Putting the Cranked Up in Cranky

Okay, here is the top 5 list of things I’m over (thank you, Shirley McLain), in reverse order of how much they are annoying me today:

5. The “Best”: I’m so over the obsession with finding the “Best”. Best barbecue, best car, best handbag. Of all the subjective things in the world, “best” is probably the least informative and/or relevant. I want good. But my good may be different you’re your good, and while I’d like to hear your opinion on what’s good, I don’t want to argue about which is better. Anything over and above good is a popularity contest, and I’m just not playing that any more.

4. Sexy: We’ve got sexy octogenarians and pre-teens wearing push up bras. Enough already. Sexy is fine. Sexy can even be great. But it’s the parsley, not the meat and potatoes. There are 600 other things in the world that are more interesting, productive, more life affirming than sexy. Let’s start paying attention to one of them.

3. Conspiracy theories: I don’t care who you think is “responsible”: communists, oil companies, drug companies, radical Islam, radical anybodies, Skull and Bones, men in black, Dan Brown, little green men – if all you have is a theory, keep it to yourself. Unless you can come up with the Grand Unification Conspiracy Theory in which you blame EVERYONE. That I’d like to hear.

2. Rich People: I know this isn’t new. But I’m still over them. They still bug me. And until they stop, as a group, being douche bags, they stay on the list. Me. Eyes. You. Yeah, I see it.

1. Crazy Pants: I just need the world to take off it’s crazy pants for a few days. Hey, I love living in interesting times as much as anyone. But seriously. The entire world seems to be in need of 1) therapy, 2) mild sedatives, 3) a few hours of intense meditation/prayer/staring into the great vastness of space and contemplating how small we all really are. In other words: It’s called a grip, World. You should get one.

Now, I feel better. You may feel worse, but I definitely feel better.

One of you is out of a job

Okay, so here’s my new game: Hollywood Downsizing. Obviously, the movie industry is having trouble. Costs are high. Quality is low. Hard to make a buck in those situations. It’s time for layoffs. Force reductions. Somebody needs the old heave ho.

And as with any business, with strategic layoffs, the first thing you look for is redundancies. There are tons of actors who will come up at around the same time, get a lot of work, and then because you can’t tell them apart, eventually only one of them survives.

First Example:
Elijah Wood, Tobey Magquire, Topher Grace.
Sorry, kids. We’re going to have to let 2 of you go. Young, square head, puppy eyes, big smile, angst prone. My vote is for Grace, but I know there’s a strong Maguire contingent. Whatevs. We’re cutting the celebrity budget by 66%.

Second Example:
Olivia Wilde, Megan Fox.
We don’t need 2 Angelina Jolie knock offs. Angie can’t carry all the load, but 2 backups is just obvious redundancy. I vote for Wilde. She’s seems like the nicer version. Megan Fox works the bitch face too often, and I’m concerned that she’s not sharpest tool in the shed.

Third Example:
This is one where the similarity has obviously hurt both of their careers. Not enough work to go around.
Mark-Paul Gosselar, Ryan Reynolds.
Tall, rectangular face, blond, hot bod, comedy background, but skewing towards dramatic work. I know Reynolds is kind of the popular choice right now, and has the pity vote (getting dumped for Sean Penn? That's gotta smart). But I’m going to have to boost for the Saved by the Bell alum. Zach Attack!

Sometimes it's hard to be a woman

Okay. I’m just having one of those days. Or a few one-of-those-days. And one of the blessings of getting older as a woman and my little biological clock winding down is that they are fewer and further between.

It’s one of those hormonal things. Where the normal, rational, reasonable, lovely person that you normally are is turned into a pile of dry straw and the world is aflame. One little spark and you’re going to turn into flash of light and a puff of smoke faster than a joint at a Snoop Dogg show. (And by you I do indeed mean me.) There are a million little things that might get under your skin in any given day, and usually you can just bat them aside. Rubber neckers, bap. 2 empty coffee pots, puuf. Having to say the same thing 6 times and still getting a stunned look the 7th time those words come out of your mouth, wha-pah! You just protect the plate and launch those little annoyances safely outside the base lines.

But when the hormone express is pulling through town, not only do you not have the capacity to suffer slings and arrows, you just don’t damn want to. You lookin’ at me? Cause it looks like you’re looking at me. Yeah, I dinn’t think so. Walk. A. Way.

And really, I don’t enjoy these little low points in the cycle. Never have. And I’m really not sad to see them tail off. I miss the happy bounce of a taught booty and my collagen every day. But once these little moments of spark and fury are gone, I won’t miss them a bit. Not at all.

All aboard!

Okay, here’s the thing about holiday weekends. You start the planning:

I’ve got three whole days! I could do this! And I could do this! And THEN I could do something else. But wait, I’ve been waiting to do this. But if I do that then I have to do this. And then I could clean my entire house! And build a bird sanctuary in my backyard. And then we’ll have a cookout!

Yeah. Crazy train.

This is why everyone drags their pathetic behinds in to work on Tuesday looking like the last 3 minutes of a George Romero movie. Brains! More brains!

And that’s it really. It’s my brain that really needs to be taken care of this weekend. I need to sit my happy ass down for about 3 hours and do nothing but drink glass after glass of cool water. Until my brain starts to rehydrate, and not resemble a delicious golden raisin. So, I’m already on zombie shuffle, even before I go into holiday hyper-drive.

Sit. Peace. Be still.

But there’s just this one thing I’ve gotta do.

Girl's gotta dance

And while some people were scratching their heads and wondering if God’s watch was running slow (see previous post), I was off at the Richardson Wildflower show singing along to “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” with Better Than Ezra.

I was trying to figure out, and I think it’s about the 5th or 6th time I’ve seen them live. I’m not their biggest fan (that would probably be some ex-frat boy with his hat turned backwards and a pair of baggy cargo shorts way past their expiration date; fer reals, what is it with me and dude bands? I’ve gotta start listening to Adele or something). But if you’re on a road trip with me, BTE is guaranteed to get a spin in the CD player at some point. And I will burn your ears singing along at the top of my lungs to Cry In the Sun or A Lifetime.

But the live shows are something in addition. Probably because they’ve been together so long, the band is obviously just trying to amuse themselves by going off on tangents and side trips through the annals of pop music. It doesn’t hurt that they’re certified pop monsters that can riff credibly on R&B, hard rock, folk and 80s dance, etc., at the drop of a pick. Really, they’re probably, in addition to being themselves, one of the better tribute bands you’ll ever see. Don’t be surprised if you’re in the middle of Extra Ordinary and suddenly find yourself asking “Did somebody just get the Led out?”

And just on my own little tangent (because I totally get trying to keep oneself amused – I’m always doing it for the chuckles), if you’re at an outdoor venue that does allow smoking, if you can’t have some respect for your fellow concert goers and step out of the crowd for your nic fix, could you at least have some pity on the performers? Seriously, blowing a cloud in a singer’s face is just hella tacky. I’d say Kevin Griffin was pretty restrained for not going all Patti Lupone on somebody’s ass. Respect, people.