Glenn Beck Hates on Michelle Obama, I Hate on Glenn Beck.

27 05 2010

Too sexy for Glenn Beck!

Glenn Beck–a self-proclaimed bastion of Christian values– has taken it upon himself to critique the First Lady’s fashion choices on his radio show.  Alluding to a Drudge Report picture of Michelle Obama wearing a formal blue dress at a recent state dinner (which Drudge headlined “Sex in the City,” disparagingly), Beck ranted:

“She looks positively like she’s trying to be some Greek statue.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen the first lady with her, with her– excuse the expression– breasts all smushed up. I mean what is that?…I saw that picture and I was like, what is that?  I mean it’s like a Greek statue.  Just bizarre.”

Now, I am forced to watch Glenn Beck at work every afternoon, and I have trained myself to just tolerate/ignore him instead of pulling my hair out and screaming at the TV like I used to.  He’s a raging idiot, but he’s so crazy that his craziness doesn’t even offend me anymore.  You know that junkie-alcoholic on the corner that preaches about Jesus into his megaphone and tries to hand out Bibles, and everybody just walks by and tries not to make eye contact?  That’s who Glenn Beck is to me.

But when he starts flapping his gums about Michelle Obama not dressing conservatively enough, it really makes me want to find him wherever he is and smack him across the face.  Did he seriously say that her breasts were “all smushed up?”  That is wildly inappropriate, not to mention weird.  Stay out of the First Lady’s breasts, you creepy troll.  She looks fantastic, confident, vibrant, and she backs it up with more intelligence and wit than I’ve ever seen in a First Lady, so more power to her if she wants to channel “Greek goddess” at a state dinner.

I’d say that I’m looking forward to the next time Glenn Beck’s wife steps out in an evening gown, but unfortunately the Obamas have way too much class to make a snide comment in return.


Animal Therapy

26 05 2010


I’ve been feeling a little anxiety lately over my impending move to Mount Pleasant.  Yes, my new house is actually less than a mile from my old one, and the neighborhoods are right next to each other.  But I don’t deal very well with change– the new house, new drycleaners, new furniture, new Starbucks, new busline, new metro station, new dive bars.  The idea of it seriously spikes up my blood pressure.

My mom said the day I graduated Kindergarten, I sobbed like I was at a funeral while all the other kids were playing and celebrating summer.  She couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me, so when I calmed down enough to formulate words, I said, “I don’t want a new teacher! I don’t want a new classroom!  I want to stay in Kindergarten forever!”

I’m not sure what this is called, in terms of psychopathologies.  But I’m pretty sure I have one.  When I think about it rationally, I’m thrilled to be moving– love the new place, love the new roommates, love the new hood.  But knowing that I’m about to move has made me irritable with everyone, like I’m walking around with a knot in my stomach and a big black cloud over my head.  I know it sounds crazy.

What’s really strange is that I have a million things to do to prepare for the move: packing, changing my address, canceling my Verizon account and setting up Comcast for the new place, selling my bed, etc.  But the only task I’ve been able to focus on– and I’ve focused on this one obsessively and to the exclusion of ever other productive possibility– is finding a dog to adopt.  I have been scouring Craig’s List and Petfinder and every other dog shelter website in the D.C. metro area every day for the past 2 months straight.  Sunday, I got up early to drive an hour out to nowhere Virginia to meet a black cocker spaniel for five minutes.  I’ve attended 6 adoption shows, I’ve sent in countless applications for dogs, and last night I drove out to Chantilly in rush hour traffic– 4 hours roundtrip– to meet a Cockapoo (cocker spaniel + miniature poodle) I found on Craig’s List.

But this Cockapoo is really special.  I was feeling especially strange and anxious yesterday over the move, and I was in a horrible mood the whole way out to Chantilly in stand-still traffic.  But when I got there, and that dog jumped into my lap and licked my face and laid perfectly still in my arms for 10 minutes while I talked to his parents, I immediately felt calm and content.  I fed him a gourmet dog treat that I had “casually” picked up at a ritzy dog store in Dupont the day before, and I cheered him on as his dad showed me how he could sit, roll over, shake a paw and play dead on command.  He’s one and a half, 15-lbs full grown, house-trained, neutered, non-shedding, and totally adorable.

I’m trying not to get my hopes up because I’m competing against one other family for him (and they apparently have a cute 5-yr-old, which is not fair), but I got a really nice e-mail from his parents after the visit saying that they liked me a lot and could tell I would love Max more than they did.  Sad, no?

Anyway, I’m getting him for a trial run next weekend, and my fingers are crossed that they’ll pick me, even though it’s sort of counterintuitive to pick the 27-year-old city-dweller with 3 roommates over a settled-down nuclear family with a kid.  Whatever, I totally bonded with him, and even just playing with him for 10 minutes significantly improved my mood and eased my concerns about moving.

In conclusion, it’s true what they say about animal therapy, and I’ll keep you posted on Max!

Bristol Palin is ‘Tripp’in.

25 05 2010

Um, is it just me, or would you NOT pay $30,000 to have Bristol Palin preach to your kids about abstinence?  It’s kinda like paying Pam Anderson to speak to high-school kids about body image, or paying Michael Douglas’ son to preach about not selling Meth.  Is any teenager going to feel sufficiently warned by Bristol Palin, whose pregnancy got her a ridiculously nice apartment with a TV studio in it, a cute baby she can pay other people to take care of, a People magazine photoshoot and 30 grand per speech?

Thank God you came to speak at my school, Bristol! I’m never going to have sex again! God forbid any of us end up like you, you poor soul!

No.  If you want your teenagers to not have sex, call the woman living with her baby at a homeless shelter, the one that got disowned by her family and kicked out of her house.  Call the single mother on food stamps whose delinquent ex-husband refuses to pay child support, or the man who has to pay half his salary in child support for the next 18 years.  Don’t call Sarah Palin’s rich, pretty daughter who is livin’ it up in Wasilla, toting around a toddler that is probably sponsored by Huggies and Baby Gap.

Did you read the caption on the picture above?  It says: “Bristol and Tripp share a bedroom, where his onesies can be found on the carpet beside her Ed Hardy sneakers.”

…WHAT? Is everybody out of their damn minds?  First of all, no, People magazine. You have been hoodwinked.  If Bristol and Tripp are “sharing a bedroom” in the Palin mansion, then slap some lipstick on me and call me a pig.

Secondly, why are we talking about the brand of her sneakers?  Is that supposed to be some kind of iconic image?  Tripp’s onesie next to Bristol’s Ed Hardy sneaks?  How profound.  If you look closely enough, you can see a single tear rolling down my face.

I wonder if Sarah trained her spawn in the art of delivering an effective speech.  Lots of random animal metaphors, lots of winks.  If you can’t stop them from having sex, you can at least confuse the shit out of them, right Bristol?  Right? Heh heh.

Ugh.  This country has failed to impress me again.

I Don’t Think That’s What They Meant by “French Open”…

24 05 2010

Venus Williams seems to be getting a little confused in her old age, opting to sport a black and red lace negligée to her first match of the French Open Sunday in lieu of a reasonable tennis outfit.

Now, I’m a big fan of the French Open (the only tournament in which Nadal has a legit chance against Federer) and an even bigger fan of the fiery Williams sisters, but seeing this freaky-deaky tennis nightie on a woman that could crush me with her bare hands has caused me a range of unpleasant emotions, including fear, confusion, and dysphoria.

Why, Venus? WHY?!?  (Amazing bum though, right? Diz-namn.)

What’s Your Theme Song?

21 05 2010

Yesterday afternoon, some friends and I went to the Nationals game to watch them get crushed by the Mets (hooray?).  What’s cool about home games is that each player gets to pick a personalized at-bat theme song.  The choices range from Pearl Jam’s “Even Flow” to unrecognizable crunk rap to Metallica’s version of “Turn the Page.”  I think they are generally supposed to be loud and manly and intimidating, maybe to scare the pitcher or something.

Anyway, we got to talking about theme songs.  What would our at-bat theme songs be?  My friend said his would be “Rape Me” by Nirvana, which I thought left something to be desired in the intimidation department.  I would probably pick something slow and melodramatic by Celine Dion, just to mess with the pitcher’s head.  Maybe “All By Myself,” or “Because You Loved Me.”  Can’t you picture it?  I’m walking up to bat, swinging my sinewy arms around and spitting brown dip spit into the dirt as I step up to the plate, and Celine comes on the loudspeaker:  “When I was young, I never needed anyone, and makin’ love was just for fun… Those days are gone.”  How are you gonna throw me a fast-ball after that?

This conversation obviously gave way to a broader conversation about life theme songs.  Everyone has thought about his or her life theme song, which wouldn’t play ALL the time, just at key emotional climaxes.  Or you could have a few different songs that correspond to the different major emotions– happiness, sadness, anger, fear, humiliation– and always play at the appropriate times.

For instance, I would appreciate it if Van Morrison’s “Bright Side of the Road” played throughout the universe at key happy moments in my life, like when I’m walking down the street after getting a big job promotion.  When I’m pissed off, I would like for Limp Bizkit’s “Break Stuff” to blast out of the clouds.  And while I’m getting married, I think that everyone on the planet should be forced to listen to Elvis’ “It’s Now or Never,” just to make sure we’re all on the same page.  Know what I mean?

But if I had to pick one overarching theme song for myself that would follow me around and color my moods, I would choose “Woman’s Got Soul,” by the Impressions.

So there you have it.  What’s your theme song?


20 05 2010

I don’t know what’s more embarrassing: the fact that I paid $10 to go see “Babies” in the theater last week, or the fact that I was riveted and on the edge of my seat for the entire 2 hours of random, plotless baby footage.

For those of you who will never see the movie, I can tell you that it’s exactly what you would expect it to be.  A camera follows these four babies around for the first couple of years of their lives.  There is no story, no fiction at all, and barely any dialogue– it’s literally just a beautiful, extended home video about 4 toddlers growing up in very different parts of the world.

They cut to the Tokyo baby, and she is sitting by herself in a room full of toys trying to figure out how to get this one yellow stick into this one blue hole. Every time she fails, she throws herself on the ground and screams as if the world is ending, and it’s hilarious.  Then they cut to the Mongolian baby, who is sticking his entire arm into a goat’s mouth.  The goat is clearly confused, but it doesn’t bite the baby because the baby is so innocent looking.  Then they cut to the African baby, who is playing in the dirt with a pile of flies as his mom shaves his head.  The African baby is pretty much the cutest baby on the planet, just very smiley and laid-back and easily self-entertained.  Finally, they cut to the San Francisco baby, who is having to endure a Mom and baby yoga class with this awful new-age teacher and didgeridoo music.  The baby just gets up and walks out of the class, clearly pissed that she is having to do mom-baby yoga with a bunch of yuppies while Mongolian baby gets to play with live goats.

What really surprised me about my experience of this movie is that I was actually repelled by the San Francisco and Tokyo babies.  I thought that I would think the babies were all cute in their own little ways, but no.  The city babies weren’t cute, I hated all the stuff– the strollers, the cereal choices, the toys, the bouncy chairs, the doting adults.  The babies in Mongolia and Africa were just so much more peaceful and happy and simple.  They would be sitting in a tub of water and a yak would come up and drink out of the water, and they would just giggle. Silly yak!  Get out of my bathtub!  But if a yak walked up to the San Francisco baby, the mother would probably mace it in the face and sue the city for negligence, or something.

I thought the movie was going to give me baby fever, but instead, it made me afraid to have a baby in this overstimulated, consumer-driven world.  Man, it’s not gonna have a chance!  I want to move out to Mongolia when I get pregnant and let the farm animals help raise my kid.  No baby showers, no plastic toys, no over-complicated strollers and expensive day-cares.  Just sticks and grass and buckets of water and wild animals.   I’ll have to bring a sturdy espresso machine.

Sex and the Supreme Court

19 05 2010

Justice Scalia and Tom DeLay, just friends.

I am not Elena Kagan’s most enthusiastic fan, but seriously.  What is up with all the lesbian rumors?  It’s like the entire mainstream media is on a gay witch hunt.  Please remind me of how Ms. Kagan’s sexuality has any bearing on her qualifications as a Supreme Court Justice?

I just googled “Kagan lesbian” to see what kinds of headlines would pop up.  The first 5:

1) “Put a Lesbian on the Supreme Court Even If Kagan Isn’t” (BusinessWeek)

2) “Wall Street Journal Claims Ignorance on Kagan-Lesbian-Softball Connection” (Gawker)

3) “Excellent Blog About Elena Kagan and the ‘Lesbian Panic'” (San Francisco Chronicle)

4) “Elena Kagan Lesbian Rumor Smear Neither Smear Nor Rumor” (

5) “No Lesbian on Supreme Court Shortlist?  Maybe, Maybe Not” (

The Wall Street Journal ran a photo of Kagan playing softball on the front page earlier this week under a headline that read: “Court Nominee Comes to Plate,” and suddenly the media and blogs were up in arms about the suggestion that she was a lesbian.  Because… softball = lesbian?  What are you, 12?

Conservatives (particularly the Christian right wing) try to make Kagan’s sexuality relevant by suggesting that, as a SCOTUS Justice, she will be pushing the “lesbian agenda.” I’ve done a lot of serious thinking on the issue, and I honestly can’t imagine what the “lesbian agenda” might be.  Will she push for (gasp!) gender neutral bathrooms?  Well I think that’s a great idea!  Is she gonna support gay rights and gay marriage?  I hope so.  So, forgive me for asking, but what exactly is the problem here?

What really saddens me is that women in politics can’t really win no matter what level of femininity and “normative” sexuality they display.  Women like Kagan and Hilary Clinton get crucified for their pants suits and lack of femininity, but if Kagan looked like Sarah Palin and had 9 children, the media would be up in arms about what a terrible mother she is.  Really, Kagan?  You have time to be on the Supreme Court when you have 9 kids to raise?  Don’t you have a husband to go home and bake for?

You know who does have 9 children?  Justice Scalia.  And I absolutely loved political pundit Michael Kinsley’s cheeky blog post on the subject:

Now that the sex lives of Supreme Court justices have become grist for commentators, we are finally free to discuss a question formerly only whispered about in the shadows: Why does Justice Antonin Scalia, by common consent the leading intellectual force on the Court, have nine children? Is this normal? Or should I say “normal,” as some people choose to define it? Can he represent the views of ordinary Americans when he practices such a minority lifestyle? After all, having nine children is far more unusual in this country than, say, being a lesbian.

Let me be clear: the issue is not the fact that Scalia has chosen to have nine children. That is his personal business. The question is whether he is an extremist advocate of the so-called “Nine Children Agenda.” Can he deal open-mindedly with children’s issues when he has so many himself? Can he persuade his children to recuse themselves when appropriate (or, in the vernacular, “Just shut up, will you? I’m trying to write an opinion here.  Sweetheart, could you please come and take him…stop climbing up my leg…watch it with that glass of water, buddy…no, that’s some condemned prisoner’s brief that daddy has to reject, so don’t …would somebody please take this kid…LOOK OUT for the… Jesus H. Christ, how am I supposed to get any work done”?).

Speculation is already rampant about why Scalia chose nine children over a more conventional lifestyle. Is he a sex maniac? That suspicion naturally arises. But perhaps once he started, he just never got around to stopping. Or maybe he just likes children. In recent days, Scalia’s friends have rushed to his defense, going out of their way to portray him as a model of sexual restraint.  “Every Friday a bunch of us used to go down to this bar to pick up women,” one of his college roommates recalls. “We’d always ask Nino if he wanted to join us, but he always said he was too busy studying. Frankly, we thought he was gay.”

Honestly, the choice to have 9 children worries me a whole lot more than the choice (or, non-choice) to be a lesbian.  Upon consideration, I wonder what this says about Justice Scalia’s logic and responsible decision-making abilities.  If you can’t get it together to use a condom, how are you going to be a wise and reasoned leader of the conservative wing of the Supreme Court?

Food for thought.