Friday, December 13, 2013

All The World's a Comedy Club

Back in the '70's (remember those?  No, you don't, you're too young, fuck you), Lily Tomlin had a television special.  It was great, and my favorite sketch was a birthday party, where all the kids were clowns and Lily's parents hired an accountant as entertainment. (Pause as you attempt to YouTube said sketch.)
Welcome to my world.
I view the entire world as a potential joke. It very rarely fails to disappoint me.  Even when I'm residing in the Pit of Despair (I wouldn't recommend it as a vacation spot, the food sucks), I usually come up with some bizarre take on the situation that makes me laugh.  I was born with this....what, impediment?  gift?  defect?  freakish chromesomal abnormality? but it wasn't till I hit Extreme Adulthood (also not the best vacation destination) that I became proud of it. 
Between the ages of 9 and 14, a bunch of obscure relatives I had never met died.  My parents made my sister and me go to the visitations, despite our strong protestations.  They were Family and it did not matter that I was on more intimate terms with our mailman (not in that way!!) than the deceased, you had to show up at the funeral home. It was the Done Thing.  My parents were Republican. (Which is why I wasn't allowed to go to my mailman's funeral.)
So, my sister and I would find a couple of out-of-the-way chairs and play what we called, "My Aunt Harriet Died Last Week."  (For the record, we did not have an Aunt Harriet.)  One of us would start the conversation by saying, "My Aunt Harriet died last week.", and then we would just improvise a sketch till our parents said it was time to go home.  We didn't know what improvisation or sketch comedy was,  we didn't even think we were being particularly clever (thinking you were clever was Not the Done Thing), we were just trying to kill time in a funeral home.  (Thank you, I'll be here all week.  Try the veal.) 
That's how my brain works.  Luckily, I have managed to find a community of people whose brains also work this way.  We're kind of like a leper colony, only not contagious and better looking.  It's very comforting to know that if you see something that strikes you as funny, you can message/text/actually pick up a phone and call one of your fellow Funnylepers and they will appreciate the humor.  I have tried pointing out the humor in stuff to Civilians but they treat me like I'm Robert the Bruce's father.  (If you haven't seen Braveheart, you won't get that and will thereby prove my point.  Thank you.)
When I was a kid, I was in awe of all comedians and I thought there was some Special Magic Funny Fairy Dust that grew in LA and New York that made them funny.  But, luckily, the joke's on me.
P.S.  I don't think chromesomal is an actual word, but it's fun to say, so I left it in.  Fuck the Done Thing.

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

A Holiday Greeting, Debstyle

Once upon a time, there was a man who ruled the world.  He was all powerful and everyone revered him.  He could be loving and generous, but he could also be mean and vengeful, you simply had to follow his rules.  Some of these rules didn't make a lot of sense to his subjects, but they followed them, partially because they wanted the man to love them, but also because they didn't want to suffer the consequences.  It was the way of the world.
After a while, the man started to get the feeling that all the people didn't really love him, as much as feared him.  He was surprised and hurt by this and decided he would come up with a plan that would prove to his people that he was a kind, forgiving man who truly believed that love was the most important thing there is. 
The plan he came up with was this:  Rape a virgin and impregnate her.  Then, when the child was grown, have him tortured and murdered.  Then, then, people would truly realize how kind and loving he was. 

And, Holy Fuck, the plan worked. 
Of course, that's just one interpretation of the story.  But it explains why I just can't buy into the whole religion thing.  Because I really do believe that love is the most important thing there is.  And that you should treat other people the way you want to be treated.  Of course, being human, I don't always act in a loving way or take the time to think, "Would I want someone to do this to me?"  But I do take solace in the fact that none of us are perfect.  We all make mistakes; sometimes we learn from them, sometimes we don't.    What doesn't make me feel any better is to think that there is an infallible being out there who never fucks up.  It just makes me feel guilty.  Thanks, Sister Mary Elizabeth. 
My spritual beliefs are always in a state of ebb and flow. I don't think I could ever put them in a permanent form.   And I really envy those who can adhere to an ancient  dogma and feel totally comfortable with it.  There was a time I pretended to do that.  But I'm on the downhill slide of life and my "Truly Don't Give A Shit" hormone is kicking in pretty strong.
However, the Aged Hippie in me still wants to grab humanity by the scruff of the neck and shake them till their eyes rattle while screaming, "LOVE EACH OTHER, you fucking assholes!  LOVE EACH OTHER!!!"
Merry Christmas.


Wednesday, December 4, 2013

I've Written About Writing Before, But Hopefully You Won't Remember

Everyone has issues they have to deal with.  I don't mean like taking out the garbage issues, or doing housework issues or learning lines issues (none of which I have ever dealt with, by the way).  I mean deep-down, life-long, holy crap kind of issues. 
I will not bore you with what my issues are, because I'm not paying you $120/hour to listen to me kvetch.  Also, I adhere to the following truism:
My shit is my shit and no one gives a shit about my shit.  (It's kind of the adult version of I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream.)
But we also all have Certain Things that help us cope with our Shit Issues.  Excluding the escapist therapies, like alcohol, tobacco and ice cream, we all have something we do that takes us out of ourselves long enough to emotionally breathe. 
One of my Certain Things is acting.  Duh.  But writing is another.  I get into a  zone when I'm writing that pushes my Shit Issues to the back of my psyche.  It's nice.
"So, Deb," you say, stroking your mustache and adjusting your toupee, "I guess this means you write on a fairly regular basis, heh?"  (I don't know why I assume you all have mustaches, toupees and end sentences with "heh".  I could be wrong about this.)  But to answer your question, dear
I would love to write more.  Okay, I tell myself I would love to write more.  But the truth is, instead of writing, I tend to fuck off.  The idea of writing everyday makes me flummoxed and antsy with a side of heebie-jeebies.  That is not nice.
"Discipline!", you cry, tapping your pipe on the ashtray, "Discipline, Debala!!"  "Fuck you, mustachioed, toupeed, pipe-smoker!", I retort.  Discipline is all well and good but some days I don't have anything to say that's worth writing down.  Or even worth verbally expressing, for that matter.  So, discipline or not, unless I'm creating instruction manuals for space heaters, daily writing ain't gonna happen.
I have no answer for this conundrum or really any idea why I felt led to share this with you.  I guess it's just one of those days where the Shit Issues are looming and the only thing to chase them away is a little literary ice cream.  

Friday, November 15, 2013

On the Job

I have posted before about the weird job titles I see on employment websites.  This week I saw one of the best ever:  Event Coordinator for the Edge of Chaos. 

Doesn't that sound cool?  It actually looks like a job only a Q would be qualified for, but still, the mind boggles.  Of course, the description was much more mundane and involved budgeting and Excel spreadsheets and boring shit of that nature. But props for creativity in the title.
Also, this week  one of my friends posted on the FB what his dream job would be.  I used to say that my dream job would be working in a repertory company, but I kind of feel right now that I am, doing three shows in a row. 
I think I have gone past the age of having a dream job.  I'll have to keep working till I drop dead, no retirement for me, but I'm okay with slogging away at an 8:00-5:00.  I am pretty content with my life as it is now and the idea of having a job that I actually care about makes me feel weary.  I only have so much emotional energy and that is currently being taken up by kids, friends, cats and theatre.  It's rather relaxing to come to a stuffy, pretentious office everyday and not give a flying fuck.  Also, I can learn lines.
I hate to pay the shoulda-woulda-coulda game, but I suppose if I had thought it through when I was younger (something I'm still not very good at doing) I might have chosen something that would have put me on a "career path".  But I am so much more of a "close-my-eyes-and-see-where-today-leads-me path" type of gal, I can't imagine I ever would have been successful at the aforementioned hypothetical career.  
Although, if I were a member of the Q Continuim, I would definitely apply to be the Event Coordinator for the Edge of Chaos. 

Monday, October 21, 2013

Career Ghouls

Once upon a time, I thought I needed a career change, so I decided to sell real estate.  I did not think this through.  (If I could Not Think Things Through for a living I'd be a millionaire, I'm very good at it.)  So I went to school at night and passed the test the first time (Yay!) and joined a local real estate firm. The open houses on Tuesday were lots of fun.  You got to walk through a bunch of houses that had just been listed.  Although, truthfully, after you had gone through 4 or 5  Mt. Brook houses, they all started to look alike.  Which is probably a quasi-racist statement, but nonetheless true. 
I soon discovered that I hate selling things.  Again, if I had Thought Things Through before I started this quest, I would have realized that already.  When I go in a store, I hate  salespeople to come up to me.  I actually hate people anywhere to come up to me.  It makes me anxious and I start assuming I've done something wrong, because that tends to be my fallback position in life.  I apologize for everything and to everything.  If I bump into a chair, I apologize to it.  Sometimes, the first thing I do when I wake up in the morning is yell, "I'm sorry" to the empty apartment.   I'm a firm believer in being proactive. 
Anyroad, miracle of miracles, I did sell one house.  But I felt guilty (my second fallback position) for selling it to the couple because although the owner fixed some water damage, I knew they were in for more, having owned a house that fell apart from water damage.  I had no hard evidence that this would happen, just a general feeling that it probably would.  I really wanted to say something to them, because I have this thing about being honest.  Call me crazy.  But my supervisor said that legally I couldn't advise clients based on my Irish Sense of Foreboding,  so I got through closing, handed the poor young fools their keys and said, "Sorry."
My real estate "career" lasted about six months, the last two of which I spent mostly in tears and tummy pains.  My then-husband was not teaching that summer and we decided to take an extended cross-country family road trip, so I took that opportunity to quit real estate.  I also made my children swear a solemn vow that if I ever talked about going into sales again, they were to take me out to the back yard and shoot me.  They could bury me between the cat and the guinea pig. 
I guess I tried sales in the first place because I vaguely thought if I could get on stage and convince an audience I'm someone I'm not, I could convince people to buy things they don't need.   One of these things is not like the other.  Besides, and I swear this is the last time I'll say this-- AGAIN, if I had Thought Things Through, I would remember the fact that I am, like many actors, an intense introvert.  People scare the crap out of me, cause they talk to you and stuff, and expect you to talk to them back.  Don't they know I'll say the wrong thing?  Why do they put me through such torture??  In sort of the words of that Senator that finally brought down Joe McCarthy, have they no shame???  No, they don't.  They're people.   And people are scary.  Yeah, sales is a bad idea for me.
Unless I could sell to animals.  Or chairs.  As long as I don't bump into them.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

A Shortie with Bizarre Wizard of Oz References

One of the many ways I while away the hours (other than conferring with the flowers, of course) is to look at employment websites.  Because I am SURE that one day I will see a job posting for a hot, 60's+ actress in Birmingham with a starting salary of $60,000.  But in the meantime, I get a kick out of some of the job titles that are listed.  Below are a few of today's favorites, followed by my commentary.
Fulfillment Technician - Duh, that's a hooker.
Lay Away Runner - They escort the client out after the Fulfillment Technician is done.
Nightlife Brand Ambassador - I could *so* do this, as long as the Nightlife Brand was Rojo.
Hardlines Merchandiser - John Boehner.
Entry Level Pharmaceutical Sales Rep- I have many friends who already do this.

Fireman & Oiler - This is code for the Personal Assistants to the Scarecrow and the Tin Man.

Thursday, October 3, 2013

Yet Another Continuation of Today's Posts

Okay, I'm just going to ignore the blatant, idiotic racism of my co-worker's statement this morning.  It's not worth dignifying with my typage.
But I would like to address the issue of her being scared someone is going to hide behind the foot-wide metal posts and leap out and mug her.  At 4:45 in the afternoon.  I have another co-worker who walks all the way down to Boutwell at 4:30 and moves her car to the parking lot in my building, because after 4:30, you can park here for free.  She does this because (she says) when she leaves work at 6:00, there are evil, menacing crackheads lurking in Linn Park, ready to pounce on her.
Yes, I have seen homeless people in Linn Park (black and white).  Sometimes they say hello to me.  I say hello back.  Sometimes they ask me for a cigarette.  I give them one.  
When I go to hang  out with friends, I go wherever I'm going by myself and leave wherever I've been by myself. Most of these locations are downtown or Southside.  The leaving part often happens at a late hour. At least later than 4:45 or 6:00 p.m. Sometimes, I have friends who walk me, but a lot of the time, I hoof it solo.  And I'm not quaking in my boots, or looking around nervously, I'm just walkingthefucktomycar. 
So, newsflash, lady who feels inconvenienced by the memorials of the Civil Rights Movement.  Your racism ends up scaring the shit out of yourself, nobody else.  You think that every black person on the street is "out to get you" because of your antique, racist attitude, not because it's true.  I am proud of Birmingham for honoring Fred Shuttlesworth with these markers by Linn Park.  I am proud of our city for acknowledging our shameful past and celebrating how far we have advanced.
Although, obviously, as Little White Scaredy Pants has shown us, we have a long way to go.

Friday, September 20, 2013

*insert clever title here*

Well, it's Friday afternoon, which means I have reached my Maximum Level of Boredom Tolerance.  So, even though I don't have anything particularly profound to say, I thought I'd get my blog on and do another one of my useless but supposedly charming lists. 
The topic for today is:
                                                Things That Annoy/Delight Me
I'm kinda going for a ying/yang thing here; for every annoyance, I hope to provide a suitable delight.  I'm not real optimistic about being able to do this for every item, but here goes....
I am annoyed by the overwhelming trend of young girls (say, 14-25) to talk in this airheadish, nasally twang, with all of their sentences ending in an upward inflection.  It doesn't matter what region of the country they come from and maybe the media just goes out of its way to pick idiots for soundbites, but it seems to be an epidemic.  These young women could be candidates for the Noble Prize in Physics but when they open their mouths I assume they have the IQ of a Schnauzer.  (No offense to Schnauzers.)
I am delighted by the number of enlightened, intelligent young people going to/appreciating live theatre.  Let's make *this* an epidemic. 
I am annoyed by the absurd political polarization in this country.  I get the feeling I'm not alone in feeling this, and yet no one seems capable of doing anything about it.  The public opinion of Congress has been nosediving for years, it's become a national joke.  Except that we're all paying these assholes' salaries, which is not funny.  If you were paying someone to clean your house (This is one of my dreams, by the way.  I wish I had enough money to pay someone to clean my apartment every couple of weeks.  I bet those fucking Congressmen have people cleaning their houses....) and after a while, instead of cleaning your house, the CP (Cleaning Person) made your house messier, and never took responsibility for it, and kept blaming the cat, you would fire the cleaning person. I realize that government is much more complicated that house cleaning (not to me, housecleaning is advanced calculus to me) but maybe we could hire someone to make it less complicated and hateful.
I enjoy visiting our Nation's Capital because the buildings are pretty and my children live there and I love them.  Sorry, that's the best delight I could counter with.
I am annoyed that science hasn't made our lives all unicorns and rainbows by now.  Over 40 years ago we managed to put people on the moon and bring them back; proving something important, we haven't figured out what yet.  You can't even boast that the space program gave us Tang anymore, because who the fuck drinks Tang?  Anyroad, if we can do that, why are we still working crappy jobs for not enough money?  Where are the moving sidewalks and disposable clothes and flying cars I was promised in my youth? Why does time still move ten times slower on Friday afternoons?   How are we supposed to make it to the 24th Century where hot starship captains tell us there is no need for currency if it costs $300 to get an iPhone in the 21st Century?  Why is no one working on this???? 
I found the Apollo 13 movie with Tom Hanks delightful. 
Okay, this isn't going very well.  I apologize for the increasing rantiness of this blog.  I really do have many delightful times and find a bunch of things delightful, but I guess my delight biorhythms are pretty low on Friday afternoons.  I'll try again Saturday night at 12:30.  I'm usually pretty delightful by then.

Friday, September 13, 2013

Working Through It

So I have already posted this morning about having to deal with a bunch of attorneys who don't realize that "second floor" means "two".  Or how to get from the seventh floor to the second.  These are attorneys.  Not cats, ATTORNEYS. 
But the following is my favorite part of the morning. 
We have two Major Asshole Attorneys.  Neither of whom use voicemail.  If someone calls them and they aren't here, I have to take a message and email them.  Okay, maybe there's some legal reason for this, whatever, I do little enough at my job, I can handle that. 
One of the MAA's calls this morning.  I can tell it's him, because my phone screen tells me it is, but I pretend I don't know it's him, because I like to create the illusion of having no contact with him.  He asks to speak with one of the attorneys who's not in yet.  So I say, "I'm sorry, he's not in yet, would you like to leave a message on his voicemail?"  My logic behind this is twofold:
1.  I'm still trying to pretend I don't know it's him; and
B.  While I know he doesn't like to use voicemail to retrieve messages, I thought he might not be averse to leaving voicemail messages for others.  In other words, he's not a Catcher, but  maybe he is a Pitcher.  And, yes, I just equated using voicemail to gay sex. 
Anyroad, I ask him this, and my query is met with a Haughty Silence, followed by him saying, "This is Mr. Asshole *not his real name* and I choose not to participate."  I wanted desperately to finish his sentence with "in the 21st century.", but I didn't.  Cause my kitties need food.  And Momma needs beer.
Like right now.

Friday, August 30, 2013

Theatre History (Debstyle)

Tomorrow is the birthday of the man who got me hooked on theatre.  Every year when his birthday rolls around, I get to reminiscing about those early days.  I remember it like it was yesterday...yesterday...yesterday.......
When I was fifteen years old, my best friend and I were obsessed with the Beatles and anything remotely related to them.  Barb (my BF)  had moved to Philadelphia but we still sent numerous letters to each other every month with any Beatlesque tidbit we could find.  My mom and I went to Philly to visit Barb and her mom and we found out that Jane Asher (who was then Paul McCartney's girlfriend) was playing Juliet  (Name That Play!) in the Old Vic touring company that was in NYC, just an hour trainride away.  Now, I was expecting to get all giddy when I saw Jane Asher step on stage, and I was, sorta, but I was not prepared to be totally blown away by the play itself.  And all those people on the stage doing said play. It was like eating chocolate, and having sex, and drinking beer and giving birth and..well, you get the idea.  Pretty fucking awesome.  I turned to Barb after it  was over and said, "That's what I want to do." 
My mother was not exactly thrilled with the news.  She had always envisioned me as a sort of Eleanor Rigby Librarian, tucked back in a corner, wearing my face that I keep in a jar by the door kind of thing.  Sound like me?  Yeah.  There's a reason I've gone through therapy.  ANYROAD.....
At that time, my mother's favorite person in the universe, her brother (he was always her favorite person in the universe, not just at that time), was engaged  and Ma was all about impressing Uncle Paul's fiance, Marie.  My mother was dead set against me doing anything about my theatre leanings, when Marie said she thought it would be a good idea if I took acting lessons and she heard they gave them at the Pittsburgh Playhouse on Saturday mornings and they weren't very expensive.  (Pause for a Hallelujah Chorus to my Aunt Marie.)
Side note:  The reason my mother was vehemently against me having a Life in the Theatre was because she was convinced that actresses were really whores.  I only wish I had have half the sex my mother thought I would have had by now.  Frowny Face.
So, I took a 10:00 a.m. acting class at the Pittsburgh Playhouse.  My teacher was Thom Thomas.  And my life changed forever.
The first thing he had me do was Amanda Wingfield's monologue from "Glass Menagerie".  I loved it.  And never looked back.  Well, I did for a little while, but that's beside the point.
During the course of the course, Thom announced that he and his partner were starting a summer theatre that summer and they needed apprentices, who would do tech work but also get a chance to act.  I somehow convinced my parents that this was a good thing (I may or may not have played the Aunt Marie card)  and I spent the next seven summers working at Odd Chair Playhouse.  It was magical.
Thom taught theatre at Point Park College and I refused to apply to any school other than Point Park.  That was a fun fight (and Ma and I had a bunch of them),  but I won and got in and continued to be in awe of Thom and theatre.  Until the morning I  looked back and got scared and left for 26 years. 
But, still, I came back and don't intend to leave again until they carry me offstage feet first. (Exit stage right, please.)  And I owe it all to Thom Thomas.  So thank you, dear friend, and a very happy birthday.   

Monday, August 26, 2013

A Post on a Current Topic

I didn't see the Miley Cyrus thing on the VMA's because I had to choose between watching them or giving myself a root canal and dental health is important.  But I, like everyone else, have been inundated with various rantings and ravings on the subject and a thought occurred to me that I haven't heard expressed yet.  (Doesn't mean it hasn't been.  I don't get around much.)
I am certainly not "in the know" on how award shows work on television.  But here in Normalville, the content of a show is a known quantity before the show is actually performed.  So, I'm guessing MTV knew the inappropriateness of Miley's performance and said it was A-OK.  (The A in this case standing for Ass.)  I'm not particularly surprised.  So why is anyone else?  Isn't this the show where  Madonna open-mouth kissed Brittany Spears, or whoever was Flavor of the Week at the time?  The VMA's have nothing to do with the quality of the music videos, because, frankly, you could put a bunch of chimpanzees in a room with a bunch of hot chicks and some horny guys playing guitar and come out with a decent video.  It's about once a year MTV getting some publicity because the rest of the year the country thinks that MTV stands for Motorized Television, or the old Mary Tyler Moore network or some horrible neuromuscular disease that cripples you.
And this is the only way they can get said publicity.  Live sex on stage.  Wow.  Too bad the Romans never thought about...oh wait, they did.  It's not very original.  But, it did get the desired effect.
I guess the only other thing they could do to stir up some world-shaking publicity is actually start showing music videos again, but that's just crazy talk.

Friday, August 23, 2013

Chapter Three-in which Doris gets her oats

At the risk of sounding like an old fart, I have noticed an upsurge in media reports of young people randomly torturing animals or even killing another human being because they're bored.  That was the excuse they gave when arrested, "Bored".
Now, even though I have a black belt in being naive, I have no doubt that this kind of behavior has been going on for centuries.  There will always be, sadly, people (young and old) that are mean, sadistic and prone to violence and suffer no remorse after their crime.  I have dated a few, so I know whereof I speak.  But in this case, I am struck by the fact that in two,  unrelated cases of violence, the perpetrators used the excuse (??) of being bored. 
I know bored.  I do bored for a living.  I spend 40 hours a week doing NOTHING.  I get paid for being bored.  I'm not complaining.  There are many advantages. I'm lucky to have a job.  Blah, blah, blah.  But even at the height of my boredom (which usually occurs at 2:45 on Friday afternoon) it has never, ever crossed my mind to torture kittens or kill an Australian baseball player.  So for the assholes who did those things this week to think it's okay to excuse their actions by pleading boredom heightens my anger with the human race. And THAT is actually my topic for today.  Sorry for the Intro Rant.
I don't really care for people.  In general, I mean.  I have the best friends in the universe, and the most amazing children on the planet and I love all of those people so much sometimes it hurts.  But the rest of the human race....meh.
I don't like parties.  Being surrounded by a lot of people makes me nervous.  I can guarandamntee you that I will do something stupid if I'm with a group of people I don't know.  Actually, I can guarandamntee I will do something stupid with a group of people I do know, but they're used to it and will either just pick me up, or pretend they didn't hear me,or apologize to the people at the table next to us,  or drive me home and act like it never happened.  That's the Dionne Warwick Code, and that's how we roll. 
I realize the General Public isn't running around immolating kittens and slaughtering Aussies, but the truth is people annoy me.  People should be running around laughing and singing and hugging random strangers (in an appropriate manner, please) and creating unicorns and rainbows and free beer.  But they aren't.  They're too busy being "human".  Pfft.  Whatever.  Everyone should be more like me, cause I....oh, wait.  I guess I'm not actually doing any of those things either.  I'm bitching about how I don't like people.  Which kinda ends up making me be like all those people I don't like.  Oops.  I am experiencing a George Bush "Mission Accomplished" Moment.  Let me pause.
Okay.  Sorry.  Please ignore the last three paragraphs, obviously I didn't think things through, but at least I have a good excuse.   I was bored.

Monday, August 19, 2013

This One's A Big Deal To Me

During my short-lived career in real estate, I trained with two women whose names were Faith and Hope.  I, logically, called myself Charity, because that's what I needed when it came to selling real estate.  I did not get it.  Nor did I get selling real estate.  Anyroad...
That slightly amusing but totally irrelevant rambling is my obtuse way of leading into today's discussion of faith.  Faith is a tricky thing.  And more difficult (at least for me) then you would think.
If you are one who has faith in the guy with the long white beard or the guy with the shorter brown beard or the guy I can't describe because they can't post pictures of him,  then faith is probably a no-brainer for you.  Wait, that sounds like I'm saying you have no brains, which I'm not at all.  I will never diss anyone's beliefs, that is totally uncool.  I'm just saying that it has been my observation that people who have a strong religious belief tend to accept faith as a matter of course.  But I have been struggling with faith for years, and I think it's because I was looking at it from the wrong angle.
I got off on the wrong faithfoot when I started going to Sunday School.  At six years old, I was told by Sister Mary Elizabeth that if I sassed my mother in the morning, when I got home from school they'd be carrying her out on a stretcher.  I was supposed to have faith in a diety that exacts that kind of retribution on a six-year-old for simply being a six-year-old.   It didn't make sense to me, but  I was told to accept it, so I did.  The upshot being I had faith in God, but not myself.
Added to this liturgy of punishment-based theology, was the constant "Why can't you be more like your sister?" litany I got from my mother.  While said sister assured me she wished I had never been born and tried to kill me when I was a baby by stuffing a rattle down my throat.  I found it hard to be zippity-do-dah about myself.  I just felt sad and confused, and didn't understand what I had done to piss everybody off so much.
The answer, of course, is nothing.  They were all being fuckwads.  It took me a loooonnggg time to accept that fact without feeling guilty about accepting that fact.  Again, tip o' the habit to Sister Mary Elizabeth and her crew for that. 
The Ultimate Truth is, if I don't have faith in myself, I can't have faith in anyone or anything else, omnipotent or just plain ol' potent.  I suppose that church and family figured I arrived here with a self-faith package installed, but, unfortunately, I missed out on that software.  So my tiny kid soul sponge just soaked up all the fire and brimstone without the self-love asbestos  pillow underneath to put it in perspective. 
 I hate that it took me so long to figure this out, but I thank the Universe I figured it out while I still have some time left to enjoy it.  So, damn the religion, full life ahead!

Friday, August 16, 2013

A Post So Boring I Can't Come Up With A Name For It

I get paid for being bored.  That sounds like a good gig, I know, but by the end of the week, I'm tempted to go postal.  And, by going postal, I mean I'm ready to apply for a job with the U.S. Postal Service.  Which, what with people there tending to actually go postal, is probably not a good idea.
You see?  The last paragraph reflects the glob of gelatinous goo my brain is reduced to by Friday.  I have trouble concentrating.  None of the books I'm reading hold my attention.  Bingo Bash no longer provides endless hours of enjoyment. And I keep waiting for Morgan Freeman to come in and feed me pumpkin pie.  Sadly, this has never happened.   I love pie.
Also, the *little* things the attorneys here do to bother me by Friday become *BIG* things.  Therefore, not only do I walk around muttering Shakespeare (First, kill all the lawyers), but I also develop a deeper appreciation of Lorena Bobbit.  So, I guess there is a plus side.
But, the indomitable human spirit pushes through, and by Monday my love of a roof over my head and beer will cheerfully convince me to sally forth to the Desk of Dulllsville once again.  Though I may just take a Mental Health Day next Friday...

Friday, August 9, 2013

Absolute Truths

That's a great novel by Susan Howatch.  Anyroad....
You all know I'm a fan of lists. Well, you do now.  And I have a list of Absolute Truths.  They have changed over the years, and may well change again, but below are some that are currently on my hit parade.
DISCLAIMER PARAGRAPH:  These are Debbie's Truths.  You have your own.  You may agree with some, but it's more likely you won't.  You may think some are incredibly dumb.  You're welcome. (And probably right.)  It's Friday.  Enjoy.
1.  Not giving a shit is harder than it should be. Sometimes.  Sometimes the reverse is
2.  I think best when pacing.
3.  I therefore look weird a lot.
4.  Having fun is awesome.
5.  Being sick is the pits.
6.  It's all very well to say, "You make your own happiness.", but I must have copied the
     recipe for happiness down wrong, because it never comes out right. 
7.  I'm not a very good cook.  I don't care.
8.  I'm a helluva lot of fun to be around. And, by invoking the transitory theory by
     employing #4, I am, therefore, awesome.
9.  Cats are awesome, as well.  And sometimes fun to be around.
10. The first sip of coffee in the morning and the first sip of beer post show are two of
      the most perfect moments on earth.
I could go on, but you are probably scrolling down your FB page by now anyway, so I'll stop.  I have written nothing earthshattering here, but lately the things that have shattered my earth haven't been very happy, so I'm okay with being Cheerfully Mundane. 
And that makes #11. 

Friday, July 19, 2013

What's In a Name? (Letters, mostly)

Okay, I'm going to start this entry with a disclaimer:  I may have very well blogged about this subject before, thereby repeating myself.  However, I am a victim of Extreme Laziness, and don't feel like researching it, plus, also, if I can't remember, I'm betting that the three of you who read this can't remember either (birds of a feather, etc., etc.) so I'm soldiering on.

I have a thing about names.  I love them.  Much in the same way I love kittens and hugs/kisses, and beer.  I get all giggly and warm and fuzzy inside when I hear a name I like.  For instance, my favorite current cat name is Tallulah Fuzzypants.  See???  And we just got a package from a law firm whose name is Tuggle Duggins.  Adorable, right?  You cannot say those names without smiling.  Really, you can't. Something horribly vile will happen to you instantaneously if you try.  So don't.  You've been warned.

One of my all-time favorite names is a High Society, Ultra-Snooty, Dripping With Money, Pittsburgh (Imagine if Mt. Brook and Greystone had a baby, dipped it in gold, and covered it with diamonds) marriage from the 70's, when Tracy Titsworth married Sterling Pankratz.  Those rich muthas deserved those laughable names!

Now, Debbie, you chide, they can't help what names they have, it's not nice to make fun of them.  Debbie to Chider, Fuck Off.

My love for quirky names probably stems from the fact that my name is so boring I yawn every time  I say it.  Debbie...*yawn*...Smith.  And before I was a Smith, I was a ...*yawn*...Brown.  It sometimes makes me regret breaking off that engagement to Pepe Poopacarcheck. 

One of the ironies (others, I assume, covered in my possibly existing previous post) of my Name Love is that names themselves (adorable or otherwise) are my Achilles Heel (I orginally typed "hell", which would have worked, too) when it comes to learning lines. (Okay, there were waayy too many paranthetical phrases in that last sentence.  But I like them, so they're staying.  Oooo...I'm feisty today!)  In the last play I did, I had to remember 4,397 Jewish surnames.  Oy Vay!  And in the play I'm working on now, the names are in French.  18th Fucking Century French.  Quelle Merde!

Well, that is the yin and yang that is life.  And struggling over a Markowitz-Waldbaum or Merteuil is well worth the joy of uttering the best attorney name ever, Bob Lablaw.  (Courtesy Arrested Development) So let's hear 'em, guys and gals.  What are some of your favorite funny names?  I'm listening....

Thursday, July 4, 2013

Hate,hate, hate, loathe, despise, and hate

That's a line from Star Spangled Girl.  Anyway....

I have always had a thing about not hating people.  I hate lots of stuff; math, car trouble, bigotry, halibut, dentistry (as opposed to dentists).  But I don't believe in hating people.

There have been people in my life I haven't cared for, obviously.  And there are a very few people I feel have mistreated me or someone I loved.  And while I had moments of intense anger at these people and I still feel their behavior was horrible, I don't hate them.  You can't change the past.  But you don't have to live there, either.  (Until I get senile.  Then I'm going to live in 1963.  That was a good year.)

The few times I let myself get sucked into hating people, all it did was make me hate myself for wasting time on an emotion that was useless and draining.  Did my hatred change the person's behavior?  No.  Did my hatred make the pain go away?  No.  Did the hatred make me ask myself rhetorical questions and answer them?  Sadly, yes.  Lose, lose, lose.

I believe in love.  Admittedly, I was embarrassed to write that ├╝ber hokey sentence.  (And did my iPad just  put an umlaut over the u??  Awesome!). But I think there needs to be three different words for love.  One is the love you (and by you, I mean me) feel for ice cream and fireworks and theatre and long weekends.  Another is the love you feel for the people/animals in your life that make you happy.  And then there should be a Third Love.  And this is what we should all have for Everyone, just because it's the right thing to do, and things would go a whole lot smoother if Everyone did that.  Chunky is okay for peanut butter, but smooth is preferable for life.

I don't have a Humorous Tagline for this one, sorry.  And I know this is a far from original idea.  But I'm more than naive enough to think if it's said often enough, it just may happen.

Monday, July 1, 2013

Tech Talk

I do not claim to know anything about technology.  The fact that I am able to stumblebumble my way through wonders such as blogs,  Facebook and toaster ovens without (usually) disastrous results is nothing short of a miracle.  This last weekend, my kids tried to convince me that I should be on Twitter.  I do have a Twitter account, but I never use it because I don't get it.  If I feel the urge to write down (supposedly) humorous thoughts, I don't want to have to worry about counting how many letters I can use.  After all, this is Amurica, and Publication Without Calculation was one of our Founding Fathers' credos. 

I also don't  understand the rules.  I just went to pull up through Google on my work computer and I got the ol' Skull and Crossbones; this site blocked by your organization because it is Vilely Evil and will Bring Down Society As We Know It and Why The Fuck Aren't You Working?  So I went to pull it up via MSN  (on the very same computer) and it pops up, pretty as a picture, also rosy cheeked and big smiles, begging me to express my opinions for all the world (if the world population is 23) to read.  Go know.

I am not really  interested in learning the particulars of technocrap, anymore than I was ever interested in learning how a car works or why everything that is fun to do or tastes good is always bad for you.  It just is. I accept that.  And I work around all these things to the best of my ability (Last Rated at C-).  I have killed three computers, two microwaves, countless cars and a guinea pig (none on purpose), and I still manage to keep from drowning in the 21st Century Ocean.  So far. 

But don't place any bets on me ever owning a hovercraft. 

Friday, June 14, 2013

Different Strokes

I (sometimes) try very hard to see things from others' points of view. (That sentence doesn't sound right, but you know what I mean.)  Like the whole racist/homophobic concept. I guess those things don't necessarily go hand-in-hand, but I was trying to save space, and those happen to be my Two Top Buggaboos.  So, I asked myself, "Hey, Gump, what prejudices do you have?"  And, (not counting my prejudice against racists and homophobes, cause, damnit, they started it), I realized that I am prejudiced against people who are religious.

Not that I really care if people go to church, that's their beeswax, but I had to admit to myself that if I find out someone I like is a regular church-goer, it alters my perception of them.  Just a smudge, but it does.  So, I assume that's like finding out your friend is black and/or gay, if you are R and/or H (I shortened racist and homophobic without telling you, but I figured if you got past my wonky first sentence you could certainly go with a spontaneous abbreviation.).  Also, if you have to be told your friend is black, you should probably get a cane.

BUT (and to paraphrase PeeWee Herman, everyone has a big but, I'm going to tell you about mine), I'm still friends with those churchgoing folk and I don't judge them for it and I tuck my feelings away in my Private Mind Vault (man, I got some good shit in there!) and I don't advertise my prejudice to The Universe. (Okay, I kinda am now, cause I'm blogging about it, but, as far as I know, The Universe doesn't read my blog.  So, shut up.)

Because that's what you do.  I doubt if I  or anyone else can change anyone's mind about hating gays or minorities. That makes me feel sad, but I'm not going to waste cancer cells worrying about it. I just wish they'd keep their opinions to themselves and quit polluting my world with their schlock.  If the Westboro Baptist Church wants to sit around for an hour every Sunday morning bashing Their Chosen Group of the Week, they can have at it. But they should keep those ideas within their own sacred walls, not throw them in people's faces in public.

Everyone has prejudices, but you learn to deal with them in a private fashion, much like dealing with your "intimate" feelings. (wink, wink)  Spouting your prejudicial ideas for the media is just public verbal masturbation, which is kinda creepy, not to mention inappropriate, and the inspiration for the title of this blog. 

So, stop. 

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

A Bunch of Unrelated Musings

Hello Reader 1 and Reader 2!  It's been a hot minute, as I haven't felt very bloggish in a while.  But boredom has overpowered me, and I feel compelled to, once again, tickle the plastics and spew forth more useless, extremely random, but hopefully mildly entertaining crapola.

I think the term "United States Government" is obsolete.  Nobody seems to do any governing anymore--so the name is misleading.  I think we should name it "United States Nannynannybooboo Stickyourhandindoodoo", because it seems more appropriate. 

I really like the sensation of writing with a newly sharpened pencil.  Usually because it signifies the start of rehearsal for a new show and I love that New Show Smell.

I am absolutely addicted to pictures of adorable kittens.  I believe this is one of the Warning Signs of Senility.  But it's way cuter than the peeing your pants all the time one.

I am slowly getting used to the dickheads at work who walk behind me and then comment on whatever they see on my iPad.  It's still annoying and creepy but I don't have the urge to strangle them like I used to.  Baby steps.

I am in a phase where I am realizing some things about myself that are overwhelming me.  I apologize for the Vaguebookiness of that statement, but I don't know that I can communicate the feelings I've been going through.  The cool thing is that they are AWESOME feelings, and that doesn't happen to me very often, so it is Definitely A Good Thing.  But I'm still in the early stages of this and, since I am the Queen of Denial (and have the asp to prove it ha! ha!), it will be a while before you'll be hearing anymore about this phenomenon.  You're welcome.

Or then, I could just be actually going senile.   Look, a kitten!!  Awwwww.....


Thursday, May 16, 2013

I Feel Pretty, Kinda

I am not pretty.  I know that and I'm okay with it, although it was a rough road getting here. 

I once dated a guy for a hot minute who told me I was "Reasonably Attractive"  (be still my heart!), which is better than being Butt Ugly, I suppose.   But it probably also explains the extremely short lifespan of that relationship.

Us RAs have always had to deal with the Pretty Girls.  The easiest way is just to give up and don't bother flirting with guys because they're always going to go with a PG, not a RA.  It is has always been a miracle to me that I ever managed to hook up with anyone at all, so I'm never really disappointed.

It didn't help that I grew up in a house with a pretty sister and a beautiful mom.  They'd look at me with this, "What the hell happened with you?" look, and tell me not to feel bad,  that homely girls often grow up to be pretty women. One year (I think it was fourth grade) I was bemoaning my school picture and the homeliness therein, and my mother comfortingly said, "Well, what do you expect when you look like that?"  The Irish aren't big on unconditional love, but they are honest, bless their hearts.

Every cloud has its silver lining, and I think being an RA helped me develop my sense of humor.  It was either develop that or my razor blade skills and I'm not overly fond of blood.  But it's nice when people laugh at you.  That makes me feel pretty.  And now, in the autumn of my life, it's really helping me get gigs and acting makes me feel prettier than pretty, so I think it's a good tradeoff. 

Some of my best friends are PGs, and we laugh and cry and carry on and have a great time.  I love them and can see why guys do, too.  It's just a nice feeling to be comfortable in your own skin.

Thursday, May 9, 2013

Settling Down

There was a story on NPR this morning about following your passion/dream.  The point of the story was there was this young man who didn't have a passion for anything and so he didn't know what to do.  That is not the point of my story.

I would like to address the issue of following your dream.  Now, I recognize that when people talk about following your dream, they are usually thinking about people under the age of 173, assuming that people as old as I am can no longer distinguish between dreams and reality anyway.  But our advanced age give us, in addition to hairy ear canals and decrepit skin, some wisdom in this area.  So, if I may...

It can work, but not very often.  (Sorry.  That was rather anti-climatic.)  And this is what it depends on:

1.  If it is remotely possible.  I mean, if your dream is to swim across the Atlantic Ocean in a single breath, without benefit of additional oxygen, that dream will be short-lived.  And so will you.

2.  You *really* want it.  

3.  You *really* want it so much, you are willing to work your ass off for it.

4.  You get unbelievably lucky.

5.  You have a shitload of money.

In my case, I realized at the tender age of 23 that as far as me becoming a working actor:

1.  It wasn't

2.  I did....but,

3.  I wasn't

4.  The only luck I have is bad.  That is what "luck of the Irish" really means.

5.  Hahahahahahahaha!!

So, I settled for being able to do something for a living (not a career, mind you, A Job) that would allow me to have a roof over my head and beer in my belly and pursue my passion on the side. 

A  major advantage to having your passion as your hobby, instead of your livelihood (at least in the case of theatre) is that when it's your hobby and you're not doing a show it's called "a break".  When it's your livelihood and you're not doing a show it's called "panic".  I'm not fond of panic.  Plus, waiting tables wouldn't work for me, because if I stand for more than a half hour I pass out.  That would probably lessen my tips. 

Now, your results may vary in this experience.  But the other variable that oldies like me see in this equation is that life is really, fucking short and getting shorter every day.  And I have known too many people I cared about who were here one minute and then they weren't.  And while it is great to have something to work towards, it really is about the journey, not the destination and since we're on our way down, we might as well enjoy the ride, and what a fucked-up paragrah this has been!!  (And, also, credit to Mr. James Taylor for the way down/enjoy the ride part.)

So,  young'uns, I have no advice for you.  You wouldn't take it if I did.  (Damn, there goes my mother talking out of my mouth again!)  Passions are good, but so is paying rent. You make the call.

Saturday, April 27, 2013

So, this is a double first.  The first post I have done on my iPad (which means it should take me about 4 hours), and the first post I have ever done about a show I'm in.  I know!!  BFD, right?

Except it is to me.

I am doing "Standing on Ceremony", a collection of nine short plays about gay marriage.  It is superbly written and perfectly cast, and you should come see it.  But what has so surprised me about this show is how it has affected me.

I've done a lot of shows that had a profound effect on me, that's nothing new.  But this one caught me off  guard.  While the theme is gay marriage, I see this show essentially about relationships, and the joy derived from them.

So, here is Debbie...61 years old, alone, Certifiably Undatable, but comfortable, if somewhat jaded, in the fact that it's me and kitties from here on out. Cool.  But that means I tend to stay away from romance novels and romantic comedies, because that's just not my life and I don't care to be reminded about it.

Now along comes this play, with people talking about how happy they are in their relationships, and instead of making me feel sad, and/or bitter, I'm just filled with joy for my kids and  a lot of my dear friends who are experiencing that happiness.  And I feel grateful that I was privileged to feel that a few times in my life, even if some the guys had nefarious motives (I'm looking at you, Bad Steve).  It doesn't matter that I'm not, nor ever again, will be in that place; it just makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside and that's nice.  I never expected to feel that way again.  Go know.

I have spent the last year embracing the wonderful joys I have in my kids, my friends, my kitties, my acting; and I'm proud of letting go of the parts in my life that have damaged me and can do nothing about.  It wasn't easy, so, yay, me!

But this is an added bonus.  Celebrating love, even though it's not my destiny, and all because of a play.  I fucking love theatre.

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Atta Dude!

I work with a couple of people who are, to use the technical term, Professional Grumps. 

Now, I will admit that I have many a time when I am a Scowley McCrankypants or a Teary McWoeisme, but I feel the majority of  the time I serve myself up as Cheerful, with Side of Wit and a Tangy Sarcastic Dipping Sauce.  (Try me with fries!) 

These two gentlemen have *never* said hello or good morning to me in the nine months I've worked here.  NEVER.  The first three months, I valiantly wished them good morning every day, hoping to one day get at least a grunt in return.  Nada.  I eventually gave up and now barely acknowledge their existence.  If everyone else in the firm was the same way, I could chalk it up to some asinine office policy.  But everyone else's attitude ranges from Distantly Affable to Overly Friendly, which is pretty normal.  These are the only two Mordor Posterboys.  (Which makes me want to come to work some day in a robe and long, white wig and confront them when they walk in the door by saying, "You Shall Not Pass!  Till you say good morning!"  I think Sir Ian would approve.)

I see no reason for/nor have patience with this attitude.  It takes two seconds to say good morning (I timed it), and it is just good manners.  It seems to me if you're making a Million Gajillion Dollars a year, you can afford two seconds of non-billable time to say good morning to the Lowly Receptionist.  But then, I've never been very good with money, so I may be all wrong here.  Come to think of it, if I never said good morning to Bad Steve, I might still have all the money he stole from me.  (Note to self:  ask Mr. Buffet about this, the next time I'm talking to him.) But no matter what economic spin you put on it, it is still Bad Manners and Rude and Bad Form. 

 I will now shake off  my Bitchy O'Complainington persona and resume my Post-Lunch McSleepyton personality.

Friday, March 22, 2013

The Sound of Musings

 I get the sense the entire country is depressed because Punxsutawney Phil lied to us.  Seriously, what is the world coming to if you can't trust a rodent?  I feel there is a joke about Congress here somewhere, but I'm too depressed to figure it out, so make one up yourself.

In an attempt to bring us all out of the doldrums, I will now compend a list of A Few Of My Favorite Things.  I have no idea how this is going to make any of you feel cheerier, but it may help me, so in the tradition of the Great American Way, I say Fuck Y'All, I'm The Only One Who Matters. 

1.  Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens (I thought I'd get it out of the way)
2.  Easter candy (with the exception of marshmallow peeps, a true confectionary abomination)
3.  Bra straps that stay up (these don't exist, but they would make me happy if they did)
4.  Warm, sunny days (see paranthetical note 3, above)
5.  Getting cast in a play (no explanation needed)
6.  Saturday mornings (Sundays, not so much, because of the lingering childhood trauma of having to go to church on Sundays.  It was my weekly emotional  root canal.)
7.  My kids (They are, unequivacably, the two most awesome human beings on the planet.)
8.  My kitties (same as #7, but substitute cats for human beings, which is a pretty good idea overall.)
9.  My friends (my friends are The Best and My Family and I love them.)
10. My bed (which is where I wish I were right now)

I could go on, but the 32 of you who are reading this are probably ready to wander off and get some Easter candy, and I don't blame you.  But, if Spring ever does actually show up, I will continue the list.  Yeah, don't hold your breath.

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

All the Olds That's Fit to Print

In much the same way that a child will longingly watch teenagers, to see what lies ahead, I sometimes observe Eldsters, to see what I have to look forward to, unless I'm lucky enough to drop dead first. 

Evidently, the hot new trend in walkers is this thing with three wheels that appears to have handbrakes.  I don't understand why a walker would need handbrakes.  (Or handbreaks, for that matter.  Most Oldies are pretty adept at breaking their hands on their own.)  But, yet, I have noticed many an Overthehillian merrily careening down the sidewalk at the breathtaking rate of 2 miles/month, hands tensed near the handbrakes, just in case their feet forget how to stop themselves.  But at least a handbrake-equipped walker is less embarrassing than::


If, Universe forbid, I ever get so debilitated that I require a Hoveround, please do the humane thing and put a bullet in my head.  I would be Demonic on a Hoveround.  I would get it pimped out with hydraulics and a horn that played Play That Funky Music White Boy, leopard seat covers, and heavy bass speakers that you can hear 3 counties away.  And I'd run over everyone in my path.  Hey, I'm old and I can't walk, what do I care? Move, motherfuckers, I'm crippled!  Either that or I'd just get drunk and keep driving the thing in circles till I pass out. 

At least it gives me something to look forward to.

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Political Rand

I don't understand what Paul Rand was trying to achieve with his fillibuster yesterday.  He knew going into it that John Brennan had enough support on both sides of the aisle to get enough votes to be confirmed, but he went ahead with the stupid fillibuster thingy anyway.  These are the only reasons I can come up with why he thought This Would Be a Good Idea:

1.  He hopes to be the next Jimmy Stewart and he thought that by staging a one-man production of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, he'd be a shoe-in.  Personally, I think he would have been better off choosing something a little lighter, like Harvey.  Who wouldn't enjoy seeing a Republican walk around talking to a six-foot invisible rabbit?  (White Rabbit, of course.)

2.  He wants to follow in the footsteps of other great Historical Rands, like Ayn or McNally, but he's neither an author nor a cartographer.  He'd be better off adding a Y to his name and writing clever songs about short people or TV detectives, and singing them with a New Orleans accent.  There's your surefire ticket to fame, right there.

3.  He's an Asshole.

You make the call.

Thursday, February 28, 2013

Now is the winter of our yadda, yadda, yadda

I don't like winter, and here's why:

It's cold.

I don't like winter clothes.  Long sleeves annoy me.  Most sweaters make me itchy and turtlenecks make me feel like I'm choking, besides the fact that I don't have a neck. I have a wattle, and they don't make turtlewattles, although they should, because it's a delightful word. 

It's cold.

As I Piscean, I suffer from Fucked Up Feet Syndrome, which means there are only about 3 pairs of shoes in the universe that don't hurt my feet and none of those shoes are, in any way, attractive.  However, in the summer I can wear sandals, which allow my tootsies to wave freely in the open air and not be imprisoned in the cramped darkness of Closed Toes.  This is less painful and marginally more attractive.  In the winter I do not have this option, because....

It's cold.

That S.A.D. thing that everyone in the country has, except maybe Stevie Wonder.  Are blind people supposed to be that happy all the time?  I saw him in concert once, he was amazing.  Each Beat of My Heart is one of my favorite songs.   But I digress,  probably because...

It's cold.

No matter how many layers of uncomfortable, itchy turtlewattles I may be wearing, I never seem to get warm until it gets above seventy degrees outside.  The closest I get to being warm in winter is when I'm in my incredibly unattractive flannel jammies, tucked in my bed with tons of covers and the space heater six inches away.  This is one of the many explanations for why I sleep alone. (The other reasons are depressing and it's winter and we already have S.A.D., so I won't go into them.  You're welcome.)  Then, just as I'm about to drift off to sleep, I get a hot flash.  Meh.  So I tear off all my clothes, shut off the space heater, and sweat like a mofo for five minutes, after which I freeze and reverse the process.   This routine annoys my cats.  I ain't crazy about it myself.

Have I mentioned winter is cold?

Okay, this has been an abnormally cranky post, (even for me) but it's March Eve and it's Birmingham, AL and that equation should not have a solution set consisting of freezing temperatures with a forecast of snow on Saturday, but it does and my feet hurt, and my turtlewattle itches and I sleep alone and. . .

It's cold.

Monday, February 25, 2013


I know I have written about religion before, so I may have already previously stated some of the views located herein.  But I'm too lazy to go back and reread any of my old shit, so I figure if I can't remember what I wrote, then the two of you who read my blog won't remember either. 

I'm not knocking anyone's religion.  If your Particular Set of Beliefs gets you through the day, good for you.  And I won't bore you with my PSoB, because you don't care.  You're welcome. 

I'm in a slight quandary over the big bruha caused by the Pope's Resignation.  I know it hasn't happened for 700 years or something, but it's not the Black Plague; which I can see getting top billing if it comes back after 700 years. (Also, it would be a bad time to be a rat.)  This is a senile old man retiring from his job, who may or may not have been issued an arrest warrant in December for covering up the pedophilia scandal,  a fairly common occurrence. 

And, honestly, in this day and endtimes, how is the Papacy even relevant?  Why should we be concerned about an old guy who sits on a golden throne, wearing a goofy hat and red velvet shoes when we have *really* important things to be worried about like an overabundance of Harlem Shake YouTubes, the current lack of sex scandals in Congress and Saint Meryl Streep scratching her ass on camera at the Oscars.  These are the real problems, people!  Sure, the Catholic Church (aka Six Flags Over The Dark Ages) has major issues with rampant pedophilia, not condoning gay marriage, women's rights and birth control, but do you really think that the next dude that God picks (if, by "God", you mean a group of old, petty, greedy, power-hungry men) is going to do anything different about those issues? 

Only if NewPope comes out on the balcony wearing his pants below his ass, a t-shirt declaring "Shit Happens" and a backwards baseball cap will I start to believe that perhaps this archaic, irrelevant institution might be considering joining the 21st Century.  But if he makes a fucking Harlem Shake video, I'm done.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Older White Lady Problems

One of the joys of living alone is that you can do what you want, when you want.

One of the disadvantages of living alone is that there is no one to share the shit.  So, one learns to become creative. 

The main problem I have (other than all my appliances/electronic devices constantly dying) is the Removing of the Garbage from my apartment.  The dumpster behind my apartment is on a mound of concrete and therefore about 3 feet taller than I am, (yes, thus making it 4 feet tall, ha  ha).  So I have to throw bags of garbage over my head to get it dumpsterfied.  Below are listed some elements that make this difficult (other than the fact that I am one foot tall):

1.  I have two cats.  I am (surprisingly) fairly diligent in cleaning out the cat pan.  Used cat litter is the heaviest substance on earth known to man. 
2.  I am lazy.  I hate taking out the garbage and am extremely creative in thinking up excuses not to do it.  I am willing to sell this list for a small fee.  You will be amazed (and horrified).
3.  My refrigerator died on Sunday and, due to the laziness factor mentioned above, I hadn't cleaned it out..well, I've lived there three years, so you do the math. 

SO, I am now left with the solution set of having multiple bags of yucky refrigerator food, plus multiple bags of regular + cat litter garbage and my kitchen has developed a "distinked" odor.  BUT, since I am physically unable to lift these odiferous garbage bags over my head, I am forced to put on my Thomas Edison cap, (not the I'm An Asshole Thomas Edison Cap, the I'm A Great Inventor Thomas Edison Cap) and come up with a solution.


1.  First, wear shoes that lessen the possibility I will fall during this process.  No guarantee, but still.
2.  Take my kitchen stepstool out to the dumpster.
3.  Carry all 9 bags of garbage out to dumpster, climb stool and dispose of garbage.
4.  Drink many beers to congratulate myself.

Now, I realize that in The Grand Scheme of Things this is a mite on the back of a flea,  but for someone whose creativity usually consists of making bad puns (see "distinked", above), this is a major breakthrough for me. 

Next up, figure out a way to illuminate a room other than with gas lamps or candles.

Monday, January 14, 2013

And now in local news....

I was sorry to see Forest Perk Coffee Shop leave and am disappointed it will be replaced by a nail salon.

As much as I am a girlie-girl in many areas (make-up, clothes, cain't say no), I've never been into having my nails done.  The first time I  had nail polish put on my nails, it felt like my nails were suffocating and I had a panic attack.  Then there is the fact that they don't usually stay looking nice for more than 2-3 hours, quckly turning into broken, stubby, claw-like things. 

So I got to thinking that if I could choose what business to go in there (Fantasy Debbieland), what would I pick?  These are my top three choices:

1.  A Cattery (I know, right????  Super-awesomeness.)

2.  An Ice Cream Store (This probably would actually not be a good idea, since I have a weakness for hot fudge sundaes.)

3.  An intimate, quiet, reasonably-priced bar, with comfortable seating; a small, but delicious menu; and a room in the back where you could get a massage from a hot guy/gal of your choice, complete with optional happy ending.  Wait, that kinda sounds like a whorehouse.....oh, well,  potayto, potahto.

I suppose, since this is a Fantasy, I could combine of all these three delights  into one amazing establishment, and call it, "Pussy Playtime Ice Cream Parlour and Tavern".  

Franchise, anyone?

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

A Sort-of, Kind-of, Parenting Post

Remember when you were a kid and something grown-ups told you didn't make sense?  They would always say, "You'll understand when you're older."

I find it very comforting that a lot of the shit that didn't make sense when I was a kid still doesn't.  Much of that is religious training.  The whole "only Catholics can get into heaven" is just as stupid today as I thought it was when I was six.  That would have meant my dad (who was an agnostic) wouldn't get there, and he was way too awesome to end up anywhere else.  I also never understood the rule that women had to wear hats in church and men were not allowed to wear hats in church.  Will God really get pissed off if an 8-year-old girl walks into church with no hat on?  Or an 88-year-old man wheels into church wearing one?  If so, God needs to chill.  They since did away with that dictum, along with a bunch of other senseless rules, and therein lies one of the problems I have with organized religion as a whole.  If the point of religion is to give people guidelines to live by, shouldn't those guidelines never change?  It's wrong to kill people--always has been, always will be, that's a good rule; I can see a religion having that rule.  Also the stuff about loving one another, that's a keeper, it actually sort of dovetails into the whole non-killing thing, when you think about it.  But my point is, that's the kind of stuff religion should be concerned with, not when you're supposed to wear a fucking hat.  Sorry, got a little carried away there. .

Anyroad, my mother also told me stuff that still doesn't make sense.  When I was in fifth grade, she told me the worse thing a boy could ever do to you is let his tongue touch your tongue.  (That was as close as I ever got to discussing sex with my mother.)  I'm sorry, Ma, but I disagree.  I think having a boy not appreciate you, not respect you and not support you (emotionally, not economically) is a helluva lot worse.  Besides, I really like that tongue-touching thing. She also told me if I had bad handwriting I'd never get married; (Perhaps, after 20 years, my penmanship went downhill and caused my divorce?) and that girls shouldn't whistle, it makes the angels cry.  She might have been right about that one, I can't verify it, but I do know if you whistle in a theatre you'll get the shit beat out of you, so maybe angels are big theatre lovers.  Cool.  

Although, whistling in a theatre being bad luck is a superstition, not like religious rules, which are. . . .oh, wait. . . 

The point of all this, (which I have taken way too long to get to, sorry), is that when you tell your kids "life lessons", try to remember that they're going to remember them their whole life, not just till they turn 13. (At which point, they will stop listening to anything you say to them.)  And kids don't like being lied to, except about Santa Claus, and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.  Talk to them the way you like people to talk to you, only with with fewer swear words and references to 80's sitcoms.   At least until they turn 13.