Parent Fail

Hey. You. You boneheads that brought your four children under the age of ten to the movie theater to see the latest Bond film, Skyfall, the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving. I hate to break it to you, but this is an open letter to you, because you are so doing parenting wrong. The decision to expose those kids to the sex, violence, and profanity in that movie? Epic. Parenting. Fail. And you need to be called out on it. I'm up for a little public shaming.

I mean, really: bringing your three or four year old daughter to an R rated movie? She had her blankie and bottle with her while 007 was having his shaken, not stirred. Her legs barely stuck out over the theater seat. Oh, and she was paying attention. I heard her asking you questions, Mommy. In fact, I heard A LOT from the four children you had up past decent bedtimes to expose them to completely inappropriate cinematic material. The three boys under ten lined up to our side had lots of tween commentary about blowing things and snickers for boobies. Good times.

Your eight or nine year old son was also the only one to giggle, wildly inappropriately, at the gruesome end to our Bond villain, a serious denouement scene. The rest of the theater was silent. But then again, making noise didn't really seem to concern you: you were either unaware or didn't care you were making a great deal of noise as you brought out your bowls and cups from home to share your popcorn and drinks with your children on the row behind you during the movie.

How many ways did you fail, parents to small children in that theater? Let me count the ways:

You failed your children. Why did you insist on bringing these impressionable young people to see all this violence? I'm a jaded old lady. I enjoy a thirty-kill spy movie on occasion because it's age appropriate for me. I wanted to snatch your baby's blanket and wrap it around her head so she wouldn't see all the blood, guts, and guns. How did she not have nightmares? What time DO your children go to bed anyway? Why was she up so late? You don't care she heard the B, F, and S words that night? You needed your Daniel Craig fix so badly you would expose them to R rated material? Thee three boys lined up next to me and Hubs giggled at every bloody moment. What are you teaching them? How numb ARE you?

You failed me and the rest of the audience. The excessive talking, snack sharing, and not to mention two potty breaks for the baby who was too little to even take the stairs? More than a little distracting in a packed theater. The sold out, adult audience was straining to filter out British accents and listen for plot points as you pointed out to Baby Sister that yes, that was a house in the movie! Before it got blown up in your baby's face, I mean. I couldn't relax and truly enjoy my adult gratuitous violence. I literally felt uncomfortable sitting next to your eight year old during Bond's sex scenes and annoyed at how they snickered at all the violence. I did not get the experience I hoped to have when I payed through the nose for my popcorn due to you and your entourage of minors.

You failed yourself. Admit it. You're better than this. You don't need to see a movie so badly that you would expose your naive children to it. Well, before seeing the Bond movie, naive. I'm not so sure how innocent your children are at this point. You chose to have these children. You can either wait until they grow up or get a damned babysitter if you want to see an R movie. You showed appalling self-centeredness at bringing your kids to this show and with your display of obliviousness with the inter-aisle snack sharing.

So. Do better. Pay attention to movie ratings. They're there for knuckleheads like you. Under seven? G only. Under ten? PG at best. And a lot of times those are questionable. PG-13? 13. Duh. R is 17 and up, people. There's a reason for that rating, folks, and it's called human development. The brain is still forming. And trust me, there's no room for the ultra violence of an R rated James Bond film. Do us all a favor. Get a sitter. Or stay home and put the kids down at a decent hour. Give them a chance, for the love of Pete. Because that display of you and your family at the movies Wednesday night? Was all kinds of no.

The Southern Girl's Guide to College Football

Ah, it's that wonderful time of the year when we all gather to join in celebration, feast, and to be of good cheer together. No, I'm not talking Thanksgiving or the holidays, folks! I'm talking one of the major religions of the South: college football. It's November in America, and that means our favorite sport is on. And women of the South are just as big a fan of college football as the men. Don't underestimate us. Here's some basic rules for the discerning Southern woman when it comes to watching college ball:

Now, down South, we females know how to dress for college football games. Men wear suits and ties in the stands (or at least a nicely pressed Oxford and team cap), and you might find any proud Southern girl in the stand outfitted in Ralph Lauren skirt, impeccably matched riding boots, and diamond earrings. There's a fifth of bourbon tucked lovingly into her Chanel tote. Wallets not necessary – that’s what our dates are for. Our stadiums, like our hair, are bigger than yours. Our weather is perpetually climate.

We Southern women also know about football. We're versed. We know what a PAT, a quarterback sneak, and an offensive I formation are. Your daddy may have taught your about how to change a tire. But our daddies made sure we knew what true defensive pass interference looks like and what a chop block is. Where women from other states in the union might demur, "My, what a violent play," you can find your Southern woman shrieking from the stands something like "Catch that sumbitch and break his knee!"

A Southern girl also knows all about the rules of ticket procurement, parking, and game day. We come to expect we can only get on the waiting list for next year's season tickets this year. We know the trailers and vans start parking on Wednesday before the game at the Grove or Five Points or whatever your Southern college has named the spot where alumni park their over-sized RVs to drink and smoke what can only be described as an entire slaughterhouse of assorted meats. There are individualized smokers shaped like our mascot. Classes get canceled the Fridays before rivalry games. Live bands perform before game time in the parking lot, and they share your beer. Don't know where the stadium is? Be quiet. You'll hear it. The crowd is bigger on game day than the city that hosts the game.

Yes, booze plays a major role for most Southerners, female or male, on game day. But we're classy enough to dump out half the coke from our team mascot cup to leave room for the bourbon. You can smell it in the air after each score. It helps us sing the national anthem with verve. We've just got to be a little more careful around the halftime fireworks.

And we in the South stay at the stadium until the last rib is eaten off the smoker. Doesn't matter if our team wins or loses, there's always time for another rack to go on and another trip to the package store. We'll need that bourbon for planning for the first tailgate party of the next season, you see.

And as ludicrous as this claim will likely seem to outsiders, here, you are effectively born into loyalty toward a football team. Families carry their allegiances through generations. If you are born into a family divided (God forbid you have both OU and Texas fans in the family), then your family members will fight for your loyalty from the moment you are born. Here in the South, asking “Who do you root for?” is something akin to asking your political party, only it’s socially acceptable to talk and fight about it with and without logic. It’s the one place where “if you don’t have nothin’ nice to say” doesn’t apply. We worship God on Sunday and the SEC on Saturday.

So if you're a transplant or, heaven help you, a Northerner, perhaps this information helps you understand the nature of the Southern girl and our beloved football. Because not only is college football a matter of family loyalty, it's a matter of pride. And yeah, it's weird. But it's football. And we Southern girls love it.

Crazy to the Left of Me, Crazy to the Right

At long last, the election is over! And whether your guy won or not, you have to agree having the whole brouhaha behind us can only be better for our country.  However, I have to say I’ve been less than impressed with people who call themselves adults in the wake of the re-election of President Obama. The vitriol that existed November 5^th is evidently just as strong on November 7^th.  And it’s not just one political party I’m watching behaving badly. I’m seeing unnecessary roughness on the left AND on the right in social media, and I’m here to say: It’s time to grow the heck up, folks.

I realize everyone feels the stakes are high for our country. Frankly, I’m glad to see so many people lined up at the polls and the high level of involvement with the American political process. All of that? A good thing. But the low-blow Facebook statuses and the uber-snarky tweets are getting to me, folks. They’re like teaching a pig to sing: a waste of time and irritating to the pig.

Because we should all get it by now, right? Haven’t we all been humiliated on the field at one time or another? I remember feeling a dark despair in 2004 when the country thought it a good idea to re-elect George Bush for a second term that bordered on clinical depression. I daresay  my beloved right-wing audience remembers the bloom on that rose. “Sore Loserman”? Yeah. This ain’t America’s first trip to the bad behavior rodeo as far as our politics are concerned.

So, time for a primer for both my smug lefties and my bereft righties, methinks, concerning a little post-election concept called “sportsmanship.” We claim it’s important to teach to our children. Yet if the ugliness I’m seeing being shared online gives even an inkling about what we’re passing on? I fear for the future.

It’s about discipline and self-control, people. You show respect for yourself when you show respect for others. And, hello? How many people decided to change their mind over your Facebook status or Twitter feed? OH YEAH NONE. We teach our young to respect our opponents. They are how we become better. We welcome their challenge. We shake hands at the end of the game to thank our opponent for making us stronger, smarter, faster.

Respect the officials. Again, easy to tell your son not to argue a call with a ref. But when you show zero respect for at least the office? Not cool.  Play fair. Accept the calls. If you’re on top, offer encouragement to your opponent: the opposite of trash talk. And if you’re down, we teach our kids to get up, dust off, and get back in the game: also great advice for the good sportsman. Er, sportsperson. Sport. Yeah. Amazing what we tell our kids to do when we can't walk the walk.

There’s no pouting in sports, guys. Let’s keep it offline too, eh? Likewise, there should be no gloating. I’ve seen a kind of schadenfreude online the last couple of days that can’t bode well for anyone’s karma, I assure you. Good sports don’t take joy in the pain, suffering, or loss of another. You just say hooray for your side. Cheer in a positive manner. The displays of temper and name-calling since the election? It doesn’t suit anyone.

I mean, calling the election a sham? Saying “America died”? Ted Nugent said if you voted for Obama, you’re a pimp, a whore, or a welfare brat? That Obama is “subhuman”? Or on the other side, encouraging Republicans to move to Canada? PUH-LEASE.  

If you haven’t noticed, politics move in cycles. Once again, the victors will once again be the losers, and vice-versa. Put your boots on the ground for what you believe and go for it. But don’t be the jerk that pulls a Sharpie out of your sock after the touchdown breakdance. We’re all on the same team, guys, and that’s Team America. Is it easier for me to write this article in 2012 than it would have been in 2004? Sure. I’m not Pollyanna, and as y’all know, I don’t lean right. 

But Bush-bashing was no more sportsmanlike than Obama-bashing. I’m hoping that as a nation we can get over our election blues soon. Because left or right, we’re Thelma and Louise. We’re in this thing together. We’ll try it a different way for awhile. But we better hang on to one another. We’re in the same sedan hurtling towards the same cliff. And as Romney-backer Kid Rock once sang, time to get in the pit and try and love someone. Let’s find our similarities. We can slug it out, but we’ve got to shake hands at the end of the game. Every Little Leaguer knows it. Now you.

This Week in Wacky

What a news week! Did you catch it all? Between a hurricane, Halloween, and celebrities behaving badly, I bring you this week's resulting and thoroughly entertaining wackiness:

Hurricane Sandy. Also known as "Frankenstorm: (and yes, "Sandy Frankenstorm totally sounds like a porn star name) and "Superstorm Sandy," This drowning of New York and New Jersey shockingly snatched politics from the headlines and brought out the best in our politicians. Well, two of them. Chris Christie, Republican governor of New Jersey and Barack Obama put aside partisan politics to focus on storm relief. Too bad it took so much for our officials to stop fighting like Beavis and Butthead. But in lighter news:

Joe Simpson is gay! Papa to Jessica and Ashley (and former youth pastor) and Dallas native is divorcing their mother and his wife of of over thirty years, and according to Radar.com, it's because Joe has come out of the closet. People magazine will only demur Joe is "dating," while Radar.com identifies a 21 year old omale model as his new love interest. Move over, Dallas! There's a new soap opera in town. The Simpson family Thanksgiving dinner just got super interesting. However will you explain this situation to the grandchildren? I hope Bronx and Maxwell have a therapy fund.

Disney buys Star Wars. Yep. That sound you hear is millions of nerds wetting their pants and howling simultaneously. How will the Mouse Kingdom handle the legacy of the beloved franchise? I must admit I have mixed feelings about Leia now joining the ranks of the Disney princesses. I'm trying to picture Mark Hamill's face when he got the news. Rumor also has it that Disney already has a Star Wars episode seven in the works. Can you say Darth Maus? Maybe Disney will be the one to finally kill off Jar Jar.

Kelsey Grammer parties with his baby. Kelsey Grammer and his new young wife (his third? I lose count) made headlines this week when they took their two month old daughter Faith with them to a costume party at Hef's. That's right! The Grammer family partied down at the Playboy Mansion while their newborn slept in her car seat in the foyer, according to TMZ.com. Better yet? Katye Grammer (and I'm sorry, but Kayte deserves a smack on general principle for the spelling of her name alone) evidently went dressed as Kelsey's ex-wife Camille Grammer. Now THAT is cold.

Octomom's in rehab. First of all, I hate that name: Octomom. She's like a supervillian with that moniker. She doesn't fight crime, she fights dirty diapers. Nadya Suleman is her name, and she's claiming she got addicted to downers with all the stress of having eight children and her failed porn ventures. The twist? Evidently Michael Lohan, father to Lindsay, set an intervention with his new intervention company. I wish, oh I wish, how I was making this up. But in the end, I get it. With that many kids, the only way you're going to get a nap is to check into the hospital.

Chris Brown is still offensive. Chris, along with his entourage, made the stellar decision this Halloween to dress up as...wait for it...the Taliban, complete with checkered kerchiefs and long fake beards. Additionally, the boys posed holding an assortment of weapons for photos. Sigh. Is there a bad decision Chris Brown hasn't made? And we wonder why the terrorists hate us.

And finally, Gene Hackman smackdown! Hackman and his wife were leaving a restaurant when they were approached by a homeless gentleman who, when rebuffed, called Mrs. Hackman a very, very ugly word that starts with "C" that we could never print in such a fine, family-friendly publication. Gene's response? I believe in layman's terms, it's called a "bitch slap." When you've been smacked in the face by Gene Hackman, you know you've been doing it wrong.

And those were my favorite in the week in wacky. Oh, America. You never fail to entertain. Ta-ta for now, my news junkie lovelies. Be sure to tune in next week where only more wackiness can surely ensue.

Random Acts of Kindness

So I'm sitting on a bench in my home town's downtown on Halloween dressed in my full witch regalia, trying to keep the wind from blowing off my large pointy hat while simultaneously trying to prevent pulling a Britney in my too-short witch's dress (see previous blog about inability to buy non-sexy costumes for females).


I've been hired to interview the costumed kiddos on camera, and I'm waiting on the crew to show. I'm chronically early as usual. Behind me, there is an antique store. There's a woman working on the window display, so she is coming in and out of the store looking at it, and since I'm plopped down in front of it, she's also looking at me. She's come and gone a couple of times, checking out her window from the outside. We smile. And then she says to me: You know, you're much too pretty to be a witch.

Fast forward to yesterday. I'm shopping on the same downtown square area. One merchant compliments my shirt. The other stops to compliment my hair, saying she might copy my style for her own. And I'm grinning from ear to ear. Yes, I'm a bit vain. I can own it. But my point is this: my day was made.

Yep, I'm here today to talk about random acts of kindness and the impact they have. I didn't know those people who were so generous with their compliments. And yet they had a huge impact on my spirit because when they thought something good about me, they told me. Thanks, guys. It's hard out here for those who think and feel. And I had already bought something, so no cynicism allowed, dear reader. These were just kind women.

And I'm here to encourage the rest of us to indulge in random acts of kindness, too. If the impact for others is anything like how I felt after being complimented by strangers, we can do a whole lot of healing in this divided land. And of course, I have ideas.

So here's some ways for you to build your karma up and commit a random act of kindness:

Make eye contact and smile. Some of us have gone awhile since seeing a friendly face. Instead of ignoring the people around you, send a little prayer or good wish towards someone as you smile at them. I believe in the impact of the energy.

Speak. Now, I grew up in the South. Civilized people simply didn't NOT say something to someone you're sharing space with. It doesn't have to be a monologue. Try: Hi there. Or: How are you? Even: Good morning! can be a game changer considering what you've been through since your feet hit the floor this morning.

Compliment. If you see something about someone you like, say so. Whether the person is wearing killer shoes, has a great manicure, or a welcoming attitude, say something to them about it. It's amazing how much "I like your sweater" can actually mean. Related:

Praise work well done. Good service experiences can be few and far between. Thank your waitress as well as tipping her. Speak up about the experience of a positive attitude or going the extra mile. Be grateful for people who clean up after you or check you out at Target.

Express gratitude. Phone someone today who made or is making a positive difference in your life and express your thanks for their care and help. Write a letter to an important relative or mentor about what their presence has meant in your life. If possible, read it to them. You have no idea the great feelings this exercise can bring for you and others.

Acts of service. Let someone go ahead of you in line at the grocery store. If you're liquid enough, it's always fun to pay for the food for the guy behind you in line anonymously. It's easy and fun to do at drive in windows or Starbucks. I like to pick someone about three people behind me in line who's already ordered. Keep it a secret for extra fun and giggles.

Help someone out with their groceries or return their cart for them. Throw someone's newspaper closer to their front door while you're out walking. Find ways to give secret gifts. Leave a five under somebody's mouse at work who might be hurting financially. Buy flowers for no reason for someone. Remember, though: the best acts of service are free.

Yep, color me egotistical if you must. But when that woman got on the elevator in Atlanta with me a few years ago, looked at me dressed for a banquet and said to me, "Oh my! You're just so beautiful!"? I did. I swooned a little bit. Look past my self-esteem issues if you will, however, with me, to see the beauty of a stranger boosting up another person. I will never forget you even though I will never know your name. Your kindness will never be forgotten. Spread some around today! I'm here to tell you: it feels great on either end.

Halloween: Now With Less Sluttiness

Ah, Halloween. I've loved the holiday as long as I can remember. I still adore watching Linus wait for the Great Pumpkin to rise from that earnest pumpkin patch. What's not to love about All Hallows' Eve? Panhandling for free candy and stuffing one's face with fat and sugar is as American a holiday as they come. God bless the USA, Willy Wonka, the Mars empire, and the entire Hershey kingdom. And stuffing my face with little candy bars actually does convince me for a day that fun does, indeed, come in a size.


Ever since I donned my very first plastic mask with the slit to breathe through (why did those eye holes never line up? You always had to just pick an eye), I have been enamored, nay, enraptured by Halloween. There was nothing more exciting than the time to put on those great drugstore costumes that threatened to go up in flames if you waved them over a Jack O'Lantern and go threaten your neighbors in exchange for carbs.

As an adult, Halloween only got better and better with the arrival of the drinking age and the addition of slasher flicks. A year without a viewing of Carrie or seeing Jamie Lee Curtis scream her head off for the million and eleventh time? Halloween blasphemy.

Yep, I love me some Halloween. And speaking of costumes: I still dress up! I'm a good witch (excepting certain sensitive times of the month) with a great hat. But there is one aspect of Halloween that seems to have developed since I was a kid in my plastic Wonder Woman gown. It seems that costumes for females have become increasingly...comment se dit?...slutty.

Think about it. Now every costume has a "sexy" version for women. You're not just a pirate, a cat, or a bumblebee if you are a female. You are a "sexy" pirate, bee, or bumblebee. It's tramp-o-riffic out there, I tell you. We as a gender need alternatives. You have me. So in that vein, here's some non-slutty costume ideas for females that might just work for you:

Hillary Clinton. All you need are big sunglasses, a pantsuit, a blonde ponytail, and a phone to constantly send texts on, a la the "Texts From Hillary" meme. Oh, and a face that means business.

Elizabeth Warren. Okay, don't go as Massachusetts Senate candidate Elizabeth Warren. No one will get it, and you will probably lose friends.

An Olympic gymnast.  Got a one-piece swimsuit? Accessorize that baby with red, white, and blue duct tape, make yourself a medal, and you are good to go. Optional: the unimpressed attitude of McKayla Maroney.

Big Bird. He's big, he's popular, he's been in the news. And he's definitely not slutty. Wear a sandwich board that says "Will Work for Birdseed" for extra creativity points. Bonus: your partner can be Snuffleupagus. Your choice whether or not to go old school Sesame Street and have other grownups unable to see Snuffy.

A cop. I kind of like Agent Scully from The X Files. Again: a pantsuit, a weapon, a badge...and attitude. Cuffs are optional. And no cop wears a skirt and fishnets, by the way. It's very hard to fight crime in six inch heels.

Cleopatra. Queen of the Nile, baby! Had Caesar AND Mark Antony after her. Just hang on to your asp.

Thelma and Louise. I love this one, because you and your girlfriend can go together. Bandannas! T shirts! Boots! And...mom jeans. Sorry, but it's not Thelma and Louise without mom jeans. And all night you can turn to one another, clasp hands and yell "Whee!" like you're running your car off a cliff.

Marge Simpson. Big blue hair, a shift, some pearls. Marge is an easy, breezy cover girl who runs her household smoothly and still holds the attention of her man without showing a lot of skin. Her groan is easily mimicked.

Joan of Arc or Mother Teresa. Quite modest. And you'll shock everyone when you do shots.

The Statue of Liberty. Just don't invite home the huddled masses.

Princess Leia. Now, Princess Leia is pretty covered up. But unlike in Star Wars, you'll want to wear a bra under your costume. Carrie Fisher wasn't allowed to wear one because, and this is a true story, George Lucas said there was no underwear in space. Bet you'll never watch that movie the same way again, will you?

A Pilgrim. As the right wing contingency seems to want to turn back the clock, why not dial past the 1950's all the way to Puritan times?

Here's hoping some of these suggestions will inspire you to challenge the over-sexualization of women's Halloween costumes. There are more options than sexy barmaid, sexy vampire, or sexy anything. Joking aside, let's not pick something to wear that sets back the female gender too far, eh? Here's hoping you keep your dignity. Because friends? Don't let friends dress like sluts for Halloween.

Hey, Girl. Let's Talk Politics.

Hey, girl. We gotta talk politics. Because no one puts baby in a binder, right? If you're a female, there's really only one choice for you this fall. And I get it. Most of you here in the Collin County Texas area, you're Team Romney, Team NObama; I get it. Some of you even are so misguided you believe it doesn't matter who gets elected, that it's just one millionaire against another and it doesn't matter who is elected. I wish I understood. As a female voting in 2012, however, it's crucial to ask yourself some hard questions. Because it does matter who runs our country for the next four years. Riddle me this:

Who's the candidate working for equal pay for women? Women are still paid 75 cents for every dollar men are paid. Obama gets this, because he was raised by a single mom. Are you familiar with Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Restoration Act to help women get equal pay for equal work? Because that's the first bill your president signed into law.

Got education? Obama's making it within reach. If you were to divorce or lose your job, you could be educated to take the reins for yourself. Education shouldn't just be for the rich in this time of soaring educational costs. Have you seen the tuition rate at the University of Texas? That’s why he doubled funding for Pell grants, fought hard to stop student loan interest rates from rising, and worked to raise the standards in our K–12 schools so our students are prepared for college.

Got daughters? Malia and Sascha are two more reasons to vote Obama if you're female.
Let's face it folks, Sasha and Malia are adorable.There's just something about young kids in the White House. Decisions that are made day in and day out in the White House have real consequences, sometimes for generations. Children help keep us keep grounded, and serve as Mother Nature's reality check. And the president is surrounded by a family of females, so he has a real window into how best to empower the women he is raising with Michelle.

Which candidate believes in our equality no matter where you start from? And let's face it, folks: where you end up? Pretty much depends on where you start. The fundamental American dream is that no matter who you are or how you started out, you can make a better life for yourself and your family if you’re willing to work for it.

 Who will fight for our right to make our own health-care decisions? Thanks to the historic health-care reform he signed, insurance companies will have to provide access to preventive services like contraception and cancer screenings without a co-pay. And they’ll no longer be able to make us pay more for health insurance just because we’re women.Before health care reform, women were much more vulnerable than men to high health care costs. Before health care reform, simply being a woman was considered a preexisting condition. Insurance companies would regularly charge women nearly double for coverage, even when maternity care was not included.

According to Bernard Whitman, author of 52 Reasons to Vote Obama, Under the new provisions in the Affordable Care Act, women will have access to the care and family planning services they need, saving some women up to $600 annually, or about $18,000 during the course of a lifetime. More than 50 percent of women eighteen to thirty-four say they've struggled to afford birth control.

Providing contraception coverage will also save employers money. The National Business Group on Health estimated that employers would pay 15 to 17 percent more not to provide coverage than they would to provide it, after accounting for both the direct medical costs of potentially unintended and unhealthy pregnancy and indirect costs such as employee absence and reduced productivity.

So, ladies, I get it. You like Romney for some reason: you're probably wealthy. You think "Tagg" was a cute name choice. You're a fan of dancing horses. Okay, actually, I'll admit it: if you're a female and voting Romney, I don't get it at all. We females know that money for weapons and congressman's salaries are not our priorities. Education, health care, and equality for females is good for our country. And only one candidate didn't need to call for a binder of women to get their opinions.

So think about stepping outside the box, ladies. I know I'll get some blowback from my dear conservative readers here. But we can keep it our little secret, ladies. You don't have to tell your husband or family. We'll keep it on the DL, if you must, your vote for Obama. But don't set America back. Don't set women back. A vote for Obama is a vote for women.

Them Election Blues

Holy cow with the American presidential election. Have you had it yet? With the media vitriol? With your in-laws' Facebook posts? With the punditry and talking heads and the spin, spin, spin? I'm like Scarlett O'Hara over here: War, war, war! I'm just so tired of talking about this old war! I'd much rather eat barbecue. But alas, with the endless candidate debates and campaign appearances of Obama/Biden and Romney/Ryan, there just seems to be no way around listening to talk about the 2012 presidential election. Depression? Anxiety? Trouble sleeping? Of course! It's election season.

Now, don't get me wrong! I am an involved citizen and an impassioned voter. I have voted in every presidential election since...well, let's just say since I was eighteen and keep my illusion of youth. I thoroughly believe in an educated citizenry. It is our most important right as Americans, and you must vote. Particularly if you're a woman. And it's best if you know a little bit about the millionaire for whom you're about to cast that vote.

So therein lies the rub. I've got to stay informed, but I'd also like to keep from having a cardiac event while waiting for November 7 to be here. I've got to stave off them election season blues and the stress associated with the associated media surrounding it. Thus: I bring you some time-worn suggestions for staying mellow for the last month of this excruciating campaign season that are working for me thus far:

Process your feelings. I call this cursing at the television. I also have a nice large car sponge upon which I have written words like "LYING LIAR" and "SHUT THE HELL UP" and "EAT A POO SANDWICH." It doesn't hurt my TV screen at all when I fling it at commercials funded by Super PACs. It is perfectly fine to shout at your television in any language you prefer as long as there are no small children lurking about to scar. I frequently debate Wolf Blitzer myself. What can that man know? He calls that thing on his face a beard.

Soothe yourself.  Do a guided imagery exercise. It's Christmas. There's a log blazing in the fireplace. Santa is due and this Band-Aid of an election has already been ripped off. I buy myself a pair of shoes for every debate my candidate muffs. My presidential motto: A handbag for every gaffe! Or perhaps some good old fashioned comfort food to ease the pain and give the belly a hug. Macaroni and cheese says, "It's alright, honey. I'm here for you even when the politicians break your heart." I suggest Ben and Jerry's and a nice puppy, kitty, or baby video from the internet. The combination is like being back in the womb. Related:

The debate drinking game! Drink if Obama blames Bush, references the 47% or Bin Laden, or says "millionaires" or "billionaires." Drink if Mitt touts his plan to add 15 million jobs in four years or says "entrepreneur," "small business," or "private sector." Drink if either of them refers to each other in the third person, compliments the other man's wife, or refuses to answer a moderator's question. A candidate goes overtime? TAKE A SHOT! And if anyone utters the word "freedom"? Finish that drink.

The good old fashioned bitch session. Gather your like-minded people to you to complain and complain and complain and complain and complain. Watch Bob Roberts or Red Dawn together. Participate in a little group think. It's good to be agreed with. Twitter is a great place to cherry-pick a support team that's so like-minded, you'll think them Borg. It's the social media version of sticking your fingers in your ears and screaming LA LA LA! There's a time an a place for bipartisan, good-natured debate. But then there's the times I want to talk about what a moron that other guy is and be agreed with.

So here's to survival of the fittest over the next four weeks as we go careening towards Election Day.  Let's be kind to one another in these last days. Tension is high. We've all made up our minds. We're just waiting to pull the trigger. Let's not get trigger-happy with one another in the meanwhile, shall we? Because in the end and on election day, I'm thinking we're probably just getting a choice between that poo sandwich on rye or on pumpernickel no matter what we order anyway.

This Week in Questionable Judgment

Oh, those wacky celebrities. So many train wrecks, so little time. The week was rife with boneheaded moves by the rich and famous. Luckily for us, the tabloids are here to stalk our favorite famous people and humiliate them for our entertainment. The media is ready to catch famous people at their worst. And part of the service I provide you, dear reader, is of course to catch those stories that you with actual jobs and lives miss while I'm on the internet and bring them to you. In this spirit, I present this week in celebrity dumb decisions:

Rihanna takes back Chris Brown. In the most oh-no-she-didn't of celebrity news, pop star and unbidden role model Rihanna hooks back up with the man who did this to her:

The two were spotted canoodling at a nightclub this week, and later that night Brown was photographed leaving the hotel where the pop singer was staying. The decision to hook back up with man who served time for trying to cave your face in? Indefensible. Here's hoping not too many other young girls decide to take that second trip down that dark alley as Rihanna clearly has. Brown has had no intervention for his psychiatric problems; indeed, he's had fistfights and thrown a chair through a window since. This is one relationship that's not just bad PR but dangerous for Rihanna and the legions of young girls who look up to her as the cool kid to emulate.

Hulk Hogan has a sex tape. Remember the blonde, tanned wrestler from the 80s? You can see all of him this week if you wish. Which is wrong, wrong, wrong on so many levels. Any amount of time spent looking at a bare-assed Hulk cavorting on a canopy bed is just emotionally scarring. Isn't it all time we just decided that sex is good enough without having to go all Cecile B. DeMille? Sex was good before television. Let's all agree it still can be. Oh, and Hulk's ex-wife Linda getting a DUI? Also a bonus and pretty poor celebrity decision.

Obama decides to go mild. What in the world happened to our Orator in Chief? Is this the man who sang Al Green to me? I need that guy back! Romney threatens to strap Big Bird to the roof of his car and fire the debate moderator, and he still won the debate? Civility is overrated, liberals. TIME TO KICK ASS. I just knew somewhere Clinton was shouting and wagging his finger at a monitor somewhere. I know I was. Playing it professor-style? Worst. Decision. Evah.

Nicki Minaj threatens Mariah Carey on the American Idol set. Now, if I happened to say that, quote, "If I had a gun I'd shoot that bitch" at work, it seems to me not only would I lose my job, but the po-po might come get me as well. In what world do people act like this? Oh, yeah. Hollywood. 

Jason Aldean gets some on the side with Brittany Kerr. I'd say once again: let's all just assume there's a camera trained on you at all time, famous or not. Especially if you're a country music star or a former American Idol. But can't we all just not cheat instead? I know it's a novel idea, but it's just so crazy it just might work. When Jason Aldean schmoozed on up on Brittany, there were plenty of people at the bar ready to tweet pictures. That's gonna require the application of some shiny things for the wife, Jason.

Bully emails local anchor to tell her to lose weight. Kenneth Krause, personal trial lawyer and professional tool, took it upon himself to email a local news anchor to tell her she wasn't a good role model to young, area girls because she is fat. Better fat than a personal trial lawyer, in my opinion, but I digress. Once again, if someone doesn't ask you or pay you for your advice? Chances are they don't want it. Hell, some people pay me for my professional opinion and still don't really want it. And if you're trying to be helpful and it's hurtful? It's called bullying. What a douche.

Snoop Dog Instagrams his presidential endorsement. I'm thinking this list speaks for itself:

Particularly noted: Snoop will vote Obama because "Michelle has a fat ass" and not for Romney as Romney is "Mormon but he ain't got no hoes." And who says America doesn't educate her youth in civil matters? Snoop, darling, I think you better stick to rap. Oh, Snoop. I think Obama's mad cool, too, but that's not why I'm voting for him.

So there's the roundup of some of the most dubious celebrity decisions of the week. Some doozies, no? Once again I thank all that is holy that no one is paying attention to me and my many mistakes. And that in my life there's not a sex tape, a DUI, or a romance with a man who tried to smash my face in to be splashed anywhere. Here's hoping that the worst decisions I make this week are in wardrobe and food choice. And that TMZ never, ever finds me.

Dear Angry Shoe Lady

To be so angry, you looked amazing. There you were, trying on ridiculously expensive shoes with a friend who left before you did. You weren't young, you might have been pushing fifty, or maybe you were just a hard-looking forty-something. But I thought you beautiful. A cloud of dark hair. A figure you clearly work to maintain. A well-made up, pretty face. Your fashion sense was wicked: you and your friend were shopping Steve Madden stillettos, and you were looking fierce.

I, on the other hand, was looking wilted, having made time between the gym and picking up the kids to go pick up a pair of leather clogs I had seen there the week before. I was in smelly spandex, you in a tight mini-skirt and revealing top. You were clearly the power player in your high-priced clothes and jewelry. I was your foil buying canvas flats.

I evidently interrupted the work the shoe salesman was doing with you when I sent him to get my size. Because you, lady, were impatient. You wanted different sizes of the Jessica Simpson sandal you were trying on, and you weren't having any truck with being kept waiting.

The irritation was all over you as the salesman I shall call "S" turned to the task of fetching my hippie shoes. "I'm in a big hurry," you huffed to our salesman, who was, to his credit, laboring with the two of us and a constantly ringing phone. Your face was pinched,  your mouth turned down, turning your attractive face sour.

"You can go in front of me," I said. I turned to S. "You were helping her first." S, looking slightly less stressed, smiled a half-smile of what was clearly relief and scampered off to fetch your size six shoes. Or was it seven? It was a hell of a lot smaller than my size ten peasant feet, I assure you.

You, however, my dear and fellow shoe shopper, were unimpressed with my offer, declining to speak to me despite my gesture. We waited together a moment as you avoided eye contact with me and tried on other shoes.

Undeterred, I told you how I liked the studded kitten heels you were trying out, knowing if I dropped the amount on that tag for a pair of shoes I'd be sleeping in a tent in the backyard when Hubs found out. "Those are cute," I said to you, now fascinated by your unfriendliness. "They look good with what you're wearing." You didn't look up to experience my winning smile.

The way you spoke to S when he returned with your shoes was pretty withering. You treated him like an underling. You showed annoyance at his chatting with me, taking time to get me a coupon, thank me for my business. And as I was walking away with my new comfy shoes, I heard you once again remind him you were rushed for time.

It all just left me thinking. You clearly work and were getting work related clothes. Could it be possible that you sell goods or a service? Perhaps work was what had you feeling so stressed you felt the need to smear such stinky energy around the place. You clearly had other obligations.

But honey, I got to warn you: pretty is as pretty does. You looked like you had plenty of disposable income. Your clothes and shoes were designer. Your makeup was flawless, and your hair was a cute brunette cloud that I'm almost certain God didn't bless you with naturally.

So many blessings. Why so angry? What was it about your day that had you treating strangers around you in such a way? I tried to imagine what caused your pain that day. Perhaps you were divorcing. A Packers fan. Had a daughter on drugs.

Whatever the cause, it ruined your looks, sweetie. All the Karen Kane and DKNY can't cover that up. You can buy all the makeup MAC makes, and it ain't covering up the kind of ugly you were wearing in the department store shoe section this week. And it certainly won't build your business. So you're not on the clock? You're always representing yourself, dear.

So whatever was going on with you that had you feeling the right to share your pain with the rest of us, I sure do hope you get some relief from it. In the meanwhile, save the money you might have spent on those fabulous nude platform pumps you had on. They may have gone great with your dress, but in the end, it won't cover up your attitude.

Here's to your improved happiness and indeed to the happiness of the many strangers you and I encounter every day. We are in this together. And may we all realize our energy affects everyone around us. And most of all? It shapes us. And Chanel lipstick on a pig? Just makes for a painted pig. Mind your heart. Because pretty, my unhappy dear, is only skin deep. Ugly goes clear to the bone.

Celebrate, Dammit

Yep, it's that time of year again: fall has begun, temperatures are dropping, and my birthday is this week! Forgive me if I squee a bit. And I am celebrating it. I'm gathering with my friends to toast. I'm traveling to spend time with my BFF. I'm running a 5K on the actual day with some friends. I'm buying myself stuff. I am going, as they say here in the South, whole hog. It's just the way I roll. As a Southerner, I am always on the hunt for any excuse for a party.

But it got me wondering: am I being a little childish here in my birthday mirth? How do other adults feel about celebrating their own birthday? Am I strange? And so in the interest of  science, and as I am wont to do, I took a little poll on the interwebs about how people feel about celebrating their birthdays. I'm afraid my findings? Either I'm a giant woman-baby, or y'all are a glum bunch of adults. And as I refuse to believe the former, let's address the latter. Y'all need to do some serious adjustment of your birthday attitudes.

I mean, really. Remember when you were waiting to turn ten or twelve and the excitement of your family planning for your birthday? Packages were destined to arrive in the mail from generous relatives. There was a party and cake and ice cream and friends and games candles and singing. For you!

If there's a zenith of life, it's got to be an elementary-age birthday. If you had my mom, you got to choose your birthday dinner menu and in general, a fuss was made over you. AND IT WAS AWESOME. Why and when as adults did we decide doing this for ourselves was in bad taste. Why did we give up celebrating special times?

So at what age did we decide we hate having birthdays? After the 21st birthday hangover? I simply do not get this attitude. Hubs is a prime example. It's very Eeyore: What're birthdays anyway? Here today, gone tomorrow. Everyone I asked told me that it's pretty much just another day for them. It was so sad.

AND I OBJECT. Life, in case you haven't noticed, grownups, is kinda hard some times. The news isn't good. Seems to me when life gives you any, and I mean any, occasion to celebrate? We need to grab that excuse with both hangs and wring out an awesome time. There should be champagne. And cake. And merriment. This isn't childishness. It's an appropriate response to commemorate an important occasion. Time to bring a little swing to your world of stiffness!

I apply this philosophy to any time or occasion I can throw a party or celebrate. I'm Irish on Saint Patrick's Day. I'm Cajun for Mardi Gras. Hell, I'm even an honorary Mexican on Cinco De Mayo. I'm dressing up on Halloween and passing out valentines to anyone who crosses my path. And on my birthday? I'm shamelessly throwing myself a party and calling my closest girlfriends and a taxi.

Life's too short, people. I do not endorse your austere attitudes toward to your special, natal day. If we've got to work hard (and we're all working harder than ever now), we've got to play hard to keep in balance. And I think especially a birthday is a great day to celebrate yourself. Yes, that's right...it's your special day. It's the day you made your debut to smiling faces and loving hands that lifted you into the world and said "We're so happy you're here!"

There isn't another you. There will never be another you. I say one day a year, let's celebrate your being here, you, you gift to the world. It's not self-aggrandizing toot your own, proverbial horn, beat your own drum for one day, to say: hey, world! I'm glad I'm here! I hereby give you permission to take your birthday light out from under that bushel and let it shine. The world needs more reasons to revel.

So. On my birthday,  I plan to ceremonialize. Exalt. Fete. I'm going to let loose, live it up, make merry. If I've got to keep aging (and it does beat the alternative), I'm gonna rejoice and party. I'm using most of the month to do it. And when the next holiday or birthday comes around, I'll do it all again. And I encourage y'all to join me in this mind-set. Because life can be too serious a place all too often. Grab an excuse to celebrate. Hell, celebrate the fact that's it's a Saturday. Find an excuse to revel. Because life's too short and you're too special not to.

This Week in Cringe-Worthy

The past week in media was awash in the cray cray, as the kids say. Did you catch it? So many nutty people doing nutty things and saying even nuttier ones. In between the re-emergence of world thuggery, the hounding of fat Jessica Simpson, a poor choice in ink for Chris Brown, and the birth of Levi Johnston's second child, the news was full of questionable people behaving badly. Here's some of my favorite low points from the week and some lessons we can hopefully take away from each:

9/11 and the Coptic Christian movie. The week of 9/11 is always a hard one, anyway, for any red-blooded American patriot like myself. But leave it to some shady businessman to set my world on fire this particular week with the release of "The Innocence of Muslims," a twelve minute You-Tube creation that makes South Park look like a Spielberg production, to make the week particularly craptacular. Somebody wants a religious war.

Of course, the outrage button in the Middle East is a hot one at best, but extremism took over this week. And what exactly is a Coptic Christian, anyway? It sounds like a religious guy with a gastric condition. And the moderates of the world are just left shaking our heads. Let's decide to each bring a little more tolerance to our worlds, shall we? I can't say I'll be voting Republican just yet. But let's dial back the hate on all sides, shall we? To quote the late Rodney King: can't we all just get along? Or at least cut back on the flag burning.

Jessica Simpson. And then there was this:


http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=8jQzQS0I1kU


 Oh. Em. Gee. The TMZ staff are TERRIBLE PEOPLE. Poor Jessica Simpson. These are black hearts and mercenary souls. The hateful statements made in this video clip by those people are deplorable, particularly the shrieky shrew who throws Jess under the bus for her "Kirstie Alley hair and fat chin." Oh, for one, well-placed smack. Harvey Levin, charmer that he is, is particularly appealing as he demands Jess "get on the damn scale" to satisfy his need to know her exact weight. What a schmuck.

Did you catch Jessica "revealing her body" on Katie Couric's (clearly hard-hitting) afternoon gab show? Yes, daytime tv dedicated solely to the discussion of the width of Jess' ass. I wonder if Jessica realizes her body doesn't belong to her? It belongs to Weight Watchers and this crew of clowns at TMZ and in the media, self-appointed to pass judgement on a woman who gave birth four months ago.

Because as a woman, your worth is completely dependent on your looks. Deplorable. Is this who we are as a people? Hey, TMZ crew! You're not winning any beauty pageants either. And certainly no Mensa memberships. Jessica Simpson, I love your fat ass.

Chris Brown's neck tat. 
And then, from the myopic world of our favorite anger management patient: 

Is NOT supposed to look like a battered Rihanna. It is, according to Brown, a Day of the Dead style woman's face as half skeleton. Really? REALLY. Firstly, doesn't a neck tattoo automatically indicate you just might not be a Rhodes Scholar anyway, but you're Chris Brown, convicted woman beater, and you put a female face that's half skull on the side of your head?

If Chris Brown were any more clueless, I'd worry about him crossing the street alone. Doesn't he have people? What handler in his life said, "Why yes, sir, tattooing a half-dead woman's face in a constantly visible area on your body is an EXCELLENT idea and won't remind people you nearly battered a chick's face in once AT ALL. GO FOR IT."?

Speaking of the What The Hell Were You Thinking Files: don't even get me started with Rihanna sneaking him a kiss at the MTV Video Awards. Where is her self esteem? That girl has got some serious Daddy issues. Put your ear to any one of her tattoos and you can hear them. So here's to raised awareness about our individual issues, eh? And a general no-no for neck tats unless you've given up on being a regular member of society. 

And last, but not least, this week:

Levi Johnston procreates again, names baby after gun. Memba him? He's Sarah Palin's grandbaby-daddy, ex-Playgirl model, and, arhem, author. He was onstage at a Republican National Convention. And this week, he had another baby out of wedlock. A girl, charmingly named Breeze Beretta. Yes. That baby is named after a gun. And we wonder why the terrorists hate us. Isn't Levi's mother in jail for meth distribution? I'm thinking we better start a defense trust fund for Baby Beretta right now. God help that baby.

My favorite stories from humans behaving badly. Here's to next week featuring more tolerance for our brothers and sisters, fewer burning tires and flags, more moderation and less extremism, less objectification of women and a new respect for how we treat them (related: your worth doesn't fluctuate with the size of your behind). Let's have insight into the fact that every decision we make has repercussions. For whether it's a bad neck tat or a terrible name for your baby girl? Some things you just can't take back. Here's to next week being a little less cringe-worthy.

Hip to be Square

I am either living a dream, or I have lost my damn fool mind (as we say here in the South). Maybe a little of both. I have a new gig, folks, which you may have noticed if you lurk around my blog or Twitter account. Have you checked out townsquarebuzz.com lately? Yep, that's video of me sipping chardonnay with my friend Matt, prattling on about Tom Cruise's odd dating life and the bad case of Collin County affluenza.

And here's the darnedest thing, folks: I am being given cash money for doing so. I still can't quite wrap my head around it. That's what you get when you put out to the Universe you'd like to be paid for your sparkling personality alone. There's a reason people say be careful what you wish for. Now the internet is littered with me.

Yep, unfathomably, I am being paid by my marvelous if mysterious boss at my local e-paper, townsquarebuzz.com, to drink wine and talk smack with a dear friend on camera. Can you believe it? I've been convinced by my boss people will want to see me tipsy and talking about Snooki spawning or the latest antics of LiLo. I am flattered and at the same time terrified out of my pants. I mean, I find myself hilarious. I talk to myself all the time. But am I a Not-Quite-Ready-For-Primetime player?

But I'm in! I've never let uncertainty keep me from wading on in. Sometimes with good outcome, sometimes...not so much. But when I'm not terrified I'm going to come off like a shrieky goon, I'm secretly giddy. Someone thought my personality and online snark was worth bringing to life in a video segment! As a life-long attention whore, I can tell you there's no more satisfying feeling. YOU LIKE ME! YOU REALLY LIKE ME!

So let me tell you a little about what Reel McKinney's Square Off show is about. Maybe you'll want to check Matt and me out.

First, it's about wine. Why? Because I should get paid to drink wine, mostly. Oh, I kid. We do want to showcase some of our fabulous, local Texas wines and talk about good pairings for them. Mostly, our show is about joining a couple of friends for happy hour and getting your gossip on. We'll put Billy Bush and his Access Hollywood crew to shame. We're Kathie Lee and Hoda on crack. We're a fat country Kelly and a gay Regis. What could be any better? We'll be closely watching and commenting on the latest trends online and reacting to your emails and tweets about what we're saying.

Caveat: as the bio says, recall: I'm a blue chick in the reddest county in the reddest state. My opinions often, shall we say, don't exactly jibe with a large portion of the local citizenry. I will, and before very long, piss someone off. Mightily, most likely. It's...just what I do. It's a gift. Perhaps that's part of my charm. Let's say it is. Yes, let's.

But nonetheless, I am so looking forward to engaging more with you all. As long as we all play nice, everyone's welcome to Square Off with Matt and Eliska. And I'm interested in knowing what you'd like to talk about: wine? Politics? Celebrity buzz?

Square Off is open and ready for your business. And let me leave y'all with this: do what you enjoy. Pursue what makes you happy. You've got something about you that you do better than everyone else. Something that makes time fly by, makes you forget time. Something that serves the planet. And you will be rewarded for it. You really can make money being you. Who knew?

Just look at me! Taking care of business and working overtime. I, too, love to work at nothing all day. I just never, ever expected to get paid for it. So let's have some fun! Join Matty and me at townsquarebuzz.com on Fridays. Tweet or email what you'd like us to talk about our your comments. I am so looking forward to getting to know you.

Looking forward to our wine next Friday, y'all. Check out Matt and me as we Square Off about the political conventions and much, much more. Cheers! And see you for the Town Square Buzz.