If You Like my Body & U WNT 2 TXT ME

Listening to the oldies station recently, I picked up on an interesting line in the song “If You Want My Body, and You Think I’m Sexy” a classic Rod Stewart song. The line went, “Give me a dime, so I can phone my mother.” It made me chuckle. How many younger people these days would even understand that line? How old does one have to be to remember public pay telephones that only cost a dime?
The other part that made me laugh was the fact that a boy was going to call his mother before he spent the night with a woman. Who does that? And how would that conversation go? “Uh, Mom, yeah. I’m going home with this chick because she wants my body and thinks I’m sexy, uh, so don’t wait up.” Is such a call a courteous custom that people practiced 30 years ago? I’m sure these days it would be a text.
Speaking of which, just recently in the school where I teach we have decided to grant students more freedom to text, as if they didn’t already have it. Now they are allowed to text at lunch and between classes. So really it means that now we don’t have to enforce those rules that no one was enforcing anyway. The idea is that granting them such a privilege will make it less likely that they will be texting during forbidden times (during classes) or in forbidden places (like the bathrooms and locker rooms – the worry here is about phones that take photos).
The student council was given the job of presenting this new privilege to the student body, and they made fancy posters urging students not to abuse it and warning them that if they did, their fellow students could turn them in by “anonymous email” to a teacher. Huh? Wait a minute! Something’s not right there. How does one send an anonymous email? And even if there were a way, a teacher taking the word of an anonymous someone as proof is worse than taking the word of the class tattle tale. The other part of the poster that most students will see right through is the fact that the consequences for abusing this privilege are basically the same as they were before with the added consequence of having to serve a detention with the teacher in whose class the cell phone was used. Yeah right! I’m going to serve detention based on an anonymous email tip!?! I guess the student council is either pretty clueless or freaking brilliant, depending on how you look at it.
Well, I hate to sound grumpy, old, and out of touch, but were we just as stupid and devious when we were kids? Maybe we were, but at least we had manners and would call our parents on those dime public pay phones if we weren’t coming home, and they were rotary dial phones too! Let’s see the younger generation try texting with one of those! They may come to understand the hardships of our youth, and how we walked uphill to school both ways…sigh…it’s hard getting old.

Let's welcome a new contributor for our first post of the new year. This article is courtesy of AJWanty!

The "prize" no woman wants

The whole world has now learned of (and jeered at) Wisconsin District Attorney Kenneth Kratz's "poor judgment."  It's taken a year, but now each and every one of his dozens of text messages to domestic abuse victim Stephanie Van Groll, part of an intense three-day campaign to get in her pants, have come to light. 

Kratz was supposed to be prosecuting the 26-year-old's boyfriend for domestic violence.  Instead, he regaled her with texted propositions, including these:

"Are you the kind of girl that likes secret contact with an older married elected DA ... the riskier the better?"

"Your low self-esteem and you fear you can't play in my big sandbox? Or???"

And my personal favorite: "I'm the atty. I have the $350,000 house. I have the 6-figure career. You may be the tall, young, hot nymph but I am the prize!"

Dear lord, if that's a prize, I may never eat Crackerjacks again. 

Shockingly, Kratz has been divorced three times since the mid-'90's. On top of his healthy self-esteem, the cretin apparently has no idea what women actually want.  A $350,000 house is nice, but only if there's not a wife currently living in it.  Six figures, you say?  How much is left after three divorces, assuming Wisconsin's joint marital property laws and the likelihood of child support?  I think a job at McDonald's could probably provide as much financial security, and I hear Ronald doesn't require lap dances or call you yucky things like "hot nymph."
 
I sincerely hope that none of you encounter similar blechxts, but knowing how attractive and intelligent the Snarklet readership is, we should make like Boy Scouts and Be Prepared.  It is only prudent that we formulate some basic responses that could be pre-programmed into our phones now (and perhaps shared with younger, more nymph-like siblings).  Please consider the following ideas and share your own suggestions under "Comments."
 
"Thanks, but I'm holding out for an internship with Letterman."
 
"UR icky. Leave me alone."
 
And the line that works in a surprising number of situations where scumbags attempt to over-inflate their attractiveness by calling attention to their financial assets: "Sorry about your penis!"  
 
Oh, and hell yeah.  Get over yourself Kratz, you're in the same category as Lindsey Lohan and the other losers.

Mortality bites

It's rare that mortality lands a square punch with me.  Death is one of those facts that I acknowledge with a sidelong glance.  Don't make eye contact, and maybe I won't be obliged to have a conversation. 

And yet it has been dogging me in small ways over the past several weeks.  Reminders of a beloved grandpa.  Questions from my kindergartner.  A conversation with a friend about becoming a widow (or widower), and whether remarriage is a prospect worth any consideration.  (We decided men should absolutely remarry. Women, maybe not.)  But these were glancing blows... uncomfortable momentary dialogues.  The intestinal flutter that a truly morbid thought can inspire.  But not ever really real. 

And then I got the text that my friend's father, who has been fighting cancer for over a year, died.  I tell you truly that the only thing that scares me more than my own death is losing a loved one.  I mean an utterly essential beloved: A child, a husband, a parent. 

This friend is a pretty tough woman.  She's not particularly into girl talk.  She's funny and sarcastic and totally together.  I don't think in ten years I ever once saw her cry.  Until her dad got sick. 

And now he's gone.  Her kid, just a year older than my daughter, just lost an amazing grandpa.  He's not going to be at her wedding or see her graduate college or even see what a beautiful girl she'll become.  My friend doesn't get to hug her dad again, or laugh with him.  And she was lucky - - she had a really great dad. 

I guess this is one of the reasons we have friends.  We learn from each other's experiences.  I will watch her walk through this unthinkable time, and be there for her to lean on if I can.  And because she'll have done it, I'll have the strength of knowing it's possible when it's my turn to face loss without the luxury of averting my eyes.   

On becoming a mistress

I was utterly surprised to learn about a rumor at my new workplace: That I slept my way to the top!  How delicious to be the focus of such juicy gossip! 

Dear snarkies, bear in mind that this is no glamorous, enviable job.  It's nice, to be sure, but it's not as though I'm making six figures or punching in at ten every morning.  I work hard, I make average bank, and up until recently, I've been a pretty anonymous worker bee.  I've been singled out for extra attention because someone who did not get my job has elected to sue my employer.  His argument is that I, a mere thirty-something girl, could not possibly be as qualified as he.  Because I work for an organization that's often in the press, his lawsuit made the news in a modest way... spawning the mistress theory. 

I won't waste your time with a laundry list of professional accomplishments (it's tempting though).  Nor will I deign to step up onto the soapbox of feminist indignity (I did that over cocktails with my friends last week).

My mother-in-law was furious!  "All they have to do is look at the pictures in your office to see what a great looking husband you've got!"  Really.  That was her reaction.  To come to the defense of her virile and indisputably attractive son.  Oye.

My friend Julie pointed out that I could possibly leverage this rumor into actually becoming a mistress, thereby cutting my house payment down to nothing and maybe getting some good lingerie in the bargain.  I'll have to talk it over with my husband. 

I have elected to stoically look for the silver lining in the situation.  And I found it: This rumor officially means I am still hot.

After all, no one gripes about tired-looking Susie with the wart on her chin sleeping her way up the ladder. I will cling to this rumor as a sort of unofficial poll of my peers that declares: "She is attractive enough that someone powerful and influential would like to take her to bed."  I'm nearly 40 with two small children.  I just traded up to the more powerful and effective wrinkle "serum" because the regular cream wasn't cutting it anymore.  This rumor is just what I needed to keep a little spring in my step!

I can already imagine, few years hence, when a new ridiculous lawsuit is filed and the rumors - - disappointingly - - will say instead that I bribed my way into a great job.  Or that it was nepotism.  Or blackmail.  I'll be able to look back at this time fondly and think to myself, "those were the days."

Mind games with Martha

So almost two years ago I filled out an online form, applying to become one of the coveted "Martha's Circle" blogs.  Yeah, THAT Martha.  Don't worry, snarklebuddies, it wasn't on behalf of this, my secretly-more-beloved blog.  It was for my initial online odyssey, a charming little corner of the Internet devoted to crafts and parties and handmade invitations and recipes.  I tell you, it was perfect for Martha's stupid effing Circle.

I never heard back.  My free time dwindled and my focus shifted gears to this blog.  And it was no big deal.

Except last week, I got an unexpected email from Martha!  (Well, one of her preppy minions, anyway.)

"You're currently being considered for Martha's Circle.  We apologize for the delay in evaluating your blog." 

Interesting.  So, they'll get there and discover that the most recent post was in April.  And, I can't imagine a blog with such a lapse in content will make the coveted cut.  Oh well.

I can't help but wonder if it was all just a test of our perfectionism.  If indeed it was a test, and not just the result of a huge backlog and harried, overworked staff, I applaud Martha for her devious brilliance.  What better way to blow the chaff from the golden, glowing wheat?  Those bloggers whose hearts are really in their work would have been happily puttering away all these months, continuing to devise clever new things to do with excess garden produce and showcasing delightfully charming invitations for baby christenings, irregardless of her notice.  Those lovely souls deserve to be part of The Circle more than I... who so quickly and easily slipped from grace and stumbled onto this path of sarcastic, sometimes unkind commentary instead.  Ahhh Martha.  Well played.

Exercise Haiku

One too many flights
of stairs I have now traveled
breathing heavily

Channeling Venus Williams

Who knew gentile tennis could bring you to your knees? I should mention that until now my tennis experience has consisted of a module in High School gym class, catching the pros in action on TV every once in a while, and sporadic volleying with friends the last session of which occurred about three years ago. That all changed last weekend thanks to a recent racquet acquisition and, as you might have guessed, a new boyfriend.

Saturday morning started out with great promise. Shiny new equipment in hand, we went out to drill the basics of the games – swings, serves, and strategy. I think that it is fair to say that we provided a great deal of entertainment value for the surrounding neighborhood.

It was later that day when the trouble began. Apparently there is a certain level of conditioning involved in tennis and I do not yet have it. I found myself unable to lift all but the lightest of objects as my forearm violently protested. Two-handed drinking took on an entirely new meaning as every sip of water required a two-handed grip and nerves of steel as the glass wobbly lurched towards my mouth. Movement in general became slow and calculated. One would think that I had taken up some sort of full-body contact sport rather than something associated with country clubs and fashionable outfits.

All of which begs the question, how long does it take to get into tennis condition? Please, anyone. . .

Two Bad Tastes That Taste Bad Together

Well, someone has finally managed to make Vodka even more unappealing to me than ever. I dislike Vodka with a passion. To me it tastes like rubbing alcohol, and I much prefer the oh- so subtle herbal notes of a fine gin. Occasionally I can stomach the odd flavored vodka, but recently distilleries have gone a little off the rails looking for new and exciting flavors. I can get behind fruit. Who doesn’t love a refreshing splash of fruit in their cocktail? I understand how garlic flavored vodka could enhance a bloody mary. Herbal vodkas? Well that just brings me back to drinking gin. I can even get behind bacon flavored vodka because, let’s face it, everything is better with bacon. But an Alaskan distillery in Wasilla Alaska has managed to take the flavored vodka craze one step to far by presenting the world with salmon flavored vodka. There are so many things wrong with this concoction that I don’t know where to begin. Let me start by saying that I hate salmon. I always have and I always will. This is the last taste I want in my alcohol. In fact, add some grapefruit juice, and I would consider it the cocktail from hell. Putting my personal prejudices aside, I did and informal survey of people who like salmon, and they were beyond disgusted at this concept. Just the idea of salmon marinating in vodka in order to impart its flavor and aroma to the alcohol makes most people say ewwww!! Then we come to the color of this alcohol. Apparently imparting the unique fishy flavor to the liquor causes it to take on the pinkish, orangey hue of the salmon flesh. That, my friends, is just sick and wrong. Vodka should be clear unless it is in a dirty martini. I guess staring at Russia everyday can make you do some pretty crazy things.

Youth Culture Killed my Dog

Every few years the youth create and recreate the way our culture expresses itself verbally by creating new slang and phrases. Sometimes these words and phrases really catch on like "bling" or "p.h.a.t.". Well I say that you are never to old to impact pop culture, so today I created a new catch phrase. This phrase is "Hey, who peed in your Kool-Aid?". It is useful when someone is acting mean and crabby and taking out their bad mood on you for no good reason. If we all start using it right away it is sure to catch on! I, myself, expect to hear this phrase directed at me by my friends and family since I tend be a little dramatic with the mood swings. I would like to thank you in advance for your support.

A New Reason to Wine in Pennsyvania

I don’t know if it is an attempt to remove the messy human element from the liquor buying process or a novel way to fight unemployment by creating more useless government jobs, but Pennsylvania installed the country’s first wine kiosks in two supermarkets at the end of June. The kiosks will be open from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. Monday thru Saturday. They will scan the customers ID and take a Breathalyzer reading. The photo on the ID will be matched with a video image of the customer at the kiosk. If the customer has a breath alcohol level of .02 or higher or the ID does not match the video image, they will be unable to by a bottle of wine. The best part is that the transaction will be monitored by a Liquor Control Board employee from a remote location. This employee will be tasked with confirming that the video matches the ID. The whole process is supposed to take twenty seconds.

My first question is why? Why does Pennsylvania need what essentially amounts to a very complicated vending machine to buy wine? Are Pennsylvanians tired of snooty wine stewards recommending fancy vintages? Do they just want to be able to buy their Ripple and TJ Swan’s in peace? Bob Marcus of the PLCB said, “We happen to be the first because we have the need. As a board, we really wanted to make this much more convenient for people.” So a giant machine that scans your ID and gives you a Breathalyzer while some nameless, faceless government employee watches you on video is more convenient? How do people in Pennsylvania buy wine normally? Where I come from, you walk into the liquor store/department and select a bottle of wine from a shelf/display. Then you walk over to the register and pay for it. Does wine buying in Pennsylvania involve some long, complicated and arcane ritual that takes days to complete?

My next question to the Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board is does this means they are hiring? Wisconsin is a very remote location from Pennsylvania and you are going to need a staff to monitor those video images. At least two people would be required to monitor the kiosks for 72 hours a week. I am sure that we could set up some sort of secure video feed to my home computer. I don’t want to move to Pennsylvania because apparently buying wine there is just too complicated.

A small town Independence Day

Another Independence Day has come and gone, and sparked in me the urge to write about why I love my small town existence.  Yes, the town in which I live has very few retail establishments and a whole lot of taverns.  Yes, I grocery shop at a store named "Piggly Wiggly."  And yes, the coffee shop would not exist were it not paired with the tanning salon.  (Guess which gets more business?)

And yet, there's no place I'd rather raise my family, and the 4th of July just underscores this fact. 

Despite the somewhat suffocating feeling that growing up in a tiny, hopelessly pedestrian community gave me, I'm choosing the same formative experience for my kids.  Partly because my job, as a parent, is to ensure that they want to get the hell out when they are old enough.  But more importantly, because having a real sense of place - - even a grudging one - - is critical to developing, in turn, a sense of self. 

I'm not suffering from the delusion that small town life has any fewer risks than life in the city.  We have drugs, bullies, and plenty of opportunity to screw up your life as a young person here in the sticks.  But there are also plenty of opportunities to do good, neat, inspired things here: like play football or star in the school play or take art classes.  And in a small town, I know from experience, you don't have to be particularly genius at any of these things in order to participate.  Frankly, there's nothing wrong with mediocrity in your youth... I'd rather have my kids take a swing at whatever appeals to them and not have to worry about being great in order to be on the starting team.

Now that I am older and have lived in a (somewhat) larger city for many years, and attended a big university, and traveled pretty extensively, I think having small-town roots served me well.  No matter where I go, I have a place that I definitely come from.  Being from a small town has not hindered my ability to appreciate the finer things in life, to mix and mingle with my sophisticated "betters," or to explore the world. 

While my small town seemed incredibly lame at 15, 16, 17, I'm now almost fiercely prideful of the things I once thought embarrassing. 

I like my 4th of July parade to feature primarily old tractors and dumpy floats cobbled together by a bunch of semi-enthusiastic 4-H'ers. I like my convertible-riding royalty to be a bit plump and pimply. And I really like that the sweaty, uninspired kids in the marching band are wearing the same polyester uniforms I remember donning a generation ago.

The corn and strawberries we eat were grown up the road.  Our politicians walk (democrats) or ride (republicans) down Main Street, waving and shaking hands with constituents who are probably mostly relatives.  We hang out our flags with unabashed sentimentality.

Our fireworks are not fancy, but the whole town comes out anyway.  And sprinkled in with the "ooohs" and "ahhhs" are a few drunken "yee-haws!" that remind me, like almost nothing else, of who I am and where I come from.

I'm Too Sexy for my Diapers...

Maybe it’s because I am an Aunt and not a mother. Maybe it’s because I am not pumped full of mommy hormones, but I find the new limited edition Jean Huggies weird and a little disturbing. The website uses the tag line “The coolest you will ever look pooping your pants.” They don’t look cool because a diaper is essentially puffy, unattractive underwear, and it does not matter what design you print on them, they look stupid. The disturbing part is the ad campaign. A baby strutting down the street with a shirt tucked into his diapers while people stare and sexy runway music plays. It borders on kiddie porn. Who is the demographic for this product anyway?