Pot, meet Kettle

Like so many others, I have been thoroughly enjoying the descent of one Ms. Britney Spears into the pits of white trashdom (and, let's face it, skankdom).

In a letter posted yesterday on her Web site, Brit responded thusly to the beating up she's been getting in the tabs:

"Dear False Tabloids,
As you read this letter, I bet you are asking yourself: Who? Who, me? Am I a false tabloid? ... I'm really concerned about the people you hire to work at your companies. I'd like them to ask themselves the question, "What am I lying to myself about?" Is it that you are 50 pounds overweight? Is it that your children aren't making wise decisions? Or is it maybe that your husband or boyfriend is cheating on you? Until you face what is going on in your life, I guess you'll remain a false tabloid."

"False Tabloids"? Isn't that an oxymoron, kind of like "military intelligence"? Oh, Brit...Brit. I don't deny that many celebrities are stalked by tabloid media, but when you go out in public looking like a crack 'ho, and do interviews with mainstream magazines in which you complain about having to tell your maid to buy diapers and your pool boy to walk your sorry excuse for a dog...well, Brit, let me tell you a little secret: You're kind of asking for it.

Few people can avert their eyes from a train wreck, and missy, that's you to a tee. I just hope your little sister looks at you as an example of what NOT to do. She's young. It's not too late for her.

Just in case you think I'm not being fair to Mrs. Kevin Federline, I invite you to check out the photographic evidence that she is in no position to be accusing anyone of anything. The woman (I'm sorry...child) can't even dress herself.

[I enjoy that she's calls the letter portion of her Web site "Stream of Conciousness." I think the conciousness part is a bit ambitious on her part, frankly.]

Rest in Peace

OK, it's official: Terri Schiavo has died.

The TV news showed more "before" photos of her than I had ever seen previously. It's sad to see how happy, friendly and lively she looked before the effects of an eating disorder robbed her of life as she knew it. She looked like the kind of person any of us might want to know. Maybe I understand a little better now why her parents and blood relatives were so deeply in denial about the medical facts of her case. I hope they can also find peace.

One photo I hope to never see again is the one where someone [clearly from her parents' camp] smeared garish red lipstick on Terri in an obvious attempt to make her look...normal (for lack of a better word). That photo offended me deeply every time I saw it, and TV news trotted it out a lot. I believe in the tranformative power of make-up, but even the best cosmetics in the world can't transform someone in a permanent vegetative state into their former self.

I hope that somewhere out there, at least one of those misguided girls who worship the emaciated thinness of celebrities like Mary Kate and Ashley Olson realize the potential dangers of starving to be thin, and decide to start eating properly.

The biggest riff-raff of all

This just in: According to CNN, after George W. Bush, the alledged president of the United States, was briefed this morning on findings that the results of pre-Iraq War investigations into the presence of Weapons of Mass Destruction were grossly inaccurate, GWB told his people [off camera] that "We have important work to do. We need to clean out the riff-raff."

Finally, the guy gets it! So, when are you handing in your resignation, Georgie Boy?

Peeps for you, Peeps for me

Easter just wouldn't be Easter without those gooey marshmallow confections known as Peeps. What? You say you're just not satisfied with store-bought Peeps? Well, all you Martha-wannabes can now have the satisfaction of making your own Peeps, right at home, with Wham-o's Marshmallow Peeps Marshmallow Maker. Yet another fine product from the maker of my childhood favorites, Slip 'N Slide, The Original SuperBall, and The Original Hula Hoop.

I found out about this intriguing $25 contraption thanks to an article on one of my usual online news sources. The best part of the article/review: "If you need to know about nutritional values, you shouldn’t be making or eating Peeps." Hee!

And on that note, I'm off to bite the head off of a neon pink Peeps bunny. Yum!

Help me

Please allow me a little freak out here:

I just got home from a rehearsal for a student bellydance performance this weekend, and I was so nervous and stage-frighty that I could hardly stand it. My heart was beating so fast that I couldn't hold a proper shimmy. Ahhhhhh...what was I thinking when I signed up for this class.

"Smile!" my teacher instructed/encouraged. So I did. Or tried, as my jangling nerves made my jaw all but quiver.

When I finished, my teacher asked me how long I'd been dancing. "A year," I said.

"You have come so far in just a year, I'm so proud of you. You're a beautiful dancer." (At this point, I had to strongly resist the urge to duck my head bashfully, grind my toes into the ground and say, "aw, shucks, ma'am.")

Apparently, my face is an open book, and that book said I wasn't 100% happy with my rehearsal performance. "Stop mentally editing yourself," my teacher said. "But I am an editor," I replied. "I knew it, I knew it!" she exclaimed.

She said she bets I dance more confidently at home. "Oh, yes," I said. It's completely different at home."

"So pretend there's no one in the audience," a fellow student said.

Ah, I wish. But, alas, it's hard to pretend there's no one in the room when I also need to be remembering to make eye contact.

And, wouldn't you know it, just before I started this blog entry, I was alone, in my bathroom, under the pretext of getting ready for bed, when I probably put on one of my best solo dance performances ever in front of the mirror. Totally spontaneous, completely uninhibited. Go figure.

Words of wisdom

My feelings about the Terri Schiavo case are intense, to say the least. To sum them up in a few words: "Let the woman die in peace. Her dead brain cells will never regenerate, therefore she will never emerge from her 'persistant vegetative state.' "

So many facets of this case have made me want to throw heavy objects at my TV or computer screen (depending on where I am getting my news at the moment), but this morning I felt a touch of peace myself. First, because I was greeted with the news that the U.S. Supreme Court has yet again refused to consider her case. Second, because of the way that musician Moby so succinctly voiced so many of my own arguments, protests and frustrations on his Web site:

"Again, I don't want to get drawn into the Terry Schiavo debate. It makes me sad and uncomfortable that politicians have taken this incredibly personal and tragic story and turned it into a political football. ... My note to the far-right would be: you can't have it both ways. If you genuinely believe in the sanctity of life then you cannot support the death penalty and you cannot allow people to buy automatic assault weapons and you cannot support wars that result in the deaths of hundreds of thousands of innocent people. And if you genuinely believe in states rights then you can't pass intrusive federal legislation when the states do things that you arbitrarily disagree with."

Thanks Moby. You rock. And I am so going to buy your new CD. (P.S. You were great on "The Apprentice." You came across like the genuinely cool human being I always suspected you were.)

...and a not so beautiful one

It's a sad fact that some people reach a point where they feel that they simply cannot continue to exist in life as they know it.

Suicide is an issue rife with legal, moral, psychological and emotional baggage. But I want to cut through all that to say just one thing:

If you really, truly feel that life is not worth living and you have therefore decided that you have no other option but to end your own life, I beg you...don't take anyone else with you.

I don't care if the kids at school picked on you. I don't give a s--t if you feel that you need to vent your frustrations or mete out some "justice" before you blow your own head off. If you think that self-termination is the only path leading away from your trouble and pain, then logic and rational thought have deserted you. They have. Don't argue with me.

Death won't feel any better if you've first racked up a body count. Suicide is never pretty. Don't make it any uglier.

A beautiful day...

As I was walking to work this morning, I came upon a glorious sight: The two Jehovah's Witnesses who often troll my foot-commute route were talking to one of those annoying "sidewalk telemarketers" who try to take "just a minute of my time" at least once a day to save the children or save health care, or something. (I know how to save the children: Don't let them listen to Britney Spears.)

This little tableau raised just one question: Who cornered who?

My morning brightened further as I recalled the moment I first set eyes on this pair of JWs (both women) several months ago. I was was walking south; they were walking north. From the distance of half a long city block, I looked at them and said to myself, "I bet they're Jehovah's Witnesses." Then our paths met, they whipped out their propaganda publications, tried to engage me in conversation, and I mentally pumped my fist in the air while (silently) yelling, "Yes! Called that one!"

Now, don't think that I have anything against the religion practiced by Jehovah's Witnesses; I don't. However, I will admit that their organization royally pissed me off a few years ago when I used to ride a commuter bus into Seattle from a neighboring county. On THREE occasions, I was standing at a bus stop, minding my own business, when the following events occured. A gold Jeep Cherokee pulls over. A pretty, fresh-faced young woman exits the vehicle. Young woman walks over to stand next to me as if she, too, is waiting for the bus. Young woman begins to make small talk about the weather and whatnot. Young woman whips out her JW propaganda periodicals and tries to sell me on her religion.

Now, I am all for freedom of religion. But I am equally for freedom from religion. All I ask of religious folks is two things. 1) That they don't go on a fundamentalist murder spree. 2) That they don't push their religion or their religious beliefs onto people who don't first ask to hear about them. As the pretty young JWs shuttled around in the gold Jeep Cherokee can attest, anyone who tries to perform a sidewalk religious conversion on me will get their head verbally bitten off. That's just me, provoked into protecting my freedom to temporarily occupy a few square feet of a public sidewalk in peace.

Amen. And praise Goddess, God, Allah, Buddha, or whomever or whatever you choose to believe in or NOT believe in. As far as I'm concerned, it's all good.

Irish and Italians

I was just reading the transcript of Bruce Springsteen's speech inducting U2 into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Turns out New Jersey's favorite son and I have something in common (well, two, since I lived in Jersey for a while several years ago, but I digress). I often call U2 "my boys," and so does The Boss: "Suddenly I hear 'Uno, dos, tres, catorce!' I look up. But instead of the silhouettes of the hippie wannabes bouncing around in the iPod commercial, I see my boys!"

Dude!

Seriously, Bruce rocks (not as much as U2, but then, I am admitedly biased). He was a most excellent choice to induct my boys. Sorry, our boys.

Where's my pool boy?

I've been feeling a little stressed lately. In addition to a full-time (and at times high-pressure) job, I'm about to start culinary school in the evenings. Plus I'm jetting off to bellydance classes, researching the cafe/bakery we want to start, creating plans for the community garden plots we just nabbed (yay!), trying to keep food in the fridge, clean clothes in the closet, and a mininum of cat hair accumulation on the couch.

But now, I realize I have no reason to complain. In fact, I don't know how I could have been so self-centered as to even waste a thought on my petty trials and tribulations when the life of one Ms. Britney Spears is clearly, obviously so much harder than my own.

I learned about the hell that is Ms. Spears' life through a tasty little tidbit from an interview Brit did with Allure magazine, as reported on msnbc.com. Let's enjoy:

“Before we got married we were on tour, and we were just like kids, ordering room service, saying, ‘Let’s go out tonight. Then, all of a sudden, you have this home, you have the kids [Federline’s children Kaleb and Kori], you have to get the diapers, get the dog to the vet. It’s this reality. Like omigod, I have to tell the maid to buy diapers and get the pool boy to walk the dog? Can’t I just make out with Kevin all the time? Being married sucks.”

In case you missed it, Brit has to tell the maid to buy diapers and get the pool boy to walk the dog.

Now, wait a minute. I have a dog. A large dog. One that must have two long walks a day plus pit stops. Which brings me to what has become my new catchphrase: "Hey, where's MY pool boy?"

And, for that matter, why can't I just make out with He Who Puts Up With Me all day? Wait, let me answer my own question: 1) I'm at the office 45 hours a week 2) I hardly ever see HWPUWM because he works evenings. Wow, being married sucks (not really, I just wanted to see what it felt like to act like a spoiled, immature pop star...I think I'll keep my normal, mature, but hectic life, thanks).

A sad P.S. to this tale: Apparently, Brit has enough of a brain (barely) to realize how badly statements like the one above come across...so she is not going to talk to interviewers about her personal life any more. She means it! Like, for real, y'all! Damn, what will I have to laugh about? Oh, yeah, the candid pix posted everywhere of her looking like the train wreck where white hit trash. Whew! I feel better.

Fear of flying

This week in bellydance class, my teacher surprised and embarrased me (in a good way...just wait) by telling me (allow me to paraphrase, as shock prevented me from recalling her precise words), "Kate, you're a good dancer, and you're so into bellydance, but you have got to stop looking down and blinking your eyes."

When I told He Who Puts Up With Me, he was like, "Um, what's wrong with blinking?"

A valid question, with a good answer. As my teacher explains it, when a dancer blinks too much (which can happen from sheer nervousness), her eyes are like a shutter on a camera, closing her off from her audience. She also describes it like a film strip: If you were watching a movie and you could actually see the part of the strip that surrounds each frame, you would be really distracted, and probably unable to enjoy the movie. Well, a frantically blinking dancer has the same effect on an audience. And anyone who doesn't believe that a blinking dancer is not a good thing just has to watch the rather humorous demonstration my teacher gives in illustration: This is your teacher dancing and blinking, this is your teacher dancing and making proper eye contact. Big difference. Huge.

She's called me on the looking down part before (which I think has its roots in my need to actually look at my hips to make sure they are doing what they are supposed to be doing), but the blinking is new...I think (of course, my contact lenses were bothering me that night).

But let's not forget that she said I was a good dancer! Not that I thought I totally sucked, but well, you know. Trying to judge my own ability at something is kind of like being an objective judge about how good (or not) a photo of myself is. I think each of us is our own worse judge, and anyone who seems like their own biggest cheerleader is likely putting on a big show. Oh, and she knows my name now. And she uses it a lot. Big deal, you say? Well, I've been taking classes from her for almost a year, and I don't think she knew my name until about a month ago (granted, she admits she's much better with faces than names). There's just something about someone actually using your name when they praise you. It's more personal. I wonder if that's how Doofus feels when I praise him for fetching....hmmmm.

So my skills are there, but I have trouble connecting with an audience (hell, I have trouble connecting with my own reflection in the mirror when other people are in the room...something else my teacher has called me on). I blame this on the crippling shyness that consumed me as a child and adolescent, but now restricts itself to random manifestations in my life. So,what am I afraid of? Hell if I know, but it's buried there somewhere. Fear of failure? Fear of being a fool? Fear of my costume falling off? (Because that is so not what bellydance is about).

I was thinking of putting bellydance classes on hiatus for a while once I start baking and pastry classes next month, but her comments reminded me of how much I love bellydance, how much I have improved since I started last year, and frankly, how much I need bellydance. It's more than just exercise, it's more than just art, it's more than just sisterhood. And I'll tell you what-- it's a hell of a lot cheaper than therapy!

What a wonderful world

I just saw the news about the alleged rapist who shot to death a judge, court reporter and sheriff's deputy in Atlanta. And then this guy beat up a newspaper reporter outside the courtroom, and shot another sheriff's deputy on the street outside the courthouse. Then, as if he hadn't created enough violence in the world, he carjacked what is suspected to be the first of several vehicles.

This nauseating incident brings to mind several questions:

1. What in the HELL kind of world are we living in?
2. What kind of thought processes would make someone on trial for rape decide to do something (in such a public way, natch) that would put them on trial for multiple homicides? Isn't being on trial for rape bad enough?
3. Are more people using murder as an escape hatch (i.e. defendants killing judges, guys who don't want to be daddies killing their pregnant wives and/or girlfriends), or is media attention just making it appear that way?

In much the same way that it is hard to avoid looking at the results of a car accident, I found myself watching an online video clip of the aftermath of the Atlanta shooting. In one fairly lengthy segment, a sheriff's deputy was performing CPR on someone whom I presume to be the deputy who was shot outside the courthouse. I'm thinking that if you're a shooting victim, and the fact that you were shot caused your heart to stop, that things don't look very good for you. I hope I'm wrong...but the deputy performing the CPR kept going, and going and going. I really feel sick.

That's it, I'm never showering again!

I got out of the shower a little while ago, only to discover that my neighbor, an acceptably cute, reasonably with-it looking single guy about 10 years younger than me, is playing Meatloaf. Loudly. ("Now don't be sad, cuz two out of three ain't bad.") Ewwwwwwwwwwwww!!! I think my ears are bleeding.

That's it. When I resume my "Sex and the City" marathon (He Who Puts Up With Me bought me the entire series on DVD for my birthday, and I'm wrapping up season three), I'm turning it up full blast. And if the sounds of Samantha having sex are mistaken for, well, live action, then so be it. Ha!

It's 9:05, do you know where your cat is?

As a cautionary tale to all cat owners, I am posting a link to this article (it speaks for itself, so I won't even try to summarize).

It's a good thing

Yippee! I logged on to the Web today to see the happy news that Martha has indeed been released from prison. The only thing that disturbs me was the news that if she wants to work in her garden, her "garden activities" must be planned in advance, cleared through her parole officer, and be included in her maximum-allowed 48-hour work week (in which she is allowed to leave her home).

Excuse me, but as a gardener who is currently without a garden, I can vouch for the fact that time spent pulling weeds, planting bulbs, watering, etc. does not conveniently fall within the workweek. It's kind of extracurricular.

So what if Martha is actually, you know, working during her five months of house arrest. How will her gardening get done? I completely understand that she should get pre-approval for activities that take her off her property, but what, she's supposed to say "from 10 a.m. until noon on Saturday, April 16, I plan to water my flower boxes and sow some lettuce seeds." What if something in the garden needs immediate attention, something that couldn't be planned for? This is very distressing. But then, I suppose she has a gardening staff who can tend to those garden emergencies. I sure hope so.

Before Martha's trial and conviction, I was only a casual reader of her magazine and viewer of her television show. I would certainly not have considered myself a "fan," per se. But my admiration of her has multiplied exponentially since her trial. Yes, what she did was technically wrong, but prison time? Please. She was totally singled out because of who she was.

No one was hurt by her "crime" (i.e., prices of the stock she dumped didn't take a nosedive and harm other investors). I love it that some violent offenders see less time inside a prison than she did. Yeah, that's justice. So I rallied behind her for that reason, then gained even more admiration when she decided to do her time and get it over with so she could move on, instead of just sitting banking on the appeals process. Cool, very cool. And smart. And gutsy. But then, look at what this woman has achieved in her life. She wasn't born rich; she built her own success. And that success will continue to grow, I have no doubt. I know plenty of other people who like her more now than ever.

I've never been a huge fan of "The Apprentice" (I have a hard time with bad comb-overs), but I am eagerly awaiting the new version starring Martha. He Who Puts Up With Me thought I should audition for it, which amused me, since I thought the same thing after the show was announced...for about 30 seconds. I'd rather be a domestic goddess in a more limited sphere, thank you very much.

Time heals all wounds...

...and sore muscles, too.

Actually, some of my muscles (lats and hamstrings, I'm talking to YOU!) are still complaining about last Sunday's workshop. As a result, my weekly workout schedule has dwindled to extra-long yoga sessions (gentle, seated poses, mostly) and my usual mode of transportation: brisk walking. And Doofus still has to be walked daily.

As much as I hurt right after the workshop, I was fearful of my fate come Monday morning (the morning after is almost always the worst). Would I wake to my alarm clock, only to find that my muscles had seized up to the point where I was unable to reach over to turn it off?!?

Alas, no. I felt no worse the morning after than I did the day before, which was good...except it meant that I had no good reason NOT to go to work. Sigh.

Allow me to take this opportunity to give a small round of thanks to my main men, U2, for putting a little spring in this achy girl's step this week. Listening to the "Hasta la Vista" recording from their 1997 Mexico City concert (the PopMart tour, in case you were wondering) was a lifesaver during my twice-daily foot commutes. Nothing like the bouncy refrains of M's "Pop Musik" giving way to "Mofo" ("looking for to save my, save my soul" indeed...more like looking for to save my, save my sore glutes) and then seguing into "I Will Follow" to take this Moody Babe's mind off her pain.

Maybe in 52 days I will have the opportunity to thank Bono, Edge, Adam or Larry myself. Or maybe I should just move to Vancouver, B.C., this month, where it is rumored they will be prepping for their tour. Hmmm...I do really like Vancouver.