It was the first day of the twelve days before Christmas. Outside, the air was crisp and cool and clear, and the leaves were changing and falling off the trees. The expected highs were in the scant 70s.
California was finally in the throes of winter.
I was tra-la-la-ing as I sashayed through the house, hanging stockings with care, and lights by the chimney, and all that lovely Christmasy stuff. I put Handel's Messiah on the stereo, and made some hot chocolate. I pulled my copy of Dickens' A Christmas Carol off the shelf, settled into an overstuffed chair, and flipped open to the first page.
I had just gotten past "The Marleys were dead to begin with" when suddenly, the doorbell rang.
"Oh it must be my true love!" I cried. I ran to the door, threw it open, and found myself face to face with... A pair of beady little eyes, a sharp little beak, and a fluffing of feathers.
"L-Leo!!" I screamed.
"Surprise!" shouted my true love's voice, and he jumped out from behind the leafy branches of the pear tree in which the malevolent avian creature was sitting.
"Um," I said. "Sweetheart. Shmoopie pie. Would you mind explaining just WHAT THIS IS?"
He beamed. "It's a partridge in a pear tree! I saw it and instantly thought of you."
I glared at him. "Thanks a lot."
"Who's Leo, by the way?"
"Er, nobody. Just someone I used to know."
The bird turned its head to blink at me with one of its eyes, and I couldn't help but notice the grim resemblance to the cowgirl's evil demon-cockatiel, who had supposedly passed away a couple months ago. As if to confirm my suspicions that reincarnation might, after all, be a tenable theory, the partridge opened its beak and gave a loud HISSSSSS! I jumped back.
"Oh he likes you," said my true love, grinning. "I can see you guys are going to get along great."
Inside the house, the Hallelujah chorus began thundering through the loudspeakers. I stomped to the stereo and shut it off. Behind me, my true love was hauling the tree and its seething occupant into my living room.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!" I shrieked. "The bird stays outside!"
My true love looked pained. "My darling frogg princess, you can't mean it. It's cold out there. He might die!"
I bit my lip. "Yes, that would be a terrible shame," I said, staring at the bird as very unChristmaslike visions danced through my head.
"He'll be fine right here by the fireplace. He'll sit in the tree, and keep you company!" My (clueless) true love pecked me on the cheek and dashed to the door. "Sorry, gotta run, but I'll be back tomorrow...!"
"Yeah, well, why don't you see if some jewelry might make you think of me next time! Or a ski lift ticket!! OR A SPA VACATION!!!" I called after him, but he was already out the door...
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Monday, December 11, 2006
Winner of the Frogg's "So Funny I Forgot To Laugh" Award
Once upon a time, and quite likely in a galaxy far, far away, writers used to write stories based on actual facts. Then one day, one of them (who was probably suffering a severe case of writer's block at the time) had the following illuminatory brainwave:
Who needs facts when you can have opinions?
And Christopher Hitchens was born.
To be fair—which I don't have to be, seeing as how I, too, am a writer—I wouldn't necessarily single out Hitchens for my ire (I mean award) because he's hardly alone in the land of Writers Who Simply Spout Off. Today, though, he really deserves some special recognition, thanks to his article "Why Women Aren't Funny" in Vanity Fair, which details his entirely reasonable and scientifically supportable opinion that women are just not as funny as men.
Oh wait. That's neither reasonable nor scientifically supportable! My mistake. And Hitchens' too, as it happens.
At the risk of sounding rather humorless myself (but hey, we all know that I am absolutely not funny at all), I'm going to venture to say that Hitchens might be just a little off track with his thesis (literary term alert!). It would have made far more sense for him to claim that women have a DIFFERENT sense of humor, than to postulate that women are simply not as funny as men. And a lot easier to back up with the conglomeration of anecdotal "evidence" he compiles to support his hypothesis (which is a scientific term—see, I'm bilingual! But don't laugh, I'm not funny!).
Let's take a look at some of his observations, shall we? Here's an excerpt from the beginning of his manifesto:
Be your gender what it may, you will certainly have heard the following from a female friend who is enumerating the charms of a new (male) squeeze: "He's really quite cute, and he's kind to my friends, and he knows all kinds of stuff, and he's so funny ... However, there is something that you absolutely never hear from a male friend who is hymning his latest (female) love interest: "She's a real honey, has a life of her own … [interlude for attributes that are none of your business] … and, man, does she ever make 'em laugh."
Hmm, well, that's a pretty convincing premise so far. Nothing unscientific there! In fact, it makes me want to read right the heck on, fully convinced of Hitchens' formidable reasoning powers. And thus I find this intriguing bit a few paragraphs down:
In any case, my argument doesn't say that there are no decent women comedians. There are more terrible female comedians than there are terrible male comedians, but there are some impressive ladies out there. Most of them, though, when you come to review the situation, are hefty or dykey or Jewish, or some combo of the three.
Wow. I am blinded by the shining light of his perspicacity. And I am also relieved to hear that women CAN be funny in Hitchens' world after all! As long as they are fat, lesbian, and/or Jewish.
Thank God. I thought for a minute there he was generalizing madly or something.
We continue on, caught in the tractor beam of his bold, bright intellect:
Precisely because humor is a sign of intelligence (and many women believe, or were taught by their mothers, that they become threatening to men if they appear too bright), it could be that in some way men do not want women to be funny. They want them as an audience, not as rivals.
Well, there's a double-edged sword. Women are smart, but don't want to show it by being the hilarious creatures they COULD be, because it might make men feel threatened. Which means, I think, if I follow his argument to its logical conclusion, that women AREN'T smart (since they prefer to hide their funniness so that men won't dislike them), and that men (SOME men—let's not generalize!) are still sexist pigs.
Not that I know anything about logic, of course. Hello—woman, remember?
But now at last, we get to the joke, and oh boy, is it a knee-slapper. Surprise! Hitchens is on the side of women after all! Hahaha! Just check this out:
...the explanation for the superior funniness of men is much the same as for the inferior funniness of women. Men have to pretend, to themselves as well as to women, that they are not the servants and supplicants. Women, cunning minxes that they are, have to affect not to be the potentates. This is the unspoken compromise.
So women, in case you were tempted to be upset that you aren't funny, don't be! You're the ones secretly ruling the world! All those years of repression and, in some cases, oppression were merely affectations on your part and not a representation of the true(thy) reality.
Oh, you cunning minxes, all of you!
Somehow, I have a feeling that we are not amused. But then why should we be? Hitchens' article isn't so much funny as laughable, and believe me, there is a BIG difference. On the other hand, maybe by not finding the humor in his rambling attempt at wit, I am just proving his entire supposition: that women lack a fundamentally male anatomical reference point... also known as the Funny Bone.
(Which reminds me—another literary term is double entendre. Just, you know, in case you were wondering.)
Who needs facts when you can have opinions?
And Christopher Hitchens was born.
To be fair—which I don't have to be, seeing as how I, too, am a writer—I wouldn't necessarily single out Hitchens for my ire (I mean award) because he's hardly alone in the land of Writers Who Simply Spout Off. Today, though, he really deserves some special recognition, thanks to his article "Why Women Aren't Funny" in Vanity Fair, which details his entirely reasonable and scientifically supportable opinion that women are just not as funny as men.
Oh wait. That's neither reasonable nor scientifically supportable! My mistake. And Hitchens' too, as it happens.
At the risk of sounding rather humorless myself (but hey, we all know that I am absolutely not funny at all), I'm going to venture to say that Hitchens might be just a little off track with his thesis (literary term alert!). It would have made far more sense for him to claim that women have a DIFFERENT sense of humor, than to postulate that women are simply not as funny as men. And a lot easier to back up with the conglomeration of anecdotal "evidence" he compiles to support his hypothesis (which is a scientific term—see, I'm bilingual! But don't laugh, I'm not funny!).
Let's take a look at some of his observations, shall we? Here's an excerpt from the beginning of his manifesto:
Be your gender what it may, you will certainly have heard the following from a female friend who is enumerating the charms of a new (male) squeeze: "He's really quite cute, and he's kind to my friends, and he knows all kinds of stuff, and he's so funny ... However, there is something that you absolutely never hear from a male friend who is hymning his latest (female) love interest: "She's a real honey, has a life of her own … [interlude for attributes that are none of your business] … and, man, does she ever make 'em laugh."
Hmm, well, that's a pretty convincing premise so far. Nothing unscientific there! In fact, it makes me want to read right the heck on, fully convinced of Hitchens' formidable reasoning powers. And thus I find this intriguing bit a few paragraphs down:
In any case, my argument doesn't say that there are no decent women comedians. There are more terrible female comedians than there are terrible male comedians, but there are some impressive ladies out there. Most of them, though, when you come to review the situation, are hefty or dykey or Jewish, or some combo of the three.
Wow. I am blinded by the shining light of his perspicacity. And I am also relieved to hear that women CAN be funny in Hitchens' world after all! As long as they are fat, lesbian, and/or Jewish.
Thank God. I thought for a minute there he was generalizing madly or something.
We continue on, caught in the tractor beam of his bold, bright intellect:
Precisely because humor is a sign of intelligence (and many women believe, or were taught by their mothers, that they become threatening to men if they appear too bright), it could be that in some way men do not want women to be funny. They want them as an audience, not as rivals.
Well, there's a double-edged sword. Women are smart, but don't want to show it by being the hilarious creatures they COULD be, because it might make men feel threatened. Which means, I think, if I follow his argument to its logical conclusion, that women AREN'T smart (since they prefer to hide their funniness so that men won't dislike them), and that men (SOME men—let's not generalize!) are still sexist pigs.
Not that I know anything about logic, of course. Hello—woman, remember?
But now at last, we get to the joke, and oh boy, is it a knee-slapper. Surprise! Hitchens is on the side of women after all! Hahaha! Just check this out:
...the explanation for the superior funniness of men is much the same as for the inferior funniness of women. Men have to pretend, to themselves as well as to women, that they are not the servants and supplicants. Women, cunning minxes that they are, have to affect not to be the potentates. This is the unspoken compromise.
So women, in case you were tempted to be upset that you aren't funny, don't be! You're the ones secretly ruling the world! All those years of repression and, in some cases, oppression were merely affectations on your part and not a representation of the true(thy) reality.
Oh, you cunning minxes, all of you!
Somehow, I have a feeling that we are not amused. But then why should we be? Hitchens' article isn't so much funny as laughable, and believe me, there is a BIG difference. On the other hand, maybe by not finding the humor in his rambling attempt at wit, I am just proving his entire supposition: that women lack a fundamentally male anatomical reference point... also known as the Funny Bone.
(Which reminds me—another literary term is double entendre. Just, you know, in case you were wondering.)
Sunday, December 10, 2006
'Tis the Season...for a Bigger Pair of Jeans!
So you know how people talk about gaining the "Freshman Fifteen" when you go off to college? Well, I've had occasion to observe another weight-gain phenomenon, to which I, being the public-service-minded pontiff that I am (deep down inside where no one can see), desire now to draw your attention.
I call this phenomenon "The Month of December."
Catchy name, huh?
Unlike The Freshman Fifteen, The Month of December is unavoidable, unless of course you've figured out the secrets of time travel, and if you have I don't even want to hear it. The point is, there is absolutely nothing we can do—all the fitness magazine articles to the contrary—to avoid the weight that piles on during the holiday season. It's like magic. December 1st rolls around, the body goes, "Oh, it's December!" and presto! Your favorite jeans are tighter, and you are five pounds heavier! Just like that! Without even trying!!
It really is a hopeless time of year in some ways. You want to eat healthy, but every time you turn around, someone is putting food in your face. Cookies, candy, chocolate—whatever it is, there is no escape. Even if you don't actually eat it, you are breathing air weighted down with all the high-calorie emissions that surround these rich foods. Breathing has never been so bad for you, believe me.
"What about exercise?" I can hear you ask. To which I politely respond, "Hahahaha." Which is about all the exercise I'll do this season—and you too, I'll bet.
So my scientific conclusion is that there is no way to prevent the weight gain. However, I believe you can at least minimize it somewhat. Here are a few ideas that should help...
...Ok, I lied. I have no ideas. There is nothing to be done. Just accept it and pray for January to come quick, when you can start your New Year's Resolution gym membership.
Hahaha.
I call this phenomenon "The Month of December."
Catchy name, huh?
Unlike The Freshman Fifteen, The Month of December is unavoidable, unless of course you've figured out the secrets of time travel, and if you have I don't even want to hear it. The point is, there is absolutely nothing we can do—all the fitness magazine articles to the contrary—to avoid the weight that piles on during the holiday season. It's like magic. December 1st rolls around, the body goes, "Oh, it's December!" and presto! Your favorite jeans are tighter, and you are five pounds heavier! Just like that! Without even trying!!
It really is a hopeless time of year in some ways. You want to eat healthy, but every time you turn around, someone is putting food in your face. Cookies, candy, chocolate—whatever it is, there is no escape. Even if you don't actually eat it, you are breathing air weighted down with all the high-calorie emissions that surround these rich foods. Breathing has never been so bad for you, believe me.
"What about exercise?" I can hear you ask. To which I politely respond, "Hahahaha." Which is about all the exercise I'll do this season—and you too, I'll bet.
So my scientific conclusion is that there is no way to prevent the weight gain. However, I believe you can at least minimize it somewhat. Here are a few ideas that should help...
...Ok, I lied. I have no ideas. There is nothing to be done. Just accept it and pray for January to come quick, when you can start your New Year's Resolution gym membership.
Hahaha.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Apologies...
...for my cranky, illness-induced sarcasm of yesterday. Of COURSE I care if people are having trouble posting comments every now and then. It's just that I'd care a lot more if I could actually do something about it. Since I can't, I think we should all just move on and get along with our lives. I know it is not the perfect solution, but it's the best I can do with a stuffy head, a cough, the sniffles, and continuing exhaustion.
Yes, that's right. I'm still sick. And thanks to my illness, I am also behind on my writing assignments for my master's program. Which means that I am stressed, and stress, as we all know, is bad for health. This is what is known, in literary terms, as a vicious cycle.
On the plus side, the weather has been great in California lately, my hair still looks quite good, and it's almost the weekend.
In literary terms, that's called the silver lining. There always is one, isnt't there?
Yes, that's right. I'm still sick. And thanks to my illness, I am also behind on my writing assignments for my master's program. Which means that I am stressed, and stress, as we all know, is bad for health. This is what is known, in literary terms, as a vicious cycle.
On the plus side, the weather has been great in California lately, my hair still looks quite good, and it's almost the weekend.
In literary terms, that's called the silver lining. There always is one, isnt't there?
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Technical Difficulties Again?
It has recently come to my attention that people are having difficulty posting comments to my blog. Thank you, all of you who kindly informed me of this fact. Please accept my sincere apologies, as well as my assurances that, seeing as how I am not Frank the Super TechnoGeek, I am going to do nothing whatsoever to fix the problem.
Feel free to vent your frustrated feelings in the comments section.
Ha.
Feel free to vent your frustrated feelings in the comments section.
Ha.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
It Ain't Lean Cuisine...
So the other day, I was driving and listening to the radio, and a commercial came on for Carl's Jr.'s latest addition to their fast-food menu: The Philly Cheesesteak Burger.
And yes, it is exactly what it sounds like; namely, a burger patty with steak and cheese piled on top of it. Also known as "Heart Attack on a Plate."
I cannot adequately express what a good idea the Philly Cheesesteak Burger is, mainly because I think it's stupid. And I have a feeling I'm not the only one. Because right after the commercial for this unique culinary inspiration finished, the song "American Idiot" by Green Day began to play.
Someone at the radio station has a sense of humor.
And yes, it is exactly what it sounds like; namely, a burger patty with steak and cheese piled on top of it. Also known as "Heart Attack on a Plate."
I cannot adequately express what a good idea the Philly Cheesesteak Burger is, mainly because I think it's stupid. And I have a feeling I'm not the only one. Because right after the commercial for this unique culinary inspiration finished, the song "American Idiot" by Green Day began to play.
Someone at the radio station has a sense of humor.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Descent Into Delirium
Alright, it's officially official: I am sick of being sick.
I'm tired of having a runny nose, which makes me sniffle. I'm tired of having dry skin around and under my nose thanks to blowing it all the time. I'm tired of being a grouch (and I'm sure everyone I know is tired of this also). I'm tired of everything I eat tasting the same; i.e., like paper. Not that I know what paper tastes like. I mean, I do, because I ate it once when I was a kid. But I was a kid so long ago that I probably don't remember.
Look, it's just a figure of speech, ok? I'm cranky enough already, especially now that I've reminded myself that I am also old. So let's just move on.
What was I talking about?
Oh, right. I was complaining about being sick.
Forget it. I'm too tired.
But the worst thing about being sick is that yesterday I got my hair cut and styled and looked about as gorgeous as it's possible for me to look (except I was wearing my glasses, which fit crooked), but couldn't properly flaunt my stunningness because I felt too ill to even think about going out anywhere, and ended up just going home.
Lame. Kind of like this blog post, in fact.
I'm tired of having a runny nose, which makes me sniffle. I'm tired of having dry skin around and under my nose thanks to blowing it all the time. I'm tired of being a grouch (and I'm sure everyone I know is tired of this also). I'm tired of everything I eat tasting the same; i.e., like paper. Not that I know what paper tastes like. I mean, I do, because I ate it once when I was a kid. But I was a kid so long ago that I probably don't remember.
Look, it's just a figure of speech, ok? I'm cranky enough already, especially now that I've reminded myself that I am also old. So let's just move on.
What was I talking about?
Oh, right. I was complaining about being sick.
Forget it. I'm too tired.
But the worst thing about being sick is that yesterday I got my hair cut and styled and looked about as gorgeous as it's possible for me to look (except I was wearing my glasses, which fit crooked), but couldn't properly flaunt my stunningness because I felt too ill to even think about going out anywhere, and ended up just going home.
Lame. Kind of like this blog post, in fact.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)