Archive for the 'World Improvement' Category

Published by PaintingChef on 10 Apr 2008

Pardon the interruption…

Tap… Tap… Is this thing on? Testing…

Oh good. Hi.

While it is true that I am kind of an opinionated loudmouth, (Patrick just threw up a little in his mouth prompted by what was probably the gross understatement of the year) I generally refrain from giving my take on current events, politics, and the like on this website. The reasons for this are many and wholly unimportant. You know the basics on where I stand on things. Democrat. Don’t believe in organized religion. Blah, blah, blah.

But I have to tell you something. I am sick to fucking death of this whole primary madness. I don’t understand the process and I think it should be seriously overhauled. Why must we drag this madness on for months and months? Things are too close with no end in sight (other than the obvious convention) and TIME IS BEING WASTED. I desperately need to know who is going to come out on top of this fine mess.

Because the Republicans HAVE a candidate. They are getting organized and rallying behind their guy. Sure, he’s ancient. He wants to spend the next hundred years in Iraq even though he’ll probably only live 5 or 6 of them. He’s oddly flabby and puffy about the neck and cheeks in a way that makes me both uncomfortable and curious. He has an unexplainably hot wife and I have my suspicious that he most likely smells faintly of old soup, shoe polish and Brylcreem. But he is their guy. Their in-fighting and bitch slapping is over and the Republicans have time to get their shit together.

And yet here we are in Clinton-Obama limbo. I like(ish) them both, I won’t lie. At the moment, I am firmly a member of Camp Obama because he makes me optimistic that the world isn’t about to come crashing down around us in one hot mess. But should Hillary be the one with the golden ticket, I will support her whole-heartedly although EVENTUALLY I would love to vote in an election that didn’t consist of a Bush OR a Clinton. (MY guy didn’t make it past the first primary… so sad for you Joe Biden.)

So here is what I don’t get… WHY are the primaries stretched out over the better part of a year? Why is there not ONE primary election day and boom, we have candidates? Then everyone could feel important. Like it actually MATTERED that they were voting in a primary. I imagine, in most cases, that as the primaries drag on the voter turnout continues to drop as people kind of start to hate everyone. Let’s have one big primary election day in April or May. Then the conventions. Then everyone has the same amount of time to campaign as “The (insert party here) Candidate.”

I’m sure there are more holes in this theory than I can count. But it just seems like the way we are doing things now isn’t working. And for the love of god, can someone PLEASE tell me what the hell a “super delegate” is? Do they have capes? X-ray vision? Magical deep pockets?

Whatever. I’m stepping down off my soapbox. My stilettos are starting to damage the pink quilted padding woven from the silky fine strands of unicorn manes and stuffed with the softest of gumdrops. I am nothing if not consistent.

Published by PaintingChef on 15 Jan 2007

Doing my part to improve the self-confidence of ugly gynecologists.

In chatting with my girl-crush Zube Girl the other day, somehow we ended up talking about OB/GYNs and our specific experiences with them. I’ve made a few suggestions on here to people of that particular profession in the past but I would like to add one to the list.

Be ugly.

When I was around 22 or so, I began the arduous task of finding my very own girlie doctor. Up until that point, I had been seeing the same one my mother went to and it just seemed like a good way to start making my own way in life. Chances are good that starting with something like paying my own rent and Visa bill or maybe buying my own groceries would have been much more effective but then again, hindsight is always 20/20.

On my first visit, I was told that the doctor would want to sit and chat with me for a bit before the exam and so I should just remain clothed and comfortable until it was time for him to strap on his caving light and mining gear. (I KNOW! And here you thought we were going to go for at least a few days before we once again discussed my innards).

So I settled into the chair and proceeded to read a magazine until the doctor walked in. Imagine my shock when not a doctor but the most recent winner of the Hugh Jackman look-alike contest walked in and had the gall to introduce himself as a doctor. I’m not really sure what my exact words were but it was something along the lines of “Um. Yeah. No. I don’t think so. This isn’t going to work out. Blerg. Blah. Drool. Spaz.” And then I calmly picked up my purse, thanked my lucky stars that I was only going to have to add outdated magazine theft to my resume and not stealing a gown and public indecency.

As I was driving home and mulling over just how marvelously I handled the situation something occurred to me… The receptionist should LET YOU KNOW that their doctor is scorchingly hot. A girl needs a warning for something like that. Those people need to be trained to answer the phone in their cheery voice “Dr. Mchottie Hot’s office. Our doctor looks like Hugh Jackman and may cause you to lose all ability to form coherent sentences from the moment you lay eyes on him which actually works in your favor because all his appointments are short since nobody is able to articulate what is wrong with them so he is NEVER running behind. How may I help you?”

I was also wondering why I didn’t take his picture.

Published by PaintingChef on 24 May 2006

Silence is Golden.

There are some situations in life that just don’t call for conversation. And there are some people who really need to be more aware that their chosen professions should lend themselves to a little more silence than they practice.

Dental hygienists. So there I am…lying back in your chair and you’re up to your elbows in my pie hole. And you want to talk about my day? Really? Because if you’re going to make sense from my response of “Ghhdheiiirjslkjjfjns woieiihsljgaaahhh daaaarrrrhhhhg” then you are in the wrong line of work my friend. You need to look into language study or code-breaking of some form because…damn. Not to mention you managed to avoid my obvious attempts to bite off your fingers at the knuckles. Oops. And let’s be honest here. Any job where that is a daily concern? No thanks.

But it never fails to amaze me. You thoughtfully provided me with a wireless headset and a television mounted at a somewhat precarious angle. You even splurged on the good cable. I’m talking HBO my friend. So with the amenities you’ve so kindly provided, I can almost ignore your elbow bumping against my upper bicuspid as long as you don’t try to carry on conversation! Observe. Headphones? Check. Obvious HBO coma? Check. Mouth unhinged and flopped wide open? Check. Conversation? Pass.

Facialists. I’ve just dropped close to a hundred bucks for you to slather my face with all sorts of wonderful smelling creams and masques that I will never be able to afford and then use your nifty tool to wage war on my skin and get all that crap out that no matter what I use, seems to have taken up permanent residence in my pores. I know they’re bad. YOU know they’re bad because you’re looking at them through a magnifying glass that enlarges them to a degree I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. But really? We don’t need to talk about it until afterwards.

Do you see how the room is dark? The soothing music is playing? The person on your table with her eyes closed and her face so relaxed you almost can’t see that forehead wrinkle you first made her aware of 5 years ago in a moment of unexpected trauma and has since caused her to beg her husband for Botox on a regular basis? (He says thanks a lot by the way…) Did you notice that I didn’t really make eye contact with you when you walked me back to your 10×10 square of paradise thus ensuring no conversation would be necessary? I don’t really want to talk. I don’t really want to hear about your ex-husband or your daughter who moved back in with you, again, after her second divorce. Its not that I don’t care, its not that I’m a cold, heartless, and insensitive bitch. Its just that this? Is quiet time.

And my very favorite. The masters of inappropriately timed conversation. The gynecologist. Now I understand that you are a medical professional. I have entrusted you with the care and maintenance of a highly sensitive (and in my case…faulty) system of chutes and ladders. You need to know what’s going on down there. You need to know if things have been acting up or misfiring, clinking or clanking. And I’ll give you all the details; I promise you more details than you could ever imagine. Because I’m a details girl when it comes to the punk ass ovaries. But can we maybe limit the chit-chat to before and after the exam? Because when you’re up close and personal with my inner lady bits, I don’t really want to be telling you about my sister’s wedding or my next vacation. I kind of feel like, I don’t know, maybe you should be giving my uterus your undivided attention, making sure you don’t slip and create an emergency exit or something.

This game of quiet mouse also extends to the breast exam. With the additional provision of no eye contact. I understand that you need to poke around my funbags; I do it on a monthly basis just like you taught me. But with the added awkwardness the close proximity of this situation brings, let’s not ramp it up with unnecessary conversation or eye contact. Once I’m sitting up, out of the stirrups, and covered (or preferably clothed) we can talk all you want.

While we’re at it, can I give you the phone numbers for my dentists and my facialist? They may have some suggestions for you on improving the ambiance of this torture chamber you call an office. I think with some headphones and cable television I could almost forget you were down there. I imagine there are plenty of relationships that operate on very similar principles.

Published by PaintingChef on 16 May 2006

Now on the hunt for investors.

Decisions are a terrible thing. And its the REALLY important ones like the one I had to make this morning on my way to work that really stress me out.

The scene – running late as usual, I grabbed my makeup bag to toss it in my work bag. Yes. I carry a purse AND a work bag to work. Its to hold the shit that I need that doesn’t fit in purse because I am a girl who needs her accessories and that’s just the way it is. I happened to glance at my dresser and notice that my lipstick AND my powder was laying out because at some time this weekend the unprecedented event of me actually having time to apply these things BEFORE I LEFT THE HOUSE must have occurred. Wonder never cease.

So I pulled the makeup bag BACK out of the work bag and I added these two precious items. And then? Apparently I left the makeup bag there and walked out the door with my carefully planned journey to work in mind that included enough precious minutes to stop for the coffee that I was in desperate need of before I encountered any other living and breathing person without the protective barrier of my car and my sunglasses.

While sitting in traffic on the way to my precious coffee I noticed my badly chapped lips and so I reached into the work bag for my Burt’s Bees to remedy this situation. Well crap. Back-up Burt’s lives in about eight different places in my car and at work so that’s not the problem. The problem? Is my scary sleep and puffy eyes that can be directly attributed to the 2 hour Grey’s Anatomy finale last night where they KILLED DENNY after he PROPOSED and OH MY GOD the DOG!!!! absent of any cosmetic camouflage assistance.

I now faced a dilemma and possibly a million dollar idea. There is not ANYWHERE (except for the Target with a Starbucks inside but they don’t open until 8 which is a lifetime of fifteen minutes away) that can give me a one stop shopping solution of mascara and coffee. Do I stop for coffee and although all physical evidence will be to the contrary, let the caffeine course through my veins and become a productive member of the human race? Or do I swing into Walgreen’s, boldly overcoming my fear of drugstore cosmetics and buy powder, concealer, eyeliner, and mascara and just fake it? After all, who cares if I’m awake and able to communicate in full sentences if I’m too scary too look at, right?

Do you think that “Holy shit I’m late for work again and I need coffee, breakfast, makeup, AND an ATM 10 minutes ago” is a catchy name for a store? I think it kind of flows…

Published by PaintingChef on 26 Nov 2005

And when I gain five pounds from the turkey, you better believe I’ll send that bad boy back ten yards!

As yet another football season draws to a close, I’m trying to put together some lessons that I’ve learned. This year college football instated a system of play review that I think worked really well. So well, in fact, that I am proposing we adopt this system, coupled with penalty flags, into our everyday life.

From now on, I plan to walk around with a pocket full of little yellow flags and enough cameramen to provide my own personal replay booth with a large choice of camera angles on which they can base their decisions.

Think about it…the next time some idiot cuts me off in traffic, I’ll blast their ass with a flag so fast, they won’t know what hit them. And if they argue, we’ll just review the play and show them how stupid they were.

Fight with Patrick? Throw the flag! In the college football play review system, there are a number of things that are non-reviewable once the flag has been thrown, I’m thinking disputes with the husband should fall under that category because its safe to say that I’ve been known to get angry first and think about what I said or did maybe fourth or fifth…and nobody wants to see that on tape over and over like they do on Sportscenter. (Because OBVIOUSLY this would be fascinating enough to warrant my own personal Sportscenter-esque highlight show.)

So the next time I’m walking through the grocery store with my own personal play reviewing entourage and some fuckwad says or does something that make even my teeth cringe in frustration, I’ll just throw a flag and send them back five or ten yards.

In-laws running off at the mouth again about how I am too opinionated or too liberal? Flag! Ten yards bitches!

I think I’ll consider infertility a personal foul…fifteen yards on the punk ass ovaries!

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