I'm not proud of it, but I sure as hell ain't sorry, either

So, when I fly down to the 'ville to visit my parents, I inevitably end up infuriated at the self-important yet moronic TSA employees. I've chronicled this before.

This time, I arrived at the airport a good half hour before my flight left, and as I was approaching the (only) security checkpoint, they said, "You're going to Chicago? Cuz they're waiting for you."

Okay. So, you just told me the airplane is waiting for me. Will you attempt to get me through security in a timely manner?

Stupid question.

Three people checked my ID within earshot/sight of one another. My bags were put through the xray machine twice -- then a severe woman with thinning gray hair took my purse aside and announced, "Ma'am, I'm going to have to take a look through this.

Okay.

The man at the counter to the single gate behind me was announcing final boarding call. I waved at him and said, "Just a minute!' He waved back amiably as this woman went though all the contents of my wallet.

She searched through until she found a tube of lipgloss. Really delicious lipgloss that I can only get in NYC. That Fauxinca bought for me, special.

She said, "Ma'am, you are not going to be able to take this on the plane."

Me: My lipgloss?
Lady: You can take solid lipstick but not gels.
Me: It's under three ounces.
Lady: It must be in a clear, five inch square ziplock bag in order for you to take it on the plane.
Me: Are you kidding?
Lady: THESE ARE THE RULES!
Me: You're being pedantic.
Lady: . . .
Me: Pedantic. That means overly attached to the letter of the rules without respecting their spirit.
Lady: I have to run your bag through the machine again.
Me: Fine.

She brings back a cop.

A cop.

Because my lipstick IS NOT IN A ZIPLOCK.

Lady: Ma'am, as these are not in a ziplock you cannot take them on the plane.
Me: You think I'm going to do harm to my fellow passengers with my lipgloss? The lipgloss that you would let me take IF IT WERE SEALED IN A FLIMSY ZIPLOCK BAG?
Lady: What do you want to do?
Me: I want you to allow me to take my lipgloss.
Cop: (Looks sort of sheepish and ashamed)
Lady: (Looks defiant and possibly considering a citizen's arrest)

We engage in a staredown.

At this point, another security guy pipes in: WE DO NOT HAVE AUTHORITY TO MAKE EXCEPTIONS! THESE ARE THE RULES AS THEY ARE MADE IN WASHINGTON

At this point I shoulder my bag and stomp off indignantly, once again deliriously happy I don't still live in Southern Indiana.

I'm really sorry, Southern Indiana, but, with the exception of Bloomington, I totally hate you.

Now is the time I reflect and learn:

a. TSA is useless and annoying.

b. I know you catch more flies with honey, and I probably could have appealed to this woman's sense of moral superiority and power hungry-ness and flattered her into having mercy on me and giving me my lipgloss. But I really wanted to humiliate her.

I couldn't help myself.

No wonder Southern Indiana hates me back.

Major Milestone?

I just totally forgot how old I am.

I was sitting here?

On the couch?

Thinking about my birthday?

And I couldn't determine whether I was turning 32 or 33.

Seriously.

I honestly could not remember.

I had to do the math, based upon my birth date.

1974?

Oh, phew.

I'm only turning 32.

What does this MEAN?

Oh, god.

Scene From The Lush Counter

I stopped by the Lush counter on my way home from work Monday. Nestled in a corner of Macy's, it's a little oasis of smelly things tended by perky, perky salesgirls. I suspect the cocobutter fumes make them high.

So, I was waiting in line behind a tall, blonde woman with a long black coat. She had a little heart-shaped pin on her lapel and appeared to be in her late forties. Pretty unassuming. She was purchasing some massage oil bars. When I stepped behind her, she turned to me and initiated the following exchange:

Blonde: Oh, what are you getting?
Me: Um, some shampoo?
Blonde: Oh, don't you just love girly things?
Me: Totally.
Blonde: I had some airline stewardesses from American Continental stalking me, and they couldn't understand why I spent money on girly things. They called me a city girl! I think they were jealous. You know?
Me: You had airline stewardesses stalking you?
Blonde: I didn't want to tell you this, but I was raped. By eight airline pilots.
Me: . . .
Blonde: It was terrible. They took turns. And I just think those stewardesses were jealous! They were following me around and taunting me and making fun of me! Because I had nice things and cosmetics! Just don't turn to me and be angry at ME because you chose to be a stewardess and I chose the life of a city girl! Isn't it great being a city girl?
Me: Oh, yeah, totally.
Blonde: So, I probably shouldn't tell you this, but one of the stewardesses, she had both male and female parts. She wanted to live as a woman, but she hated women. That's why the whole thing started.
Me: Um, that's really too bad.
Blonde: I'll never fly American Continental again.
Me: . . .
Blonde (finishing her transaction and walking off): Enjoy your shampoo!

Okay.

That has really stuck with me -- I mean, American Continental? Those are two different airlines, completely.

She must have been crazy, is all I can imagine.

My Calendar

So, if August was the end of summer, and September was the month of airplanes, I suppose I should continue the designations:

Starting with October. Or, rather, mid-October, but let's not split hairs. October is Sober October. Hear that? That's not the sound of fall leaves underfoot. That's the sound of crispy crackly me as my wino-ism dries on out. I figured my liver could use a break, and I could focus on doing things that are not necessarily alcoholic.

Of course, Sober October just began yesterday (I'm on day two of temporary sobriety! Where's my medal?), and tonight I'm meeting my friends for "drinks," so we'll see how that goes.

I'm feeling strong, people. I won't break. Get me some marijuana. . .

Next is November. Luckily, I'll be back on the sauce by then, because guess what? I'll give you a hint, I've declared it over there to the right -- I'm doing NaNoWriMo. That crazy writer thing where you declare that you will write a novel in a month? YEAH! I'm gonna DO IT!

If you're already scoffing at me, you're probably someone who knows me, and you're probably right, but why not shoot for the stars? Or, at least, shoot for an advanced case of carpal tunnel syndrome.

Freud Would Be Super Proud

From my dad, who called to chat --
Dad: Hey! I've got great news!
Me: Yeah? What's that?
Dad: I got my penis scoped!
Me: WAY too much information.
Dad: My kidneys are healthy!
Me: That's all you had to say, man.

Do I have to let him know before I just have my therapist send all his bills straight to him?

Speaking of my therapist (I usually am), the second memorable quote of the morning was from him, as I was ranting about the inexplicably assholish behavior of one of my clients --
DeeP: So, how's your ass?
Me: (Glancing at ass) Huh?
DeeP: 'Cuz you're getting FUCKED in it.
Me: Thanks. So very clinical of you.

UPDATE:
In unrelated, but related (She's a PSYCHOLOGIST, for Christ's sake!), but seriously AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH news:

In court papers, McMahan denies that he ever had a sexual affair with his daughter. But he doesn't explain how his and Linda's DNA turned up on a vibrator that Linda's husband uncovered in her luggage.

I'll probably get excommunicated from the family, but, hell.

Since September 1, I have been on 12 planes, and will get on two more tomorrow morning.

I have been to (or through)8 cities and two countries.

I have been to two weddings, but no funerals.

I have played with numerous babies, cooked many meals, laughed a lot, danced a lot, drank a lot, and didn't take nearly enough pictures.

How on earth do people actually work full time? I am fucking busy, people.

Generally, I try not to write posts like this about blood kin, but this is too good.

The first wedding of the month was in West Virginia. Upon my return I wrote the following email to the second wedding's bride-to-be, Sarah:

---------- Message ----------
From: Me
Date: Sep 25, 2006 11:36 AM
Subject: hey
To: Sarah

happy wedding week!

Are you working this week?

So, right, I was thinking of you a lot this weekend at my cousins
wedding. I was thinking that you might want to incorporate some of
these ideas into your wedding:

- for that sense of excitement, try playing some upbeat music as you
introduce the wedding party -- like Eye of the Tiger

- have your cheesy dj (my other cousin's comment "do you think they
have a special catalog for those wedding dj vests?") kick off the
dining portion of the wedding by announcing that whichever side of the
room screams the loudest will get to go to the buffet table first.
then lead the room in a gigantic screaming match.

- invite my dad, who will refuse to leave his dog at home, then sulk
furiously when I tell him "you cannot bring your dog to the wedding."

- serve beer out of a keg -- self-service style

- have some drunk dudes decide it's a good idea to climb to the roof
and then their hysterical girlfriends can stand outside and scream and
people can cry and generally make a scene

- have your drunk, perma-stoned brother as the best man, then give him
a microphone and let him do a speech. End up turning off his
microphone because he's verbally berating the wedding planner.

(apparently, right before his speech, he was pissing in the bathroom
with my other cousin's boyfriend, and he said: 'I don't have a speech,
yet, I'm gonna wing it. how's you're PISSING your life away? HAHA!
Get it!" Then Mike (cousin's boyfriend) came out and reported all so
rachel was able to videotape the speech. I've asked her to upload to
youtube for us.)


_____________________________

I hope to have photographs for posting soon.

I also forgot to mention to her the following exchange at the end of the evening:

Best man is standing next to an older lady, with a napkin tied jauntily around his head. He has his hand resting on the woman's shoulder. She is gazing up at him in annoyance.

I walk up and hear him slurring drunkenly.

Best man: You know you want me to bang your daughter. It would make you so happy.
Me: Uh, hey, what's going on.
Best Man: She totally wants me to bang her daughter.
Me: Do you have a ride home?
Best Man: Yeah! (Points at lady.) She's taking me!

AND SCENE.

Quickly! Quietly! VOICES!

Right now I am sitting in a fourth grade classroom in New Mexico. The chairs are small and the table is short.

My sister is the teacher. She's a hot teacher, I suspect there are some crushes, but she's pretty strict and otherwise badass, so they're probably also a bit intimidated by her.

This month I have been on 12 planes, in 7 cities and two countries.

I have been to two weddings but no funerals.

Knock on wood.

I have lots of fun updates to make but now I have to conduct writing prompts with eight-year olds who like martians, adventures, and football.

My fourth-grade writing assignment

Rachel was napping when the doorbell rang.

It startled her -- she sat up and nearly fell off the couch. The late afternoon light was slanting in through the blinds. She had been asleep for hours. She rubbed her eyes and stumbled through the living room to the door.

She opened the door, but no one was there. There was, however, a large brown box at her feet.

She bent to pick it up. It was heavy, too heavy to carry very far. She thought, vaguely, this must have been a very expensive package to ship. She slid the box into the door and across the carpet so it was in the middle of the room. She sat again on the couch and stared at it through sleep-bleary eyes.

She wasn't expecting a package. She wondered what it could be.

She stood again and wandered into the kitchen to look for scissors. She opened the junk drawer and rooted through balls of string, random loose buttons, batteries, refrigerator magnets with paper clips and small nails stuck to their backs, and eventually found a small pair of scissors with orange handles.

She walked back over to the package and knelt beside it. It was tall, a foot or more, and wide, a large square box with her name and address on it and little clue as to where it was from.

She searched for a return address but found none.

She used the scissors like a blade and sliced the tape that bound the flaps of the box together.

She managed to free the top of the box and open it -- all she could see, at first, was mounds and mounds of packing material that looked like dried grass. It crunched a little when she touched it.

She started to pull the grass out of the box by the handful, making a big messy pile on the carpet next to her. She pulled and pulled for what seemed like a very long time before she found the heavy item in the box. She had a large pile of the grass next to her.

The object was black and glossy -- it looked like marble, only smoother. It was completely smooth. When she touched it her fingers slid along the surface. It was very black, a deep, inky color that gleamed in the light and seemed to absorb the light, to change a little with it, revealing reddish tones.

She slid her hands around it and lifted -- it was very heavy.

She managed to pull it out it out of the box and place it on the coffee table, where she looked at it, puzzled.

What on earth? It looked like the statue of a man. Who would send something like this to her?

Seattle, Baby

DSC_0050
Originally uploaded by Rebecca June.

Annevan and I have set our sights on Seattle, where it is already Autumn, all crisp sunshine and gorgeous sweet hay and pine-filled air.

We are visiting a boy named Max.

This picture? Not of Max.

This picture is of Nicholas Beach, who we met at a cafe while we were eating crab- and mushroom-filled omlettes and generally acting goofy.

Together Anne and I become more than the sum of our parts, some kind of endlessly gregarious dynamic duo who make friends wherever we go.

Nicholas was rockin' his second day on the job yesterday, and we salute him and his sassy customer service style.



Anne: Just some constructive criticism?
Nicholas: (skeptical) um, yeah?
Anne: Bring a pen with the check.
Nicholas: . . .
Anne: I'm just sayin'.

Nicholas mistook us for local drama scene divas.

Not so much. See his perfect teeth? He's totally an actor.

Anne says, "Seattle totally wants us to move here, so they can hang out with us all the time."

I totally agree.

Gotta go, there's a baby that needs to be played with.

Max:

HP Movie Review: The Curve

When I was in college, I spent one summer interning for the local public radio station in my hometown in Southern Indiana. I reported directly to the news director. She was not only the news director; she was also the reporting staff, the editor, and the host of Morning Edition. What I’m getting at, here, is that it was a skeletal staff. So, pretty much as soon as I established myself as capable of forming sentences and otherwise trustworthy with a microphone and tape recorder, I was out doing stories and soon was filling in as a part-time radio host.

It was a pretty cool thing for a twenty-nothing semi-slacker.

Anyhow, there were several sort of generally malaised dudes that worked there, the type of guys who have vague ambitions of being “in radio” but no real motivation to actually do that much. The type of guys who like to talk a lot about how undervalued they are as a way to justify spending most of their days on the dial-up Internet (hey – it was the nineties) researching conspiracy theories.

I loved those guys. They would give me cigarettes and we would sit on the back steps of the big old dilapidated mansion that served as the public radio and TV station HQ and they would tell me all about the in-depth serial killer biographies they were reading. At the time, Andrew Cunanan had just terrorized gay clubs across the country in his manic pursuit of Gianni Versace, probably pissed at all those loud patterns.

(No? Nothing? Too soon? Eh, I digress.)

So, I was just thinking of this period in my life as I nursed my hangover this weekend to the sweet sound of bullshit b movies on tv. As I stumbled through the channels seeking something that would not over stimulate my neurons (fucking electrical activity, ouch), I came upon The Curve (curiously mislabeled on IMDB -- as if they can't even bother with it), an early production of MTV’s stint in movie-making.

This is an exceptionally bad film, starring Felicity during the height of her career, before she gave herself a much-needed haircut and got rid of some of those cascades of butt-ugly dirty blonde curls.

Basically, the movie is about a couple of guys who conspire to kill their roommate and make it look like a suicide so they can get an automatic 4.0 for the semester.

And the way I weave all this rambling together is by saying that when this movie came out, it seriously ticked off one of these cigarette-toting radio dudes. Apparently, he had written a script based upon this very premise! And now? Someone else? RIPPING HIM OFF.

Me: Did you actually try to sell your script to someone?
Cigarette-Toting Radio Dude: Well, I talked about it.
Me: So, like, you didn’t send it out?
CTRD: Well, I might have, when it was done?
Me: You didn’t finish it?
CTRD: Well, I didn’t really write it.
Me: Huh.

We smoked together on the steps in the waning sunlight and I imagined him, holed up in his dreary basement apartment in Southern Indiana, smoking pot, watching TV, and dreaming up film premises.

And, having finally seen this film, I just want to say, maybe it’s better that he didn’t get credit for the genesis of this idea. Because it was total crap.

Good Night, Sweet Prince.

I have to say, it isn't shocking that Steve Irwin is dead at the tender age of 44.

When you were the guy who popularized the term "Crikey,", someone's bound to stab you in the chest with a stingray.

Defending Flatland

The US Army today announced that they have discovered yet another way to declare the worth of the human lives they send off as cannon fodder -- taking a page from flim studio marketers, it's FLAT DADDY!

I'm not sure who thought of this idea, but, wow.

This choice bit of journalism is especially compelling:

‘‘Any time I get invited somewhere, I take it with me,’’ she said. And the gynecologist? ‘‘He just thought it was really neat,’’ she said.

I'm imagining the dialogue:
Sweet War Wife: Aw, well, yeah, we miss daddy, but we take flat daddy with us everywhere!
Smarmy Reporter: Oh? . . . (insert lecherous pause here) . . . even to the. . . GYNOCOLOGIST??
Sweet War Wife: (without missing a beat) He just thought it was really neat!
Smarmy Reporter: (Sketching his version of the scene in his reporter's notebook) That's SO NICE! So. . . does Flat Daddy. . . vibrate?
Sweet War Wife: What?
Smarmy Reporter: Nevermind.

The thing is, from there, the article takes an even more sinister turn:

Despite his anger at his father, Kevin was able to relate to the life-sized likeness, Sherri Fish said. ‘‘He’d sit at the end of his bed and tell him what went on at school that day,’’ she said.

Even after Richard Fish returned home last October, Kevin continued talking to Flat Daddy while his father was at work, she said.

Later, when the dog was found vivisected in the woods, Kevin insisted he had nothing to do with it. "It was Flat Daddy! I begged him not to do it, but he said it had to be done!"

Is it wrong to get weepy about a hyperlink?

Seriously, y'all. I don't yet have my own Wikipedia entry, but the Career Women piece is linked to from that scourge Michael Noer's entry.

Someday. . . .

I've got space dementia!!

You live life only once, you know, so it's important to take every opportunity to enjoy the little things.

Just like that whimsical moment in Amelie when the eponymous Amelie looks all adorable and dimpled and sweet because she's enjoying simple tactile pleasures like sinking her sweet little adorable fingers into a big barrel of dried beans or quirkily delighting in a fly on a movie screen:



Well, you may be saying to yourself, that would be the entire treacly expanse of the film, and you would be totally right. But, still.

One of my great simple pleasures in life, aside from the warm toasty smell of fresh coffee in the morning and the smooth embrace of expensive sheets at night, is the butterscotch stallion.

I just look at Owen Wilson and it makes me laugh. He is reason alone to have Tivo. Delightfully, Tivo knows all kinds of weird, not-Owen-Wilson-vehicle films in which Owen Wilson plays a small part.

Those are staples of the many b-movie channels that crowd the cable lineup.

One of those many great films is Armegeddon. Perhaps you've seen it.

Many people have. Because it was a big blockbuster vehicle for everyone's favorite bald savior of the universe and father of a teenaged girl named Rumer (insert pithy teens-and-rumors-comment here), Bruce Willis.

It's a very important film.

It explores themes of manhood, class, and asteriods.

Ben (father of Violet) Affleck plays the young cowboy oil driller, A.J. He's constanly running off at the mouth and taking crazy risks, and pissing off Harry, played by Bruce Willis, who really flexes his cocky-eyebrow-raising-muscles throughout the film.

There are lots of amazing moments, one of which is when Steve Buscemi starts to get a little nuts while he's on the asteroid, and the NASA pilot says, "HE'S GOT SPACE DEMENTIA!" And they have to wrestle him to the ground.

I first saw this movie with my mother, in a crowded theater in Southern Indiana.

We almost got beaten up, because we giggled uncontrollably the entire time.

We totally blamed it on space dementia.

It's still one of my favorite self-diagnoses.

Feeling cranky? Blame it on the Space Dementia.

Pissing people off? Space Dementia. Not my fault.

Writing long boring rambling blog posts? Sorry. Space Dementia.

Breaking News: Moronic Edition!

I came across this article recently, while I was on one of my many recent pilgrimages to Southern Indiana.

It wasn’t so much as I was browsing through the Evansville Courier and Press as I just picked up the front page. This was the main lead story at the same time that the supreme court was ruling the Bush wiretapping snafu illegal, the same time that Lebanon was getting pounded into the ground by Israel, the same time that – well, right, you get the picture.

This article shared the front page with another article about local dogs being euthanized and, I think, something about the local high school cafeterias.

I really love a lot of things about this hard-hitting news piece. For example:

Early Monday, the toilet paper (TP) vandals struck again

.

Just in case you aren’t familiar with the vernacular, y’all, TP is short for TOILET PAPER. If you missed that, you may be befuddled throughout the rest of the article. In that case, there is nothing I can do for you.

Complaints about TPing are "few and far between," said Williams. "We do get them periodically, but a lot of times people don't report them because they know it's been done by friends of their kids," he said.

Basically, according to law enforcement, this issue isn’t really an issue. And yet, the article? Goes on.

"And they are obviously not cheap," she said, holding up an empty bag of Quilted Northern, purchased at Schnucks.

Obviously. Only the best toilet paper (TP) for this particular job. If you would like to purchase your own. . . wait a minute. How did she know IT WAS PURCHASED AT SCHNUCKS? I smell a rat.

Although a popular TP cleanup technique, Williams warns people not to light toilet paper on fire to get it out of trees and shrubs.
"I've heard stories about people catching more on fire than they intended," he said.

Ha. Hm. Ha. HA. HAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAAAAAA!

The crazy thing is, Evansville, Indiana isn’t a tiny town. It’s not a big city, but it isn’t Mayberry, either. And the locals don’t like that implication. They’re kind of defensive that way. But crap like this is where Americans get the reputation of being absolutely insular, completely blind to what’s going on in the world.

It’s silly, it’s shameful, and, I think, irresponsible to allow the focus of your newspaper to become so pedantic.

But, I digress. Let's get back to the important thing, making fun. Check out this poll:

How much toilet paper does it take to properly TP a two-story home?
8
12
24
More!
None, it's vandalism!

Y’all! “More!” just barely beat out “None, it’s vandalism!” Power to the people!

I hearby nominate this article for Gawker's prestigious Great Moments in Journalism award.

HP Reviews: The Illusionist

The film is a rousing mystery period film, full of . . .okay, no. This film is just arousing.

So, right, this movie is all about Edward Norton sporting some finely tailored suits and shiny, shiny shoes. Lots of dramatically lowered, black-bearded chin, brown laser eyes shooting sexy thousand-mile stares with deadly frequency. Lots of gas firelight throwing dramatic sepia-toned shadows on his sexily-exposed forearms jutting from rolled-up sleeves.

The other thing the movie is about is Jessica Biel, and the best review I can possibly give her is that I did not once think of her as the wayward oldest daughter of a preacher, Mary Camden. Girl looked really gooood.

My movie review of the Illusionist, in ten words: Edward Norton, come down off that screen and date me.

This was also my original review of Fight Club. Of course, Ed and I had a total falling out when I felt like he was being pretentious and long-winded, well, almost always.

But, damn, that man.

I cannot resist him.

He must be magic.

LOOK AT ME (no, don't look at me)

Today, following the popularity of my dashed-out photo essay, I watched the stats to my little blog explode. Suddenly, instead off the thirty of you who read this here navel-gazer there were ten thousand people.

I felt a little bit of vertigo while I stared at the lists of domain names -- among the ubiquitous comcasts and rrs, there were NASAs and Cornells and Harvards and Yales and Princetons. There were government people and media people and people with boring jobs who have time to click on things that make them snicker.

All of a sudden I felt just like an obnoxious little girl who has been jumping around in her favorite ruffled party dress and glittery shiny patent leather maryjanes screaming LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME MOM MOM MOMOMOMOMOMOMOM LOOK! and then, suddenly, a curtain raises and there are ten thousand people looking at you. (Including my mom -- hey mom! -- who thinks everything I write is brilliant. So, like, no pressure there.)

Come to think of it, it's kind of like when Cindy went on that quizbowl show. She was all cocky and braggarty about it until that made-from-cardboard looking camera flashed that red I'M ON light and she totally froze.

Then I went to bed last night and dreamed I was at a party with several Chicago bloggers -- that is, people who have blogs I read but not people I know in person. Which may make this like some kind of psuedo-celebrity dream, or just some sort of subconscious stalking. Erin Lady Byrne invited me to come to dinner with Poundy and Drunken Bee. Mimi Smartypants was there, too. It was a grand time, there were other people there who treated me nicely and I had only slight dreamtime social anxiety about the whole ordeal. I was a little perplexed, though, at their choice of venue, it was a Texas Roadhouse, and there were peanut shells everywhere and we all sat at long, picnic-table-type tables with big mugs o' frosty beer.

I woke up deriding myself for being such a goddamn Internet geek that I would seriously actually have a dream about meeting bloggers.

Even though, like, it would be so dreamy.
Oh, God. I've said too much.

America, Fuck Yeah

Thanks so much to Gawker (I'm sorry I said you were over), and Gapers Block (I love you always) for giving my cathartic top nine list a shout out! Also: Feministe!

Um. . . and. . . Slate! Hey everybody! Wow and stuff!

A Slideshow Of My Own

Disappointed in myself for taking the recent misogynist pap published in Forbes so seriously, I have decided, upon some thought, to publish my own photo essay: Nine Reasons You Should Marry a Career Bitch. Enjoy:

1. She won’t be so clingy if she got something to do. I think this is pretty self-explanatory – send her to the office all day, let her feel important, and she won’t be interrupting you every five minutes with needy whining because she’s bored at home. “Wah, I need to talk to an adult, Wah, I need a raise in my allowance to buy shoes, wahhhhh, pick up the drycleaning on the way home.” Useless.



2. She’ll end up with a major guilt complex. Lisen. Even if she is making more than you, no one has to know it. You can take those checks, buy yourself some golf clubs, and exploit her sense of guilt about not being around for her kids to ensure that she’ll spend the whole weekend with them, cleaning the house, and crying on the phone to her mom instead of nagging you to clean out the garage. The result? Tee time, baby.



3. She’s more likely to order pizza. And let’s face it. You married her for her ass, not her cooking skills. Bring on the pepperoni, baby.




4. She’s less likely to turn your son into a sissy mama’s boy. And that kid is never going to be on the varsity team if he’s still on your stay-at-home wife’s apron strings. Sticking him in daycare gives him a chance to get some guts, so what if the other kids are beating him up, gives him goddamn character. You know what happens to sissy boys. They take theater class in high school and they end up light in their loafers.



5. She’s less likely to make your baby girl into a tragic mess. Women who work have way fewer hours to enter their children in little girl beauty pageants, harping in their weight and various imagined shortcomings, and ultimately turning her into a possible sociopath who is going to end up being one of “those girls” in high school, possibly marring your reputation in the community, or, even worse, banging one of your buddies.




6. She will be more likely to wear high heels. Women who stay at home let themselves go. No sooner are you married than your woman is lying around the house all day in sweatpants and dirty socks. Want a woman to keep wearing those hot black hose and stilettos – send her to the office.



7. She’s less likely to question your “business trips,” if you know what I mean. All you have to do is say, “Baby, you’re a career woman, you know what this is all about.”




8. You might be the one to get something out of the divorce. Hey, if she's making more than you, YOU could be the guy living on alimony. Sweet.


9. She won’t notice you’re a douchebag. She will be too tired from trying to do everything, and deal with you, that she won’t have any time left to notice that she's married an asshole.

Forbes, you stupid fucks.

This . . . article . . .

Yes, it's likely that marriages where both spouses are career-oriented are likely to encounter rough patches. Is this because careerwomen are essentially not "marriage material?" (Please note that particular sentence was dripping with sarcasm, so don't take too long pondering the answer.)

Careers are time-intensive. Marriages are time-intensive . Understandably, two-career marriages are a huge challenge. Is that because of women?

No. That's because of human nature.

Look -- There are just so many common sense criticisms you can make to an article that, quite seriously, lists "9 reasons not to marry a careerwoman" -- but, to me, it just gives yet another excuse for people who are like my sexist asshole ex-boss to denegrate women in the workplace.

This type of tone -- the idea, even, that this type of tone is acceptable for mainstream business press is horrific -- and unbelievably sexist. And disappointing and hurtful. And sad.

And note to self -- don't marry a man with a subscription to Forbes.

Stupid fucks.