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.