I've finished putting together my annual Christmas mix CD which includes such family favorites as "Please Daddy (Don't Get Drunk This Christmas)" and "I Wanna Rock You Hard this Christmas". I was super pleased with the artwork, and no, I never get tired of putting my face on this blog. Just in case Hugh Laurie is reading.
Confidential to Hugh Laurie: No I don't own a furry abominable snowman costume. Unless that kind of thing turns you on, in which case I'll be at Build-A-Bear with the quickness, stitching pelts together like Betsy Effing Ross. Except hornier. And without the bonnet. Again, unless that kind of thing turns you on.
I also included the New Kids on the Block hit "Funky Funky Christmas" because no holiday is complete without a Joe McIntyre rap interlude. That song takes me back to an innocent time when wearing neon spandex was acceptable, when crimping your hair was radical, when your bangs were teased high enough to snag traffic helicopters or retarded sparrows. For me, it was 1990. For New Jersey, it was Tuesday.
I suggest you watch this and wonder how Donnie isn't still the most famous Wahlberg brother. Sure, Mark was in a Scorsese flick, but he can't sell me on a "Peace out!" like Donnie can. Donnie has conviction. Donnie has passion. Donnie also has a leather jacket with 48 peace signs on it, which means he's against world conflict but pretty OK with killing animals. And with child labor, because no way would anyone over the age of 10 sew that shit together.
Maybe I'm sharing too much, but I did have a pillowcase with his picture on it. That I made out with. This morning.
Limit your exposure to this clip. The New Kids are so white and cottony they could give you Toxic Shock Syndrome.
So many unanswered questions...
--Where did Donnie get the hat halfway through?
--Which picnic shelter does Danny Wood currently live in?
--Why don't I ever see anyone rock a studded leather jacket without a shirt anymore? I mean other than that guy at the Exxon station. The one who tried to get my attention a couple of days ago when I was filling my car up by yelling, "Hey! Number 5! Pump 5!", like I knew which pump number I was using. I do well to remember which side of the car my gas tank is on. Or which car is mine.
After realizing that it was me he was speaking to, I still ignored him. Mainly because of the whole jacket-without-a-shirt thing. And because of Stranger Danger. He finally walked over to me, stood beside the pump and tried to look non-chalant by sounding out the word 'Debit' before saying, "Hey baby, how 'bout you let me buy you that tank of mid-grade." My first thought was, "That's his opener?", followed immediately by "Does it ever work?". I politely declined his offer and got in my car as he yelled, "That's cool, you'll be back!" And he did have a point.
If I can figure out how to upload the tracks to one of those music hosting sites, I'll post a link so you can pretend you're spending your holidays with me. Just have the decency to leave the room when I let my Donnie pillow get to second base.
Just kidding, Hugh.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
I've finished putting together my annual Christmas mix CD which includes such family favorites as "Please Daddy (Don't Get Drunk This Christmas)" and "I Wanna Rock You Hard this Christmas". I was super pleased with the artwork, and no, I never get tired of putting my face on this blog. Just in case Hugh Laurie is reading.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
I just read this article about how the United States is trying to send little Kim Jong Il (I admit, the first time I saw his name in print, I thought it meant Kim Jong 2 and I wondered what happened to the first one. I also thought that Teddy Ruxpin could really talk.) to the time out corner by refusing to export any iPods, plasma TVs, or Segway scooters to North Korea.
First, if NoKo can create a super top secret nuclear program (and you have no idea how much I hope the doors are marked with big KEEP OUT! THIS MEANS YOU! signs with a hand drawn skull and a heart that says Duran Duran 4-Ever) my guess is they can figure out how to get a Playstation 3. My neighbor’s kid can’t even read and he’s already got a bootleg copy of “Casino Royale”. If K-Jong’s underground network isn’t better than the one at Sylvan Learning Center, he’s got bigger issues. I mean, other than the fact that he’s the only world leader small enough to be captured by Gargamel.
Next, I like that we're banning products that America doesn't actually make. Why aren't we withholding things we've crafted right here in the US of A? Things like tomatoes. Or Ford Festivas. Or Labradoodles. That would teach him.
Obviously we’re going about this all wrong. We should actually send NoKo (I so want this to catch on) a surplus of Segways. Nothing could make Kim Jong License to Ill (that’s what Chris Berman would call him) look like a bigger douchebag than riding a cumbersome piece of metal that could be outrun by Estelle Getty, who may or may not still be alive.
The most disturbing part of this entire situation is that Angelina Jolie seems to be basing Maddox' hairstyles on Kim Jong Il. I honestly can't tell the difference in these pictures.
Oh sure Maddox is biting K-Jong's look, but at least he has an iPod.
Enjoy your Zune, North Korea! Enjoy your effing Zune.
Monday, November 27, 2006
I saw this photo today and rarely do the things I hate most of all--the Yankees and Duke University--collide like this. I'll be unable to eat for the rest of the day. Unless someone leaves some pudding in the breakroom fridge.
There are only a few things A-Rod could do that would make me hate him more than seeing him dress up like a Dukebag.
1) Captured, stir fried, and consumed the entire cast of Happy Feet. Since he didn't eat the skin and only used Mrs. Dash brand seasonings, he counted the meal as 7 Weight Watchers points and then treated himself with a trip to Sephora.
2) Sort-of dated me for an entire semester and forced me to watch Ally McBeal with him every week of our pseudo-courtship, which should have been a warning sign. Then the night of my winter formal he decided to drive to Elon College to see his former girlfriend, a massive Ann Taylor-y creature nicknamed 'Salsa'. Because she was chunky.
This left me to attend the party alone and forced me to create an excuse for his absence. I also consumed three bottles of Boone’s Farm Kountry Kwencher, temporarily lost the ability to read, and admitted that I’d probably do the oldest kid from Hanson.
Confidential to Any Attendees of Said Formal- My date wasn’t really called out of town to donate bone marrow to orphaned baby seals. He wasn’t there because he’s gay.
3) While staying at my house for a slumber party, he was too afraid of the dark to walk down the hall to the bathroom so he instead peed in my Care Bear Cousins trash can.
Yes, that actually happened. Didn't it, Chrissy? You bitch. Thanks for pissing all over Tenderheart Lion. If your parents still lived beside mine, I swear I would've shat in their Dreamcatcher when I was home for Thanksgiving.
4) Was single-handedly responsible for 1918 flu pandemic, Clear Pepsi, the Lifetime Movie Network, the BCS system, my inability to find Boo Berry cereal, and for failing to prevent Charlie Weis from ever appearing in public. Although he was great as “Sloth” in Goonies.
5) Actually attended Duke University.
Now I can't even enjoy this Handi-Snak.
A-Rod and Duke are like tapioca, if by "tapioca" you mean "flavored with suck".
Sunday, November 26, 2006
To my Charlotte Reader(s)-
Catch me Tuesday night at the Comedy Zone being funny as part of Fresh Faces 6. I have no idea what that means, but it sounds sort of like a skin cleanser.
What if I told you that instead of telling jokes I was going to be writhing on the hood of a Trans-Am while "Here I Go Again" plays? OK, I'd be lying and that's kind of a horrid mental image. The only way I'll end up on the hood of a car is if I've been struck by one.
I hope all of you had a lovely Thanksgiving. Mine was uneventful save for the afternoon when my cell phone went missing. I was frantically tearing the house apart when I heard the muffled strains of the House theme song (Yes, that's my ringtone because I'm AWESOME. And very lonely.) coming from my grandmother's ass. My first thought was that she had eaten it, but then I realized that she was just sitting on it, which was both a relief and kind of disappointing because "Grandma Got CT Scanned For My Razr" is my favorite holiday song. She's reasonably deaf because she doesn't understand that for hearing aids to work, they have to be in your ears and not just in the plastic squeezy change purse you got from the bank. So there was nothing I could do...except get a cordless phone and keep calling my number--not because she was going to notice but because I felt obligated to share it with every member of my family.
Seriously--if you live in the greater Mecklenburg County area, come to the show. E me and I'll tell you how you can get a discount on tickets. It promises to be a good time. I hope that I can use some of that Fresh Faces stuff to disinfect my phone.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Dear Svenhard's Breakfast Pastries:
First, is your name Sven Hard? Because I believe I've seen your work in "Grinding Nemo". Or perhaps it was "Das Boob", also starring Michael J. Coxx? But that's not why I'm concerned, Mr. Hard. I don't know if you've noticed, but your choice of Cheese Horn illustration could not be more disturbing.
Not surprisingly, this pastry was abandoned on the break room counter this morning with some other things no one is interested in eating, like a dented can of tuna, any item from Ruby Tuesday's, and Clay Aiken's hand.
We're all thankful that you don't make chocolate horns. Although your founder, Farmer Tilda, looks like she was making a chocolate horn when this photograph was taken.
According to the package (No, not your package, although it was impressive. Bigger than a breadbox. And a Kia.) you're located in Oakland. If this is what cheese looks like in Oakland, then I'm starting to understand why Randy Moss is so sad. And why the word "Oakland" frequently preceeds the word "Sucks". I always thought it was because of that show, Hangin' with Mr. Cooper, but it could be because the cows there apparently shit cheese.
I visited your website and found this page, a list of events that could be celebrated by giving the gift of cheese horn. Click for larger or if you're just really bored.
And I ask you, Mr. Hard, how much would I have to hate my husband in order to give him an effing danish for our anniversary? "Darling, after 32 wonderful years together, I'd like to give you this, the cheese horn of love. I know that our time together has been more special than Funyuns, more treasured than that bag of trail mix that people only get so they can eat the M&Ms out of it. And it was item C-2 in the vending machine, a sign that this pastry was meant for you. Honey? Where are you going? Robert? Please! What if I said you could probably have sex with it? Like that kid from that movie? The one where you said that if I could ever stick to Atkins then maybe I'd be an, oh, what was it? It was an acronym, like NASA or LASIK or AIDS. A Mother you'd Like to Make Sweet Love To, instead of thinking about how that tramp Alison looks when she bends over to get the paper? Yes, I know all about her, you ass. Robert? Where are you going? You know Alison has Hepatitis! Robert, no!"
"Mrs. Cooper, I'm sorry to hear about your mother. I give you this cheese horn with a heavy heart. As you eat it, think about how her arms held you the way this light, flaky pastry holds this fatty, snot-colored cheddar blob. Let me know if there's anything else I can do. And if you see Robert, would you tell him to call me?"
I'm heading to see the 'rents for Thanksgiving. I do hope that you, Mr. Hard, are a part of our celebration. If we don't eat the pastries for dinner, we'll probably watch one of your movies for dessert. Nothing says 'we're truly thankful' like a family viewing of "Titty Titty Bang Bang".
Monday, November 20, 2006
So my sister, Runtie, came to visit me this weekend. Here's where I resist the urge to refer to my home as "The J-Money Pit" even though that's catchier than "The Place Where My Shitty Neighbor Let Her Dog Chew the Face Off Of My Carved Pumpkin, Which I Still Don't Appreciate Even Though Halloween Was Last Month So I Totally Retaliated By Putting Some Non-Recyclables Into Her Recycle Bin and By 'Non-Recyclables', I Mean A Dead Squirrel."
Friday's festivities included playing Nintendo and solving the crossword puzzles in US Weekly because they make us feel smart since the New York Times rarely features clues like:
"Tom Hanks Dog Comedy: Turner and _____"
or "Tom Hanks AIDS Drama: Phila_____, Or Also a Type of Cream Cheese That Rhymes With Miladelphia"
or "Tom Hanks Comedy You Didn't See: Joe Vs. The ______, You Know, Yet Another Film He Wishes You'd Forget About Because Now He's a Serious Actor Who Is Willing to Endure a Ridiculous Hairstyle for Months For the Sake of a Role. No, It's Not 'Big'. Or 'That Thing You Do'. Oh, Christ, it's "Volcano", Just Write The World "Volcano" in 24 Across."
Oh, and we also did some grocery shopping.
And we staged a performance in Aisle 8 of "They Shoot Horses Don't They? Especially If They're Unable To Mount The Other Reasonably-Priced Horse In Front of The Boxes of Keebler Town House Crackers."
Then we settled in for a quality evening of 8-bit entertainment punctuated by several crying jags because when someone asks who you spent your Friday night with, "That Blonde Guy From 'Skate or Die'" isn't a good answer. Especially since it's not 1988 anymore, except in some parts of West Virginia.
Now. Can anyone help me with 18-Down, "Tom Hanks Baseball Comedy: __ League of Their Own". Is it I? O? F? Shit.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Dear Small Woman Wearing a Patchwork Shirt That Sort Of Looks Like It Could’ve Been Stolen From Holly Hobby:
First, I’m not really sure what your name is and your company ID was obscured by the copy of True Stories magazine that you were clutching although I am intrigued by the headline about the woman who overcame fibromyalgia only to later be killed and eaten by former Night Court star Marsha Warfield, so maybe you could leave that on my desk after you’ve finished looking up all of the words you don’t understand.
Anyway, I went to the breakroom to refill my water bottle, sign that bitch from Accounting up for an order of 87 boxes of Girl Scout cookies (only the shitty kind, the shortbread ones that are either in the shape of the Girl Scout logo or a colon polyp) and maybe steal someone’s Diet Coke out of the fridge. OK, maybe steal is too strong a term. I was going to trade them a soda for some carpet cleaner or a Lee Greenwood CD or an IUD. You know, the stuff I keep in my desk drawers.
I had just opened the refrigerator door when I heard you announce, “Well my daughter had her baby.” Surely you weren’t talking to me because I didn’t even know you had a daughter. Until today I didn’t know you had feet. My response was something like, “Hey, do you think anyone’s going to miss this Fresca?”
But the conversation continued:
You: She wasn’t plannin’ on having a baby but she was takin’ medicine for her urinary tract infections and that messed with her birth control and she got pregnant.
Me: Otter Pops? Who brings Otter Pops to the office?
You: The labor was quick though. She was already real dilated by the time she got to the hospital. That baby pretty much just dropped on out.
You: Have a nice weekend.
See, here’s the thing. Until I’ve met someone, I really don’t care to know the details of their sex life, the state of their endocrine system, or the circumference of their vagina. Also, it's rare that you hear the words "baby" and "dropped" in the same sentence unless you're talking about Britney Spears.
So next time, before you decide to share stories about the genitalia of your family members, please give me a warning: a code word, a sign, or just hit me with your car. Really. I would rather spend the weekend picking bits of your "I'd Rather Be At a Clay Aiken Concert" bumper sticker out of my forehead then to ever endure that again.
But I’d still like to read that magazine. Tell your daughter I said congratulations and to stop by the breakroom. I left something in the fridge for her.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Thanks to Debbye I was directed to The Surrealist's Movie Quote Generator. Basically, you put in a word or phrase and it spits out a famous line with your word or phrase in it. Here are several of my favorites:
I hate that I didn't save "Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his dick."
I'll be at Goodnight's tonight. It's just $2 to hear me talk about things that annoy me and people I hate. It'll be just like reading this blog except I'll be standing in front of a fake brick wall and you'll be paying for undercooked fajitas. But, hey, if you spill something at least it won't ruin your keyboard.
Act extra creepy and I promise to mention you in tomorrow's post. Or at least put your name in a movie quote.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
I walked into the restroom this morning and saw that Rusty the Bathroom Bailiff had taped this sign to the wall, which is creepy on so many levels.
How long has someone been listening to me pee? While my bodily functions don’t sound like a hand dryer, they do sound very much like a contestant buzzing in with an answer on Press Your Luck. Sometimes I do shout “No whammies! No whammies!” but that’s only during sex.
What happens if your, um, transaction takes longer to complete than one push of the button? Because now whoever’s listening in said adjacent room knows that as soon as the dryer starts, someone’s, uh, making a deposit and sometimes, you know, you don’t remember your account number, the teller goes on break, the drive-through canister gets stuck… OK, this metaphor sucks. BB&T is a shitty bank though. HA! You see what I did there? With the poop and stuff? The way I brought it full circle? That’s talent.
God, I’m so alone.
Yesterday I passed a new employee on her way out of the bathroom. She didn’t make eye contact and after stepping through door I realized why. Whatever she did in there will be listed in the birth announcements next Sunday. Look, when you start at a new company, you should probably wait at least a week before you absolutely destroy the restroom. Especially if it’s so heinous it activates the sensors on the paper towel dispensers forcing the other employees to wade through the equivalent of The Historian to reach a stall.
I hope someone keys her car. Or gives her an unfortunate nickname, more unfortunate than her previous one, “Granny Clampett if She Shopped at JC Penney’s and Wore A Lot of Tapered-Leg Arizona Jeans”. Yes, I’m the only one who ever called her that.
Personally, I can’t take care of business at work. I only listen to Bachman-Turner Overdrive at home, if you know what I’m saying. (If you don’t, I’m talking about pooping.) Nor do I think anyone else should unless they spent their lunch hour eating a manatee.
That doesn’t mean I’m above tormenting those who do, because women hate for anyone to be in the bathroom with them. As soon as the door opens, they’ll brace themselves with those parallel bars in the stall, holding their breath like Anne Frank in the attic and waiting for the threat to leave so they can unclench their colon and get back to reading the can of Neutra-Air or counting the tiles on the floor or whatever entertainment the intruder has interrupted.
If I notice that someone's hiding in a stall, I’ll stay at the vanity either grooming my cuticles, building a card house, or treating myself for lice, forcing the pooper to sit in miserable silence wishing that I would either leave or that they could fashion some sort of weapon out of the purse hook on the back of the door and use it to stab me in the head. After I’ve finished, say, sculpting an army of miniature terra-cotta soldiers, I return to my desk and hope that I’m not recognizable by my shoes. Then I eat a Twizzler.
Confidential to Myself: You should probably stop wearing your Pokémon slippers to work. Oh, and stop contracting lice.
If the tables are ever turned and someone catches me trying to flee the scene of the crime, there is only one option: sealing them permanently in the restroom, Cask of Amontillado-style. Then I’ll grab my bowl of Twizzlers and hand in my resignation. I just can’t forget to turn the dryer on.
Monday, November 13, 2006
So Friday night my favorite attorney and I went to a Charlotte Bobcats game. The Bobcats are famously named after their owner, BET founder Robert Johnson, who obviously didn’t realize that he’d have a much cooler logo if he’d settled on the Charlotte Johnsons. But that mascot would be terrifying to lesbians and the elderly and Family Fun Night would probably lead to some awkward discussions on the drive home, epecially when children don’t already realize the historical significance of the namesake, Ladybird Johnson. She’s legally blind and damn near 174 years old but she probably has a better jumper than anyone in the Cats starting five. Oh, and also she likes wildflowers.
You know that the team you’re going to see isn’t very good when the game program talks less about the players and more about the uniforms. The promo for next week’s games read (I’m not making this up and would totally scan it but I’ve been forbidden to use the scanner at work ever since I tried to scan several slices of lunchmeat):
November 18: Charlotte Bobcats at Orlando Magic
The Bobcats unveil their new blue alternate road uniforms when they travel to Orlando to take on Dwight Howard and the Magic.
November 20: Charlotte Bobcats vs Dallas Mavericks
Bobcats fans will get their first look at the new blue jerseys as Charlotte looks for its first win over Dirk Nowitzki and the Mavs.
I hope these new uniforms are made of sequined fabrics or they have Magic Eye drawing on every player’s back so the crowd will be distracted long enough not to notice that Sean May just dribbled the ball off his foot again. And then he becomes so distraught that he rages into the stands and eats everyone in Section 103. And then he weeps. But we love the new colors! And I believe that’s Tweety Bird on Primoz Brezec’s jersey! Or maybe a fire hydrant! Go Bobcats! .
Unfortunately, the new clothes weren’t part of Friday’s loss to Seattle. The ineptitude of the team could only be entertaining for half the game so we spent most of the second half scanning the crowd trying to decide which woman had the ugliest arms.
Confidential to Woman In Row L, Seat 14: Please contact us to collect your prize--a list of plastic surgeons torn from the yellow pages--so that you may be able to remove that mole from your shoulder. You know, the one that kind of looks like a Bojangles chicken leg is growing from your scapula. Gotta, wanna, needa, getta, hava that thing lasered off.
Confidential to Anyone Who Has Recently Eaten Bojangles: I’m really sorry, but I swear, if you saw it you’d think the same thing, right down to the tiny biscuit and small side of pinto beans on her neck.
Confidential to My Employer: I’m not the one who changed the menu to read 'Blowjangles' in the employee breakroom, but I am responsible for writing ‘Dick-Fil-A’, ‘Crapplebee’s’, and ‘TGIFriday’s Is A Really Shitty Restaurant and Every Time I Eat There Someone From My High School Class Waits On Me and I Swear They Put Olive Oil in My Salad Even Though I Ask Them Not to Because I’m Allergic To Olive Oil and I Spend the Rest of the Day in the Bathroom’ on the dry erase board. I also wrote ‘Olive Gar-Den of Iniquity’ but I don’t think anyone from the warehouse really appreciated that one.
A group of women was sitting in front of us at the game and they all had on those jeans that don’t have back pockets which they should've just paired with a Bedazzled sweatshirt that said "We've All Started Menopause!" The day the back pockets migrate from your jeans is the day you officially become middle-aged. Other warning signs include:
--Having a can of grease under your kitchen sink
--Saving old bread bags so that you can reuse them
--Placing a tissue box in the rear window of your car
--Laughing at anything Caroline Rhea says
--Reading anything endorsed by Oprah
--Learning someone’s last name before sleeping with them
--Subscribing to Redbook
--Using the phrase ‘art’ and ‘Thomas Kincaide’ in the same sentence
--Ordering anything from the Lillian Vernon catalog, especially one of those little pouches for the TV Guide and the remote control that you drape over the side of your recliner or a frame for that Precious Moments jigsaw puzzle that you finally completed and want to move from the card table
--Having a card table
--Going to church
The Bobcats play New Orleans/Oklahoma City/Kissimmee/St. Cloud/That Place Where A Friend of Your Dad's Lives tomorrow night. I’ll be watching. Ladybird’s got game.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
You've already ruined Christmas, Eckerd. You just had to stock the hair-removal products in the front window so when a wide-eyed child stops to point at the festive display featuring a giant singing Santa Claus, he'll also get an eyeful of me sniffing the various kinds of Nair and wondering how long the tropical papaya scent would last. Then as the child tugs at his mother’s hand and begs her to buy the Santa, I’ll realize it won’t matter since no one will be near my nether-regions until my gynecologist's appointment in 6 months and there's no way anyone could stay tropical that long. Eventually, I climb into Santa’s sleigh with a fistful of Toblerone and begin sobbing to the tune of “Up on the Housetop” as the terrified child recoils and buries his face in his mother's pant leg.
And no, that didn’t really happen. I was actually eating Dove Bars.
I had to visit Eckerd last night to pick up my birth control prescription even though by this point taking each pill has become a completely empty gesture, like giving to the United Way or saying “I love you.” I could save $15 a month by just nibbling one link from a candy necklace every morning without the daily reminders that I’m not having sex. Today is Wednesday. You call it "Hump Day". I call it "Not Since The Breakup But Thank You For the Painful Reminder You Asshole" Day.
But, like the commercial says, "Maybe She's Born With It Or Maybe She Caught It When She Spent That Semester Abroad". No, wait. The other commercial says "Image Is Everything", so I loudly announce to everyone waiting in line at the pharmacy (Motto: We'll Fill Your Order In 'REckerd' Time. We Also Got Our Degrees At Strayer. Is That a Problem?) that I’m refilling my birth control prescription. Because I'm shifting my weight impatiently and checking my watch, surely everyone thinks that I'll be downing the 'Wednesday' pill in the car before racing home to my boyfriend Hugh Laurie to spend the evening testing positions we read about in Cosmopolitan, positions with names like “Reverse Thruster” or “Abacus of Passion” or “Dirty, Dirty Seahorse” instead of spending the night playing Nintendo alone and wondering if I can fit an entire package of Lunchables in my mouth at once. Either that or they think I have to pee.
On the bright side, Ortho-Tri-Cyclen does give me a lovely, glowing complexion.
Confidential to My Mother: That’s the real reason I take it and has been since high school. I swear.
Confidential to Everyone Else: When your parents ask if you are sexually active do not respond, “No, I usually just lie there.” That'll wreck Aunt Nell's funeral with the quickness.
At least I haven’t gotten desperate enough to order one of the decorative birth control pill cases that are often advertised in trashy women’s magazines like Redbook or Southern Living. These cases are brightly colored with zebra stripes and neon polka dots so instead of dispensing your pills from a plain package you'll now look like you’re pulling them directly out of 80's icon Debbie Gibson.
At a previous job, I had a coworker we’ll call Jen Towers, because that’s her name. Every day at lunch Jen would pull Debbie Gibson out of her purse and make a huge production of taking the pill, chomping it like the Cookie Monster of Contraceptives. Tacky, yes, but also reassuring that she wasn't trying to reproduce. After her eventual termination (not for the pills but for skipping work because she said she had to deliver a litter of baby goats. Not. Kidding.) I inherited her file cabinet which was completely empty save for a pair of slingbacks, a plate memorializing Princess Diana, and several pages she’d torn from a bondage magazine.
Since we worked at an advertising agency, she was immediately rehired. And promoted.
Back to Eckerd...
While I was waiting, an ancient woman Rascal-ed her way to the counter to ask the pharmacist where the condoms were. The entire display was hanging on the wall right behind her but, understandably, she didn't realize it since the last time she bought a prophylactic they were made of papyrus. The pharmacist's response was "Right over there, in our Family Planning Department." Excuse me? Family Planning? That's like selling cans of Raid in the Hornet's Nest Planning Department.
And so it goes. This woman whose cataracts are older than my parents is buying Trojans and going back to Shady Pines to have osteoporosex (Oh yes, I'm also an etymologist. That would be the term for an elderly couple getting it on. And by "it", I mean "the nasty".) Oh well. I take solace in the fact that if someone jumped her bones, they'd crumble to dust. And then I laugh, check my watch, and finish my Dove Bar.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Gypsy, I see you clap hands rhythmically to sound of pop song "Your Kiss is On My List".
But really where has John Oates been lately? Perhaps...Kazakhstan? Or perhaps bagging groceries at a Food Lion somewhere and hoping the customer doesn't notice the way he gently taps her Lean Cuisines against the conveyer belt in time to the chorus as "Private Eyes" (tap...they're watching you...tap tap...Private Eyeeeees) plays over the store's loudspeaker.
Would you like paper, plastic, or the sounds of me revisiting every bad decision I've ever made?
1) 8:48 is the new 8:00. Seriously. Ask InStyle.
2) If anyone from the China office mentions our 'Erection Day' again, I am going to snicker audibly, even when you are trying to subtly stop me by kicking my shin, stabbing me in the eye with the tiny rake from your desktop Zen garden, or by having the security guard escort me to my cubicle to watch me pack my things. You call it 'termination', I call it 'termina-fun'! Speaking of erections, a man I met at the hotel bar in Greenville spent a good twenty minutes talking about his cocker spaniel farm. Every time he said 'cocker', I said "BUT I BARELY KNOW HER! HAHAHAHAHAHA!" and then spun around on my barstool. Oddly enough, this did not deter him from attending the show although it did deter several other patrons from staying to finish their drinks.
OK, time for my break. See you on Thursday.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
1) I had an allergic reaction to the eye mask that the hotel provided for me. Apparently, they scented it with lavender and pollen.
2) Because my eyes were the size of the 'insert coin' slot on a vending machine, I washed my hair with lotion.
3) While trying to check out a guy's calves, I fell down the stairs in the hotel lobby. So much for subtlety, but I got a good look as I rolled past them.
Confidential to the Guy in the Baylor T-Shirt Who May Have Felt Someone's Sleeve Brush His Thigh As He Clung to the Railing in Horror or Perhaps Lust: Did you play soccer? Because you have very nice legs. And if you'd ever like to maybe get a Frappuccino and watch me pick at my face rash just email me.
4) I saw the beginning of "Kindergarten Cop".
Great success. Show at 8. I hope people will still laugh,so I don't sob myself to sleep on this lovely cat dander pillowcase.
P.S. This is my 100th post. The first Benadryl's on me.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Singing loudly is a good way to stay awake on long drives.
It is not a good way to stay awake during meetings.
Or maybe Sales & Marketing just doesn't like the Spin Doctors.
I knew I should've gone with "Runaway Train" instead.
If you live in Greenville, SC, come out to the LaffTrax comedy club this weekend. I believe it is conveniently located close to an interstate exit ramp. Perhaps while I'm there, one of the fine residents of G-Vegas will be able to tell me what the hell a Paladin is. I think they're those nimble, sparkly creatures that followed Rainbow Brite around.
If I owned a comedy club, it would be called Mr. Chucklepants. Or Old People Falling Down On Ice because there's nothing funnier than a broken hip. Or J. Crew. I'll be doing shows tonight and tomorrow night...and if you treat me right, you may get a spin in my Murano.
God, that sounds dirty.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
--Driving home from my show at Goodnight's last night, there were several signs on the interstate flashing an Amber Alert. You were to call the authorities if you saw a red Dodge pickup. Um, this is North Carolina. I passed 38 potential suspects in the first ten minutes of my drive and that didn't even include the Wal-Mart parking lot.
--I'm currently driving a rental, a Nissan Murano.
Apparently, Murano is a Japanese word meaning "you're never getting laid with this car". I don't think any potential dates would be impressed if I pointed out that there is room enough in the back for 2 carseats so perhaps we should start making babies, or that I can fit my entire left leg in the glove compartment...would he care to hold my purse while I demonstrated?
Also, rental car comes from the ancient Greek words meaning "let's see if I can drive over that stack of recycle bins. And that dogwood tree. And maybe a swingset."
--It seems like the EZ listening station starts playing Christmas music earlier every year... I think their current playlist is actually in celebration of Christmas 2009. Last night I heard the Manheim Steamroller version of "Deck the Halls". Wow. If aluminum foil could make a sound, that's what it would be. Except shittier. Just hearing it made my fillings hurt.
And no, Manheim Steamroller is not the fat woman from The Practice. I looked it up right before I called the cops again...I think the kidnapper just delivered my paper.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Well, Halloween's over and my eyelids are still caked with black makeup and my bed is full of melted candy. It's just like the day after prom. Yes, I wore one of those t-shirts that look like a sequined bodice. Why do you ask?
I went as the love child of Gene Simmons and Richard Simmons, although I looked terrifyingly like Carrot Top. (For Halloween, not for prom. That night I was a dead ringer for Delta Burke).
I actually did trick-or-treat last night, although my range was limited to the homes of people I knew wouldn't put D-CON in the Gummy Bears or hand out generic drugs. No Alprazolam in my plastic pumpkin head, please.
Most of my friends have really nice houses that have been carefully decorated, places where 'refinishing the floor' doesn't mean 'buying a Dora the Explorer blanket to throw over that place in the carpet that you burned with the crock pot'. I came home and realized that I live at the equivalent of Baltic Avenue.
Let me point out that if I were a little kid, I would effing hate Dora the Explorer because I can just hear my mother lecturing me that "Dora's only 4 years old, she's bilingual, she can tie her shoes, and travel unattended. You have yet to use a can opener without opening a vein." Actually, we had that conversation last week.
So anyway, the night was a success until I took my wig off. The combination of the makeup and my matted hair made me look like I should've been backstage at a drag show. Well, at least the ones I've seen on HBO's Real Sex, right before the segment about the woman who turns mittens into sex toys but before part with the naked, pockmarked insurance adjusters stumbling around the woods naked like characters from the worst episode of Are You Afraid of the Dark? EVER. I spent the rest of the evening singing "Jesus Doesn't Want Me For a Sunbeam" to my reflection and sobbing.
Confidential to the Man Who Brought a Tiny Batman to My Door:
Hi there, you came to my house last night with what is probably your child. Or maybe he was in costume as what your child would look like. That would be a little weird, but I'll let it slide because you had nice teeth. Pedophiles tend to shy away from porcelain veneers. Regardless, please come back and perhaps we could spend an evening talking about things that adults talk about, like where is the best place to purchase a fountain pen or whether having a political sign in my yard makes me look fat. So call me. No, I don't wear the KISS makeup all the time and yes that blanket stays on the floor and you're going to have to open your own can of Beefaroni. Just ask my mother.