Paranormal

It could perhaps simply be me, but I’d rather come face to face with a sure as shit, rattling chains, carrying his own severed head ghost than have to spend one minute alone with some of these contemporary, so-called paranormal researchers.  Even if they had solid proof of what they were attempting to reveal to their audiences, their constant pontificating blurs their message so that it’s necessary to dig through the fluff of their megalomania to discern what they’re actually talking about.  There are only so many “I keep a permanent residence all the way up my own asshole” types I can stand, and most of them have PhDs.

Purposeless, With Postpartum

Our lovely Saturday afternoon ended with a rather anxious trip to the mall so that her camera could be diagnosed with a clean bill of functionality and health.  My friend and I were unfortunately, at the mall.  Because the average American is a mindless consumer, although it was a beautiful 45 degree fall day, the entire parking lot outside the mall was packed.  We drove around, circling with befuddlement at the lack of available spaces for two girls who just needed to get to the damn camera store.  And then, opportunity.  We spotted a man walking toward his vehicle and I immediately threw up my hands, emphatically pointing.  My friend sped into action and I crossed my fingers and as we pulled into our new space as soon as he had vacated it.  We were victorious.  But one giant cloud obstructed our view: the shadow of the navy blue minivan with Momzilla behind it, a woman and her bratty pre-teen daughter (I ask you to recall those articles in the paper in the last few years about oral sex on the bus).  She was mouthing something which was probably very rude to the both of us, although I’m not sure what it was.  I’m sure I was living her poor husband’s ultimate fantasy at the moment: The bitch, in mute.   She proceeded to exit her car and grab onto the door of my friend’s car, trying to wrest it from my hands as I attempted to get out of the car.  While her words didn’t come out of her huge gaping mouth (to match everything else) with breaths of fire as an accessory, she was certainly vicious enough when she said

“This is very wrong.  I have been waiting for this space for five minutes.  I have my daughter and my newborn baby in the car?”

So it’s our fault she decided to get fertilized?

I asked “You were waiting for that, particular man?”  Which I knew was impossible because we had caught him before he even hit the actual lot, he was on the sidewalk when we noticed him.

“Yes.”

My friend called bullshit and she continued to flip.  Waddling back to her car, she pulled out a steno pad and began vigorously writing down my friend’s license plate number.  It’s illegal to park in a parking space now?  Keep in mind it wasn’t one of those ridiculous “customer with infant parking” signs.  It was an unmarked space.  While my friend decided she was going to be magnanimous, I myself lifted my hand to salute her with “the finger,” all I could manage to do in my fury.  We pulled out of the space and went to find another.  Another young woman attempted to take the same space as we pulled out, and the psychopath went off on her tirade again to the bewilderment of that poor soul.  Thankfully, a sane mother and daughter pair directed us to their space.

Oh, how de-institutionalization has failed us.  Complete psychopaths like this woman are wandering around on this earth, and breeding.  If this were 1888 her poor husband could put her in an institution…citing “Delusions of Grandeur” but as it is, my friend and I were stuck dealing with the after affects of Princess Placenta’s Postpardem episodes.  A fertile womb does not special rights yield.  I just thought I should remind you.

From a Mile Away

I’m sure people think I get some sort of sadistic pleasure out of saying “I told you so,” Or “What did I tell you?” but really it’s just a pain in the ass for me.

~From an Instant Message I Sent This Afternoon

I end up going through things with friends or others dear to me that could have been avoided; setbacks and unnecessary heartache. Truly, those who are volatile, weak in conviction or tragic, chronic failures tend to broadcast such with abundant clarity if measured through a lens similar to that of my often cold detachment, and should be cast aside with the rest of the reptiles whose poison might similarly intoxicate an otherwise healthy or reasonably functional system.

The Hibernian Visits Whole Foods

After working my ass at the gym, I found myself in need of some tasty water. The retailer carrying said tasty water (which includes Volvic, Smart Water, Fiji, and Iceland Spring) which is also open at the hour I needed said H2O was Whole Foods, who I’m a fan of, somewhat. I’m a fan of the mission but not the attitude that comes along with being hopelessly devoted to their store. At any rate, I had selected my Vitamin Water, Fiji Water and Burt’s Bees Lip Shimmer, and after paying the adorable young high school chap working at the register, turned to the burly, humorous gentleman who asked me if I wanted a bag.

“I’m going to walk out of the Greenie store with a paper bag for three items?” I said.

“Sure, it’s fine.” He replied.

“I already feel like the devil for not wearing my hemp sandals” (uttered, I admit, with a reasonable amount of sarcasm since I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing such).

He smiled “Well, actually, they just published the top 100 environmental companies and we’re number 67.”

I returned his friendly expression, sheepishly “I’m not surprised.”

“You might not want to read the article on Fiji water” he began, chuckling.

My eyes immediately went quite wide “Why, what’s wrong with it??” I was immediately concerned that it was from some sort of tap or tampered with by some sort of human.

“Apparently, in the totalitarian government of Fiji, the government is monopolizing all the money earned from the water and not giving any to the people.”

I looked at him incredulously and raised my recently purchased bottle, pointing to it. “Is this water really from Fiji?” I asked, prepared for the worst.

“I think so,” he allowed, shrugging.

A mischievous grin passed across my face as I turned on my heel to head towards the door and replied in my typically brutally honest fashion:

“Well then I don’t give a fuck.”

Because He’s My Friend…I Confide

I’d be delighted if they told me I could continue to cruise around in my little Stepford town in European cars, sporting black fingernails, pink toenails and a really cynical attitude, taking vacations to Maine where I spend my days on the beach consuming as many books as possible while pretending I can see Ireland on the other side of the water and by night making obscene gestures with half empty Grey Goose bottles to the delight of my humorous compatriots.

~A

“My Name Is…and My Favorite Songs Are…” OR “How to Loose All Respect for Someone You’ve Never Met in Less Than 30 Seconds”

I was raised on Brahms and Mozart, with a healthy diet of Gershwin and Strauss. It’s likely that the person who wrote the music I’m listening at any given moment has been dead for quite a while. You can therefore safely assume that I have an ingrained aversion to “Pop” music. But sometimes you find a song that is, perhaps, what you could accurately call your “jam.” (My current jam at the moment is “She Wolf” if you’re wondering). So I find myself sucked in at certain (albeit embarassing) moments, leaving the radio station tuned to an unfavorable set of numbers, enjoying syntesized beats and risque lyrics (read: Disco Stick).

But these radio stations, in between bouts of three or four fun, brainless songs that allow the listener to relax her grey matter after a two and a half hour seminar on Victorian interpretation of the Arthurian Legends (yes, I’m takling about myself), have begun to add, in addition to the commercials we have been culturally programmed to accept as just part of the radio listening experience a thirty second bit where some girl with poor diction and no broadcasting skills is heard saying

“Hi my name is Kryistynnnne [Sic] from Woburn and my favorite songs are…… ‘Black Eyed Peas…Boom Boom Pow’…..’Kelly Clarkson….I do not hook up.’ And ‘Jordin Sparks….Battlefield.”

So these are the people who hang on the every word of that Vapid Salad Tosser they call Ryan Seacrest. Sometimes they don’t even get to the shitty songs they like. Sometimes they start by saying “I’m Krystelle [sic] and I’m from Clinton…” and my inescapable snobbery kicks in. Yep. There goes your “cred,” sweetheart.

But seriously. These are their favorite songs? I think they should make it clear when allowing these girls to record these bits that these songs need to be their favorites not just the ones to which they currently strip. But I’m assuming that with the simplicity involved in being themselves they’ve combined the two to make it easier.

When was the last time these people went on iTunes and randomly browsed every 30 second clip they could get their hands on to find something new and different that wasn’t part of some “Top 40″ list? The last time they looked for music from other countries, in other languages, or God forbid, listened to something written before they were in high school or that didn’t have a chorous or a hook? Obviously these questions are for your personal introspection, and are therefore rhetorical. For those of you who need to look that word up, it should be in some all encompasing online dictionary between R. Kelly and Rihanna.

With all my condescending love and pity,

A

Why Are You My Idol, Joyce Carol Oates? Let Me Count the Ways: My Soul’s Twin on the Man I Call The Cowardly Lion

Joyce Carol Oates is my favorite author (see several of my previous posts), and Senator Ted Kennedy was one of my least favorite people. In fact, as an Irish girl myself I see the Kennedys as a detriment to the definition of Irish identity in America, but I digress. Here was what JCO had to say about the man I call The Cowardly “Lion”:

From The Guardian

At Chappaquiddick, having been drinking and partying with young women aides of his brother Robert Kennedy, Senator Kennedy, at this time a married man and a father, slipped away with 28-year-old Mary Jo Kopechne, who was trapped in his car after he took a wrong turn off the Chappaquiddick bridge, lost control of his car which was submerged in just eight feet of water.

Kennedy chose to flee the scene , leaving the young woman to die an agonising death not of drowning but of suffocation over a period of hours. Incredibly, it was 10 hours before Kennedy reported the accident, by which time he’d consulted a family lawyer. The senator’s explanation for this unconscionable, despicable, unmanly and inexplicable behaviour was never convincing: he claimed that he’d struck his head and was “confused” and “exhausted” from diving and trying to rescue the young woman and had gone home to bed.

….. This paradox lies at the heart of so much of public life: individuals of dubious character and cruel deeds may redeem themselves in selfless actions. Fidelity to a personal code of morality would seem to fade in significance as the public sphere, like an enormous sun, blinds us to all else.

Yes indeed, J’elle adore. There is nothing more to be said, as usual.

You At Least Owe Her a Breakup

Humans have recently become obsessed with evolution. Now that we have carbon dating and the ability to tell the approximate date a given Australopithecus left this earth forever, you’d expect that we’d become even more aware of how far we have really come as a species, we’d be hyper-focused on our humanity and “sophistication” as higher life forms. But with the evolution of some of man’s most incredible inventions, most specifically the computer and cell phones, we have seen the emergence of a new species of man, homosapiens spinelessicus dickface vaginus. In short, guys today are pussies.

Before everyone begins objecting to this statement, I want to say that there are still great guys out there, like my dad, my granddads, my uncles, my brother, my cousins, my great uncles, some of my guy friends, and my boyfriend. Guys I’m glad to have known, lest I give up on their gender altogether. Decent guys who really seem to have actually benefited from evolution. Men who return phone calls and and reply to emails or facebook messages. Men who would tell a woman straight up that a relationship is over or that they are no longer interested in her. It’s truly “effed.” Communication today is easier than it used to be. Easier than ever before. Long ago, men actually had to get off their asses and send telegrams, or write letters.

Now, men don’t even bother to inform a woman when their relationship is over. They think that changing their mutual relationship status on facebook or making some sort of comment on their twitter or in a status message about being single suffices. Guess what: If you’re the kind to do something like this, we don’t want to date you, but please, have the respect to call us and make us aware of your decision, at least to put us out of our misery, save us the time we spent worrying about whether something happened to you or God Forbid whether we did something wrong. I am simply shocked by the lack of backbone in guys today. They think that if they simply stop talking to a girl that she will go away, she’ll disappear and no longer be a problem anymore. We’re supposed to know what you’re thinking, I guess, even though all of your thoughts and behaviors are irrational. It really is fine if you don’t like a girl, or want to continue a relationship with her, but please remember that we are human beings, remember that despite our smiling faces in our display pictures we do have emotions other than the carefree gaiety these men want women to always present, and at least notify us when you are no longer interested in seeing us. I’m not sure where the notion was born that not telling someone about something that affects them is an acceptable practice.

These days, girls have an advantage. Status messages, while used in your favor as breakup devices, also serve to allow us observation power that we never had before. A “Sorry I lost my phone” message sent to a girl’s facebook inbox seems like a safe bet…but remember boy-o, that the message will say “Sent from facebook moblie” at the bottom. Technology is working in our favor, too. We’re not sneaky, we’re smart. Take a hint from the men who made men what the good guys of today are. In eras past, they had the option to disappear. They didn’t have to tell a woman a damn thing about leaving her or no longer being interested in her in order to keep the peace on their Wall. But most of them did. They were decent because they really wanted to be good guys. We need a few more of those. This is an official shout-out to those guys who are. And a warning to those who aren’t. We’re watching you, asshole.

Stop & …Well…Just Stop

I’m one of those people who is immediately thrown into a rage by the sight of someone without the proper credentials parked in a handicapped spot. If I were more hardcore I’d probably set up shop and hit golf balls at their windshield with my dad’s driver.

So you can probably imagine that I was completely outraged when they started marking off spaces for people because of ridiculous characteristics at my local Stop & Shop. Imagine my surprise when I tried to pull into one of the spaces closest to the entrance to Stop & Shop and I see an obnoxious little sign reading “Customer With Child Parking” on it. Really? Preferred parking for someone for something they personally chose? Are customers with infants more loyal customers than people without children, with grown children, or little ones over 5 year old? Forgive me for calling bullshit, but is Stop & Shop out of their tree? (If you’re going to allot some of the best spaces to a certain group of people, how about senior citizens? What is Stop & Shop’s approach to that suggestion, to reply “Sorry sir, we know you’re 80 and that you were rewarded a purple heart for your personal contribution to the fight against fascism, but we’d prefer to kiss the behind of the toddler factory who’s brat is going to throw an absolute fit in our cereal isle instead of being honorable enough to value seniors as an important part of our community?” )

Don’t get me wrong…I actually really like children, despite some of the complaints I have aired on this blog (mostly to do with parenting, not the children themselves), and I know that taking your kid to the market is something neither you (nor other shoppers) enjoy, granted. I know that it must be a hassle with tons of bags and little ones getting into the market, but think how difficult it must be for someone with arthritis or with another physical condition that may not qualify them for handicapped status but is otherwise debilitating. Pregnancy and child rearing is a role and a task women choose to take on, not a harmful ailment that strikes unsuspecting victims, one that shouldn’t mandate accolades from a company that is clearly alienating at least one customer (read: me). Stop & Shop needs to understand that assigning priority to the role a person plays is insulting to others not in that bracket.

P.S. I haven’t seen these signs at Whole Foods yet, probably because they know it could be taken as a sign of encouragement, and more humans means more carbon emissions.

A Bachelor’s For a Bachelorette

Once again the time has come to check my schedule online and figure out exactly how many more weeks I have left before the college semester starts. As a child, August 31st would have seemed an ungodly date to start the school year, a slap in the face with a lasting sting causing me to reel with the sensation of their abuse of power. Couldn’t we at least start in September? But now that I’m facing my last semester of undergraduate work, I look upon the start of the school year with the same nostalgia I’m certain the rest of my class looks upon it. It’s rare enough I can make the assumption that I share a collective social emotion with the rest of my peers, but I digress.

I acknowledge the fact that I haven’t blogged in quite a while, and admit that it probably has quite a bit to do with all of the ideas swimming around in my head and my complete lack of organization. I’m now taking the opportunity to re-focus my life for this final stretch, and have given up some extra curriculars, knowing full well that they have impeded my academic success, and the success of my fiction writing, which should now be taking a front seat, given the fact that I’m getting ready to make my way into the real world after I graduate…and head for grad school the following fall.

In short, it’s time to get to work, people. And I’m actually pretty excited.