Less Than 2 Hours

I pay my credit card bill online. The good part about it is that I can wait until the last minute to pay my bill if necessary. The bad part is that if I forget the due date, I get smacked with a $39 late fee.

Here it is 1:40AM and I just paid the thing, thinking that it was due today, September 3. Oh noes. Due September 2. I was late less than 2 hours, and the late fee was already charged to my account. Dammit.

I’ll call later today after their offices open and see if I can get them to drop it. I doubt it, because I’ve tried numerous times to get them to lower my interest rate (to no avail).

The good thing about this is that they can’t increase my interest rate  because of the late payment. It’s already up there at the maximum, somewhere just under 30%.

Dammit. $39. I can’t even afford $2 for tacos.


Can We Please Move On?

Sorry I haven’t been around much lately. I’m easily distracted by shiny things. -The Tick

I have a love/hate relationship with the TV. It can be a wonderful, informative tube of illumination. It can be entertaining and smart and clever and insightful and can bring a whole host of Good Things to the average TV viewer willing to plop down in front of it and pay attention for a scant few minutes. 

And then there’s the other 99.9% of junk that’s on TV. With that junk, I include the Michael Jackson coverage. For crying out loud, that man hasn’t been musically relevant in years. His life, of late, was mostly a sad circus act played out in front of a too-attentive media. And frankly, I just don’t care.


TRO compares Michael Jackson to Obama. I wish I’d thought of that.

I agree with Cranky-D. What about nuclear power, bitches?

Pam is bored. Me too. I just want to know if her hubby knows about all the angels kissing her knees…

Jonolan finds answers in Obama’s childhood. Hmp.  42 does not equal “government“.

Frustration, Stress, and Woe Is Me

Finding inner peace is a stressful business.

Meditation is fine, most of the time. Here’s my problem: I have a fertile imagination, so sometimes I am unable to completely clear my mind. Do you have any idea how counter-productive it is when you’re trying to meditate and you can’t keep your heart rate down because that fertile imagination is busy picturing a Hugh Jackman massage? It’s frustrating, and that’s not just because of the heart rate issue.

I’m 33 years old, the hormonal equivalent of a teenaged boy. Do you know how frustrating it is to know that you are reaching your sexual peak just when you become the least attractive you’ve ever been? Oh, up until about 30 women just get better and better. (And we glory in that, don’t we girls? You’re damn right we do.) Then you hit thirty-something and you stop improving.

Oh, this isn’t a problem with age I’m having. I’m having a problem with the side effects of age. An overactive libido is the least of it.

I have chin hair and it is grossing me out.Oh, I know. All women get extraneous hair as we age. So it’s not like I’m being singled out for some rare punishment of rampaging hormones or something. I’ve just reached that certain age when we women have to spend a little more time grooming. And by “grooming” I mean “removing unwanted hair, moisturizing drier limbs, worrying about alpha-hydroxy and amino somethings and hyaluranic whatsits and vitamins A-Z, and repairing shit we never had to think about just five years ago but have to contemplate seriously now before it all really starts to go down hill.”

But you know that once you hit a certain age you’ve reached the point of diminishing returns. It’s just one more coat of grey primer on that piece of shit 1987 Chevrolet Celebrity. No matter how much primer is on that damn car and no matter how skillfully you’ve applied it, you know that there’s still rust under the dozen layers of Krylon, problems under the hood because you have to add oil every 700 miles, holes in the seats in which you’ve lost about $47.96 of change, stains on the carpet that seem to spell ominous messages like “666” and “rot in HELL” and “Diet Prudie!”, cracks in the window that get bigger every Winter, and duct tape holding up the headliner when it’s not humid outside. Before you know it, you’ve spent more money on the primer than the KBB value of the car.

I don’t mind getting older. Truly. It’s just the mess that comes with it that bugs me. And amidst all of this, I try to meditate. Nothing doing.

Excuse me. I’m out to buy more primer. And possibly a rabbit.

LATER: I’m fine. Really. I think this is the aforementioned frustration talking here. It’s not fair. Just when women’s libidos start to hit warp speed, men’s libidos slow to keep pace with a snail. OK. I’m finished whining now. Thanks for the shoulder and all that.  Mwah!

Don’t Worry Your Pretty Little Head About It


If there’s one thing I cannot stand during a debate, it’s condescension. And when it’s from a man using tired old sexist rhetoric to undermine a female’s opinion, my burner goes from low to nuclear in a hurry.

Now, I am not a feminist. Further, I’ll rip the head off of anyone who dares to call me one. This hearty hatred of paternal condescension comes not from a liberal feminist background, but from a lifetime of arguing politics with men and then having my opinions trivialized because of my femininity.

Men do it all the time without realizing it. The reason why I wrote this post is in one of the articles to which I linked yesterday, the one dismissing any claims regarding similarities between W and Lincoln. The sentence that set me off is on page 2, first paragraph (emphasis mine).

Some Bush supporters, while agreeing that things have not been exactly peachy these last eight years, nevertheless try and compare Bush to Lincoln — at least as it relates to the idea that both men faced serious challenges and remained steadfast to their beliefs in the face of virulent opposition. (My PJM colleague, the lovely Kyle-Ann Shiver, makes that point in her piece opposite this one.)

The lovely Kyle-Ann Shiver?

Would Rick Moran write such a thing while debating a male? I doubt it. You’re not going to find Mr. Moran writing “the handsome Glenn Reynolds” or “the studmuffin Glenn Reynolds” while debating an idea from El Instapundito anytime soon. No, Mr. Moran was putting the lovely Ms. Shiver in her place, reminding her that she, a mere pretty little female, shouldn’t worry her sweet little self about such things. It’s condescending.

Even worse, assuming he wasn’t trying to put her in her place, calling her the “lovely  Kyle-Ann Shiver” could have been used as a way to soften his disagreement with her. “I disagree with your analysis and think you’re as stupid as a pile of little green apples. But aren’t you lovely? You are. Don’t feel too bad, sweetie.”  This pisses me off as much as the condescension because it assumes that women can’t handle opposition without being coddled or soothed.

I doubt it was a conscious decision on his part. I don’t think he did it deliberately to undermine her position or sooth her into compliance. I haven’t read Mr. Moran’s work enough tothink otherwise. I think it’s just a knee-jerk response some men have when seriously debating women. Some do it (either consciously or subconsciously) for the condescension or to soften the blow of disagreement. Either way, it pisses me off mightily.

NOTICE: I have no idea if Ms. Shiver is lovely. I’m sure she is in at least one way or other. Let’s assume she is completely lovely. It doesn’t change what I wrote above.

LATER: Of course, if Mr. Moran could be flirting with Ms. Shiver. If that’s the case, he could have picked a better time to do so.

UPON FURTHER CONSIDERATION: Feel free to call me lovely. Just don’t do it during a debate.

I Still Hate Rachael Ray

See? See?!!!?!!1!1!! Rachael Ray is EVIL. She kills puppies.

Not that I needed another reason to hate her… Still. It’s nice to have an opinion validated by a competent authority. Sweet!

The Back Story: Once upon a time, I watched 30 Minute Meals every day. Seriously, if I wasn’t able to be at home when the show was on, I taped it. I made detailed notes. I trolled Food Network, magazines, and Rachel Ray’s own site looking for 30 Minute Meal recipes, ideas, information, and tips.

I tried a few of the recipes. And none of them worked for me. Oh, I didn’t expect to make them in 30 minutes; I realized that Rachael Ray has to practice an awful lot to get those meals down to 30 minutes. The timing wasn’t the problem. The problem was the food.

The food sucked. Man, that food sucked hard.

Yum-O? More like Yuck-O.

Now, I am a good cook. I’m an amazing baker, but I do well with regular stove-top cooking too. (I’ve never met an Ina Garten recipe I couldn’t handle.)

But these supposedly easy no muss-no fuss dishes from Rachael Ray were kicking my ass.

So Delish? Hardly. And for crying out loud,  can’t she say delicious? It’s only one more fucking syllable.

That’s when her voice started getting on my nerves. When you add that to her overly cute delivery, inane slang, ceaseless pandering, oft-repeated phrasing , and rictus grin… well, I began to hate her.

EVOO? ARRRRRRRRRRRGH!!!! Would it fucking kill her to say extra virgin olive oil? Even if she just said olive oil, we’d all know what the hell she meant. Why unnecessarily complicate things with the EVOO shit? It doesn’t save time to say EVOO because she has to stop and explain what EVOO is when she says it. It’s just another part of her cutsie act that drove me insane.

So I stopped watching 30 Minute Meals.

And just about that time, Rachael Ray started showing up on other programs on Food Network. Now, I love to cook. (If I posted a picture of me, you’d know that already.) And I’m a good cook. So I like to watch Food Network. But I can barely turn on the stinking channel without seeing Ray’s grinning moonface looking back at me.

But little Miss Thing didn’t stop with Food Network. Oh no. She has a talk show. And she didn’t stop with TV. Oh no. It’s bad enough that she’s invaded the bookstore. She now has a magazine. She sells cooking equipment at Kohl’s. She on the box of some crackers. She has a brand of extra virgin olive oil. And recently, she invaded  my favorite TV shop; Et tu, QVC?

Everywhere I turn, that moonface is glaring at me. She’s stalking me. Make her go away!!1!!!!111!!

P.S.: I am fucking sick of the color orange.

P.P.S.: Looks like I found some inspiration to write, after all.