Limbodacious

Sieze This (For Lack of a Less Crude Title)

Let me be honest about something.  I watch a lot of television.  The depth and breadth of my knowledge on almost every show since 1983 allowed me to become a three-time TV trivia champion on the local public radio station.  So it isn't surprising, really, that most of my posts here begin with "I saw this thing on TV the other day and..."

Anyway, I saw this thing on TV the other day, and I got a little worked up about it.   A patient, being wheeled out of the hospital said, "I should be dead but I am alive.  From now on every day is a gift."   I started my jaw-dropped, dramatically-slow-I-can't-believe-what-I'm-hearing head turn routine toward Boyfriend, who immediately recognized the maneuver and, knowing that an explosion was imminent, quickly started his the-grass-needs-mowed-the-dogs-need-fed-and-oh-would-you-look-at-the-time routine.

The thought itself is not very original, a person goes through a horrible trauma and comes out on the other side with a renewed appreciation and zest for life.  Seize the day, whatever.  I just don't understand it.  If every day is a gift, for me it appears to be of the hand-knit-poodle-skirts-with-yarn-balls-for-tails variety.  (A little Rae trivia:  That is a gift I really received when I was 16 years old, and I rank it as the second worst gift I ever got.  Number 1 is a can of peanuts I got for Christmas.)  Maybe with all the lasting complications I've had, I'm still too mired in the mess to see past it all and start smelling the roses.  Maybe my late great grandmother was right, and I was born jaded, and jaded I will forever be.   

Either way, you won't find "seizing the day" on my to-do list.  I will not come back better than ever and travel the world, devote my life to service, or date Sheryl Crow.  In fact, I find my to-do list shrinking by the day.  I leave dishes in the sink,  I don't react when my dogs start barking insanely at the neighbors, I rudely cut the Victoria's Secret girl off in mid-spiel when she is telling me about their great new credit card, and I consider it a personal affront that my boss expects me to show up every day (on time no less!) ... all the while repeating my own post-cancer mantra in my head:

I don't have time for this horseshit.

So I guess this is my way of seizing the day.  Armed with the knowledge that I may keel over at any moment, I refuse to sweat the small stuff.  The small stuff being earning a living, dealing with annoying people, and contributing to society in general.  And I will continue to cast off all those responsibilities that keep me from watching season after season of syndicated shows on DVD, so that someday I can rest in peace knowing my tombstone proudly proclaims:

Here lies Rae... loving wife, devoted dog owner, and four-time NPR televison trivia champion.

The Heart Break Kid (Written with Eyes Averted and Head Hung in Shame)

You know that guy?  [Or substitute "girl" for "guy" if applicable.  We do not discriminate here at Limbodacious.]  You know which one I'm talking about.  That one you don't tell anyone you adore, the one you silently worship after everyone else has gone to sleep.  For me, that guy is Shawn Michaels.

Oh, I'm sorry, you don't know Shawn Michaels?  That's probably because you didn't grow up with a bunch of hilljacks to whom professional wrestling was more religion than sport.  As a young, impressionable pre-teen, I swooned over his long wavy locks and snotty one-liners.   Oh sure, I saw some red flags... he travels a lot, is a little full of himself, is more than double my age, and is usually attired in outfits Liberace would shy away from... but I didn't care.  I thought he was hot with a capital SEXY.

But as I grew older, I realized that I couldn't like him anymore.  Because I was mature.  I was sophisticated.  I was not your typical country bumpkin who watched wrestling.  I couldn't like wrestling like all the other people I knew did. I was so much better than that, so I had to say adieu to my first pre-pubescent love.  Totally.  Except that one picture I keep in my diary (yes, to this day).

Fate has a way of circling back on a man, and taking him by surprise.

Ten years later, I began dating Boyfriend.  Three months into the relationship, he admitted to me that he was an almost fanatical wrestling fan.  But how could it be?  He wasn't a redneck, he was smart and went to college!  It didn't make any sense... I had gone so far out of my hometown to find a boyfriend, and here I found one that watched wrestling just like my childhood friends I had scoffed at, what are the freaking odds?  It had to be hard for Boyfriend to admit to his hobby, since it is so widely regarded as trashy and stupid.  Even though he had shared this part of his life with me, I couldn't confess my own embarrassing obsession.  I knew then that it would be hard to keep my secret. But I must keep it.

I did so good for a while.  When Boyfriend's friends were over watching their "male soap opera," as they called it, I disinterestedly washed dishes or milled about in the other room reading.  I teased them for their silly obsession with a silly pseudo-sport.   But the thing about skeletons is, they don't like to be kept in the closet.  So it was inevitable that one day, my secret would come to light.

When Boyfriend loudly objected to whatever had just happened on TV, calling Shawn Michaels a jackass, I cracked.  "How could you SAY that about him??" I blurted out, almost unknowingly.  Boyfriend couldn't process the content of the statement I made at first, because he was shocked that I was 1) in the room, 2) watching the match, and 3) knew what the hell was going on and who the players were.   Then, gradually, as he recovered from the realization that he is, in fact, dating a bona fide piece of white trash, he smiled and said, "Wait, do you have a crush on him?"

And so began the Incessant Teasing Campaign of 2005.   Since that moment, Boyfriend can't go five minutes without making fun of my silly infatuation.  Thus proving that I was right to hide it after all.

So confess.  You know you want to, it has been bearing down on your soul for so long now.  Who is that guy you love, but won't tell anyone about?  Unburden yourself.  I won't tease you.  Um, promise.*

* Fingers crossed at the time of statement.  Not responsible for any teasing, taunting, heckling, joshing, deriding, or any other form of good-natured harassment resulting from your admission.

Tidbit

People less boring than me:

"Congratulations are in order for Penn [of Penn & Teller] & Emily Jillette! Penn & Emily welcomed their first daughter, Moxie CrimeFighter Jillette on Friday, June 3rd!"

Moxie CrimeFighter?  Why do I love that?

Oh the Humanity!

War, hunger, and now this.

Don't worry, I was not affected by the tragedy, but I know many who were.  Keep them in your prayers.

I'm Not Here to Make Friends, People

You know, this is a pretty nice outfit here.  I try to be funny, put information out there, and generally avoid pissing people off that might be reading.  But there comes a time where I have to take a stand, no matter how unpopular it may be.  And I will say what needs to be said, what no one else dares to say.

"Sideways" is the shittiest movie I have ever seen.

That's right, I said it.  You can't keep me down.  I don't care how many Oscars this pansy-ass movie won.  It sucked. 

Anybody want to hear two assholes, an ugly guy, and that chick* from "Grey's Anatomy" talk about grapes for two and a half hours?  Anybody?  Not me.  It was so pretentious, so boring, and most importantly, so incredibly unfunny that I turned the piece of shit off after an hour.  Don't even try to tell me it got funnier after that.  You know it didn't.  And don't tell me that the grapes are supposed to represent blah de blah blah.  If it's an uppity work of symbolism, market it as such.

Look, I am open-minded, I am okay with whatever people want to do with their personal lives.  If you want to go out and make crappy movies, more power to you.  Everybody's got to make a living.  But don't go around touting it as the funniest movie of the year, practically forcing me to spend the $4 to rent it, when you know as well as I do that it's the worst movie ever made and in no way resembles a comedy.  I'm a cancer patient, goddammit, I don't have time to burn watching prissy jerks stick their noses into wine glasses and mumble!

If you are thinking about watching this movie, don't.  If you are one of the people who recommended it, you are dead to me.  If you've already seen it, know that I feel your pain.  I'm here for you.

* Don't worry, Sandra Oh, I will not hold this one indiscretion against you.  I happen to love "Grey's Anatomy" so you are forgiven.  Just, stick to television, okay?

Newsflash: Blogger Will No Longer Recognize Texas as a State of the Union

Texas Bans Gay Foster Parents

That is it, Texas.  We should have let them be their own nation when we had the fucking chance.

More Things to Worry About

Please read:  "Better Dead from Cancer Than Having Sex"

I must gouge my eyes out.  I couldn't have just read that.  No, this cannot be true.

Oh, but it is.