Breeders

This post is not intended to be an indictment of all and sundried who decide to procreate. In fact, Miss Cranky Pants is even known to engage in cooing and baby-bouncing when the mood strikes. This post, however, is dedicated to parents of MCP's generation whose world has shrunken down to the size of a milk-splattered onesie.

Miss Cranky Pants used to know some very interesting, worldly folks. She ran with a sophisticated pack of multi-cultural, multi-lingual people who talked of culture, politics, movies and books. Over time, Miss Cranky Pants noticed that the people in her world started pairing off and disappearing. This is not unlike the scene in Never Ending Story where the world started to crumble from lack of imagination.

Her beloved friends began marrying, nesting etc. She has now noticed that her friends have started to produce issue, offspring, spawn...

What used to be discussions about European and American geo-politics has now devolved into discussions about baby's poopy schedules. They no longer go out, try new restaurants, travel to exotic foreign lands. The extent of their movie watching now involves animated figures. Their emails and blogs feature their drooling children and their latest exploits (Baby's first bong hit!) The expensive strollers, the bulky accoutrements, the baby voices...it's sort of like becoming Baby Mama Barbie with all the accessories.

Why must having children dictate The End of Everything Interesting? And to all the parents out there who are boring the rest of us with pictures of your children and their incredibly boring activities (Yeah, so your kid can walk. Guess what? So can most of us. Get over it.), know that nobody else finds your child as adorable/brilliant/fascinating/precious as you do, so please restrain yourself. Just like every generation thinks it invented sex, it seems that every parent thinks s/he created The Most Perfect Child. Well, there are 6 billion people on this planet so I guess parents of 5,999,999,999 are wrong.

So--kudos to my parents for hitting the jackpot!

Fake boobs

Miss Cranky Pants has been AWOL for a while now due to the demands of her job and busy social life (who am I kidding, here? My job is running my life.) BUT, in an effort to counteract the grievous muscular tension caused by her work, Miss Cranky Pants rallied her pals together for a day out at Inspa World (possibly the greatest place on the planet). A day of floating, naked time, kimchee eating and strategically placed high-powered jets...fabulous.

So, in the midst of my bliss in the giant hot tub, I witnessed to a woman in a very little bikini and very big fake boobs. Let it be noted that Miss Cranky Pants is not against plastic surgery. Actually, quite the contrary--she firmly believes in better living through chemistry and the scalpel...but, there was something about these boobs that were just not quite...right.

I mean, surely, this woman had every right to insert immovable faux-mammaries in her chest, if she wanted? Well, sure, but note that the name of this blog is hateration not live-and-let-live-aration...so, i gotta say that her boobs were like two halves of a grapefruit stuck on her chest...I found them repulsive and yet strangely fascinating. They didn't move at all when she moved. They didn't bounce when she bounced. They were, in essence, her anchor. I wanted to poke them to see if they were as hard as they looked. They looked concrete and utterly unbiodegradeable. How very ungreen.

It led me back to a time when a good friend of mine, C, decided to get fake boobs because she had been self-conscious about her chest her whole life. In fact, in the course of our friendship, I'd never seen her without her shirt on. What could make this otherwise out-going, smart and seemingly confident woman so neurotic about her boobs or lack thereof? Her response? "I just want to stop thinking about it."

So, she scraped her pennies together and got her boobs enhanced. Days after the surgery, I delivered arnica gel and chocolate to her door. Her boobs were high, huge and unmoving. Kind of like Kilimanjaro. She made me touch them. They felt like rocks inserted under her pectoral muscles.

But, in the end, I guess she made the best of it because she moonlighted as a stripper and made a fortune. So, the moral of the story is you reserve the right to get big fake boobs if you want and the rest of us reserve the right to gossip about how big and fake they are. Chacun a son gout, I suppose. And thank you to my genetic pool that has given me boobs that are beyond reproach.

The Evil Bourgeois Pigs who Run Financial Institutions

Miss Cranky Pants was recently on the receiving end of a series of shocking letters from Visa threatening maiming, fire-bombing of her residence and reporting to credit bureaus. And for what?! you might demand, loyal reader.

Indeed, Miss Cranky Pants has been called many things, but fiscally irresponsible she is not.

It seems that despite multiple check requests on my part to my bank to pay off portions of my latest credit card bill, Visa has not received a single one. What in God's name do they do in Florida? Do my checks get sucked into the Everglades? Are Floridians as incapable of opening and cashing checks as they are determining hanging chads? Or perhaps this is my bank's fault as they head into the financial nadir created by the most recent of economic downturns? Or maybe it's the fault of our fine postal employees who are surely known for their sterling professionalism and mental stability?

Regardless of any of these questionable variables, imagine my shock and dismay when I continued to receive threatening letters from Visa. Moi? Surely not! Me? The most anal-retentive of bill-payers? Years of timely payments and responsible fiscal behavior down the drain! Imagine my carefully guarded credit score getting flushed down the tubes because of incompetence on the part of some nameless mouth-breather. ME?! You're suspending my account privileges? Do you realize that if my credit score was an SAT score, I'd be in the IVYs?

So, short of dropping this check off in Florida, I put a stop to all pending checks and dropped the check in the damn mail myself. So much for this automated bill pay crap. Soon, I hope that that Visa will see the error of its ways and come crawling back. After some groveling, I might reconsider my scathing opinions. But, for now, I am content to stew in my bitterness and anger and not using of my Visa card.

This ain't Oprah!

The other day, in my office, I was obliged by a colleague to meet with a young woman who recently moved to New York. She met with me ostensibly to get my advice about how to get her start in the big, bad city.

Being a charitable-minded person, I cheerfully agreed.

I would then live to regret that decision.

I met this woman, who seemed nice enough in that sort of bland, hippie-girl sort of way. Appearances, however, were deceiving and I found myself backed into a corner, TRAPPED, by Too Much Information Girl.

To say that this girl had issues is an understatement. National Geographics has issues. This girl was the Library of Congress.

Within ten minutes of meeting her, she told me deeply personal things about her physical disabilities, her grandmother's death and surgical procedures on her reproductive system. She was the Endless Talker. She shared far too much in short order. My mind was reeling with all of the different ways that I could get out of the conversation quickly. I strained to look like I was paying attention by fixing my gaze on her non-lazy eye. My god, how I struggled!

Twenty excruciating minutes later, I was like a mouse caught in a trap. I was at that point willing to gnaw my leg off to save myself. It was unreal! How had this girl managed to get to this point in her life without benefit of somebody--anybody!--telling her that bombarding an innocent bystander with the inane and gruesome details of your mundane existence is just not okay?! Pouring battery acid in my ears was starting to seem like a very viable option.

Finally, there was a pause in conversation. I paused my rocking in a fetal position to find her staring at me inquisitively. Shit, I thought, she just asked me a question and I don't know the answer.

"Right!" I replied, "That's right. You are correct!"

She smiled radiantly and sallied forth. Did I answer correctly? Who knows?

Finally, as her diatribe seemed to be winding down, she said, "I've just moved to New York and I'm really just looking to make some friends." She then looked at me hopefully.

DEAR GOD, I thought, I HOPE SHE DOESN'T MEAN ME!

"Ah, well," I replied, "I'm sure that you'll make friends soon enough."

Try the self-help aisle at Barnes and Noble.

"So," she asked, brightly, "Do you have any professional advice for me?"

"Yes," I answered, equally brightly, "I would suggest that in future conversations that you let people get a word in edge-wise."

It ain't show friends, people, it's show business.

So, maybe I'm a bitch, but that chick was craaaazy.

Spring Awakening

Ah, spring time in New York--is anything lovelier? The birds are singing, the smog carries a sweeter scent of car musk and the sun warms the miles of concrete. People are happier, nicer and less apt to pepper spray you for bumping them on the subway. It's the best of times as the good citizens of Gotham shed their outer layers of black clothing to reveal their grotesquely pale limbs. There's always something a bit off-putting about seeing New Yorkers in summer wear--it's like seeing your mother at your favorite downtown bar...sort of like, "huh, never imagined you here." But I digress.

I love the warmer weather, but I do dislike one thing about it... Much like the hibernating polar bear, the Urban Pig comes out around the same time as those cute sundresses. Here are two popular varieties seen here:

























The Urban Pig usually accosts women traveling alone who are just trying to get on with their damn day without punching someone in the head because the super cute shoes they are wearing are also killing them slowly (and it's worth it!):


Anyway, there you are, most likely trying to balance a hot cup of coffee, a BlackBerry, a gym bag and a purse when, suddenly, you sense that you are being watched. You look up and, yes, you confirm that you are being watched. In fact, you are being mentally undressed in the minds of every straight male within view. You feel that extra-sort of dirty, and not in that good way.

But, then, the situation escalates. You hear men cat-calling out of car windows, taxis and scooters.

"Hey mami!"

"Hola mujer."

"Hey, girl, how you doin'?"

"Girl, you are lookin' fine today."

Oh, the humanity! The leering! The creepy staring! It's all too much to bear and all you're trying to do is get on with your life. I mean-- What. The. Fuck.

You consider a multitude of different options and responses, but it seems that coolly ignoring everyone is the best position. You're outraged and angry. "God!" you think to yourself, "The nerve! How disgusting! What PIGS! But..I did think I looked especially cute this morning."

Enjoy the spring!

Women's Magazines

I often find myself standing in front of news stands (often at airports) wondering what delicious trash I can pick up to occupy myself. In between reading about the hot mess that is Britney or scandale du jour, I often look resentfully at women's magazines.

Is it that the publishing industry is dominated by misogynists? Bitchy gay men and brittle, bone-thin hags who subsist on vodka and botox? Is it that women do not appreciate humor?

The women's magazine industry is entirely predicated on the belief that you, woman, are Not Okay. In fact, this abiding Not Okayness is so horrifying, so blatant, indeed so very OBVIOUS to everyone but you that it's quite surprising that you're able to function. No matter who you are, you definitely need to lose five-100 pounds, buy a new wardrobe, make new friends, find a new/any boyfriend, learn to live with the loser you've got because nobody else is ever going to love you, get your teeth whitened, get a tan, wear sunscreen, floss, tighten up your vaginal muscles, do leg lifts and feel inferior to most other women who supposedly Have It All.

Also, in between all of that, you should probably focus on your career for a second in between your lunchtime botox appointments and...have you considered plastic surgery for that horrendous schnoz of yours?

By contrast, consider the magazines for boys. The overriding theme there is Dude, You're Totally Awesome (and if you consider for just one second throwing away your ratty college T-shirt for this button down) Pussy Will Be Lined Up Outside Your Door. In fact, men's magazines embrace that their readers are fundamentally pretty secure with themselves and believe themselves to be kind of a catch (Editor's note: Empirical evidence suggests that this is not true for 99% of men out there).

Wanna buy a new, high-octane grill for your backyard barbecues? Dude--awesome. Your friends will be jealous and it'll be a Milf magnet. Grilling is so manly.

Wanna get that new car? Dude, go for it. Your friends will be jealous and it'll come with a pussy magnet.

Considering some sort of cosmetic waxing procedure? Dude, forget it. She'll just have to deal with your hairy manliness. Plus it'll make guys at the gym jealous (and will be a magnet for boys who like bears).

Insecure about the size of your penis? Dude, don't even worry! Most sizes are overstated anyway and it's about the motion in ocean. Don't believe us? Look, we asked this hot supermodel to confirm it...your 3 inch monster in your pants is a total model magnet.

Thinking about sex? (Editor's note: only when you're breathing, boys) Good, because everyone else is too and PEOPLE ARE DOING IT AT THE OFFICE. Dude, you're gonna have to beat away pussy with a stick on your way to the photocopier!

In short, our take away lesson here is that men's magazines are a better read because they do not make us want to purge every meal we've ever eaten, get ourselves into deep credit card debt for new threads and do make us believe that we are goddesses that every man would want to sleep with (Editor's note: duh.)

Say it with me, ladies: I'm good enough, I'm smart enough and, doggone it, women's magazines suck the big one (Editor's note: Take note, GQ--have you ever considered a coup d'etat?)

Facebook Applications

Every damn day, I get another stupid notice about another dumbass request from Facebook developers...

NO! I don't want to know what my stripper/Sex in the City/porn star/Scooby Doo alter ego would be...

I really don't care how many sheep you throw at me or how many times you've bought and sold me (plus, y'all really couldn't afford me anyway)

I don't care where I stand in the rankings and no matter what anyone says, I am the hottest friend you have.

I couldn't care LESS about who's flirting with me online or how many times you've been to Timbuktu.

I don't give a shit about your movie/pop song/Princess Bride quizzes and I really really don't think that a FB app can predict the trajectory of my life based on what I had for lunch.

And I resent being forced to suck my friends in just because I'm wasting time online and would like to know how to trade Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Just give me my damn results so I can forget I spent all of two minutes taking some stupid-ass quiz while I was supposed to be working. And don't share that with my "friends."

Also, the cutesy shit on your SuperWall just irritates the rest of us and makes us think you're retarded.

Log off. Go outside. Make some analog friends.