How sick is too sick to work?

Every time I call in, I am racked with feelings of guilt and of generally feeling like a weenie.

But there I was this morning, in the kitchen and it just felt like too much trouble to put my clothes on-- and not in a good way. I made the call.

Too sick is when you're coughing up small animals. Your nose has turned against you and explodes every few minutes in a cloud of ickiness. Too sick is when you're seriously entertaining the idea of calling up Ex-NotBoyfriends to demand reciprocity for past backrubs given because you're so achy you'd take relief from a gorilla if it was offered, but you wouldn't want the gorilla to catch what you have. Too sick is when the IsCats are looking at you thinking "How can she sleep that long?"

So you do what you have to do. You call in. You feel like a weenie. You imagine that they're not at all convinced that you're actually sick and that tomorrow when you go back they're going to grill you about the wild time you had out drinking martinis and shooting pool all day. The closest I got to this was the bottle of NyQuil and watching the IsCats bat little rubber ball around on the floor.

Mesmerizing.

Sometimes life doesn't disappoint.
Hasn't happened often around here lately, but it's good to know that some things are every bit as cool as you expect them to be.

I have loved The Pretenders since I was about 6 years old, and I saw the video for "Brass in Pocket" on MTV. There was a groove to that song, and that voice. My cousins were my earliest musical influences, and they indoctrinated me in the finer points of late 70's rock and roll. I was subjected to videos and albums by quality groups like Van Halen and Led Zeppelin, which gave me a healthy appreciation for the finer points of good guitar. And then there were the other bands, like Motley Crue. Most of the women I saw on MTV looked like something.... well something I had never seen and knew, even in my little six year old brain, that I would never be able to be like.

Then I saw "Brass in Pocket." Chrissie wasn't all painted up and she wore normal clothes, and she had that voice. And that was the first time I knew that women could be in a band and make music. At six years old, in the early 80's there weren't many examples of that to go around, and even fewer that I was likely to encounter in the world of boy cousins who were my sole male influences.

I went to see The Pretenders on Saturday night with Surrogate Brother EMan, and I fully expected to be disappointed. I figured a lot has changed. MTV doesn't show videos anymore. Chrissie Hynde is my mom's age. And speaking of which, there was Drunk Soccer Mom in the row in front of me, alternately flailing about in such a way that made me fear for my face and grinding against her companion, Slightly Sober Soccer Dad. More to the point, every instance in which I have met/ seen one of my heroes, they never measure up. How could they?

But they did. The band played hard, and didn't seem averse to playing the old standards-- I hate when artists think they're too good to play the material that put them on the map. If I still enjoy hearing it after thousands of turns through the record/tape/cd player it seems that the people who wrote it should like enough to still want to play it. They also mixed in some new stuff, and made the crowd love it just as much. And Chrissie Hynde said "fuck" a lot and made a few jokes, but not so many as to sound ingratiating. As if she could be.

Surrogate Brother EMan and I went for a drink after the show was over. On the way back to the train station, we saw roadies loading up buses and gave some thought to hanging around, seeing who we could meet.

But we decided it was best not to ruin it.

Today's list: Reasons Why Everything Should Be Mango

1. Mango Guava Smoothies at TeaRex in Charlotte, NC
2. Mango Martinis at The Last Hurrah in Boston, MA
3. Mango Body Butter at The Body Shop
4. Mango Mama juice by Fresh Samantha
5. Mangos from the tree in my Dad's backyard

Reasons why everything shouldn't be mango-- that stupid character that Chris Kattan does on Saturday Night LIve

Next week: Why everything should be lime.

I'd like to add that this whole thing where they waste my time with a clip show when there's MONEY (and dirty dishes) on the table is what my delicate, classy, Southern mamma would call a crock.

Thank you. That is all.

Tonight The Suz and I admit to ourselves and to the world that we have a problem.

For years we resisted reality television. Thought it was a stupid joke. I read Ben Elton's Dead Famous last summer, and that's as close as I have been to this cultural phenomenon. I know what I know about these shows from previews and from friends and coworkers.

Then all that changed. Joe Millionaire promised to be the nadir of American culture to date, and how could we resist?

I think The Suz secretly likes the idea of the name Joe paired with the word Millionaire, as this is something she is unlikely to see anywhere else in her life. I jumped in headfirst for the misogyny, the torrid lust, the raging stupidty of people out to make a buck. And of course the lies, lies, lies.

And it didn't stop there. Suddenly we're watching The Surreal Life and Jamie Kennedy on Thursdays. I fear this box can not be closed now.

But I digress.

Joe Millionaire has exceeded our expectations. First there's that guy. He's got a thick neck and the worst hair in the known universe. And he's dumber than a bag of hammers. His monologues go something like this:
"I just want these girls to like me for who I am, and I'm not a rich guy. I have to figure out which of them aren't into me just for the money. And this one is really hot. She's got a great body and wouldja LOOK AT THAT RACK!!!!"

Yeah. That.

And we get to make fun of Alex McLeod, because we think she has all the personality of a ball of drain hair. Her face doesn't move when she talks, and we were so happy when that cute little Paige Davis replaced her on Trading Spaces because Paige doesn't talk to the audience like we're stupid. While, we're also glad that Paige would never sully herself by being involved with something as sordid as a Fox dating show, we wonder how someone like Alex gets to be on television and we're still stuck working 9 hour days with supervisors who grab themselves and short people who pick their noses incessantly. And that's just at The Suz's job.

And then there was that story that broke about one of them being in fetish films, which prompted The Suz to make me visit the Adult Film Database with this very computer, on account of hers is broken right now. I don't even want to think what kind of mailing lists I'm going to end up on in exchange for seeing the cheesy blonde who gave Joe a hummer tying some poor schmo's feet together.

But the best part is that the whole thing has boiled down to the oldest known game that men play: Game Scenario Number 5. Game scenarios 1-4 have been lost to the ages, so we don't know what they were. What we do know is that sometime during the last century scrolls were unearthed near Olduvai Gorge that confirmed scenario #5.

Briefly, Game Scenario #5 involves the separation of women into two categories, Virgins and Whores. Good Girls and Bad Girls. Girls You Marry and Girls You F***. 4F Girls and Date Girls. The list of actual names goes on and on. The idea of which is that some girls are good for a hummer and some are good for washing your socks, and never the twain shall meet.

Do I believe that most men play this game?
In truth, I don't know anymore.

But it's an old cliche and our friends at Fox have orchestrated it for our viewing enjoyment. So of course I'm off to watch, as I've got $1 and who has to wash the dishes this week riding on the outcome of this thing....