I lost my temper yesterday and threw an empty beer can at Velvet. I wish it had been totally empty since a bit of liquid spilled on the sofa, and it wasn't really beer. It was a drink called Sparks which is a low rent malt liquor product some kid brought into the apartment. I'm pretty sure all malt liquor products are low rent, and I'm not sorry I threw it at him. I hit him over the head with an empty seltzer bottle a couple of years ago for the same reason: A disrespectful comment about an indispensable woman.
I smacked him on the head with the seltzer bottle because he said Smurfette was a ho. Yesterday, I threw the Sparks on account of he said James Bond could get along just fine without Moneypenny.
I'm nearly certain that on both occasions I was cleaning up the kitchen. Truthfully, I'm not certain what the situation was on the Smurfette day. I just know that I had recently purchased an ice blue wig for Halloween and was involved with Double Wide - that married man, adult child of Holocaust Survivors who gave me the opportunity to experience the world of the narcissists without much emotional connection. Forming emotional connections is tricky with adult children of Holocaust survivors because their ability to form attachments with others has been undermined since their parents got so thoroughly fucked up. There's all kinds of documentation about this phenomenon, and I know a little bit about it because I was at a period in my life where I needed to interact with emotionally unavailable men to sort out some personal issues.
If you ever need to work out your own mishigas by interacting with an emotionally impervious individual, a narcissist is perfect because they will not be damaged by anything a normal person says or does. It so happens that many adult children of Holocaust survivors are narcissistic, and there happens to be a number of them in New York City. I wasn't seeking out the second generation. I simply wound up with a few when I was dating fellows from Ashley Madison, the online hook up site for married people.
Note: It had been over a year since I filed for divorce but Buzz Kill wouldn't move out. I thought I needed to practice dating and didn't want to go on Match until my divorce was final. Ashley Madison made sense, although I have to say that the men were astoundingly self-centered. I could never understand why so many men thought I was looking for a new husband on a website where all the men were cheating on their wives.
The point is that I had just bought a blue wig when Velvet said something about Smurfette being a ho. Most likely, I was over identified with Smurfette on account of the wig although Smurfette is blue with blond hair. I would have been light skinned with blue hair which sounds remarkably like an old church lady but in view of my activities with Double Wide nothing could have been further from a blue headed church lady - which is probably why I was touchy about Smurfette being called a Ho.
It seems to me that when there is only one woman in an entire society, and sex is never mentioned in that society, it is exceedingly patriarchal to assume that female is having sex with every man in the village. I barely watched the Smurfs so I'm not going to talk about Gargamel and Papa Smurf (more patriarchs). I'm just saying that Smurfette was not pulling a train like some poor whore in the mining towns of the Old West. And even if she did have sex with multiple partners, that doesn't make her a "whore." To label Smurfette a Ho is a patriarchal, moralistic imposition.
Some people say that Smurfette was introduced to the village because the network didn't like all the speculation that Smurfs are gay. Others say it was strictly a capitalist trick to sell Smurf toys to girls. Wikipedia says that Gargamel created her for the specific purpose of causing jealousy and competition among the smurfs in order to cause their fall. None of that is relevant when when your son is being disrespectful to women. And to say that James Bond would be the world's greatest spy without the support of Moneypenny is just dead wrong.
The fact is that without an outstanding support staff, James Bond would have been killed early on.
We got into this discussion after some dumbass kid who was in my living room said that James Bond fucked Moneypenny all the time. I went into the living room and said, for the record, that James Bond never touched Moneypenny. Up until that moment, Velvet and I were in complete agreement. I went on to say that James Bond would have been up shit creek on several occasions but was saved by Moneypenny's foresight and efficiency and that James Bond had better sense than to risk pissing off Moneypenny, and Velvet was compelled to argue.
He was just talking shit in much the same way the boys do when they argue over who would win if Superman were fighting Spiderman, but as he kept arguing I got more and more pissed off.
The thing is that it's pretty damn foolish to argue with your mother when she's been facilitating your party for days on end and it's even more foolhardy to disregard the contributions of the support staff to someone who has been warming your pumpkin pie and doing the dishes after you're done.
We eventually came to an understanding and he apologized for hurting my feelings and said, in front of his friends, that if it weren't for Moneypenny, James Bond would be stranded in the airport without an assortment of passports, large sums of various currencies and clean shirts. Without his support team - and let's not forget Q - James Bond might as well be MacGyver.
When people don't recognize the huge amount of effort that carries the Talent, it reminds me of Katie Couric covering Katrina. Wardrobe had provided her with hip waders and other sundry gear to protect her candy ass. As she reported on the toxicity of the water, standing there safe and looking good, the camera crew was in sneakers and jeans - completely at risk to the very toxins she was going on and on and on about. Who got the glory? Katie Couric, not the camera crew, and in the end, not New Orleans either.
And who can we blame for New Orleans? Patriarchal assholes, that's who.
If I have to throw every beer can in the house at my son, I'll be damned if he grows up to be a Patriarchal Asshole. I threw out his pumpkin pie, too. That's what happens when you dis the folks in the kitchen.
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