I have a friend I’ve known, as Gailvogue would say, since Jesus wore sandals. She is now the mother of like eighteen kids. Well, actually, at last count there were four, but I haven’t talked to her in a couple of days, so…you know.
Anyway, her kids are awesome. She and her husband are raising kids who can think for themselves. They’re also raising kids with wicked imaginations who are also part-time stand up comedians. Especially when they aren’t trying to be.
When she is not busy molding the hearts and minds of her kids and keeping the fine people of Jackson, MS well lubricated as a bar wench at one of Jackson’s finest public houses named after two people with rhyming names, she shares stories of her kids and various animals. There are twin boys, a girl, a baby boy, a very large Great Dane, and one cat that I know of. There are probably others that I don’t know about. Hell, there are probably others she doesn’t know about.
Our new semi-regular feature will be “What They Said…Wit and Wisdom from the Collins Family”. We at KFR are really looking forward to sharing this feature with you.
Enjoy!
Stoopid Starbucks.
The question/poll/advertisement du jour for my Facebook page today wanted to know what was my favorite Starbucks holiday coffee. Was it gingerbread latte, eggnog latte, or peppermint mocha? My favorite was not on there. My favorite is Black. Black, black, black. I do not like stuff messing with my coffee experience.
I don’t get coffee from Starbucks. One reason is there are enough small coffee places in Memphis now that I don’t have to go there to get coffee. Another reason is that because I drink my coffee black, it matters how it tastes, and I just don’t like the taste of Starbucks coffee. The other reason is that I’m home pretty much all day and I see no reason to pay someone else to make my coffee. Back in the days before Himself had to get up at 4:30 in the morning, he used to make the coffee. Ah, I miss those days. My coffee consumption has dramatically decreased because of that. His has dramatically increased. He runs a restaurant and they make urns and urns of coffee a day. He is a well-caffeinated individual. Stuff gets DONE in his restaurant.
So, here’s a handy (name-redacted) guide to coffee.
I only have a short time to write today because it’s sheet-changing day at Casa Bergs and that shit takes forever. But look, I want to talk to Maine a second. Really, it won’t take long.
Hey, Maine. What’s up? Heard you guys voted yesterday. Yeah, about that? What the hell? I thought we agreed no takesy backsies? You can’t just be all oh, yeah, that’s cool. You guys can get married! No, seriously, go on! And then later get all, um, yeah, so about your marriage? It’s got about as much authenticity as Obama’s Kenyan birth certificate. So, er, ah, all y’all who got married and got all excited about having your relationships recognized and legal and all? You might, and I’m just saying might, want to see about returning those chip-n-dip trays people gave you at your weddings, ’cause as of this morning, y’all ain’t married. BUT it’s totally no biggie because, you know, you could just move to Vermont. I mean, you really can’t tell the difference between us and them anyway, amirite?
People in Maine want to make clear that they are NOT against gay people. They just want to support traditional marriage. And there’s no better way to support marriage between a man and a woman than destroying one between two dudes or two ladies. So, to follow Maine’s lead, I’m asking Tennessee not to recognize marriages between black people. I’m not against black people. I want to make that clear. I just want to make sure we’re protecting the sanctity of the white weddings I keep hearing ab…what?
Really? That’s what that means? Okay, my bad.
Maine, I’ve got to tell you, I’d have had more respect for you if you’d just never allowed same sex marriage in the first place. It’s hard to take you seriously now. What’s to stop you from taking back other laws? You going to stop letting Asians vote next? Start taking away drivers’ licenses? What’s to stop you from taking back those wicked awesome L.L. Bean slippers my husband loves? Huh? WHERE DOES IT END, MAINE?
People against marriage for all like to say it’s a moral issue. They like to threaten that if we let two people of the same sex marry, the next stop will be letting dudes marry dogs. It always comes down to sex for these people. I’ve said it before, I’ve said it again: If the thought of gay sex skeeves you out, then you should be all about gay marriage. That will stop the nooky right there. There is no bigger libido killer than a wedding ring. I know lots of people of The Gay persuasion and not once—NEVER–have I known them to have this conversation:
Richard: Steven, we simply cannot do it on the kitchen floor one more time. Eight times in one night is enough!
Steven: But Richard, darling, if we don’t then The Straights have won. I’m determined to ruin marriages another eight times tonight if that’s what it takes!
You know what threatens my marriage? Video games, that’s what. I guarandamntee you it’s not threatened by some gay person. Unless they’re coming over with more video games.
Suck it, Maine.
As you may have heard if you’ve been in a store that’s already playing Christmas music, the holidays are approaching. I was just making a list of some things I’d love to have (FAMILY: THIS IS A HINT) from Pangaea Designs and it dawned on me that most of what I’m coveting this year is either local or made by friends and friends of friends. Now, the iPod I’m wanting (AGAIN, THIS IS A HINT) is not made in downtown Memphis, no, but I can find plenty of goodies that are. And plenty more made within Tennessee.
So, here’s what I’m thinking; work with me here.
I’d like to hear from merchants/artists/people with Tennessee made products on their wish list this year. If you are a Memphis merchant, or there’s on you like a lot, send me a link to your wares. I’m wanting to do a gift guide this year. This isn’t an ad exactly, we’re not going to charge you. If you send me a link, and I’m not that into your items, it doesn’t go in the gift guide. KFR can’t offer you thousands of hits a day, but we do have a very loyal, deeply disturbed following. Also, we’re huge in Belgium.
Just go to our Contact Us page and send us a link to what Memphis/Tennessee products are on your wish list this year and maybe tell us a story about them. Restaurant gift cards, jewelry, food product, whatever. I want to shop local this year and encourage others to do the same.
As some of you know, I used to be married to Jon Gruden, the former coach of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and the Oakland Raiders, but recently, I’ve divorced him. I used to love watching him coach, with his crazy blond hair, sexy visor and Motorola headset as he screamed and yelled at the team from the sidelines. I don’t know why, but the man was HOT!! Every time I’d tell someone he was my husband they’d ask, “Chuckie???? WHY?!?!?!” All I could say was, “Cuz he’s HOT!!!” I had no explanation. I thought maybe it was because everyone else had awful taste, or because I had an affinity towards blond men, but I’ve discovered neither is the case. He got fired after last football season and is now a commentator on Monday Night Football. I was so excited when I heard this and vowed to actually watch the games every week just to get a look at my man, but after two weeks, I got bored. Partly because it wasn’t the Bears, but mostly because of him. He was smiling and laughing and talking about the game, but not once did he scream or yell at anyone! He didn’t have his visor on either and I realized just how bad his hair was. So, I divorced him. After considerable pondering, I asked one of my friends, “How wrong is it that I am not attracted to Chuckie anymore because he’s not angry??!!!”
They didn’t answer. Probably out of politeness.
Today, I’m sitting at work. It’s a Friday during the day, so it’s slow. There is this guy who comes in now and then and isn’t freindly. He’s actually kinda rude. So I sent my friend I work with a text and said, “There is this brooding guy who comes in here all the time and he’s hot and has a great body but never speaks except to order food and ask for the check no matter what I say. Actually, He’s kind of a dick but I just want to rip off his clothes. Hmmm…weird. LOL”
Her response, “I think I know who you are talking about. Always sits at table 6 or 7??? Burger??”
“Yep!!!!”
“Is it really funny or really messed up that we’re on the same page here??”
“LMAO!! Do you think it’s the Chuckie syndrome?”
“No, I think it’s because you have eyes.”
I realize this may make me a freak and I’ll be shunned from society, uninvited to parties and my number deleted from phones, but I can’t help it. The anger makes me hot! Maybe cuz I’m a freak, maybe because I’m a Leo and we’re a passionate breed or maybe just because I belong in a zoo myself. However you look at it, these dudes and some others like them have made me swoon. I have a picture of David Coverdale of Whitesnake from the concert I went to this summer and he’s singing into the mic and looking down at the crowd (aka me) and he just looks PISSED and everytime I look at it, my equilibrium fails me a little. What is it about the angry men?? I wouldn’t date someone that was a dick (anymore). I wouldn’t even want to hang out with someone like that, so why am I physically attracted to the angry men!!??? Personally, I think it’s because the anger makes me think they are manly men and that is SOOOO hot! Ya know, the guys who will protect you from harm, can carry you if need be, can kick someone’s ass on your behalf, put you in your place when needed and toss you around the bedroom (in a good way). We may not admit it, but most of us want a guy like that. I wouldn’t want a guy that I could push around. And I wouldn’t want a guy who couldn’t hold his own with me, make me feel safe or have my back, but I also wouldn’t date a guy that had all those qualities but was just a dick…cuz that’s not hot. If all you have to offer me is anger, I’ve got plenty of that all on my own. Ask the guy who called me a bitch and told me to “stop talking” the other day.
I’ve progressed from dating these angry men to just thinking they are hot, like in a fantasy kinda way. I made the mistake of thinking there was a nice person in there before, but as most people have discovered at least once in their dating life, angry people are generally just angry. Not hot. Not fun. Not nice and most certainly, not good people to have in your life. So, I’ve started dating a man who has all those good qualities that make me crazy for him, but he is NOT angry, is NOT an asshole and can handle himself in any situation. Grrrrrr…
You know, here’s the thing about staying at home: No one thinks you do a goddamn thing.
It’s true most days, but some days I do stuff like wash, iron, cook, chauffeur, grocery shop, fend off evil internet virus attacks, write all thank you/birthday/sympathy cards, and remember to get stamps. Now, my honey and I made the choice for me to stay at home and forgo the additional income so I would not go bat shit crazy during some management training seminar and suggest to my trainees that they all find new careers as tax collectors since that’s what their personalities–or lack thereof–were best suited to. I mean, that’s happened before, but I covered myself pretty well.
I started this blog, in part, to have a room of my own. Sorry for the trite reference, but it’s true. There is nowhere to escape in my life. I don’t have an office where I can go and slam the door and pull the emergency flask of bourbon out of my bottom drawer. I share a bedroom, so generally barricading myself in there seems, well, rude. Especially since it’s the gateway to the Other Bathroom. A blog seemed a nice place to go and be Bergise 4.0: Smarter, Funnier, More Stable Than Previous Releases (Although Flash will still give her trouble).
It is hard for people to understand how sacred my alone time is to me. There is a reason I didn’t get married until my 30’s, okay? Alone and lonely are two totally different things. I’m not good–and at least I admit it–at readjusting at the last minute. If you have ever had a job that involved being on a call list for the burglar alarm, you’ll know what I mean. It’s raining, windy, you get home, and get on your sweats. You get going with a little wine, a little cheese, a little Steely Dan, you know what I mean. Then ADT is all up in your business wanting you to go out to Germantown because your alarm went off and you get out there at one in the morning, waiting on the Germantown police who you assume are out doing important things like writing tickets for blowing a light, and you wait and ADT is still calling because you haven’t shut off the alarm, but you’re still waiting on GPD and so you call dispatch and find out they’ve come and gone already in the time it took you to get out there, so you creep in to a dark store hoping that they are correct that there was No Suspicious Activity and that it is, indeed, Just The Wind, and then you drive home–wet and with a lost buzz– back to your house where your honey’s already fallen asleep. Or is that just me?
That’s what it’s like when my day gets all bent out of shape because Someone Forgot To Tell Me.
So, all of that to say, it might be safe not to expect much of me this week since my days are suddenly not my own. I am hoping to make up for this Thursday and post like twenty different things, but I’m sure that will get screwed up too.
I like to be up front with my readers, you know. I’d hate to think I’d forgotten to tell you something.
Guys–and by “guys”, I do actually mean “men”–you might want to look away. I’m going to be talking about vaginas today. Just want to give you fair warning, so don’t get all whiny that I didn’t give you a heads up.
This weekend I had the absolute pleasure of being a judge at a high school speech and drama tournament. I haven’t done that in years and I forgot how fun it is. It made me miss my days as a competitor just a little smidgen. I got over it real quick when I realized I could go home and have a beer later. The legal ability to purchase and consume alcohol always makes me glad I’m an adult. I judged a round of what’s known in forensics circles as “Original Oratory”. It’s a speech that uses documentation. It’s like reading your research paper for the class, sort of. There were some interesting topics. One speech was about the inability of people to communicate face-to-face because of technology. One was about getting into college—I think it was, anyway. I was confused about that one. One speech was apparently on how feminists and our lack of modesty are to blame for the fact that people aren’t polite anymore.
Yeah. This little girl tried to blame Betty Friedan for the fact that no one holds doors open anymore. Actually, that’s not true. I feel certain she doesn’t know who Betty Friedan is. Let me tell you two things at this point. One, I’m not going to rehash her speech here because it wasn’t that great and also because, you know, she’s like sixteen years old. Two, I was up front with her that I had a hard time putting my personal feelings aside to give her constructive criticism on her performance, but if she was going to posit that the women’s movement killed chivalry, she was damn sure going to have to get some sources and footnotes to back that position up.
I was stunned that I was listening to someone of the Post-Millennial Generation say that a lack of modesty in dress was responsible for the fact that some people act like asshats. I find it repulsive, yet fascinating, that a girl in this day and age would think that possession of a vagina makes one somehow more in tune with the universe. As if ovaries give us common sense. As if breast milk turns us into milquetoast.
This morning—and work with me here, because I’m going to tie all this together in due time—I read the Times Online. Since I read a piece in the Daily Mail a couple of weeks ago that made me go out and smash things, I’ve realized that the English press is a great source of material. Today’s mind-bending piece is a bit of dating advice.
In a sex advice column, a woman who is recently divorced asks if she should consider a Brazilian wax as she’s entering into the dating world and younger men seem to expect it. The advice was, yes, suck it up. Just close your eyes and think of England because you’re going to have to get your snatch snatched if you want to have sex again.
You see, it’s not your fault. While you were safely ensconced in your little furry marriage bubble, things changed. Porn is all over. People want to be porn stars. The Bald Eagle is now mainstream and you just have to roll with the times and have all your hair ripped off your delicate ladyflower or you’ll never find a man to love you.
Haven’t we gotten past this yet? Seriously?
Look, wanting a Brazilian does not make you weird. Men who like the idea of the Brazilian are not necessarily pedophiles. That one would only date someone without any pubic hair? Yeah, that gets into fetish territory. There are plenty of women who tried it to try it and actually like it. Of course, most of the women I know who did had to give it up because $100 every four weeks could better be spent on rent as opposed to keeping a shiny ‘giny.
What really makes me so upset is how this author gets all passive-aggressive with the oh, young men have no choice but to be attracted to bald pubes because that’s all they’ve ever seen because of online porn, but sure, you could not have molten wax dripped all over your hoohah and not have the hair ripped out by some stranger, but he’s not going to like that and then you’ll be more miserable because no one will love you, you hairy middle-aged ape lady. But, you know, as I said, it’s your decision, dear.
Bald vaginas are to anti-feminists what abortion is to the Republicans: A smoke screen.
I’m talking about bikini waxes and the need for female modesty up in the same breath to make a point. As long as we blame porn for the waxing industry and feminism for the lack of common courtesy, we will never get to the discussion that matters.
For as long as women have walked the earth, there have been women willing to mutilate themselves for the sake of “beauty”. Once upon a time, it was the old belladonna in the eyeball trick. Or binding one’s feet. Now it’s waxing and butt bleaching. Is one better than the other? Is one more defensible because hardcore porn was less available? I don’t really think so. Fashion comes and goes as does one’s pubic hair, apparently. You know what, you don’t want to get waxed, don’t. See how easy that was? Dude you’re with doesn’t want to get busy because of your bush, dump his hairy ass. If he wants something waxed, he can wax something that belongs to him. Like the balls he’s obviously got for assuming you’re going to do whatever he wants with your body. It’s one thing to do something you don’t mind doing because your partner likes it, but an ultimatum is quite another. My husband doesn’t like it when I wear a lot of makeup, and I really don’t care about putting it on anymore so it works out nicely. Well, except that you can pry my concealer and lip gloss out of my cold, dead hands. Now, if he expected me not to wear makeup because he doesn’t like it, let me tell you, we wouldn’t be having this discussion because I wouldn’t have married him. He doesn’t like makeup, he doesn’t have to wear it. Dig?
For as long as men and women have walked the earth together, there have been jerks who don’t hold doors open for the person behind them. I will give you that early into the women’s movement there was probably some confusion about stuff like holding doors, but I thought we’d worked through all that. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t appreciate having the door held open for them, really. And I’m curious about this notion of “modesty”. So, a long time ago—you know, before the shopping mall was invented—when people wore animal pelts without getting paint thrown on them for doing so, we were pretty much only wearing a loincloth and maybe a tank top or something. And that was only for warmth and armor. So, back in the day, weren’t we a lot less modest? Now, this may be throwing some people off because I’m talking about the people before Adam and Eve. I know, startling concept, that. Seems to me that the concept of modesty was just another tool used by The Man to keep his woman down. I mean, men can go around with their shirts off all day, showing their useless nipples, and no one cares. At the sight of one useable nipple everyone goes bat shit crazy. I don’t get that. I don’t get how feminism is responsible for that.
Of course, I miss a lot.
I called my friend the other day to ask her if we were still passing notes about things like, “Do you like me? Yes or No? Would you ever like me? Yes or no? Do you like Stacy more? Yes or no?” when we were in high school. She took a deep breath and said, “You know, I’ve blocked so much of that out, and I’m not comfortable going to retrieve those memories.”
High school survivor.
I’ve written a lot about high school here. Not because I particularly cared for it, mind you, but because I started this blog with a couple of people I knew in high school. I also have a high school-aged stepdaughter and a stepson who just escaped last spring. Let me just tell you something in case you’ve not yet procreated: You think you only go to high school once. No, you poor fool, no. You have to go again when your kid goes, and it’s no more fun the second time than it was the first. In fact, it’s worse because you can’t deck anybody.
You can’t do a damn thing when your kid comes home heartbroken because some jackass with a popped collar, gelled hair, and an Axe body spray addiction breaks her heart. It’s not constructive to yell. It does no good to say that he was a mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging moron who will end up dropping out of college to pursue some sort of pyramid scheme that involves car detailing. No, don’t say that because he’s liable to ask her out next weekend and you’ll have to eat your words as you’re driving them to the movie, inhaling his cloud of man perfume, and wondering when Dippity-Do came back into vogue.
These kids seem so blasted immature. I really figured that being pumped up with all those hormones from fast food hamburgers, they’d be not just physically mature, but emotionally as well. No. This generation—Millennials, or whatever the hell they are—are a bunch of infants. You know why that is? They have no interior monologues anymore. The Computer Age has bred it out of them. They can do just what I’m doing now: blog about every little brain fart they have. I find it so interesting to see how adults use social media in relation to the kids. The Girl Child will update her Facebook status ten times in the space of an hour…WITH THE SAME STATUS EACH TIME. It’s like if it doesn’t exist IN THAT MOMENT on Facebook, it never happened. So if you check her page, there are updates like:
(Small aside: I tried to set up a FB account under the name Girl Child so I wouldn’t have to Photoshop something, and do you know it wouldn’t let me set up an account with that name? Could “Girl” not be Julia’s niece?)
Anyway, I know she’s got to go through all the crap. She’s got to get in fights with her girlfriends. She’s got to have crushes on morons. I know everything is life or death drama for the next few years. She’s still got many unfortunate hair styles to go through. I can’t tell her it hurts me more than it hurts her. She doesn’t believe that. But it’s true and I’ll tell you why. I know how all this is going to end. I’ve been there. It’s like having a dream of a car wreck over and over again and you can’t do a damn thing to stop it. I know it’s all bullshit, but it’s only because I was once where she is right now.
I suppose the natural order of things is to assume that our parents were pod people. It’s the natural order of things for the kids to think they’re the only ones who’ve ever had their hearts broken, or had a difficult situation, or gotten really pissed off because the adults around them weren’t mind readers. You should knoooooow what’s wrooooong just by looooking at me, Daaaaaaddy! That to this day no one can read my mind pisses me off. But that’s the way it is.
And that’s why there’s pizza and ice cream.
And later, why there’s red wine and Valium.
I’m not always grammatically correct. I don’t always go back and proof my posts that carefully. Last week a friend pointed out to me that I had gotten Ed Harris and Ed Hardy mixed up. This disturbed me because of my long-time crush on Ed Harris and my hatred of Ed Hardy’s Bedazzler-inspired craptacular fashions. One thing I’m always on the lookout for is quotation mark abuse. The “need” to put “marks” around “messages” for no particular “reason” makes me a “crazy” girl. I understand the need for emphasis, for I luuuuuuv to use emphasis-making punctuation! However, this shit’s out of control.
Anyway, if there’s one thing that bothers me more than unnecessary quotation marks, it’s men who think I give a hairy rat’s ass about their opinion on abortion. I’m not saying that my friends of the dude persuasion can’t have an opinion on abortion. What I’m saying is that since they’ll never be in a position to consider one for themselves, I’m not clear on why anyone cares. It would be like me having an opinion on jock straps or proper prostate exam etiquette. Pointless.
Imagine the joy I felt upon finding this “gem”:
Ah. Where to begin?
Well, let’s start with the fact that I’m a “who” not a “that” as are most of the people-human-types I know. I won’t go into how some people who are pro-choice also have kids because, in fact, THAT WAS THEIR CHOICE.
I would like to “thank” my mother for any number of things, but this is neither the time nor “place”. I’m not “sure” what it is Mr. Baio means by “thank”, but it sounds “sinister” and “sarcastic”. Normally, anything “described” that way would be right up my alley, but from Charles in Charge, it just sounds “creepy”.
Let this serve as a warning to all: No “tweeting” while you’re eat up with the “righteous”.
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