right)? As I glanced around, I spotted Courtney, still standing in the hallway looking like a naughty puppy who’d pooped on the living room carpet. I motioned for her to get in there but she wouldn’t. I would have even been fine with her leaving altogether. As it was, I was totally embarrassed and couldn’t pretend like I belonged with her standing there like that so we escaped in a hurry. Instead of enjoying an intimate party with Hollywood’s elite, we braved the freezing strip to join the mob of revelers puking, pissing and passing out.
I’m still a little bitter about the whole incident but I guess I now have a story to tell Don Rickles if I ever do meet him.
I Was A Vegas Whale
I’ve been slacking a bit on my blog lately, but you know, the holidays. Actually the holidays have nothing to do with it, but it’s just such an easy excuse for everything. Late to meet someone? “Sorry, holiday traffic.” Want to cancel the meeting all together? “It’s a bad time- the holidays.” Want to eat something naughty? “Why not? It’s the holidays.” Pulled over by a cop? “Pleeeeeease?! It’s the holidays.”
Anyway, after I wrote my last blog, I remembered something lucky that happened to me. Well, I don’t think it would actually be considered luck but it was probably the only time I benefitted from other people’s incompetence.
About four years ago, I visited Vegas pretty regularly. I was receiving so many room comps I couldn’t use all of them. Then the Paris Hotel and Casino sent me some great ones (which I thought was odd because I’d only played there a couple times). The offers were amazing: two or three nights room, $100 slot comp, $100 food comp, VIP receptions with gifts and entry to million dollar prize tournaments (that cost around $2000 for others to enter). I didn’t question my new status, just took advantage of all I could. I participated in the black jack tournaments and even a six hour bingo tournament (naturally, I won nothing). This went on for several months.
One day I called to make reservations for an offer and the lady took some time processing the information. She came back on the line and said, “I’m looking at your play history and I’m wondering, what’s your average bet?”
I told her, “Oh, around 25 dollars.”
She said, “There’s been some sort of mistake. We have you rated at four thousand dollars a hand.”
My initial instinct told me to say, “Well, I start at 25 dollars and if I win the hand, I bump it up to four grand.” But I didn’t think she’d buy it.
She told me that she’d honor the room comp but I wouldn’t be able to participate in the tournament. Damn, the jig was up!
Needless to say, I was pretty surprised when I received more deals after that which, of course, I quickly scooped up. One of the offers included a couple days over New Year’s and tickets to see Don Rickles (where I was set to party with Rickles and Aaron Spelling- I gotta relay that story in my next blog).
I learned that the Paris’ incompetence extended beyond their player’s club. On one occasion, I was arriving late and called to have them hold my room. As I always do, I requested the closest room to the casino (I’m a gambler- I don’t have time for lengthy elevator rides and long hallways). Sure enough, they gave me almost the exact opposite: a junior suite one floor from the top. Most people wouldn’t be too disappointed with an error like that but since I probably only spent about two hours total in the room, I’d have preferred the Marlboro-scented housekeeping closet right off the casino floor.
But all good things must come to an end (at least for me). After a few months, I called to abuse another offer and I think I got the lady who caught the $4000 error the first time. This time she put a stop to the freebies for good and I’ve never heard from the Paris since. In an instant, my status dropped from Vegas whale to Vegas guppy. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.
Luck Be A Nene
I’m not a lucky person- never have been. If I’ve ever won anything, it was so insignificant that I can’t even recall what it was. I’ve never won a raffle, even when the odds were heavily stacked in my favor. I’ve never hit a decent slot machine payout on the first pull. If I pick heads, it’s tails. If I shoot rock, someone else shoots paper. I’m always “miny” instead of “mo.” Publisher’s Clearinghouse doesn’t even bother to send me their annual letter. If they did, it would probably say, “You might already be a winner…oh who are we kidding?”
When I play craps, the dealer always yells, “Lady shooter coming out” and all the guys at the table bump up their bets because of the “lucky lady.” I’ll usually roll two or three numbers, just enough so that the other players have money committed all over the board, then I seven out. Everybody gives me this look of disgust as if I’d promised them millions.
A couple years ago, I was snowboarding, hit an icy patch and skidded out of control about 50 yards and was finally able to stop at the edge of a big drop (the ski resort’s protection from the plunge? A thin rope bearing bright orange flags). A skiier who witnessed my descent came over and asked if I was okay. He looked at what could have been then declared, “Looks like today’s your lucky day.” Man that sucks. On everybody else’s lucky day they happen to be in the right place at the right time to win a car or meet Mr. Perfect or land their dream job. On my lucky day, I don’t die. That doesn’t seem quite fair.
I’ve had to work for everything I’ve ever had (which, admittedly, isn’t much). No free rides for me. The closest I’ve ever come to someone handing something to me was a few years into my comedy career when a very successful Las Vegas producer saw me perform at the Laugh Factory and indicated a strong interest in building a show around me and my standup. We had several discussions about the nature of the show when he mentioned getting a tie-in with Playboy. What?? Turns out he was thinking about a topless revue (I wonder if I should have taken that as an insult toward my comedy skills). No, I didn’t take the offer but THAT’s the sort of opportunity I get handed.
The fact that I’m able to make a living at poker, a field where luck can be so helpful, is unbelievable to me. Either I’m a phenomenal player or I’m playing people who really suck. It’s poker that made me realize how truly unlucky I am. I’m amazed at how often my opponents defy huge mathematical odds to catch the one or two miracle cards that beat me. If I had to guess, I would say that when I have the dominating hand, it holds up about 50% of the time but when my opponents have the dominating hand, it holds up about 80% of the time (and I’m probably only scoring that 20% against people who are even unluckier than I am). I won’t explain how I can have those kinds of stats and still win, but if you know poker you understand. I have to work for all my wins.
I’m not complaining or feeling sorry for myself, mostly because I have this irrational belief that since I haven’t had any luck in the past, I’ll catch it in a big way in the future. Then again, with my luck, it will probably be something like herpes that I catch in a big way.
Blog Updates
I thought some of the regular readers might want updates on past blogs…
Arrested Development: The word today is that ABC and Showtime are interested in buying the show (if Fox ever officially cancels it). There IS hope!!!
Kazakhstani journalist Borat Sagdiyev: After the country of Kaz threatened to sue Sascha Baron Cohen (Da Ali G Show), he posted the following statements on his Borat character’s website:
I like to state I have no connection with Mr. Cohen and fully support my government’s decision to sue this Jew.
Since the 2003 reforms, Kazakhstan is as civilized as any other country in the world. Women can now travel on inside of bus, homosexuals no longer have to wear blue hats and age of consent has been raised to 8 years old.
Please, captain of industry, I invite you to come to Kazakhstan, where we have incredible natural resources, hard-working labor and some of the cleanest prostitutes in all of central Asia. Goodbye.”
Kaz has retaliated by shutting down his .kz website address. I think I’m falling in love with Cohen and I want to thank the Kaz government for all the publicity that will surely make his upcoming Borat movie a huge success.
The disappearing mole: It appears to be growing back, but it’s about an inch to the left. What the hell’s going on????
Stanley “Tookie” Williams executed: Now maybe all those celebrities can use their free time to help people who haven’t murdered anybody.
I have 3 friends on MySpace: I just checked in on my MySpace page and a guy I barely know asked me to be on his friends list. The only way he could have found me was by sifting through Doug’s 6500 friends. How could I say “no” after all that trouble? Oh, and Green Day finally accepted me. I know I said I’d remove them but that’s the sort of thing one says when they think they’ve been rejected.
New musical obsession: Well, it’s a new musical interest anyway. But the fact that I haven’t heard one Green Day song in over a week should please anybody who’s concerned about me. Last week I watched Saturday Night Live for the first time in ages because a comic I know (Dane Cook) was hosting. It’s a huge accomplishment to achieve this level of success because of his standup and not because he’s a big movie or tv star. Anyway, his monologue was great but the rest of the show was horribly unfunny (the writers should be embarrassed).
I was fast forwarding through the musical guest I’d never heard of (James Blunt) and there was something about his expressions, even in high speed, that made me want to hear a few notes. I liked him instantly. He had this really interesting sound and performed the sort of ballads that make you want to write the movie scene around the song. I’ve been enjoying his album “Back to Bedlam” ever since. The way I’d been rocking out to “St. Jimmy” lately, other LA drivers should thank Mr. Blunt for my musical switch.
I discovered something interesting about him: I checked out his website to see if he was going to be performing in LA (missed him at the Wiltern in November) and in his bio I read that he was a captain in the British army and was stationed in Pristina, Kosovo at the same time I performed there (all the other bases I worked were US military but Pristina is NATO). Makes me wonder if he saw me perform and wrote the song “You’re Beautiful” for me (hee hee…and I really and truly believe Green Day are my friends).
Profanity hang ups: I was speaking with a customer service rep. the other day when she said, “You will have to keep this conversation professional or I’ll discontinue the call.”
I wasn’t yelling or anything so I had to ask, “What exactly hasn’t been professional?”
She said, “Your use of profanity.”
“You mean the word ‘jackass’?” I asked.
She told me that if I said it again she’d hang up on me. I would understand if I’d called her a jackass, but what I said was that “I look like a jackass” because of a policy of theirs that isn’t published on their website. Regardless, who considers “jackass” to be profanity anyway? All the really bad words can be identified by their first letter and I’ve never heard anybody refer to “the j word.”
I suddenly switched from jackass mode to smartass mode. “You gotta be kidding me.” She had an accent so I asked, “What country are you in that I can’t say that word?”
“I’m in Florida.” Of course. They’re ALL in Florida these days.
I responded, “If I’m not allowed to use words that the FCC has determined to be permissible on the public airwaves, how am I supposed to know what words I’m allowed to use with you? Is there a list on your website where I can find what words are and aren’t acceptable?”
She hung up.
Ninety percent of the calls I make to companies are preceded with the message, “This call may be recorded for quality control purposes.” Naturally, this wasn’t one of them. I called back hoping to get her again because this time I wanted to call HER a jackass but I got someone else. I started to explain the situation to the next rep. but she too threatened to hang up.
What can I say? People are idiots.
Just Jenée
When I started out in standup, I used my first and last names on stage. Then I had a few incidents with creepy guys that made me think I shouldn’t. So I figured until I hear about another Jenée in the business, one name will do. Kinda like Madonna or Cher or God.
Over the years, when people have asked what my last name is, I’ve declined to tell them. Not because it’s a big secret but because people always say, “You won’t tell me? Whatever, I really don’t care.” And then they go to great lengths to try and find out what it is. So I withhold the information out of sheer amusement.
A comic I play poker with kept harping on about it until one night another guy said it was “Minkman.” I have no idea where he came up with that but I found it interesting because my grandfather was a furrier. For the next year, everybody in the game referred to me as “Minkman” before the first guy finally learned that wasn’t my real name.
One time at a friend’s party, a different guy was going crazy because I wouldn’t tell him my name- he was borderline hostile. A little while later, my friend Courtney pulls me aside and says, “Listen, the guy was really harassing me so I told him your name. Don’t be mad at me, you’ll probably never see him again.” Well, I was a bit annoyed because it wasn’t her business to tell him when she knew I didn’t want him to know.
Sure enough, the guy comes over to me and he can’t contain this newfound knowledge. He starts dropping hints about knowing my name. But I didn’t get what he was talking about. Pretty soon he says, “Dachau…Dachau…” I still didn’t get it. Finally he says, “Look, I know. It’s cool, she told me you’re sensitive about having the last name Auschwitz.”
Apparently he didn’t notice the beer spew out of every orifice in my head or the fact that I was doubled over in laughter, because he refused to believe me when I said that wasn’t my name. Auschwitz?! HA HA HA!
Since Auschwitz doesn’t quite suit me, I’m sticking to one name for now but if I ever do use a last name on stage it will probably be “Sequoi.” Doesn’t that have a catchy ring to it? Jenée Sequoi. I figure people would see me perform and think, “That girl has a certain…..something. I don’t know what.”
Common Sense Law
Regular readers may have gathered that I watch a lot of tv. The reason being that I spend half my day “working” Internet poker (“playing” makes it sound like it’s all fun and games, which it sometimes isn’t). I usually have four or five tables going at once and that still isn’t enough to hold my attention so watching the tube is the only other activity I can enjoy at the same time. Lots of people like to say, “TV kills your brain cells.” That’s probably a good thing. I think losing a few IQ points would make others less sufferable.
I rag on idiots all the time here, but the fact is, I’m jealous of them. If I had my choice to start all over, I’d come back as a raging moron. Stupid people are too stupid to realize how lucky they’ve got it. Idiots don’t flinch when people butcher the English language, they don’t shake in frustration when others can’t follow simple instructions, and they don’t look around for sharp aerodynamic objects when the cashier for a long line has to stop all movement every time her mouth opens (which is frequently). Jessica Simpson’s got it better than anybody on the planet. She’s a stupid girl surrounded by smart people who make all the important decisions for her. THAT is the good life.
I don’t think it’s fair that the imbeciles have it so easy while the rest of us must suffer. That’s why, when I’m president (I don’t think I’ve mentioned it here, but I’m going to be President of the U.S. someday), I plan to implement a policy that will make cohabitation with idiots more tolerable. I call the policy The Common Sense Act.
Here’s how it works: every citizen would be required to declare themselves as either CSR (Common Sense Ready) or ASS (All Simple Senses). Naturally, there are pros and cons to each. Life won’t change too drastically for the CSR, but it will for the ASS. Since the ASS need to be easily identifiable to the rest of us, they will be required to wear the official ASS hot pink fanny pack at all times. In addition, their vehicle must be outfitted with the hot pink ASS bumper. Not a sticker, a bumper.
CSR will be required to cut ASS some slack on stupid actions. For instance, if you’re behind an ASS who’s driving too slow in the fast lane, you can not honk at them but will have to go around (unless you too are an ASS, in which case you are allowed to honk continuously until you inevitably crash into the other car). ASS are permitted to send emails with the subject, “Fwd: Fwd: Fwd: Fwd: Horse sex video.” CSR have a one “Fwd” maximum and must use the BCC option for all recipients. ASS are allowed to remain in physically/verbally/mentally abusive relationships. CSR have one month to get out.
Right now, being an ASS probably sounds pretty good, but there are some drawbacks. For example, if an ASS goes to a restaurant and orders a 16 oz filet mignon, the waiter would see the fanny pack and could decide to bring the ASS an 8 oz pork loin instead. In all likelihood, the ASS won’t notice the difference, but if she does, she can only complain and/or get her order fixed if she can give a good estimate of how much 8 oz is and if she can correctly name which animals each cut of meat comes from (if she pronouned the “g” in “mignon” when ordering, there’s no second chance and she’ll have to eat whatever she gets). Basically, there’s no punishment for a CSR taking advantage of an ASS but the CSR must resolve the situation if the ASS figures out the scam.
So that gives you an idea of how Common Sense law would work. But being categorized as CSR is a privillege that can easily be revoked. The punishments for a CSR exemplifying ASS behavior are as follows:
You will be eligible for reevaluation each year, except in extreme cases (like Anna Nicole Smith) who are eligible for reevaluation one year after the first witnessed incident of any sort of CSR behavior. I truly believe this will encourage people to use common sense on a regular basis. Those who choose not to, will be at the mercy of the CSR.
Don’t forget, vote “yes” on the Common Sense Act.
Brilliant Developments
For the last month or so, I’ve been saying my prayers for the brilliant Arrested Development to live on. Today I was given a glimmer of hope with this news snippet:
Producer Brian Grazer told CNN last week that he is working feverishly to move the sitcom to another home.
“I think we’ll get picked up by some other network, possibly,” he said. “You never know. I can’t tell you anything other than I’m hoping it works out in the way that we want it to. But I’m optimistic.”
PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE!!! If this happens, I might actually start believing in a higher power (which, of course, would be the network executive who buys it). NBC needs to jump at this opportunity. They’ve already made their smartest decision in years by moving The Office and My Name is Earl to Thursdays. Put those together with Scrubs and Arrested Development and “Must See TV” would be back in business! Or maybe they could give it a new spin and call it “Laugh Track Free Must See TV.” It’s such a smart idea I’m sure nobody with any power will think of it. I’ve received two letters and three comments of condolensces from friends who are fellow Arrested fans, but I’m not giving up hope until it’s officially dead. Then again, I still have hope that Seinfeld‘s coming back (they said, “One year…”).
***************************************
I’ve noticed I’ve thrown out the word “brilliant” several times in my blogs and in all honesty, it’s not a term I use lightly. So here’s a list of people and artistic endeavors I consider “brilliant.” I’ll probably update this as others occur to me:
Seinfeld (the barometer for brilliance)
Arrested Development
Cheers
The X-Files (quite a distinction since I usually can’t stand science fiction)
Lost
“Calvin and Hobbes”
“The Far Side”
Late comedian Mitch Hedberg (truly one of a kind)
Billy Joel
Green Day, particularly their album American Idiot (surprise, surprise)
American Beauty
Trainspotting
Author Michael Crichton
Oprah Winfrey (fat, black, female abuse survivor becomes one of the richest and most powerful women in the world and uses that power and wealth to help others? Heck yeah that’s brilliant).
Me
Eat Junk, Lose Weight!
I read a news article yesterday that makes me think I missed my bestseller opportunity. A science professor has introduced a no-diet diet he calls “intuitive eating.” Basically, he says that if you only eat when you’re hungry and don’t eat to the point of fullness, you can eat whatever you want. He used this approach to lose 50 pounds and keep it off for five years.
I’m telling you…It’s true!
I struggled with my weight most of my life. I was never fat or even chubby, just heavy enough to get the “You have a pretty face” compliments while my friends were off winning bikini contests. I tried all the diets and constantly fretted about my size. I spent way too much time thinking about food- when I’d have it and what I’d have.
Finally, about eight years ago I lost 30 pounds through calorie-counting and exercise. Soon after, I was on the road for an extended period and had little choice but to eat a lot of fast food and other processed crap-in-a-can. When I returned, I was scared to death of how much weight I’d gained and was completely surprised I hadn’t gained any. I thought about all those skinny friends who ate whatever they wanted and never put on a pound and decided to maintain a similar diet and see what happens. My weight has barely fluctuated since.
While I don’t chow on junk food every day, if I crave something, I eat it- but not nearly as much as I used to. I’ve rid myself of the “eat everything on your plate” mentality my parents pummeled into my head as a child. Take my Thanksgiving Jack-in-the-Box feast: ten years ago, I could have and would have finished the whole meal in one sitting. Now, I can only finish the sandwich and have to eat the side later. That’s all I ate for the day- and not for any caloric reasons, I just wasn’t hungry for more. I don’t eat at pre-determined times, just when I’m hungry, so there’s no snacking between meals. I completely agree with the scientist’s explanation that, “Having an overabundance of what’s taboo helps me lose my desire to gorge.”
Last year, I finally gave up the Diet Cokes bartenders around town had become accustomed to pouring for me and switched to the hard stuff. You know what? It’s almost completely curbed my sweet tooth (well, with a little help from french vanilla cappuccinos). I rarely indulge in any other goodies- I didn’t even try the cake at my brother’s recent wedding. Say what you want about drinking Coke, it’s certainly better than scarfing down cookies.
I’m sure skeptics will want to argue that eating this and not eating that is unhealthy. Maybe it is. All I know is that in the last eight years, the only illness I’ve suffered was a quick bout of tonsillitis. When I’ve caught colds, they’ve been minor and only lasted about a day. The flu? I don’t even remember what that’s like.
There’s still a part of me that worries if I don’t switch back to broiled chicken breasts and steamed veggies every night, I’m going to suddenly wake up looking like Violet Beauregard after she chewed the tainted gum in Willy Wonka. But I’m sure I’ll notice if I start gaining weight and will adjust my diet accordingly. At the very least, I think I’ve moved past the psychological dependence on food and will be more successful at losing the weight than I was years ago.
I don’t know if this particular diet method is effective for everybody, but it’s certainly worth checking out: intuitive eating
Thou Shall Not Lie (If You’re Bad At It)
I had lunch with Dad yesterday and he mentioned he had to pick Mom up from the hospital later in the afternoon.
“Mom’s in the hospital?” I asked.
He answered, “Oh, thought I told everybody. She’s been in since we got back from our trip.”
Nice to know how easily I’m forgotten in the information loop. It reminds me of the Curb Your Enthusiasm episode where Larry’s mom died and nobody notified him because they didn’t want to ruin his trip to New York. Then they told him how great the funeral was! Hilarious. Whether Dad not telling me was accidental or intentional, I really can’t blame him. The last time Mom was in the hospital I didn’t know about it for several days because I never checked my phone messages (I hate the phone that much).
Anyway, when the folks left China, Mom was sick but didn’t tell the authorities because she and Dad didn’t want to get stuck over there. As soon as they returned, she went to the doctor, barely said the word “China” then was wrapped in a face mask and sent to another hospital to test for Bird Flu (“They haven’t heard a peep from her,” was Dad’s contribution). Looks like she’s fine.
I was shocked by my parents’ dishonesty. They are the most honest people I’ve ever encountered- honest to a fault. They’re the type who would turn me in if they knew I’d done something wrong. Maybe these weren’t the best circumstances for them to begin a life of deceit, but I was sort of proud of them. Frankly, I think lying has gotten too bad of a rap. Not that I condone lying, but at the same time, I don’t think it’s inherently bad the way religions have made it out to be. There are times when DIShonesty is the best policy. Like when a little child can’t sleep because she’s afraid somebody will break into the house and kill her. Do you tell her, “Well, it’s a possibility and it does seem to happen quite a bit, but it hasn’t happened in this neighborhood yet, so you’re probably safe?” No, you tell her it could never ever happen so that she can have some peace of mind. Let’s face it, if she ever finds out you lied, she probably won’t be able to call you on it.
Right now my sister is utilizing the most effective lie ever created to incite good behavior in other human beings: the ‘ol “Santa doesn’t bring gifts to kids who act up” lie. Pure genius! For a few glorious weeks, kids around the world do their homework and chores, they don’t try to kill their siblings and they don’t backtalk their parents. All out of the fear they won’t get Christmas presents. Life in the month of December is the closest we’ll ever get to Utopia. Don’t tell me that particular fib’s a bad thing.
But I wonder how Christians rationalize the whole Santa lie. I know they do because the lines to sit on Santa’s lap are way too long to all be atheists. As far as I know, there aren’t any clauses in the Ten Commandments to allow for little white lies. Perhaps it’s because there wasn’t enough room on the tablet to explain special circumstances or maybe it’s because its dictates were set in stone (hey, is that where that expression comes from)? I just don’t understand how people can subscribe to a particular religion with its plethora of rules when they can’t even abide by the top ten list. It’s the reason I want to smack people who list “honesty” as one of the most important traits in themselves and in others. They’re so full of shit.
I’ve told my share of lies over the years- mostly to the CHP- sometimes to protect others and sometimes to save my own ass. But I think my track record’s been pretty good as far as dishonesty not adversely affecting anybody else. I don’t need to follow the Ten Commandments when the Golden Rule sums it all up without all those unreasonable specifics.
You Look Familiar. Have We Met?
The face transplant performed yesterday fascinates me. I’m anxious to see if one person’s facial features will look similar when placed on another person’s bone structure. Consider the ramifications if it does. Would people be willing to donate their face when they die? I’m sure there would be plenty of people anxious to receive a dead hottie’s face. “Fuglies” could be added to UNOS to await a transplant. When donors become available, the recipients would debate who got the better organs. Sure, hearts and kidneys save lives but great faces improve lives.
In a matter of time, doctors might get it down to an outpatient procedure and everybody would be doing it. Right now it’s surprising when a friend suddenly shows up one day with enormous breasts. Imagine if she showed up with all new facial features (and still tried to convince everybody “of course they’re real”). I guess, technically, that would be the truth. The supermodels of the world would be in constant fear for their lives and might actually see turning 30 as a relief. If this technology had been available in the past, Elvis would never be completely dead. And the news reports when Princess Diana died may have sounded very different: “Last night, the princess died in an automobile accident. Unfortunately, her face could not be saved.” Movie stars who die young could still enjoy a lengthy career. Angelina Jolie could die tomorrow and the next day her face would be available to the highest bidder on eBay (with shipping and her agent’s phone number included).
I do think facial transplants are a great idea for people whose faces have been severely mutilated, but I hope they never become available to the masses. If they do, Angelina’s face would probably end up on Joan Rivers’ shriveled old body. And nobody wants to see that.
