Damn You, Celebrity Sober House!

There are very few instances of reality television viewing in our house. A Supernanny here, a Wifeswap there...and I have a weakness for the fall down drunks on Intervention... so, I suppose it's only a matter of logic that I would get addicted to Celebrity Rehab and its offshoot Sober House. (See what I did there? Addiction? Rehab? Sober? Awesome.)

Anyhoo...yes. I admit I am an avid viewer of the Dr. Drew Franchise. And it's what I'm writing about today.

The season opened with Steven Adler showing up fucking nodded out on Heroin. Awesome. The tiresome constantly emoting about how hard her job is house mom rightfully wants him kicked out.
Dr. Drew says, no....let's get him detoxed again and then we'll see where he is. Apparently "see where he is" translates to "not searching the rest of his belongings/person for more fucking drugs", because the dude comes back to the house, higher than before and basically on a bender. IN the house. So, we spend an episode watching an ex-drummer stroke victim bump around the house, change his pants seven times, and nod out in various dark corners.
Then House Mom calls the cops.
Good for her.
He never should have been allowed back in the first place.
So, what happens? Do the residents get angry that they've been convinced—well paid—but still convinced (watch the last episode of Rehab for the high pressure "ARE YOU GOING TO SOBER LIVING" nonsense everyone had to endure) to leave their lives, and in some cases, children, to live in a "sober" environment for the enter-cation of the teeming masses, only to discover that there's an active drug addict running around the house with his lips firmly wrapped around a pipe and needles in any vein that's not collapsed. Do they get indignant about the fact that Dr. Drew LET THIS GUY BACK IN after knowing that he had drugs on him the minute he stepped in the door? Does the House Mom get to tell Dr. Drew "She told him so"?
No.
No.
THe residents get pissed alright, pissed that someone called the cops.
What?
Really?
Yes. They're pissed because they feel like the house mom betrayed them. By keeping them safe.
Ok fine. I hope they all fucking fail. If that's what they're mad about...that if they relapse someone's gonna call the cops on them and they feel afraid...of GETTING IN TROUBLE..then fine. I hope they fail. If you can't recognize the ways in which your sobriety is threatened and get angry when the people who aren't supposed to let that happen, do? I'm done with you.
Except for Rodney. I heart him. He's the only one who isn't behaving like a 9 year old.

And fuck you too, Dr. Drew for putting those people in that position. Twice. And now, it's looking like a 3rd time as I saw some previews of the administrators actually discussing whether Steven should be let back in.
And goddamn me for letting myself get sucked in to this nonsense.

That's it. My Head Just Fucking Exploded.

Oh. My. God.

I...
Ok.

From the "OMG, fixing toilets is for dads and boyfriends" file:
Whitney Casey.
There are few things in this world that can send me into a firey cataclysmic rage faster than than being late and being lost. However, this morning, in the safety of my apartment where I was neither late, nor lost, I nearly willed old people into my living room so that I could strangle, then drown them.

This rage was caused by one woman.
Whitney Casey.

Author of another in a long line of godawful book written for desperate women seeking to land/keep a man. These books generally advise women in a clever, cheeky way that "It's ok to be a woman. The 1950's were awesome!" Look, I love chivalry as much as the next woman and have marked its absence in many a dating situation. However, I'm not ready to give up my brain and my integrity simply to snag a guy who has no clue how to be chivalrous anyway. It's a waste of time.
This morning Ms. Casey thought to impart some of her "wisdom" by teaching women "How to Survive the Superbowl."
Alright. Let me preface all of the following with this:

It is 2009. If you don't have at least a passing knowledge of sports, or an ability to entertain yourself while they are happening, I cannot help you. Seriously. I can't. There is a rite of passage every girl goes through as a child. And that's the day her dad tells her to "Go play in the other room, the game is on." Now, any dad worth his salt these days, helps his little girl appreciate the awesome that is a football game or a hockey game, but it doesn't always happen. So, a girl has a choice: suck it up and watch the game and learn how to appreciate it, or go in the other fucking room, play Barbies and learn how to live without her dad/man for a few hours.

Whatever. Anyway, Ms. Casey, fucking idiot that she is, had some of the following to say about how a woman should behave during sporting events, specifically, the Superbowl:

-Keep your mouth shut. No matter how much you think you know about the game of football, the teams playing, or next season's draft picks, your man has no interest in what you have to say. Ever.
-Don't think that half-time is your time. Because Bruce Springsteen is playing and all men love Bruce Springsteen. And unless you want a backhand to the face, you'll keep your mouth shut. Also, he may use this time to place another bet.
-Watch yourself during commercial breaks. Commercials are hilarious during the Superbowl. Also, he may be trying to place another bet. (seriously.)
-Don't joke about cheering for the opposite team he is. He could have a lot of money riding on the game! Also, find out what the point spread is. Sometimes, women get confused (exact wording) when it comes to the point spread. You'll need to understand why he's suddenly changed the team he's rooting for.
-Bring him food.

I wish I was goddamned kidding.
Apparently, according to this woman, all men are pigs when it comes to sports. Also, they have raging gambling habits we're supposed to condone and bear quietly.
Here's my reality. If I behaved this way during a game, my fiance would leave me.


Here's the real reality.
First of all, this is Chicago. I don't know many men who give a shit about this years Steelers/Cardinals (that's Pittsburg/Arizona for those playing along at home) match up. If they do, it's only because of Fantasy Leagues. And I'm not even sure that Fantasy Football carries into the Superbowl.

Second: Her alarming acceptance of rampant gambling has me concerned. Her attitude suggests that he's going to gamble and if you don't like it, that's just tough. Maybe it's just me, but if someone's gambling is at the point where he's got "a lot of money riding on a game", and your involvement in the game "interferes with his gambling" and he's "placing more bets during half time", perhaps a conversation needs to happen. About his addiction. To fucking gambling.

Third: If you really aren't interested in the game, that's ok. Seriously. It's fine. He's not interested (probably) in manicures and knitting. But you don't see him reading books on how to cope with all the manicures and knitting in your life. (I use these examples because I am avidly interested in these two activities, ladies, not because ALL women are. ) The point is, don't fucking pout about having to put up with sports in your man's life. And if you need a goddamned book to teach you how to get along with Sports enthusiasts, you probably have a bigger problem.


If you can't beat them, join them, and if you can't join them, go get a fucking manicure. Easy.

To the Jeffries Tubes!

As I sit here watching the saucer section of the USS Enterprise crash land into a planet...and watch as people are thrown around the bridge in that oh-so-S tar Treky-way, I'm moved to ask myself:
"Why aren't there any goddamned seatbelts on that ship?"
I mean, at the VERY least, let the SEATED helmsmen, who are responsible for safe landing keep their seats. And Riker. Who is acting captain. And SITTING IN THE CAPTAIN'S CHAIR gets tossed about like a ragdoll. Starfleet couldn't install proper safety restraints? Really?
Seriously.

Buckle the fuck up, Enterprise!


In other news, I slipped on the ice taking my laundry down. Awesome.

Fuck you, Fallout Boy.

That is all.

The Post Jason is Referring To

Yeah. Earlier this morning I wrote a rather scathing post dedicated to those expecting Obama to "walk on water, cure cancer with the laying on of his divine black hands, and start a goddamned cascade of manna from heaven."

After John William's arrangement of "Air and Simple Gifts", I was moved to a reminder that the guy is the President of the United States, and perhaps I should go ahead and acknowledge that before I get all kinds of assy.

So, I did.

And now, I can say without hesitation:

WAKE THE FUCK UP EVERYONE!
The man is not Jesus. He cannot make the blind see, the cripple walk, nor the leper cease to ooze. He cannot fly and he can not fell a yak from 200 feet with Mind Bullets.
But he does indeed, have the power...to move you. (Acoustic fill here please....)

WONDER BOY!

Anyhoo. Let's just all settle down, let's see what the market does, and let's say some prayers that we all get our jobs back.

And Even the Biggest Cynics Can Be Brought To Tears.

And that would be me.

Go Obama Go.

HOCKEY!

So, I went to a Blackhawks game last night.

I came to the following conclusions:

-The nosebleed seats are called such for a reason. I thought I was going to pass out.

-I turn right back into a girl during hockey games. This is owing to the fact that I can't get Icing or Off-Sides straight in my head.

-The Penalty Box: Let's dial up the "you...you feel shame". I believe that the "Box Judge" should not only be in charge of opening and closing the door, he should take his seat next to the offending player and "JUDGE" him. Complete with a lot of sighing, sidelong glances, and disappointed head-shaking. Optional EXTREME PENALTY BOX VISITS include a small child in hockey jersey much too big for him. His innocent, confused gaze fixed at the offending player while asking questions like: "Why are you in here?" "Why did you hit that man with your stick?" "Did you mean to trip him?"

-Also that I am very lucky to be marrying an ex-hockey player. Cuz he can teach me how to skate in hockey skates.

Then truly, my bad-assery will be complete.

So far in 2009...

Oh blog readers, all 2 of you, how I have ignored you.

Let's see...

I have
taken care of the elderly.

Drank way too much seasonal beer.

Mulled a lot of wine.

Finished a fucking TERRIBLE book which was such a betrayal because it was the fourth book in a series of which the first 2 are some of my favoring literature ever. Even though it's sci-fi/fantasy.

Adopted a spray bottle policy on my cat who at his leisure decides that my hands and face are attacking him and he must kill.
cooked my first pork tenderloin. It was delicious.

Contacted a few photographers after gentle "prodding" by my wedding planning website. By "prodding" I mean the delivery of no less than 426 emails reminding me to do so.

Came into possession of my great-grandmother's wedding veil. It's very yellow. The jury is still out on that one.

Attended my good friend's baby shower...the sandwiches were delicious. The diaper game...was not. Now we're on BABY WATCH!

Realized that come 2 weeks it will be exactly nine months until my wedding.

Had one freelance job.

And have been in a constant state of anxiety since just before Christmas.

Merry New Year!