Tag Archives: Cee-Lo

I’ve given up

23 Feb

Everyone is acting like they are all a bunch of crazy Cajuns with the Mardi Gras stuff.  The beads are flying, bars are having “parties” and my grocery store bakery is overflowing with those grody looking King cakes.  For my family, about as Mardi Gras as we get is eating pancakes on Shrove Tuesday.  The idea behind that isn’t just another one of my “breakfast for dinner” whims.  No.  Lent season has begun and in practice, a household uses up all of their decadent ingredients before beginning their penitential preparation during the forty days preceding Easter.  The pancake supper is sort of like a distant cousin to making what I call Snowstorm French Toast.  That is when all stores sell out of milk, eggs and bread at the announcement of “snow forecast” in Georgia. 

Lent is a time when people try to repent, give alms, pray and to do without by giving up something that is indulgent.  The eschewing of chocolate, gossip and alcohol seems to be popular with my people.  I myself have given up these things, and other vices or luxuries as well.  Sometimes I make it all forty days, and other years I have broken down and admitted that I am an imperfect child of God.   One year I gave up putting French Fries in my mouth.  It sounded daring at the outset, but was super easy.  It turns out that I really don’t eat them that often, so it kinda worked out for me.  The most difficult Lent season was the year I decided to deny myself from allowing something else that starts with an “F” from coming OUT of my mouth.  I vowed self-denial by eliminating using the word “fuck”.   It was the most difficult forty days.  Ever.

Hot Damn comes from a long and colorful line of serial potty-mouths on her mother’s side.  I have one cousin, we’ll call her Melissa, who is the most prolific and cunning cuss-wordsmith that I have ever met.  She works at her craft in the way a tennis champ might work at her serve.  It is dazzling how she can work a “bleep” word in to the most somber of occasions.  I sat next to her during my Grandfather’s funeral and about wet myself from her commentary.  Then there was the six-week  college Thanksgiving-thru-Christmas break when I worked part-time in her office.  One morning when I came in, I must not have been accompanied by my usual rays of sunshine, prancing fawns and chirping bluebirds, because  said cousin looked up from her desk at me and said, and I quote, “Well, God-damn-shit Charlotte Ann; who the fuck pissed all over your cornflakes this morning?”  That one question pretty much had everything!  So, you now know from whence I come and the struggle that I faced by denying myself the best profanity of all time.  Busting out the f-word is just part of my fabric.

Spending that forty days biting my tongue and rethinking my word choice not only prepared me for Easter that year (I know that Jesus was way appreciative of MY sacrifice), but it gave me the foundation to listen and sing-a-long with music in the car with my kids.  For instance, before Cee-Lo released his sanitized “Forget You”, I was blasting the original song, but loudly substituting the line as “Well, fudge for you-oooo-ooo0!”  I turned it into a song about baking for someone who’s done you wrong.  Isn’t there something in the Bible about loving your enemy?  Again, I was making Jesus proud by passing along His teaching.

Yesterday I conducted an informal Facebook poll to find out what my people were going to hit the pause button on for Lent this year or what they had disposed of in years past.  Some were true eliminations like Jackson quitting chocolate, John saying “no” to carbonated drinks, Tracy and Gabe not checking Facebook (won’t happen) or when Donald stopped making martinis (but not vodka tonics).  Others were more wishful, like Kim halting toilet scrubbing or Claire giving the finger to caring in any capacity.  Then my cousin Mary Sue replied that she would be giving up “cousins”.  Ouch.

Gwyneth is special

9 Mar

Anyone who knows me for reals, knows how much time I like to dedicate to highlighting that style of parenting that is all about a child’s almighty self-esteem.  You know the parents that keep telling their kids, “You can do it!  You are special!”  Step off Mom.  Back away Dad.  Just because your precious can do something, doesn’t mean they do it well…doesn’t mean that they should continue doing it.  Thanks to them, I am stuck in a world where there is a whole segment of society that is convinced that they rock at everything, and they have no shortage of enablers out there clapping along like trained seals and nodding like heroine-kicking bobble heads.  Sometimes those enablers are Hollywood producers, media outlets and a lot of people who’ve just gone numb.

Concentrating on the chords

For the love of God, please make Gwyneth stop.  Tell her no.  I can’t take it anymore.  Yes, good job Blythe Danner and Bruce Paltrow with the whole encouraging of the acting.  That worked out just fine.  No qualms.  But then Daddy thought that Baby could sing real pretty and made a whole movie for her to sing in.  Remember Duets, with Huey Lewis?  The easy-listening stations loved their croon, “Cruisin’”.  I ‘spose it was serviceable.  I mean, I sing in the shower and at stoplights, and it’s so awful it jars even me.  I can appreciate that “Cruisin’” was inoffensive, but I won’t say that it was great. It was enough and that should have been the end of it.

Adult-contemporary Gwyneth

After failed relationships with Brad Pitt, remember their matching hair-don’ts during their brief engagement…

Wonder Twin powers...activate!

and Ben Affleck, she married the most boring front man ever, Chris Martin of Cold Play….

Bland

Lack of excitement and moving “across the pond” was the perfect storm of smugness  and boost in self-regard for Gwynie.  This is when she started name dropping “Madge” and witnessing about macrobiotic diets and cupping.

Looks like a nasty case of ringworm to me

There are a couple of years where there isn’t a picture of Gwyneth without that dumb yoga mat rolled up under her arm.  At some point her encouraging mother and ass-hat friends must have said, “Oh Gwyneth, please share your knowledge and wisdom with the world.  Pretty pleeeeease.  You can do it.”  And then she gave birth to something with a worse name than Apple or Moses:  Goop.  That’s her blog.

The "All Doing" Gwyneth

Gwyneth dispenses advice through her blog and directs her audience to things that are super accessible, that can only enhance their lives and make them feel better, smarter and superior, like colon detoxes that run about $1200 a week, the best French pharmacy beauty finds, planning a trip to Hong Kong or Stella McCartney’s must have workout pants.  It was when I read this particular entry that I started stitching my Gwyneth voodoo doll once I quit choking on my own tongue.  She recounts a day in her life from waking up and decorating and stuffing shoe boxes for a Toy-drive with her selfless children before taking them to school, to personal trainer time, fittings (which six outfits am I going to pick for someone to pack for my trip???), phone calls, baking cupcakes, giving foot massages and a girls night out.  At no time does she make mention of a nanny, assistant or troll, and yet the kids got home from school, someone cooked their dinner and we assume that she didn’t leave them home alone while she went out for a glass of organic ice wine.  Ughhhhhh!

Then there is this damn Glee situation.  I don’t watch that show.  Can’t stand it, actually.  But the rest of the country wets their collective pants every time there’s a new episode and I am besieged by whatever happened.  Damn Gwyneth, or as Dlisted’s Michael C calls her, Fishsticks, was on it again this week.  The last time she sang a sanitized version of Cee-Lo’s “F*ck You”.  It got replayed ad nauseum.  And as a further eff to my ears, she did it again for the Grammy’s.  To quote Cee-Lo, “Whyyyyyyy?”  This time around she tried Joan Jett.  Exactly.  Of course, that totally makes sense.

As if

I suffered silently through her live performance of her Country Strong song during the Academy Awards.  You know, the award show where, on the red carpet, she said that she really wants to work with Jay-Z.  I think that was just after she made a point of telling the reporter that earlier in the day she ate an entire turkey burger with the bun and drank a Guinness.  You don’t say?  But I must draw the line.  This week, Atlantic Records signed Fishsticks to a $900,000.00 deal for a full-length album, or whatever they’re called these days.  Again, Whyyyyyy?

How can we make this stop?  Why does America keep saying, “Yes” instead of “Shut the hell up and just act!”?  Do we really need to make Gwyneth feel good about her mediocre singing?  Does she really need our approval about colon cleansing and farming out the bake sale stuff to the help?  People, I am begging you to turn away and end this foolery now.  It’s what’s best for all of us.