is an unapologetic, bleeding-heart liberal who writes about everything from politics to private parts. A TV-writer in a former life, her credits include "Big Spender" for Animal Planet,and "A Child Too Many," "Cradle of Conspiracy" & "Deceived By Trust," for Lifetime
. I’m hesitant to make New Year’s resolutions. I don’t like to give my word unless I know I can keep it, not even to myself. Actually, especially to myself. So I’m really going out on a limb here by declaring in this oh-so-public manner that I am going to start socking money away, and I’m going to do it by paying myself 10% out of every paycheck I receive before any blood-sucking creditor gets so much as a shiny damn dime.
The last time I had a real savings account was when I was in the third grade. Each week, the teacher would pass out little banking envelopes in which to deposit our stash of pennies, nickels, dimes and the occasional quarter. It was fun to write the amount on the outside of the envelope and then see our fortunes grow from week to week. I don’t recall what ever happened to that money. I suspect I eventually browbeat my mother into letting me take it out and squander it, and I’ve been squandering ever since.
As I grew and no longer had the luxury of being a burden on someone else, it amazed me how many people had their hands in my pocket every month. Rent, utilities, food, car payments – and this was before big banks figured out how to grab us by the short hairs and keep us enslaved forever. That’s a whole other descent into the bowels of hell.
At barely 1% interest these days, I’m not expecting to get rich any time soon. But with the money out of my immediate eyesight and the safety hatch of a few days transfer time, it will give me just the pause button I need when I come across that fabulous (insert your temptation here) that I just have to have this very minute.
Since the paychecks of a freelancer vary, I fully expect to hear the fiscal anti-Christ whisper in my ear that 10% of this check or that won’t make a bit of difference in the grand scheme. “Piss off, old dark one,” I will say.
There
were many years when I loathed Christmas. I was alone and struggling to make it in show biz as a writer, with rejection my only steady companion. Christmas with all its gaiety and promise
seemed to mock me and each year I swore that I was going to completely
ignore it. Short of a quick hop over to
Red China for the month of December, Christmas is about as easy to ignore as a
mud slide heading your way.
In
the end, I would always cave and put up an artificial tree barely twenty
inches tall.
Nothing to it. Out of the box,
spread the fake branches, toss on some lights and begrudgingly declare “There! Are you happy, Christmas? You won.” When you feel bad about yourself and bad
about your life, it’s hard not to dwell in the valley of dung. But then something would happen. The sparkle of that little tree would
inevitably lighten my heart just enough that some of that persistent Christmas
spirit would sneak past the gargoyle at the gate and manage to find its way
inside of me.
As
the years moved on and my career took off, I began to welcome Christmas. My trees grew in size and splendor and I
couldn’t wait to put them up. The first
Monday of each December, friends gathered at my home for tree-trimming and
tomato bisque soup – a tradition carried on for 15 years. But, as we all know, nothing lasts forever
and either we define our circumstances or they define us.
Last
year, there was no eight-foot tree, no party, no traditional tomato bisque soup.Money was tight again, but Christmas came
just as it always does and I found that my small table-top tree warmed my
heart just as much as its larger predecessors.
This
year I’ve come full-circle. A limited
income, a tiny home and, once again, another tree barely 20 inches tall. I guess I could have chosen not to bother,
but I’ve learned that giving in to Christmas is a lot easier than fighting it
and it’s a fight I’m happy to say I lost long ago anyway. I
often hear people who live alone say, “Why should I decorate?It’s just me, after all.”And now I always say to them, “Who’s more
important than you?”
It’s
not called “the magic of Christmas” for nothing. All it asks is that you meet it
halfway. Merry Christmas…
Muslims the world over are hanging their heads in embarrassment over an Islamic cleric’s recent ban on women touching bananas, carrots and cucumbers, citing their resemblance to male genitalia and thus a danger of "sexual thoughts." I, personally, have never seen a green penis, nor one that could be peeled. The only orange one that might qualify is John Boehner’s.
Should Muslim women wish to eat these items, a male must cut the offending produce up into small pieces out of sight of the woman and serve it -- and we all know how eager Muslim men are to wait on their women.
Some religious leaders have denounced the cock-obsessed cleric as giving Islam a bad name. Others have called him “retarded” – giving the mentally challenged a bad name.
Meanwhile, women in other parts of the Muslim world can still be raped as long as they marry their rapists. No problem there.
***
Here in the U.S. we have our own special way of making sure women know their place by starting their indoctrination young…
Teach your little girl to aspire to the domestic service industry this Christmas with “My Little Trolley” cleaning cart.
But always remember her true calling as a sex object with Pole Dancer Patty…
And because it’s never too soon for a little girl to start obsessing about her boobies, “Breastfeeding Baby,” comes complete with sucking sounds.
Photo credits: Huffington Post.
***
This just makes me sad…
The only Lindsay Lohan twins I want to see are these.
***
For a positive role model, look no further than Hillary Clinton…
… who this week gave a historic speech in Geneva where she declared “… protection of human rights for gay people will now be a priority of U.S. foreign policy,” tying it to the receipt of U.S. foreign aid. Notice the standing ovation. There's something you don't often see for a U.S. representative.
Getty image
Thank you, Madame President.Uh… “Secretary.”
***
Our congratulations to Rosie O’Donnell…
… who announced her engagement to partner, Michelle Rounds this week. The couple will marry in New York where the nuptials are legal, while Obama’s opinion on same-sex marriage continues to “evolve.”
***
And it looks the Newt Gingrich may be the GOP’s date to the prom.
Meanwhile, Mitt snagged a major endorsement this week from former vice-president, Dan Quayle. Remember him? The genius who apparently didn’t know that “Murphy Brown” was a fictional character.
***
And for all of those still delusional enough to believe the Republican Party gives a flying crap about them…
Unless, of course, you happen to be a fetus.Out of the womb?Out of luck.
***
And finally, in the spirit of the season…
If you enjoyed the Sunday Recap, please share. Thank you.
The best of IJW, according to your comments, is now “Suitable for Giving.” The most fun about putting together this compilation of 19 essays from the last two years, was reading all your comments again. You’re a funny bunch. You should write blogs.
The book is called “Suitable for Giving” because it’s Christmas and you have to buy gifts anyway. Could I be any more obvious? I considered naming it “Tales from a Size 4 Ass,” but that just didn’t seem in keeping with the spirit of the season, and I worried people might confuse it with one of those celebrity diet books.
Each month, I’ll be selecting a different group to receive a portion of the profits. For the month of December, I’m donating $1/paperback and .50/e-book to Elayne Boosler’s “Tails of Joy” pet rescue. It’s a small organization with no paid staff. Just Elayne and her desire to make a difference in the lives of animals.
So, come on. How long has it been since you replaced that old reading material in your bathroom? And really, who doesn’t want a good laugh when they’re sitting on the throne?
One more thing… None of this writing would have been possible without your support, encouragement and friendship. You all literally helped me find my voice again. If I could step through my computer and hug each one of you I would… Well, some of you… Nah. I really wouldn’t do that, but do believe me when I say I am so very, very grateful.
Why is it that celebrities, especially those looking to shed their wholesome images, feel the need to share way too much about themselves? I’ve obviously been living under a rock, because it was only this week that I became aware of Florence Henderson’s recent memoir where one of America’s favorite TV-mom spills on a one-nighter she had with then NewYork Mayor John Lindsay and the post-coital critters he gave her to remember him by.
What’s next? Will Mrs. Cunningham reveal that she went down on the Fonz? Did Maggie Seaver get it on with Shirley Partridge? Do whatever makes you happy ladies, but honestly, I don’t need to know. Flo's is one book I don't find "Suitable for Giving" at all.
Unlike mine, which will be out this week, at least in paperback and guaranteed crabs-free.
***
Nothing says “Good Tidings to All” like a grenade launcher…
From Arizona, the state that brought us the shooting of Gabrielle Giffords and slaughter of six others, those merry folks at the Scottsdale Gun Club bring you the Christmas family photo op of your sick-ass dreams.
Calling it just a “fun way” for people to “express their holiday spirit and passion for firearms,” I can only wonder how much fun the loved ones of those injured and killed on that tragic day see in this.
Teach your children well…
***
In the real spirit of the season…
Folks in Reading, PA, a town dubbed one of America’s poorest cities, were visited by a “Secret Santa” sporting a hat that said “Elf” and handing out crisp new $100 dollar bills to folks in need, including a young, despondent out-of-work father, a mother of six and even the dishwasher at the local Salvation Army. Making his way through the downtown streets, “Santa” gave away $20,000 dollars before he was through and plans visits to other hard-hit cities, as well.
Continuing in the Secret Santa tradition of the late Larry Stewart who gave away $1.3 million over 25 years until his death in 2006, the current Santa, who will identify himself only as a businessman, said “Cities like Reading are experiencing tough economic times. It’s time for us to step up, not step back.” In return for his gifts, “Santa” asks only that the recipients do something nice for someone else this Christmas season.
Now doesn’t this make up for the crabs and guns stories?
***
GOP plays the Trump card…
Yes, the Donald has been selected to be the moderator of the next Republican debate. Ron Paul has refused to attend, stating that the choice of Trump will create a “circus-like atmosphere.” In response, Trump said to Paul, “I know you are, but what am I?” This is what the party of Abraham Lincoln and Teddy Roosevelt has come to.
I can only assume that none of the Kardashians were available.
***
With Cain having imploded and Romney unable to get any respect at all…
It looks like the GOP’s great white dope for the White House will be a fat guy named after a lizard.
There’s something about the terms “Thanksgiving” coupled with “Black Friday” that just seem wrong. I’m assuming it’s called Black Friday because it brings out the darkest nature of people who, probably any other day, are a decent enough sort.
Over at Walmart…
A woman determined to get a deal on an Xbox pepper-sprayed other customers around her in order to spring to the front of the line. My guess is she’s related to this guy.
Or maybe she's a Faux News viewer…
… who just happened to catch Megyn Kelly pronouncing pepper spray a “food,” and thought “Hey. Then how bad could it be?” If so, she can’t really be blamed. According to a new study conducted by Fairleigh Dickinson University on how informed TV news viewers are: “The results show us that there is something about watching Fox News that leads people to do worse on these questions than those who don’t watch any news at all."
So people who don’t watch any news at all are actually better informed that those who watch Fox. Well, you could just knock me down with a feather.
***
And while on the subject of pepper spray…
With liberty and justice for all – who can pay for it, that is.
***
And they say it’s a “Do-Nothing Congress…”
Great news kids. Pizza is now a vegetable.
As with most things the GOP does, it’s actually more subversive than that. School lunch regulations now read that one-eighth of a cup of tomato paste on pizza is equal to one-half cup actual vegetables. The Obama Administration said “Well, that’s just bullshit,” or something like that, and ordered that for it to be equal to one-half cup of vegetables you had to actually have a half a damn cup of tomato paste. Seems reasonable. Right? Not if you’re a Republican. Continuing in their quest to oppose all things Obama right down to our kids’ nutritional intake, they blocked the president’s ruling, effectively making a serving of pizza equal to a half-cup of vegetables.
Oh yeah, and meanwhile still no jobs bill.
***
While not exactly in keeping with today’s Thanksgiving theme, anything that pisses off the Christian right is reason enough to be thankful to me…
It’s the Archie Comics Gay Wedding issue!
Riverdale’s first openly gay character, Kevin Keller (although I’ve long suspected Betty and Veronica’s hidden lust for each other) is marching down the aisle with his African-American partner, Clay. Damn. Gay and black. As you might guess, this has bible thumpers twisting in their knickers. If only they'd gone one step further and also made him a Muslim. I know. That’s just greedy of me. But I do love that Kevin is a military officer. Ha!
Here’s the money quote from Peter Spriggs of the Family Research Council: “It’s unfortunate that a comic book series usually seen as depicting innocent, all-American life is now being used to advance the sexual revolution.” Spriggs. Doesn’t that just sound like a guy who would wear knickers?
Oh, yes. So very much to be thankful for.
***
Giving a whole new meaning to “Leggo of My Eggo…”
All this for a two-dollar waffle iron…
I’ve scanned the video pretty closely and, blessedly, I haven’t seen anyone I know or am related to, although butt-crack woman looks like a fun gal. You might want to do the same in case you find one of these things under your tree. Yeah, that’s right, Uncle Frank. You always were a cheap bastard.
***
And finally, a shameless plug. Coming (hopefully) next week in paperback and an e-book near you...
Just in time for Christmas, it’s the best of injaynesworld. Guaranteed to make you LYAO (no matter what its size), this compilation of the posts you liked best is just right for your bathroom reading and, of course, is suitable for giving.
Sometimes saying “thanks” just feels so damn inadequate. You know, like when someone goes way the hell out of their way to do something generous for you. In earlier times, an appropriate response would be the gift of one’s first-born child. I think that may still be an acceptable custom in some cultures, but only if the kid is a girl.
It was easy being a grateful receiver when we were children. We were little taking machines, never tired of being on the receiving end of life’s goodies. Then somewhere along the way we learned shame. Gifts began to be withheld if we were “bad.” Love no longer felt unconditional. It was now something to be earned. Once adults, we often questioned the motives behind a gift, worried about being indebted, or believed ourselves unworthy and so began saying “No” to what life had to offer instead of “Yes. More, please.”
In this time of giving thanks, whether you’re with family you love, family you tolerate, or those you really just can’t stand, you’re surrounded by abundance most of the world would envy and you deserve it. All life requires is a simple thank you.
Be a grateful receiver. Allow others to give. And watch the goodies start rolling in again. Your prosperity prospers the world.
As a youngster, catching a cold meant languishing in a warm bed, the smell of Vick’s wafting in the air as Mom dispensed chicken soup and Popsicles with a healthy dose of sympathy. Cherocal cough syrup loaded with codeine kept me nicely sedated for days and, my every need met, I had only to burrow under a Pooh-Bear quilt, the rest of the world be damned.
Fast forward.
As an adult, it didn’t take me long to realize that illness no longer afforded such perks. The world did not stop because I had the sniffles. You want chicken soup, Jayne? Get it yourself. There was no paid sick leave for the self-employed, and the FDA had taken all the fun out of cough syrup. With no attention, no sympathy, and no avoidance of daily responsibilities, getting sick had gone from a nice respite from worldly demands to a major inconvenience.
Through my thirties, there were colds I could pretty much always count on: The Christmas cold upon the day of my return from visiting family; the all-systems-can-now-collapse cold upon completion of each script assignment; and the smoking cold, which slapped me down whenever I got up to more than four or five cigarettes a day. In fact, on my thirtieth birthday I had the last cigarette I would ever smoke for just that reason. The onslaught of a burning throat and clogged nasal cavities occurred almost immediately with the inhale of my first cigarette of the day and proved to be so Pavlovian that even now, just the smell of cigarette smoke can quite literally make me retch.
As I grew older and began to subscribe more and more to the theory that I was the creator of my life and not its hapless victim, I began to question the purpose of illness altogether. Without any perks, what the hell was the point? And so it was that I identified the stress factors associated with both my Christmas trip and the timely completion of a writing assignment and eliminated them and the resulting colds from my life. Damn, I felt powerful.
I’d love to report that the decades since then have been cold-free, but about once a year, despite a deep dish of hot denial, the relentless rhinovirus will knock me on my (size 4) ass. It’s that cold that you never see coming. It seems to hit without reason. It is the “shit happens” cold, and there is no defense. The wise thing to do when that first tingle in the back of my throat signals “incoming” would be to cancel plans, rest and let nature takes its course. But, like the empty gas tank that I’m sure will run on a concentration of sheer will, I am always certain that I can beat this thing if I just… try… hard… enough.
My stubbornness knows no bounds, but resistance proves futile, and the fact that this particular cold at this particular time seems to be “going around” does not dissuade me from considering it a personal failing.
Ah, to be six years old again… for just a little while.
The gas gauge was clearly well into the red zone. Still, it had been in such territory before and I’d always managed to reach my destination, so can I be faulted for thinking that once again it was just “crying wolf?” I’d actually considered getting gas the night before, but damned if I was going to pay seven cents more a gallon in town when I’d be driving right by the cheap station out on the highway the next day while on my way to get a mammogram.
It was a beautiful, sunny morning as I cruised along the winding road that led out to the 101. Cows were peacefully grazing on golden hillsides. The stock market was rallying on news that a deal had been made that would stabilize the Euro. I’d given myself plenty of time to make my appointment. What could go wrong?
Here’s something I didn’t know. When your car runs out of gas, it takes the whole damn system down. Oh, the car was still moving all right and, for a desperate moment, I even imagined I might be able to coast my way to the Our Lady of Perpetual Motion gas station a mere 10 miles down the road. It was a slight downhill incline, so I wasn’t being entirely delusional. However, the need to steer would be required. Picture then my delight to find that not only was my car slowing at a time when all others were continuing to zip along – and precariously close, I might add – but my power steering? Not so much.
I’m a strong-willed individual. It’s hard for me to admit defeat. So, it was with no small resentment at a universe that had refused to bend to my will that I edged myself into the emergency lane and rolled to a stop. I could only pray that my cell phone worked in this area of my rural valley with its fickle reception. God tossed me a bone.
I considered waiting for help in my car, but worried about the possibility of another vehicle plowing into me. Instead, I decided to stand about 20 feet in front of it where now I could be hit directly. Oh, yes. So much better. It wasn’t long before a concerned gentleman pulled over on the opposite side of the road and yelled at me to climb my dumb ass up the side of the hill out of harm’s way, and while he may not have actually uttered the words “dumb” and “ass,” they were most certainly implied. As my luck this particular morning would have it, the hillside was made of sand, which quickly filled my shoes only adding to the enjoyment of the day. My savior then drove off, no doubt very pleased with himself.
October has been unusually warm this year and it didn’t take long before I could feel moisture forming on the back of my neck, under my arms, and between “the girls.” For the uneducated, when a woman goes for a mammogram she is instructed not to put on any deodorant or talcum powder prior to the procedure. Apparently, these products contain aluminum that, when exposed to more radiation than one would normally experience in 10 years, might cause a malfunction of the very machinery where one’s delicate breast tissue has been compressed to the width of a Swedish pancake. How much longer until I began to reek, as well?
I had plenty of time to reflect upon my predicament as I waited. Plenty. Of. Time.
I’d opted for taking my chances of reaching a gas station where I would be paying $3.87 a gallon instead of going to the closest station to my home and paying $3.94 – because, by God, those corporate oil bastards weren’t going to rip me off. I’d show them! Now I was sinking up to my calves in sand, soaked in fluids of my own making, and waiting for a towing service that was going to charge me $5.00 a gallon.
“Penny wise and pound foolish” was a saying I heard a lot as a child and grew to enjoy using on others in my oh-so-smarty-pants fashion. I’m now reminded of another saying. Karma’s a bitch.
The human capacity for stupidity never fails to amaze me.Witness this guy who southern California firefighters found stuck in a tree trunk by following his screams down into a creek bed. It took 90 minutes paid for by taxpayer dollars to free this idiot and no reason was given as to why the guy climbed into the hole near the base of the tree to begin with.
Normally, I would save such stories for the “Sunday Recap,” but this one just cried out for immediate attention.I’m calling it “Occupy Elm Street,” although "Up Shit Creek" resonates with me, too.
Let's see if I still remember how to do these things...
What’s in a name…?
When Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab set out to make a name for himself and get some of those 72 virgins promised in all the brochures, being forever known as the “Underwear Bomber” probably wasn’t what he had in mind.
Entering a plea of guilty this week to attempting to blow up a plane bound for Detroit in 2009 with a homemade bomb tucked neatly between his balls, one can only assume Umar was last in his class at training camp.
His first mistake was choosing a plane bound for Detroit.Either the boys back at terrorist dispatch were hazing the new guy or all the good cities were taken.I mean, seriously, like folks on a plane going to Detroit actually have something to live for. I can only imagine his pride when he came up with the genius idea of hiding the bomb in his drawers -- because nothing says “Hey, nothin’ goin’ on here,” like the smell of singed pubes.Now our wayward warrior is destined for a life in prison, his “tidy whities” perennially around his ankles, and the butt of every gang-banger’s “Is that a bomb in your pants...?” joke. There will be no virgins for Umar and his only claim to fame a footnote in the jihadists new edition of “How Not To Blow Up A Plane."
***
Leave the driving to us…
Never one tempted by the sport of marathon running, or running at all for that matter, I nonetheless admire those committed souls who will push their bodies to their limits and beyond to run in a sweaty, smelly pack of like-minded individuals all for the public glory or even just personal satisfaction of completing their stated goal of crossing a finishing line miles away.I mean, that is the whole point, right?
Apparently, Rob Sloan, a runner in the U.K.’s Keilder 26.2 Mile Marathon didn’t get the memo.After turning in a third-place finish and declaring the race “unbelievably tough,” the bloke was busted when it was learned that he had hopped on a spectator shuttle bus and ridden the last 6.2 miles of the race, before emerging from the woods near the finish line.Blimey! (my friend Annie would say)That takes some nerve. Turns out people in cars following the bus saw him get on and off and then run through the bushes.I’ll bet the folks on the bus must’ve had their suspicions, as well.Seriously, dude.You really thought no one would notice?You must be out of the same gene pool as the “Underwear Bomber.”
***
Under the "But where would you put it?" category...
If you had $908, 245 and questionable taste, you too could have purchased this statue of supermodel Kate Moss contorted in a yoga pose and made out of 10 kilograms of 18-caret gold at the Sotheby’s auction house in London this week.
The lucky bidder, it turns out, was from Asia, home to all those American jobs we used to have.
Personally, I don’t get the appeal.Maybe if it was made out of chocolate.Complete that fantasy on your own.
***
The "Steaming Pile of Shit Award" this week goes to the Topeka City Council...
...for decriminalizing domestic violence.
The conflict is over how to fund the enforcement of domestic abuse prosecution.With budget cuts of 10% facing city and county departments, including the D.A.’s office, domestic violence cases have become the hot potato tossed back and forth between law enforcement agencies, none of which want it on their books.The D.A.’s recent decision to save money by not prosecuting such cases, instead dumping them on the city’s doorstep, led to the city council’s vote of 7 to 3 to simply decriminalize the misdemeanor.
Seems to me like the problem right off the bat is classifying it as a “misdemeanor” in the first place, putting it in the same category as shoplifting which, by the way, will still be a prosecutable offense under the new budget cuts.Guess we know their priorities.Fist in your mate’s face, no foul.Swipe a DVD – oh, man, you’re in trouble now.
Meanwhile, Kansas Republican Governor Sam Brownback is working on another tax cut for that state's rich.
***
In more political news…
The GOP has no clue as to how to react to the growing “Occupy Wall Street” movement…
***
And you’ve got to feel sorry for Mitt Romney…
...when he’s passed in the GOP "Holy-crap-there's-a-black-guy-in-the-White-House" primary polls by another black guy, this one known best as the “Godfather of Pizza.”
In California, we now have open voting primaries, so I’ll be voting for Cain and hoping he gets the Republican nomination just to see the Tea Party’s heads explode.
***
Someone else running for office…
This Elizabeth Warren impersonator represents why I’ll be sending the real Elizabeth Warren some of my limited cash intake.
The last time I had a real savings account was when I was in the third grade. Each week, the teacher would pass out little banking envelopes in which to deposit our stash of pennies, nickels, dimes and the occasional quarter. It was fun to write the amount on the outside of the envelope and then see our fortunes grow from week to week. I don’t recall what ever happened to that money. I suspect I eventually browbeat my mother into letting me take it out and squander it, and I’ve been squandering ever since.
