iamsurly's Open Salon Blog

Lower Self-Esteem? I've Got a Coupon For That

Wed, 25 Jan 2012 10:01:15 -0500

I like a bargain just as much as the next person. I'm not an extreme coupon kinda gal like my friend Jodi who can go to the market, buy $200 worth of stuff and walk out with the store owing her money. She also tends to leave in her wake a bitterly pissed off line of Jacksonville housewives who have had to spend 15 minutes extra in line waiting to buy the jugs of vodka that get them through their day while the clerk sorts through Jodi's coupon collection. Jodi's a pro. She has a notebook and plans her assaults on the Piggly Wiggly like she's in a militia. I promise you that if you pick up the last pound of bacon that she has a coupon for, she'll cut-a-bitch just to get it. Me? Not so much. I forget my coupons in my car more often than I remember them, and once I'm in the store I'm too damn lazy to go back for them.

I've signed up for a couple of those discount sites like LivingSocial and Groupon, and I've even bought a few items from them. Dave got golf lessons for Christmas from a Groupon offer. However, of late, I've noticed a disturbing trend in the offers that they are sending me. First they kept sending me offers for bootcamp and pilates classes. Fair enough. Call me fat. I'm good with that. They aren't the first to go that route. However is it absolutely necessary to send me email offers with the subject line: Colon Hydrotherapy Session? It's bad enough that Jamie Lee Curtis is always talking about my regularity, do I need this? Do I need to sign up to go and have someone jam a tube up my backside, fill my guts with Evian, and then talk to me about what they see when they hit the suction button? No. Thank you. No. I don't remember checking this as one of my interests when I signed up for any of these sites.

But they are not only concerned with the state of my bowel movements. No. They don't stop there. In the last month I have been offered laser treatments for my wrinkles - which I DO NOT HAVE thank you very much. They have also offered to laser off my fat, which I do have but do not relish having someone liquefy during my lunch hour. I've taken Xenical. I know what liquefied fat gets me. They've also offered me discounts on having plastic surgery. I dunno about you, but I draw the line at getting discounts on anything that involves a scalpel and my face. LivingSocial has also decided that my smile needs more than brightening and that cute little tooth that's been crooked my whole life would be better suited in a set of clear braces. Really? I'm 45, not 14. I've learned to live with my dental flaws. And I'm long since passed digging for my retainer in the trash after I forgot it on my McDonald's tray and threw it out.

It's not that I don't appreciate the offers, really, I do, but where on the form that I filled out did I check a box that said "I'm insecure, constipated, and ageing, please help."? Lowering my self-esteem isn't what I look to coupon sites for, I have a mirror and a bottle of Rogaine for that.

I O U Fuck All

Thu, 5 Jan 2012 10:01:01 -0500

Well first let me get the pleasantries out of the way and wish you a Happy New Year. Let's all pause for a moment while we pretend that this greeting actually carried real emotion and that either one of us has a vested interest in how the other's year is going to work out. Ok. Done.

I'm not a total Grinch, but I will confess that there's a lot about the holiday season that makes me glad to see the back of it each January. I don't like holiday sweaters, Christmas carols, and obligatory gift giving. Sure. I like giving gifts, and I certainly like receiving them. What I don't like is the idea that I'm required to give presents to people that I might not otherwise have bought a present for under other circumstances. I really hate the stock issue holiday gift sets,complete with festive holiday shrink wrap straight from the factory, that people give you because they feel obligated to give you a gift, but can't really think of anything personal. I don't want you to give it to me, because I don't want to have to owe you a gift. I O U fuck all.

The idea of owing and being owed, that sense of being entitled to something is seemingly more and more pervasive these days. It's a gift with purchase mentality. As consumers we prefer to buy when they give us more because we deserve it. We're entitled to it. In fact damnit, we're owed it. I can't buy just one Eggies without them wanting to throw in a second one to sweeten the deal. They expect, and they are right, that I won't think it's a deal for $10 if they don't double the offer. (We'll talk about the sheer pointlessness of the Eggies another time.) We can't get people to donate money to charity without offering them incentives. Nearly every charity drive you encounter offers some kind of fundraising bonus - donate $25 to get a T-shirt, and they'll throw in the indispensable tote bag if you up the donation to $75. Why? Because they are sure, and they are right, that you are not capable of giving money just to give money. You feel you're owed some kind of compensation for your generosity. That is other than a tax break.

In both the retail and service industries customers regularly demand compensation when things don't go their way. Your Christmas package arrived later than anticipated in the mail? Yeah, sure you're owed an apology. Sorry about that. But are you really owed a refund? Credit towards your next purchase with the retailer? No. No you're not. You're not owed anything. In the end you got what you wanted, Aunt Agnes got her fuzzy slippers, and Armageddon is not yet upon us. It's all good. You are owed fuck all. The waitress forgot your drink order and you had to wait a little bit and ask her again? Sure, you're owed an apology. She's sorry, she's human. Are you owed a free drink? Are you entitled to stiff her on the tip in compensation? No. No you're not. You're owed fuck all.

I hear a lot of you talking talk about what your government should be doing for you. What many of you have forgotten to mention is that you've spent way more than you've been earning on things that don't matter like leather seats and DVD players in your SUV, purses with someone else's initials on them, and venti half-caf double whip frozen whataccinos, instead of being fiscally smart. I hear that you can't find the "right" job or need to find yourself before you can really focus on a career. You bitch and moan because someone's willing to come from the third world and do the jobs that you're too fucking precious and navel contemplative to do, and what's your solution? Instead of cleaning the toilets or picking fruit you apply for another credit card that comes with air miles because you're owed a gift with purchase. And when you can no longer meet your minimum payments, no, I don't think you're entitled to file bankruptcy and make the rest of the world suck up your debts. No you're not entitled for special government programs, like food stamps, meant for people who really want to work and can't find employment. You and your first world problems are owed fuck all.

Yeah, you heard it here first. You're not entitled to fuck all. You want rewards? Earn them. Take responsibility for yourself and your actions. Do something for others just because you can. Teach your children to be better people than you are. Kwitcherbitchin' and get off your ass. And if you think I'm calling you out, and I probably am, and you think I owe you an apology. I O U fuck all. Remember that.

Shut The Fuck Up!

Sun, 27 Nov 2011 20:11:01 -0500

Argh. I gotta tell ya, people have been gettin' on my last nerve lately. Well, sure people are always doing what they can to annoy me, and for the most part I'm all about turn the other cheek and ignoring them. Okay, well I'll admit that some days I want to do one of those fancy flyin' Ninja kicks that Dave teaches at his martial arts school and knock their teeth out of their heads, but I'm too lazy to break a sweat over them.

However in the last few weeks it's like all the crazy talk is in stereo and the reverb is giving me a migraine which really just makes me wanna say :

I open my email and there's guaranteed to be at least one crazygram in my inbox that makes me want to say:

I turn on the news and Michele Bachmann is talking nonsense and I just want to say:

To the people occupying the lawn of Los Angeles City Hall which estimates indicate is going to cost my already bankrupt city close to $400,000 to clean and repair when they are finally gone I want to say:

But, since I'm a lady of some refinement, I'm opting for:

Feeling Peevish

Wed, 2 Nov 2011 10:11:37 -0400

Sorry, I know I've been a bit remiss about keeping you up-to-date and generally providing you with my brilliant insights. I have a life you know, and I'm terribly sorry you don't. We should probably work on that. Email me. We'll make a plan and hopefully spare the world from having to listen to your tales of woe.

Speaking of tales of woe, I know we're all heartbroken about Kim Kardashian's divorce. Dave and I were really looking to them a beacons of hope and role models in our marriage, but alas we're shit out of luck there. And to think she had found a grown ass man who spells his name with a K. How could that not last?

In the realm of things that should not last, Gloria Allred has her own TV show now. She's dolled up in judicial robes and doling out justice. Well sure, playing a cheap imitation of Judge Wapner was the next obvious choice in the quest to be the Queen of Legal Television Whoredom. It's currently neck and neck between her and Nancy Grace. I believe the final phase of the competition involves mud wrestling. If it's on Pay-Per-View we'll show it on the big screen in the backyard with an open bar. Keep an eye out for my e-vite.

I've been thinking a lot about my pet peeves lately. Being a surly bitch, odds are I have a few more than you do. Or at least a few more than you're willing to admit to publicly because you're still too concerned about what people think of you. They don't think much, so pop a Percoset and move on. Take a look at my little mental list for this week and tell me you're not putting a tick mark next to damn near every one.

1. "What gives?" - This is not a proper or polite way to ask "Can you please explain this to me?". If you say "What gives?" my first instinct is to say "Fuck you. That's what gives." "Please advise" is another phrase I don't enjoy hearing. Actually anything that is a two word sentence starting with "Please..." is basically being rude and if you graduated from the 3rd grade you should be able to construct a better sentence.

2. "I'm going to sue..." Really? I love that people think this is a legitimate threat for every little transgression real or imagined. Our court system is already bogged down with frivolous suits. You really wanna hire a lawyer you can ill-afford and take my ass to court because I told you to shut up and leave me alone or gave your kid the stink eye in the market or thought "God you're a lazy ass bitch" outloud? Oh. Wait. Maybe if you wanna get us on Gloria's show I might be willing to go toe-to-toe with your crazy ass.

3. The fat woman in the super-sized eco-terror SUV who is camped out by the parking space next to the entrance of Target on her cell phone and is willing to wait 20 minutes for someone to come out of the store so she can take their parking space rather than waddle her fat ass 100 yards. This is why you're fat and your husband is hitting the local Rub-n-Tug joint 3 days a week.

4. Women who inject their faces full of all kinds of chemicals until they are disfigured. How in God's name can you look at yourself in the mirror each morning and think "Yeah, that was so worth the pain and money. Oooooh... I need a refill 'cause I'm starting to look human."

5. People who type in ALL CAPS. It does not make it easier to read, and frankly, after the first sentence I stop. This also goes for people who can not use proper capitalization. Sentences start with capital letters, so do proper nouns, and the personal pronoun I. Please also note that excessive use of auto-correct makes you look like a moron. Check your texts, IMs, and emails once before you send them. Twice if you're related to me.

6. People who click those dumb ass links/videos on Facebook and in their emails that get their accounts hacked. Really? It's 2011. If you don't know better by now you need to get off the internet and go back to getting your porn at the adult bookstore.

7. Parents who wander through the market, Target, or Walmart oblivious to their screaming child who is pulling shit off the shelves and making that noise that makes Surly's brain bleed. You wanted the kid- you pay attention to it or put it on a leash and get it a shock collar if you can't get it to behave. Better yet, stay at home and shop online. Yeah, I know, I bitch about that a lot. You would think you'd learn.

8. People who talk while they are on the toilet - either on the phone or between the stalls in a public restroom. Really? There's nothing you have to say that is so important I need to hear it while you're taking a shit. This also goes for people, like my mother and sister, who leave the damn door open. Going to the bathroom is not a group activity.

9.People who speak out loud in acronyms. The phrase is "Oh my God!" not "OMG!". If you're really laughing out loud, I should be able to hear you. It's not cute or clever. Half the time it's annoying in a text. There's nothing more tedious than receiving a message from a grown adult that reads like a crystalmethagram from a 16 year old. You're a big person, use your words.

10. Ann Curry. I dunno what it is about her, but she sure does get on my last nerve.

So that's where I am today. I'd really love to care what's new with you, but I don't and we both know you don't want me to pretend.

Letters From Beyond The Grave - Revisited

Wed, 5 Oct 2011 10:10:26 -0400

Author's note: This post, originally written on October 5, 2009, is being reposted in honour of the anniversary of my uncle's passing.

On October 5th, 2007, barely a month after the death of my sister Parrish, my family lost another beloved member. My aunt Melantha's second husband, my uncle Corb, succumbed after a several years long and hard fought battle with cancer.

Parrish & Corb at my wedding, one year before their deaths

There was a considered lack of decent male role models in my early life. My father had all but disappeared and my violent and cruel step-father was forever shuffling through his multiple personalities; so the role of father figure in my world fell to two men, my grandfather and my uncle Corb. They were very different men and they were each to have a profound and unique impact upon my life, and to play a significant role in shaping my relationships with and expectations of the men in my life. I believe that my husband is a blend of many of the characteristics that were to be found in both of these men.

Corb was a brilliant man with interesting life experiences that ran the gamut from registering black voters in the south for the Civil Rights movement to having run the first headshop in Los Angeles to having discovered Jimmy Buffet and signed him to his first major record deal. (Jimmy was to play at his memorial service with my cousin Daniela many decades later.) He could and did talk incessantly about anything and everything. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of history and pop culture and a biting wit. It is from him that I inherited my love of a good snark.

Corb was an avid letter writer for much of his life including up until the bitter end. Even when he was desperately ill there was always time for a missive for his friends and family. Whether it was a quick and quirky message, invariably signed Yr Evl Uncle Corb, to remind you that you were loved no matter where you were in the world or what unapproved of antics you were currently up to; or a lengthy travelogue sharing his own unique vision of the peoples and countries he visited, his letters have always been considered treasures by the recipients.

Over the years that I was at university in Europe he was to send me several, a number of which I have kept all these years stashed away with the more precious artifacts of my life. Now that he has passed I am sorry that I did not keep every single letter and email he sent my way. I have to learn to be a little less aggressive with the delete function. I have long since lost and forgotten the bulk of the first letter he ever sent me when I was away at school in Switzerland, but I will never forget the closing line for it was poignant, frivolous and true: "P.S. Your mother has rented your room."

Below I would like to share with you two of the letters I received while I was at university just outside of London. They show not only his gift for writing and his quick wit, but they also tell you a little something about my family.

This first letter was sent shortly after I left for England. Jessica is Corb's daughter by his first wife, and Daniela and Payson are my cousins from my aunt's first marriage.

October 15, 1989

Dear M,

Please forgive my long silence but things have just slid slightly out of control around the manor with the onset of school and Autumn and the like. I have barely had time to tend to the civil chores like correspondence in months. For this I beg your indulgence and understanding. It is in no way an indication of receding affection for you and all that you represent. I suppose an update is in order. Daniela has a car. Sort of the automotive equivalent of a tattoo. A 60-something Chevy II prole-prowler which plays Pokey to her post-punk Gumby. They have been separated this week by a slight but functional crash with the rear of a cement truck on the highway. He ran from the scene of the crash. I'm quite sure his secrets were worth a Twilight Zone episode. Cal is attempting to the resurrection at his usual pace. No injuries to report. Jessica is looking for a small car that is cosmetically a little more in character with her self-image. She has narrowed it down to "something square." This is, no doubt, a geometrical description. The search continues.

Payson is into his third week at BIT, a division of the larger GIT or Guitar Institute of Technology and, although he has not made the football team, seems to be enjoying the company of his mates. The school shares the neighborhood with my current office. It is a re-vitalized section of the "New Hollywood." This upgrading seems to loosely indicate that the percentage of homosapiens will exceed 50% in the foreseeable future. Not on this block, however. I'm not sure how to score spandex and plastic slides before dark.

Your birthday is upon us again. Your aunt and I would like to give you a gift for the ages. "Marry well and often." You heard it here first.

My eternal love and best wishes for your birthday and always,

Uncle Corb

The following letter discusses my cousin Tori's wedding. Tori is the daughter of my mother's brother, Fred and his wife Marilyn. Bushey is the village outside of London where I was living at the time.

Spring, 1990

Dearest Mandee (sp.?)

It occurs to me that I really don't know how you spell your name, having only seen your monogram on pieces of heavy silver. If by some chance it is Mandi with a happy face over the "i" please disregard this and correspond directly with your aunt.

Ah, to be in Bushey when the lilacs are in bloom! Spring has sprung in our neighborhood as well and in true pagan tradition we spent the day, the 21st of March, a-clanning. It was also your grandparents anniversary. We gathered together at a local religious shrine, North China, and spun the sacred lazy susan heaped with oriental platters (without MSG) and has ourseffs a fine ol' time. Except Helen who was overcome at the table with nausea. Your mother pointed out to the assembled group and most of the rest of the restaurant that it was a "woman thang" and went on to describe the very "thang" in detail that would have made a gynecologist gag on his Peking Duck. After they left we continued in the festive spirit until full and retrieved many paper flagons of questionable vegetables home to our respective dwellings and placed them inside the proper shrine. As is the tradition, they were empty in the morning. The Gods of Spring were well pleased.

The Wedding.
Let me count the ways

Your sainted aunt Melantha actually took the majority of the heat off the rest of the group by throwing herself into the last minute planning and taking the thing over from Marilyn and Tori. In doing so, she prevented a sure matricide and at least postponed "the big one" for a few months. I couldn't do the events leading up to the wedding a proper service in anything less than a volume the size of the Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire and I won't presume except to note that there was precious little fall-out for the rest of the family once Melantha got involved. They don't call her Glynda the Good for naught. It was honestly one of the most beautiful weddings I have ever seen. The girls looked beautiful, really beautiful and Tori and Tim were picture perfect. The reception at The Club was elegant and glowed in the warmth of the first real spring day. The sky was blue, the flowers blooming and the assembled 300 or so guests dressed, behaved and, with the exception of the traditional "Dance of the Vixens" featuring your mother and your aunt stopping the show to some really white rock and roll, comported themselves like, well, white people. I was particularly pleased with your mother when she raised her dress over her head while dancing and shook that booty and exposed a set of legs that would have had an East German weight lifter begging for more steroids. This, while dancing with my wife, your aunt.

Really, it was quite lovely and I hope that they live happily ever after. Now that they have this crap out of the way they have a chance.

I could, of course, nit-pick. I could wish that your mother, for instance, would choose to date someone a little higher up on the food chain. But I quibble. It isn't my place to be picky. Or is it?

I can't really crank up for the wedding, it was really quite touching.

We miss you a lot. Hope you are coming back to regroup this summer. This might be the haunted summer from Planet Xenon. If things go the way they are pointed, I wouldn't miss it. Especially the formal summer dinner dance my beloved and I are sponsoring. Too elegant, too chic, too outre, too (your choice here.) Coming soon to a family real estate holding near you!

It is late. Glynda will be dropping in surrounded by munchkins and a gossamer bubble within moments. I only have time left to pledge my undying affection, my eternal devotion and all my James Brown records to you. When they find me on the front porch in my rocker, a blanket over my bony knees obsessionally mumbling words like "trout" and "wallpaper", remember me kindly and play E-3 on the jukebox.

Uncle Corb

Melantha, Daniela, Corb, Payson & Jessica circa 1984