Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Oh No She Didn't!

Marie Claire Magazine sucks ass. Why, you might ask? Sit back, get comfy and grab a drink. I am good and pissed and ready to rant.


This is in response to Maura Kelly’s blog post on the Marie Claire site titled, “Should “Fatties” get a room? (Even on TV?)”. Kelly writes,

“…I think I’d be grossed out if I had to watch two characters with rolls and rolls of fat kiss each other…because I’d be grossed out if I had to watch them doing anything. To be brutally honest, even in real life, I find it displeasing to watch a very, very fat person simply walk across a room…”

No Maura, you’re not being “brutally honest”, you’re just being brutal. Some definitions of brutal from Dictionary.com include: savage, cruel, inhuman, ferocious and, my personal favorite, of or pertaining to lower animals. She tells us that she is not “some size-ist jerk”. She says she even has “a few friends who could be called plump”. Wow Maura, how benevolent you are to count them amongst your friends. And this despite the fact that their very existence grosses you out. How blessed they must feel! I’m sure they believe the Gods of Good Fortune have smiled down upon them for you to set aside your disgust, and lower yourself to allow them to breathe your air.

In another blog post Kelly, recounting her experience with anorexia writes,

“I'm always worried that I'm not attractive enough, smart enough, young enough, successful enough for someone to love me.” She closes the account of her battle with, “Finally, though, I do feel thin enough.”

The article never tells us if she beat anorexia. With that attitude, I’m guessing not. Nice going Marie Claire. What idiot editor authorized this drivel? What's more, who's the genius who decided to categorize it under Sex & Relationships/Living Flirtatiously? It’s bad enough that the magazine industry floods us with messages that tell us we’re not good enough unless we look like the airbrushed models in their pages, but now this! Seriously? I recall a radio interview with Rebecca Romjin where she referred to her own airbrushed image and mused that it was sad to know that she herself could never look that good.

Kelly goes on to condescendingly add, “I’m happy to give you some nutrition and fitness suggestions if you need them…” Earth to Maura Kelly! Yes, even obese people know the path to weight loss is to eat less and exercise more. The thing is, once you’ve reached a certain level of obesity, the weight seems like an impenetrable wall. This is why people make the cover of People Magazine with headlines that say, “I lost 105 pounds without surgery!” If it was easy, they wouldn’t be on the cover. Do you see headlines that read, “I lowered my blood pressure and cholesterol levels”? No, you don’t, and you probably never will because it’s not nearly the enormous feat that losing the equilvalent of an Olsen twin (or two) is. Weight loss is a bitch.

Kelly gives a half-assed kudos to the TV couple in question when she writes, “Then again, I guess these characters are in Overeaters Anonymous. So … points for trying?” Fuck you Maura Kelly.

In case you’re wondering why this post has my panties in such a twist, this is why: In five days I will celebrate the fifth anniversary of my gastric bypass. I originally lost 80 pounds, gained back twenty-five and, recently, lost 10 more. Clearly gastric bypass is not a quick fix. I still struggle with the issues that put the weight on in the first place. But now I’m not coming from such an insurmountable place.

Despite the fact that I am now 65 pounds lighter than my highest weight, I still have to put up with people who, like Maura Kelly, say things like, “Well, you not done losing weight are you?” or “You really should go back to the gym.” Wake up people! I KNOW that I could still stand to lose another 20 pounds. But so long as my glucose levels and blood pressure are in a healthy range, I am not going to beat myself up for it. I’m sure Maura Kelly and the folks at Marie Claire would love to do that for me.



p.s. A big thank you to The Sassy Curmudgeon for her scathing commentary on this subject.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Next Time I'll Just Buy A Calculator

We're all familiar with Tom Cruise's famous line from the movie Jerry Maguire: "You complete me." I remember watching, sighing, then thinking, "Wait a second! I don't need some dude to complete me. I AM complete! No lame-ass guy is gonna..." Blah, blah, blah. I was so full of shit. Not that I disagree with what I was trying to say. I still hold that sentiment to be true. Oh, okay, I'll say it. I was being a hypocrite.

I have always loved musicians; throughout my twenties, into my thirties and, well, now. I still love them. If they can sing, so much the better. I don't play a single instrument and when I sing, most people ask me not to. As far back as my early childhood I have fantasized that this was not the case. (Insert overly dramatic sigh here) I love how they can pick up an instrument and create something beautiful that didn't exist before. I imagine it's akin to the feeling I get when I sit down to write and the words flow out of me seemingly of their own volition. Sure, sometimes my rock-n-roll bad boys played covers of other musician's work, but their interpretation of those songs didn't and couldn't exist without them. Art is like that. It's personal. I prefer my friend Sergio's rendition of KISS's "Hard Luck Woman" over the original. His wife Tammie is a good friend of mine and I have to say, I'm always a little jealous of her when I hear him play. Not that I want Sergio in THAT way. I am just in love with the idea of having that kind of talent around the house every day.

My last boyfriend was a math professor. Yeah, I know. Yawn. But here's what I loved about that: I am a mathematical moron. I need pen and paper to add simple two digit numbers together. That's not to say I don't appreciate math. It's everywhere. In finances, nature, design and, yes, music. I do understand that through math, one can get a far greater understanding of the world we live in. Really, I get it. There was something about watching him have such command over a subject so mysterious to me that made me swoon a little. Smart is sexy.The fact that I needed much tutoring to pass his beginning algebra class (yeah, he was my professor, SHUT UP!) with a C did little to dissuade me.

Not long ago I decided to attend pastry school. I picked a school and started the application process. Part of that process involved sitting in on a class taught by a master pastry chef. The chef was HOT! He spoke with a French accent and, c'mon, who doesn't love a man with a French accent? I watched mesmerized as he deftly folded butter into dough for croissants. Here was a man who sounded sexy, and not only knew what a zabaglione was, he could whip one up blindfolded.

It didn't work out with any of these men. The musicians (Yeah, there were several. Cut me some slack, I was young.) all seemed to prefer women who could make their own music. Or sometimes they just preferred other women...lot's of them. The math professor seemed to prefer someone of his own cerebral caliber. Sometimes it got demeaning. "Look Janina, even YOU can understand this..." Pphhfftt. Whatever. And what of Chef Ooh-La-La? Married. Bummer. It seems they weren't looking to complete anyone. They wanted someone to compliment them. Hmph. Imagine that.

I haven't given up. I still want a man to serenade me, but I'll have to keep my finger on the pulse of what's happening in the musical world if I want us to connect on that level. I'll learn what I need from professors and master chefs then move on. Or I can still dream, and hope that I find a baking musician who can calculate the tip in his head. Anyone know where I can find him?

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Hysterectomy Hyster-schmectomy

I'm having surgery in the morning. They're taking away my ladybits. By this time tomorrow, my uterus and I will have parted ways. My fallopian tubes and ovaries are also going bye-bye, but it's the removal of my uterus that's making me weepy as I write this. I'm not scared of surgery, not at all. I worked for years in the medical field and, so far as my beliefs go, I consider myself a woman of science. I've had multiple surgeries and I believe my tonsils are the only body parts left that I can spare. In case you're wondering, no, I don't have cancer. I have fibroids that cause me to bleed like a slasher film victim. Oh wow, did you hear that? That was the sound of my male readers leaving this page and doing a Google image search for "Bodacious Boobies" instead. That's okay. Like the Terminator, they'll be back.

So I was saying, I think I'll miss my uterus. Maybe it's because my uterus was my son's first bachelor pad. He lived and thrived there. Perhaps it's because it's kinda attached to my vajayjay, and I really like my vajayjay. Or maybe it's because my insane sister Debi has been trying to convince me that I'm allowing my body to be raped and stripped of my womanhood. This is the same nutcase who recently bought a vintage tampon case and wants to fill it with Glitter Fortune Tampons. (You think I'm making this up? No, I kid you not.) I'm hoping that, like all my reproductive-organ-free girlfriends have promised me, I won't miss it a bit.

I've been told by several well-meaning individuals-yes, including Debi- that I should keep my ovaries or I'll find myself plunged head first into menopause. Well, guess what? Been there, done that. The blood tests confirmed it. Most people are shocked to hear this. "But you're too young to have gone through menopause!" Um, no I'm not. Granted I'm on the younger end of the scale, but well within the average range nonetheless. I just look too young to have gone through menopause. Cool huh?

Speaking of Le Change, let me tell you, it sucks. You heat up and sweat like a champion in a habanero pepper-eating contest and your libido goes, well, it just goes. Call me a wuss, but I got myself on hormone replacement therapy faster than you can say atomic meltdown. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I KNOW there are alternatives. Whatever. I'll just take my Prempro along with my thyroid pills and Ambien and wash it down with a glass of cabernet. (Yes, I'm joking about the cabernet! Sorta.) So, chemically speaking, this shouldn't be too much of a change for my body. There's just one little thing I want to add post-surgery: Testosterone baby!

Most people think it's the missing estrogen that makes your mojo go the way of John Mayer in a relationship. It's not. It's that tiny bit of testosterone in that swimming pool of estrogen that makes you want to have hot monkey sex. And, quite frankly, it's what I miss the most. Not just having it, but wanting it. I have a whole drawer full of sexy lingerie that I haven't dragged out since my hormones nose-dived a year and a half ago.  The good news? I recently spent a lovely afternoon with an equally lovely man who whispered all manner of yummy things that he wants to do to me. And guess what? I want those yummy things done to me! There is still hope. I asked him if he would still love me without all my ladyparts. His response: "Yes, of course! I'll be gentle.You'll still have a clitoris right?" (Fanning myself) Whew!

Of course, I will have to be careful and find just the right dose of testosterone. I mean, as much as I want my inner sex kitten back, I really don't want to turn into a husky-voiced Sasquatch with a nasty temper either. A dab will do me.

All things aside, I'm kinda, sorta looking forward to surgery a bit. I get a month of laying around in my pj's and not lifting anything heavier than a frying pan. I'm also looking forward to not freaking out whenever my period is even one hour late despite the use of glow-in-the-dark condoms. So, now that I've poked fun at my sister Debi and overshared enough to embarrass even my mother, and believe me, she doesn't embarrass easily, I'm off to bed. Yes, it's early for me, but you see, I'm having surgery in the morning.


Monday, August 02, 2010

What Love's Supposed To Look Like

I just came back from my cousin Julie's wedding. First of all, let me start by announcing to the world that Julie is, without a doubt, my favorite cousin. It's not because she's adorable, whip-smart, funny, talented and really, really nice. It's because she's she's all that and she doesn't have a shred of conceit about it. I hate conceit. I'm guilty of it at times and I hate that too. But I digress.

I'd spent the past year and a half swearing that marriage was not for me. No way, no how. I reasoned that being married would not improve my life in any way. At 45, my child-bearing years are well behind me, so starting a family was out of the question. I'm not exactly the No-Nookie-Till-Marriage type, so sex wasn't a motivating factor. My current living situation is pretty cushy, so I wasn't looking to give up the housekeepers. No, as far as I was concerned, marriage had nothing to offer but piles of dirty laundry and a lifetime of bathroom jokes. Ugh. I couldn't unsubscribe from that mailing list fast enough!

Love has never really worked out for me. There was the one-night-stand that went on for years and years, passion without substance, substance without passion and, most recently, the one who did everything right, but was still the wrong one for me. As is my nature, I started to wonder if the problem was me. I mean, after all, I am the common denominator here. But as a very wise woman pointed out, I will always be the common denominator in ALL my experiences. Duh!

So I wrote off marriage. Whatever. Lot's of people never marry. But the really sad part of this is that I also wrote off love. Not all love. I still love my son, my grandmother and a good glass of red wine. What I wrote off was that Meg Ryan movie kinda love. Which is really, REALLY sad because, okay, I'll admit it, I am shamelessly addicted to romantic comedies. And, for most of my life, I honestly expected love to look and feel like that. But it didn't. So I convinced myself it didn't exist and forgot about it altogether.

But then I went to this wedding and I saw love with my own two eyes. It was in the way they were able to look unflinchingly into each others eyes as they spoke their vows. It was in the way he dipped her several times on the dance floor and she trusted him to do it without dropping her and ending up on YouTube. It was in the way friend after friend took the mike to say what a great couple the were. "The gold standard", someone said. It was in the way of being with each other that made me think, they're like one person inhabiting two bodies.

I imagine that Garrick and Julie will start a family. They may even be successful enough to hire a houskeeper some day. But even if they don't, they still have that look. They have the look that says, "Even if all we ever do together is launder dirty socks, I'd rather do that with you than anything else with anyone else."

I want that.


Thursday, June 24, 2010

Haters Gotta Hate: Yuckitude Exposed

Allow me to set the scene for you: I was sitting on my bed last night, hemming a dress, watching The Food Network and generally minding my own damn business when my phone rang. It was a woman I'll refer to as "Olivia". That's odd. I have her number on my cell only because she insisted I save it when I ran into her one day. We went to high school together, and we cross paths often enough, but we're not exactly BFFs. So I answer the phone.

"Olivia? Que milagro! (Translation: What a miracle!)

"Janina what are you doing?"

"Um, nothing. Why? What's up?"

"I was just thinking about your cupcakes. Do you sell them? I want to buy some!"

Let me fill some of you in here. I've been planning on going to pastry school in September and I've been baking cupcakes like there's no tomorrow. But something about Olivia's phone call was setting off loud alarms in my head. Sort of like when some shifty looking dude stops and offers to help you with your packages before running off with your new Coach purse. I felt like I was stepping in shit, but I had nothing to go on but an ugly hunch.

I told her I'd be baking on Friday in preparation for the Mermaid's Mercantile and she was welcome to buy some then. We discussed prices and flavors. Next thing you know, my guard is down and I ask if she's seen my Oprah audition video.  One question leads to another and I end up telling her the whole story of how another high school friend, David, who is a cameraman for The Chelsea Lately Show got me and my sister Debi  front row tickets followed by the story of how he volunteered to shoot my audition video for me. Yeah, stupid, I know. I sign off with promises of chocolate cupcakes on Friday.

About an hour later, I'm at Starbucks with "Yvette" (not her real name), a mutual friend, and I tell her of Olivia's call and my uneasiness about it all. We share stories of past confidences betrayed and incidences of back-stabbery. Okay, maybe I'm not nuts after all. I almost mention the night we sat at Yvette's and discussed my depressive episodes. I remember Olivia asking "Is there anything that I, as your friend, can do to help?" It sounded sweet, but again, my alarms went off. I decide I may be seeing monsters under the bed, so I don't bring it up.

Fast forward to the wee hours when I'm most productive. I notice a message from David asking me to call if I'm awake. We hadn't spoken since I edited and posted the video, so I figure that's what he wanted to discuss, so I call him. I was wrong. That was NOT what he wanted to discuss.

Long story short: Olivia was out on the town having drinks with four other friends when she called me. I know one of these women, the others are strangers. Apparently they spent the rest of the night making jokes at my expense. Most of these jokes were centered around my cupcakes (yeah, I don't get it either), and progressing to insinuations that I had sex with David in exchange for his videography services. I didn't. I check the Facebook pages David mentions and sure enough, the snide remarks are there.

There are so many things wrong with this situation, let me just list some.

1. Whaddaya 12 years old????? This is such JUVENILE behavior coming from women in their mid-forties!

2. Why is it that when these five women get together, they feel the need to call me for cheap entertainment? Don't they have lives?

3. Why me? Seriously? Why? I don't even know most of these women!

My Facebook status update currently reads: The good thing about the haters is that they let you know when you're doing something right. Otherwise you'd never show up on their radar!

Did their actions hurt me? Of course. I'm human. Will I retaliate? No. This blog is about all the retaliation you're going to see out of me. I really don't believe in sinking to an asshole's level. I have un-friended the two women from my Facebook page and made my page private. Something I didn't want to do, but, oh well. Will their actions destroy me? No. But it will not go without saying that a woman who launches this type of attack against a "friend" whom she knows to suffer from clinical depression is sort of like someone taking a paraplegic's crutches away. Not life threatening, but mean-spirited and cruel.

It saddens me that David, who's guilty of nothing more than kindness, was hurt by all of this. He didn't deserve to get swept up by this hatefest. I'm sorry David.

Again, yes, it hurt. It hurt as keenly as their middle school behavior would have hurt the middle school aged me. Congratulations "Olivia" and friends. You hit your mark. Happy now? Did that make you feel like a better person?

I suppose that in writing this I'm trying to do what one does with the monsters under the bed. Shine a light on them and hope that they go away.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Oooooprah Winfrey Video!

I interrupt your irregularly scheduled blog to bring you a shameless plug.

For those of you who live under a rock, Oprah Winfrey is starting her own network. She may also be starting her own country too, but I think she's still hunting down a prime location. France may soon be asked to vacate. But I digress. The Oprah Winfrey Network (OWN) is looking for someone to win their own show. Contestants have to submit an audition video and finalists go on to a Survivor-esque elimination. Since it's the Oprah Winfrey Network, my guess is that some of the challenges will be along the lines of "Name That Dysfunction" or "Couch Jumping Musical Chairs". I'm just guessing.

Sooooo, as you can probably surmise, I've submitted an audition video of my very own. I'd love to bribe you with cupcakes but the Oprah site specifically states that I cannot offer any inducement of any kind to get votes. In which case I'll have to resort to begging and whining.

Please, please, pleeeeaaaasssseeee! Good enough? Okay, here's the link:

Click HERE to vote!

Vote often! Vote daily! Vote over, and over, and over, and.... It's okay, they let you do that.
Also, tweeting or sharing the link to your Facebook page will make me your devoted slave forever.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

No, I mean it this time!

As you may have read, I got a new sister for Easter. We've both blogged about the experience and you can read Debi's account of the story here. Before I move on, I must say that I find it interesting that, while I compared the experience to getting a chocolate bunny in my Easter basket, she likened it to drinking too much tequila. Hmmmmm.

At our meeting, Debi presented me with a copy of  Hello, Cupcake!: Irresistibly Playful Creations Anyone Can Make. I gotta tell you, the creations in this book are adorable! After dinner we went to a local cupcakery. Yes, I said cupcakery. It's a bakery, but all they sell is cupcakes. Cute doesn't even begin to describe this place. It was all pink walls and crystal light fixtures. And the cupcakes! Oh the cupcakes! They were gorgeous! They had glitter! They were, um, not very good. I bought three of their mini-sized confections and all three failed to earn their sprinkles. This isn't the first time this has happened to me. I recently shelled out $6 for a gloriously frosted lump of dry bread. I wondered if there was some strange pastry law which states that a cupcake can be either yummy or beautiful, but not both. Then I remembered Zov's Cafe in Tustin, California. I was working in a perinatal unit of a hospital and one of our patients brought in a box of these beauties.


Not only were they gorgeous, they were insanely delicious! Dark, dense chocolate cake that screamed "I was baked from scratch using the best ingredients on the planet dammit!" They were hands down the BEST cupcakes I've ever had. Sigh....

Okay, I have a confession to make. Everything you've read up to this point has been a digression. I couldn't help myself, but I will attempt to tie it all together for you, I promise. Uh, where was I? Oh yeah, cupcakes! So I start fantasizing about having my own bakery -a cupcakery is too limiting for me- and next thing you know, I'm Googling pastry schools. I do this late at night lest anyone peek over my shoulder and realize that I'm contemplating yet another career. What can I say, I have a hard time deciding what I want to be when I grow up.  A perusal of my college transcripts and computer bookmarks reveals that in the past I have considered the following career paths:

Nurse - I liked the idea of a three-day work week and the variety of settings available. (Cruise ship nurse anyone?) The money they make isn't so bad either. Believe it or not I even looked forward to blood and guts. What can I say, I'm a little morbid that way.What I did NOT like was the idea of dealing with various other body fluids or the crankiness of the patients whose fluids I wished to avoid.

Child Care Provider - I will pause here to allow anyone who has known me for more than, say, an hour to compose themselves and stop laughing. When I saw all those Early Childhood Education courses listed on my transcript, I thought for a while that I'd accidentally logged into another person's account. Then I saw that I dropped the entire semester. Whew! Crisis averted.

Mortician - I shit you not. I actually had an entire folder of links to schools that offered classes in the mortuary sciences. I was probably drawn to the shock value or maybe I had just watched one too many episodes of CSI: Las Vegas.

English Teacher - As I write this, my major is still listed as "Single Subject English" which is to say high school English teacher. This is hysterical for the same reason Child Care Provider is hysterical. Seriously folks, for the future of humanity, do NOT expose me to young, impressionable minds. My son is lucky to have gotten through childhood without stories that begin with the phrase, "One day, in psyche ward..."

Psychologist - Yes, go ahead and laugh, but I'll have you know that I have 15 college credits in the psych department. Wait it gets better, they're all A's. Society really dodged a bullet with this one.

So there you have it. Now, back to the subject of pastry school. I've scheduled appointments at three different schools in the next few days and I have two major hurdles to overcome before I can move ahead. A) The nearest schools are in San Diego which is an hour and a half drive from here. I'd have to find housing for a few nights a week while I get through the program. B) Pastry school is hella expensive! Cross your fingers and hope that the Financial Aid Gods take one look at the Chocolate Cherry Chipotle Cupcakes I baked and decide to smile down upon me.

I shared my plans with select friends and family members and received a surprisingly supportive response. I suspect that when they say, "Pastry school! What a GREAT idea! I can TOTALLY see you doing that. Go for it!", what they really mean is, "Pastry school? Are you serious? What's it gonna be next week?"

Maybe they're right. Maybe next week I'll be researching how to get certified as a poledance instructor.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

What I'd Really Like To Be When I Grow Up

Most people my age no longer get asked what they want to be when they grow up. This probably has something to do with the fact that most people my age have already grown up and are very much looking forward to the day that they no longer have to be whatever it is they became.

But, of course, I am not most people. I have yet to settle into a career. Don't get me wrong, I've had tons of jobs, just no career. Nothing that makes me want to attend my high school reunion and hand out business cards like they were Altoids at a garlic festival. Mostly I've served alcohol to drunks or been on the latex glove end of a pap smear. In either case, nothing to brag about.

For this and other reasons (like not wanting to live under a bridge in my golden years) I've decided to go back to school. I even shot a promotional video for the community college I attend which you can see right here. Because of this, I still get asked what I want to be when I grow up. Okay, they ask me what my major is, but we all know that's what they really mean.

I learned that people made assumptions about the kind of person you are based on how you answered that question. When I said I was working towards a nursing degree, they'd assume I was this selfless Florence Nightengale-esque care giving type. Or maybe they thought that, like Nurse Jackie, I just wanted to score some primo drugs. Neither was correct. I was in it for the three day workweek. Turns out, it was too much work for a degree I never really wanted in the first place. Now, when I say I'm an English major, I hear, "Oh! You want to teach!" I can see myself in their mind's eye, patiently imparting my wisdom to younger generations and igniting in them a passion for British Literature.

Not. Going. To. Happen.

Honestly folks, all I want is to work in my pajamas in the middle of the night and update my Facebook page during the day. I admit even this is something of a sellout. If I were to make a Top Ten List of What I'd Really Like To Be When I Grow Up, it would look like this:

10. Shamu's Trainer - Admit it, you can't watch a Shamu Show without sharing this fantasy with me. In my fantasy life, not only am I Shamu's trainer, I also look nothing like Shamu in my wetsuit.

9. Supermodel - The clothes! The make-up! The dieting...uh, nevermind!

8. Poet Laureate - This is in addition to from my pajama-wearing, Facebook trolling writer aspiration. I say "in addition to" rather than "instead of" because, although being a Poet Laureate gets you into some ultra posh White House dinners and gives you super literati cred, it only pays $35,000 a year. I neglected to mention that I want to surf the Web from the comfort of my own New York brownstone. I'll need waaaaay more than $35,000 a year for that.

7. Pastry Chef with my own show on The Food Network - Oh Food Network, how do I love thee! In a perfect world, Paula Deen would be my mom, I'd be married to Bobby Flay and Rachel Ray would be my BFF. I'd focus mainly on cupcakes. Some folks have animal totems. I have a pastry totem and it's the cupcake.

6. Vegas Showgirl - What girly-girl doesn't love dressing in feathers and sequins? The only drawback I see here is the relative anonymity. I've never really been an ensemble kinda girl. Give me the spotlight baby!

5. Cirque Du Soleil Performer - Like a showgirl but the costumes are more exotic and I imagine that the, um, dance moves would transfer quite nicely to the boudoir n'est-ce pas? Ooh la-la!

4. Designer - I love making pretty things. My apartment in San Juan Capistrano was a pussycat girl cave. Lately though, I don't seem to have as much inspiration for creating this kind of art as I used to have. So, I will leave it up to my sister Debi Beard to make the world a prettier place.

3. Stand-Up Comedienne - I like to imagine a room full of people doubled-over in laughter as I share one brilliantly clever insight after another. Sometimes I fantasize about being so funny that I have to pause and let them recover lest someone laugh themselves literally to death. Yes, when I dream, I dream BIG!

2. Rock Star - Do I really need to explain this one? Nah, I didn't think so.

1. Actor - This is the big one for me. This is the dream I would sell my son into black market slavery to attain. I want to be stalked by the papparazzi dammit!

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Very Old Woman Returns To School

Okay, maybe I exagerrated a tad. I'm not that old. I'm 45. Although some days it may as well be 45 in dog years. My eyes, in particular, are making me feel ancient. When exactly did I lose the ability to read without glasses? Some of my classmates graduated from high school with my son. Thank God most of my professors are older than me. I get the jokes my classmates miss.

I'm dating my math professor. Okay, former math professor. It doesn't feel as forbidden as it would were I twenty years old. It does, however, grant me access to the monthly wine tastings hosted by some of the other faculty members. Wine is good.

I thought my age would make college easier. It has not. My synapses aren't firing the way they used to and chemistry isn't any more interesting to me today than it was 25 years ago. I'm still afraid of bunsen burners.

I tried being a nursing major. This was a mistake of epic proportions. I hated the classes so much, they made me cry. What's worse is, I never really wanted to be a nurse. I just wanted to earn a nurses salary. Bad approach. Very bad. So I'm back to being an English major and praying to the publication gods that I never have to ask someone if they'd like fries with their order.

That's all I have for now. You see, the real reason for this blog entry was not to reach out to you, my readers, but to avoid reading Byron for just a bit longer. Of course, that's not to say I'm not grateful to anyone who has taken the time to read this. I am beside myself with gratitude. Really, I am.

Friday, January 22, 2010

Evil, Wicked, Mean and Nasty

Mean people suck. Or do they? For the next few posts I am going to explore the subject of meanness. Mean bosses, mean exes, mean relatives, mean friends, etc. I’ll share some of my experiences and you can share yours. Because really, what’s more fun than exposing the jerks in our lives for who they really are?
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Am I a good witch or a bad witch? I often think of myself as a wicked little cupcake of a woman. So, when I hear my friends’ constant refrain, “Janina, you’re TOO nice!” it throws me. I hate being told I’m too nice. I certainly don’t feel too nice. Believe me, many an evil thought goes through my head every single day. But when it comes to acting on my feelings, my inner Cruella vanishes like an ugly girl’s date at sunrise. (See! That was a mean simile, right?) I have several theories for why this happens.

A) Deep down, I’m afraid of burning bridges.

B) I believe two wrongs don’t make a right.

C) I'm afraid that if I said what I really feel, I’ll do some serious, lasting damage.

D) I absolutely detest meanness in others and don’t want to be that which I hate the most.

If I had a dollar for every mean remark or action I let go by without a snappy comeback or slashed tire, I’d have enough moola to hire a burly thug named Guido and make this post moot. It’s not for lack of vitriol or switchblade either. Believe me, I have spent hours, and I mean hours planning the perfect dismemberment and disposal. This is not the case for my best friend Inna. You’ll learn more about her later. That girl doesn’t strike back. She eviscerates!

Until next time,

Janina

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

What Flavor Of Craziness Is This?

I’m naked as I write this. Okay, not really. But every book and article I’ve ever read about the craft of writing has stressed the importance of grabbing my reader’s attention on the first line, so I was feeling a tad desperate. I admit, it was a cheap trick. However, if you’re still reading, it was also an effective trick.

So, um, welcome to my corner of the Blogosphere, my literary pied-a-terre so to speak. I hope you find what you read to be funny, irreverent, perhaps a bit thought-provoking, but most of all, fun. I truly am, as my tag line claims, the woman your mother warned you about, and what’s a Bad Girl if not fun?

Be warned, I make no apologies for the way I am, the things I've done, or the opinions I express. Although I may be a Bad Girl, I am also very much a Nice Girl. Most of my friends will say too nice. So, if you’re here to hurl insults and call me names, I will NOT get into a shit-flinging contest with you. I’ll just delete you. Okay, maybe I’ll mutter “Fuck you asshole” and give you the finger in the process, but really, you have to expect that.

You’ll find me to be a bit of a contradiction at times. While I’m too nice to people who deserve to have their pictures posted in a Google image search for “Jackass”, I’m not too nice to discuss topics that make some people (okay, my son) cringe. Some examples: Ugly kids, relatives who make you wish you were switched at birth, ugly relatives you’re too ashamed to admit you’re related to. Okay, that last one was a bit harsh. I think I’ll skip that one. Among the topics I do intend to explore are:

• Evil Bosses From Hell
• Has Anyone Seen My Mojo?
• Bitch-Slapped By Karma
• If You Really Loved Me, You’d Be My FarmVille Neighbor
• Weight Watchers Points Only Count If Someone Sees You Eat Them
• Naked Emperors and Born-Again Virgins
• Boy Am I Glad Things Didn’t Work Out Between Us!

Hope you come back!