Don’t call me Ma’am.

 

In the storied history of ridiculousness, no term produces an eye roll from deep within my bones more than the word “ma’am.” Rhymes with spam, makes me feel like I resemble a yam and leaves me wanting to shout, “Goddamn,” ma’am is a full-fledged assault on my psyche.

Push me off a cliff, gently “nudge” me over the cruise ship railing as I pause to sip my bone-dry martini, leave me to die in the wet gutter—just, please, don’t call me ma’am. This request is, of course, wishful thinking. Try as I might, there is no possible way to prevent people from calling me ma’am.

When did ma’am take over? I was “miss” at one point, a time not that far off when everyone was still hyped on HBO* and kale was vying for popularity (I guess we know how that ended). Are my newly minted crow’s feet suddenly giving me away and forcing me into permanent exile on the Isle of Ma’am—a place with the backdrop of ancient Lesbos and the social practices of Gone With the Wind?

Yes, ma’am. And those babies are not “newly minted.”

Ma’am makes me feel like my grandmother. It’s a term that seems tailor-made to be reserved for only those of a revered age and social standing. Ma’am has a formality, an undercurrent of proper, polite etiquette that I simply can’t participate in on a daily basis (instead, I participate in other ridiculous activities like decorative napkin folding and dog treat alphabetizing). I can’t take myself seriously enough for ma’am, I don’t want to take myself seriously enough for ma’am. Accepting ma’am is like handing over my ridiculousness and saying, “I’m ready to go straight. Please, Sir, do you have any Peter Pan collar shirts I can wear underneath this pearl button cardigan?”

My grandmother is smiling down on me at the mere suggestion of that. Now she’s trying to hand me a lipstick.

My old friend Merriam Webster defines ma’am as a term that is, “used to politely speak to a woman who you do not know.” Okay, I know I am being a bit of a b-i-t-c-h (if you spell it, you haven’t cursed) about being treated politely, something I was always taught is of high importance, but Merriam goes on to say ma’am is, “used to speak to the Queen or to a woman of high rank in the police or military.” Therein lies my issue. The suggestion of “rank,” the idea that I, as customer or patron, am somehow of a higher echelon than you, as purveyor or provider of goods and services, is ridiculous. We all have roles in society, but there is no better, and there is certainly no worse amongst those that we deal with day in and day out. Do you not deserve to be treated with more respect than I given the fact that you did all of the nitty-gritty leg work involved in getting this item here for me to procure with almost no effort at all?

Yes, ma’am.

Ma’am has an old-timey feel. It’s not just that it sounds like it may be for a woman of a mature age, but it also sounds like ma’am should be living on a plantation next door to Scarlett O’Hara. As ma’am complains endlessly about Scarlett’s behavior, her maid nods her head and says, “Yes, ma’am.” There’s a classicism that comes with ma’am that I object to. There’s a stuck-in-the-past connotation that I dislike—me of the “Hey, babe,” generation—preferring instead terms with a formality that is non-existent. “Sweetie,” “Honey,” “Dear,” even “girl” are all terms legions of women dislike as they can be diminutive in nature and reflect the fact that the subject isn’t being taken seriously, but I prefer all of them to ma’am.

Anything but ma’am.

When I get to heaven and my grandmother lists all the things she’s disliked about my existence, this commentary is sure to be one of them. I will smile, obsessively hugging her while listening to her talk, knowing she is right about most things and far off on others. As they come to take my bags and escort me to my private wing complete with sun room and topiary garden views, I’ll turn to her and say, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t be a smartass,” she’ll respond.

Even in death, people… even in death. 

Snow: Winter Wonderland or Jesus's Dandruff?

Paradise found.

Paradise found.

Outside snow is falling and I’m so excited it’s like a Pointer Sisters concert in here.

Something about snow just makes you feel good. The pure whiteness of the flakes as they gather on the ground, covering every surface with nature’s version of a clean slate; the quiet that follows a fresh snowfall, silencing a city that was screaming to be heard mere hours before; the still-palpable-after-all-these-years feeling that you just might get a snow day—that coveted, surprise release from commitments that causes you to well up with the warm hope in your stomach typically reserved for first loves, Tom Jones songs and scenes from Dirty Dancing.

“I carried a watermelon." And I got a snow day. Life rules.

Snow is damn sexy. It looks hot as it’s falling and just as hot when it’s lying down, spread like a luscious, whipped cream cheese on the ground. And who doesn’t love a good whipped cream cheese? You want to run out there and put down some fresh tracks, and stay inside watching it in equal measure. Snow is nostalgia. You feel like a kid, you feel like a mountain man, you feel like Bing Crosby in a sleigh, rocking a little flask of the good stuff as you survey the manicured tundra that is the backdrop of the movie of your life (in Bing’s case that’s a movie that stars white people, acting very white, in their white winter wonderland. In mine it stars one white girl, acting ridiculous, in her dirty slush paradise). Your heart says let’s make snow angels, but your brain says wet jeans are going to suck.

Briefly, you flash on frost bite you’ve known and loved, your fingertips tingling at the thought of it. You think of the time that guy in fourth grade got his tongue stuck on the frozen tetherball pole. Who the hell licks the tetherball pole? Wait, are people still playing tetherball? Then you remember the slip on the ice that bruised your ass, the numb skull, the icicle nostrils, the brutality of the wind smacking you in the face. God, winter blows.

But outside it looks so nice.

Snow is iconic. It’s legendary. Snowmaggeddon, the Storm of the Century, the Great Blizzard of fill in the blank—people love to label a storm. And they love to document a storm. In the era of social media, no good storm comes without a litany of selfies to communicate just how bitchin’ that blizzard really was. And you know it was if you have need to use the word “bitchin.’”

A cue to stick your tongue out, a call to arms to amass an arsenal of snowballs, the setting of many an epic, blizzard-soaked sporting event (Packers vs. Broncos 1984, anyone?); snow rules and humans can’t help themselves but to enjoy the absolute shit out of it. And why the hell not?

Soft snow falling brings with it the sensation of peace and of calm, like we can hit the pause button and just listen to the stillness for a few. Right about now that seems like just what the doctor ordered. A few snowbound hours to take a breath and exhale the noise will do us all some good.

Because nobody puts Baby in a corner, not even a blizzard.

 

Make America Ridiculous Again

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As someone who lives in a perpetual state of ridiculousness, there was no worse after-effect of the 2016 presidential race than the loss of my ridiculous spirit in the days following the election. Well, that and the immediate concerns brought on by being forced to accept a reality fueled by waves of falsely placed negativity, intolerance and the kind of hate I like to think doesn’t exist. But as the initial sting began to numb, subtle hints at the blow my ridiculousness had sustained floated to the top. Humorous graffiti went unnoticed, little dogs in absurd sweaters elicited no comments, my Tina Turner greatest hits CD developed a thick layer of dust; I was a shell of my former ridiculous self.

Weeks went on. The streets of my beloved New York City offered no respite from the depressed, beaten-down mood that had become my new m.o. The holidays came and went. Thanksgiving was a listless, albeit tasty, exercise in giving thanks for all that was now somehow in doubt. By Christmas, it was as if Santa had come by, found the door locked and left a flaming poop in a paper bag on the doorstep.

And then George Michael died. I had hit rock bottom.

I needed no excuse to imbibe on New Years Eve, having begun my non-revelatory liver drowning weeks before. My attitude was crap, my skin was dry and sad, my hair staticky and brittle, just like my ridiculous soul had become.

Roundabout the second week in January, as I was lying on a yoga mat drinking a watery iced latte in my Obama jammies, listening to “One More Try” for the seventy-fourth time, a feeling of lightness came over me. Had the milk gone bad or was it the spirit of George Michael coming to show me the way à la It’s A Wonderful Life? God, I hoped it was George.

“I’m here George, I’m here. And I never burned my leather jacket,” I wanted to say. I took a deep breath, exhaling into the meditation of George’s voice and remembering better days.*

“So if you love me, say you love me. But if you don't just let me go.” Let it go, let it go, George was telling me. “So when you say that you need me, that you'll never leave me, I know you're wrong, you're not that strong… Let me go.” Yes, yes… let it go. Let go of the shell-shocked, sad feelings I’d been holding on to. Let go of the negative energy that was squashing my ridiculousness. Those gravitational pulls may be strong now, but nothing is forever. And nothing is stronger than my ridiculousness.

“And teacher, there are things that I still have to learn. But the one thing I have is my pride…” So right, George, so right. I can’t know everything this election has brought upon us, but walking around in a state of non-acceptance isn’t moving anything forward. Above all else, the one thing I have is my ridiculousness.

George Michael forever.

Had I really been that upset about the fact that so many Americans were, at the very least, willing to attach themselves to the momentum of racism and hate speech, or was I just too wrapped up in my own views to see the intolerance that is still there, that was always there? I hadn’t seen it because I hadn’t cared to, preferring to live in a consciousness where everyone thinks the way I do and, inevitably, it all works out. If history has shown us anything, it’s that things rarely work out and when they do, it’s a long time coming. Nothing works unless you work it. Letting intolerance take over by sitting idly by, recovering from election overload and blocking reality is, well, ridiculous.

I hadn’t bothered to notice the depth of the intolerance out there. Just like I hadn’t bothered to notice my ridiculousness had been lost somewhere mid-November. Because it went unnoticed, because I had allowed myself to get thrown off of my game, to become used to things, assume things, accept things—things had changed when I wasn’t looking. I had changed when I wasn’t looking. And in that way, I was just another casualty of the election.

Thank god George was there to show me the way.

So, today I am moving forward with a renewed sense of ridiculousness and strangely, a feeling of optimism. I mean, why not be positive? The apocalypse may be here, but I’m still standing and there is no time like the present to get out there and spread some ridiculousness. Laugh at a good pun, stop and smell the lattes (“Is that almond milk?” “No, I’m down with bovines, bro.”), wear my old “My mom went to Paris and all I got was this stupid t-shirt” t-shirt, ponder the eternal question of who buys the hard boiled eggs at the bodega—there is no end to the ways to promote catharsis.

Letting outside forces strip me of my unalienable right to think positive and believe that we can affect change is downright un-American. Letting those same forces push me into a state of blocking news and information for the next four years is dangerously ridiculous. It is imperative that we all stay on our toes and stay informed. We need each other and our ridiculousness now more than ever.

Spread the word: Ridiculous lives. 

 

*Dancing around to "Faith," obsessing over the "Freedom 90" video, experimenting with mousse.

Vote Ridiculous 2016: What Else Can We Do?

Tough choice: Hillary or "Mr. Billionaire?"

Tough choice: Hillary or "Mr. Billionaire?"

In an election season so littered with absurdity, the American people have been left with no option but to vote ridiculous on Election Day. Any way you slice it, you are casting a ballot for ridiculousness in 2016, so embrace it. Wrap your arms around that hanging chad, that pregnant chad, that sad unattractive kid named Chad; ridiculous hugs are the best kind.

Perhaps you are voting for Trump on November 8th, in which case your vote will go down as the most ridiculous in history for a variety of reasons, beginning with The Donald’s road kill-chic hairdo and penchant for self-tanner, and ending with his endorsement by The Crusader, the number one newspaper of America’s favorite costumed band, the KKK.

KISS is so pissed at me right now.

Or maybe you are “with her.” A Hillary fan who may just wear your red pantsuit t-shirt to the polls, you love you some Hillary, some Bill, and the whole email thing is, well, ridiculous. Or perhaps it’s on a pendulum, swinging somewhere between flaccid non-issue and blazing obstruction (hello, constipation metaphor). In any case, Hill is your girl and you’re not budging, not even for a second. You stopped listening to the naysayers months ago and all you can think is how great her hair looks right now. Stronger together, that’s you and Hill. In it to win it.

And what of the third party candidates? Oh, there’s plenty of ridiculousness there. From anti-vaccine comments by Jill Stein, to everyone’s favorite lost man, Gary Johnson, it seems like we have all had a “What’s Aleppo?” moment during this campaign. Some of us have been mentally “What’s Aleppo?” since last fall when the current state of things could never have been imagined. And while Stein and Johnson will both eek out a few percentage points here and there, a solid third party candidate eludes American voters once again. The greatest democracy in the world and it boils down to two choices.

Incidentally, “What’s Aleppo?” may be the biggest gift I received during this campaign:

“Hey, where’s the remote?”

“What’s Aleppo?”

The debates, the attack ads, the downright lies and dissemination of misinformation now accepted as fact by large swaths of the United States population, it’s all been too much. While you may not be able to cling to any real sanity right now and, like the more ridiculous amongst us, you may be having nightmares about Wednesday morning (I’m on a cruise ship with Hill, she’s drinking a Coke and accepting defeat calmly. I realize the ship is not actually going anywhere and I wonder what happened to my bags. “I’m done with Diet,” she says. “Who cares about the calories now?”), there is plenty of ridiculousness to drown yourself in until Tuesday.

That and the continuing flood of love for Obama. Oh, Barry, never leave us.

So let’s enjoy one last ridiculous binge this weekend while we still can. Then, come Tuesday, let’s dust ourselves off, put on our finery and march to our local polling place. As you stand there casting your ballot, you can feel good about the fact that you survived the ridiculousness, at least this time. If this election is any indication, there is surely more to come.