The Crap Game

I recently spent some time with some O’Day Seniors. I took some very nice aged Vermont cheddar to one old gal I visit and she says, “I like yellow American cheese. Now that’s good cheese.” I took another elderly fellow a really beautiful apple pie from a local bakery. A pie I had to order a week in advance and then wait 20 minutes in line to pick up. I give it to the old dude and he promptly goes into his kitchen and comes out with an Entenmann's pie and says to me, “Now this is good pie.”

Orange dairy food product. Gummy assembly line pie filled with ingredients you can’t pronounce. I’ll give it to them. They’re super-old. They can eat all the squeeze cheese and apple goo they want.

But the rest of us need to consider, what kind of crap do we crave? What kind of crap do we shove into our bodies?

Have you ever gotten onto a subway in New York City just as school is being let out? A herd of unhealthy fat kids with McDonald’s wrappers stuck in the corners of their mouths. Fattening themselves up for the pharmaceutical companies so they can make a whole lotta’ dough offfa’ their diabetes drugs and Relacor for stubborn belly fat.

“Oh, but Sandra, fresh vegetables are so hard to find. I’m doing the best I can. I’m stressed out!”

Stressed out? It’s time to stress in folks. Look inside. You can’t make things better by popping a pill when you’re playing the crap game! The pill is just another piece of crap.

Take a good look at what you put into your mouth, people. Ask yourself who benefits. And get out of the CRAP GAME.

Why?

I spend a whole lot of time getting from appointment to appointment here in New York City and I see a lot of people. This young man stands out, however. Very white, very long ponytail, pants pulled down like a gangstah -- with a tie-dyed shirt. Confusion abounds. I wanted to grab him and force him into a Sandra O'Day One-On-One Power Seminar, but I was afraid I'd never stop slapping him.










Here's a close-up. If you know his mother please make sure she sees this.

Good Short Fire

Fresh Ground Coffee

The following conversation took place while I was visiting a friend in her very fancy, extremely expensive Manhattan apartment.

Sandra O’Day : Mmmm. That coffee smells really great, Doris!

Doris the Whiner: It better! It’s a pain in the butt to make.

Sandra O’Day: How so?

Doris the Whiner: Well, I really like super-fresh coffee. So I have to measure the beans, put them in the grinder, grind them, clean the grinder, boil the water, pour the water by hand through the filter bit-by-bit to slowly saturate the coffee ... it just takes a really long time!

A quick silence.

Sandra O’Day: Let me get this straight. You’re complaining about pushing a button on a grinder so that electricity, which you and everyone in your entire city has, will grind the expensive, designer coffee beans. Beans that were hand-picked on a treacherous mountainside in the relentless heat by someone in a developing country who has no electricity or running water and is paid a fraction of a penny for her hard work?

More silence.

Doris the Whiner: Cream and sugar?

Sandra O’Day: Black.

Hateful, Hateful Tribeca Mommies

Apparently my last posting was too “aggressive” and “violated” some stupid agreement I had made with both my parole officer and anger management therapist. So I ended up back at the smelly hippie “anger management” camp yet again.

And it was worse than last time. We had to hold hands and SING what we were grateful for every morning noon and night. We endured drum circles, talking sticks, rain sticks and regular old stick sticks. Those hippies love their sticks. I had to listen to too many self-indulgent bleeding hearts talk about their FEELINGS. Their stupid, stupid feelings. And I had to eat tofu NOTdogs, which taste like crayons dipped in butt hole.

But now I’m back.

First, I’d like to point out that all you Tribeca mommies sent me plenty of nasty-nasty e-mail. E-mail that is far worse than my last post. Your e-mail was so nasty that I can’t even post it or I’ll be sent back to smelly hippie anger management camp for violating my agreement yet again.

I can say this, however, in response to the e-mail I got from “VintageMommy.”

VintageMommy, at fifty-four years of age you are too old to be breastfeeding. You are not a "miracle of science." You are yucky. Your e-mail name should be DisgustoOldMommyWithAncientLeakySaggyBoobies. You’re going to break your old calcium-deficient hip when you trip on hideous, plastic baby toys. Nobody likes you. Not your husband, not the other Tribeca Mommies, not even your children. Your Franken-Babies are going to grow up, squander your money on charity and join the peace corp. You will have no retirement money left and you will have to go live with them up at their smelly hippie anger management camp.

And I will laugh and laugh and laugh.

Anger Management

For the past four weeks I’ve had the sheer pleasure of attending a sleep-away camp for anger management. Yes, I was packed off into the woods by a bunch of smelly hippies who were trying to help me get in touch with my “Inner Peace Maker.”

I can tell you why I’m not in touch with my “Inner Peace Maker” on a regular basis. Because people are idiots. They are stupid, rude and they have no sense of personal space. The worst offenders are people with young children. They don’t train their children properly and their hateful spawn are taking over the country. To add insult to injury these “parents” all have dogs. And they don’t clean up after their dogs. In general, these people are tremendous assholes.

(Yes. I’m using curse words. I’ll throw a fiver in the curse jar so the swearword police don’t come after me.)

My offending incident involved asking for a plastic bag at the Whole Foods in Tribeca. I know plastic is bad. I get it. Really. I really do. I usually bring my own bag, I recycle and reuse, all that. But one rainy day in New York City I dashed into Whole Foods and purchased some produce. I don’t travel with my grocery bag at every moment in my existence and I wanted to take my vinegar, lemons and arugula home in a bag that could withstand the rain –- with full plans to use the bag in the future to scoop cat poop into. But while checking out, the cashier at Whole Foods (which should be called Whole Paycheck because it’s so stupidly expensive) asked me, “Paper or plastic?” and I replied, “Plastic.”

A hush descended upon the checkout line as if I had asked for a baby-skin lampshade.

Uber-wealthy, Tribeca, fifty-year-old mommies with toddlers in strollers gasped. Their devil-spawn, designer twins pointed at me in contempt as they drooled onto their five-hundred-dollar matching hemp bibs. I was immediately branded “The Bad Lady Who Wanted Plastic.”

And you know what I did? I told everyone to fuck off. Yes. I know. I violated my parole and my own resolution to curb my use of offensive and aggressive language. But I did it anyway.

I went on a rant about the carbon footprint of designer invitro babies. I did it. I went there.

Did you know that no matter how teensy-tiny your own carbon footprint is your child’s carbon footprint is SIX TIMES BIGGER?! And that’s just one child, not the two you get for the price of one when you let your doctor play GOD.

So fuck you all you rich bitches who are having Five-Hundred-Thousand dollar TWINS while I use my plastic bag for cat shit.

I said all this out loud. And for this public expression of contempt and TRUTH I got a fine from the police for creating a public disturbance.

What about the disturbance of your double wide baby stroller and the shit from your Labradoodle that you don’t pick up?! What about that? No fine for that? WELL, THERE SHOULD BE.

No, Sandra O’Day was the one who had to spend four weeks with stinky hippies in an anger management camp where I had to eat tofu “hot dogs” that tasted like crayons.

Fuck you Tribeca Mommies. I hate you and I want to punch your toddlers in the face. And I’m not alone.

Rihanna, Wake UP!

Rihanna. Honey. I think someone made a voodoo doll with your face on it. And I think Chris Brown has stuck a few pins in the heart of that voodoo doll, because rumor has it you’re engaged to marry him. I’d like to point out that he used his fists on your face before he made any subtler moves.

I read you also recently got a tattoo. Of a little gun. On your shoulder.

Are you going to shoot him with it when he’s beating you with his fists? Is it supposed to serve as some kind of a reminder to a “better-not-be-a-next-time” clause in your so-called “relationship”?

Rihanna, I’ve served time in prison. I can assure you that the crimes I was incarcerated for pale in comparison to what he’s done to you in the past and what he will do in the future. (Beat your brains out.)

He boxed your face into a pulp before the Grammy Awards so badly that you couldn’t even perform on the show!

Jealous much, Chris Brown?

Your biggest appearance to the nation should have been doing what you do best – SINGING! Instead, you made your biggest splash as the poster girl for abuse in the tabloids the next day.

He is using you to advance his career. And if you don’t play along with his enormous ego you’re going to end up being our next Whitney Houston. A huge talent chained to a toxic loser.

Rihanna, you don’t have to become just another Mrs. Brown.

You don’t have to apologize for being gifted.

No one should ever do that. Wake up, take a deep breath and stop apologizing for being the bigger talent.