Friday, September 05, 2008

A bad taste in my mouth

It’s been an hour and a half since my last meeting ended, and I haven’t done anything except waste time on the internet. It is, indeed, one of those days. There was a brief thought in my noggin that I should just take the afternoon off, go home and nap/read/do dishes/be in my own space with the peace that home affords, but I know I won’t do that and will instead grind through the remaining 4 hours of work time until the pterodactyl crows. That long slide down the dinosaur’s neck is going to feel so good.


Speaking of which, I had an argument the other day about what the lyrics to the Flintstones theme song are. I know. My life - exciting and new.

The first result that comes up on a Google search is this:

Flintstones. Meet the Flintstones.
They're the modern stone age family.
From the town of Bedrock,
They're a page right out of history.

Let's ride with the family down the street.
Through the courtesy of Fred's two feet.

When you're with the Flintstones
you'll have a yabba dabba doo time.
A dabba doo time.
You'll have a gay old time.

Those words in italics? Those were the one's aI took issue with. In my world, they’re this :

One day, maybe Fred will win a fight
Then the (beat) gang will stay out for the night

Needless to say, I got uppity ’bout dat. How could it be that I INVENTED lyrics to a cartoon I hadn’t watched in 35 years? What would be the purpose? Furthermore, why would I make up something about FIGHTS, when anyone with half a synapse can see that I’m a huge ol’ marshmallow-soft pacifist?

Further research was warranted, and soon sweet vindication was mine. For you see, the words to the theme song were slightly different for the closing credits, and I quote:

Some day, maybe Fred will win the fight
And that cat will stay out for the night

(Found here, so there’s proof I’m not going Oldtimer’s Crazy..)

Close enough to prove my point. And how very like me, to remember the details of the ass-end of everything but not have the slightest clue how something starts.

Pretty much describes my single life, right there….


Making the barest tangent of similar thought into a segue of most astonishing dexterity, I give you this:

I dated a lot when I was younger.

A LOTalot. I remember how all the more-than-casual-dating (read: more than two month) relationships ended. Most of the breakups were not my idea. Many times I didn’t see them coming, and had the rug pulled out from under me in a most disagreeable fashion.

Oh, sometimes I’d do the breaking up, but remember that pacifist thing from just before? Worked for relationships too. Also? I was lazy. Very very lazy. I’d stick with some boy for convenience’s sake, and because I was of the opinion that I was lucky to be dating ANYONE, because sheesh, had anyone looked at me to see the fraud that lurked therein? Who’d want to date that except he poor schmuck who was currently doing it?

Really, that’s how I thought. Amazing. I had absolutely NO self-awareness, no self-esteem, no belief in myself. I was the one who SHOULD have had those things, but somehow I came up short on the confidence scale, every damned time I weighed myself against someone else or the perfect vision of who I ought to be.

As it so happens, I’ve been feeling lately much like that unsure young girl, and for this I blame Sarah Palin.

Y'all, Sarah Palin has ruined my life. How now can I ever again feel good about being a middle-aged woman who owns her own home, has a good job, manages to keep food on the table and clothes on our backs, who doesn’t let the pets starve or the laundry go undone (for too long) when SARAH PALIN has gone and gotten herself nominated to be ViCE-Freaking-PRESIDENT of the United Daggone States while having a litter of kids, perfecting her fucking MOOSESHOOTING SKILLS, applying makeup with one hand while holding her special needs baby in the other, talking smack about the Dems in the exhale and whistling at supersonic pitches to the team of sled dogs she’s specially trained to go rescue accident victims on the inhale?

I hate Sarah Palin for these things. Hate her. I hate that she makes me feel like the world’s biggest underachiever. I hate the she’s so perky and pretty and perfectly coiffed. I hate that she’s a frigging Republican the most of all, because not only is she a perfect pretty perky politician, but underneath it all she’s a haute-couture, top-of-the-line uber-ur-ultra-super-dee-dooper conservative pit bull (and yes, I’ve heard the hockey mom joke. About a thousand times now. Haha).


Bitch can’t be content making me feel bad for underachieving, she’s got to be all up in my face with the her stinky-cheese faced life views.


John McCain? You suck too.

Seethe. Grumble. Invent new ways to hate.

Check sundial watch to see if it’s even CLOSE to dinosaur-neck sliding time yet.


I’m going to go see if the coffee machine has, through some miracle of wonderments, begun dispensing shots of bourbon.

Y’all have a nice day.

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