Thursday, August 03, 2006

She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother

Ok, the post title sucks great big donkey balls. Shut up, at least I'm posting.

I'm scrawny. No, not slim, or built for speed, or thin. S-C-R-A-W-N-Y. Which leads me to the gripe du jour: Everybody normal hates me. Fine, people cluck their tongues at the Kiera Knightleys and the Oleson Twins as skeletons pictures and comment on the dire need to shove a cheeseburger down the throat of the offending person. But bring that same person to a friendly neighborhood BBQ, and watch the other women present struggle with the innate desire to drag her outside and rearrange her face with garden tools.

Why is it perfectly okay to sit around and bitch about being too fat and getting sympathetic looks and pats on the back and general commiseration and free booze, but say that you wish you had boobs and hips and were a GIRL, for Chrissakes, gets you mentally stabbed in the head with a garden trowel? I mean, I get it, and if the 95 pound lingerie model sitting across from you eats 2 grapes and says, with a dramatic sigh and hand to the forehead: "Oh, I'm so STUFFED! I can't eat another bite, or I'll never fit into my jeans!" by all means, take her out back and beat her to death with a breadstick. BUT, when the 95 pound mother of 2 is sitting across from you, and you just watched her polish off 3 hamburgers, an extra helping of pasta salad, and is currently into her 5th beer, and she's drunkenly sobbing that she's never gonna be Queen Latifah and where did her breasts go and is it possible to buy hips on e-bay, leave her the fuck alone. No, scratch that. Get her a milkshake, then leave her the fuck alone. She didn't say: "Oh, you're so lucky. I wish I was a fat cow, too!" did she? Not to your face, she didn't. (And ... cue hate mail ... NOW.)

Awkward segue into movies and TV. You wanna know things that bug me? That commercial for depression: Where does depression hurt? Everywhere. Who does depression hurt? (Cut to pictures of weepy-looking children, and the DOG.) Because, when you're clinically depressed, and haven't gotten out of bed in 3 days, and are seriously thinking that a 10 am vodka on ice with a Drano chaser would be a swell idea, you don't wanna piss off the DOG.

The Johnny Depp movie that is on everytime I turn on the TV: Secret Window. OK movie, not bad writing, and it's Johnny Depp. Hello? Anyway, when it's discovered that he is in fact the psycho baddie and he's chasing after his ex-wife and she's screaming and running away in terror because he's about to slice and dice her with a shovel, (why is it always gardening implements?) she's bolting out the door to her car, but she pauses and picks up her purse. "Hmmm, I'm going to be fertilizer in about 20 minutes, better put on some lipstick!"

I think that's about it for now. I'd write more, but I have a peanut-butter covered deep fried steak to eat, and a pair of jeans not to fit into anymore. I'll skip the grapes.


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