Posts Tagged ‘rant’

We don’t need organic massages

We don’t need photofacials

We don’t need Chick-Fil-A blocking a trademark application by Eat More Kale

We don’t need a mini bobble-head of ourselves made in time for Christmas

We don’t need cake balls from Mama’s Cake Balls in NYC

We don’t need children to be obese

We don’t need obese children being taken from their homes

We don’t need Coulter

We don’t need fake boobs

We don’t need male enhancement

We don’t need bad medicine

We don’t need misinformation

We don’t need the sun to go down at 4:30 pm

We don’t need more rain

We don’t need fear mongers

We don’t need to rant

We don’t need to do the dishes that are spilling out of the sink and onto the counter

We don’t need to lose weight

We don’t need to eat the last home-made oatmeal chocolate-chip cookie just because it beckons with a sexy voice

We don’t need Anthony Hopkins or Robert Duvall to get any older

We don’t need a mellifluous voice whispering melty words in our ear all of the time, just some of the time

We don’t need writer’s block

We don’t need sunblock (in the winter)

We don’t need a vacation to an exotic, tropical locale; only a vacation for one overnight, somewhere really close, even if it’s slightly chilly

We don’t need to know our age

We don’t need to act our shoe size

We don’t need to check our site stats more than 25 times a day

We don’t need to see Paris more than at least once before we die

We don’t need politics mixed up with religion

We don’t need the taste of licking an envelope to linger on our tongue

We don’t need the cat to think that every pair of socks left on the floor is a venomous snake from which to leap backwards at the height of 1.5′ and at a distance of 3′

We don’t need to link our accounts, sign up for another rewards card, or see any exciting travel destinations

We don’t need to post naked photos of women with fake boobs to get more readers

We don’t need to think about summer or to love the world any more than we already do

But we think about it

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Feeling too positive? Happy with life? Think we are here to be fulfilled and joyous? Come see how the other half lives as I, twinklysparkles, aka, Katherine, engage in a dangerous activity known as ranting….

the dead chipmunk in the side garden bed

the dead chipmunk in the back yard

the constant dead rodents all over my gdamn yard and driveway courtesy of my cats

Hubby says we are genetically determined to like or dislike cilantro. To this I say, “I was born with the gene that programs me to hate the Grateful Dead (except for the song Ripple).”

the new “GoBerry” frozen yogurt sensation in Amherst, Mass is made with its share of junky ingredients: WHY ME?

Frankenfood, including all the forms to which I am addicted: GoBerry original flavor, small please, with Oreo cookies layered on the bottom and top; Utz Red Hot potato chips (maybe the best bbq potato chips on the planet, including those ones I love in Germany); sugar; Starbucks coffee ice cream (even though they changed the original formula)

IF your blog is on a black or blue background, I will not be able to read more than 2 lines (prose) or 4 lines (poetry) at a time and I might get an ocular migraine. Do you really want to piss twinkly off with this black background on your blog? Think about it. I’m probably not the only one, just the only one willing to piss and moan about it.

tail+gate= asshole

tail+gate+highbeams=asshole cubed

idling your car for more than 15 seconds. You may be a Republican and/or Floridian and/or TEA partier to boot. But please, don’t remain ignorant and keep idling that fuel-injection engine.

If you cannot bring your own cup to get filled for hot or cold beverages and insist on littering America and funding the oil industry, then fuck it (not fuck you, just fuck the behavior)

Just because you come from a particular ethnic group does not mean you are not part of America. This cuts both ways.

Splintering into ever-smaller cultural factions whether they be based on gender, race, sexual orientation, parenting status, marital status, etc etc etc. Not sure how age fits in here.

Computer time causing an increase in near-sightedness and fat asses (including yours truly’s eyes and ass)


speeding, unless I need to get somewhere really fast; actually, just speeding in town. Maybe highway speeding is okay. Hmm. I’m simply unclear about speeding

drivers not slowing down for bicycles

bicyclists in traffic on cellphones without helmets (I kid you not, people)


bad drivers


broken appliances and/or lamps (current tally in twinkly’s household? appx. 33)



disposable plastic cups of all kinds

bad singing mistaken for emotionally-powerful singing

Natalie Merchant, her voice, and moreover, her incredible sincerity


exclusion for the sake of exclusion

88 degrees on September 26 in Western Mass

100+ degrees any day in Western Mass

spring peepers on September 27 in Western Mass

While I appreciate (I AM SERIOUS HERE, I REALLY APPRECIATE IT) anyone’s need to split their writing into different blogs, ie, the good woman, the bad girl, the sexy girl, the bad mom v. the good mom, etc, I have decided that I need to keep my whole self here, present. So kiss my tattooed ass if you don’t love me or my tattooed ass (it’s really my hip, but “kiss my tattooed hip” sounds neither powerful nor fun; well, it sounds like it might be fun actually)

Be kind to me, or treat me mean, I’ll make the most of it, I’m an extraordinary machine–Fiona Apple

(I LOVE YOU, remember, just not your habit of idling your car and using disposable grocery bags and drinking cups)

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Hatred does not cease through hatred at any time. Hatred ceases through love. This is an unalterable law. Buddha

I didn’t know what other song to post.

I’m still appalled and angry and saddened and shocked.

Being born in 1963, I was subject to the zeitgeist of peace protests and the anti-war movement. I am not too sure how much came from my parents because even though they were Democrats and they hated Nixon, they were also Establishment and European and warned us of “hippies” and counter-culture types with long hair. I remember hints of racism in spite of their liberal views and in spite of our racially-mixed neighborhood in Detroit.

I watched TV yesterday for a while until the commentators took over and wouldn’t allow for even another hour or two of family members reading off the names of those killed. I loved hearing the names read off without interruption. I didn’t want to hear the politicians speak their speeches; I didn’t want to hear a poem; I didn’t even want to hear Yo Yo Ma play his cello.

I am not sure who the day belonged to.

I keep wondering how much money it takes to run the waterfall. I keep thinking about waste. I keep thinking about pride and its foil, humility. I keep thinking about our bodies and the pain of having a complex nervous system. I keep thinking about war and Elvis Costello’s words from “The Scarlet Tide:”

Man goes beyond his own decision/Gets caught up in the mechanism/Of swindlers who act like kings/And brokers who break everything

I think of Cheney and Halliburton and the billions of dollars made, wasted. And the extremists who visited strip joints in Florida when they trained to fly the planes. Guns produced by one country and sold to another. What difference does it make? Someone profits and a lot of people suffer.

And this one: why can’t men get their personal shit together and stop acting out? Why do people need to couch their hate in something larger than themselves?

The memorial looks beautiful and fitting and I’m glad it’s there and we’ll probably hop down to the city to see it, soon I hope, in the fall.

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It goes like this some days:

good luck/bad luck

I find good parking spaces, often; I have terrible luck with shopping carts, the wonky wheels

I kept passing the same man in the grocery store today, 5, maybe 6, times. A regular guy, maybe two or three years older than me, not too tall. For at least 20 minutes I saw him, passing me in this or that aisle. He never made eye contact with me. I tried to make eye contact with him. A little smile, an acknowledgement. I ended up looking at the ground and smiling to the floor after about 3 times. When he exited the store, I saw that he was empty-handed.

I went to a grocery store earlier in the day. A tall, dark-skinned African woman in a dress made of traditional African cloth (if I knew anything about Africa, maybe I could say what country the cloth was from) was walking in the beverage aisle (I came there to see if the Polar seltzer was on sale, but they never carry the black cherry) toward me. She walked slowly, but with a rhythm all her own, in her own world, and she wore large, Birkenstock-like slippers on her feet. They were incongruous. Maybe they were Crocs with furry linings?

Later, a few hours later, I saw the same woman behind a grocery cart outside another grocery store. I recognized her feet first, I must have been looking down. She never looked at me, neither time.

When I read blogs in which the words are written on a black background, I can’t read. I look away and all I see are lines lines lines. This is unfortunate, I think, and I wonder if other people have this problem. Sometimes I get ocular migraines and I think these blogs could trigger one, but come to think of it, none ever has.

Today was a shopping day, a catching-up-on-groceries-and-errands day. I went to FIVE different stores and to TWO different banks. I still haven’t gone to the post office to mail a package that I haven’t yet packed, sealed, or addressed.

On the road, on my way to the third grocery store, someone in a Suburu Outback wagon was following behind my car and although the driver was not actually allowing her car to tailgate mine, I had the sense that she was in a hurry or pissed off or needing something urgently. She passed me when she could and turned ahead of me, less than half-a-block ahead. I caught a glimpse of her silvery short hair and proper, politically-correct bumper sticker.

In the third grocery store, I passed 2 women talking and I recognized the woman with short silver hair as the driver of the almost-tailgating-me Suburu. She had all of the signs of someone who lives in the Pioneer Valley, just like I do. Right then and there, I decided she was full of shit and I wanted to ask her why she drove like an asshole.

In the Whole Foods Market in Hadley, Massachusetts, one enters directly into the produce department. When I walked into the store (my FIFTH and final store of the day), I heard a high-pitched screaming. A mother shopping with her 2 children, the youngest still in the realm of baby-hood (13 months, maybe?), was pushing the screecher in a cart, her other child walking beside. The sound of the screeching was jarring to my system and painful to my ears. I asked the cute produce man putting up local green peppers, of which I needed at least two, “how long have you had to listen to that?” at which he answered that he was glad his wife had a boy because “they don’t scream like that.” Now that I’m not sure about. I just thought the mother was a particularly indulgent mother who was raising a child who could have been told not to scream. I heard the mother try this once, maybe twice, all the while while the baby screamed and screamed, laughing and giggling and making cutesy faces after every scream. The baby screamed and screeched the entire half-hour that I was in the store. The employees, you can tell, are not allowed to say anything negative in conversation about anything like an obnoxious screaming baby. So everyone, shoppers and workers, just nodded our heads uncomfortably. Sometimes a shopper would hear the screeching baby for the first time, as the little family approached. I could tell it was the first time by the way the shopper would jolt and startle and jump a little in his shoes. I think I jumped a little almost every time until I got far enough away that I sort of forgot about it until now.

I look at the women a lot. The women shopping, in the parking lots, in their cars, in their yoga pants and sports tops. In their good flip flops. With bouncy long hair, with beautiful silver hair. Thinner than me. More fit than me. This one’s got runner’s legs, that one has cork heels too high for safety with her small daughter walking next to her. What if she has to run after her in the parking lot? I don’t notice the men as much and there aren’t as many of them anyway. I have good flip-flops, too, but not flip-flops with bling. When did flip-flops get to have supportive soles?

I love the women at my bank. One has smoked for too long, I can hear it in her voice. She wears a crucifix around her neck. She is beautiful and kind, a little older than me. She has a pretty face and I love her.

I never remember names any more. The cashier I always talk to at WF has 2 daughters, one a new baby, and I ask and ask and I can’t remember. I know where she lives, I see her walking her baby in a stroller on the sidewalk, I know that her grandfather is from Italy, Sicily to be exact, I know the grade her oldest daughter is going into, but I can’t remember the names. What happened to my memory?

It is almost one o’clock and I thought it was only almost midnight.

I went to sing Sacred Harp tonight, as I do almost every Tuesday night at Helen Hills Hills Chapel on the Smith College campus in Northampton, Mass, and my oldest daughter went with me. She looked really pretty tonight and was very happy, but I still got ticked off at her in the car on the way home.

I went to yoga before singing and it was GREAT and I thought that sometimes good yoga is like good sex and I know I’m not the first to say or think or write this, so why bother?

When I used to do a lot of massage, this was a regular thing, someone or another would say that a great massage was as good as great sex. My clients never said this to me, just friends or acquaintances.

When I come across a new blog and I see that the posts are all long or I see a long post, I don’t read usually. So I try not to have blog posts that are too long. But I am full of words, swimming in my head when I am in the car too much or in a certain manic state and now look where it’s got me. And this is AFTER yoga! But also after singing, which can wind me up sometimes.

At a local, annual food-tasting the other day, a guy giving out samples told me I had blueberry eyes and he asked me if I do have blueberry eyes: do you have blueberry eyes? I said I don’t really like blueberries, but I wish I did. That was a new one: blueberry eyes. I’ll take it.

What about the words lush and razz-ma-tazz and linger? Can you guess who I was listening to in the car? Here’s another hint: dame.

Well, I’m tired and wired, so you know that means it’s time for my crossword. If you got this far, you may a. be married to me or b. a really good friend or c. brave and patient, more than I probably am or d. the recipient of my gratitude. I love my readers.

I even have something in common with Ol’ Blue Eyes. Whaddaya know?

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We will be happy to help you as soon as you’re done with your call” –sign at The Black Sheep Deli, Amherst, MA

On Monday, I took my mini-van to Firestone to have the broken housing on my rear-door taillight replaced. This broken housing was one of three reasons my car failed inspection. Now it is all behind us and we can travel together again, my mini-van and I. Actually, we are not legal until we get re-inspected, but the Amherst cops are pretty chill and would probably give me a warning for starters. Technically, I have two months to get re-inspected, but I have the red capital “R” sticker which basically means: YOUR CAR IS GOING TO IMPLODE. Last year, my car failed inspection, too, but it was failure of a milder variety—maybe the sticker was a different letter and color?

The previous week, I also spent an hour at Firestone, having a brake light repaired and getting two new tires put on in the front. The waiting room of the Firestone in Northampton, MA doesn’t really have any interesting magazines if you ask me–it’s all cars, sports, and business, and those aren’t really very sexy topics, are they? There was a copy of Latina magazine and it was pretty engaging, but it wouldn’t have been my first choice.

For Monday’s appointment, I decided to splurge and buy A WHOLE BUNCH of magazines before my car repair—whatever I wanted. I got Cape Cod Life for things to do on the Cape, of course; People, for the trash; Country Living because certainly, though I am in my upper 40s, I will have my dream house and dream kitchen soon; The Wall Street Journal, for the human interest story on the front page and to jeer, mentally, at the letters to the editor.

As I was settling into my comfy couch seat, learning about a descendant of some of the first European settlers on the Cape, I was shocked to hear my waiting-room mate’s intercom-level voice as she blared it into her cell phone. I now know much more about Rebecca than I would like. I know her last name (starts with an “S”). I know her son’s name (starts with a “J”). I know that there was a school committee meeting that night. I know that she had to cancel two daytime appointments. I know that she could not attend the school committee meeting as planned.

She made at least three calls out and received one, though I tried hard to avoid knowing even this much about her goings-on. In a different frame of mind, I might have asked her to go outside or at least to lower her voice, but I refrained. Though it was hard to concentrate on the article about Martha’s Vineyard’s idiosyncratically evolved sign language, I had bought the magazines to engage myself, and I did my best to ignore her.

My experience of cell phones, of late, is that the demographic with the rudest behavior is exhibited by the over-50 set. I think them young’uns are all texting, so there’s no volume, just an apparent disregard for personal safety when crossing the street and a complete lack of knowledge of the fine points of verbal, face-to-face conversation. What I consider appropriate behavior while dining has also fallen by the wayside, with texting being an apparently acceptable form of dinner conversation between parties of two or more.

Last summer, I went to see a movie in the local art-house cinema and, lo and behold, the 60-something woman next to me flipped open her goddamn Blackberry DURING THE MOVIE! I’m kind of thick and slow, but I’m starting to get it. The over 50-set, dinosaurs though they may be, have something in common with the rabble-rousing teens—technology, by gum, and they will shove it in your face so you know that they are important, savvy, and relevant.

I know, Rebecca S, that you and your schedule and your friends and your son and your clients and your car repair and your general fucking life are really important. But next time, so help me God, I will ask you to take it outside.

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