Commercials, Again

1. A woman opens a gift from her boyfriend. The gift is a teapot, small in size. The woman doesn't bother to hide the fact that the tiny teapot represents her deepest fear: being alone forever. She becomes hysterical.

Jesus Christ. Calm the fuck down. It's only a teapot. You manage to take something thoughtful, something sweet, something bought with you in mind, and bastardize it with your own insecurities.

The boyfriend sticks around. He decides that yes, this woman, this woman who cannot handle receiving a simple gift without flipping out, this woman who puts enormous emphasis on inanimate objects, this woman who blames him for the way she feels about herself, is worth his time and affection.

So, he buys her a larger teapot. She could really give a shit.

It's not until she opens a box with an "open heart" diamond necklace inside that she realizes he truly loves her: the necklace says love.

Hey, ungrateful asshole? All the human atrocities that happened in order to deliver those diamonds to your precious neck aside, why don't you stop being so materialistic and recognize his efforts?

But then I wonder what she has to do to prove she loves him.

She deserves to chokes on it.

2. A man and a woman are lounging by a pool. They are a couple. The woman leaves to take a dip in the pool. The man keeps dickin' around on his cell phone. When the woman emerges from the pool, the man pictures her as NFL running back, Adrian Peterson.

Hold on. Am I the only one who hears the needle scratch across the record?

You're picturing your hot girlfriend--who is wearing a bikini, by the way--as a male athlete? You realize what this means, right?

You are SO gay! You are pass-the-glow-sticks, my-wet-bikini-wearing-girlfriend-can't-hold-my-interest, I-like-touching-penises gay!

And that's okay. There's nothing wrong with being gay. But maybe next time you decide to go on vacation you should bring someone else. Someone who has an Adam's apple. Someone who pees standing up. Someone who will fill out that NFL uniform and fulfill your every fantasy.

O-oh, now I get it! Fantasy football.

Hump-day Haiku: The Housewives

Oh no she didn't;
She done pulled out my new weave!
Long season ahead.

Trophies and children,
Being a Housewife is hard.
Real age cannot show.

The men they marry
provide giant bank accounts.
I'm kind of single.

Housewives plus psychic
will ruin a perfectly
good dinner party.

A Super Bowl Stain

Muscles were flexed. Chests were thumped. A winner was declared. It was another triumph for man.

I love football. I've been a fan since I was a child. Memories of watching Super Bowls surrounded by family are cemented in my mind like a cracked sidewalk. I love the camaraderie, the feeling of having so many people focused on the same outcome, the way sport brings communities together. I love the drama, the intensity, the highs and lows of watching machines perform at their highest level.

Last night was the first Super Bowl I watched in disgust.

Every time the commentators referred to Big Ben, I wanted to throw up. Because, unlike the commentators, I remembered when the season started and Big Ben was suspended for six games, which was reduced to four. Why? Good behavior? Doubtful. Quarterbacks make NFL owners money. Lots of money. And when a high profile quarter back like Ben Roethlisberger is on the bench, it affects the marketability and profitability of the team, in sales and team wins.

When a professional athlete like Big Ben can rape two women--yes, I think he's guilty--and still get to play in the biggest game, under the brightest lights, with a payday bonus, I am incensed. Add to that fire that not a single commentator mentioned it and I want to destroy highways with my bare hands.

I'm sure the NFL wanted to keep the idea of the Super Bowl and everyone involved squeaky clean. Ever since Nipplegate, the Super Bowl has been under a microscope. A commentator mentioning how far Big Ben had come during the season, after all his turmoil, would have only reminded the audience that the NFL protects its own. Besides, the beginning of the season was such a long time ago. And Big Ben made amends by leading his team to another Super Bowl.

Fuck it and fuck him! And fuck Favre too.

Happy as I am, it provides little comfort that Big Ben sucked. Choked. Lost. Now I worry he'll take his frustration out on another women.

Being Moved

There is no greater feeling than to finish reading a book and have the characters stay with you, finding that you think of them throughout the day, wonder about them before you fall asleep. You can't stop thanking them for showing you a different way--different from how you would have gone about it--to get somewhere.

This recently happened to me after reading Anthropology of An American Girl by Hilary Thayer Hamann. She took average, everyday people and made their lives exciting to follow. I couldn't put it down.

These days, if I'm not moved by something--either emotionally, physically or creatively--I don't waste my time on it. It's why I quickly lose interest in most movies and cannot tune into what the Housewives are doing on Jersey Shore.

Last night, I was moved by seven women who showed me a different way to discovery. How does one go about finding one's way out of a notion that the world does not find them valuable? I've not seen the Tyler Perry version of for colored girls who have considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf. I think Tyler Perry shows us stereotypes instead of people--his movies do not move me. Ntozake Shange, on the other hand, wrote a work that left me clinging. Clinging to the idea that every woman finds her worth and never looks back.

My wife, who graced the stage as the lady in blue, transformed herself into a woman that I cried for, rooted for. And when it was over, and my wife came back to me, I was grateful, knowing that we are two women who will never let another determine our worth and recognize that in each other.

Hello, iPhone

The iPhone officially went on sale, this morning at 1:00 a.m. mountain time, for Verizon customers.

Was it hard for me to sleep last night? Yes.

Did I wake up a little after midnight, fall back asleep and dream about ordering an iPhone, and then wake up again at 1:14--in the a.m.--to drag my sleepy body across the cold bedroom, into the bathroom where I had my MacBook standing by for ordering purposes? Yeah, I probably did.

Did I panic when Verizon (online) wouldn't let me transfer the upgrade from my wife's phone to mine in order to get the iPhone? Yes. And did I try calling customer service at 1:30 in the morning? You betcha <insert Palin-style wink> I did. But they don't start assisting customers until 6:00 in the morning.

I realize I might have a problem.

But I can't help it. Or maybe I can but I don't want to. I'm addicted to technology. I'm especially addicted to Apple products. It started with the iPod Nano and I haven't looked back. iPod Shuffle, iPod Touch, MacBook. Plain and simple: Apple doesn't make shitty products. If they were made in the US, they would be perfection.

I used to have the Blackberry Storm. What a piece of shit. My wife has a different Blackberry and I hate it. (Stupid rolly-ball gadget thingy!) I have looked forward to having an iPhone in my hot little hand for years. Come next Thursday, Apple can release a statement, officially recognizing me as their bitch.

Hump-day Haiku: Egypt

When your citizens
Will not stop chanting you suck,
You probably do.

The best dictators
Rule through fear and repression.
Just like religion.

He's not stepping down?
President Mubarak thinks
he still has control.

Egypt; Tunisia
proves voices are powerful.
Ours order lattes.

To the Death

It is no secret that when it comes to guilty pleasures, Gossip Girl is at the top of my list (see post titled, "Guilty Pleasures").

On last week's episode, Dan--the writer--had an interview for an internship with Writers House, one of the premiere literary agencies in New York City. (I have been rejected by two of their agents: one by way of a form rejection, and the other by way of a really sweet, personalized rejection.) Dan ends up missing his interview because he waits for Serena, who has promised to meet him.

You're a dumbass, Dan.

But then if Dan were real, he would have never waited. Nothing would have been more important than his interview with Writers House. Not even the death of his mother.

Last night's episode featured the name dropping of Lorrie Moore. I couldn't believe it. Of all the authors in the world, Lorrie Moore! I was so happy for her. Her book is featured on my web page, being read by my literary minded basset. And yes, the picture was there before the episode aired.

As silly as Gossip Girl oftentimes seems, it really is on the cutting edge of fashion, music--Florence and the Machine are going to be on next week!? No way!--and now, writers. They can keep rehashing their story lines. I don't care. Because as long as they keep surprising me with their knowledge of the writing industry, I'll defend Gossip Girl to the death!

Let It Be

I'm well aware that television isn't real. That actors are following a script. So last night, when an actor said to gather all the dogs and poison them, I should have met the news with nothing more than a well-isn't-he-an-asshole shaking of the head. Instead, I squeezed my wife's hand and told her to help me. I could do nothing to stop the tears from filling my eyes. From thinking about the people who really feel that way and do poison dogs. From thinking about all the animals out in the world suffering, like I'm thinking right now. (Why did I have to go and bring it all up again?)

My wife looked at me and explained what I already knew--the dogs were paid actors, they were living a life of leisure, and they were having fun being on set. She was right. Still, it took me awhile to get a hold of myself.

If you haven't yet guessed it, yes, I am highly sensitive when it comes to animals.

I Am Legend almost sent me into cardiac arrest.

And Up almost killed me.

My wife is on constant commercial alert. As soon as the Sarah McLachlan songs starts, there is a panic to find the remote. I have yet to see that commercial in its entirety and for good reason. It could destroy me for days. In the arms of an angel is all I need to hear to remind me that animals are being mistreated, mishandled, and they are suffering. My wife is wise to not only keep me from it, but to keep herself from having to put me back together. She is sweet, kind, and downright wonderful when it comes to understanding my sensitivity makes me who I am. Nothing more, nothing less. Not to make fun of me or use it against me. She simply lets it be.

And in the same breath, when she clutches the arm of the sofa and her body turns to stone and she stops breathing, I spring into action, crawling around on the floor with the flashlight, waiting for the spider to crawl back out from under the sofa. Knowing that it is under her, where she is sitting, crawling around, making plans, is almost too much for her to handle. So I do what I can to keep her from it. I wrangle the little guys onto a piece of paper and throw them back outside. I would never taunt or tease her with them. I would never use them against her.

We all have our stuff. And when I think about how consuming stuff can become, I am grateful that my wife and I look out for each other. Otherwise, I may never get out of bed, and she may never sleep.

In the Dumps

It occurred to me yesterday that I might not be handling this rejection business as well as I thought. I haven't bothered sending a query letter in sixteen days. I haven't followed any agents on twitter in two weeks. And, besides my postings, I haven't written a word in almost a month.

Houston, we have a problem.

Really? I know I'm crumbling when I use a cliché to express myself.

Why have I decided to pull down my pants and show my ass? Why have I taken such a passive approach to my future? Why can't I manage to crawl out of the dump of doubt? Because I recently thought, for the first time, 'What if I've written a shitty book!?'

Why this revelation has never presented itself before is a mystery. I shelved my ego years ago but now I wonder if it has been with me the entire time, hiding me from the harsh reality that maybe I'm not that great of a writer.

It doesn't matter how many people tell me it isn't true. It doesn't matter how many people tell me that they enjoy my writing. Nothing can overcome self doubt except self confidence.

I don't know where my confidence has gone, but if it doesn't come back soon I may have to call myself something other than "writer". And when I think of my doubt in those terms, it makes me want to prove myself wrong.

The Challenges of Yoga

Rodney Yee is telling me to feel my breath. I feel it. It is nice. Moving in and out of my chest, filing into the parts of my body that are stretching.

Downward facing dog. My eyes close as Rodney tells me to focus on the back of my legs. I'm thinking about how one day, even if I pull something, my goddamn heels are going to touch the ground, when something wet hits my face.

I open my eyes and see Parker, mutt extraordinaire, excitedly wagging his nub of a tail because there is finally room for him in the routine. He stands under me like we're playing London Bridge and it's time for it to fall down. He licks my face again.

It is time to put my right foot forward, left foot forward, for standing forward bend. Rodney says nothing about maneuvering around the dog obstacle.

I sternly suggest Parker find a bed and lay down. He dejectedly walks away.

And it is time to sit down. Cobbler's pose is my favorite.

Rodney, leading me through various poses, eventually tells me to lay on my stomach and prepare for cobra pose. My forehead meets the mat, and I start thinking that what Rodney is really telling me is to go back to sleep. Rodney says to slowly lift my chest forward and up. I do.

I am staring into a dog snout that is one quarter of an inch from my face, into pleading eyes so happy that I have finally noticed his presence, Parker laying on his side like a horse who has just finished rolling around in the dirt.

He scares the shit out of me.

Rodney tells me to slowly lower back down and prepare for another cobra pose. My forehead, once again, meets the mat. I feel weight near my head. Air, from a nose, blows into my hair. A low and sleepy moan escapes, but it does not belong to me.

I lift my chest again.

Parker, spooning his head against my head, fills the open space my lifting chest creates with his head and paws. His restlessness is mounting.

I know, buddy. I'm almost done.

Rodney tells me to slowly roll back down. My forehead lands on Parker's front paw. He has no intention of moving it. We stay this way until Rodney tells me to roll over for relaxation pose. I move the paw and roll over onto my back.

Ah. That's nice.

A paw lands on my head.

I remove it.

A paw lands on my face.

I remove that one, too.

A nose buries into my hair.

And, here we go.

Celie, the basset, is up and off her bed, heading towards me. She runs her face into my face. She runs around me, her tail repeatedly hits me in the face and head. Parker steps on my hair. Celie tries to climb onto my chest. They run around and over me. I twist, turn, lean away from them, but they are unrelenting in their we-demand-attention! rhetoric.

Rodney tells me to roll over onto my right side and use my hands to help me sit up. I can't, Rodney! I have two dogs vying for the best position from which to garner my attention and favor!

I hear Rodney tell me Namaste. I tell him Pawmaste and turn off the television.