Ramblings of Mrs. America

It's not you, it's me.

2006-06-16T09:24:00.001-07:00

Blogspot,

I was going to write you a beautiful long letter and take you out to lunch and then to a nice pretty park somewhere sunny to have this conversation. But, fuck it. I'm dumping you for typepad. Don't call me, I'll call you.

Love,

Vanessa
www.aroomofonesown.typepad.com

It's not you, it's me.

2006-06-16T09:24:00.000-07:00

More general absurdity

2006-06-14T11:16:00.000-07:00

There are times when I really think my life is not happening to me. I would be certain that someone is playing a joke on me but you just can’t make this shit up. I think my only hope right now is to write down all of the absurd crap that happens in my daily life because I’m beginning to think others might really enjoy a laugh at my expense.

There are days when I just feel like Sisyphus, destined to spend the rest of my life rolling a boulder up a mountain only for it to roll back down on me. It’s not the woe-is-me victim part that I’m relating to here. It’s the absolute absurdity of the action. What keeps me from playing the woe-is-me part is that I can laugh at this. There are times when I’m laughing and crying about it, but at least, somewhere in the chaos, there is laughter. And you know what? That’s MY damn boulder if I want to keep rolling it up hill, I will.

I’m sure I am partially, yet not wholly (I won’t go that far) responsible for creating that boulder. I can take ownership of it. Of course, I’ve not done anything truly heinous like Sisyphus and murdered houseguests, even though the thought has crossed my mind a time or two, so I think I’m still alright. I’m just hoping that each time that boulder rolls back down my mountain a little chunk falls off. I mean, it HAS to get easier. Right?

It's not just the cheescake, people.

2006-06-12T09:28:00.000-07:00

I had a good solid moment of happiness this weekend and I’ve just going to live for it for a little bit. I had lunch with two of my best friends on Sunday and I have to tell you that it makes me wonder why I don’t take these girls shopping and buy them something nice instead of paying my therapist.

I think this was the first time the three of us had gone out somewhere together, just us, in a long time, which is sad since I’ve known Jen and Barbara for over a decade. Life just got busy, I moved to Scottsdale, we all got married and had kids and, well, shit happens. But now I’ve moved “home” to the West Valley and it’s a hell of a lot easier to see them. I’m jealous as hell that they can walk to each other’s houses and I’m still a 20 minute drive away.

I’ve been spending a good amount of my time lately feeling sorry for myself and wallowing in pissy crap that is going on in my life. I forgot that the doors to their houses are open all the time. I know that if I just show up they’ll let me in. They’re my home. It was always like this before. Every weekend we spent at each other’s houses and I don’t know why this stopped. Jen and Barbara have still done this for the past few years but I just stopped.

I’ve spent too much time sitting around my house feeling that because my husband’s never there or he’s sleeping, that I need to just sit there. I’m trying to learn how to make myself happy again. And I have to say that sitting in the Cheesecake Factory, laughing and having horribly inappropriate conversation with two of my best friends is very much a step in the right direction.

Dear Bathing Suit Manufacturer

2006-06-10T21:24:00.000-07:00

Dear Bathing Suit Manufacturer,

I would like you to know how much I resent the fact that you do not seem to understand that I am neither 18 nor 80. All I wanted to do today was get a simple, cute bathing suit in which I could loll by my pool drinking adult beverages. It's not like I'm seeking the Holy Grail here, people.

I went to four different department stores and one specialty store and I must say that I am quite flabbergasted at the selection you have displayed before me. It seems you have two ideas of what women who want bathing suits need. In looking at this season's swimming attire, I feel it is safe to assume you think I fall into either of these categories:

1) I am 20 years old and am really looking show as much skin as I can in order to convince some gentleman over the age of 21 to buy me cheap beer. I will quickly drink 2 and a half of these beers and act like I have a blood alcohol level of .264. The gentleman who bought me the beer will inevitably find this charming regardless of the fact that I just puked on his shoes. Because my daily budget for food is $3.87, I eat little enough to look really hot in this suit. Thank you ever-so-much for designing it.

2) My name is Myrtle and my grandson, Bobby, had to show me how to use this new fangled computer thing. It's good to see you recognize women whose bra size has gone from a 36C to a 36 Long. The skirt that covers every square in of my body is delightful as I have gained 65 pounds over the last 30 years. I like swimming dressed as a Mormon. Thank you!

Okay, news flash bathing suit people. I am 32. No one needs to buy me a six pack of Bud Light. I have enough money to buy very good wine and triple cream Brie cheese regardless of what I know it will do to my waistline, if I feel so inclined to do so. Despite bearing the cutest child that has ever lived, I have maintained a semi-cute figure and my breasts do not hang down to my waist. The girls like to look pretty and would appreciate anything that you could do to make them really feel special. I understand this may require you to use more than 2 square inches of cloth but just go crazy, would you! Also, this whole tankini thing is not fooling me. The tankini is the bathing suit version of the minivan and it ain't fucking happened here, buddy. I don't care if I did see one in this month's Victoria's Secret catalog. I know what you're doing. You are totally transparent. And, stop sending me Land's End swimsuit catalogs. I don't find the humor in that. At all.

So, please, for the love of God, go forth and design me a flattering bathing suit that is cute enough to make me feel even just the slightest bit sexy without feeling like people would wonder what the hell I was thinking. I can't see that this would be too hard. And lastly, if you continue to think that women really like brown bathing suits, I will hunt you down and maim you.

Sincerely,

Vanessa

Grab a box folks

2006-06-09T22:12:00.000-07:00

I may be moving. I am not feeling the love from Blogspot. Typepad is wooing me. And I may just be persuaded. I am weak and of little restrainst. I will write Blogspot a tearful Dear John letter if it comes down to it. I will not feel guilty. It just doesn't seem meant to be. Typepad is just so pretty and seems to be all about ME.

I'll keep y'all posted.

Oh sweet Jesus.

2006-06-08T23:11:00.000-07:00

The vintage Dior came today. I cannot even remotely stand myself. At all. I never, ever, want to take this off. Ever. Got that? Ever. I am so happy I could just die. I have been sitting here for the last hour, in the damn Dior, laughing to myself. Loudly. It might be the wine but I am sure it is just the glory that is this damn thing.

I am very happy right now. Very very happy. Oh so very happy.

Oh, the water

2006-06-06T13:46:00.000-07:00

I love few things more than when you connect a memory so significantly to a song that each time you hear it you automatically go right back to that moment. Yesterday, I was driving to a function in Downtown Scottsdale and was fishing through my CDs in my car.

About three and a half years ago, I had taken a trip to Zihuatanejo, Mexico with my whole family. Mom, Dad, sister, sister’s then husband, me, my husband. It must have been about the third day we were there. My husband and Dad went on a fishing excursion and the rest of us decided to go out to a more secluded beach called Playa Las Gatas. You have to go downtown and hop a “water taxi,” which is basically a panga, to get there. We were the first ones on the beach and we found a nice spot at a beach restaurant and plopped our stuff down.

The owner’s name was Jorge and he had a very sweet 3 year old son. Apparently, Jorge’s restaurant partner had fallen very ill the day before and he was not able to go into town for his supplies. He needed a boat to come out and bring him things for the day. My mom, sister and brother-in-law had gone down the beach to do some shopping and I stayed back to hold down the fort. Jorge, not knowing me from Adam, asked if I could just keep an eye on his son’s whereabouts while he unloaded. I was happy to.

The boat pulled up. There was no one else around and Jorge’s son just sat on the beach near me, playing in the sand and shallow water. He knew his boundaries. The man who drove the boat had a radio on. It was playing Van Morrison’s And It Stoned Me. I just sat there in the shade, that gorgeous day, in that amazingly beautiful place with that as the only sound other than the ocean. It was perfect.

The CD I grabbed yesterday was Moondance. The second the song started I was there. I rolled down the windows despite the fact that it was scorching hot outside and turned it up as loud as I could stand it. I ended up sitting in a dirt parking lot off Scottsdale Rd. listening to the song three times, knowing I would give my right arm for that moment again. And to partially have it back brought me so much contentment.

I'm either very stylish or a French whore.

2006-05-31T20:16:00.000-07:00

First, Ebay is bad. Very bad. I'm convinced they have somehow hypnotized me, are sending me subliminal messages though their website or at least have cast a strange spell on me luring me back to their site. Evil bastards.

I started the evening just looking for a poster of New Oreans. A nice print
either something large for my not-so-decorated bedroom or something smaller for my even-less-so-decorated master bath. I found these two great New Orleans Cabaret prints. Very vintage looking. See? Darling isn't it? They're very small. 8 x 10. My husband will shit. Simply shit. But it mentions chocolate and he has come up with NO suitable suggestions for blank wall space. And she looks very happy. Doesn't it make you want to stay out all night and then eat beignets with a huge cup of coffee from Cafe Du Monde?

Then, I just thought maybe I'll peek around at what vintage clothing they have. I now have a new obession. This is not good. Tonight, I won these little babies:

They're vintage Dior and fabulous. This is EXACTLY what I need, to start collecting vintage french lingerie. Good idea. My first thought was how great one of these would look hanging outside the door to my closet. My husband and I have separate closets so this could fly.

Then I started the inner struggle. Does this scream, "Wow, what stylish and unique taste!" or "Hi! Just call me Lady Marmalade!" I've decided against the latter and I could give rat's ass if anyone agrees with me. I reserve that right. Besides, you cannot deny they are absolutely gorgeous.

Just keep swimmin'

2006-05-24T22:04:00.000-07:00

In the last few days I have run the gamut of every emotion I could possible have. It's not been pretty. It's not gonna be pretty for a while.

I guess the shoe finally dropped.

Absurdity at best

2006-05-22T13:52:00.000-07:00

One of my many projects I've left out there unfinished is a Master's degree in Literature. Somehow, once I left teaching, I just couldn't seem to justify the time or the expense. Unless, of course, my main objective in life was to become a truly well-read bag lady. Then it would have proved useful and student loans would have certainly helped me along to my occupational goal. Instead, here I sit, in my nice big office with my nice big window which brings me to my point.

The whole thing seems quite absurd. My whole life just feels this way. I'm struggling to make sense of my life. I am the kind of person that needs to understand the big picture and what all the little components are that make up the whole. I understand that this is way too existential for a Monday afternoon. Still, I fascillate between believing in chance, that everything is just random, and in fate, that life is moving me in a certain direction.

I have happened upon jobs with the company that I'm at twice. I'm not sure if this is just who I am and what I do and who I know or that there's a reason for it. Maybe it's just dumb luck. I'm having the same thoughts about people that are in my life. There is a small number of people in my life that I feel connected to and are the type of people that give life to you instead of sucking it out of you. I've met most of them out of sheer chance. The fact that I have friendships like this is, of itself, interesting to me and it makes me wonder if there isn't a reason my path has crossed this person's. Trying to figure out what a person's purpose in your life is is like painting the side of sinking ship. An excercise in futility that just gets nothing accomplished other than wasting energy.

One of the books I studied during that degree program was Thomas Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49. The entire book is a study in the absurd, unfortunately with little resolution. I crave resolution. I just want to understand things. I feel that if I don't, I'm just bouncing through life and not attaching much meaning. So, I guess I'll be my own absurd hero. Grab a can of paint if you want, I could use some help.

I could marry it.

2006-05-15T17:40:00.000-07:00

I am so in love with my iPod, it's damn near stupid. I have the new color video one. It's lovely. Well, it's actually pretty scratched up but I hear Brasso can fix that. I need to look into that.

I have started downloading shows that I miss. Or just ones I find funny, like half of the last season of The Office. I love that should I find myself, say, stuck at the DMV, I have entertainment. Two words: Dwight. Schrute.

I also love that I can download one song at a time. I could, feasibly, spend my entire paycheck downloading stuff. It's inevitable that I will randomly think of a song or an artist I haven't listened to in 10 years and find that I need to download their entire catalog right that very minute. I am very frustrated that I can't download to my library from work because at this moment I am dying to spend at least $10 as many Concrete Blonde songs as I can think of. I am this [ ] close to going all Veruca Salt over it.

My other issue is something I have stated before but always bears repeating. These things should come with a breathalizer. I have a bad habit of drinking and downloading. Two great tastes that do not taste great together. It's the only way to explain how Harper Valley PTA ended up in my iPod.

In return

2006-05-10T23:51:00.000-07:00

My friend Kate has taken to posting lyrics on her blog as of late. I've been thinking about her lately. Why? Oh because, she's Kate. And as this is one of my favorite songs and she's been weighing on my mind, I thought I'd share and follow suit.

I am driving up 85
in the kind of morning
that lasts all afternoonim
just stuck inside the gloom

Four more exits to my apartment
but I am tempted to
keep the car in drive
and leave it all behind
Cuz I wonder sometimes
about the outcome
of a still verdictless life

Am I living it right
Am I living it right
Am I living it right
Why, why Georgia, why?

I rent a room and
I fill the spaces
with wood in places to
make it feel like home
but all I feel's alone
It might be a quarter life crisis
just a stirrin in my soul
either way
I wonder sometime
about the outcome
of a still verdictless life

Am I living it right
Am I living it right
Am I living it right
Why. why Georgia, why

So what so I've got a smile on
but it's hiding the quiet superstitions in my head
don't believe me
don't you dare believe me
when I say I've got it down
everybody's just a stranger
but that's the danger in
going my own way
I guess it's a price I have to pay
still "everything happens
for a reason" is no reason
not to ask myself
( it's suppose to be ourself)

If I'm living it right
Am I living it right
Am I living it right
why tell me why---why, why Georgia why?

A minor change

2006-05-08T08:39:00.000-07:00

So if you hadn't noticed, I changed the title of my blog. I realized I do less confessing than I do general rambling. I know confessions sound juicy. I hate to disappoint people and it would be sad if someone came here looking ofr some deep dark secret only to find the most heinous thing I've disclosed it that I own Starsky and Hutch. Really, I would be disappointed.

Other than that, I have some fabulous news to report. It seems I found my happy! I thought I was losing it but I found it! My husband actually had Saturday night off so we got to spend the entire weekend together. We went to my friend Scott's on Saturday night and drank many fabulous mojitos. I may be addicted to them. Out wonderful weekend together has resulted in two good things, onther than me finding my happy.

We are finally having a housewarming and backyard party. I will force Scott to bring mojitos. He doesn't know this yet. We also booked our plane tickets to Zihuatanejo for December. We're flying first class. First class to the Mexican Riviera. How can I not love life right now? I could love it more if it were December already. This is going to be our first real vacation with our daughter or any other member of either of our families since our honeymoon. Did I mention we're flying first class? And it's a direct flight. See? Happy.

We'll give it a try

2006-05-05T21:05:00.000-07:00

Cinco de Mayo. I have a good amount of Dos Equis. I've got Norah Jones' Come Away with Me in my iPod. I have fru-fru smelly candle things. I am going to take a bubble bath and I'm not coming out until either I'm a prune or the whole album is over. If this doesn't make me blissfully happy, I'm in a world of hurt.

UPDATE: I am so pruney that I could seriously become a cat burglar. I don't think I have any fingerprints anymore. No one could ever lift a fingerprint off anything I touch right now. Not even Gil Grissom.

Vanessa and the P-Funk All-Stars

2006-05-04T21:08:00.000-07:00

So I am on the verge of a funk. I DO NOT want a funk right now. But it's just hanging out there waiting to bitch slap me. How do I know this? There are signs:

a) The Office did not make me laugh nearly hard enough tonight. As a matter of fact it depressed the hell out of me. The whole episode made me want to cry. Except for Dwight's large security badge. That was funny.

b) I have been so wound up all day and can't come down. It could be the two cups of coffee and the Diet Dr. Pepper and a half I had today but I have that damn near every day and I'm okay. I went for a drink after work. I thought maybe a shot of nice tequila and a beer might help. It did. For like an hour. I'm wound up again now.

c) I have that yucky edgy anxious feeling again. You know, the whole waiting for a shoe to drop feeling. This is so incredibly unlike me. You'd think after my dad had a heart attack this week that feeling would be gone. Nope. Still there.

d) I am so god damn bored I can hardly stand myself. Really, I'm too bored to do anything at all. I don't want to watch TV. I don't want to read. The only thing that sounds even remotely interesting is gathering a bunch of people together and playing Trivial Pursuit, the last 25 years edition. How odd is that?

e) I just want my bed. I want to crawl into my bed and stay there for a real long time.

f) Deserted islands are sounding really appealing. I'd like a deserted island and my iPod. Of course, I would watch episodes of LOST on my iPod and that's more irony than any human needs.

Bottom line, I don't like feeling like this and I want it to go away. I'd like to be able to maybe talk to my husband about this but he'd have to be home in order for that to happen. And, we'd have to agree to talk about something other than how much we hate Home Depot. And really, I'm almost too bored with it to even talk about it. And I miss my husband. I miss fun. My husband goes to work, my kid goes to sleep and all fun ceases in my house.

I am far too whiney right now and I know this. You, yourself, are probably terribly bored and depressed now. But, damn it, I get to be whiney and needy every now and again, don't I? I don't always have to be Fun Vanessa. I delegate being fun to someone else for a few days.

The Ronnie Miller Express

2006-04-30T21:14:00.000-07:00

Nope. Can't do it. I watched about 2 minutes worth of Grey's Anatomy tonight. I can't figure out why people find Patrick Dempsey sexy. I simply cannot wrap my brain around that as I can't look at him and NOT see Ronnie Miller, the lawn mowing geek that pines after Amanda Peterson in Can't Buy Me Love. I just do not get it. Maybe my whole idea of sexy is totally fucked up. Who knows. All I know is that he in no way, shape, or form does it for me.

Now, we all have some strange obsure people who, for one reason or another, makes us really happy in a potentially inappropriate way. But I can't see this as being the case with the folks who love Patrick Dempsey. I mean, there is a whole following of people who are, as I like to refer to it, "riding the Ronnie Miller Express." Again, I don't get it. Is it the whole TV doctor thing? Man + Televison = sex god? Does not compute.

If anyone understands this phenomena and would like to expalin it, I'm all ears.

What fresh hell is this?

2006-04-29T19:04:00.000-07:00

Can I just say how much I was looking forward to my morning cup of coffee todat? This past week I have not gotten enough sleep to make myself a decent cup of coffee before leaving the house. So I figured I could make up for it this morning. Saturday morning is swim lesson morning for my daughter. We have to be there and in the pool at 8:00 so we leave the house at 7:20. On Saturday. No problem, really. I'll just make a cappuccino and head about my merry way with a handy dandy thermal cup. I make up an nice double shot cappuccino, froth the milk, add ample sugar (like my coffee sweet) and head out. I get about a mile down the road and take a sip and oh Sweet Mary Mother of God.

I don't mean that in a good way. I mean that in a, "What fresh Hell is this" way. Apparantly, my mother-in-law, who is staying with us until tomorrow, has replaced my regular sugar with artifical. As in Splenda. This is the same woman who has somehow replaced all my brand name whatever-they-hell-it-is with generic in order to prove to me that I am a slave to marketing and the Kroger brand is just as good as the Ziploc bags, which she washes out and hangs over my faucet after use, by the way. I can only picture her, smiling in my kitchen like the, "We've replaced the regular restaurant gourmet coffee with Folger's Crystals, let's see if they notice the difference" guy. Let's say I noticed the difference. I HATE all artificial sweeteners. Period. None of them taste like sugar. At all. Never met a single one I liked. I had heard some good things about Splenda so I tried to changed my opinion. See? I'm pliable. I'm not THAT stubborn. Nope, it sucks. I cannot even imagine people baking with it. The horror. This, of course, coming from a woman who refuses to use margarine and uses only real butter. And let me say this: If I come to your house and you even attempt to serve me Folger's Crystals with or without artificial sweetener, I will kick you ass nine ways to Sunday.

Apparantly, the Splenda had ended up in the sugar jar because my mother-in-law could not find the regular sugar. I have had an entire lesson on pantry organization as it should be. I'd tell you more about it but really, I have no idea what she said as I'm sure I fell asleep standing up in the middle of the conversation.

Okay, I'll say it.

2006-04-27T22:01:00.000-07:00

I might, in the tiniest, littlest, smallest, itty bittiest part of my being, miss teaching.

First time in 6 years it's even crossed my mind. And it makes me just a little bit sad. Of course, it's totally a phase and it will pass because I know I really have no desire to go back to it. I think it's that I've stopped reading. All of my books are in my garage just sitting there. Collecting dust. At least once a week I feel totally compelled by whatever to go digging through all of them in order to find one certain book. Of course, it takes me an hour because I forget I had such-and-such book and have to peruse it right then, or I can't find the one I'm looking for in the first 15 boxes I look in. It's partly that damned Deanna's fault. She has to go get a book published and keep that damn Dorothy Parker quote going. Bitch. Whatever it is, I've found myself sitting in my garage, surrounded by boxes, reading Raymond Carver and I feel really dorky about that.

When I was teaching, I had to read. It was my job. Granted, I left teaching because, in part, if I taught Hamlet and Lord of the Flies one more time I was going to shove knitting needles in my eyes. It took me two years to get over having to read a book with a highlighter. Another part of it is that teenagers ruin things. There were things I loved and when you hit opposition 5 times a day, it sucks the passion about it right out of you. So when I left teaching, I stopped reading because I had no desire to. Quite my Master's program and never looked back.

Of course, my whole explanation of this that, though I love my job, hearing nothing but bitching for 8 hours is killing me. Sucking the life right out. So I think I'm falling back on what originally gave me any sense of life. Those damn books.

Side effects of sugar intake

2006-04-26T14:54:00.000-07:00

I started today with a bang! I actually got up early which is not just unusual but unusual for me after staying up late last night watching Gladiator. First time I had seen it and I had made the grave error of watching it with my husband who is an Army Sergeant and had a significant amount of liquor in him. Little known fact about the movie: if you watch it under these conditions, there is a secret hidden bonus feature that includes random narration that details the entire history of field artillery explaining the evolution of flaming catapulted balls of pine pitch to napalm. Sadly, I found you cannot turn this feature off and it makes the movie 4 hours and 13 minutes long.

Regardless, I made it to work, after dropping off the kidlet, early enough to get flowers for the admins, donuts for the whole office and Starbucks for me and two friends. I felt on top of the world looking down on creation. Cranked out a high volume of work while listening to the new Shooter Jennings album. Until 9:30. I then crashed. Hard. I have had two Cokes and another half of a chocolate donut in a vain attempt to recover the early morning bliss. It is not working. As a matter of fact, the only thing it is doing is creating the overwhelming desire to crawl under my desk and nap there very contentedly until someone kicks me and tells me it's time to go home.

Now, I have gotten a good amount of work done today as I have spent a nice portion of my day running around like a poodle on cocaine. I have a few projects to muster through and I may actually be ahead of my game. But what am I doing? This. Typing nonsense. Rambling. I mean, I could feasibly sit here and go on for hours. Not very good for my job performance or for anyone reading this. So, I'll leave it be and get back to work. Damn my responsible nature.

You can't see me!!

2006-04-19T12:14:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I went to this charity ball. It was delightful. I bought a fabulous dress. There was a photographer hired for the event. I didn't bring a camera. I just naturally thought there was a good chance I may be in a picture and that would do. When we get the link for the pictures I am not in a single one. Period. Not one. It's like I wasn't even there. Today, we get the link to our company's family picnic pictures. I peruse all 57,396 of them and I'm not in a single one. I am hell bent on determining the reason for this and I have a few theories.

#1 - My mirror lies and I am actually hideously disfigured and ugly. I'm thinking I may be under some kind of spell by some woodland witch. The spell distorts my own self image.

#2 - I am my friend Sebastian's imaginary friend. There were a gazillion pictures of him at the picnic standing all by himself. I hung out with him at said picnic so if I am a figment of his imagination then I could feasibly have been standing with him and not actually IN the photo.

#3 - I'm in the witness protection program and the government is paying these people big money to not photograph me. I don't recall any of this as my memory was most likely erased.

This is as far as I've gotten. I'd be open to other theories should you have one.

I already hate them

2006-04-12T22:58:00.000-07:00

I have decided that I just plain don't like my neighbors. They technically only moved in about three weeks ago. I wanted to like them but it just ain't workin'. As I pulled into my driveway today I realized that my eyes do not roll far enough back into my head to express my feeling toward them. I spend a good amount of time looking out my window and shaking my head at them.

The first time I met the wife, we stood in my driveway and tried to make nice-nice. After about 30 seconds of "conversation" I realized we were both standing there with our arms totally folded in front of us. Not a damn thing to talk about. Yep. We were not going to be friends. Husband's a piece of work. He now has 2 ATV's and a mini dirtbike for his 7 year old son (always a good idea) and they take them out in the desert behind my house, which I have a lovely clear view of, and ride around loudly while swearing. This is exactly what I want to experience as I sit pool side. What boggles my mind is the thought process involved here. Phoenix is the 6th largest city in the nation with the fastest growth rate. Does this guy actually believe that there is just land out there, not owned by a damn soul, just waiting for him to recreate in? Either he's stupid or he just doesn't give a shit. Whatever the case may be, it's not endearing.

Every time I come home they have some new item of god-only-knows-what that they are bringing into the home. Today, I pulled up and there was this painting. Oh Lord. I have no idea who the woman was in the painting but if someone painted me and I saw looked like that I would move to a very small village in a little known African country and hide. And this painting was large. Very very large. I'm sure it will be hung by the only window in their house that I can see from my house.

I have half the mind to plan some mildly annoying retaliation. Nothing overly obnoxious but just annoying enough to make me feel better. I have an iPod, iTunes, and speakers and I know how to use them. Nothing mean spirited. Maybe just routinely playing something like, oh, I don't know, Tom Jones's "It's Not Unsual," quite loudly with the windows open, each day when I get home from work.

Yes, I DID know that.

2006-04-11T08:54:00.000-07:00

I have an annoying habit. I know. Shocker. The person who gets to experience this the most would be my husband, of course. Last night my husband decided that this habit was no longer going to annoy him. I was ecstatic. I thought I was making headway!

I have a tendency to annoy the living shit out of my husband by frequently sharing with him excerpts of whatever the heck it is that I’m reading. It makes perfect sense to me that every person in the world should think Laurie Notaro is as funny as I do. Of course he wants to hear me read the last damn hilarious thing she has just written. I mean, why wouldn’t he? The same holds true for the dozen or so magazine subscriptions that come to our house.

His idea of deciding that my habit was no longer annoying was actual a diabolical plan to turn it against me by doing it himself. I worked late last night and came home to my darling husband on the couch reading my Glamour. He had also just finished a whole bottle of wine and washed it down with a beer. I’m tired and I head upstairs to go to bed, thinking I’ll just start a new book. Oh no. My husband comes to bed and decides to read to me off every page of the magazine. Mind you, I’ve already read the whole thing. I already know the 6 Things Women Think About Men That Are Wrong. Number 7 is that they don’t read our magazines, by the way. He shares anyway. I am highly annoyed. Highly. I can’t read my book. I can’t watch the news. I tried very hard to pretend I was sleeping.

If he thinks this is going to cure me of my habit he is so wrong. It’s a full on war now. And I will win. His plan has totally failed, especially since I was planning on re-reading Wuthering Heights. Nice job, Captain Backfire.

It's your Mutha.

2006-03-31T23:10:00.000-07:00

We got a new phone system at work. Not my idea but, hey, change happens. Unfortunately, all of our saved messages from the last system were deleted. I had kept a few messages from my husband and my mom that were midly amusing. Of course, this is for the rainy day when you need a laugh. So now I'm concerned because I have no sudden amusement. This sucks. For two whole days. Then my mom calls...

Now, I have said a dozen times, my mom is Linda Richman. I can immitate all I want and people do not believe me. Until now. She calls and gets my voicemail on which I'm asking for a detailed message. She leaves the following:

"How detailed of a messgae do you want? It's your mutha (like I had no idea, mom). Hope you have a good day. Cawl me. I love you."

I had to play it for any and all of my co-workers. They've invited her to lunch next week. It should be fun.

Yeah, I'm going to need that in a SMALLER size.

2005-12-02T14:08:00.000-07:00

I don’t care what anyone says about it. I love vanity sizing. Love it. Love it like you could not imagine. If that makes me vain, I don’t care. Why don’t I care? Because, it also makes me a size smaller.

I decided to do a little winter clothes shopping at lunch today at the greatest store on Earth, Ann Taylor Loft. I went in for one little wrap sweater. I swear to you. I ended up with a bunch of other things and even a newly approved Ann Taylor Loft charge card. How did this happen? Vanity sizing.

Now if you have no idea what in sam hell I am talking about, vanity sizing is the practice of making sizes larger so people feel better about themselves because they’re wearing a smaller size or staying the same size, when in reality, we’re all just getting fat and people are messing with our minds. But, you know what? IT WORKS. I’m feeling very cute right now. And tiny. Tiny and cute. Maybe a little sexy even but I don’t want to get carried away with myself here.

I know many people would say that it’s horrible and it just perpetuates the idea that in order to feel sexy and beautiful, you need to be a smaller size. I say, that’s their problem. I am going to choose to feel very cute. Maybe a tiny bit on the shallow side. Maybe. But just a tiny bit. Really tiny. Like how tiny my butt feels.

Today? For you? Almost free.

2005-10-23T20:13:00.000-07:00

This weekend was the big garage sale weekend before the move. I am not kidding when I say I want to get rid of every damn bit of junk I have. A mighty endeavor. So I entered hell at 6:30 on Saturday morning, when the first prospective buyer arrived.

Now, I can honestly say that the people who came to our (fuck it, my husband HID) MY garage sale were members of one of two groups. Either they were real old and had receive a memo that he who collects the most of other people’s useless crap wins OR they were Hispanic folks trying to get back at me in some cruel way for haggling that guy in Nogales down to 23 bucks for the metal javalina in 2001. Neither group is particularly fun to deal with nor are they willing to buy a really nice computer desk for $85.

The older folks asked every damn question about every damn thing and then offered me $2.65 for nearly the entire garage sale. Memo to them: it ain’t 1942 anymore… The Hispanic people would show up and immediately try to cut the price in half. At one point, I had West Side Story in my driveway as this guy tried to totally haggle me on a jean jacket my husband never wore as another Hispanic woman watched.

Cheap guy: How much for the jacket?
Me: Three bucks.
Cheap guy: I give you two.
Me: I’m asking three.
Other lady who was annoyed as me: I’ll take the jacket for three (SWIPE!)
Cheap guy: How much for the skirt?
Me: Two bucks.
Cheap guy: I give you one dollar,
Me: Nuh-uh.
Other lady who was annoyed as me: I’ll take the skirt for two (SWIPE)

The look on his face was priceless. She was really proud of herself.

My favorite was the guy who walked up with the Packer hat on. Now, I am a major Packer fan. I had sold my cheesehead a few hours earlier. Not giving up on the Pack, just not a fan of wearing fake diary products on my head. But, I did still have the dancing Packer doll that sings Are you Ready for Some Football? I immediately let this guy know I have this gem and am willing to part with it for 5 bucks. That man went nuts. Just crazy over it. I swear, it made his decade!! I loved him. He was my favorite.

All in all, I made $387. Not really worth it considering I solidified my place as a redneck as I tried to talk someone into buy a computer desk for $85 while holding a writhing, screaming toddler wearing a shirt and diaper with no pants or shoes. Yeah, I felt special right then.

This is not my beautiful house

2005-10-17T21:18:00.000-07:00

So, we're in moving hell. Really, I shouldn't complain. Not that is has ever stopped me before. Honestly, things have gone pretty smooth with selling our house and building the new one. I just hate moving. Period. Don't want to do it ever again. It's why I love my new house so much. I am sure I will love it so long that I will not want to move until my kids are out of college and I don't want them to find me.

My problem with moving is not really me. It is, of course, my husband. Loving, sweet, caring man but the man cannot throw anything out. I'm not even asking to throw it out. We're having a huge garage sale on Saturday. He can always give it to charity. But see, my in-laws have passed many of their belonging unto us. This makes them "heirlooms." I am not kidding here. The problem with the items that my husband cannot depart with is that he can't tell if they are truly valueable or something my in-laws got with a fill-up on gas.

Case in point - We have very ugly pilsner glasses with red painted rims. Red paint that has been scrubbed, flaked or chipped off. They are this obsured kind of glass. My husband, at first, tried to convince me that they were etched crystal from Germany and had been in the family for ages. Ummm. No. I collect Michael Weems etched crystal. Crystal does not have air bubbles in it. Turns out they were glasses his grandpa bought back in the 50's. They are chipped and totally abused. I would not serve someone a beer in them. No one is going to look at this glass and say, "Eureka!! What a marvel of painted glass!!" I don't ever think he saw his grandpa drink out of these. Ever. I doubt the sentimental connection. We agreed to keep the beer glasses in the cabinets over the ovens where I will never see them. They will be used on the odd chance my father-in-law is in town and wants a beer a his glass.

My beef is not the glasses but that I have to pack up and MOVE this crap. There are things that have been in the back of a closet for 5 years. They are not coming back out. Why? Because the are fugly. Way fugly. And have I mentioned that my in-laws are coming to help move? Most likely to ensure their fugly stuff they gave their son gets displayed somewhere prominent.

Pimp My Cart

2005-10-04T21:00:00.000-07:00

It has become overwhelmingly apparent that I am now one of those women who have MOM written all over her. I might as well buy a damn minivan and throw in the towel.

This weekend, my daughter decided to outgrow being pushed around in the grocery cart. She used to LOVE this. She would just sit there, nicely, smiling and being cute and small. So we take a routine trip to Albertson’s to get a few groceries. I go to put her in the cart and all of a sudden I have a 30 pounds worm with a damn attitude problem. You would have thought I was trying to drop that kid in acid. Legs flying everywhere. I get “that look” from the little old lady coming through the door. I retort with the “Like you ain’t ever been there Granny?” look. I’m in a quandary as my kid simply will not just walk nicely down the aisle as I shop and I am not a fan of the you-break-it-you-buy-it rule.

Then I caught a glimpse of my fate. The big ass fucking behemoth of a cart that has an ENTIRE car attached to the front. This thing might have rivaled my Chevy SUV. So, I show it to my wormlet. She goes nuts. Climbs in and off we go. Now these things are not easy to maneuver and I am utterly aware of what I jackass I may look like. I mean, I am laughing out loud at myself. I am further making an ass out of myself by commenting about the largeness of my cart to total strangers. I can’t help it. I could only picture what I looked like “driving” this cart. And, of course, my daughter believes she is in some kind of parade and is waving to everyone as we pass them shouting “HI!!!!!” and “BEEEEP BEEEEEP!”

I’m sure I am stuck in the land of the huge carts for some time. But, I promise, I will not surrender to the minivan. EVER.

Yurt place or mine

2005-09-26T21:19:00.000-07:00

If someone wanted to make a sitcom of my life, it would be similar to Dharma and Greg, only the network would take cruelty a step further and give Dharma Greg’s parents and vice versa. My mom and dad routinely call my in-laws weird. I have spent the last five years of my life defending them. That has all ended. I have changed my mind. They are freakin’ loony. They are buying a YURT.

My husband told me this and I had no idea what it was. His description was that it is some kind of home that is mobile that can be semi-easily erected in various locations. Basically, if a tee pee and a tent had about ten too many drinks and did the nasty you would have, yes people, a YURT. I am dying over the mere though and call my best friend, Shari, to inform her of their plan. She has no idea what a yurt is either but the word is cracking us up. Mind you I have no idea where they plan on putting the yurt. And remember, I still don’t know what one looks like. But, I’m 2 minutes from home and I can Google this.

Ladies and gentleman, if you’ve never seen a yurt before in your life, let me introduce you to my in-laws future abode:

Purdy ain’t she. Oh, and they come in colors. I can imagine a whole bunch of the blue ones in a row, with lots of little people in white hats living in them. Except for the old grouchy guy with the cat. Really, though, to get the full scope of just how fruity this whole thing is, you must got to the website where they are thinking of purchasing said yurt. http://www.coloradoyurt.com/. Click where it says “YURTS” and learn al about the glorious history of the yurt and the pastoral people of Central Asia who live in rhythm with the land.

I call my in-law because I am convinced they are just trying to freak me out. My father-in-law would do this. He’s sick that way. Nope. They’re dead serious and I have now offended my mother-in-law by laughing very loudly during the entire phone conversation. My father-in-law is now threatening to bring it to my house and erect it in the park next door. Or my 2-car garage. I’m thinking that I’m totally screwed. So, if you’re in the Phoenix area, please stop by the Yurt of Spite. I’m sure my mother-in-law will share her smoke with you.

Two great tastes that taste great together.

2005-09-14T20:23:00.000-07:00

Finally, something good has come out of my reluctance to clean out the pantry. I hate cleaning the damn pantry with a passion. So, I don’t do it. My life is simple like this.

I’m not having the greatest of evenings. My daughter has chosen this very week to enter into the terrible twos. And, let me tell you, they are that terrible. If anyone tries to convince you of otherwise they’ve hired a full time nanny, flat out lying or they were too high on crack to notice the terrible twos.

I finally get her screaming little body into bed and asleep and am needing something to sooth me. Now, I have a good friend named Jim that I like to call upon in times like this. He’s real popular and good friends with another guy named Jack. I’m still a little edgy so I think I need something sweet so I go to the pantry. EUREEKA! That is when I find the most beautiful thing a wife, whose husband is at work, who has already had a little bourbon, who has a crazy toddler could ever find. One completely unopened, untouched box of Girl Scout Thin Mints. Yes, they keep very well over a period of months. Very well.

So I’m going to go and enjoy the rest of my evening with my Thin Mints and my whiskey. Really, a disgusting combination but I do not give a rat’s ass. I am happy. And I’m not sharing.

Vanessa, the Amazing Bubble Girl

2005-09-08T19:54:00.000-07:00

I have a bubble and I’m quite happy with it. I do not like to travel outside of my bubble. Period. Today, I was forced way out of my bubble and I am still not very pleased. My bubble extends to two freeways. If there is something east of the I-10 and south of the 202, I don’t care to know about it*. I don’t want to go there and I don’t want to know people who live there.

Now, people who live in this area are not bad people. The houses are just fine and the stores are nice. This is from what I’ve seen. Let me tell you that I have lived in Phoenix for 27 years and have traveled to this part of our metropolis about 15 times in my life. That said, I have gone there TWICE in the last week. I had to go today to pick out granite slabs for our new house. Way outside the bubble. Let’s just say I got lost on the way there. Here’s the sad part. On the way home, I got even more lost. I should have known I was in trouble when I turn left out of the parking lot and immediately notice the big blue IKEA building.

I had no idea where what freeway went. I’m great with directions, usually. My problem is that I have spent a good portion of my life just ignoring the fact that this whole part of town exists. All I knew was that I was supposed to end up in Scottsdale and ended up staring at downtown. I even knew that I was heading in the wrong direction but had no desire to exit the freeway. Eventually the freeway will tell me where I’m going and it did.

I have no idea what I have against the whole Mesa, Gilbert, Chandler, Awatuhkee area but I just don’t like them. And no one can make me. My new house is, oddly, as far away from there as I can get. It is completely and safely in my bubble.

*The exception to this is Sun Devil Stadium, which is right on the border of the bubble. There must be some safety zone around ASU that makes me happy.

23 acres of obnoxiousness

2005-09-06T10:01:00.000-07:00

I did something really stupid yesterday. I decided, on holiday weekend, to go to IKEA with my best friend, her 12-year-old daughter and my 19-month-old daughter. Let me just say that while normal this combination of people adds up to a whole boatload of fun, yesterday it could have meant certain death of someone.

IKEA is a 23-acre maze of confusion and cheap items. Why am I here? I must be seriously freakin’ hard up for cheap storage containers. If we are not drunk, Shari and I are not crowd people. Simple as that. I am sensing that this is going to be like shopping at a 23-acre Costco. There are screaming children running all over the store and screaming parents chasing after them. Apparently, these people missed the big play area for kids so this situation could be avoided. We are not amused. We do not think these kids are cute and charming. Figure in the fact that these aisles are so tiny and the traffic flow is so heavy that you cannot stop for 30 seconds to look at an item without someone crashing into you. Sound fun?

We go back downstairs where the kitchen items are. This is where we actually plan to spend money. I need those damn cheap storage containers! We also need food. They have $.50 hot dogs. Really. So while I am getting cash at the ATM (I don’t even carry $.50) I ask Shari to kindly grab a cart. 10 minutes later she returns. I do not know what happened in the pursuit of the cart and I do not want to know. But that woman came back with a look on her look on her face that would scare the hell out of anyone. I call it the Cold Stare of Death. I am sure there was a shopper without a head somewhere.

We eat, grab armloads of cheap storage and the most hideous mirror ever, and head to checkout. Oh. Dear. Lord. This was worse than Costco and there were no nice old ladies pushing samples of Teriyaki chicken at you. No, no. There were people in lines with enormous boxes of furniture they have to put together. I almost went Rain Man on these people. We waited in that line for what seemed an eternity. All the cashiers were chatty and I hate that. Shut the hell up and scan my container. I was surprised we got out alive and without a body count.
If you’re going, let me offer this advice: Go the minute it opens, on a Wednesday, wear padding and bring something that you can joust with. Stab anyone that comes within 2 feet of you. And don’t get the chips at the hot dogs place. They’re just plain weird.

Oh, how I hate lists.

2005-08-31T15:26:00.000-07:00

I just felt very inadequate.

I am having this little boredom issue. Just bored right off my ass. So, I decided that maybe if I made myself something to do, I would feel better. After some good long deliberation, I decided to seek out the list of the 100 Greatest Novels of All Time. I was going to read every single damn last one of them and I don;t care how long it was going to take me! I woud be bored no longer and I could brag shamelessly. I would brag shamelessly, too, mind you. I do stuff like that all the time.

I set out to find the list, thinking I was going to be already quite ahead of the game. See, I have a degree in English and taught high school for 4 years. I got my little highlighter out and got ready to just start crossing off all those books I had read off the list. Um, yeah. Not so much. I read the #2 book - The Great Gatsby. Good for me. I also had #13 - 1984. I didn't have another on the list until #41 - Lord of the Flies. At this point, I am feeling like I should get my college money back because I got seriously screwed. #55 - On the Road. Check. #64 - Cather in the Rye. Check.

Then it happened. I saw that #77 was Finnegan's Wake by James Joyce. What the fuck? Seriously? If you've ever seen this book you know that it is not written in English. It's written in raging crazy drunk Irishmanese, and I ain't fluent in that! I tried reading it as though I was the Swedish Chef from the Muppet Show. Perhaps that would help it make sense. Really, phonetically, I thought it was going to work. Nope. I read an article that states that no one knows exactly what this book is about as no one has been able to clearly "translate" it. Yes. I see. Being in coherent, apparently, makes you a leterary genius.

I just threw the lsit in the trash. I'm still looking for a hobby.

Today, for you, almost free.

2005-08-24T09:58:00.000-07:00

I’m a haggler. I am certain, in most situations in which I am purchasing something, that I can get it cheaper. I think that in college, they should offer a class in haggling. It could be a companion to Basic Finance or something along that line.

I’m not sure if this qualifies me for being called cheap. But yesterday, I haggled the pool company and my pool will now cost me $1500 less than the original price. So really, I don’t give shit what you call me. I once read that price negotiation can happen almost anywhere if you have tact enough to pull it off. The jury is still out on whether I have tact in general, so I haven’t attempted this.

My main experience in haggling is a direct result of many trips across the border. I’m pretty damn good at it. I once haggled a guy in Nogales from $98 for a metal Javalina down to $27. I love that damn Javalina, useless as he may be. I have learned, also, that humor can help haggling. In Tijuana, a guy had a ring I HAD to have. After a bit a while we hit an impasse. I decided that we could flip a coin, he called heads or tails and whoever won got their price. I did this all in Spanish. And I won. I then confused the man when I went dancing down the street singing “We Are the Champions.”

I’m thinking I could offer up my services to you. Really. I’ll even negotiate my price.

Take THAT dumb boys!

2005-08-17T20:05:00.000-07:00

I have a theory. I have many of them. This is just the first one I’m sharing. There will be more. My theory is that all girls are born with the innate knowledge of how important the hair toss is. Really. Drive by a junior high. There are girls tossing their hair to and fro like a swarm of bees had just landed there. The cutest thing is that many of them seem completely oblivious to the fact that they’re doing it. It’s as if their brain has not actually sent a message to the hand. The hand is working completely on its on accord.

To substantiate my theory, I take you back to my kindergarten bus days. Even as a tomboy, I was innately aware of the significance of this gesture, if you will. I rode the bus with two boys I knew, one of which lived across the street. They picked on me. I picked on them. It was a friendly feud (until I stole Ryan’s Hans Solo action figure but that is a story for another day.) I had long hair and dreams of telling them off on the bus and then turning around so fast that my hair HIT them, both, in the face. Precocious child? Me? Noooooo.

My dreams were crushed when my mother took me to the hair salon and had them cut my hair into a “pixie” hair cut. I was mortified. But, it was not because my mother made me look like this:

No. And I had every right to be pissed at the haircut in general. What really killed me was the thought that I would never, ever be able to slap boys in the face with my hair as an expression of my power. And at age 5, I was totally aware of the power that my hair could yield. I continue to be impressed by women who are adults who can pull of the hair toss without looking like an idiot. My sister was the master of the hair toss and could even do the hair toss-giggle combo flawlessly. Oh it was a thing of beauty. For extra flair, she could do the hair toss-giggle combo with the arm touch. Really, it would render men speechless. I beg you, next time you are just watching people, look for it. You’ll see it. It’s certainly become a staple of the North American mating ritual.

The Incognito Mom Package

2005-08-12T21:21:00.000-07:00

Yesterday. I had to take a group of five Vice Presidents of a large national home builder company on a tour of where I work. This is fun for me. I get to play grown up. Immediately after being informed of my mission though, I panic.

Let's take about my car. I drive a Chevy trailblazer. Fits 7. Good enough. It is used as child transport. I have an 18 month old. Imagine, if you dare, what my car may look like. Now, I keep it devoid of crap but really, my kid is good at sippy cup flinging. The side door is NOT pretty. So I go to the "Auto Spa." I'm in Scottsdale here, people, even our cars go to the spa. I pull up to the guy. He asks what my car would like done. Not kidding. Like the car has a fuckin' option? I ask him if there is anything he can do to make it look like my kid has never stepped foot in it. "Oh," he says. "You want the Incongito Mom Package. We do that." Praise Jesus. This man is my new best friend. Off my car goes.

I am sitting at the "Auto Spa Relaxation Center." Scottsdale. I am now people wathing the other folks treating their car to a "treatment." There was some very fine people watching. I saw:

* 4 short men in overly big trucks.
* 2 women in shoes that a stripper would not even wear. Mind you, this was paired with business attire.
* 1 woman who was wearing a dog as an accessory.

My favorite was the guy who went inside and came back out only to find someone else had parked too close to his car. I am not kidding, the guy stood there and stared at him car for 5 minutes pondering the situation. I thought maybe he was trying to use the force to move it. If he was, Yoda would be pissed at his efforts.

$60 later my car looks great. Unfortunatley, I had all this done the day OF the tour. The floors were still damp. I can tell you that my car had enough humidity in it for the rest of the day, it could have been considered a traveling weather station. And it rained...

Dun Dun Dun Duuuuuuuun

2005-08-09T08:59:00.000-07:00

I love football. I love football more than most girly girls should. Last night was the first Monday Night Football game of preseason. I must admit, my heart went quite pitter pat at the sound of the Monday Night Football theme song. I have even changed my ring tone on my phone to this little ditty.

I’ll even come out and say it. I love John Madden. I love how much he loves to use the pen to write all over the damned screen. Hell, if you gave me one of those things, it would be u-u-u-ugly.

I’ll also admit that I miss Dennis Miller. Now THAT was fun! I consider myself to be smarter than the average bear. I claim this simply on the fact that I understood 80% of what he was talking about. It bonded us together. I am saddened that some secret club was never started based on the understanding of Dennis Miller.

Now, the Packers are my team. As this is most likely the last year I will get to see Brett Favre play, I am all about him. DO NOT try to talk to me on Sunday unless it is the Packers bye week. I am going to try to start a tradition in our family this year. I will be taking my sweet little daughter out with me to raise the Packer flag in front of our house and I am working on a Packer Prayer. I’ll keep you posted on how that goes. We will then commence football watching. And there will be cheese.

The dumbing down of my DVD player.

2005-08-03T09:24:00.000-07:00

Okay, I’ll say it. I am a connoisseur of dumb movies. Now, don’t get me wrong. I enjoy thought-provoking film as well. I enjoy artsy films in foreign languages. But really, I own Weekend at Bernie’s. I could not agree more with Chandler Bing when he said that there is nothing funnier than a dead guy being hit in the groin over and over again.

And here’s the kicker. I watch them several times. It’s not enough to watch it and let it go. No, I felt the need to purchase Starsky and Hutch. I got it “previously viewed” of course. I never said that I, myself, was stupid. I’m not going to pay full price for dumb. But, if dumb is on sale, I’m buyin’ it. And if Will Ferrell takes his clothes off and does something stupid in a movie, I am all about that.

But notice I did not say fan. No, no. I am a dumb movie snob. There are a few dumb movies I will not watch. A girl must have her standards, after all. If the movie involves an African American male playing half the roles in the movie by dressing up as random relatives or other people, I ain’t goin’ there. Robin Williams. Funny as an old woman. Martin Lawrence. Not so much.

And I hate space movies. My husband went through a phase where all he wanted to do was rent really dumb movies about Mars. And there are hoards of them out there. I had to put him on Mars movie probation.

I think that there should be a show which reviews only dumb movies. They don’t need to be new. Just dumb movies. And not just thumbs up, thumbs down. This would be a deep analytic discussion of the genre. I’d be willing to host.