My life needs a tape delay

Photo from Flickr by Shannon Archuleta

Why do my best ideas come to me watching football halftime shows? This does, however, explain my worst wardrobe choices.

Most days I flounder along. My witty comebacks are things that occur to me sometime later like when I’m walking out of the room or stuck in traffic on the ride home. I’m a natural born blurter too – from a long line of blurters. Likely to breed little blurters of my own when the time comes. A charming trait.

But so easily fixed. If only I had one more moment to consider what I was doing or saying. Life is relentless, you know. It is lived in real time. How irreparably awkward of it all. If only you could take back that comment, that glance, that clumsiness. Wouldn’t it be the best thing ever? No more skirt stuck in the panty hose. No more stepping in the dog poop. No more YES that should have been NO.

I propose a radical new solution. I want to live my life on a tape delay.

No more silly oversharing. No more wardrobe malfunctions. No more missteps. How lucky can you get? I’m not even suggesting that I would use my power for evil, winning the lottery or thwarting my romantic rivals.

Life could be so sweet.

I’d just like to get through the day saying all the stuff I’m supposed to say – and keeping my mouth zipped tightly shut the rest of the time. Bliss. 

Why am I a Hot Date?

Photo by donenespez from Flickr 

Uhh, nope. I built a man-cave in my bedroom.

Sure. To look at me, you might wonder why guys are attracted. It’s not rocket science. Yes. I have the officially desirable waist-to-hip ratio. (It’s approximately 0.7 if you’re an Indo-European male, in case you’re interested. Not my ratio. The OFFICIAL ratio. Determined by years of analysis of Playboy centerfolds and Miss Americas. I drift a bit south of this measurement, which puts me more into Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren territory.)

Now what’s above and below that ratio, well … Let’s not go there. What’s above and below is definitely not Marilyn Monroe. Sigh.

Yet I have climbed the dating mountain and planted my flag. Other women have bodacious tatas and curvaceous bums and fabulous hair. They can even walk in those gravity-defying latex boots that have no heels at all and make you look like a kinky ballerina. Women like that have boudoir pics on their phones of impressively deep cleavage and naughty bits partially covered by lace and hands with long fluorescent acrylic nails.

Well, I have pics on my phone too. Pics you could show to a kindergartner. But they make men drool.  They’re pics of my – wait for it – entertainment center. Yup. I’ve got a Man TV. The kind that gives guys that bunny-in-the-headlights look. I’ve got it in my bedroom ‘cause I’m crafty that way. A man plunks down on the bed, stares at the mondo screen with its awesomely crisp picture and he is trapped in my web.

Make a man grateful by providing surround-sound and an ample supply of action DVDs and he’ll do anything for you. Problem solved. (Did I mention the bedside table is a chic mini-fridge?) 

Don't Be This Guy

A cautionary dating tale.

Great pic from D Sharon Pruitt on Flickr. Thanks! 

So I'm sitting at dinner with Mr. Confrontational. We have had an interesting discussion.(More on that later.) My job involves professional banter. Seriously. I dispense patter as part of my working life. And I'm damn good at it. This evening, I've been filling every conversational pause with something utterly charming.

I take a bite of my salad. My mistake. This creates a pause that Mr. Confrontational has to fill. It's our first date and I'm figuring he'll go for one of the classics: job, weather, family. The Big Three. The holy trinity of inoffensive date chat. 

But Mr. Confrontational is a gambler. He bypasses pre-approved chitchat and heads directly for uncharted waters.

"How old are you?" Awwww. That's so sweet. What woman doesn't want to hear that on a first date?

"I don't usually talk about how old I am. I mean, does it matter that much?" For the record, it turns out I am younger than Mr. Confrontational.

Mr. Confrontational takes a breath. Surely he will follow up with a softball. "How much do you weigh?"

Wow. I want to go all Joe Pesci on him. You know the speech.  

You mean, let me understand this cause, ya know maybe it's me, I'm a little effed up maybe, but what I weigh how, I mean what I weigh like I'm fat, I disgust you? I make you retch, I'm here to effin'' disgust you? What do you mean what do I weigh, how? How am I fat? 

I didn't though. Maybe I'm not Scarlett O'Hara but a woman with a 25" waist has nothing to prove. 

Ahh, Retail Therapy

Photo (c) 2010 La vida Vica

When life give you lemons, buy lemonade. And some new earrings. And those sexy boots you were looking at. And go out to dinner, why doncha? There. That's better!

Back when Space was Clean Life was simpler then ... in 2001

In space, 
no one can hear you yawn. 

I recently re-watched 2001: A Space Odyssey. I know I will enrage legions of Kubrick fans when I say I was underwhelmed. Geeze. Space was so clean back then. All those glossy white hostesses toting their trays: "You ain't nothing but a waitress in the sky" or in the void, I guess. It's all so disturbingly tidy. Those born after the age of Ridley Scott's Alien saga might be unable to relate to such neatly bundled outer space. For familiar comfort though, the dark universe is still full of mayhem and sudden often inexplicable death. 

The evil super-computer HAL reminded me of nothing so much as a really lame boyfriend I had once. First he cuts you off from friends and coworkers. Then he just quits speaking to you. Finally you have to shut him down. He seems rational on the surface but is ultimately jealous, violent and petty. Oh yeah. There's some bad memories for you. If 2001's squawking chimpanzees represent your critical family at holiday time brandishing a wishbone and daring you to grasp it and dream of a future that doesn't include a total loser, then the whole thing could have been an allegory of our crash-and-burn. Although in fairness HAL did have higher brain function which - as I recall - was sorely lacking in my sometime honey. 

Even the epic battle against HAL remains oddly antiseptic. If you are going to duke it out mano a roboto, shouldn't there be a metal exoskeleton sixty feet tall with huge titanium fangs? Advanced weaponry? Telepathy? Nope. There's more like a programming glitch, some eavesdropping and HAL grows fond of cutting off your oxygen supply. Well, that's just not cricket, is it? Perhaps Bowman could have turned HAL off and then back on again? Power cycling: it's not just for laptops anymore. 

Post-2001 cinematic space is cramped, noisy, poorly assembled and filled with gory death. Death at the hands of alien creatures with multiple sets of long sharp teeth or powerful weaponry. Ahhhhh. That's better. A stand-up fight instead of a bug hunt.


2001 on imdb. com

From the VictionaryPornbot: Be Gentle with Me

A pornbot is a pornbot, except when she is facing you.
Then she is Miss Pornbot.

A vertical flesh buffet consisting of Barbie hair, cleavage, bare muffin-top or midriff, rotisserie tan and FM heels. Species typically exhibits overbleached and/or chunk-highlighted hair, acrylic nails and jewelry that can double as a trout-lure during a survival emergency. Additional features include tramp-stamps and a professional waxer on retainer who leaves nothing below the eyebrows but an exclamation point.

Pornbots excel at giggling and hair-tossing while they have difficulty with specialized tasks such as paying for drinks. They often claim to be bisexual as they have discovered that publicly making out with other pornbots is an aid to attracting mates. They present an aura of helplessness when standing next to vehicles, cash registers or barstools, despite the fact that no assistance is actually required.

Pornbots are unique in that they are the only female of any species which is incapable of fight, flight or camouflage. Their sole defense mechanism is their incredibly high maintenance cost, which rapidly weeds out unworthy suitors and ensures their survival. In cases of dire emergency, a pornbot will fall onto its back with its hind legs spread, assuming a submissive posture that captivates and eventually subdues its opponent.

It's Barbie all the way, baby. Remember:

Nobody ever designed Ken's Dream House.

Think Pink. (Just don't think about what that means in the porn industry.)

(I took that picture. I'm sooooo talented.)

“I’d Hit That” In which I Discover that I am - in fact - A Guy

I no longer have some hazy feminine internal biological clock ticking away the days until I fulfill my breeding responsibilities and get to wander around town carrying twenty stubborn extra pounds and a kidlet strapped to my chest like we’re ready for a tandem parachute jump.

I ponder a lot in the car. Cruising in traffic is an aid to thinking about the greatest mysteries of life. (I don’t know if that means that I have to be in favor of offshore drilling. But if I considered that issue in the car, I feel certain I would come to the proper conclusion.) O beloved idiotarod. How I long to ride the currents of your asphalt river, musing, swearing, singing out loud.

Yesterday, it was mostly swearing. Which is not uncommon. Which means that I had the windows wide open and the radio up. Nothing like a little HIM when you’re feelin’ low. At this moment, I would gush “I luv HIM” but it sounds so lame from someone who looks – and acts – like me. I don’t know what I must seem like, stuck in traffic, wearing my trampy white-framed sunglasses and my dingy drone disguise, wailing along to the magnificent thrum of a Finnish metal band. At least guys dig the trampy sunglasses. The wailing, probably not so much.

But I was fortunate enough to get stuck at a light next to this unutterably adorable guy. Trucker cap tipped back on his head in that bewitching “aw shucks, ma'am” style, hair the color of Tupelo honey, sweet golden tan skin the exact shade of butter toffee. If a wheat field and Jack Daniels had a baby, it would look like this man. I would wade through him at sunset carrying a long-neck and belting out Sweet Dreams of You. Shucks was driving a forest green pick-up with a lift kit and a quality spray of mud along the side. Bliss. The sight of him pierced me and I thought, “I’d hit that.”

This muttered revelation made me realize something – yes, something besides “Holy crap, I said that Out Loud AND my windows are open.” It made me realize that I am A Guy. No kidding. I perceive the absolute essence of guyness. It is appetite. I look at everything now and make rapid assessments of my longing – or instinctive hatred – for that object. Men. Clothes. Food. Cars. Job. Want it or not? Now.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m still all girl all the time, top and bottom. Wink, wink. And I can pass the Star Trek ‘Do Me’ test.*

*Star Trek “Do Me’ Test: Any female alien life form that might be hittable must pass two crucial tests. One, does it have boobs? Two, can it talk? Kirk couldn’t latch on to just any old space trash.

But in my thoughts, I think I have crossed over. I just want stuff. Or really really don’t want stuff. Whatever I do want, I want it now. Cold liquor, hot dudes, cool rides, crispy fries, a bedroom that looks like Greta Garbo’s and an ass that looks like Kerri Walsh’s. I’ve lost interest in sharing, nurturing and nesting. I don’t need a relationship or common interests. I want all of my wishes granted with no confusion, no conversation and no consequences. If he’s tall, vigorous and ten years younger than I am, we are five by five. (Okay, for some indescribably weird reason, I still like guys with cute teeth. What are cute teeth, you ask? Don’t ask.)

I no longer have some hazy feminine internal biological clock ticking away the days until I fulfill my breeding responsibilities and get to wander around town carrying twenty stubborn extra pounds and a kidlet strapped to my chest like we’re ready for a tandem parachute jump. Oh, no. Instead of that I now have an impatient heel-tapping seventeen-year-old dude sucking down a Super Big Gulp Mountain Dew, devouring Funions and stroking his 3G iPhone while he listens to Decapitated and surfs the web for quality free porn thumbs. What is that he’s yelling? “Now!”

What the hell has happened to me?

The perfect Vineyard vacation. An overpriced black fit and flare dress that would make me look like Gisele Bundchen - if Gisele Bundchen ever wore anything but swimsuits and lingerie. The ultimate broccoli with hot garlic sauce. A dynamite break to start a game of cut-throat. And that thing that I focus on when the rest of the world is dead to me: book deal, book deal, book deal. Oh I want them all. And I want them all now.

All those icky bits that I don’t want – like cellulite, kitty speak bible translations, drunk jerks who don’t respect my personal space, nuclear proliferation and anything related to tampons – I just want them to Get Off My Lawn. Ahhhh. There. Now don’t you feel better?

John 3:16 as you have never heard it before: "So liek teh Ceiling Cat lieks teh ppl lots and he sez 'Oh hai I givez u my only son and ifs u beleevs in him u wont evr diez no moar, k?" The Celing Cat ?!?

In realizing that men are simply giant walking bundles of appetite seeking immediate gratification without consequences, I have another revelation. Are all men actually Veruca Salt? I’ll think about that on my next drive home.

Danica Patrick during her daily commute (I'm waaay cuter! :-D)
Kerri Walsh serves hot, kicks butt, fights AIDS
Gisele Bundchen with no swimsuit or lingerie - now you feel better!
Veruca Salt - Bad Egg from Galleries onenineeighteight Kathy Olivas