My oldest daughter had her senior portraits taken last night, and I, unfortunately, may have caused her some embarrassment during the process.
I can be childlike at times, talk too loudly when excited, and have difficulty with instruction if not written out in 1-2-3 steps…So she became a bit agitated (rolling eyes, exaggerated sighs) when, during her photo shoot, I snooped around in the photographer‘s prop boxes, retrieved various objects of interest, such as a gigantic purple flower, a yellow stuffed ducky, and waved them behind the photographer’s head, did a little dance with them.
She also might not have enjoyed my outbursts of “Gee, when I had my senior portraits done, the stupid photographer guy kept telling me to lick my lips," and “Honey, just look at this fabulous feather boa!" (Moooommmmmm! STOP IT!)
Then came time to choose the best pictures, which one goes into the yearbook, which ones to give out to family and friends, how many sheets to purchase with which package, what the cost would be, and all that jazz, and I, of course, was perplexed and overwhelmed beyond what should be normal. I also loudly demonstrated my love of quite a few of the pictures. Like, loud loudly. 'Cause that's how I am when I love something.
I sounded exactly like this: Ooooh, that one is SOooooo beee-YOO-teeee***screech***ful! (Mooooooommmmm! [glances nervously over at the family next to us, lowers voice to harsh whisper] I HATE that picture!)
The photographer was very kind, very patient with me, despite my too-loud shrieks of picture appreciation, my unbelievable confusion, calmly repeated (over and over again) what each package would cost with this many sheets, and what pictures go where, etc., but my girl was not so patient, and I don‘t blame her one teensy bit. She finally ripped the brochures from my hands and said (with an exasperated exhaling of air), “Mooooooommmm! Just let me handle this, okay?”
Thank goodness I had no trouble writing out the check.
Me: So, Mr. Papa, who's your best friend in Kindergarten, eh?
Brandon: Well...No one, really.
Me: Oh, come on, buddy. There must be someone special...Do you still like Annikan? He's a nice boy!
Brandon: Yes, I like Annikan. We play a lot. But we don't sit next to each other.
Me: I see. Who do you sit next to, then?
Brandon: A very pretty girl.
Me: What's her name, pray tell? Brandon: I don't know. I keep forgetting. She's very, very, very pretty, though. She has brown skin and brown hair. I look at her all the time. Sometimes she smiles at me. Like this [smiles girly-like, disturbingly so, and tilts head, bats eyelashes].
Me: Goodness gracious! She sounds delightful.
Brandon: She is! I try to sit next to her as much as I can. I think she's my girlfriend.
Oy. I'm sicker'n a dawg, coughs, headache, runny nose, gooey substance drip-dripping against my epiglottis, small baby elephant sitting atop my chest, crushing the very life essence out of me...Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...
I feel the need to worship.
Won't you join me, brothers and sisters?
Hold ya hands in the air, and wave 'em like you just don't care!
Warning: The following video may be offensive to some viewers, especially atheists, agnostics, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, your Uncle Moe, the friendly grocer down the street, Sir Mix-A-Lot, Daddy Warbucks, Charlie Brown and all the Peanuts gang, Sophia Loren, and red-headed folks who wear horn-rimmed glasses.
Want more? Fall on your knees and pilgrimage on over here!
Jeepers, I didn't sleep a wink last night due to my obsessive, intrusive thoughts on all things Britney.
What, you're surprised?
Well then, you obviously do not know Ms. Lori very well, do you?
I obsess over the thought of my cat dying, for Christ's sake. Every day for the past month or so, I stare lovingly into my cat's eyes, my own welling with hot tears, and murmur "I will miss you when you die." Sometimes I say, "When you die, I will purchase another cat just like you..."
I say the latter while focusing intently on her face, so that its image will be forever burned into my brain. I want to remember each freckle on her nose, every whisker...You know, for when she's dead and all.
It's no wonder my cat has been trying her best to stay clear of ol' crazy, obsessive, morbid, depressing Mommy. I don't blame her one damn bit.
So anyway, after I turned off the tube last night, I tossed and turned, kept thinking about poor Britney Spears and that dreadful MTV Video Music Awards performance of hers, thought to myself that I'd just witnessed one of the worst displays of career suicide ever, kept pondering the whys and whatnots of her shocking-pink skin color, Cut & Kurl discount weave, embarrassing stage-wandering (did she think she was taking a leisurely stroll on the Las Vegas Strip, perchance?), and humiliatingly obvious lack of practice, discipline, self-respect, and...Sanity.
So troubled was I by my Britney thoughts, I leaped from my bed (facile like a doe, graceful as a windblown flower) and ran to my office for a smoke and some Internet gossip. Had to see if others thought the same as I, if others were obsessing much, and tossing and turning, and feeling like the world was at its end.
They were, and they did, every last gossip monger and sad, obsessive soul had joined together in an evil, gleeful chorus of hate, and I rejoiced, and I banged two rocks together and grunted in agreement, yet..
Fat, she is not.
Take a gander at that bod, people, and I dare you, if you're a woman with even a smidgen of vanity, to tell me that you wouldn't be happy with that knockout figure. Go on, I DARE you.
Hell, most women who've never even had one kid, let alone two, like Britney, never looked like that, nor will they ever. They didn't in high school, they didn't in college, and they damn sure won't after they pop out a human being or three.
She has great legs, a fantastic ass, a wonderful, healthy and slim tummy (women are NOT supposed to have six-packs, dummies), and despite the unfortunate choice of wardrobe, hairstylist, and forty Red Bull and vodkas (hence her stage-wandering and trembling, crooked lip?), Britney looks perfectly lovely.
Okay, so her thigh blotted out the entire bottom half of one of the emaciated male dancers when she wrapped it around his serpentine waist, then almost knocked him to the ground when she wagged it suggestively, but still. She looks great. Not fat. Sexy. Not cow-like. Hot. Not walrus-y. Healthy.
To sum up my completely unimportant and worthless point here, I'd just like to state -- emphatically -- that I am publicly defending Britney Spears' body, because honestly, I've been coming up empty in the blog posting department as of late, so this is all you get.
Tune in next week for an equally scintillating blog post about my cat's adorable anus.
Went to the end-of-season kart club races yesterday to watch my husband and middle daughter tear it up, man.
(This is a picture of Lar being very intense as he sizes up the competition -- taken at last year's event, and not by my own little hands, but I really fucking like how hot he looks here despite the helmet hair, and so, felt the need to post it.)
Where was I? Ah, yes, the races...
Um. Hated every minute of it. Not because I had to stand around for ten hours in the blazing sun (sunburn hurt, me cry, me dumb for not putting sunscreen on), and not because a couple of the racers, who shall remain anonymous at this time, cheated like the dirty birds they are, thus swiping first place from my ever-so-honest and superiorly-skilled husband and daughter (seriously, they are both the best drivers in their classes), but because I brought along my boy and my youngest daughter.
Ten hours of whining, moaning, complaining, and public wiener-pulling (my boy refuses to use public bathrooms, and will hold it for all eternity -- his secret to perpetual pee-holding? Grab da weiner and hold on for dear life). Not a fun way to spend a lovely Sunday.
All in all, not the worst day I've ever had, though. There was the time when I broke my wrist in third grade...And the time I peed my pants in first grade -- during Reading Circle Time, no less...And the day I tripped over a blind man's wildly-swinging, out-of-control asshole cane and fell flat on my face in the middle of Midtown Plaza, to which I promptly hurled a chain of curses at the poor dude...
Really, yesterday wasn't all that horrible. The people are very cool, especially when they aren't cheating, and the picnic was awesome (saucy kielbasa in a crockpot? I'm so there!), and there was beer, which, in my humble opinion, is de rigueur for any event. It was, however, warm beer. Still, better than no beer at all, right?
Today will be another sunny day filled with whining, complaining, and perhaps a bit of wiener-pulling (the boy hates to take bathroom breaks when he's busy playing outside), but the beer will be cold, the tunes loud, and Ms. Lori will keep her ass under the patio umbrella. Gonna be a good day.
Vocalist/writer Otep Shamaya, guitarist Aaron Nordstrom, drummer Brian Wolff, and bassist "Evil" J. McGuire are OTEP, a delicious, heady brew made of steaming hot angst, intense, tasty lyrics, and aromatic charisma -- with a touch of honey thrown in for good measure. OTEP aren't to be chugged, rather, they should be breathed in, sipped, savored, appreciated.
Okay, enough with the asinine tea metaphor (I'm dopey like that) and on to whimsical opining...
Granted, OTEP may be an acquired taste, but for someone like myself, an old school punk from way back when, no sound has excited me as much as OTEP's since, well, way back when. Sure, I've come across many, many bands in the last twenty years or so that made my blood rush, electrified the roots of my hair, induced manic bouts of impromptu air-drumming (I have an embarrassing, involuntary "tic" wherein I flap my thumb and forefinger against my thigh -- wildly -- to the beat of something good, whether it be during a live act, heard on the radio, or in my head), but not since the days of "back when" have I so loved, nay obsessed over an artist.
Otep Shamaya is somewhat of an enigma; her age is unknown, her life's resume shrouded in dark, tantalizing veils of obfuscation, though her lyrics and poetry give us a balls-out peek into what appears to be a turbulent, tragic past that, at times, lends to the listener/observer an almost voyeuristic feel. With raw, completely unselfconscious abandon, Otep whispers, shrieks, growls her pain so effectively, it's as if we are there with her, inside her psyche, inside her rage. It is disturbingly erotic.
Political, steeped in activism and social concern, Otep is more than just another pretty face who happens to possess the voice of a demon (yes, that really is her voice -- no studio magic involved whatsoever); her obvious intellect and writing skills, combined with the aforementioned features, bring forth an artist that is not only powerfully unique, but influential. Otep speaks the truth, you see, and although some may question the overt violence of her music, her persona, her message, are to be respected, marveled over.
With all of the fluffy, anorexic, devoid of substance, crotch-flashing, convicted "role models" our girls and young women are bombarded with these days, it is refreshing to see someone such as Otep Shamaya step from the shadows, fist raised, and speak out against injustice, poverty of the societal soul, indifference to human suffering, and ignorance. Otep is an anti-hero in a world full of poseurs, liars, and do-nothings, a woman's woman. She is the mouthpiece for those of us who have been ignored, forcibly silenced, dismissed. She is the voice of revolution.