Category Archives: Women

Things to do before the Rapture (Saturday)

It’s been a busy few weeks for me. I’ll elaborate later, probably with pictures. Not THOSE kind of pictures… those don’t get downloaded.

Other failed attemps at Rapture

An earlier failed attemps at Rapture... OR WAS IT?

I’ve been reading with scant interest the reports of the Rapture wiping out all of humanity on Saturday. I’m Episcopalian; as far as I know we don’t really believe in Rapture. Then again, we’re kinda like Nell sometimes: “Tay in the wind, chickapee,” just sorta swinging from side to side, hoping our beliefs will find purchase… But Rapture hasn’t been brought up as far as I know.

But suffice it to say, the idea of Rapture A) is inspiration enough for a blog; and B) makes me want to trade in my to-do list for an “actually want to do” list.

And of course, I’m a broke-ass journalist, so I don’t have the funds to do fun stuff like “Sail to Italy” or “Buy device that will explode land so I can sail in a straight line to Italy nonstop.” So I won’t offer any suggestions that will require lots of money.*

(* = OK, one will cost a lot. But I have ideas on where to get the cash.)

So what can you do on a limited budget, to satisfy your need to accomplish something/do something fun/fuck around before the Rapture?

Prince: Just don't look 'em in the eye.

Prince: Just don't look 'em in the eye.

* Call the Guy. You know the one, Dr. Everything Be All Right, ‘stead of asking how much of your time is left, ask him much of your mind, baby… Sorry, every now and then Prince just takes over my body. I looked him in the eye. But seriously. You should call The Guy or The Girl and tell ‘em what’s up. It’s easy. Just say, “I’ve always loved you, I can’t live without you and don’t want to, so it’s a good thing the world is ending because you’re A) Married B) In Witness Protection C) currently renewing the protective order, or D) A commitmentphobe who’s just not that into me.” Just make the call! This Rapture thing’s for sure, right?

DO IT! We're all gonna die anyway.

The KFC DoubleDown: On any Rapture-Friendly Menu.

* Eat a KFC Double-Down. I’ve wanted to since KFC foisted this upon us, and even though I inhale tacos like there is no tomorrow (haha!), the Double-Down seems like something you’d eat only if you were sure the End O’ Days was around the bend. My brother eats them, but he also can bench-press a 1980s-era Dodge Ram. He can eat whatever he wants and it turns to Pure Steel.

* Graffiti your own house. Since I’ve been a homeowner, the same week that Katrina happened – shoulda been an omen – I’ve wanted to do something really crazy like tag my own house. I’m not good with spray-painting, I don’t think, since I can barely scrawl my name using an actual stylus. But wouldn’t it be fun? I’d spray-paint Charles Bukowski quotes on my garage door. Now THAT’s irony, folks. No one will be around to get it, but at least I got it.

Steelers, no.

Not a Steelers fan, but I've always been quite the Mike Tomlin fan. Meow.

* Go black. (Stay with me on this one… I promise it’s not racist.) As the ol’ saying goes, you can never go back, so now’s the time! If you can’t live with the idea of actually expressing your desire for another human being based on what they look like, the Rapture list is made for you!  I’ve always thought this phrase ridiculous, but then again, I’m attracted to everything, even the occasional table lamp. Skin color has absolutely nothing to do with who I’m attracted to, and it never will. I’ve “gone black,” and been back, and “gone black” again, then been back again. I’ve even “gone toast-colored.” But if you’re one of those people who’s kinda freaked out by race, always wanted to try it but are afraid of What The Neighbors Will Think, this is your week!

Her womb was so polluted

Her womb was so polluted, she couldn't even have a little baby. -- Tony Montana

* Go Scarface on a pile of cocaine. Or whatever you’ve always wanted to do. But remember: While I’m 100 percent sure that the Rapture is coming, (It says so on the Internet) on the off-chance that it’s not, you still might be random drug-tested the next day. And who knows how long it takes to pee out a Tony Montaña-sized pile of cocaine? This doesn’t really qualify as something you’d do on a budget, so you should probably preface a drug binge of this magnitude with selling your house, robbing a liquor store, brazenly walking into convenience stores and stealing their “Save the Children” buckets, stuff like that.

Of course, these are just suggestions. You do whatever you want with your last days. Hell, what have you got to lose? It’s the end of the world as you know it, you might as well feel fine.

And yes, I know every word to that song.

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Filed under Brain Disorders, Fun!, General Nonsense, Relationships, Tulsa, Women

Love your mother. Love, Your Mother

I don’t normally get all sucked into the drama of Mother’s Day, but I’ve had to read a lot about it at work the last few days, and on Facebook. It seems to be advertised everywhere this year too. More than usual. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I need to turn off the TV.


But seriously, it’s not Mother’s Day that gets me. It’s random Tuesdays, when I see something that reminds me of my dear sweet mama, and I feel this pull in my heart, a pang of sadness that’s never, ever going away. I lost my mom in 2003 as a result of a fire. It was an awful time, most of which my crafty brain has blurred for me. I blurred a lot of it myself with random brain-cell killing substances.

My mom was my best friend. Best friends fight, and hoo boy did we fight. But I loved her like no one else. We were 20 years apart, and she used to tell me, “You’re the only thing I have in this world that’s truly mine.” She knew I’d walk through fire for her. And I wish I could have that day — taken those flames instead of her.

I’m working at the Food Bank this Saturday morning, and it’s empty save a few souls who are in other sections of the building. So I was walking down the hall, whistling “Tupelo Honey” by Van Morrison. I love whistling; my Papa taught me how to do it when I was little. My mom used to tell me, “A whistlin’ girl never gets a husband.” Not sure where that bit of wisdom came from, but since I’m 36 and have never been married, maybe she was on to something. Mom was married five times; I never heard her whistle.

My mom was full of sage comments like that. Something she picked up along the way in rural Oklahoma, I’m assuming. She grew up in the sticks of Henryetta, made her own clothes, lived on a farm, was the youngest of five, went to Sunday school, Sunday night services, Missionettes on Tuesday and Wednesday church. If the doors were open, the Thomases were at church.

She was not like anyone else in the family, I’m convinced, though probably closest to my Aunt Mary. Mom was funny, weird, into music and comedy, and oh-so-smart. She knew everything. She taught me a lot of what she knew… but not enough. She could do plumbing, carpentry work, masonry, electric work, build entire rooms…  She was amazing. She didn’t know much about cars, but knew that nail glue fixed just about anything.

My mom always smelled good, but wore no perfume. She was always beautiful, but didn’t wear much makeup. Her food always tasted delicious, but I think she only used salt and pepper, never fresh herbs or olive oil. Mom believed that the only temperature worth using on the oven was 350 degrees. Mom LIVED on diet Coke, crackers, candy and Yarnell’s ice cream, but had a beautiful figure and the most amazing legs ever. (I didn’t inherit these genes…)

Mom died on July 11, 2003. My brother and I had to OK turning off life support. It was easy for me to do once I picked up her leg in the hospital room and I could wrap my thumb and index finger around her calf. Those amazing legs were wasting away. She didn’t know me anymore. A fever of 108 degrees robbed her brain of its usefulness. It was a hard decision. But I’m very glad I made it. She would’ve hated me to keep her alive.

Not a day — probably not an hour — goes by that I don’t miss my mom. She was such an integral part of my life, and I didn’t even know it then. I knew I liked her, and that she was incredibly important to me, but I didn’t realize just how much she changed my life, made me who I am. She was rock-solid and flexible. She was honest and knew when to stretch the truth. She was a friend and a mom… mostly a mom. She didn’t cave. She didn’t let me run wild. Because of her, I graduated from high school, college, and went on to do the job she would’ve done had she not gotten pregnant with me while she was in college.

She told me once that I’d lived out her dreams. She told me never to allow myself to be taken care of completely, but to do it for myself. She could never fully accomplish that in her own life. She didn’t become the journalist she wanted to become. I did. And now, I look over my life, and I’m pretty damn happy with it. I’ve done what my mother wanted, and what I, in turn, wanted too.

I get angry when people disparage their moms. I realize I won the Mom Lottery, that not all moms are as great as mine. But still, it’s your mother. Love your mother. Don’t talk down to her. She gave you part of her body for nine months, give or take. She kept you alive, or gave you to someone who could keep you alive. You don’t have to worship her, but for God’s sake, treat her right.

I’d give my whole life for five more coherent minutes with Mom. I have a memory of a soft white sweatshirt she often wore, and my head laying on her shoulder. The comfort, the smell, the complete abandonment of fear… that’s where my mind goes when I miss her.

Happy Mother’s Day, to all of you moms, mamas, mothers, mommies, nanas, meemaws and the like. You are loved.


Filed under Childhood, Family, Women

People Who Died (and those who didn’t.)

First, to explain the headline: When I was about 14, I heard Jim Carroll‘s “People Who Died” on the underground college radio station, which I picked up only on clear nights and when I held the antenna just so. I held that bad boy through countless broadcasts, finger at the ready to hit record anytime sometime cool or seemingly relevant came on the radio.

Countless volumes of badly-dubbed tapes were the result. And I still have them, catalogued and filed away in a bag. I still thank RSU radio for making me at least a teensy bit cooler.

Jim Carroll, whose life is chronicled in the book/movie “The Basketball Diaries” wrote that song, and many others (“Catholic Boy” is another gem.) But “People Who Died” is the one always in my head.

It’s good to have a list of “People Who Died.” The most recent big-name addition to the “People Who Died” list of the world is Osama Bin Laden. Hey, if you didn’t know that, you might’ve actually been in a cave, and not hanging out in palatial Abbottabad. So yeah, I’m not breaking any news on that.

I’ve been planning on blogging this since I came to the stark realization last week that — get this — GORDON LIGHTFOOT IS ALIVE. I could’ve sworn that man was dead. I don’t know why — perhaps VH1 didn’t do a “Behind The Music” on Lightfoot. Perhaps I never had reason to look him up. Perhaps I thought he died in the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. (Sorry, too easy, low-hanging fruit and all that.) I tweeted the lyrics to a GL song, jokingly saying he “went too fast.” A friend on Twitter exclaimed, “He’s dead? I hadn’t heard!” He was really upset. I had to retract that statement, or at least tweet something else quickly that I was just full of shit.

But it made me realize: There are a lot of people I thought were dead who just aren’t.

Some examples:

I want this as a handheld fan I can take to church or ballgames. ABE! ABE! ABE! ABE! ABE!

Abe Vigoda. He’s one of those people that you assume already has a memorial scholarship named for him. He was born in 1921.  Way to go, Abe! I hope I’m not jinxing you!

Shirley Temple. In my mind, she’s 137 years old (Joe Louis’ age, of course, when Rocky Marciano beat him) and has been dead for quite some time. THAT’S NOT TRUE! She was born in 1928 and is still kickin’.

Dick Van Patten. Oddly enough, he was also born in 1928. Turns out, 80 wasn’t enough. Neither is 83. Still drawing breath.

Apprently the Denver Post thought Charlotte Rae was dead too. This was in their photo archive.

Mrs. Garrett, AKA Charlotte Rhea. She was born in 1926, and apparently has all the “Facts of Life” necessary to keep herself alive for a long time. She’s even been a reference in “Family Guy” for her voluptuous bosom.

Jerry Lee Lewis. Maybe marrying children keeps you young? I shan’t try. I don’t know if I believe in marriage.

Carol Alt was everywhere in 1982. Is she off hanging with Debra Winger or something?

Carol Alt. I know, random, but it seems like she was everywhere, then she disappeared. I’m used to supermodels creeping back into the spotlight every now and again, such as Isabella Rossellini or Lauren Hutton. But what happened to Carol? Come back out, Carol. The world needs more pretty people.

Some people who are dead who may surprise you: Eddie Rabbit, Falco and Michael Jackson (haha, gotcha.)

So I’m done obsessing over death, at least people who aren’t really dead. Now to turn my attention back to people who are for real dead: OBL and ODB.

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Filed under Brain Disorders, Fun!, General Nonsense, Music, Uncategorized, Women

Crazy Women 101: Your Guide to Her-Steria

I’ll be the first to admit that women can be … batshit crazy.

I’m a woman, so I can readily admit to such lunacy. But you have to understand, we are hard-wired to include many more freak-out pressure points than men. Little things that roll of a man’s back like water off a duck’s back are likely to completely cloud a woman’s thinking to the point of ax murder.

I’ve taken the liberty of revealing some of these little elixirs in the crazy cocktail. So next time you see a woman with a downright troubled, fearful look in her eye, don’t judge her by her seemingly perfect wardrobe, perfectly coiffed hair or French-manicured toenails. The problems lie much deeper. You’ll thank me, men, for letting you know. Women, I’m sorry to tell a few of our secrets. But don’t worry, it’s for the betterment of humanity. And I would never give all of them away.

Condition 1: Tuckaphobia Skirtis

Dress tucked into underwear

Well of COURSE theres a Google image for this. Yes, men, this is a womans Worst Nightmare.

Every woman who’s ever worn a skirt or dress in her life (and if you haven’t, bravo) has experienced an acute case of TS at least once. I like wearing skirts and dresses, so I experience a bout every time. Especially if the skirt/dress is lightweight or flowing.

Here’s how it goes: You run to the restroom, and unlike men, have to completely disrobe your bottom half to Take Care O’ Business. Let’s assume you’re on deadline, or trying not to be away from your desk too long because your co-workers are A) on a really long lunch and you have to man the phones; or B) time how long your gone and assume you’re pooping, or C) run to tell your boss that you’ve disappeared and they would like to go ahead and have your new job title.

These are the things that run through a peeing woman’s mind. And if she’s pooping, you’d better believe it’s the fastest poop in town. We are convinced that every person in our office is sitting there with a stopwatch, measuring the length of time we’re in there. We don’t want to be known as Work Poopers. We don’t want the other girls thinking, “Well I’m not going in there for a while.”

You guys have it so easy. You relish your poops. I imagine you show each other if a small group has formed in the bathroom. I know you don’t have doors. How uncivilized is that, really?

But back to women, yeah, we gotta hurry. And when you hurry, especially in a dress, you run the risk of pulling your panties up and tucking part of the skirt/dress into your panties, thereby walking through the newsroom/office baring your extremely pale, dimpled asscheek for everyone to see. Oh, and your neon orange ratty panties. No, it’s never happened to me. Because I run The Check. The Check is basically where you run your hand down your ass from the time you pull your panties up until you get back to your desk. You can even look in the mirror to make sure, but you still run The Check to make sure the mirrors aren’t rigged. Tuckaphobia Skirtis might be a form of OCD. If not, it should be.

Condition 2: Taganoia.

St. Michael Jordan tagless

Michael Jordan has made huge strides against Taganoia with his invention of tagless Hanes T-Shirts. Love live St. Michael Jordan!

This is the fear that your tag is hanging out of your shirt. It doesn’t sound too awful, but believe me, it is. Tags, random pieces of cloth sewn to your garment, love to just roll on out of the collar, practically screaming to the world, “She’s wearing an  XL! And It’s an off-brand! AND IT’S FAKE LINEN!” Tags hanging out of clothes make you look slovenly.

Usually, some Good Samaritan, always another Taganoic female, comes along to tuck in the tag for you, patting you on the back afterward and giving you that look of, “Don’t worry, I took care of it. I’m so sorry this happened.”

Taganoia is thankfully on the decline, thanks to the genius who decided to put stamps on the inside of shirts rather than sewn-in tags. Why didn’t we think of this sooner? It seems a lot of sweatshops would’ve been thankful that they don’t have to sew in those tiny tacky tags anymore. Somehow, this is Michael Jordan’s doing. I saw those Hanes commercials. He’s the guy who invented tagless shirts. And I wasn’t sure I could love him more… sigh.

It’s odd, though, that men’s shirts were the first, because as far as I know, men could care less about their tags hanging out, and have never suffered a moment of taganoia.

Condition 3: The KMZ.

KMZ is short for “Kill Myself Zit.” It’s basically one of those bad boys that populates your entire face. It walks in the room before you do. It makes you want to just lay down and die, or form a firing squad to take aim at it, possibly lobotomizing you, but you don’t care as long as that horrible thing is off your face. A KMZ attack makes women act really, really strange.

We’re convinced that the entire world can see it, that is shows up on Google Maps, that government agencies are planning what to do should it try to overthrow the government. It’s the kind of zit that doesn’t usually have anything in it. It’s just hostile and mean, full of pus (how DO you spell the adjective form of ‘pus’ anyway?) and refusing to go away. They’re prevalent in the summer for me, when I hate wearing scads of makeup.

But when I’m undergoing a KMZ attack, I throw on the makeup, which never matches, and it ends up melting away about 15 minutes after you apply it (Thanks, Oklahoma Summers!) So we have to pack a duffel bag full of possible fixes for the beast, and run to the restroom every 15 minutes to reapply our masks. And pee. For the love of God, if you have a KMZ, don’t wear a skirt. The stress alone could force an accidental tucking. And then the world would blow up. Note: KMZs are most common if a big day is coming up, such as your wedding, or a camera is within 15 feet of your face. And I’m of the firm belief that men don’t get zits after they turn 17.

And that’s all I’m going to reveal at this point. I can’t just throw all women’s secrets out there, because it might mean men would never touch them again, women would never get laid and that’s a bad thing. The craziness would multiply ten — no, hundredfold — it would be like having longhaired vampiric wildebeests roaming the city streets. We don’t need that. Not again.

I’ll reveal more, but I have to eke it out so the fragile male brain can absorb some, make peace, then move on. Or poop it out, in a room full of other guys.


Filed under Brain Disorders, Fun!, General Nonsense, Women