I don't exactly understand this holiday oven mitt I saw at Williams-Sonoma. While the product designers were considerate enough not to add a face that you would have to smash down on a hot casserole dish, they either failed to notice--or failed to care--that if you'd like to use Mr. Gingerbread, you have to seriously violate his no-no place.
The bad news is that I burned the cookies. The good news is that his prostate is fine.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
I don't exactly understand this holiday oven mitt I saw at Williams-Sonoma. While the product designers were considerate enough not to add a face that you would have to smash down on a hot casserole dish, they either failed to notice--or failed to care--that if you'd like to use Mr. Gingerbread, you have to seriously violate his no-no place.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Sometimes when I'm too busy to post--because I'm out building an orphanage or fighting crime or spray painting a stick to look like a light saber--I make little notes about things I plan on writing about and leave them in a neat stack beside the computer. Before I forget what "teeth in my mouth" means, I'm finally going to elaborate on all of these little tidbits...
1) Last night, I was watching my favorite TV show, "Paid Programming", when I saw a commercial encouraging you to give McDonald's gift cards to your friends and neighbors this Christmas. Um. That is not something you casually hand out to the mailman or the school bus driver, as suggested by the ad You only give those cards to someone you hate. A McDonald's gift card basically says "I despise you and would like to hasten your departure from this world. So maybe try the McRib."
2) As I was standing on the sidewalk, fumbling with the keypad and trying to get into my building, a red Corvette pulled to the stoplight behind me. While waiting for the light to change, the driver decided to put the top down, allowing everyone within a four Wal-Mart radius to share in his enjoyment of Van Halen. When he increased the volume even more, I turned around just in time to see him thrust his fist in the air.
Jump! (fist pump!)
Might as well jump! (fist! fist! fist!)
I couldn't--and still can't--decide if this should have made me insanely happy or insanely depressed.
3) Speaking of music, I've gotten kind of obsessed with Sirius channel 11, BBC Radio 1. They play everything from dance mixes to Europop to dance mixes of Europop, so it makes me feel like I'm driving an Express dressing room, but without the pressure to purchase a pair of silver jeans or a furry vest that may or may not be made entirely of Pomeranians.
4) Yesterday I almost washed my face with toothpaste.
5) Things I Have Broken In the Past Week:
---A glass bottle of maple syrup
---A Clinique Stay Matte Powder Compact
---A replacement Clinique Stay Matte Powder Compact
Things I Have Not Broken In the Past Week:
---Out of Prison
Saturday, December 15, 2007
I've done extensive research* and have come to the conclusion that there is nothing more annoying and/or likely to drive ordinary citizens into a frothing, face-melting rage more than the a shrieking infant shattering the Starbucks-scented silence of your local Barnes & Noble. However, your (and by "your" I mean "my") rage will be replaced by delight upon witnessing the the mother of said child using a display of carefully arranged copies of The Secret as a changing table.
Confidential to Barnes & Noble Customers: You may want to wash your hands. And maybe not touch your faces. And maybe incinerate your purchases.
Confidential to Me: +1 for not making any "It was a shitty book anyway" comments. Look at you, growing up.
* I have not done any research, except as a child when I would put a wet washcloth on a piece of bread and lay it in the back of the closet to see if I could grow mold.
***I also once took the telephone apart.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
"Well, the doctor said she could take care of his tick bite, but not his heart."
--One elderly woman to another, while waiting in line.
I was in front of them, purchasing my Old Navy Performance Fleece Pajama Bottoms for $10. While I'd never thought I needed "performance" out of my sleepwear, it's nice to know that it has been included in the price.
It's sad, the sliding scale of my personal life/pajamas. The past year has seen me slowly deteriorate from "Oh yeaaaahh"/Agent Provocateur to "Oh...maybe"/Victoria's Secret to "Oh, to hell with it"/Old Navy.
Thank you, Fleece Lounge Pants with Tiny Gnomes Carrying Tinier Christmas Trees, for helping me usher in this new era of sorrow.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Thursday, December 06, 2007
It's December and that means that this year is finally almost over. I'm looking forward to scraping these last 25 days off of the calendar because 2007 has been the worst year of my life, personally and professionally. That's no small accomplishment, since 2006 included 1) my boyfriend of six years leaving me for a woman who looks like a baseball mitt with hair and 2) a prolonged skin rash.
But, why dwell on the negatives (like my unemployment or social calendar which, sadly, remains emptier than Oprah's womb) and instead focus on my Awesome Annual Awesome Christmas Mix CD of Awesomeness. I send CDs of festive holiday music out instead of Christmas cards--no one seemed to appreciate last year's attempt at being Hallmark--and have about 15 left. If you'd like one, drop me an email with "Awesome" in the subject line and let me know where to send it.
Every time you play the music, it'll be like I'm attending your own holiday celebrations but without the awkwardness of actually, you know, meeting me. Or speaking to me. Or watching me eat.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
So we survived Vegas. It was a great trip, even with the whole "running" part and--trust me--there will be a scathing review of the Las Vegas Marathon/Half Marathon debacle(s) posted before the end of the week, but for now we'll focus on some of the other things my sister Runtie and I learned during our visit to Nevada (Official Motto: No One Cares About the Rest of the State).
Neither of us are gamblers, unless you count our willingness to use the public restrooms in the casinos, so we decided early on that if we were going to lose money, it was going to be through shopping and not through an ill-advised hand of blackjack. Until last week, I thought "double down" was a type of duvet cover. So we went shopping and it didn't take long for us to realize that most of the stores were out of our price range. Actually, I've been unemployed for so long, name-brand pasta sauce is out of my price range, so I'm not sure who I was kidding when I decided to stroll into the Forum Shops at Caesar's.
Vegas Lesson #1: If a store's front window display features either a garment you do not understand or a television showing nonstop footage of models strutting down a catwalk looking moody/pensive/constipated, you probably can't afford to shop there.
That said, I did have to purchase a pair of dress shoes on our first day, because while I made sure to pack my running shoes and a pair of sensible-yet-completely-hideous flats made by a brand with an umlaut in their name, I forgot to bring anything remotely formal. After emptying my suitcase, I realized that my options for accessorizing my evening wear were either the sneakers--which would make me look like a mallwalker on her lunch break--or the shapeless brown flats, which make me look like a Hopi Indian.
We bypassed the overpriced options (which included stores named after people, stores with marble entrances, or any place where the salespeople had adjectives for names. Sorry, Dazzle.) to find one of the only department stores on the strip. And they were having a sale. And I found a pair of red heels that were half price, in my size, and were flashy enough to distract from my scrawny marionette legs.
Fast forward to approximately three minutes after putting the shoes on and realizing that Michael Kors designs footwear for people with cloven hooves. I have already snapped the heel on the left one, both so I can return them to the local branch of the department store and so they can't hurt anyone else. Suck it Kors. Your reign of terror ends at Dillard's.
Vegas Lesson #2: No one notices if you're walking barefoot through the casino, because they are too distracted by the hotel staff members scrubbing furiously at the vomit stain near the door.
On Friday night, we went to see Ka, the Cirque de Soleil show. For those of you who have not seen a Cirque show, they are what would happen if a Bjork song came to life.
Vegas Lesson #3: While seeing Cirque de Soleil is more expensive than taking drugs, particles of Cirque will not be detected on any pre-employment drug screenings. Unless you lick the backs of the performers.
Before you plan a trip to Vegas, just realize that it is insanely expensive and absolutely everything you do costs money. After understanding that we could have combined the money we spent on cabs to buy a Dodge Stratus, we decided it would be cheaper and more convenient to ride the Monorail. Um. What they don't explain is that the monorail "stations" are in the deepest bowels of the hotels, and most of these buildings have floor plans rarely seen outside of the Legend of Zelda. Pack a snack. Just don't buy it there, unless you have extra plasma to sell.
Vegas Lesson #4: Yes, a bagel is approximately $84. But food prices are like the city itself: there's no middle class. Everything is either ridiculously pricey or it's the culinary equivalent of the "Homeless Man With An Arm Growing From His Forehead You Saw Sleeping Near New York, New York, Making It Eerily Similar To Actual New York."
Vegas Lesson #4.5: No matter how hungry you are, you should probably avoid the slot machines that pay you in shrimp.
BUT, we had a great time. I'm not sure Runtie and I have spent that much time together since I left for college, back when I was single, jobless, and had horrible skin. And now look at me! I...um...I dated a guy once. For real, our trip was awesome because not only did I get to see her finish her first marathon, I also learned things about her, little things like the fact that she doesn't like John Cusack's mouth. And where she went to college. And that she's so my best friend.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
My sister Runtie and I left this morning for Las Vegas, where she's going to run her first marathon. (I'm doing the half-marathon, but that's not nearly as impressive. It just means I get to eat half as much. And drink half as much. And have half as much intestinal distress.)
We’ll be sitting in the Houston Airport for the next two hours, and our entertainment options appear to be either exchanging all of our money to kronor , getting a Rosetta Stone demo on how we can become fluent in Tagalog in only 30 days (the vest-wearing hourly worker didn’t seem impressed when I expressed genuine surprise upon learning that Tagalog was a language and not just a kind of Girl Scout cookie) or testing the defibrillator on each other.
So far, we're getting along well. Sample dialogue, upon landing in Houston:
Me: Wow, you slept the whole flight!
Runtie: Mfrrraorhf. [unintelligible sounds as she buries her face in her neck pillow]
Me: Want some gum? I bet your mouth smells like a foot.
Runtie: Nice. You look like someone punched you.
Runtie: Your eyeshadow. It’s smeared around your eye, like a bruise. Thanks for the gum.
Me: See? Now your mouth smells like a foot that walked through a strawberry field.
Runtie: And you look like Robin Givens.
More details later. We have kronor to spend.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
So I went to Whole Foods to pick up dinner, like I do almost every night because I like weighing my salads. And buying plums that cost more than elective surgery. And because their stromboli is awesome.
I spent an embarrassing amount of time with my nose pressed against the deli glass, trying to decide which flavor of stromboli loaf (sandwich? helping? pup?) I wanted to adopt. Eventually I selected the ham and cheese variety, ensuring that by this time tomorrow I'll be praying for death and/or a bowel movement.
I lugged my meal toward the cash register and, of course, selected the line that had stopped because a thin, nervous-looking woman was demanding a price check. I craned my neck around a man whose t-shirt said "Re-cycling is Re-sexy" (and you, sir, are Re-tarded) to see five boxes carefully stacked into a pyramid at the end of the conveyor belt.
Five boxes of organic tampons.
This was disturbing to me on so many levels. First... FIVE boxes? Either she likes buying in bulk or her uterus is the size of Ohio. Regardless, I'm curious what organic tampons are made of. I couldn't see the, um, ingredient list, but I'm assuming each one is carefully crafted out of a corn husk, a barn owl, or Coldplay's Chris Martin.
Eventually she got her discount, took her five boxes, and left before anyone could suggest that next time, she should maybe just buy a roll of insulation. Or a tarp. Or a hysterectomy. God knows it would be cheaper than my dinner.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Confidential to the Man On the Bike In Front of Me In the 5:30 Spin Class:
--Why exactly did you choose to wear a fanny pack? Since the bikes are bolted to the floor, you probably do not need provisions.
--Yes, I saw you playing air guitar during "Layla". No, I was not at all impressed that you could ride without holding the handlebars. Again, the bikes are bolted to the floor. I would've been more interested if somehow you managed to careen into the wall.
--Just because I didn't appreciate the way you formed the invisible guitar chords, you didn't have to hiss at me. You hissed. Like a goose.
--Perhaps grey sweatpants aren't the best choice for you. When your sweat starts to pool in the legs, it forms dark patches that make your thighs look like oil-drenched seals.
--The farting? Unnecessary.
--Ooooh, you're wearing not one, not two, but three LiveStrong bracelets! I applaud your commitment to curing cancer through your generous support of child labor.
--Just so you know, the next time I hear "Sharp Dressed Man", I'm going to recall tonight's four-minute hill climb through your ass cloud.
--Any type of reasonable ending to this post? Probably is trapped in a nylon sack and strapped to your abdomen. Along with my commitment to NaBloPoMo.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Just woke up from the turkey coma long enough to say hello to my reader(s). I hope all of you have had a lovely holiday and that none of you are trampled at Wal-Mart at 4 a.m. tomorrow by a woman desparate to purchase eighteen sweaters, The Transporter on DVD, two end tables, and a head of cattle for the low, low price of $1.43.
My day included a 5 mile race, a trophy, and a very impressed crowd at IHOP when I walked in with said trophy.
Since I ran this morning, I felt justified to follow the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity with several helpings of turkey. I like to refer to my dinner as "The Heather Mills Special" since it had two thighs and one leg.
Oh yeah. That just happened.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Bones is a show that I really enjoy watching even though I have no idea how to pronounce the names of either of the stars.
Also, based on that photograph, I am making Mr. Boreanananaz the latest entry in the "People I Would Like to Meet" series. That's so much better than "Woman Who Has a 'Caution: Driver Singing' Sticker on the Back of Her Corolla". God knows I don't even like seeing her in the parking garage, let alone in a wet, partially unbuttoned oxford shirt.
Monday, November 19, 2007
I was perusing Maury Povich's website today (or as I call it, "Cute Overload") checking out some "I Met My Daddy On Maury" onesies, when this caught my eye:
What I should've done was just post this picture, make a couple of "You are NOT the father" jokes and go back to eating my Kid Cuisine microwavable meal. But instead I dialed all 13 digits in 1-888-MAURY-SHOW and learned that you actually can purchase a "You are NOT the father" ringtone, along with "You ARE the father" (so you're covered both before and after your appearance on the program) the always popular "That's a lie!" and a "Your baby's mama is calling", accompanied by screaming infant sound effects.
For some reason, I found this insanely depressing. I couldn't even finish my Carnival Corn Dog, but that's probably because the packaging makes it look like a severed finger.
So yes, if you are someone whose phone shrieks "That's a lie" every time the creditors call to remind you of another overdue Rooms to Go payment, please let me know. I would like to meet you and, perhaps, give you the other half of this corn dog.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
I had to go to Wal-Mart today because, honestly, no other store can match them for low, low prices and mind-blowing depression. I was perusing the toy aisle (of course...because a single 28-year-old woman doesn't look at all creepy when she's having a lively debate with herself as she tries to decide which Ratatouille plush rat is the snuggliest) when I saw this sitting on the shelf:
The most terrifying part of this (other than the glee on the face of the child whose arm has been decorated with what looks like a bottlecap and a burning pumpkin) is that there was only ONE of these left in the store. Better hurry, parents! If you can't snag this last Inked Tattoo Pen, your kids will have to settle for the "Daddy's Li'l Dentist Playset N' Drill Bit" that is, at best, a distant #2 on their Christmas list.
And no, I don't see anything disturbing about this picture at all, other than wondering only one child is wearing a prison-issue jumpsuit. The other one must be on work release.
If anyone has purchased this item, please take a moment away from watchin' your stories or puttin' a litter of kittens in a cardboard box to let me know in the comments. Even you, Britney Spears. Especially you.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Words cannot describe the awesomeness of this running shirt, created just for me by Clare, one of my co-Ladies...
It has my name! And a dinosaur! And a Deadspin reference!
Seriously, I feel like I need to invent my own language in order to properly celebrate it...and that language would be rich with profanity.
I'll be rocking this in Las Vegas in two weeks and, most likely, every day until then.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
OK, so I'm going to see The Police tonight and need to know everyone's thoughts about wearing this t-shirt:
Would that be:
C) No one cares because everyone is going to be holding up their cell phones to record clips of "Don't Stand So Close to Me".
D) Maybe you should wear that 1996 Sting "Mercury Falling" Tour shirt instead.
E) Do you really own a "Mercury Falling" shirt?
H) Some of the songs on that album were really good! Like, you know, that one. About the horses.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
I was tagged by the Hot Librarian (whose site you should read every day and not just because sometimes she writes about being my college roommate) so here are my answers to some questions, grouped in handy blocks of four.
Four First Names of Crushes I Had
2. Donnie (a different one)
3. Rob (Have. I have a crush on him, right now. This can only end poorly)
Four Pieces of Clothing I Wish I Still Owned
1. My white Los Angeles Rams sweatshirt that my very awesome mom made me with blue felt letters when I was a little kid when the Rams sucked (very much like this season) and she couldn't find any official Rams merchandise. Stupid pre-internet era.
2. My Beetlejuice pajamas. There were two pieces and they looked like his suit: bold black and white stripes, fuchsia shirt, and a black tie. There also may have been some cobwebs screenprinted on. I wore them to a Girl Scout Lock-In at the Y and tore the knees out trying to do a power slide across the gym floor.
3. My USA Hockey hat, the blue one with the Nagano logo on the back. I wore it constantly in college, which may explains why sometimes people questioned my sexuality.
4. A pair of hot pink, splatterpainted Ocean Pacific Hammer pants which I originally purchased (and I'm not even kidding) because they looked like something the Fresh Prince would wear.
Four Professions I Secretly Want to Try
1. Ranch hand
3. Carnival worker
Four Musicians I’d Most Want to Go On a Date With
1. Paul McCartney (circa 1966, because the older he gets, the more he looks like my grandmother)
2. Peter Gabriel (I'm not even kidding)
3. Ryan Adams
4. Huey Lewis (sans News)
Four Foods I’d Rather Throw Than Eat
1. A giant wad of bread
2. A turkey painted like a football
3. Birdseed (at weddings)
4. 5th Avenue Bars
Four Things I Like to Sniff
1. New books
2. Three or four different types of Shower Gel at Bath & Body Works, until I begin sneezing uncontrollably and the other shoppers look in horror as, after one particularly violent outburst, my chewing gum flies out of my mouth and lands in the center of the "Irresistible Apple" table.
4. Hugh Laurie
The video is done! I spent a couple of hours with an editor yesterday, partially because I didn't have enough room on my hard drive to import even more footage of me talking to my stuffed dinosaur, and partially because this is for kind of a Big Audition and I didn't think that halfway through the DVD, there should be 45 seconds of static with a voiceover apologizing for my shitty iMovie.
Part of the assignment was to do "Man on the Street" interviews with strangers in my hometown because the casting director apparently doesn't understand Stranger Danger. If any of you ever have to do something like this, I do not suggest 1) stopping a person on their way to work; 2) interrupting their grocery shopping, especially if they catch you staring at the FOUR packages of Monistat in their cart; 3) disrupt their lunch; or 4) hide under their car, Cape Fear-style.
I was asked to leave Krispy Kreme (although they did give me a free cup of coffee), ignored by the performers at Old Salem (the Blacksmith did not think it was funny when I introduced myself as "a woman from the future"), and flat-out rejected by almost 30 people, some of whom got effing hostile about it.
Confidential to the Man From Ohio With a Nintendo DS Clipped On His Belt Who Said I "Should Be Ashamed" To Do This: No, you should be ashamed. You're the one with the Ohio State t-shirt.
But it's done. And hopefully I'll have a couple of clips up soon...
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Sorry, reader(s). I totally forgot to post yesterday... I'm working on a video project that could lead to great things--or it could lead to my arrest in the cereal aisle of the grocery store later this morning. Either way, it has consumed my life since Friday afternoon. BUT today is the last day to work on it and then it will be posted here.
Until then, you can have this:
I'm super sorry and today you'll get two posts from me. Including one that is more than 100 words and, quite possibly, chronicles other ways that I have failed. Hooray!
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Because Hardee's and I have both put our Christmas trees up, it's time for me to share my Christmas list with everyone. Granted, I've been unemployed since April so I won't be giving any gifts this year, unless they can be made from ramen noodles and my own tears. BUT that shouldn't stop you, dear reader(s), from showering me with presents.
The items pictured above (and I strongly suggest that you click the picture to view everything in its full awesomeness) are:
1) One not-at-all offensive Cher doll, officially named "Half-Breed". I'm not making that up. The item description claims that the doll has "authentic face sculpting" which is probably true, since at this point, most of Cher's actual face is made of vinyl.
2) A 300 Spartan helmet/votive holder, because I've had difficulty finding home decor that combines my love for both bloodshed and Glade "Angel Whispers" candles.
3) A delightful plastic figurine of hunters driving home with a newly slain deer. Not only that, but it also plays "Sweet Home Alabama", which makes sense..."Hit Me With Your Best Shot" would just be tacky.
4) A t-shirt that says "Corn Poop: One of Life's Mysteries". Also a mystery? Why you rarely see clothing like this at Neiman Marcus. Or on anyone who doesn't regularly sleep on a subway grate.
5) Is it a corset? Is it a lamp? Holy shit, it's both! And I'm determined to be tiny enough to wear it, even if that means removing my own rib cage.
And then sometimes, the product descriptions are too glorious not to reproduce in their entirety. Like this.
Boy, do I wish I'd had this mask earlier. I've wasted so much time... it always seems like the kids are terrified but the animals are still eating from your flower bed, or vice versa.
I would've added this outfit to my list, but was disappointed to learn that it was only available in infant sizes.
What? Sometimes I just want to rock a onesie.
Finally, if you haven't finished decorating your own homes, may I suggest this charming costume for your toilet.
Because there's nothing disturbing at all about evacuating your bowels directly into Santa's mouth. That'll teach you not to bring me a Wii, you jolly old bastard!
Now, get out there and start buying me things! There are only 43 shopping days left and those corset lamps aren't going to last forever. Unlike Cher's face.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Today, you should visit Ladies... (I mean, assuming you don't already read it every day) to learn how to make a freaking giant muffuletta sandwich. It involves one pound of meat and cheese, a Liberace bobblehead, and also Chex Mix.
Note: Yes, those are the ingredients above. Look at all that meat. And, um, fennel.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Rejoice! I have resumed my obsessive, borderline ridiculous analysis of House. Check it out here.
What if I said there were additional pictures of Hugh Laurie? And of Biff Tannen? And of a haggard, elderly woman clutching an IV and a urine specimen? Perhaps that would change your mind...
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
So my David Ortiz Hallmark Keepsake Ornament came in today and I spent entirely too much time debating whether to hang it from my rearview mirror until Christmas or just to string it on a chain and wear it as a festive pendant.
I had an intense internal monologue, where 'pendant' had a slight edge because I thought it would look pretty sweet with a turtleneck. Then I drove past Hardee's, where I saw this tasteful holiday display:
I was powerless to resist...I had to immediately put my Christmas ornament on a Christmas tree! Because if Hardee's says it's Christmastime then dammit, it's Christmastime! I came home and unpacked my reasonably priced but highly flammable fake fir tree and placed my new Ortiz-ament right at the top. Feliz Papi-dad! HAHAHA, I am so clever! And so alone.
That's right, I take decorating cues from a fast food restaurant, one best known for its casual attitude toward arterial health and questionable hiring practices. I mentioned my concerns (the holiday thing, not the hiring thing) to the woman who took my order this afternoon. She thought about it for a moment, quietly monitoring both the deep fryer and her glucose monitor. One or the other beeped, she handed me a warm paper sack, and said, "Christmas is in your heart and you can't put your heart on no calendar."
It's gonna be Christmas in my heart and in one corner of my apartment for at least two months. That's plenty of time to enjoy the tree, delight in the skilled craftsmanship of the Hallmark artisans, and hopefully digest that Hot Ham & Cheese.
Congratulations to my local paper ("borrowed" from the hateful, late-sleeping woman across the hall) for either having a sly sense of humor or having completely clueless editors.
If the sub-head had been "Jeff Gordon's in the rear", I would have subscribed immediately.
Monday, November 05, 2007
1) Eight days ago, my beloved Boston Red Sox won the World Series. And I was there at the games in Denver, waving around a ridiculous "Team of Dustin-y" sign that neither got the attention of second baseman Dustin Pedroia nor made it on television. It did, however, ensure that I'll spend baseball's offseason alone, eating mini-corndogs and re-enacting scenes from the playoffs with my collection of McFarlane figures.
My co-Soxaholic Texas Gal and I will be writing lots of gushing Boston praise in the next couple of days which, of course, I'll provide a link to. Until then, enjoy this picture of Curt Schilling:
2) After six months of unemployment and mailing out 38 resumes (not to the same place), I finally got an interview for a position that would be an excellent fit for me.
Getting this job with this company has the potential to be, like, a career and not just "a place I'll waste two years and have a collection of insurance cards, a Palm pilot I never returned, and a lingering sense of bitterness to show for it". Not only that, but working there won't require me to wear a name tag, use the term "plan-o-gram", or refer to my co-workers as my "Apple-buddies". I really want/need this job.
The interview went very well. I was prepared for everything they asked and they seemed pleased with my answers. They also didn't throw any curve balls, like the last interview I had (in 2004...also right after the Sox won the Series) when, as a final question, the HR director said "Tell me about the last book you read." I froze, my mind stuck on the human skull that decorated the book's cover. As I sat there fumbling for words, long enough for her to question whether I could actually read at all, out of my mouth tumbled the phrase "Well...it's called Death's Acre and it's about a place where they study decomposing bodies."
She said nothing.
"It's a paperback," I offered, as if that made me sound less insane. She silently nodded her head and closed the manila folder with my resume in it, letting me know that it was time to go. And that she would prefer to never, ever be alone with me again.
3) Taking a cue from my former roommate The Hot Librarian, I will be participating in NaBloPoMo which means that I'll be posting here every day for a month (which, for me, will end on December 5) and that I'm too lazy to do that novel writing thing. That means you have 29 more days of reading about the many reasons I have for being single, including a pair of glow-in-the-dark dinosaur footie pajamas and a penchant for doing this every time I eat an orange:
It's going to be a sweet thirty days.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Last night during World Series Game 1 (Brief Summary: Red Sox > Rockies) the Fox cameras kept finding this little guy, who was completely oblivious to the onfield action and was instead rocking his Osh Kosh off and trying to hang on to his tiny glove.
Is it wrong that, upon his first aisle-dancing appearance, all I could think was "Wow...who paid four grand for him to sit in a field box?"
I have no maternal instinct.
Speaking of maternal, let's give a warm Blogger welcome to my mother, who has become quite the regular reader over the past two weeks. Let me help you with all of those "J-Money" google searches. I am not a Dirty South rap artist, a personal finance manager, nor this guy who has questionable musical tastes and a crush on Joni Mitchell.
Although for the right amount of money--or perhaps lower level World Series tickets-- I'd probably freestyle a few lyrics. What rhymes with "Pedroia"?
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Last week, my former roommate and all-time rockstar The Hot Librarian tagged me with a meme and, because I am lazy, I'm getting to it now. So here are the rules (some of which I will ignore) and my responses:
--Link to your tagger and post rules. I totally did that.
--Share 7 facts about yourself, some random and some weird. See below.
--Tag 7 people at the end of post and list their names.
--Let them know they were tagged by a comment on their blog.
1) I think The Steve Wilkos Show is the worst talk show in the history of television, and this counts the past two seasons of Maury Povich, which has become Paternity Test Theatre. Some of you may recognize Steve Wilkos as the bald former security guard from Jerry Springer and by "some of you", I mean those of you without jobs and/or self-esteem. Mr. Wilkos is not a good speaker, he is not a compelling host, and his guests can fool him by remaining completely still since his vision is based on motion.
For those of you who haven't seen the show, here's a two-minute primer, involving teen prostitutes and yelling. Be sure to add Steve as your MySpace friend!
Last night, when having what was supposed to be a life-changing conversation with yes, a pregnant, drug-addled teen prostitute he implored her, in that halting, clunky speech pattern of his, "One day you'll wish you could do different." She blinked in response. "You just got to realize that the only worse thing you could be is dead." The crowd roared, the guest's mother came out and answered my lingering questions about who buys clothing at Deb, and I was convinced that no, the worse thing she could be is at home trying to watch this show.
2) I am deeply disturbed by Rod, a man I see at the Y who, more than once, has approached complete strangers to ask them, "Hey, man, you ever, like, lose chunks of time and shit? I mean, you get somewhere and you ain't sure how you got there?". Yesterday, I overheard him talking with a woman who looked like she would rather be anywhere, including Steve Wilkos' studio audience, than trapped at the cable machine listening to the details of his hallucinations, which involved a chipmunk and a hubcap.
After recounting his latest episode, he racked his weights and declared it was time to go to work. A few seconds of silence followed before I asked the woman if she knew what kind of work he did. "Rod?" she said, "He's a school bus driver." Awesome. I look forward to the day when a group of children tell their confused parents that instead of going to school, they spent the day in Rod's yard digging for unicorn bones.
3) After last week's disastrous trip to Cleveland, I can no longer listen to "Conquest" by the White Stripes without thinking of Indian's closer Rafael Betancourt, who used it as his entrance music. He also had a ridiculous, Jumbotron-generated graphic involving oversized animated gavels that rhythmically banged out the words "Betan-Court is Now in Session".
That's all. I just liked that song and now it's been tainted.
4) I went to Barnes & Noble on Saturday, and the Mrs. Garrett lookalike at the checkout was incredibly warm and friendly, an attitude rarely displayed by anyone who isn't working for a tip. She complimented my eyes and my haircut and my scarf (yes, sometimes I wear a scarf...that's not the point), as she carefully replaced the roll of paper in the cash register. She had just started telling an unrelated story about peanut brittle, when she noticed the book I'd patiently been waiting to purchase. Somewhere between reading the words "Heroin" and "Diaries", she clammed up and shot me a hard look of disappointment, like I'd just taken a dump on the devotional calendars stacked on the counter.
"What were you saying about peanut brittle?", I offered with what I hoped was my most winning and not-at-all interested in drugs type of smile. "Nevermind," she said, refusing to look at me as I handed her a copy of Vanity Fair, plucked from the rack at the register in a last-minute attempt to show that I like reading about rich people too. I also threw in the latest issue of CatFancy.
She crammed everything into a plastic bag and pushed it across the counter, staring past me at the next person in line. "Oh, I love that hairstyle on you!", she gushed to a woman clutching several copies of Eat, Pray, Love who was definitely not a scarf-wearing potential drug user and who, quite possibly, wanted to hear a wholesome anecdote about peanut brittle.
Note: I do not use heroin or any other illegal or non-prescription drugs, save for the occasional Excedrin. Nor do I actually have cats.
5) I don't understand why "The George Lopez Show" is on Nick-at-Nite.
6) I have recently eaten a Pizza Hut P'Zone. I will do it again.
7) I really want to listen to "Conquest" right now.
Monday, October 22, 2007
You all know that by now. And I can't wait. The flights are booked, hotels reserved... now I just need tickets. Thank you, Colorado Rockies, for making me waste two hours of my morning trying to purchase tickets from your site before announcing that it was broken. I can't get that time back, Centennial State, and that is valuable time I could've used to...um...see how far the Swiffer WetJet will spray and whether or not I can fire it over the ottoman.
Anyway, thanks to everyone who sent me pleasant emails and called to tell me that they were pulling for the Sox. And also thanks to that guy who keeps writing "BOSTON SUCKS" in the dust on my car for not doing that today.
Perhaps the best voicemail came from my sister Runtie, whose message was "Hey, I saw where your little Sox won. I'm sure you had quite the party with your stuffed dinosaur."
It's funny because it's true. And by "funny", I mean "sad".
And because you were all curious what my living room looks like, this was the scene when Curt Schilling was pitching on Saturday night and no, I don't think it's creepy at all.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
You can read another long, rambling, and borderline obsessive recap of the latest episode here.
All in all, it was a decent hour of TV, and perhaps the first in primetime to slyly reference women who place batteries in their poop chutes.
Monday, October 08, 2007
OK, it wasn't exactly manic. Today was one of those days where I almost wished I were employed just so I could talk with someone other than my upstairs neighbor, especially since that conversation is rich in profanity and held through the ceiling as I shout up at him to stop freaking line dancing or whatever he's doing at 3 a.m. Sigh. I am a cardigan and a cake away from being Miss Havisham.
During yesterday's outing to Harris Teeter, I discovered that Kashi now makes a cereal called Cinnamon Harvest, the only offering in their entire product line that doesn't taste like soil and hippie tears. It's not only good, it's delicious, which is why I ate almost half of the box this morning. As I was shoveling in the last cinnamon-drenched nugget of bowl three, I read the nutrition information and learned that in the course of eight minutes, I had consumed approximately 340% of my daily fiber allowance. Hooray!
After sitting in the bathroom long enough for my calves to go numb, it was time to run some errands. First stop, the bank, which was of course closed for Columbus Day. As was the post office. In keeping with the spirit of the holiday, though, I considered just breaking in and taking several books of stamps, leaving behind a Spanish flag and a smallpox blanket.
The next stop was Walgreens. where I stood in line at the pharmacy behind the most attractive man I've ever seen in real life. He was all James Denton-y, with well-tended stubble and no visible scars or open sores. (At this point, my standards have dropped quite a bit. I used to have "able to walk unassisted" on the list until I saw the man in the electric wheelchair on the corner of Northwest Boulevard and realized that he probably couldn't fend off my advances. Or get out of my car.) Anyway, I was contemplating my opening line, praying he wasn't picking up his Valtrex prescription, and beaming because I didn't have any stains on my shirt when (OMG OMG) he turned around to look at me. We locked eyes. I smiled. He smiled back and just when I opened my mouth to say something delightful, his eyes drifted toward the products in my basket, his face fell, and he turned back around, all in one seamless motion. Of course. No one gets hot at the sight of a slightly desperate-looking woman carrying around a basket full of toilet paper, Immodium, and an earwax removal kit.
I wanted to tap his shoulder and point out that I was waiting to pick up my BIRTH CONTROL because I was capable of HAVING INTERCOURSE with ANOTHER PERSON but the damage was done. Goddamn you, Cinnamon Harvest.
James Denton got his meds and walked away, pretending to be intrigued by the enema display so he didn't have to look in the direction of the runny, waxy misfit behind him. My insurance had changed since my last prescription and by "changed", I mean I finally have some. Not the good kind, of course. It's not one of the major companies. It's more mid-major. Basically, I'm ensured by the equivalent of Winthrop University. And apparently Winthrop doesn't like birth control...they consider it an "elective prescription" so I got to hand over $48 for the privilege of pretending that I'm going to have sex in the next 28 days. It seems like my insurance company is celebrating Columbus Day too.
When I started to protest, using my sad face and pitiful "but that's so expensive because I lost my job" story, the pharmacist smugly told me that there were "more affordable forms of contraception", which prompted the fossilized old bat behind me to say "Like abstinence". I wanted to say "Or your personality?", but then realized that my own personality isn't really serving as an aphrodisiac either. Oh well. At least my bones aren't brittle.
Probably because I ate three bowls of cereal.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
I love October baseball. Especially when it involves the Sox, a Josh Beckett shutout, and the perfect configuration of all of my Sox-related talismans.
You can guaran-damn-tee that I will be sitting in exactly this position and wearing the same clothing until Boston's season is over. Sorry, potential employers. Love me, love my giant cardboard Curt Schilling.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
You can read my recap of this week's episode here.
It's altogether too long and will pretty much ensure that Hugh Laurie would taser (tase?) me on sight, but hopefully it's more entertaining than, say, your actual work. Or the average warranty card. Either way.
Yes, I did the Photoshop at left. And yes, I'm way too excited about it.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
1) Other than Yosemite Sam cartoons/mudflaps and 2004's misguided purchase of a knit poncho from Banana Republic, I can't say I really like any Western-themed items. That was true until I saw 3:10 to Yuma last night, which was one of the best movies I've seen in a long time. I honestly haven't felt that good about spending $8 since, well, earlier yesterday when Walgreens had Diet Coke on sale. But Yuma is phenomenal, from start to finish and passed the "I Would Rather Hold My Pee So Long That I Have to Unbutton My Pants Rather Than Walk Out and Miss A Single Moment" test, even though I'm pretty sure that the sight of me fumbling with my crotch during a particularly intense sequence killed my chances of having a second date. There's also a monkey.*
* In the movie, not in my crotch.
According to the Humane Society's movie-review site, the monkey was not harmed. It "sat on a desk scratching itself...and the action was mild". I believe the exact same phrase was used in my last employee review.
2) My beloved Red Sox clinched the AL East on Friday night with their victory over the Twins (and the Yankees' loss to the Orioles). I'm almost ashamed to admit how much pleasure this win brought me. I've always been too emotionally involved with my sports teams and the fact that each victory leaves me beaming and each loss leaves me broken has almost led to my separation from the Sox more than once over the years. I flirted with Dodgers fandom--even went so far as to buy an LA hat--but neither one seemed to fit me.
It's like when you change schools or go off to college and are determined to become something else, to finally shake whatever Breakfast Club-ish 'princess' or 'basket case' label you've been tagged with since the minute you set foot into homeroom. But then you realize that your "new" you is just like the old one, your new friends reminiscent of the ones you've left behind, and that you'll always be a basket case. Or a Sox fan. Or that girl with bad skin who is way too old to continue shopping at Wet Seal. And you're OK with it.
Also, you can read my tribute to the hottness of the Red Sox here.
3) I admit it. On Friday, I DVR-ed three episodes of TLC's What Not to Wear. The premise of this show is that the hosts Stacey London and Clinton Kelly take very unfortunate-looking women and, over the course of a week, teach them how to dress like gay men.
I do admire the women that allow their flaws to be examined and closets to be plundered on national television. I know I'm not that strong. The second Stacy tried to wrench my "Big Weenies are Better" t-shirt from my grasp, I would probably set myself on fire.
Confidential to TLC Producers: If this is something you would be interested in, please email me.
4) Rarely do I have anything in common with hipsters other than an interest in ridiculous clothing (see #2, #3) and a commitment to poverty, but I'm so in love with Iron & Wine's new release "The Shepherd's Dog", I have stopped taking my birth control pills so that I may carry its child. It's such a good album, I actually purchased it from iTunes rather than illegally downloading it because singer/musician Sam Beam seems like a real, accessible person who deserves some measure of success for his art. Also, I think he works at my local Whole Foods.
Confidential to Sam Beam: Could you please save me one of those tomato and feta stromboli things? They're always either gone or withered beyond recognition by the time I get there. Please? I bought your album.
5) On Friday, Wordpress featured my House recap on their front page, marking it as a "Hawt Post". That's right, I'm blogging about a blog post about a blog post. I feel so dirty.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
So last night was the season premiere of House and I couldn't be happier to again share my Tuesday nights with Hugh Laurie, the sexiest thing with a cane since Mr. Peanut. I'd be lying if I said that I didn't spend the last four days watching Season Three in it's entirety to prepare myself for tonight's premiere. I'd also be lying if I said that I didn't eat Cool Whip for breakfast, so who knows if I'm a credible narrator.
Last night's episode, titled "Alone", opens with a young man standing in the parking lot of an office building, trying to convince his girlfriend to leave work so they can go see Star Wars (Episode 4) in the theatre, which makes me wonder how this guy has a girlfriend in the first place. When he starts to apologize for getting upset with her, perhaps relieved that he'll have the freedom to masturbate in peace, the building starts to tremble and eventually collapses.
It's never really explained why the building caved in but suffice it to say that I added "Freakish Building Collapse" to the list of reasons I'm glad I'm unemployed, right above "Can Spend Weekdays Pretending Neighbor's Springer Spaniel Is My Own". Oh sure, I don't have insurance and I'm out of so-called "solid foods" but at least I'm not going to be buried alive under a pile of rubble and rebar and toner cartridges.
Cue the Massive Attack, opening credits, and commercial break.
We find House alone in his office, playing the guitar and wearing a graphic tee from OmniPeace. OMG! House shops at Kitson! I read the OmniPeace website and their mission statement says that by 2025, they would like to feed the remaining African children that haven't been adopted by Angelina Jolie, apparently by selling t-shirts made by Asian children.
Cuddy barges into the office and yells at him for not having a team, tells him he's spent the last two weeks doing nothing, and what does he mean he doesn't have insurance? Sorry, that last one was my mother. His team--who at the end of last season resigned (Cameron), got fired (Chase), or quit (Foreman)--wasn't to be seen in this episode, since they were styling their bangs (Cameron), styling their bangs (Chase), or coaching the Pittsburgh Steelers (Foreman).
Cuddy insists that he hire a team while House claims that he can solve the girl's case on his own. House starts by writing symptoms on a dry erase board and by collaborating with the janitor (who suggests "lupus" as a diagnosis, a winking remark by the show's writers that made me insanely happy). The janitor is then given a lab coat, christened Dr. Buffer, and sent to speak with the family, illustrating that cleanliness really is next to playing god-liness. I'm pretty sure that this is also the typical career path for most of the doctors who work at the local PrimeCare.
House and Wilson go break into the girl's house to look for environmental clues. While Wilson clips Tide coupons, House reads her diary and notes that she used to be depressed but over the past few months, has had a decidedly improved outlook. He concludes that she must be on anti-depressants, a fact that affects her treatment. I revisited a couple of my recent journal entries ("Ate box of brownie batter. Cried" and "Watched QVC. Cried") and made a mental note to ask my janitor for a prescription.
When they return to the office, House goes to play his guitar and finds that it's been kidnapped. I add "Guitar Won't Get Stolen" to my list, even though I don't have a guitar. House races to Wilson's office to confront him about the missing instrument. It should be noted that Wilson has a teddy bear dressed in a lab coat on his bookshelf. Wilson also has a vagina. It was Wilson, however, who took House's TWELVE THOUSAND DOLLAR guitar in an effort to make him hire a new team. Twelve grand for a guitar? Twelve grand?
Confidential to Me: See if neighbors have any items that could be held for ransom.
Anybody know what a Springer Spaniel is worth?
Back at the hospital, Ben the Boyfriend, and Megan the Patient's Mother are in Megan's room noting that she is possibly on the mend...and then she starts convulsing. Anyone who considers treatment at Princeton-Plainsboro hospital should know that this is the way things happen:
- You'll get an initial diagnosis and show signs of recovery before...
- Developing additional symptoms and receiving additional treatment that you won't respond to. Repeat as necessary before...
- You begin frothing at the mouth and/or bleeding out of the butt (check and check!) and...
- Start loading your things into Death's U-Haul before...
- An offhand, seemingly unrelated comment makes House realize he missed something important and
- You'll most likely be cured and will be so relieved that you won't even consider suing the hospital for the unnecessary tests, botched diagnosis, or the fact that they cut off your legs/removed your eye/blew up your liver/etc.
Although right now, they determine that she's suffering DTs, since she is an alcoholic. Boyfriend Ben protests and says that he would've noticed if she'd been drunk all the time but House points out that he didn't notice that he "was basically living with Sylvia Plath". BURN!
They begin treatment by giving her IV alcohol, which I'm pretty sure I had at my friend Scott's Halloween party last year. Problem solved, until Cuddy notices that she is silently screaming, and we are rewarded with a closeup of her swollen, scabby face (Megan's, not Cuddy's) and I immediately regret my decision to have a late dinner.
Now Megan has developed pancreatitis (#2) and after she bleeds from the butt (#3) they operate. During the surgery, House notices her giant uterus and discovers that she has recently had a procedure done that rhymes with shma-shmortion. After putting the clues together--the anti-depressants, the alcoholism, the birth control pills--they surmise that she is a member of Chi Omega's Fall pledge class.
House is no closer to solving the case, no closer to recovering his guitar, and definitely no closer to hiring a new team. Cuddy sends a memo to the hospital staff telling them not to cooperate with him. When he stands in the crowded ER and no one speaks to him, he asks "Am I in an M. Night Shyamalan movie?", which also explains why his next patients are Howard, Bryce D. and Speak Of, Those We Do Not.
Of course Megan isn't getting any better (#4) and has developed an allergy to antibiotics (#2) that can't be explained. House paces his office, stares at his white board, and sits in the dark. Until Wilson stops by to ask about one of his patients that House has stolen in response to the guitar theft...and #5 happens. Wilson's offhand comment about the patient's chart makes House stop. He stares into the distance, tilts his head downward...the revelation has come! Or maybe he just has gas.
The symptoms were correct, as were the diagnoses. The reason Megan wouldn't recover is because, well, Megan wasn't Megan. She is actually Liz, Megan's drunk, pill-popping, Pro-Choice co-worker who was also in the building collapse. And, sorry Ben, the real Megan died yesterday, which just proves that boys apparently don't pay attention to anything important since both Ben and Liz's boyfriend ID'ed each of them incorrectly.
Ben could probably identify each StormTrooper in the Galactic Empire but has no idea who the chick is that he's been dating for years. He immediately breaks down, not because she's dead, but because if he'd known yesterday he still could've gone to the movies.
I'll give them the benefit of the doubt though, because I think the same thing happened to my ex-boyfriend when he started sleeping with someone else and then kicked me out of his house. He actually thought that she was me and that I was an imposter even though I'm young and supple and his new girlfriend looks like Grendel if it shopped at Ann Taylor.
Cuddy says that even though Liz is alive and doesn't know that her boyfriend is also retarded, this proves that House needs a team because Cameron wouldn't have accepted that Ben didn't know anything about his girlfriend (except, um, what she looks like), Foreman would've tried to debunk House's multiple diagnoses, and Chase would've tried to debunk Foreman if they were alone together in the employee locker room.
The show concludes with House--recovered guitar in hand--addressing a room of students who are all vying for the chance to be his new team. I can't wait until next week. And neither can my new Springer Spaniel.
Note: This was also posted at DeadOn. I will post recaps on both sites so that my 8 readers may enjoy them too.
I have seen the face of the Lord, and that face is covered in chewy, chocolatey, trans-fatty goodness.
Eating one (or two, or nine) Oreo Cakesters is probably a lot like making out with George Clooney:
Sure it's amazing but it's hard to totally enjoy it because you know you're just going to get hurt in the end?
When they're gone, you feel so hollow and alone and you can't understand why you fell so hard?
You wipe your tear-streaked face with the sleeve of the t-shirt you got for free after you opened a new checking account and curl into a ball on the sofa, cursing the day you ever met them and wondering how those crumbs got on your scalp and feeling more than a little like you are going to be sick but maybe if you just stay very, very still and listen to Spandau Ballet you'll feel better? I knoooooooow this. Much! Is truuuue! God. I'm so alone.*
*Author's note: This scenario is probably only applicable to Oreo Cakesters. Because there's no way I'd let George Clooney see me in a Wachovia shirt.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
"This is just a straight-up, rockin' out Springsteen album. None of that acoustic shit, no songs about hookers or poor people". -- One of my friends, reviewing his advance (read: illegally downloaded) copy of Bruce Springsteen's Magic.
Well, now I can't wait for the release date.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Is it a tribute to Van Halen? A celebration of Helvetica? Or an homage to Experimental Jetset?
Who cares, it's one sweet-ass shirt, perfect for wearing to any of the fall Van Halen reunion concerts, to weddings, job interviews, or--in my case--just around the house as you build a pillow fort and eat Teddy Grahams.
Purchase your very own shirt here. Please. I'm so hungry.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Please choose the correct answer.
I got this supersexxxy black eye and fly-ass puncture wound by:
A) Freestyle battle rapping
B) Rescuing a labradoodle puppy from a fire
C) Building a playground at the Children's Home
D) Hitting myself in the face with a picture frame
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
Friday, August 17, 2007
Here is an actual transcript of yet another call I just made to Time Warner Cable's customer service department. Since last week's conversation with Reba, they've replaced all of the humans with disembodied voices and touch-tone mazes. I can only imagine what they've done to the cast of Orgy Party. Or to Reba...
TWC Robot: Thank you for calling Time Warner Cable. To provide you with the best possible experience this call may be recorded. Para espanol, juan es muy guapo y tengo gusto de sus zapatos. (Note: This may not be accurate, but I'm not exactly bilingual).
Me: Listening intently, picturing a room full of bored robots wearing wrinkled Dockers and reading bland telemarketing copy. Does Time Warner just hire the robots incapable of, like, constructing a Toyota Corolla or are they just the ones that didn't really apply themselves in school? Or maybe this is just a starter job until something better comes along, like a viable script for Short Circuit 3.
TWC Robot: Here's your main menu. To add, change, or disconnect a service, say "service changes". For troubleshooting, say "troubleshooting". For billing questions, say "billing".
TWCR: I'm sorry, I didn't hear you.
TWCR: Currently, all billing operators are serving other customers. Your wait time is ninety four minutes.
TWCR: I'm sorry, I didn't hear you.
TWCR: Main menu. Para espanol, donde esta la parada del autobus?
TWCR: To add, change, or disconnect a service, say "service changes".
Me: Fine. Service changes.
TWCR: I'm sorry--
Me: SERVICE EFFING CHANGES
TWCR: Eres una cochina, el unico razon que estoy contigo es porque tu estas tan bueno en la cama.
Me: OK, I've never even met you. While I appreciate the, um, backhanded compliment there's no way you could possibly know that since I doubt you have a central nervous system, let alone functional genitalia.
TWCR: To point out your weak narrative devices, say "shitty writer".
Me: Did we date in college?
TWCR: I'm sorry, I didn't hear you.
TWCR: I'm sorry--
Me: EFF YOU!
TWCR: Transferring your call.
I don't know how Steve Guttenberg did it.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
From the stacks of catalogs that comprise the bulk of my everyday mail, my name has apparently been sold to some kind of mailing list. And from the types of catalogs I receive, that list is targeted towards women who would like to dress like they're a supporting character in a Molly Ringwald movie. Or, quite possibly, to Molly Ringwald herself.
I'm not totally complaining about the contents of my mailbox. I'd just be opening the little door to rearrange the dust mites if dELiA*s didn't send me a monthly missive attempting to sell me a hot pink Smiths t-shirt, a product that makes me unspeakably sad and disappointed. Everyone knows that the only acceptable color for a Smiths shirt is black, like the dark angels in your soul. And, Ms. or Miss or potentially Mr. dELiA*, the design should never be pre-distressed. The words "Meat is Murder" should have to be eroded by the acidity of your own tears. Or from constantly being shoved to the ground by Nickelback fans.
Anyway, next I looked at the Urban Outfitters catalog and not only do they employ several models that have the downcast expressions of someone who has either lost a loved one or has recently watched The Land Before Time but they also are offering these tapered leg leopard print jeans that I can't imagine anyone would purchase unless they are:
1) Currently living in 1984.
2) Have an audition for a Warrant video (perhaps this should be option 1a)
3) Are a twentysomething Asian girl.
Any Asian woman between the ages of 15 and 42 could wear these pants, combining them with a turtleneck, a feather boa, sixteen wristwatches and a pirate's hat and would look not only appropriate somehow, but also completely adorable. This ability is one of the special skills genetically bestowed only on Asians. That and the ability to be violin virtuosos without ever having someone refer to it as a "fiddle" or asking them to play a Charlie Daniels song.
I also receive a catalog called Swell that seems to exist only to allow bored teenagers in Pennsylvania to dress exactly like they think bored teenagers in California would dress. It's essentially Hollister, but sized for real humans. The last time I attempted to shop at Hollister (which has been more recently than I'd like to admit), I walked out of the store after realizing that my undersized body (I'm not underweight, mind you...I just have a skeletal structure that, with a bit of rearranging, would allow me to be a very nice bird) is considered to be an XL in their world. Apparently the girls who shop at Hollister can also purchase clothing at Build-A-Bear.
These three catalogs were just today's delivery. I can't wait to see what comes tomorrow. I hope like hell it's my leopard pants.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
I took the first step aerobics class of my life tonight. I failed miserably. Not only do I lack any sense of rhythm or timing, I was so insanely uncoordinated that I spent the majority of the time I was supposed to be "grapevining"--whatever the hell that means--wondering if I'd had a stroke earlier today.
The class was composed mainly of middle-aged middle-management women who could nimbly do everything the instructor said, without missing a beat of "Sexy Back". I looked around and realized that I was probably the only person who could name the entire starting roster for the 2004 Red Sox, who knew the lyrics to the Perfect Strangers theme song, and who had read any of Tom Stoppard's major works. But I was also the only one in the room who was completely incapable of counting to four.
This morning I had planned to pay my cable bill, that being one of the two that I always send on time (the other being Netflix) because insurance, shmensurance, I need to see the premiere of LA Ink. I was ready to write the check when I noticed that Time Warner had added $12 in charges for a DVR that I don't have. If I did, obviously I wouldn't have to structure my day around being home for the back-to-back episodes of Reba that air at 3:00.
Not only that, but they also added $14.95 for something listed as "Orgy Party". I considered the idea that this was a service they had performed in my apartment, perhaps when they installed the non-existent DVR. I then realized that was the title of a movie because it was listed in the same column as several indie films I'd watched on Pay Per View. I order this type of flick frequently because I have no problem watching them alone on my sofa but seeing them by myself in a theatre somehow seems more pretentious, if only to me.
I called Time Warner and eventually got through to a woman named, sublimely enough, Reba. I told her about the DVR and she agreed to credit the charges to my account but made me schedule an appointment to have one installed. The technician will be here any time between today and 2037 and they'd appreciate if someone would be home during that time period. One problem solved...but Reba balked at "Orgy Party". In fact, I could hear her recoil every time I said the word 'orgy' and imagined that she was holding the receiver as far away from her ear as possible, which of course just made me say it more. In my head, she also looked a lot like Edie McClurg.
Reba wasn't budging, which I kind of understood. I'm sure they get calls like this all the time, people disputing porn charges, mothers insisting that their teenage son could NOT have ordered "Got MILF?" and the like. After ten minutes of debate in which I said 'orgy' approximately 82 times, either Reba had an epiphany or her arm began to tire from holding the phone so far from her head. She told me that they would not refund the money but if I was interested in viewing 'that selection', as she called it, that I would be allowed to do so immediately after the phone call.
And that is how at 9:13 this morning, I was enjoying a bowl of SmartStart and watching amateur pornography. I will preface this by saying that I have not watched a tremendous amount of porn, but I have seen enough of it to realize that it's incredibly repetitive, that the ones with clever titles like "Grinding Nemo" are just as poorly produced as the ones called "Hot Sucking Asians 22", and that--much like minor league sporting events--you realize that the amateurs are playing the same game as the pros but it's nowhere near as entertaining.
The premise of Orgy Party, if there is one, is that a group of couples have been assembled in what appears to be a hotel conference room, given free drinks, and are encouraged to have intercourse with each other while being filmed by an overeager cameraman who is providing running commentary of the proceedings. I'm unsure about the "party" designation of the title though. I have yet to see any pinatas, festive hats, or streamers. Although getting participants for "Orgy Assembly" would have been difficult, "Orgy Conclave" sounds like a medical procedure and "Orgypalooza" has probably already been trademarked.
As the couples start fondling each other, I start to wonder about the hotel. Are they aware what is, um, going down in Conference Room B? Did they willingly rent this room out for this purpose, knowing full well that all of their furniture will need to be incinerated immediately afterward? Or did the crew convince the staff that this group of overmuscled pockmarked men and their capri-wearing female companions are actually part of the Rotary Club or something? Or perhaps this type of analysis is why I really can't enjoy pornography. And also why most nights I'm alone watching movies about mentally challenged bank robbers.
After about twenty minutes and two bowls of cereal, I'm convinced that the participants are Canadian, just because most of these people are built for cold weather and/or for physical labor. These are people meant to be bundled in sweaters and driving threshers, not naked and tangled in a writhing mass on an upholstered couch that I sincerely hope has been treated with some sort of stain-defender.
Confidential to Scotchguard: Perhaps you could start sponsoring pornographic films?
By 10:00, I'm ready to give up. Obviously, the only reason I'm watching is so I haven't just given $14.95 to the cable company but that just makes this more unsatisfying, like buying a wedding gift for someone then when the wedding is called off, you're stuck with a Magic Bullet blender that you didn't ever want in the first place.
I just have so many unanswered questions. Like if a woman is willing spend five grand to get breasts the size of Jack Russell terriers, wouldn't she be willing to drop a couple hundred to have her teeth fixed? The woman that all of the men and the cameraman (whose repetition of the phrases "oh yeah", "eff yeah", and "hell yeah" make me long for the commentary of Chris Berman who would at least throw in a "he's taking her from the backbackbackbackback") are fixated on has gigantic boobs but her teeth are incredibly jacked and she, like most of the other women, looks like she could be an enforcer for the Ottawa Senators.
I was going to give it another few minutes but I'm distracted by two men who are naked except for white athletic socks. Who wears socks to an orgy? If you're OK with having sex with 9 strangers, you can't be terribly concerned with where you're putting your feet.
After rinsing my bowl in the sink, I turn the TV off. According to my calculations, I got about $3.75 worth of enjoyment back. You win, Time Warner. Now where's my DVR?
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Last weekend I visited my sister Runtie who recently moved to a large Southeastern city to work as a pediatric nurse. We were walking to dinner, an expensive sushi restaurant that she could afford because she has a career and I could not because I spend the bulk of my day watching Designing Women and taking kickboxing classes at the Y (although even without the classes, I'm pretty sure I could overpower, disarm, and possibly render Meshach Taylor unconscious).
On our way to the restaurant, we walked past the library and had the following exchange:
Runtie: I think next week, I'm getting a library card.
Me: Good idea. You'll probably save money that way.
Runtie: I know, right! They rent DVDs. And I think CDs too. And they get a lot of magazines.
Me: And books. They have books at the library.
Runtie: Whatever. Think they'll get Disturbia?
This is why I love my sister. And why I'm going back this weekend. That and the fact that she'll buy dinner.