Can we talk about Bershon?

The other day the inimitable Dooce sprang the idea of Bershon on the world, an idea that SHE got from Sarah Brown of Que Sera Sera.

"Bershon is pretty much how you feel when you're 13 and your parents make you wear a Christmas sweatshirt and then pose for a family picture, and you could not possibly summon one more ounce of disgust, but you're also way too cool to really even DEAL with it, so you just make this face like you smelled something bad and sort of roll your eyes and seethe in a put-out manner." (quote from Sarah Brown)

Dooce posted some hilarious photos of herself looking quite Bershon.

Now there is a Bershon Flickr tag and an I'm So Bershon Flickr group, and there have been some hilarious and very, very Bershon images posted.

But let's talk about Bershon, because there have been some so NOT Bershon photos posted that I think we need clearer definition. Actually, Sarah Brown's quote above is all you need to know about what IS Bershon.

I think we need to talk about what is NOT Bershon. Here is my list so far. Why do I get to decide? Because I'm the Decider. And because I thought of it first. So nyah.

1. Babies with cranky faces are not Bershon. Bershon implies a certain self-conscious world-hating attitude that only develops with time and hormones. Little kids may appear to be Bershon, but we are projecting.
2. Photos of someone who is kind of uncomfortable but who is about to crack up are not Bershon.
3. People who are just bored are not Bershon.
4. People who are stoic are not Berson.
5. Old people, in general, are not Bershon, though there may be exceptions.
6. Animals are not Bershon. Animal are animals.

And, in case you need one perfect example, THIS is the face of Bershon. Seethe, Bershon Girl, seethe! It's going to be a long, hard adolescence, because it is tough being cooler than everyone else in the world. I know. I've been there.

Year 32 and still PMSing

After 32 years of having my period 13 times per, you'd think I'd be better at this. But no. Sometimes I feel so toxically hormonally polluted that I think I'd appreciate having someone cart me off for a few days of forced confinement.

Today was one of those days. Half the time I felt like an angry poodle and the other half I felt like a mollusc without a shell. Either frothing at the mouth and attacking people or hiding in a corner, wondering why everyone kept poking at me - nothing in between.

At work I barely restrained myself from screaming at two people after they made what I felt were idiotic remarks to me. I was literally chewing my lips to keep the words in so I might avoid getting fired. The dialog box in my head sounded like one of those hip-hop songs on the radio where every sixth word is blanked out.

I really felt like I was slipping about 3 pm. I wrote a nasty email, then re-wrote it and re-wrote it. I looked at it forever (about 5 minutes) and finally deleted it because I realized that sending it would not be good for me and my career path (whatever that is).

Then Mr. S called and invited me over to meet the new roomie. The request overwhelmed me. That seemed like an impossible task - to meet someone new while I felt like I was losing my mind and just wanted to go home and eat bags of Trader Joes Banana Crisps while sobbing into a hankie. I almost started crying just thinking about it.

Thank God for Evening Primrose Oil. I went over to the drugstore and spent my $9 on a bottle and 45 minutes later everything was fine. Works every time. Better living through chemicals. Yes.

Linkateria - what I do for real fun.

Women are from Mars. Men are from somewhere foul and disgusting.

Men and women. Are we different species? You be the judge:

When I stay at Mr. Stapler's house, I sometimes get sick of keeping him awake with my constant tossing and turning and him keeping me awake with his snoring. Then I go sleep in the guest room.

Today we had the following phone conversation:

Mr. S: I rented out the guest room to a college student.
SB: Great, what are they like?
Mr. S: (He provides a description: male, older, Norwegian, studying acting, needed a place to stay immediately)...so he moved in last night.
SB: I hope you washed the sheets.
Mr S: Why? Did you do something to them?
SB: You KNOW I sleep in there.
Mr. S: So?
SB: Eeeeeeew.
Mr. S: What??? It's fine.


Check Linkateria. It is your duty. Or not.

Doom de Doom Doom

You know I am far too delicate a flower to do any such thing, but Mr. Stapler still plays the video game "Doom" every once in a while.

The game places the player, who is armed with high-powered weapons, in a building with horrible-looking monsters who are bent on killing you. The monsters can move around and yell and make noises. It is pretty basic as far as plots go - someone must die, so try to keep it from being you.

The game has been around since 1993 and there are many player-designed variations called Doom WADs. In Mr. Stapler's favorite WAD, one of the things the Terrifying Monsters yell at the player in an attempt to frighten them is "They're all going to laugh at you!"

What a perfect line. Terrifying, indeed. "They're all going to laugh at you!" How much scarier does it get?

How much human effort is expended every single day because of the fear of getting laughed at? Industries rise and fall on the idea. Empires have been won and lost because people were afraid of getting laughed at.

Now whenever we need to, Mr. S and I screech "They're all going to laugh at you" in the monster's voice. It takes the edge off.

That's my Deep Thought^TM to ponder for the day. How much of your life is spent doing things to keep people from laughing at you and how much of it is because what you do geniunely pleases you? Please don't stress. Just think.

If I wasn't afraid of people laughing at me, I would sing louder and more often. I would eat with my fingers. I would drive a purple car. And wear all purple clothes. Unless I wanted to wear pink. Or a feather boa. And a tiara. I would buy and wear those damn Crocs. In a tigerskin pattern.

And I would skip everywhere. Skipping is fun and a perfectly fine form of locomotion (though with my bladder control issues, I would probably have to wear Depends to get away with it). But a 45-year-old woman skipping? They're all going to laugh at me.

What is on YOUR list?


Linkateria today: short, but makes fun of Paris Hilton. What more do you want?

August 22

A photo from Ventura photographer Amery Carlson (he is on Flickr) for Queen of Spain.



...and suddenly, the feel of summer was gone from the air. Just like that.

Has it happened where you are?


The world's ugliest shoes, the world's most emasculating sweaters and scary scary stuff over at Linkateria today.

Six Degrees of Mr. Stapler

Mr. Stapler copied me in on this email to a friend in Modesto, where Mr. S. grew up:

James Marsters [he was Spike in "Buffy",(here's a link to his website) ] was once an employee of mine. He and his [then] wife Lianne, were living in Seattle in the mid-1990s [because of the cool theatre scene] and he did phone sales for a business I co-owned with a fellow ex-Modestan located on Pike Street. He seemed creepy and slick to me. He went on to much fame playing creepy and slick characters. So I was right.

Timothy Olyphant ["Seth Bullock" in HBO's Deadwood series Deadwood website] went to Standiford Elementary School in Modesto. He was in the same kindergarten class as my younger sister. She used to talk about this kid in her class, whom she called "Timmy" or "Timothy Elephant." Apparently, she had quite a crush on him in kindergarten, which just goes to show that there is no substitute for good taste.

Who knew Mr. Stapler was so close to greatness? I might be even more impressed had I ever seen either of the shows in question.

Morning glory

I have no idea why depression is called "The Blues." Blue is the happiest, lightest, breathingist color to me. Depression should be called "The Mustards."

I had been wanting Heavenly Blue morning glories for decades, ever since I saw them on a neighbor's fence in San Luis Obispo.

I finally got some seeds and planted them and grew them to the flowering stage, which, for me, is a Major Life Accomplishment^TM.

Now I walk out every morning and admire their beauty. They are even prettier in person. The magenta ones are the hummingbirds' favorites, though.

Nothing new today on Linkateria, but keep scrolling down. I am sure there is some cool stuff you missed the first time around.