So my gal-pals and I went and saw the chick-flick everyone is talking about; He’s Just Not That Into You.  Personally, I would rather  babysit Nadya Suleman’s 14 kids am not one for romantic comedies but I did force Liam Neeson on these same girls but two weeks ago, so I obliged.  If I may be blunt and concise: Worst.  Movie.  Ever.  Like eva, eva!!  Two hours I will never get back but I would imagine it is worse for the ‘stars’ of the movie.  As a direct result of their involvement in this film I assume they, along with the rest of the free world, are looking for a job.  To be honest I didn’t even know half of the people in the film, but my crew sure as sh*t knew everyone’s deal, which I found curious. What makes these people relevant??  Yes they are in movies but why do you know more about them, their like and dislikes, eating habits and personal hygiene than you do about your siblings?? Like really, why?

Just yesterday, in lamenting my awareness of Nadya Suleman, I asked if people ever found themselves questioning how average people become famous while others, equally ordinary, don’t.  How does this come to be that unexceptional people, living unremarkable lives become household names or a question to an answer on Jeopardy??  More specifically, those who enjoy their fifteen minutes of fame are no more interesting than you or I, yet few outside our social circles know us.  Leaving aside those aggressively seeking fame Hollywood, take a look at team sports.  Think of all the athletes who are not that talented yet infinitely rich and well-known.  Sometimes I am watching sports thinking how totally irrelevant some players are in the outcome; so much so that I could sub in for them and the outcome would be the same.  Take the Chicago Bulls dynasty of the 1990’s with that Michael Jordan guy; do you not think I could have played five minutes in ½ their games without affecting the outcome??? Please, if you think about this for ten seconds you will come up with your own lengthy list of irrelevance.  I’m just sayin’.

I digress, and apologise for that irrelevant tangent about irrelevance.*

Ahhh yes, back to the movie, HJNTIY.  It really was awful and I think the more appropriate title should have been Consistently Available.  Why?  Because nobody, no matter how desperate, would ever want to go on a second date with the women portrayed in this film.  They were neurotic, desperate and altogether sad.  Perhaps my greatest gripe was that the friends of these crazy bivitches wouldn’t, or couldn’t, bring themselves to slap some sense into their friends.  These women were not just boy-crazy; they were fanatical and it was pathetic.  If you are in a relationship and you saw one iota of your mate in the characters portrayed I would suggest you break up with them.  Seriously.  Dump them.  Like N.O.W.

 

*Note to Alanis Morissette; this is an example of irony, your song, while catchy, was a long list of bad luck.  For those of you who forget just how catchy it was: 

 

 

 

JLM

 

Do you ever find yourself sitting on your couch watching television thinking to yourself: Why are these yahoos on TV and I am on my couch?  Perhaps you are at your desk watching some YouTube video and think to yourself: Fifteen minutes of fame for this??  I do, and often.  I just don’t understand why the threshold for ‘news’ is so remarkably low.  So much so that at times it seems like we get duped by people who crave celebrity and this is no more apparent than with Nadya Suleman.  Why are we feeding this woman’s insatiable appetite for fame and fortune??  So far she has proved to be two things; certifiably crazy and a liar.  Crazy because, um….uhhh…..errrrrrrrrrrr, she had eight more babies, bringing the grand total to 14.  From day one she said she wanted to remain anonymous which is interesting given her appearance on Dateline NBC and pictures of her everywhere.  Liar liar pants on fire.  She has also recently declared that she will not date until her youngest are 18.  I would argue that there is not a man crazy enough to date a woman with 14 kids.  Who doesn’t have a job.  Who lives at home.  If he exists she can have him.

Can anything good come of this?  Perhaps American health insurance companies will adopt the policies we see in Europe, where IVF is paid for but only one embryo is implanted at a time.  This will prevent future multiple births but it does nothing for this family.  TLC doesn’t need another reality show about families with lots and lots of kids.  Will Nadya et al be relevant long enough for public outpouring to support this many mouths?  How can anybody other than Oprah support 14 kids??  And speaking of the Mighty O, even she will not indulge Suleman, good on Winfrey!!!  Perhaps Winfrey is as insulted as I am at being treated like a kid in kindergarten with blocks.  This woman is telling us partial truths in hopes of getting our support, monetary or otherwise.  Hey Nadya, while you are updating us about your last relations with men and when you expect to date again; why not answer a couple of our questions.  How does a ‘student’ on food stamps afford seven rounds of IVF?  Have you had a nose job?  Have your lips been filled with collagen?  Should Angelina Jolie be worried?  Is Single White Female your favourite movie of all time??

All kidding aside, the only Nadia worthy of our time and discussion is one Nadia Elena Comăneci.  And the only number we should be talking about is 10, as in the perfect 10 Comăneci scored at the 1976 Summer Olympics in Montreal.  ’Nuff said.

JLM

 

A little boy says to his mother, “Mommy, how come I’m black and you’re white?”

His mother replied, “Don’t even go there!  From what I can remember about that fucking party, you’re lucky you don’t bark!

 

 

 

 

 

If you were to suggest that most of my rants are about petty nonsensical irritants, one could not blame you.  Basically I am just calling out piss-poor behaviour of peers, peers who get on just fine acting inappropriately as they do.  My previous place of employment provided endless material so there was concern when my employer, anticipating tough economic times, informed us that there were layoffs in our future.  Recognizing the situation and crunching the numbers like a true mathlete, I took the money and ran.  But as I packed my desk it occurred to me that I would have few issues with society in general and hence my blogging would become infrequent.

Good thing I ran to Southern Florida, where I was faced with a surplus of idiots.  I was there for a month and the people I came into contact with had me thinking that perhaps the citizens of Ottawa, and my office in particular, were normal; proving that all things in life really are relative!!  Fuelled by an employment opportunity, I returned to Ottawa and was again wondering where on earth I would meet people whose actions were ‘rant worthy’.  Having met my new boss and co-workers I was absolutely certain that there would be no fodder here; I found myself, with a masters degree, the least educated person in an office of cerebral giants.  Good for my mental health but bad for my BLOG.  I was prepared to all but give up calling out the weak links in society for their inability to function as capable, well adjusted humans.

Then I went to the gym.  Some background information: I use the City of Ottawa facilities for everything, including their pools.  In my years of swimming I have met many people, some of whom I still swim with to this day.  Queue one of the people I swim with on a regular basis, Older French Guy (OFG).  I arrive at the facility and see that he is in the gym so I decide to go in and ask him if he will be joining me in the chlorine bathtub.  Here is how it went down:

JLM:  Hey, are you planning on going swimming when you are done?

OFG:  Oui, but I will be doing sit-up and push-up for a while. How long are you planning on swimming for?

JLM:  Forever.  And. Ever.  I have a food hangover and I need to swim it off.

OFG: What did you eat?

JLM: Lots and lots of Cadbury Mini-Eggs.  A. LOT. OF. THEM.

OFG: I had sex yesterday.

JLM: Whaaaaaa?? I cannot believe you just said that to me.  (I turn and walk out of the gym, totally disgusted.)

I am just as stunned now as I was when he said it.  You see, for starters the information was unsolicited, not only did I not ask him if he had relations I didn’t ask him anything.  Secondly, the information he blurted had nothing – I repeat NOTHING – to do with what we were discussing.  Totally off topic.  Thirdly, and perhaps this is the biggest gaffe, is that he said it loud enough that other gym-goers could hear.  So now I am tainted by OFG’s socially inept brush.  And that my friends is W-R-O-N-G. 

When he joins me in the pool I ask “What possibly made you think it was appropriate to tell me you had sex?”  He responded “I just thought you would want to know”.  I quickly explained to him that I NEVER want to know such intimate details of his life, neva-eva.  I thought about explaining how behaviour like this is frowned upon by society but if he is getting play regardless, who am I to say??

JLM

 

I didn’t know what to call this entry so I named it Taken in honour of the fact that the series of events came out of a movie date with three of my fave-o-rite girlfriends.  Wondering how it is that four women in their early thirties were going to see Taken rather than some romantic comedy?  Yours. Truly. Chose.  The only details I provided were that Liam Neeson was in the movie.  And yes, much to the chagrin of the reader, this is often enough to get women to part with 10$ and two hours of their time.

Having picked seats, we were waiting for the movie to start and got to talking about one of the men my friend had gone on a date with.  The standard questions were asked and the answers seemed satisfactory, yet she was hesitant about the future and the possibility of a second date let alone happily ever after.  Being seated in a row meant that voices were raised and my girlfriend was reluctant to continue the conversation for fear that ‘he’ might be at the same movie.  What??  Of all the movies to see and all the movie theatres you think there is a chance he is here?  What logic are we employing here?

I decide to let it go, figuring we can talk about this after the movie, and sit back in my seat and chit chat with my immediate neighbour.  Funnily enough, the two of us keep talking about this guy and their date when my friend, the lone married one, says – and I am quoting here – “His name is Pedro though”.  Though?!?!?  What am I missing??  Yes, I was in Florida for too long a while, but I did keep abreast of Canadian news and last I checked being named Pedro didn’t disqualify you from anything.  Have my friends turned into xenophobes in my absence?? I couldn’t help myself; I had to ask what ‘we’ were inferring from his name being Pedro and how this made him unsuitable to date.  CRICKETS.  She had no answer.  I proceeded to ask if she had been watching Lou Dobbs on CNN lately but she didn’t even know who he was or what I was suggesting. 

 

 

So now I am totally confused.  Pedro, however, doesn’t need to be confused.  As it turns out this guy waited four (4!!!!) days to call after the date.  I don’t care what your name is, this is BUNK!!  If you are not Barack Obama you are not too busy to call and at least say ‘Hi’.

JLM

 

In reading Slate Magazine I came across an article called Dear Prudence.  Similar to the old-school Dear Abby where readers write in for advice; Prudence offers advice on manners and morals.  Straight forward enough, save for what I just read flabbergasted me.  A woman, ‘Nauseated’, wrote in to complain that one of her cubicle mates frequently rubs one out at work.  At.  His.  Desk!!  In her letter the woman mentions that she has gone to see someone in the human resources department and they have advised her to ‘alert’ them when it happens so they can “……..catch him, uh, red handed”.  Clearly Prudie lacks originality when attempting to make a lame joke.  Worse than her sense of humour, Prudie went on to focus on how pathetic the HR department was at the woman’s work.  Um, errr, pretty sure the letter was seeking advice on how to get away from a co-worker who pleasures himself in her presence; not confirmation that her HR advisor is no better than a trained chimpanzee.  Focus Prudie, focus. 

My biggest beef with this ‘story’ was the fact that a woman who felt so violated and nauseated couldn’t find a solution on her own and felt the need to seek advice from what I assume is a self-described  ‘expert’ on manners and morals.   Hey Nauseated, when the guy next to you at work puts his HANDS in HIS PANTS you really do not need to worry about manners or morals; yours or his.  Throw decorum out the window and say whatever comes to mind; “Can it”, “WTF are you doing?” or scream bloody murder.  At the very least, surely you could have thought to ask for a seat change, no?  Regardless of who you told about this situation, my guess is that most of us would have recommended what Prudie suggested; without rambling on about your incompetent HR department.  I’m just sayin’.

JLM

 

A man breaks into a house to look for money and guns.  Inside, he finds couple in bed. He orders the guy out of the bed and ties him to a chair. While tying the homeowner’s wife to the bed the convict gets on top of her, kisses her neck, then gets up & goes into the bathroom.

 

While he’s in there, the husband whispers over to his wife:  ‘Listen, this guy is an escaped convict. Look at his clothes! He’s probably spent a lot of time in jail and hasn’t seen a woman in years. I saw how he kissed your neck. If he wants sex, don’t resist, don’t complain…do whatever he tells you. Satisfy him no matter how much he nauseates you. This guy is obviously very dangerous.  If he gets angry, he’ll kill us both.  Be strong, honey. I love you!’

 

His wife responds: ‘He wasn’t kissing my neck. He was whispering in my ear. He told me that he’s gay, thinks you’re cute, and asked if we had any Vaseline.  I told him it was in the bathroom. Be strong honey. I love you too.’

 

A friend of mine sent me this link because he thought the writing style was effective in getting the point across.  Effective because it clearly communicates what (almost) everyone would be thinking if asked the question, so much so the answer is rendered obvious:  Why would she even ask that?  is this a trick? For those of you unfamiliar with who Kim Kardashian is she is famous for no good reason the daughter of one of OJ Simpson’s defense attorneys and the fiancé of NFL running back Reggie Bush.  In reading Turner’s blog I saw the humour and in part agreed that yes, Kim K has an ample derriere, thus making the insult within reason, especially given that she posed the question.  This got me to thinking about how people ask questions but don’t necessarily want them answered, or at least not truthfully; queue Col. Jessup and his famous quote “……you want answers, you want answers……..you can’t handle the truth”.

 

 

 

 

The way I see it, people who ask the questions get what they rightly deserve.  Kardashian questioning people’s perceptions of her weight provides the best illustration of this point because we women are always asking if something makes us look fat or it we look fat in something.  The real question being asked is “Do you think I am fat?”, for I doubt anything makes Elle McPhereson look fat, you know?  Social etiquette dictates that we give the polite answer and tell people what they want to hear which is fraudulent.  The very fact that a person’s perception of us somehow dictates our mood or measures our worth is ridiculous.  If you don’t think you are fat then why ask anybody else what they think?  And if you know you are a tank-ass then break your jaw and start a marathon training regime.  Preferably simultaneously. 

And the people who do this know who they are.  They are the same people will go on ad nausea about the television show House M.D. and how they just love his honesty and dream of the day when everyone can say what they really  think.  I would bet my brand-new purse that not ONE of these people could function, let alone work, with a personality like that of House.  The crippling fear of what he may say would make them a burden to the workforce.  Dr. House would be good for us, or at least the healthcare system, the dread of his insults might make us more inclined to sub carrots for doughnuts and hit the gym.  And this would be a good thing.

JLM

Age is a funny thing; and often a sensitive subject with women.  One of life’s taboos or unwritten rules is that you never ask a woman her age, especially if you don’t want your eyeballs scratched out have gotten used to the sense of sight and enjoy it.   This is irrational given that age is only a number; it defines nothing about you personally.  It marks legal milestones; getting your licence, buying booze and then the penultimate: the senior’s discount.  Other than this, it is but a means by which one can determine your year of birth.

 

To give you the reader a frame of reference for this rant, I must start by telling you that I am in my early 30′s.  And by early thirties I don’t mean 34 years, 11 months and 26 days.  I mean 31.  This story starts with me at Winn-Dixie; my grocery store of choice here in Southern Florida when I was asked for proof of age (note to the reader: they not only sell wine and beer at the food stores down here; they have ISLES dedicated to themJ).  Time.  Stood.  Still.  It took me a couple of seconds to process that the lovely cashier, Ashleigh, thought there was a chance, however minute, that I was under 21.  Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?  If she was male I would have blurted out “Marry me”.  I provided the necessary documentation and was on my merry way.  My grin was still visible hours later while I recounted to story to anyone who would listen friends at dinner. 

 

Just 24 hours later, I found myself at the check out in TJ Maxx; God’s third gift to the female population after 1) Advil Liquid Gels and b) Aspartame.  As I am about to swipe the plastic the cashier asks me if I would like to apply for a Seniors Card.  Processing this question quickly, I query “Whuuutdidyoujussaytome?”  Steffon, in a rather deadpan tone, simply replies that he “….was wondering whether I would like to apply to get the discount given to those 55+, maaaaam”.  Grin.  Gone.  Rather than have him repeat the offending question to me, I ask him point blank if he really thinks that I am even close to 55 years old.  Receiving no response, I decide to play along and jokingly inform Steffon that I am a couple years short of 55.  Wink. Wink. His reply: “What are you, about 35-40?”  Now I am piss*d off; royally.  When guessing my age you estimate 20 years LESS than you initially suggested.  I don’t even bother with decorum and just declare “Steffon, I am 31.  Thank you.”  Failing to recognise how inappropriate and offensive his comments have been to this point; he says “Really, you don’t look it.  I would say mimum 35 years.”  Lacking the ability to stop myself, I retort: “I didn’t know mimim was a word.  Can you clarify; does that mean you think I look 35, younger or older?”  I leave without uttering any of the usual pleasantries.   I know, I know age is only a number but 55? Bivitch please.

 

How could two people have such disparate perceptions of a person’s age??  How? Ashleigh felt compelled to ask me for identification to buy liquor while her peer Steffon deemed it necessary to ask me if I wanted to apply for a senior’s discount.  Surely one cannot age in excess of three decades in 24 hours.  One litre of wine and 6 hours in the sun cannot have such severe ramifications on my appearance, could it? 

 

As fate would have it; days later I returned to the scene of the crime TJ Maxx to return something and guess who was working the cash again??  You guessed it: Steffon.  Quickly recognising me, he asked if it was my birthday and I was here to claim my senior’s discount.  Well played my friend, well played. 

JLM

In 1986, Peter Davies was on holiday in Kenya after graduating from Northwestern University. On a hike through the bush, he came across a young bull elephant standing with one leg raised in the air. The elephant seemed distressed, so Peter approached it very carefully. He got down on one knee, inspected the elephants foot, and found a large piece of wood deeply embedded in it.

 

 

As carefully and as gently as he could, Peter worked the wood out with his knife, after which the elephant gingerly put down its foot.

The elephant turned to face the man, and with a rather curious look on its face, stared at him for several tense moments. Peter stood frozen, thinking of nothing else but being trampled. Eventually the elephant trumpeted loudly, turned, and walked away. Peter never forgot that elephant or the events of that day.

 

Twenty years later, Peter was walking through the Chicago Zoo with his teenaged son. As they approached the elephant enclosure, one of the creatures turned and walked over to near where Peter and his son Cameron were standing. The large bull elephant stared at Peter, lifted its front foot off the ground, then put it down.  The elephant did that several times then trumpeted loudly, all the while staring at the man. Remembering the encounter in 1986, Peter could not help wondering if this was the same elephant. Peter summoned up his courage, climbed over the railing, and made his way into the enclosure.

 

 

He walked right up to the elephant and stared back in wonder. The elephant trumpeted again, wrapped its trunk around one of Peter’s legs and slammed him against the railing, killing him instantly.

 

 

Probably wasn’t the same elephant.