“Happy Birthday” song

There’s no way to sugar coat it. This song blows chunks of dry birthday cake. You can’t put a candle on top of it and hope to distract folks from the monumental awfulness of this little ditty about Jack and Diane and everybody else’s birthday.

No one likes to sing it.
No one likes to hear it.

Even in French, it makes my ears bleed.

Please, for the love of all things holy—like today, the sacred day when my magnificent mother gave me to the world—sing me a song that you aren’t roped into chanting with lackluster enthusiasm (often at a crap-ass chain restaurant).

Sing one of my favorite karaoke songs. Sing me “Love Shack” or “Fever” or “Don’t Stop Believin’” (as trendy as that may be now). I wouldn’t mind a little bit of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You.” To make my birthday wish come true, sing me some Jovi, namely the chorus of “Livin’ on a Prayer:”

Oh, we’re halfway there
Oh oh, livin’ on a prayer
Take my hand, we’ll make it, I swear
Oh oh, livin’ on a prayer.

That sort of seems more appropriate these days anyway. While I appreciate the gesture, sing me something that won’t make me lose my appetite before I get to the birthday cake.

With what song would you want to be serenaded on your birthday?

(photo: guardian.co.uk/.../may/23/bestbirthdaycake)

Intentionally misspelled titles

I was just reading the latest issue of Allure (I’m its Seattle reporter) and read a quote from cover girl Fergie. When asked why she named her album The Dutchess and not the proper “duchess,” she had this to say (hint: she's not from the Netherlands): “The spelling is different because I didn’t want people who didn’t know how to say it to call it ‘the Douche-ess.’”

It gets better.

“I thought, ‘Let me dumb-ify it a little bit.’ Sometimes you smarten things up and get more clever with words. It’s fun to go the other way, and it’s always nice for people not to expect as much from me.”

Um, sweetcheeks, sorry to break it to you, but after “My Humps,” I wasn’t exactly expecting you to play chess with Bill Gates. But I did hope that you'd proofread the title of your CD.

Is it street to be stupid? Is it in vogue to be a low-forehead asshat? Call me nutbar, but why not use your celebrity to educate and elevate your audience? Why ya gotta be an inglourious basterd?

This sort of widespread dumbing-down interferes with my pursuit of happyness. And it certainly chaps my lovely lady lumps. I guess the only way to deal with these spellwreckers is to grab an OED and knock some sense—or at least an ability to spell the title of their album or film correctly—into them.

(photo: hi.baidu.com/twilight_zone/blog/item/94b3d1667f7d9a20ab184cda.html)

New Yorker cartoons

I have never, ever subscribed to The New Yorker.

There. I said it.

Call me unsophisticated, a troglodyte, a knob, whatev. I’m okay with it. I read The Pew Yorker occasionally when hanging out with friends more refined than me. But after eyeballing an issue, I put it down and walk away. It makes me feel stupid and I’m already full-up in that department.

It’s not the articles. I can deal with a lengthy piece now and again and I’m always able to soldier through “Shouts & Murmurs” and reviews with little damage to my ego.

And it’s not the pompous Mr. Peanut dandy who represents. I get it. Dudes with monocles read The New Yorker. As they should. It’s their thing, along with spats and a penchant for crème brûlée (not to mention words using the accent aigu).

It’s the goddamn cartoons. When I'm in a dentist's office, I'd still rather reach for Highlights than The New Yorker. I can always detect what doesn't belong in a picture but fuck if I know what is clever or funny about a cartoon of a dude who, while raking leaves, holds up a maple leaf and says to his wife, "They're all pretty, but this one is my favorite"? Am I missing something? Like IQ points or my frontal lobe? I'd like to change this caption to read: "You know, Jennifer could dip this in resin or metal and make a five-pointed weapon to kill me with." That I would understand. That I could get behind.

I want to punch these cartoons in their smug, insidery face. What's black and white and red all over? A New Yorker cartoon after I've beaten it to a bloody pulp.

What New Yorker cartoon had you scratching your head?

(photo: This cartoon I get.)

Violence

I kicked Ponell Williams in the head in second grade because he tripped me when I was rounding third. I also got into a locker-room scuffle after gym class in seventh grade. I think some girl was disrespecting me during 4-square. Other than that, my hands are clean.

Sure, I verbally smack shit right and left and it gives me more pleasure than you know. It’s a great release for my anger, be it a passing peeve or deep-seeded fury.

What I’m not down with is physical violence. I try to keep this blog light but I have to tell you, I wanted to smack Rhianna upside her head after she entertained thoughts of returning to a guy who tenderized her face. And yesterday, I heard that Perez Hilton, the reigning king of the verbal shit-sling, got clocked by the Black-Eyed Peas’ manager. He allegedly got into it with will.i.am and the next thing you know, boom, boom, pow! A black eye and a call to the po po. Will, I am not impressed.

I am reminded of something that a former co-worker told me: “Sometimes, words can hurt more than fists.” I know what you’re saying, brother, but tell that to a woman who is holding her face in her hands after being hit in the face with a baseball bat or a recumbent cyclist who’s been sideswiped by a red-faced (and possibly redneck) driver. Sometimes, Perez Hilton or I am going to say something that somebody will take offense to. That's fine. Talk back; we can take it and we'll get your point loud and clear.

Raise your voice, not your fist, or I’m coming for you. yes.i.am.

(photo: this is Perez Hilton with a fake black eye; haven't been able to find one of the real shiner; buzzworthy.mtv.com)

Texting at the table

You’re having a lovely time at dinner with friends or family. Maybe you’re even on a date. Conversation, along with the wine, is flowing. You’re relaxed and feeling connected. You’re experiencing the power of now.

Then someone pulls out a cell and checks his text messages. He might try to be subtle about this, holding it below the table so you’re only tipped off by the glow of the screen and the fact that he hasn’t heard what you just said.

What am I, chopped liver? Who are you texting who could possibly be more important than me? What could be cybersaid that could rival the pearls of wisdom and wit dropping from my lips?

Everyone agrees that it’s rude but when it’s you, you always find a way to rationalize it. So as not to be a massive tool and hypocrite, I have to admit that I’ve been guilty of this, when in the throes of a weird text and IM-only relationship. But no more (I'm tired of punching myself in the face). If I need to text or call someone, that’s what the bathroom or the front door is for.

I can see only a couple of instances where texting at the table might be allowed:

1. You’re a brain surgeon, or someone else with a job way more important than mine, and you’re on call. And if this is the case, excuse yourself and take care of your thumb business out of my sight line.
2. You’re by yourself, since your friends have ditched you and your boorish behavior.

The most fitting punishment, aside from breaking your thumbs, would be to take that snazzy new iPhone of yours and drop it in a really large glass of red wine.

TAFN & NRN

(photo: foodrush.ivillage.com/food/archives/2009/05/texting-at-the-dinner-table-th.html)

Mirrorless dressing rooms

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, should I buy this dress? What's your call?

Cricket, cricket.

Oh, right. There's no mirror in here. Not even a fat or funhouse mirror.

Question, crappy clothing store: When you don’t outfit your dressing room with a mirror, are you trying to be merciful, preventing me from seeing muffin top, camel toe, or uniboob? Methinks not.

I think you have something more insidious in mind.

Here I am, stuck in the crawlspace of a dressing room, shimmying into some garment. Call me crazy, but if I miraculously manage to zip, hook, and button everything, I’d like to see what I look like in it. But if I slink out to eyeball the damage, sycophantic sales associates pounce on me, doing their best to convince me that the sausage casing look is the new black.

Yeah, no.

To be fair, there might be other reasons you decided to trick out your boutique or store with closets instead of dressing rooms. You might have broken your last mirror and are only two years into your seven years of bad luck. Maybe you're Medusa and want to make sure no one has a reflective surface when you're trying to turn them to stone. You might just be cheap.

But I think the most likely reason that the mirror has no places is that you’re trying to be wily, flushing me out of the retail brush so you can get me in your sights and kill me with false compliments.

It's time to fight back. The pacifist's way of getting even would be to just boycott your boutique. But where's the fun in that? I think I should call upon the evil queen from Snow White, who knows a thing or two about the power of reflection. She can offer you up some shiny poison apples. Better yet, she can turn you into a wizened old witch in a bad dress and hair desperately in need of conditioner. You will be resigned to a lifetime of looking like ass, and you won't be able to fix it, since mirrors seem to be nonexistent in your world. Reflect on that.

(photo: marys-view.blogspot.com/2008_06_01_archive.html)

Mr. Darcy

Over the years, I’ve been sucked in again and again by your sang-froid, your stateliness, your brooding tall, dark, and handsomeness, your ability to make me hot just by climbing out of your pond, soaking wet and fully clothed.

Since you are, well, not real, I’ve looked from here to Hampshire for a flesh-and-blood Fitzwilliam. I have not fared well. I entertained one yahoo because I thought he’d look dashing astride a horse wearing one of those long coats you fancy. I swoon at the sight of those things, the way they sweep the ground as you walk with determination, legs encased in breeches and knee boots…

I digress.

I dated another gentleman who, like you, was sensitive and felt deeply. But he didn’t act on shit. He just stewed in his emo juices. Miserly compliments and infrequent attentions kept me wondering about his intentions until he laissez-faired us to death. I mean, how long is a girl supposed to hang in there, in hopes of securing moody blues like you?

Let’s not forget the know-it-all narcissist who had clearly spent some time at Pemberley in your company. He was a real treat, spamming familiars and strangers with his prideful advice and prejudiced judgment. Proclamations as pillow talk don’t exactly blow my petticoat up, sir.

Darcy, you’re a prick. You don’t like to dance. You throw your best friend around like a ventriloquist’s dummy, telling him what to do and say. Bingley's one step away from sitting on your lap. Not cool. You publicly skewer a gal for her lack of connections and lowly parentage—we can’t get enough of that—while secretly admiring her moxie and form. You bottle up your feelings until they bubble over and you blurt out your affections, telling her you love her despite your better judgment. Be still, my heart. This is going to take a lady off guard, particularly since she’s spent nigh on a year avoiding you, wondering what she ever did to irk your shit, and thinking you’re a grade-A, navel-gazing jackwipe.

Yeah, you came through in the end, saving the Bennet family from social disgrace and all that. Always the hero, Mr. Darcy, you’ve ruined me for the real world of dating. No man can measure up and yet, I don’t want to hold them to your standard, since you—how can I put this delicately?—suck.

You’ve screwed me, and, indeed sir, not in a good way.

(photo: friendsoffirth.com/pride/index.html)