Don't You Wish Your Girlfriend Were Hot Like Her?

When I dream of being in my sixties, do you know what I dream of? Helen Mirren's life. She's sexy, but age-appropriate, smart and funny, found undying love in her fifties with a man who is clearly still head over heals in love with her after being together for nearly two decades, and she just won an Oscar.

Okay, I'd be fine if it weren't an Oscar. Perhaps a Nobel Prize for Literature. But still.... You get my point. If someone can look that fabulous at the Oscars, surrounded by 22-year-old stick figures, looking every inch a full-grown woman, then so can I, dammit!

Helen Mirren.

That's who I want to be when I grow up.

~C~

I Gotta Get a New Job.

Oprah Winfrey makes $483 per minute. And she doesn't even have a master's degree.

Can someone please hand me a razorblade?

Thanks.

~C~

Yeah, I Got Your Cupid -- Right Here!

I hate Valentine's Day. Okay, so now you know -- if you're one of those "gooey-in-love-hearts-and-flowers-'why-do-you-angry-Vagina-Monologues-loving-bitches-have-to-attack-the-sacred-institution-of-Valentine's-Day'" types, you'll want to divert your browser immediately to another URL. But maybe you'd be better off if you heard me out. Because I'm not just being a feminist here. I really think its a bad idea all the way round, in more ways than one. Let's start with the most superficial aspects. The color scheme sucks, the art is hokey and poorly drawn, and the entire idea is kind of small-minded and mean-spirited.

For the sake of full disclosure, I should be upfront about the fact that I suffer from the notorious Valentine's Day Curse. For those of you who don't, this is the syndrome where one begins to date someone in March of one year, only to end up breaking up with them (or being broken up with by them) in January of the next, never having experienced the "joys" of being part of a couple on Valentine's Day. I've no idea why this is. It's just seemed to happen this way. Even when I was married, Valentine's Day was usually a forgotten or last minute holiday, buried in the realities of past-due bills and dirty diapers.

So, I guess there's reason to suspect I am a little bitter about Valentine's Day in general. I've even been accused by people who don't know me well of being "unromantic" and "cynical." Though I might cop to a little V-Day Envy, let me clear up the latter charges here and now. My cynicism is reserved for things that warrant it -- like politics and the entertainment industry. But when it comes to love -- and everyone who knows me will tell you this -- I am, in fact, hopelessly romantic and, when in love, unrelentingly naive and "love-conquers-all"-ish.

But I stand by my original assertion that we should do away with this hokey fraud of a holiday. It's history has been written and rewritten by the likes of first Chaucer (nice guy, but not known for his restrained historical notation), then Hallmark and American Greetings, it was sanctioned by candy makers for the purposes of promoting chocolate (not like that's a bad thing, mind you), and its become an opportunity for manufacturers to peddle their wares to everyone from kindergarten teachers to jewelry shoppers.

Here's why I think Valentine's Day is useless and maybe even dangerous. I think we can agree that, for the most part, Valentine's Day is a holiday for women. Men usually show little if any interest in it, unless they are in a relationship. Which is not to say that unattached men don't get notice it, or don't feel left out when it comes around. The blog Bitter Asian Men has a survival guide to assist the single Asian man in surviving this wretched day. Lewis Black has implied that putting the holiday in dismally grey February might be tantamount to inviting singles to commit suicide ("Maybe I should slash my wrists, just so I can see some color!!"). But for the most part, men don't bother with things like candy and flowers unless urged by women. (Yes. I know there are exceptions, and if you're lucky enough to have married one, keep it to yourself. It's never good to advertise your man, sister.)

I have a theory about "romance," as its commonly defined, and just what it has done for Western Civilization as we know it. First off, here in our country, we have a 54% divorce rate, nationwide. In the Bible-belt states, where OurLordJesusChrist seems to have a close personal relationship with every last living soul, the rate is more like 61%. I believe that fairytale, hearts-and-flowers expectation is a huge part of the problem. Romance needs to be redefined, and as long as you have compliant, terrified little sorority girls and huge corporations with a vested financial interest setting the terms of what qualifies as romance, we'll continue to be lost in a sea of doilies and candy hearts.

I think we need to be reminded what love is. I think we need to remember that love isn't about diamonds and tissue paper and February 14th. He can be as nice as pie every Valentine's Day and ignore you the other 364 days a year, and that's not alright. Love is about what you bring every day, in terms of showing up and listening and being there. And if he's there for you every day, propping you up, supporting you, listening to you (which is really hard for me to do because we talk -- a LOT!), and yet manages to forget to buy just the right bouquet or make the right dinner reservation or send the right e-Card, he's skewered. That's what I hate most about Valentine's Day -- it's use as a cudgel to punish if the love doesn't come in a pretty box with bow we like. And don't tell me you don't do it, because I've heard you guys on February 15th in the office kitchen bitching because he didn't buy the right wine or get your hint about that fabulous diamond tennis bracelet you've been wanting.

So, this is why I think we need to start rearranging our priorities when it comes to men, women and romance. And this is why I think that this year, instead of taking your date out on February 14, you should eat out on the 9th, or the 11th or (dare I suggest?) the 17th. Instead of chocolate candy in a heart-shaped box, get a gigantic Pixy Stix for two. Instead of diamonds... okay, let's not get too crazy all at once. If I make the ban-the-diamond suggestion this month, I'm liable to get jumped by a roving band of yuppie princesses. But if I may just put forth an idea here. Allow me to point out that, as beautiful as diamonds are, you never know which ones were mined by a West African child under threat of having their arms amputated (cuz you know most men don't bother with such tidy details as "conflict-free" when it comes to shopping for jewelry). Just a thought to remember as you're showing your lovely new tennis bracelet to your girlies at the club.

It's time to start doing away with this so-called holiday (trumped up and manufactured as it is) and start celebrating real love, everyday love, without that little naked baby and his god-damned arrow (and may I just ask -- where the hell is his mother? What idiot lets a little kid play with a bow and arrow like that?)

Happy February 14th, folks. May it bring all the appropriate joy and fulfillment to you and those you love.

~C~

(Hey, I made a lovely little fractal painting in honor of the damn day. What more do you people want? Okay, so I've named it Valentine's Mayhem... so sue me....)

"Well, Aren't You Special?"

We interrupt the extremely serious Congressional debate on escalating the Iraqi War, the who's who of who's not testifying in the Scooter Libby trial, and the ongoing fistfight between the American Catholic contingent and feminist bloggers to bring you this message of extreme, if not earth-shattering, importance.

At Sunday's Grammy Awards Ceremony, Comedian Lewis Black won a Grammy for best comedy album for his hilarious Carnegie Hall Performance.

Black's competition in the category consisted of no less than one of his idols, George Carlin (for Life is Worth Losing), as well as Ron White (for You Can't Fix Stupid), "Weird Al" Yankovic (for Straight Outta Lynwood), and the Blue Collar Comedy guys -- Bill Engvall, Jeff Foxworthy, Ron White (again!) and Larry the Cable Guy (for Blue Collar Comedy Tour — One For The Road).

I missed the awards ceremonies broadcast on Sunday, because I was out... uhhh... having a life, you might say. Those who know me know that I have no patience for such things -- its all I can do to choke down the Oscars once a year. And that's if you throw a party and feed me unspeakably tantalizing delicacies and potables.

But I am happy Lewis Black won. His nervous, nerdy thank you speech was really refreshing. Still crushing on him. Wanna date him. There ya go.

Also, the formerly besieged Dixie Chicks seem to have weathered their political storm. They went five for five, including Best Record and Best Album (Taking the Long Way) at the Grammys, and gave a kick-ass performance of their winning record, I'm Not Ready to Make Nice.

So, good news all the way around -- a nice little island in a sea of political, social and environmental drek....

Now, on to Valentine's Day.... Motherpussbucketall!!!

~C~

79 Pounds

That's what our father weighs now. Seventy-nine pounds. He's five nine. When the hospice nurse was inputting his information and she heard his height and weight, she stopped typing for a moment and said, thoughtfully, "Yes, that's... slim." Slim. A masterpiece of understatement.

In the past week or two before my sister had flown here, he'd contracted aspiration pneumonia which was the excuse that landed him in the hospital overnight, just long enough for the neurologist to finally be able to do the necessary testing to diagnose his mobility issues. He has a problem with the medical/dental profession -- like thinking he knows more than they do. So, it took a lot of doing, and a mention that pneumonia could kill him, to make him submit to any form of diagnostic tests. It didn't take much, given his level of deterioration. A day later, my sister was sitting in the room with him when the word came down. Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. Lou Gehrig's Disease. Advanced. Untreatable. Incurable. In short, terminal. They assigned him to hospice care and sent him home, pretty sure, I'm sure, that he'd die of the pneumonia before the ALS could get him for good. He didn't.

The life expectancy for ALS is somewhere around five years from first symptoms to succumbing. We're approaching the five-year mark within the next couple of months. Things are beginning to change in strange ways. That's why I had to hand it over to my sister. We'd agreed from the beginning that I'd do it for as long as I could, and then she'd bat clean-up.

Now, we're there.

I've moved. She's taken a leave of absence, and come from her home to stay until it's all over. He's recovered from the pneumonia, so is feeling just good enough to be difficult and ornery again. He's decided it's cigarettes that are his only hope, and all this newfangled breathing treatment just gets in the way of his smoking. I think he's pretty sure that we're trying to kill him when we do things that require that he postpone the next cigarette. In actuality, we've decided that if it makes him feel better, he should continue to smoke. He has Lou Gehrig's Disease, for crying out loud. Smoking is entirely beside the point right about now.

It's all frustrating, but not as much for me anymore, because he's not in my face. My sister has to deal with him now, and so she's the bad guy. She's always looked better in black than I have, so its suits her better. He doesn't push her buttons the way he did mine. Now, I come and go as I please, and then get to my little space and cuddle my cats. And its all good.

Or at least, as good as it can be. Maybe not good, good. Just good, comparatively.

So, if you're family, and you haven't heard from us, this is probably why. Talking about this has been difficult. Telling people is hard. I've had to call people I've been out of touch with for months or years and say, "Hey, how ya doin'? D'ja hear Dad's got Lou Gehrig's?" What are they supposed to say? I feel horrible for them, because in a way, the diagnosis has brought us a bit of relief. It's provided us the comfort of knowing our enemy. It's also provided us access to hospice care, which is the greatest invention in patient care in the history of modern medicine. These people are freakin' angels. After a year or more of being told by home caregivers, "No, we can't do that," or "I'm afraid workman's comp won't let us provide that," someone has come into the house and said, "Yes." "Whatever you want -- as much or as little." (insert god rays and heavenly choir of cherubim and seraphim here) How we survived this long without it, I'll never know. So, if you've gotten this news before and have gone into denial, let me take this opportunity to yank you out. It's happening, it's real, and if you have some peace to make with him, you'd better find as unobtrusive a way to do it and do it, because your time is finite. (And I think you know you are, Missy!)

If you're one of my loyal readers who gets to watch this from a distance, thanks for everything you guys have done to bolster me through these past months. Journaling in the blog about this has, at times, been my salvation, and your positive, kind comments have helped more than you know. My sincerest appreciation to all of you.

~C~

For the Love of God, Don't You People Have Anything Better to Do?

I moved this weekend, and my new place is currently an Internet-free zone. So I've been out of touch with the Chron for the past day or so, until I could get on at work. My counter was hovering around 19,870 or so the last time I checked.

But lo and behold this morning, I was posting about the trendy new Iraqi War apology-fest, and what to my wondering eyes did appear, but....

Bless your loyal little hearts. You like me.... you really... okay, so maybe you don't like me. But you read me, and that means more to me than you can imagine. Thanks, guys.

~C~