The Crappy Poet

I'm a twenty-something edging past newlywed and new dog owner. I run, write, I work. What else is there besides the struggle to overcome all of that and make something of myself...


Weird Al Burtovic

Last night my husband and I were watching Four Brothers. The movie has a bunch of previews, one of which is for Hustle and Flow. As you may know, that whole movie is centered around the creation of a song, "It's hard out here for a pimp." They sing the refrain several times during the preview. I was sitting there holding our 3 month old baby daschund, and singing along to the dog, "You know it's hard out here for a pup..." and at that moment, my very white husband chimed in with his soulful parody of the next line, "Tryin' to find a nipple he can suck."

One day we are going to embarrass a young child to death. CPS, consider this your warning.


Book Review: Bitter is the New Black by Jen Lancaster

I read this book this past weekend, after having seen it all over I had read the timeline for the memoir on her site as well, so the subject is really what interested me. It's an interesting story: girl has good job, girl gets awesome job, she and her husband squander all their cash (apparently a quarter of a million annual income between the two of them) on luxe digs, $300 haircuts and prada bags. Then she gets laid off. Problems arise. They get married - for the cash - and then later he gets laid off. She manages to get a few temp jobs that she can't keep. In the end, they make sacrifices for each other, reign in the spending, get new jobs and happily ever after ensues.

I thought the book was well-written and funny. I appreciated her sarcastic and caustic sense of humor, if I did think she was overly critical of other people and didn't seem to gain any perspective from what she was going through at times. You don't completely hate her because she does pull her head out of ass enough to help out when her husband becomes overwhelmed by the stress of their situation. And she does stop with the obsession for $800 bags eventually. I found some of her reactions to things over the top, and maybe her obsession with herself (which is openly admitted) causes some of the over reaction (not to get all Dr. Phil on you or anything, but that's my two cents.)

But overall it's an entertaining book that makes you think about your take on life and widening your perspective to include more than yourself. The ultimate question to me when I read someone new is: Will I read them again? To Jen, I say yes, although I don't know what you do next when you have already written your memoirs in your mid thirties...


I Married for the Fringe Benefits

Yesterday we received a birth announcement from a friend. It was beautiful - pieced together professional looking black and white pictures of their darling new baby with lovely script revealing his name, birth date and weight. Both our husbands are graphic artists.

"Look at this, isn't it pretty? I bet Mike did it himself." I showed my husband.

Translation: You will be using your four-year degree to do the same for our child.

"Mm-hm," he said.

Translation: I know.


Victim of Hair Terrorism

My hair is finally growing out from a heinous episode in December of what only can be described as hair terrorism. I was violated. Bad. I walked out with bangs above my eyebrows cut in an off cneter oval shape. I had layers on one side and none on the other. The sides were thin and wispy, while the back was layered. It was total disaster that caused me to burst into tears the moment I got int he car, and yet still tip the girl $10 (too much for even a good cut usually) because she was a single mom and it was (hello!) December. Christmas time. So I really hope the cute little darling got her play make-up mirror set because I sure as hell paid for it with my pride.

I look a little less like the lead singer of the Pretenders now, but not by much. I still hate the bangs. But I thought I had the new stylist haircut thing all figured out. I went in with my usual do. I had a picture of what I wanted, as well as pictures of several other styles I liked, so that she could get a sense of my taste. I told her the about the thickness, body, and texture of my hair. Nothing seemed to help. I am now thinking I am going to have to have my haircut again, as happens eventually in the usual course of events. But now I am scared. Dentist visit scared. The clip of scissors makes me nervous. I sweat when I see thinning shears. Hair mags make me tear up. And yet I never thought myself wrapped up in appearance, until I got the haircut from hell. I mean, if a bad haircut can make me cry for days, what happens when I really start to age? I would never succumb to surgery, and I know that because if I was the type, I would have already had my boobs done by now (see, Hello, My Name is 32B). Because aging is so gradual, will it not affect me in the same way? I hope not. Because hell hath no fury like a bad haircut.


Jokers and Joggers

Here in Tucson, runners and bikers HATE each other. And I can't figure out why. When I run in the street, I get harrassed by bikers, screamed at. When I run on the wash (a multi-use recreation path next to a sandbed, or "river" as they call them here) bikers who are supposed to be yielding to those slower whiz past me at such a speed and closeness that I have actually been cut by pedals on my calf. Are they angry at us because we run, therefore casting doubt on the superiority of the bicycle? Does the spandex make them irritable? I have no idea. And so I wrote this:

Two athletes, both alike in dignity,
In the Old Pueblo, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where uncivil words make civil mouths unclean.
From forth the river path of their fair town
Does the battle wage,
As biker and runner both bear down
To control their respective lane.
The fearful passage of their to and fro
And the continuance of their rage
Marks the day of overthrow,
Where none will be allowed in either lane.
The which is subject of many a quandary,
That bikers and runners fight over such a boundary.


Miss Doxie was Right

I have been reading a blog by Miss Doxie recently because this Christmas I became co-owner of this:

a nine week old miniature dachund. Besides learning to spell Dachund, it has taught me alot about being a parent that I am sure I will need someday. Such as the fact that under certain circumstances, the clipping of fingernails can be a violation of the Geneva convention. Also, that baths are not a good thing. And that body size does not correspond to the size of one's poop.

Do not be fooled by the Target sock sweater and disarming expression. This small dog is capable of some very large poop. You see, dachunds are made to chase small mammals down holes. Therefore, in the absence of small mammals and holes, they are somewhat out of their element. And when an animal is out of it's element, they tend to develop defense mechanisms. This one's is poop. And yet, he also uses excrement as a greeting. As in, "Dad is home! Let me run over to him, flip over so he can pet me, and then pee on him!"

For some reason, this fountain impersonation has become the choice greeting for my husband. The dog doesn't do it to me. And at first, I was glad. But now I am kind of feeling left out. I mean, amI not worthy of sphincter malfunction? Does my presence not inspire such joy as to render one incontinent? And this sort of thinking is what makes me think that I am becoming prepared for parenthood. Because it is the sort of batshit crazy thinking that only a mother could rationalize.


Rodeo Gone Wrong

So yesterday, we are down at the Tucson Rodeo Parade handing out items in connection with the TV station where I work. We handed out everything we had, and then waited for the Parade to begin. This is not just any parade, mind you. This is the World's Longest Non-Motorized Parade. In the word's of a coworker's son, "Does that make it a Guiness Book World Record?" Maybe not yet. But we might qualify for World's Longest Parade Drawn by Psychotic Horses. Why? Keep Reading.

We stand around and watch the first few floats go by, and by floats I mean people in horse drawn carriages and wagons. Not especially decorated, either. Followed by more Guys on Horses. Also, not even dressed alike. BORING. Since the Child was not amused, we decided to leave. We weren't watching it for our own entertainment.

But when I got back to the office, everyone was crowded around the TV in my boss's office, right next to mine. "You missed it!" They say. "Our float just crashed into the Mayor's" What? They explained what happened, but it wasn't until I saw our footage from inside the runaway float that I fully understood.

The KOLD float was actually a wagon. A wagon with five anchors in it, and two of them had children riding in it. Adults and children waving happily to the crowd until something spooked the horses. All of a sudden, the horses take off. And I mean they take off like they thought ET was going to guide the wagon up into the sky. The wagon is now barreling down the street, passing the other floats. They began 14th in the parade, and now the are closing in on number seven. The parade marshals notice. They catch up to the runaway wagon and grab on from their horses, trying to slow it. It breaks away. A city councilwoman (?) steers her horse toward the oncoming horses to try to scare them into slowing down. Nothing. They take a corner and everyone in the wagon is holding on, hoping it won't flip. The sports anchor has his baby daughter like a football, trying to cover her for when they inevitably crash. Another anchor is sheltering the other kids. They are baring down on the first wagon in the parade, a handsome cab. Once they pass it, they are in empty street, and maybe the horses will feel out of harm's way. But as they close in on the cab, they are headed right for it. They ram it, and the horses buck. People are yelling. The mayor is almost hit in the head by a horse hoof, and his wife is nearly impaled when the pole connecting the horses to the runaway wagon punched through their wagon right between them. As it was, the mayors wife suffered whiplash and was taken away in an ambulance. As soon as the runaway wagon came to a stop, paradegoers rushed it and quickly got the children and anchors off the wagon, in case it should take off again.

One of the anchors who was on the float said she didn't even wear makeup for the newscast that day. "I was shaking so hard, I would have poked out my eye with the mascara wand! I only wore lipstick." At 3pm that afternoon, she was still shaking from the ordeal.

And of course, when the wagon took off? One of the anchors immediately whipped out his camcorder and got the whole thing on tape. Good newsanchor. Good boy.