Baby, It’s Cold Outside

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

I feel like you have to have been living under a rock lately to not realize that people seem to be REALLY reaching for things to be offended by. Case in point: Baby It’s Cold Outside, written in 1944 is all of the sudden so offensive that radio stations are pulling it from their Christmas air play rotation in droves. Why? Apparently it’s a little rapey, overbearing, and generally creepy. 

I’m not always the biggest fan of Christmas music, since I work in retail and get the pleasure of listening to it for 6 weeks of the year. It gets a little annoying, but I LOVE Baby It’s Cold Outside. In fact, this song was my go to jam in the car all weekend long. It was a weekend of Car Karaoke featuring me, myself, and I, and this song was the most requested, by me, and performed by me, and not once was I offended by any of the lyrics. Why? Because I realize this song was written in nineteen forty freaking four when a gal had to at least make a show of saying she needed to leave a boy’s house when she really wanted to stay. That’s why there’s the back and forth of “I really should go. Ok, I’ll stay for another drink. Ok, now I really should go. What will everyone think. Ok, I’ll stay for a cigarette.” And so on and so forth. Do we know if she really left? No, but we know it’s cold outside, and she didn’t really want to leave anyway. 

Sure, if you look at the lyrics to this song as if they were written today, they seem a whole lot more sinister, but let’s be honest…. If this song were written today, in a day and age where you literally summon strangers from the internet using an app on your smart phone so you can hook up whenever and wherever you want (Related: THIS makes dating rather than hooking up in this day and age a special kind of hell!), the song would be insanely short, written post smash and feature a quick Nicki Minaj or Pitbull cameo. It would be an auto-tuned mess and go something like this: You really should go. (But baby it’s cold outside.) Aight boo, I guess you can wait for your Uber inside, but lock the door behind you.

But don’t let Baby It’s Cold Outside take all of the offensive Christmas song credit. Here’s some more that are equally offensive if you really want to find trivial reasons to be offended. 

  •  I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus: did we really just subject children to seeing their mom as part of an extramarital affair? And did Santa have mommy’s consent?  I sure hope so!
  • The Christmas Song: Open fire?! Really? Think of the pollution. What about folks dressed up like Eskimos? Can we say cultural appropriation being blatantly celebrated? And what about the chestnuts and people with nut allergies? Sugar plums dancing through heads of children that might have diabetes…
  • Is dreaming of a White Christmas racist?
  • Santa Claus is Coming to Town: He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake. Well…is Santa a stalker or what?!
  • How about celebrating the blatant bullying in Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer?  
  • Santa Baby: If ever there was a song to teach your daughters to be gold diggers, this is it!
  • Surely All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth is offensive to all of those poor unfortunate souls who have lost all of their teeth to meth…

I could go on and on and on with completely asinine reasons to be offended by nearly every Christmas song ever written, but I won’t, because I’m literally sitting at my desk laughing to myself at how the people who are so worked up over a Christmas song that is over 7 decades old are probably the same people who are dressing their daughters up in adorable dance costumes and stage makeup for their dance recitals. Recitals where they will dance to some of the most popular songs in the country, which are either subtly or overtly sexual in content without even batting an eye, but a playful Christmas song from 1944 is offensive and should never see air time again. And besides….if you’re going to be offended by something in that song, be offended by the fact that he’s setting her up for a lifelong addiction and possibility for lung cancer with that cigarette she’s staying for. 

So that happened…

So that happened…

I think I already need a new, new dermatologist. Why? Because skin cancer is a big deal, and when one starts going through risk factors, I light them up like a Christmas tree.

  • Fair skin that burns easily, check
  • Tanning bed use, particularly before the age of 30, check
  • Blue eyes, check
  • Freckles and moles, check
  • History of sun burns early in life, Check, check, checkity check.

But why the new, new dermatologist? Well, I’m not all that fond of the ONLY local option, so I’ve mostly relied on self checks, and having my family practice doctor remove any concerning spots, but I really need some help from an actual professional in the form of some annual mole mapping to more effectively check for any changes that could be concerning. I mean, I’m a little bit flexible, but I still can’t see my back well enough to be confident that there’s nothing serious going on back there, and there’s nobody looking at my back on the regular for me.

I asked some friends for recommendations on who they go to, did some research, and found a practice that is covered by my insurance, AND schedules Saturday office hours once a month so I don’t have to take time off work. #winning Here’s where it gets awkward though.

A few weeks ago, I was having drinks with this guy out of town. He was cool, but I was heading out with some friends later, so I declined his invitation to go back to his place. I’m still not sure if that had more to do with the fact I was going out with friends, or if it was because 2 days before that, I got low key slut shamed (for absolutely no reason, btw) by some arrogant asshole who poses as a friend, but the fact of the matter, remains that I didn’t go home with the guy.

Monday I got the calendar reminder of my appointment this Saturday morning, with the name of the doctor I’m seeing. You know where this is going…I looked him up…he’s the guy from the bar…the one I didn’t go home with. The one I probably should have gone home with, because now, if I don’t cancel my appointment and find a new, new dermatologist, only one of us is getting naked, nobody is going to enjoy it, and I’m going to have to pay for it.


Why are Mom Jeans making a comeback?!

Why are Mom Jeans making a comeback?!

This weekend, I stopped at a friend’s house and left with 6 pairs of jeans that she was getting rid of. Trading clothes with your girlfriends is the best. It really is. We had a nice little fashion show while trying everything on, then threw my new goodies in my trunk and went to brunch. When I got home, I threw them all in the washing machine and actually hung them up when they were dry, instead of sharing a queen sized bed with a pile of clean laundry (my most common “relationship” status btw, second only to sleeping diagonally across a queen sized bed).

This morning, I pulled a pair of jeans from the closet, threw them on, and left for work. Fast forward not even 2 hours in to the day, and I was going completely INSANE!! Why? High waist jeans. How on God’s green earth did we deal with these in the 80s and 90s? Really, I want to know. I mean, I fondly remember my Guess, Jones New York, Silver, and JNCO jeans of the 90s, but what I don’t remember was how insanely uncomfortable it was to wear jeans with a waistband set so high it could damn near double as the band on your mother F wording bra! (Clearly they’re not QUITE that high, but you get the picture.) I’m not 100% positive that the jeans cut so low you have to shave or wax your you know what of the late 90s and early 2000s were not in rebellious direct response to these mom jean monstrosities! I get it now. I really do!

I mean, I’m not in any hurry to go back to pants with a 1 1/2 inch zipper, because Lord knows after having a kid, those don’t do me ANY freaking favors. Honestly, even in the middle of a damn eating disorder, those ultra low rise jeans didn’t do me any favors,  but I’ll still pass on the jeans that can double as a bra too. Mom jeans shouldn’t make a comeback, and the only reason the ones I have on now aren’t going straight in to the donation pile….or trash….is because at some point, I’m going to fail at adulting, and be completely out of clean clothes, and at that point, the mom jeans MIGHT be a better choice than a skirt, and that’s only because they don’t require you to shave your legs (and other areas) without the promise of a pedicure, doctor’s appointment, or on the chance hell might be freezing over….a promising date.

On how to deal with blatant sexism

On how to deal with blatant sexism

I’ve worked in a male dominated business for the better part of 2 decades; 17 years and 356 days to be more exact. I’ve dealt with a whole lot of “I’ll just wait to talk to one of the guys sweetheart. They’ll know what I need.” I’m more than happy to let these people wait for one of the guys to tell them exactly what I would have told them 20 minutes sooner. I figure their wasted time is just a little bit of karma.

The other day, I was talking to a friend who gets to deal with this kind of crap on a daily basis in her job. She’s more qualified, more educated, and simply better at her job than any of her male counterparts, but she STILL gets second guessed or outright ignored by men she has to work with outside of her office to get her job done. She was venting to me about this, and wondering what to do, so of course I had to share my foolproof way of shutting down sexism. I mean, it’ll probably get you a nice forced visit with HR, but it’s worth every second of it.

One day, several years ago, when dealing with a particularly ridiculous case of “I’ll just wait to talk to one of the boys” followed by this person getting more and more upset because “the boys who know what they’re talking about” were not there, but still refusing to let me take care of their issue, I looked at the “gentleman” and said something that shut him down completely.

“I’m sorry that you don’t feel like I can possibly know what I’m talking about. Would it help if I had a penis? Because I can go get one and bring it back. Maybe then you’ll consider the fact that I might just know what I’m doing. Fair warning though, it’s probably going to be bigger than yours, and I hear that is a problem too.”

After spitting and sputtering for a second before he eventually gained his composure, I helped him with what he needed, and sent him on his merry way. Several times I’ve been tempted to use that line again, three more times I have. It works like a charm every single time, in every single situation. Every. Single. Time.

That’s not a real job

That’s not a real job

Guys, I almost bit a hole in my lip trying not to laugh just now. Why? I’ll get to that in a minute.

A few weeks ago, an incredibly intelligent person that I know told me I was generally brilliant. I don’t know if he said it because he read on my blog that I think this is the biggest compliment in the world, or if he genuinely thinks that, although I’m inclined to believe the latter, because the dude still talks to me, so it stands to reason that he hasn’t done much digging in to my ramblings. He’s also called me smart on more than one occasion, so there’s that. Smart people who I can have intelligent conversations with calling me smart…I like that.

There’s smart people like my friend, and then there’s smart people like I spend way to much freaking time at work with: the smart people who lord it over everyone. The smart people who think they’re soooooo much better than everyone because they know so much. I’m not discounting how much these people know, but it’s THE most annoying thing in the world to CONSTANTLY be subjected to how much better these people are than everyone else, and how nobody else could possibly know anything, or at least not as much as they do. They’re always right, even when they’re not.

Speaking of even when they’re not, this is where I almost pierced my lip with my teeth. You know the doctor that you might go to if your back or neck were bothering you? Say the name of that doctor in your head…or out loud, I don’t care, but how do YOU say the name of the doctor that adjusts and manipulates your spine?

Today, upon returning to work from lunch, this person who almost caused my impromptu lip piercing, stood at my desk for 20 minutes telling me how this particular medical profession is just weird. That they’re the very lowest of the medical field. That every one he’s ever known is just strange. That he knows some that do this part-time, and have other business part time too, so they can’t possibly be any good at either one of these professions, because why would a doctor need a house painting business, or any other business for that matter, as well as their medical practice if they were any good. It went on, and on, and on, and on, and on.

Through the entirety of this conversation, he referred to this medical profession as a choir-practor. When he was done talking at me, he said “I’ve never even gone to a choir-practor. I think they’re stupid. Do you go to the choir-practor?”

To which I responded, after releasing the interior of my bottom lip from the vice grips of my teeth and taking a deep breath, “I’ve seen a CHIROpractor several times, but I’ve not once been to a CHOIRpractor, because that’s not a real word and those don’t exist.” Of course, because I’m smart enough to realize that these grown up bills of mine aren’t going to pay themselves, and there’s not exactly anyone throwing their hat in the ring to pay them for me, that smart ass retort was simply in my head, and as I exhaled slowly to avoid laughing at the ridiculousness of the word choir-practor, the way I responded out loud was simply, “No, I don’t.”

You can’t say that on the air: pilot episode

You can’t say that on the air: pilot episode

Remember that old Nickelodeon show “You Can’t Do That On Television” where they doused everyone in slime? Just aged myself didn’t I? Well, every time something crosses my path in my radio prep that I can’t share because it’s too late in the morning, or it’s the afternoon, or it’s just too much for ANY time of the day on a show that isn’t on satellite radio where that kind of stuff doesn’t matter, I think “Man, I wish there was somewhere else I could share this.” Well…duh Discovery Channel…I have the PERFECT outlet for that. So, without further adieu, here’s the pilot episode of “You Can’t Say That on the Air.”

How cold is it? Pretty nippy! Dr. Sanjay Acharya of the Maine Medical Center emergency room says they’ve been treating patients for hyperextreme nipple glaciation. In layman’s terms that’s chipped nipples! It only occurs when temperatures drop below 10 degrees Fahrenheit and even bundling up can’t always protect against it. The doctor said, “From a scientific standpoint, there just isn’t enough research into the causes of nipple chippage beyond the fact that it’s colder than a whore’s heart in church.” For someone suffering from such a condition, it’s recommended they get inside and perhaps have a hot toddy or two to get the heart pumping.

Nipple chippage?! Colder than a whore’s heart in church?! Is that colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra? I mean, according to this, you wouldn’t want to be a witch in a brass bra, because you would apparently be subject to freaking chipped nipples! There is not a world where I can say ANY of that after 630am on a radio station in Utah. Nope…not at all. In the big mouth Snapchat filtered viral words of Heather Land “Nipple chippage…..I ain’t doin’ it.”

Trigger warning #metoo

Trigger warning #metoo

If you’re uncomfortable with the f word, I highly suggest you do NOT read this post. If you proceed and find yourself incredibly offended, it’s your own fault.

It takes an awful lot to offend, embarrass, or absolutely disgust me. A friend of mine actually said it best when he said I have dude humor. It’s true. I can hold my own with the guys, and in fact I prefer hanging with the guys to dealing with the high maintenance, drama filled girl shit most of the time.

  • I can’t believe I can talk to you like I talk to my guy friends.
  • You really don’t have much of a filter between your brain and your mouth do you?
  • I can’t believe you said that. (I get this one a LOT!)
  • You are like the least girly girl I know.

I get variations of things like this said to me ALL the time. I actually like it. Being “one of the guys” is generally the easiest way to go about things. Honestly, I’d rather be able to talk about things that are “taboo” than bury my head in the sand and pretend they don’t exist. Like, I can hang out with my girl friends, but I can also carry my own when I’m around their husbands and boyfriends too, and in a situation where everyone is around, you’re more likely to find me shooting the shit with the guys than you are to find me gossiping with the girls.

Getting to my point, I owe one giant damn apology to EVERYONE who took any time at all during that week or so last month to post any variation of #metoo that was trending on social media. You see, privately of course because I would NEVER say something like this publicly, my opinion was that these women should have said something sooner. As I watched more and more women in Hollywood come out and tell their stories, all I could think was “WHY didn’t you say something sooner? Look how many other women you could have saved from this fate if you had just said something before you made yourself rich and famous first.” I know, I know…it’s victim shaming in the worst form, and I hate myself too, but I seriously thought “How selfish could you possibly be? You KNOW that this creep is this way, but you accepted it so you could make your millions, and now that you’ve done that, NOW you’ll speak out against them. How do you feel knowing you could have started this ball rolling YEARS ago? You could have stopped it from happening to all of these other people!”

I watched as #metoo took over social media and thought “There is no fucking way this is happening this often. There’s just no way.” How absolutely fucking naive of me.

I have ALWAYS prided myself on being able to take care of my own shit. I am independent as hell, and nobody is going to put me in a position where I am not in control of my own shit. Could I have possibly been more wrong?!

For better or worse, I seem to be someone who people feel comfortable talking to about anything. I’d blame it on being a Pisces, but I know some Pisceans who are complete uncaring assholes, so whatever. My point is people tell me shit. They tell me things that they wouldn’t say to other people because somehow they know I’m not going to tell anyone else, or judge them, and somehow they know I’m going to do everything I possibly can to help them get their shit together or feel better about their situation. Whether it needs to be done with actual advice, conversations that other people would deem “inappropriate”, a conversation that is nothing but memes sent back and forth, or just someone to listen and not say a thing, I’m generally your person.

A while back, someone I know reached out. They needed someone, and as it often goes, I was the someone. I listened, memed, made them feel better, and by the time the conversation was over, I was completely drained, but they were doing better so whatev…my job was done. I actually thought nothing more of it.

A few months ago this person sent me a text that was CLEARLY meant for someone else. I ignored it, deleted it, laughed it off, and went about my business. I’ve sent texts to the wrong person before; everyone has.

Cut to a time really not all that long ago. I got a message from this person who I haven’t heard from in months. No biggie. I often go great lengths of time between talking to some people. I figured they needed to talk, and by talk, I mean text/meme/anything that didn’t ACTUALLY involve speaking on the phone. What actually happened was the most vile string of messages I have EVER been sent from anyone ever.

Oh it started out innocently enough, telling me I was beautiful, telling me that they just don’t understand why I don’t have someone who cares for me. That’s not anything out of the ordinary. Lots of people say things like that to me. Actually, back up. Most people say a variation of “You’re fucking awesome and I just don’t understand how you’re not dating/married.”  Most people don’t use the word beautiful. Most people lie and say hot or gorgeous. (I say they lie, because I just simply don’t see it. Maybe they just need their eyes examined.) Beautiful isn’t something that is used very often, and beautiful shakes me to my fucking core, so beautiful REALLY threw me off, but not for long. I responded with some variation of my usual “Between drama with my kid, 2 jobs and 2 different volunteer organizations, I simply don’t have time for the bullshit. When I find someone who WANTS to be part of my life, instead of someone who I have to beg to be part of my life, maybe then I’ll have someone who ‘cares’ about me.” Actually, I think my exact words this time were “I don’t have any patience for the bullshit.” Then I fell asleep thinking the conversation was over.

I woke up the next morning to the usual myriad of missed notifications on my phone. I checked them as I was walking to the bathroom, running late as usual. That’s when I opened the unread messages and saw that the innocent conversation that had started the night before had turned unacceptably sinister as I was sleeping. Messages hinting at things this person would like to do with me, followed by them questioning the appropriateness of the things they were sending, followed by additional messages that were even worse than the ones just barely sent.

These are messages that leave me with the realization that I will NEVER fucking be in a room anywhere with this person again, alone or otherwise. They are messages that will have me avoiding any function where I might run in to this person again like the damn plague, and that REALLY pisses me off, because this is a group of people I like to be around. They are messages that make me question my status as that bad ass who can take care of herself in any situation. They shake my already nearly non-existent trust in other people, and they make me despise the word beautiful. They make me insanely relieved that I can block numbers from calling or messaging my phone. They make me dread any time I am asked to come out of my office at work, because I never know who will be waiting to talk to me when I leave it.

Mostly though, these messages make me realize just what an asshole I was to even think that if these #metoo women had said something sooner, they could have prevented so many other #metoo stories, because calling these fucking predators out on their bullshit is not an easy task. Whether they waited 20 seconds or 20 years to say something, to do something about it, they deserve nothing less than our encouragement and full support.

I’m fortunate that my #metoo story didn’t involve anything physical. The old me would say this person is actually fortunate that it didn’t escalate to anything physical, because I would have caused some serious damage to them. Truthfully, I’m the lucky one though, because I probably would have frozen and shut down mentally in a physical confrontation just like I did reading about it. I thought I was strong. I thought I was a total bad ass. I thought I could handle anything life threw at me, but I was wrong. I was wrong because those stupid words on my phone fucked me up more than anything else life has ever thrown at me, and that’s a lot, because life has been a giant dick to me, and right this very second, I’m questioning whether or not I’ll ever recover from that.