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why i can’t do twitter

“Get short, timely messages from Tracey”?

Seriously?

“Timely”?

“TIMELY”?

What? Like, “Oh, thank God. Tracey tweeted that she ate a PB&J. Phew. Just in the nick of time”?

I can’t hang with that. It’s weird. It’s weird. The use of that word. There’s nothing I’ve ever said in my life that could ever be labeled as timely. Actually, DON’T call anything I say “timely.” I think it just might be code for “boring” but my jury is still out on that. Still, until they come in with a verdict, just get away from me with the “timely” already.

You know what “timely” is? Timely is the reverse 911 calls people in So Cal get when they need to flee their homes immediately or be crisped into ashes by the annual marauding flames. THAT’S some timely useful crap, pippa. Nothing I see on Twitter strikes me as “timely.” Random, yes. Timely, no. And I have NO problem whatsoever with random. My entire blog is random. But don’t call random timely. Don’t do it. Although Twitter has already done it without consulting me and tons of people seem unmoved by how totally damn-ass annoying it is, so who am I in a world full of timely tweets? Well, I’m just some Betty who knows what timely means, that’s who. Damn.

I am disproportionately annoyed by this. It’s the little things that make life unbearable.

So I now basically have a semantics problem with Twitter, annoying fraternal twin to my lingering aesthetics problem with Facebook.

I don’t know. I don’t like feeling like I’m supposed to do something because everyone else is doing it. My entire life, I’ve always been an insanely obstinate holdout that way. (I mean, Poor Perky Bob couldn’t get a lunch date from me.) Maybe it all reminds me of the FOC somehow. Maybe it all makes me feel like I’m just supposed to get with the program, join the ever-expanding Borg. Or maybe I’m just an ass.

That’s always a serious possibility.

But besides all that, I can’t understand the slightest thing that’s going on with any of the Twitter pages I’ve looked at. It’s like watching a movie where the audio skips. There are all kinds of micro conversations that no one but the people involved can even follow. And that’s the thing. I don’t think you can “enjoy” Twitter unless you’re part of Twitter and Crackie hates that kind of stuff. I can enjoy a baseball game without being on the team, but nope. Not with Twitter.

You have to be on Team Timely and I don’t wanna.

Okay. Something’s wrong. My crankypants are getting REAL tight.

I’ll be back later sporting a nice mellow muu-muu, I swear.

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paulina on aging

I love Paulina Porizkova. I loved her in the 80s at the height of her fame and gorgeousness. I loved her a couple of seasons ago as a judge on “America’s Next Top Model.” She didn’t stay and I don’t know the specifics of it, but if I had to guess, I’d imagine there was more than a little bit of jealousy on Tyra’s part. Paulina is beautiful and smart and shoots straight and I have a sneaking suspicion that Tyra does not share her Queen Bee status willingly.

But I just found this article from Paulina on aging. It’s smart and honest and, well, I just like her, is all. At one point, she simultaneously compliments and throws Sarah Palin under the bus, and although I’m no huge fan of Palin’s, I still found it a bit of a clang — the only clang for me in an otherwise engaging and transparent piece.

Here’s a tiny bit:

When you’re used to one sort of treatment, it’s really hard to get demoted, even if that new treatment is still better than the average. Boohoo. I know. My life is sucks. Now, I don’t actually know the exact cut-off age where beautiful ceases and “must have-once-been-beautiful” begins. It’s true it’s not forty-five. I can still get attention when I try really hard, even if it’s greatly reduced. But would I ever have dreamed that I would miss the time I couldn’t walk past a construction site unmolested? These days when someone whistles at me, it’s mostly a bike messenger about to mow me down.

It’s definitely worth a read. Check it out, pippa.

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brian’s awesomeness proceeds apace

Based on comments in this thread, where I suggested we may as well make Darth Vader pink, Brian sent me an email with a new Photoshop creation.

His email said:

Since there can be no Vader in pink I took a different approach.

vader.jpg

Hahahahahahaha. Thank you, Brian!!

Who needs Susan G. Komen? Darth Vader will “save second base”!

Who knew??

(You know, whenever I need cheering up, I go back and look at Brian’s previous creation. It never fails to do the trick.)

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the pinkening

The pinkening of the NFL is making me sick.

Look, breast cancer is horrible. ALL cancer is horrible. It’s a plague. But is any adult alive actually unaware of breast cancer?

My BIL has oral cancer, a much more aggressive form of cancer — and it’s on the rise. It’s on the rise in the 20-50 age group mainly because of ….. sex.

So allow me to interrupt my post with an annoying and gratuitously gross PSA:

Approximately 30% of all oral cancers are caused by HPV-16, the strain of HPV that causes cervical cancers. Studies show that most adults who have more than one sexual partner in their lives WILL contract HPV — that’s how prevalent the virus itself is — but most cases will resolve on their own without the person even knowing they had it. Others will morph into oral cancer, which is generally caught at late stage with a five-year survival of 40%. Neat stuff. Some HPV infections can lay dormant for for 10-20 years before they cause cancer. Others who contract HPV and have a certain rare genetic mutation could have their HPV morph into this.

(And I am warning you, pippa, IN THE MOST SEVERE TERMS, that if you scroll down to look at those photos, they could very well make you throw up. I AM NOT KIDDING IN THE LEAST. If you saw “Grey’s Anatomy” a couple of weeks ago, you saw this. The difference is what they depicted on the show — which almost made me barf — was actually TAME compared to the reality. YOU’VE BEEN WARNED.)

Is anyone aware of THAT? No. No, they’re not. You can contract HPV from French kissing, oral sex, and intercourse. Basically, all the fun stuff. But have at it willy nilly. I’m not your mom. Still, if you don’t want your teenagers sexing each other up, just show them those pictures, ‘mkay?

Well. All righty. Calm down, Trace. That was a huge tangent from what I originally intended.

Look. We are ALL aware of breast cancer, aren’t we? It invades every facet of our lives for the entire month of October, which used to be a fun month about ghosts and goblins and gorging on candy. Now it’s all about boobs and not in a fun gropey way, but in a morbid tragic way. And now October football is all about boobs too, and not in a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader way, but in an I’m a burly man in stupid pink cleats kind of way. For three Sundays now, I’ve tuned in to watch my beloved football — and my boyfriend Cocoa Bear — only to be assaulted by the sight of giant brutes in macho helmets, beefy shoulder pads, and hot pink arm bands. Oh, and pink gloves. And pink chin straps. When they’re not playing, they sit on the sidelines sporting more pink gear. Oh, look. There’s Peyton Manning in a pink baseball cap. (I’m a girl and I don’t own a pink baseball cap.) There’s Legedu Naanee wiping his face with a pink towel. There’s the bottom of the goal post itself, wrapped in hot pink padding.

There are already so many venues for breast cancer awareness. Does it really need to invade the football field now too? Can’t I just watch football and think about football and not whether my boobs or the boobs of my friends are going to fall off? Please? Can I just, uhm, enjoy the game and not feel guilty because I just want to enjoy the game?

I hate misogyny, I really do, but I also hate the way women seem to insist on invading every damn space that once was men’s. How much do we want to take away from men in the name of equality or “awareness”? How much contempt do we have for men and the things that make men men? How feminized do we want them to be? Seriously. I love men and I want men to be men and I want men to have places that are just for men because those things are part of the beautiful manliness of men. Unless women are willing to have Prostate Cancer Awareness month — which apparently is September and there’s a baby blue ribbon involved and who even knew that stuff? — in the WNBA or the LPGA, which would be a form of equality and awareness, then I say knock it off, Susan G. Komen, et al. It makes me sick that you expect men to do what you’re not willing to do. (And even if you did do it, it wouldn’t be comparable in terms of audience because, honestly, who gives a tiny rat’s bottom about the WNBA or the LPGA? Not me, that’s for sure.) Rates of prostate cancer in men are comparable to breast cancer rates in women. But is there anywhere NEAR the clamor over that that there is about breast cancer? No. No, there’s not. My dad has prostate cancer, WNBA. Where are your baby blue shoes and baby blue ribbons and baby blue basketball nets? Where?

Enough with the hypocrisy. I barf on you all.

And leave my football alone.

Can’t we just let the NFL be the NFL instead of “A Very Special Episode of the NFL”?

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incommunicado

Hey, pippa. I will be incommunicado for the next couple of days. I’ve been in school for the last year or so, and I’m now staring down the barrel of my — ahem — 2-day final starting tomorrow at 11 a.m.

Say prayers. Many many many prayers. Passing this baby the first time is apparently no guarantee.

I skeered.

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mommy sarahk

The adorable Sarahk is a mom as of 10:38 last night. She emailed me at 3:10 a.m. to tell me which is just so cute. You know, I wasn’t up to get that, but it made me all warm and melty to read that this morning and to see she emailed me in the dead of night.

So here is the new mom with the also adorable Princess Buttercup.

Can I say it’s killing me that Sarahk is texting or something in this photo? Hahahaha.

Congratulations Sarahk and FrankJ! She is gorgeous!

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snippet

BANSHEE (to her Pop-Pop, my dad): That’s a nice compost pile, Pop-Pop.

Yes, I am The Banshee. I am 6. I understand the concept of compost. Thank you.

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so they charge for that now?

I saw this link to an iVillage article on another blog —

Breastfeeding Rates Are Up — but They Vary Widely from State to State

— and that is literally what I thought, pippa: So they CHARGE for that now??

I sat there with a furrowed brow for a little too long to be considered any kind of competent person and then it hit me: “Ohh. The number of women who do it, not the price per boob.”

Uhm. I kid you not. I said that to myself, in my head. As if those are two real things that one would seriously analyze when discussing breastfeeding: the number of women who do it vs. the price per boob from state to state.

Well, the economy IS worrisome. Save your pennies, babies. Don’t swallow ’em.

In my defense, I took a Tylenol PM last night and it’s possible I’m still deep deep asleep.

You know, let’s just go with that. The other possibilities are too discouraging.

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me ol’ bamboo

I cannot remember how old I was when Chitty Chitty Bang Bang first came into my life, but I seem to remember seeing it on TV. At Thanksgiving time maybe? I don’t know why that sticks out for me. Seems like it was the holidays. I do remember having a huge and instant crush on Dick Van Dyke, though. I still do, to this day. He’s just adorable to me. Look at that face. Look at how agile he is. If you can find a man enchanting, if that’s okay to say, then I find Dick Van Dyke enchanting. Always have.

I just loved this song when I was a kid. The delirious dancing, the dangly scrap vests, the tinka tinka tinka of it all. I was mad for the tinka tinka tinka. And, oh, how I wanted a dangly scrap vest! Who cares about a Truly Scrumptious dress when you could have a dangly scrap vest!

Isn’t this just one of the happiest songs ever? Thank you Dick Van Dyke, for being …. yes, enchanting.

You can have me hat or me bumbershoo’, but you better never bother with me ol’ bamboo!

I love this:

“A flyer in an air-eo-plane”

Chorus: “HE STEERS IT WITH A STICK!”

“He does?”

I remember cracking up at that little moment when I was a kid. I mean, Caractacus is faking it during this number — he’s hiding from someone, as I recall, so he randomly joins a dance troupe — and I just went nuts for the crack of his voice, the turn of his head, the way his whole body slackens for the tiniest tick, the way he mimes a wheel but they say stick. (Caractacus may be faking it, but Dick Van Dyke here is a performer in complete control of evvverything. There is such intricacy here, such split-second timing. To be in control of appearing out of control takes true genius. I think people underestimate Dick Van Dyke.)

Anyhow, I loved that whole bit. A heartbeat’s deflation of a totally madcap, ramped-UP song. I noticed that as a kid and just howled. Weird child. I still rewind this just to watch that tiny sinking moment. I love it.

Love the whole happy tinka tinka thing.