Advice Your Mom Never Gave You

No good can ever come from a sex tape.

Just Say No to Sex and Grease

Fast food and sex. Yuck! Who thinks that take-out food is an aphrodisiac other than Timbaland and his pretty boy mouthpiece Justin Timberlake? In their latest overproduced, auto-tune dependent collaboration, they compare a woman’s body to fast food in an overwrought extended metaphor loaded with double entrendes, eighth grade horny boy humor and nonsensical lyrics that are crimes against the art of rhyming.

Sure, everyone likes a good sex metaphor in their music (i.e. Little Red Corvette or Prince’s less well-known but equally clever Tambourine).  “Take my order cause your body like a carry-out,” (which pretty much means listen to my sexual instructions because your body is like a ton of carbs and fat, dripping with grease, and served hot in some cardboard and paper-wrappers) falls seriously short of a good sex metaphor. Women and grease--clearly male fantasies inspired this piece of art work.  

And, it only gets worse with the ridiculous incorporation of fast-food slogans such as “I can tell the way you like it, baby, supersized,” and “Have it your way, foreplay.”  Timbaland throws in a silly simile: “I’ll have you open all night like I-HOP.” Not really seeing much sexiness associated with blue-roofed restaurants that serve pancakes at all hours. And, really this line is just a less interesting version of Salt-N-Peppa’s line from Whatta Man: “From seven to seven he's got me open like Seven Eleven,” which is more imaginative and more beneficial to the woman. 

Then, there is the bizarre rhyme, “Baby get my order right, no errors/Imma touch you in all the right areas.”  Yes, Timbaland rhymed errors and areas.  In the poetry world, near rhymes are pretty standard and sometimes make stanzas flow smoother than exact rhymes, but this rhyme is far from a near rhyme. In fact, the only way it works is for the pronunciation to be slaughtered with errors is pronounced eras, which is a different word with a totally different meaning. 

Although not fantastic poetry the sexual locutions are somewhat coherent until the line: Now let me walk into your body until you hear me out.  Ouch. Not too much eroticism associated with walking into a body, so that phrase means something totally different in the rap-world, or it was just a filler line to make the chorus work. Words have meaning and sentences have structure; they are not the breadcrumbs in your grandmother’s meatloaf.

It is a good thing that Timbaland and Timberlake have money because they ain’t gettin’ no carry-out with those lines.  

 

Just Another Day in the Children's Ward

X-Box, movies, cartoons, Gameboy, coloring books, ceramics, Webkinz on mom’s laptop, many stuffed animals, and root beer floats for lunch while hanging out in an adjustable bed.  The scene looks like something out of Home Alone 2.  The starring role belongs to a handsome five-year-old brunette who rivals, if not surpasses, Macaulay Culkin in both cuteness and charm.

But, he is not in a hotel gorging on candy. He isn’t on vacation although he does enjoy all the gifts and junk food that must not be shared with his two brothers and sister.  His holiday fails to be restful and pleasurable as poking and prodding continually interrupts his Phineas and Ferb marathon. Electrical wires on his head to monitor the activity of his brain are only a minor nuisance for a Super Mario Brothers champion.

No amount of needles and medical devices can slow down a practical joker. Physical limitations only make the mind sharper, meaner and more imaginative. He soon discovers there are no shortage of ways to mess with nurses and doctors like moving the bed up and down during examinations, sticking out his tongue, or doing the standard same answer to everything trick. “Does it hurt?” Yes. “Does it not hurt?” Yes.    

His standard answer is easily dismissed as him not understanding the questions and prompts little response from his caregivers.  So, he tweaks his answers. “How are you feeling?” Poo-poo. “Can I examine you?” Poo-poo.  “Where did you get those dimples?”  In your butt.

One could call him a hostile patient or just an inconvenienced five-year-old who really doesn’t have time in his busy schedule of coloring, Gameboy playing and mischief making to be interrupted. Other than the annoyance of a weak left hand and a partial seizure here and there that sometimes makes him fall or causes his leg or arm to shake for a few seconds, he goes about his life and resumes his activities whether he is playing Wii or Kung-Fu fighting with his younger brother. He fails to know that his trip to the hospital has forever changed his paradigm of normal. X-Box, movies, cartoons, Gameboy, coloring books, ceramics, Webkinz on mom’s laptop will never be quite the same. 

On Hospital Food

“The doctor’s French toast is better than mom’s,” says the five-year-old patient.

To Spank or To Kiss

A grim diagnosis for his son’s future leaves Dad exhausted and depressed. He stays in bed a little longer than the rest of the family.

All four kids jump onto the bed to wake him. Nothing rouses him out of his grumpy haze until his middle son leaves the room only to yell: “Dad, I am having shakes!”

Dad leaps out of bed.

Mischievous son responds: “Ha, ha, Dad. Got you out of bed!”

Time out!

Strict rules are laid out about faking seizures to get attention. Punishments are clearly defined.

Mom secretly laughs about her practical joker’s innovativeness.

If Only It Were a Play

Shakespeare outraged the sensibilities of the Elizabethan society with his play King Lear and the death of the innocent Cornelia. The youngest sister’s demise ultimately points to a Godless universe.

I am inclined to go with Shakespeare’s theory.

There will be no pleas made to an all-powerful being that would allow a five-year-old’s life to deteriorate.

He is no God of mine.

A Child's View of Healthcare

No matter what questions the nurses and doctors ask, the child responds: “Poo. Poo.”

He then tells his parents: “You can’t give a kid in the hospital a spanking or time-out.

An Observation

A children's hospital is the saddest and scariest place on Earth.

A Spoon Full Medicine for the Politicians and Pundits to Choke On

I am not a political blogger.

I am not a Democrat and certainly am not a Republican.

I don’t understand the business of medicine and the politics of medicine confound me much more. Why is life and death even up for debate? I don’t the answer.

I am just a mom. A mom with a sick kid.

My child should not be politicized, and his health certainly isn’t fodder for debate.

Please do not treat my child’s life like a commodity.

He is more than your bottom line.

Internet Safety for Cyberstalkers

There is a lot irrational fear out there about cyberstalking and cyberharrassment. So remember that it could be considered cyberbullying to become Facebook friends with ex-classmates (like the girls who ridiculed your strawberry shortcake panties in 11th gym class and teased you about your unnatural bond and obsession with horses) just so you can ask: “Are you still a bitch who does guys in back allies?” No matter how fun it would be in the moment, it is so not worth the long term consequences. But if you are careful and remember not to hit enter, you can type a message every morning for an adrenaline rush stronger than your usual cup of Earl Grey tea, shot of Red Bull and Snickers bar.

Also, it is clearly not appropriate to blow up a thumbnail of the guy who sat diagonal from you in 10th grade geometry class into multiple 24 x 36 wall posters to hang in your basement studio. Really anything over a 4 x 6 is just plain creepy.

Stayed tuned for tips.

Remembering Misanthropy

Motherhood miraculously transforms a self-indulgent misanthrope into a semi-perky soccer mom and PTA volunteer who loves playing Monopoly with her children and baking cakes almost from scratch (if that is what you call a little help from a box).

But oh, how she abhors the genuinely and completely perky moms who bake moist, fluffy cakes in high altitude while simultaneously hand-sewing Halloween costumes, applying perfectly pink lipstick to evenly shaped lips and posting pictures of their homegrown tomatoes to Facebook. 

Clearly, these women have never read Tolstoy or Dostoevsky or Ibsen or Kate Chopin, or Charlotte Perkins Gilman or Sylvia Plath or really anybody other than Nora Roberts or Jackie Collins.  And, they probably have no clue how to spell "melancholy."

A Romantic Among Bloodsuckers

Am I the only person who doesn’t find blood-sucking sexy? Is it only me who has no interest in being seduced by dog-like humans or human-like dogs? 

However, the fact that Dr. John Polidori's 1819 short story "The Vampyre," was inspired by his sexually adventurous, voraciously passionate and fearlessly poetic patient Lord Byron is just damn sexy. 

Do you think the teens would notice if I slipped a little Lord Byron in with their copies of Twilight and Vampire Academy? (Such an inappropriate thought for a public librarian.) 

Trash Calling Rubbish Stinky

You know you’re a bad writer when Stephen King says you are.  

In an interview with USA Weekend, King compares children’s writer J.K. Rowling and teen writer Stephenie Meyer. He states: "Both Rowling and Meyer, they're speaking directly to young people... The real difference is that Jo Rowling is a terrific writer and Stephenie Meyer can't write worth a darn. She's not very good."

Harsh coming from a writer who when asked by Barbara Walters if he ever read Jane Austen or Tolstoy proudly responded, “No.”

Dirty Thoughts

I will not come to the end of my life and regret not having better smelling bathrooms and cleaner floors.

The dishes can wait till morning, and does anyone really care about a little dust on the baseboards?

Reversal of Fortune

Time and gravity are fantastic equalizers.

Facebook Makes Me a Better Person

My house is cleaner. My kids are cleaner. I read great books and make daring and delicious dinners and desserts. I spend quality time with my kids and husband. I spend hours on my writing and love going to my job.

Where is this positive attitude coming from? What has brought about this transformation? Facebook status updates and photo albums, of course. Because is really worth doing if you can’t brag to your 300 Facebook friends?

P.S.

I do go to grocery stores, hair stylists, dentists and restaurants too, but I do all that non-feed worthy stuff half-ass. I am not perfect. I just the play perfect mom, wife, and librarian on Facebook. Don’t you too?

When Doves Talk Too Damn Much

“Shut up already, damn!” Prince really needs follow the directive given in the first line of “Housequake.” After reading a few of his recent interviews, it is clear the man should be locked up and released only to perform.  Sure, Prince has always given bizarre and cryptic sound bites but that just added to crazy-sexy mystic. Now he is no longer the eccentric virtuoso wearing assless pants and ruffle blouses, but more the aging pop star, who writes lame, ineffectual fight songs and babbles about conspiracy theories involving chemtrails.

Although it is unfortunate that the fight song written for his home team, the Minnesota Vikings, caused TMZ to rename Prince, “The Artist Formerly Known as Talented,”  Purple & Gold is just one example in a long list of songs that proves that Prince can indeed write and produce truly awful music. Anyone remember the dreadful little ditty, “My Name is Prince?”  For every brilliant gem like “The Beautiful Ones” or “Starfish & Coffee,” there is a “Jughead” or “Mr. Goodnight.” For every iconic album like Purple Rain or Sign O’ the Times, there is a Rave Un2 the Joy Fantastic or Planet Earth. His musical missteps are excused by the sheer brilliance, diversity and enormity of his overall catalog, and the credibility that he has in the music community earns him forgiveness for the Symbol name change and Slave scribbling on his check during his break-up with Warner Bros. But, his comments of race, politics, religion, and sexual orientation cannot be easily dismissed. 

While discussing the topic of race with PBS talk show host, Tavis Smiley, Prince mentioned "this phenomenon of chemtrails." He implied a connection between an increase in aircraft trails that coincided with an inexplicable increase in "fighting and arguing" in his neighborhood (not his swank gated community in Minneapolis but his native hood).  Everyone has their favorite conspiracy theories. (I am partial to the one where the Kennedys killed Marilynn Monroe.) But some could argue that poverty, substandard housing, poor schools, few legitimate job opportunities, and drugs lead to crime and violence in the inner city and not chemicals sprayed by the government to keep non-white communities down.

And, when Prince isn’t rambling about government oppression while simultaneously emphasizing that he doesn’t vote, he is talking about God. He has always had a lot to say about God, but it was a lot more interesting when he advocated a direct path to spirituality through sex. (See entire Lovesexy album.) Now he holds more dogmatic, rigid and downright homophobic religious beliefs as demonstrated by comments made in an interview with the New Yorker. When asked about gay marriage, Prince pointed to his bible and said: “God came to earth and saw people sticking it wherever and doing it with whatever, and he just cleared it all out. He was, like, 'Enough.'"

Does he not realize that smart people read the New Yorker, a huge portion of his fan base is gay and some of his former bandmates (especially members like Wendy and Lisa who helped him become a star) are gay? Should an artist who has given us songs like Head, Jack U Off, Sister (an incest tune that you can dance too), Let’s Pretend We’re Married (with the classic Prince line, “I'm not sayin' this just 2 be nasty/I sincerely wanna fuck the taste out of your mouth), Erotic City, Hide the Bone and Come  (with specific details on where his tongue should be placed and how it should be moved) really be telling people where they should and should not be sticking things?

Oh how I long for days when he didn’t give interviews. 

I Forgive You, Robert Downey, Jr.

Robert Downey, Jr., you inflicted my heart with great pain in 2000, but I am finally ready to forgive you for causing the cancellation of Ally McBeal. Yes, it was you-- not the writers, or the network executives, or advertisers-- that led to the demise of the Emmy winning dramedy.

Among sagging ratings, you were hired to save the show. You succeeded. Viewership skyrocketed and advertisers were back on board. You won a Golden Globe for your work as Larry Paul. The chemistry between you and Calista Flockhart was just hot, hot, hot. Ally McBeal was back in the ratings game all because of you.

Then it happened, you got arrested. Came back to work, and you got arrested yet again. You couldn’t stay out jail. Like most drug addicts, even the ones with talent, you lost your job.

Your dismissal left the show in such an embarrassingly abyssal state that David E. Kelly reached deep into the bowels of desperation and called upon Jon (can act slightly better than he can sing) Bon Jovi and a relatively undiscovered Hayden Panettiere to save the show. It didn’t work and Ally McBeal was canceled one season later.

So, there I was, alone in a lurch on Monday nights. Obviously, not much going on for the leading lady either; thus, resulting in the Calista Flockhart/Harrison Ford coupling. Really? If she would have worked just a few seasons longer, the world would have been spared the low-rent version of Lara Flynn Boyle/Jack Nicholson.

Eventually, I was able to move on by watching Ally McBeal in a hospital also known as Scrubs. Later, I fixated on a more whiny and depressed version of Ally known as Meredith Grey. But really, no other show served as an adequate substitute for imaginary dancing babies and Barry White songs in a co-ed bathroom.

But time has passed…slowly when there was nothing good on T.V. It has been almost a decade since your termination. You have redeemed yourself by making super hero movies watchable and putting the sexy back in Sherlock Holmes. Oh yeah, kicking your drug habit and living a life of sobriety isn’t too shabby either.

So, all is forgiven Robert Downey, Jr.