Monthly Archives: July 2012

To: God; Re: Anne Hathaway in Batman

To: God; Re: Anne Hathaway in Batman

To: God.Almighty@heaven.com

CC: Buddha@nliten.com, Shiva@rencarn8.com

BCC: Mephistopheles@newscorp.com,  Mel.Gibson@hell.com

Subject:  Oversight in creation – please make me Anne Hathaway

Hi God,

I know you are fairly booked up but wanted to see if we could find some time on our schedules to discuss a rather large oversight on your part.

I don’t want to point fingers or anything, I know we are all a team (some more functional members than others) but why did you see it fit to give all the good DNA to Anne Hathaway? After seeing The Dark Knight (by the way, THANK YOU for Joseph Gordon-Levitt) I could not help but notice the imbalance.

I’d hope you are not one to play favorites but wanted to just point out some areas for improvement. I have added a graphic for reference.

Anne Hathaway has legs up to her earlobes. I’m not even sure it’s possible to have legs that long but why not throw a few inches my way? Seems like she has more than is technically needed by a human.

Additionally, she does not appear to have a flaw on her skin…anywhere…at all. Perhaps you created her as a reference to the word “milky”. I do understand that it’s helpful to be able to point to specifics with adjectives but why reserve “ruddy” or “blotchy” for me?

Does she really need such big eyes and lips? Also, seems like these things could have been more evenly distributed amongst your flock.

I was going to add in her fabulous silky hair but I realized after she shaved her head for Les Miserable, it wasn’t even all that necessary. Though, one more thing she did get more than her fair share of.

If this seems like an unreasonable request, I am open to spit-balling a few other ideas. I’d be open to, say, a Kate Beckinsale or Penelope Cruz approach. Heck, if you were open to Tina Fey, I think we could make that happen.

Feel free to forward this to any other deities I may have missed who have signing power.

Oh, and thanks again for the “dying for our sins” project. Sorry that isn’t going as well as you had hoped but I really appreciate the effort.

Best regards,

Irene Barnett
General Manager, Sarcasm and Self-Deprecation (SSD) Division

Sexual Delusions in Portland – Who Wouldn’t Want to Tap This?

Sexual Delusions in Portland – Who Wouldn’t Want to Tap This?

Back when I was super cool and lived in Portland, Oregon, Jim and I used to go out to tons of music venues to mix with the tattooed, pierced and alternative Portland element.

We were in a limbo of wanting to be those people and yet ensure our kids didn’t grow up to be them.

We would attempt to go undercover, hiding our suburban, parental underbelly but we missed the whole “ink” craze so our consistently flesh colored flesh made us stick out like Amish at a car show.

We began to compromise a bit because we couldn’t find babysitters who would stay until 3AM and, let’s face it, we were just too tired.

Enter Aimee Mann. I do love her. She has that mix of catchy tunes and pissed off lyrics that make you feel like you are retaining some sort of edge. She does say fuck so there is some street cred there.

So, we went to see her perform at one of the groovy, divey spots PDX is known for.

We took our seats and struck up a conversation with the nice couple next to us. He was all sorts of Portland middle-aged cool sporting a shaved head and a soul patch and she had a veritable kaleidoscope of colors streaked through her hair.

They were very chatty and we talked about all the liberal politics we wanted.

By the way, it is illegal to not be liberal in Portland. Go look it up. They put you in a re-training camp if they catch you at the city border.

This keeps the citizenry safe to have deep political conversations in line at the grocery store without fear of debate.

The night was off to a great start. Except for this one weird thing.

Jim and I both got this decidedly weird vibe. It was nothing anyone said but we both just had this feeling that they were a little too into us….in a kind of pervy way.

I have no idea where this came from. If you know us, you know we are not normally the types to go around with delusions of our sex appeal.

Maybe we’ve seen The Ice Storm too many times. Or maybe they were super high.

We were both oddly suspicious of this perfectly nice, if not overly friendly couple and assumed they were trolling for a wife swap/swinger situation.

Keep in mind that this has NEVER actually happened to us before.

Once the lights dimmed and Aimee was introduced, we settled into the concert and for 90 minutes or so forgot about our vortex of sexuality.

After the concert ended, our new friends/lovers said they would like to get together some time for a meal. Jim and I shot a nervous look to each other.

Is “meal” like a secret term similar to tapping your foot three times on an airport bathroom stall to indicate you are open to a BJ?

The man handed me his business card and said to give him a call to set up something. I took it and slid it into my pocket. We said our goodbyes and off into the rainy night we went.

They did seem a little dodgy about what they did for a living, as tends to be the case with Portlandians in general, and there was an odd symbol with very little explanation on the card.

We were intrigued so proceeded to Google stalk them.

A few searches later we came up with what the symbol was….

It turned out they were Freemasons.

See, we clearly get our information about how the world works from movies because all I could think of was The Da Vinci Code.

Why was it a “secret society” and what exactly were the “rituals”? Did they have a room in their split level suburban house that was dedicated to afore mentioned rituals?  Were they looking to take down the Catholic Church? Did they wear hooded robes and chant?

And, more importantly, were Freemasons swingers?

Sadly, we never found out. Day to day life swallowed us up and we never got to do a wife swap with the Freemasons (who has the time, really?) and to this day we are still sketchy on what Freemasons even are. Which I suppose is the point of it being a “secret” and all.

We also are relieved and yet a little disappointed that we are not, as suspected, utterly irresistible to anyone but ourselves. So rest easy, for you are all safe from our vortex of sexuality.

At least for now….

I Almost Killed a Small Thai Lady

I Almost Killed a Small Thai Lady

Here’s the question: Is it better to get a bad massage rather than no massage at all?

Up until my trip to Thailand, I would have said any massage was wonderful. However, I soundly retract this statement now that I have had a Thai massage.

Most people who know me would expect that if I were to end up in a Thai prison, it would be for being a drug mule rather than murdering a small Thai lady while in a psychopathic rage.

I hope no one actually put money on this but I suspect a few of you have.

I spent a month in Thailand years ago and it was a wonderful experience, overall. The Thai people not only made me feel happy and welcome, they made me feel like a giant. And I’m only 5’4”.

When reading up on all the awesome things to experience in Thailand, the very specialized form of Thai massage was brought up time and again. Being the total spa whore I am, I was all “sign me up!”

So roughly mid-way through my trip I found myself on the floor of a small room, dressed in loose fitting clothes and lying on an uncomfortable bamboo mat.

A miniscule, smiling Thai woman came into the room and said something I did not understand. At the time I gathered she was asking me if I’ve ever had a Thai massage before but I think she was actually asking me if I was prepared to meet my maker.

I laid face down so couldn’t see what she was up to back there but felt my fight or flight response begin to kick in.

She climbed on top of my butt with her knees and started to do a sort of dog walk up my body balancing on her knees and pointy little elbows.  OK, that’s uncomfortable but I’m here to experience this lovely culture so bring it.

Then, she sat and straddled my back, grabbed my ankles and started to bend my legs in all sorts of unnatural ways like I was Gumby…a very frightened and freaked out Gumby…psychologically curled into a fetal position…weeping.

We westerners are a tightly wound and stiff people and I’d like to keep it that way.

This went on for about an hour before she unceremoniously flipped me onto my back. For a person her size, she had freakish strength.

Figuring I was done, I began to get up but she pushed me back down, gazing at me with an angelic smile on her face. She was starting to look like The Joker. Heath Ledger joker, NOT friendly Cesar Romero joker.

I wish….

 

….what I got.

There was more to come.

She climbed onto my stomach, patted it and said “baby?”

Are you fucking kidding me?? I know that compared to you, I am the Stay-Puft Marshmallow man but now I’m feeling fairly vulnerable.

First you beat the shit out of me and now you call me fat? I can get this kind of treatment just by getting in my time machine and going back to Jr. High.

When I said No, she giggled. Really, bitch?

My rage mounted as she proceeded to continue the abuse on the front of me. She went through and cracked every one of my fingers and toes. Contorted my limbs and pulled my ears.

At one point I felt like I was in a Three Stooges movie. All I needed was a poke in the eye and a “nyuk, nyuk, nyuk”.

This woman weighed only slightly more than a kindergartener but I was using all my will to not punch her in the throat. I am a pacifist by nature but the surge of violence that went through me was startling.

I’m not sure, but I think this might be what it feels like to take bath salts…maybe I was more prepared for the zombie apocalypse than I thought.

Two hours later I limped from the room feeling like I had narrowly escaped death at the hands of a sadistic Thai Lilliputian masseuse.

My enlightened friends told me I just needed to do it on a more continual basis to really feel the great benefits and that I should add in some hot yoga as well.

I smiled at them (my Heath Ledger joker smile, not the friendly Cesar Romero) and soundly flipped them all off.

 

When Irish Eyes Are Blurry – My Time at Microsoft Part Deux

When Irish Eyes Are Blurry – My Time at Microsoft Part Deux

Other people have a nationality. The Irish and the Jews have a psychosis.
- Brendan Behan

I’m troubled, I’m dissatisfied. I’m Irish!
- Marianne Moore

I thought it might be time to circle back to the next chapter in my Microsoft adventure.

We left off with my landing in the international translation group at Microsoft after a corporate reorganization. Now, keep in mind that I do not speak any other languages other than “Another drink, please” in almost every tongue on earth as if I were a native.

This linguistic talent does not qualify me to run a program for a major corporation that involves finding and managing local international vendors for culturally sensitive translation services. For a lot of smart people they sure do make some shitty decisions.

You see, before they made the ill-advised choice to give me this job, translators at Microsoft were living in Redmond, Washington but attempting to sound like they were a local sitting in a café in France.

Evidently, no one bought it so the non-English speaking world was turning against us and we were in fear for our very existences (that is just a slight exaggeration…even I can’t ignore that…).

All of this culminated in them packing me up, thrusting me on a plane and farming me out to Ireland to work with our office there to get this all straightened out.

Let me mention here that I am Irish. Half Irish to be accurate but my father refused to acknowledge the other 50% of my DNA as if it somehow insulted him and he wouldn’t speak to it anymore.  His favorite saying was:

“Being Irish was like being a black lab, you could mix any other dog with it but at the end of the day, you still just had a black lab.”

So, until I blog about my Chilean side, I am, for this post, 100% pure, unpolluted black lab Irish.

Oh, and up to this point I had never been out of the country except for the wax museum in Victoria BC and throwing up on the sands of Mazatlan. Not exactly credentials to deal with culturally sensitive issues.

The second I set foot on Irish soil I was home. These are my people – sarcastic, annoyed and mostly drunk. It was like re-entering the womb.

I was swept up by my Irish brethren into the 5-hour work day and the 3:00 pub crawl. We’d share many hours over numerous Guinness.

And, the more Guinness I drank the prettier the designs looked on the foam head. These people are feckin’ artists!

 

Oooooohhhhh, so pretty!

And, the more pretty foam designs I drank, the harder I would try to do an Irish accent, which is melodic and lovely when an Irishman speaks. Coming out of my mouth, however, it sounds just like a drunk vampire.

They, on the other hand, thought everyone from the US sounded either like John F. Kennedy or J.R. Ewing.

Like most Europeans, they eat dinner at midnight. The first night I had dinner out with all my new, snarky Irish friends, we were finishing up our meal at about 1:30AM when everyone ordered coffee. Not any coffee, either, but Turkish coffee. This is the crude oil of coffee drinks. Not wanting to be left out of a great cultural experience, I also ordered Turkish coffee at 1:30AM. Why not?

I’ll tell you why not!! I ended up doing the following for the rest of the night in my hotel room:

  • NOT SLEEPING
  • Watched Irish news for hours on end – in Irish Gaelic
  • Wrote postcards to everyone in my address book – including but not limited to my best friend from 6th grade and several ex-boyfriends.

My last night in my homeland, I was taken to the oldest pub in all of Ireland. I’d question the honesty of that statement if it weren’t for the fact that it was black as coal on the inside and the smell was a combination of what I can only guess is a thousand years of smoke, a hint of Viking sweat and some sort of animal urine.

I assumed I’d be on the dole once they figured out at corporate headquarters that I basically drank my way through our international crisis. So, it was with a splitting headache and a heavy heart that I boarded my flight the next day.

This black lab was sort of sad to go home.

Movie Review: Magic Mike (The Power of The Pectoral)

Movie Review: Magic Mike (The Power of The Pectoral)

I am your patron saint of protection from horrible pop culture. Bow before me.

The number of crappy books and shitty movies I will put myself through just so you don’t have to! You should all buy me a trophy or a medal or a new blender.

Once again, the mighty power of the horny middle-aged woman has reared her shiny, dyed head. They could rule the world if they took a break from the bodice-rippers and put down their Chardonnay long enough to join forces.

Several of these horny middle-aged women (herein referred to as HMAW) happen to be friends of mine and wanted me to join them to see Magic Mike. You know, the one about the best friends just working for a living in a skanky male strip club. Kind of like a nasty Laverne and Shirley.

HMAW: “But, Roger Ebert gave it two thumbs up!”

Me: “Didn’t he have a stroke or something?”

HMAW: “And, it’s directed by Steven Soderbergh. He did Traffic and is an Oscar-winner!”

Me: “Does he have kids in private school then? Why would he do a movie about strippers?”

HMAW: “Really, Irene, why wouldn’t you want to watch hot, naked men? The question is what is wrong with you?”

Me: <long pause> “Fair enough. OK.”

Anyhoo, I went because the pull of being snarky about bad entertainment is just too strong.

First thing I noticed was the clientele. It was a sea of mom jeans with a smattering of long-suffering husbands. I have no idea what the argument may have been to get a husband to this movie but I would have liked to have been a fly on that wall. Or, of course, the husbands are gay. That would actually explain everything.

So, let’s start out with the good bits, shall we?

Hot. Naked. Young. Men. Well, most of them were. There was one Mickey Roarke look-alike (not 9 1/2 Weeks Mickey Roarke but The Wrestler Mickey Roarke) that I found disturbing and uncomfortable. And, I think whoever that actor was also felt disturbed and uncomfortable. The rest, however, were young, tight and exceptionally well-oiled.

I did, however, find myself thinking that I’d kill my kids if they ever did something like this. So, while I may not wear mom jeans on the outside, I clearly have some on inside my head.

Ummmm, I think that was it for the good bits.

OK, now for the bad bits.

It was dumb.  You could have muted this entire movie and known exactly what was happening and how it would end. In fact, bring your noise cancelling headphones, eat your Dots and just watch.

The story is as old as the bible. Gorgeous single guy with lots of chutzpah who just wants to make it in the world who has multiple sexual encounters with multiple women but really cares and has a heart of gold that gets him in trouble until a nice grounded girl comes along who believes in him and clearly doesn’t seem to care about the multiple venereal diseases that she has now exposed herself to.

Pretty sure that is exactly what happened in the book of Job.

Matthew McConaughey.  I know I am inviting the wrath of all women out there with this one. I can feel the collective stink eye right now. Go ahead, start putting your hate mail together, I am expecting it. But, he does nothing for me. And, in this movie, he was so ridiculous and such an asshole that I had a hard time watching him.

If you have other-worldly abs hanging off a douchebag, is it still hot? Probably but I feel compelled to ask the question.

Men gyrating and groin-thrusting at lightning speed. I know what it’s supposed to simulate and I don’t know that it would be all that pleasant. Slow it down, Sparky. I am not a construction site and you are not a jackhammer.

It’s impressive how they don’t appear to throw out their backs when doing this, I totally give them that. And, actually, (SPOILER ALERT!) my favorite part of the movie is when one of them actually does throw out their back.

But, men are not built for this kind of movement. They are stiff and utilitarian and that’s how they should be.

Call me old fashioned but I don’t want my men prancing about with jazz hands.

I’ve been to a male strip club before and I never got dry humped.  Should I take that personally? Maybe I’m just all sour grapes on this because I feel slighted. In this movie the women in the crowd were being whipped around like rag dolls, getting felt up and ground upon. My mind ping ponged between “Law suit! Law suit!” and “Purell! Purell!” the entire time.

There you have it, good citizens of the blogosphere. I can’t necessarily say you should not see it. I just feel it is my public duty to make you aware of what you are seeing….which is a whole lot of shiny, pretty men.

And there ain’t nuthin’ bad about that.