Is anyone else as uncomfortable as I am with the recent Basic Instinct 2 promos? Honestly. I feel like I'm being tied down and forced to watch my parents make out. In my mind, there are established ways for a woman - particularly a woman over the age of 16 - to be sexy. (See Mirriam-Webster definition for Susan Sarandon.) And I'm pretty sure it involves a modicum of class, rather than strattling a chair without your drawers on. Well, in public. Ech.
March 31, 2006
March 28, 2006
My system had to reboot so my recap will be delayed. Much like my pubescent breast growth.
My first thought is that Ryan Seacrest is dressed like a bruise and Paula must stop clapping like a seal.
Why no one will speak of the fact that Lisa Tucker (without the circa ’84 Cover Girl eye makeup) is Aaliyah reincarnated is beyond me. Side note: Ryan almost felt her up while trying to console her post-threesome negative review. I’m just sayin’.
Kelly Pickler sounds like someone who worked at the Sheetz I used to get Diet Cokes at in West Virginia. Her song includes such dignified phrasing as “pickup truck,” and “was broke,” and “suds in the bucket.” It’s so awful I almost feel badly for the trailer park community watching despite the tornado closing in.
Ace reeks of Constantine and it makes the baby Jesus cry. He sings Train and suddenly I feel as if I’ve been hit by one. I think he made that shirt and a pan of blondies last Thursday in Home Ec. I want to make out with Simon for bashing his performance. NEXT.
And so we have Taylor Hicks. Taylor makes Mama want to put her dentures in and buy Depends. Camera 4 shows a boy in the audience who has grayed at age 7 (and ¾) and sadly no one shifts as uncomfortably as I do. (!!!???) Taylor takes an ED med/Ovaltine shake and screeches out something about Trouble. I pour another glass of wine.
Mandisa is up. And I want to make out with her. Despite singing about parting the Red Sea and a burning bush, she is too excellent. Did I mention it would not be appropriate in any context to sing re: “shackles on [your] feet” if you haven’t been on Court TV?
Next up: Vin Diesel. Ryan stares longingly at him while talking smack about the Titanic love theme. Jesus cries again. Chris Daughtry sings Creed (as seen in my third motherland of Tallahassee) and I wish I had more wine. It’s a little bit Eddie Vedder, a little bit my ex-boyfriend before hair plugs. Egh.
The Catherine's pr-interview makes me think of Bill O’Reilly softened by a Friendly’s Fribble. She is hot, undoubtedly, but she didn’t only opt for Christina Aguilera as her song choice, but her stylist. (Which anyone but a girlfriend of Jack the Ripper would deem inappropriate, McPheever. There must be a clerk at Wet Seal who can help you with this affliction.) She sings ok, but I clearly don’t have the boner that the Others have.
Bucky sings, and I see this as an opportunity to do the dishes. If only I appreciated country music, I’d probably have to, well, go to Walmart. Anyhoo, he was really good. For Waffle House.
I’m bored so naturally I start to dial in for contestants before the phones open up.
Crickets.
Here comes a powerhouse in 5-7-9 jeans, with a yellah top and a name like a hospitality diva. Paris has a little groove going on, using “brother” to her advantage, as well as her satisfying voice. She is the best of the night so far. And my judges, if they know what’s good for them, will say so. And they do.
Simon. (insert maniacal laugh here.) Putty in my hands.
Mama aches because Elliott is going to sing. Gavin DeGraw. Elliott is clearly sponsored this evening by the mass production masters Gap and SuperCuts. The masses love it. As does his probation officer. Come on now; no one uses “the crust of creation” in their American Idol top 10 song. So of course I like him.
Paula continues clapping like she’s voting for PETA.
However, should she use the ever-irritating “you made it your own,” critique again, I WILL SO SCARSDALE her ass.
AND SCENE.
A demain,
Kris
My first thought is that Ryan Seacrest is dressed like a bruise and Paula must stop clapping like a seal.
Why no one will speak of the fact that Lisa Tucker (without the circa ’84 Cover Girl eye makeup) is Aaliyah reincarnated is beyond me. Side note: Ryan almost felt her up while trying to console her post-threesome negative review. I’m just sayin’.
Kelly Pickler sounds like someone who worked at the Sheetz I used to get Diet Cokes at in West Virginia. Her song includes such dignified phrasing as “pickup truck,” and “was broke,” and “suds in the bucket.” It’s so awful I almost feel badly for the trailer park community watching despite the tornado closing in.
Ace reeks of Constantine and it makes the baby Jesus cry. He sings Train and suddenly I feel as if I’ve been hit by one. I think he made that shirt and a pan of blondies last Thursday in Home Ec. I want to make out with Simon for bashing his performance. NEXT.
And so we have Taylor Hicks. Taylor makes Mama want to put her dentures in and buy Depends. Camera 4 shows a boy in the audience who has grayed at age 7 (and ¾) and sadly no one shifts as uncomfortably as I do. (!!!???) Taylor takes an ED med/Ovaltine shake and screeches out something about Trouble. I pour another glass of wine.
Mandisa is up. And I want to make out with her. Despite singing about parting the Red Sea and a burning bush, she is too excellent. Did I mention it would not be appropriate in any context to sing re: “shackles on [your] feet” if you haven’t been on Court TV?
Next up: Vin Diesel. Ryan stares longingly at him while talking smack about the Titanic love theme. Jesus cries again. Chris Daughtry sings Creed (as seen in my third motherland of Tallahassee) and I wish I had more wine. It’s a little bit Eddie Vedder, a little bit my ex-boyfriend before hair plugs. Egh.
The Catherine's pr-interview makes me think of Bill O’Reilly softened by a Friendly’s Fribble. She is hot, undoubtedly, but she didn’t only opt for Christina Aguilera as her song choice, but her stylist. (Which anyone but a girlfriend of Jack the Ripper would deem inappropriate, McPheever. There must be a clerk at Wet Seal who can help you with this affliction.) She sings ok, but I clearly don’t have the boner that the Others have.
Bucky sings, and I see this as an opportunity to do the dishes. If only I appreciated country music, I’d probably have to, well, go to Walmart. Anyhoo, he was really good. For Waffle House.
I’m bored so naturally I start to dial in for contestants before the phones open up.
Crickets.
Here comes a powerhouse in 5-7-9 jeans, with a yellah top and a name like a hospitality diva. Paris has a little groove going on, using “brother” to her advantage, as well as her satisfying voice. She is the best of the night so far. And my judges, if they know what’s good for them, will say so. And they do.
Simon. (insert maniacal laugh here.) Putty in my hands.
Mama aches because Elliott is going to sing. Gavin DeGraw. Elliott is clearly sponsored this evening by the mass production masters Gap and SuperCuts. The masses love it. As does his probation officer. Come on now; no one uses “the crust of creation” in their American Idol top 10 song. So of course I like him.
Paula continues clapping like she’s voting for PETA.
However, should she use the ever-irritating “you made it your own,” critique again, I WILL SO SCARSDALE her ass.
AND SCENE.
A demain,
Kris
March 27, 2006
Friday night was planned to include paid comedy and Points-friendly eating and imbibing. The Best Friend and I began the evening at a chain restaurant with a run in with an old friend and three Points worth of Miller Lite. Eat your hearts out, Carrie and Samantha.
Halfway through our mildly appetizing, fully Iceburg salads, the manager approaches. Are you ladies enjoying your evening?
Miller Lite Girls: Yes. (My brain continues: Now let us finish these drinks and order the next round before happy hour prices run out.)
He lingers with a smarmy smile. Can I ask you a question? This guy looks like his lunch table sent him to talk to us on a bet.
The Best Friend and I exchange knowing glances. (Read: Sweet Lord we know what the question is, because you’ll find it too rude to ask Kris about how it feels to have the world’s largest chin pimple, so you must be heading for the other one of us.) At least one of us being an ex-Girl Scout, we politely offer, yes.
But there are no free drinks, no questions about how our service has been, no notification that hey, asshats, you left your lights on. Instead, Mr. Original offers, how tall are you?
Ugh. Can men ask nothing original of this woman? We get it. She’s tall. In the 15 years we’ve known each other, we have often thought of creating some sort of stats nametag for her: I’m 6’1”, no basketball, no volleyball, now leave me alone before I kick your ass and choke you with your own flare.
The Best Friend coughs up her stats with a smile. Thank goodness the beer has reached her bloodstream.
You are tall! You taller than me! You know what? We have the training staff this weekend. He clearly finds himself hilarious. This guy probably loves him some Carrot Top. He continues, I asked trainee if he seen anything he had questions about, never seen before, and you know what he said?
The Best Friend and I check for escape routes. Seeing none, we continue drinking beer and waiting for the punchline.
Most unfortunately, he continues. Trainee said, ‘why is it that when you see the tallest woman you then see the shortest man?’
And then, oh, yes – wait for it! I promise, it’s worth it! – he turns away from laughing at the Best Friend (who we're guessing at this point to be the "tall" portion of the equation) and proceeds to POINT HIS FINGER AT A LITTLE PERSON SITTING NEXT TO US AT THE BAR.
Crickets.
Crickets.
Oh cripes. Let’s be honest. These were full blown cicadas.
Gone are the days of yore when out of sheer reactivity the Best Friend and I used to a) attempt to educate the masses on how rude rudeness really is, b) embark on a drunk screaming fest regarding the rock these people must call home, or c) spend the rest of the night rhetorically asking just what they would have said if someone had rudely pointed out their accents or botched highlights or halitosis.
With happy hour almost up, the Best Friend simply stated, “I guess it's just the balance of the universe.”
Brilliant. And this seemed to satisfy Rudeness, as It was next seen smarmying away from the table to report back to Trainee.
I couldn’t help thinking of yet another way we might achieve a little balance in our universe. Sadly, I don't think he was wearing any flare.
Halfway through our mildly appetizing, fully Iceburg salads, the manager approaches. Are you ladies enjoying your evening?
Miller Lite Girls: Yes. (My brain continues: Now let us finish these drinks and order the next round before happy hour prices run out.)
He lingers with a smarmy smile. Can I ask you a question? This guy looks like his lunch table sent him to talk to us on a bet.
The Best Friend and I exchange knowing glances. (Read: Sweet Lord we know what the question is, because you’ll find it too rude to ask Kris about how it feels to have the world’s largest chin pimple, so you must be heading for the other one of us.) At least one of us being an ex-Girl Scout, we politely offer, yes.
But there are no free drinks, no questions about how our service has been, no notification that hey, asshats, you left your lights on. Instead, Mr. Original offers, how tall are you?
Ugh. Can men ask nothing original of this woman? We get it. She’s tall. In the 15 years we’ve known each other, we have often thought of creating some sort of stats nametag for her: I’m 6’1”, no basketball, no volleyball, now leave me alone before I kick your ass and choke you with your own flare.
The Best Friend coughs up her stats with a smile. Thank goodness the beer has reached her bloodstream.
You are tall! You taller than me! You know what? We have the training staff this weekend. He clearly finds himself hilarious. This guy probably loves him some Carrot Top. He continues, I asked trainee if he seen anything he had questions about, never seen before, and you know what he said?
The Best Friend and I check for escape routes. Seeing none, we continue drinking beer and waiting for the punchline.
Most unfortunately, he continues. Trainee said, ‘why is it that when you see the tallest woman you then see the shortest man?’
And then, oh, yes – wait for it! I promise, it’s worth it! – he turns away from laughing at the Best Friend (who we're guessing at this point to be the "tall" portion of the equation) and proceeds to POINT HIS FINGER AT A LITTLE PERSON SITTING NEXT TO US AT THE BAR.
Crickets.
Crickets.
Oh cripes. Let’s be honest. These were full blown cicadas.
Gone are the days of yore when out of sheer reactivity the Best Friend and I used to a) attempt to educate the masses on how rude rudeness really is, b) embark on a drunk screaming fest regarding the rock these people must call home, or c) spend the rest of the night rhetorically asking just what they would have said if someone had rudely pointed out their accents or botched highlights or halitosis.
With happy hour almost up, the Best Friend simply stated, “I guess it's just the balance of the universe.”
Brilliant. And this seemed to satisfy Rudeness, as It was next seen smarmying away from the table to report back to Trainee.
I couldn’t help thinking of yet another way we might achieve a little balance in our universe. Sadly, I don't think he was wearing any flare.
March 23, 2006
In another demonstration of the pure power of my genius, I nearly gave up a digit today while trying to ease the first of a series of hand wipes through the Venus Fly Trap that is the lid’s plastic X. I also nearly lost my master’s degree when I couldn’t figure out whether you thread the first wipe on the outside of the roll, or the one nested deep in the middle of the damp madness. It almost brought back yesterday’s headache.
Earlier embarrassments to humankind include, but are not limited to the following:
No matter how many times I’m told, I can’t remember whether a 90-minute cassette tape has 90 minutes on each side, or a total of 90 minutes overall. (The former would make a full 180 minutes of, say, Air Supply, which I think we’d all agree would be undeniably sweet.) I was never so happy when CDs debuted.
I don’t get commercials like a woman with half a brain should. Remember the “Fall into the Gap?” campaign of, say 2003? I always thought those were pretty low on the creativity ladder – Uh yeah. We get it. It’s FALL. Great going, Gap geniuses. It didn’t occur to me until late 2005 that they were actually double entendre-ing about plunging into a literal abyss. Sadly, the beau had to witness this epiphany, which I’m pretty sure accounted for 76% of the variance in him breaking up with me. Don’t get me started on my March 2006 realization re: Verizon’s “Raising the Bar” ads. On select Tuesdays I am a dumb woman.
Last week I used the non-word examinate on two different professional phone calls. With physicians.
I will occasionally attempt to TiVo things that happen in my real life. Like the radio. My hand will get dangerously close to the << button on my tape deck before I realize that, try as I might, I won’t be able to hear that Paula Abdul song again until the FM gods will it so. I will also do this with the “what did she just say?” query in actual human conversations. Right.
It really is better that you only know me via the Internets.
Earlier embarrassments to humankind include, but are not limited to the following:
No matter how many times I’m told, I can’t remember whether a 90-minute cassette tape has 90 minutes on each side, or a total of 90 minutes overall. (The former would make a full 180 minutes of, say, Air Supply, which I think we’d all agree would be undeniably sweet.) I was never so happy when CDs debuted.
I don’t get commercials like a woman with half a brain should. Remember the “Fall into the Gap?” campaign of, say 2003? I always thought those were pretty low on the creativity ladder – Uh yeah. We get it. It’s FALL. Great going, Gap geniuses. It didn’t occur to me until late 2005 that they were actually double entendre-ing about plunging into a literal abyss. Sadly, the beau had to witness this epiphany, which I’m pretty sure accounted for 76% of the variance in him breaking up with me. Don’t get me started on my March 2006 realization re: Verizon’s “Raising the Bar” ads. On select Tuesdays I am a dumb woman.
Last week I used the non-word examinate on two different professional phone calls. With physicians.
I will occasionally attempt to TiVo things that happen in my real life. Like the radio. My hand will get dangerously close to the << button on my tape deck before I realize that, try as I might, I won’t be able to hear that Paula Abdul song again until the FM gods will it so. I will also do this with the “what did she just say?” query in actual human conversations. Right.
It really is better that you only know me via the Internets.
Labels: Stuff that's wrong with me
March 22, 2006
It’s been exactly one week since my last weigh in.
In that time, I consumed a mere twelve glasses of wine and can say with certainty that no pizza touched these lips. I’m not sure if that came across clearly, so I’ll type it again. NO PIZZA. No french fries. No fondue and no pate. Just 2 Points Bars and butter-sprayed popcorn and Chardonnay and Oxygen.
So you can imagine my surprise when I took off my shoes, my winter coat and my hairpiece and stepped onto the scale, only to have the cruel box register me as SIX OUNCES down from my last weight. Six ounces down. In 168 hours. The weight of your thong or the eyelashes on your freaking goldfish.
Did I mention that I actually exercised this week?
So you can also imagine I was somewhat upset. And then of course it would make sense that my next action was to reach behind the makeshift cashier’s desk, motion the petite “WW Success Story” cashier toward me with a quivering fat finger, and when I could smell the skinny on her, ask quietly, “come again?”
So I’m guessing you can also appreciate that when she simply repeated my lame weight loss total through her Stila’d lips that I was basically forced to pull her perky ass over the counter in one frenzied motion. I’m pretty sure I forced her to sit on the scale without removing her bat sunglasses or 40-lb Forever XXI beads or Size 0 gauchos. The details of what followed that are more of a blur, but I do recall a fellow Weight Watcher tossing me a bag of Ho Hos and me force feeding the defenseless Dub Dub employee while the weigh in line chanted, “THAT’S A FULL HOUSE, MARY KATE!” and “YOU’RE DOOMED, KLUM!” and possibly even, “HELP HER, FONDA!” Dick Simmons would have been brought to tears.
I couldn't find "assault" in the exercise tracker, but I'm pretty sure that counted as like two total exercise points. I’m so going to be down at least eight ounces next week.
In that time, I consumed a mere twelve glasses of wine and can say with certainty that no pizza touched these lips. I’m not sure if that came across clearly, so I’ll type it again. NO PIZZA. No french fries. No fondue and no pate. Just 2 Points Bars and butter-sprayed popcorn and Chardonnay and Oxygen.
So you can imagine my surprise when I took off my shoes, my winter coat and my hairpiece and stepped onto the scale, only to have the cruel box register me as SIX OUNCES down from my last weight. Six ounces down. In 168 hours. The weight of your thong or the eyelashes on your freaking goldfish.
Did I mention that I actually exercised this week?
So you can also imagine I was somewhat upset. And then of course it would make sense that my next action was to reach behind the makeshift cashier’s desk, motion the petite “WW Success Story” cashier toward me with a quivering fat finger, and when I could smell the skinny on her, ask quietly, “come again?”
So I’m guessing you can also appreciate that when she simply repeated my lame weight loss total through her Stila’d lips that I was basically forced to pull her perky ass over the counter in one frenzied motion. I’m pretty sure I forced her to sit on the scale without removing her bat sunglasses or 40-lb Forever XXI beads or Size 0 gauchos. The details of what followed that are more of a blur, but I do recall a fellow Weight Watcher tossing me a bag of Ho Hos and me force feeding the defenseless Dub Dub employee while the weigh in line chanted, “THAT’S A FULL HOUSE, MARY KATE!” and “YOU’RE DOOMED, KLUM!” and possibly even, “HELP HER, FONDA!” Dick Simmons would have been brought to tears.
I couldn't find "assault" in the exercise tracker, but I'm pretty sure that counted as like two total exercise points. I’m so going to be down at least eight ounces next week.
March 19, 2006
I haven't posted in days, mostly because I have been so Long Duck Dong tired and couldn't raise my head above the keyboard. There are weeks when I feel like I have caught again that malaise that hit me in college (only eating Froot Loops and Ramen noodles + exercise limited to walking to the vending machine adds up to wanting to stay under your pink XL twin JC Penney comforter for the week).
I went to my first DC Blogger happy hour (thanks to a wonderful planner) on Wednesday night. There are a few choice obs from the event that I made a mental note to share with you prior to/during consumption of much too much house Chardonnay:
1) DC Bloggers are hot. Not like normal, Bell-curve hot, but hot like "Lost" hot. If all of these bloggers were to be stranded on Roosevelt Island, unable ever to make it back to the mainland of Virginia, the world would not want for beautiful, talented, boozing writers.
2) Despite what people try to tell you, the green stuff in mojitos isn't really kelp. Stupid spinach.
3) I'm embarrassed as to how many of these DC talents never made it on my blogroll. There are so many excellent sites out there, more than I can keep up with. I have a good bit of a hreffing to do when I feel I'm awake again.
4) Thank God Heather B. showed up. The look of horror on her face convinced me a) that it probably wasn't cool to take off with the band's tambourine, b) that my dance moves aren't as smooth as I pictured them to be, and c) that we might want to catch a cab home before a fellow cutie blogger snapped incriminating pics to post to the Internets. Moral: Always trust a woman in pastel cashmere.
I went to see my boyfriend play the Verizon/MCI/FDS Woman/Cheez Its Center on Thursday night. Having a twenty-something trophy wife has apparently done wonders for my man, as he shook it well past my bedtime.
I am pleased to report that although I thought I could hear my bones creaking this week, I was not the oldest woman in the crowd as evidenced by the following:
1) The man next to me shielded his eyes painfully every time the stage lights hit on the crowd,
2) I saw two different women - within a three-minute time span - drinking their Bud Lights through a straw,
2a) Most everyone in my immediate vicinity brought a crossword, copy of Redbook or glucose monitor to keep themselves busy until Billy took the stage, and, proudly,
3) I didn't call my kids in the middle of New York State of Mind to tell them loudly about how mommy drank an entire daquiri and would be taking the train home.
I have spent the past two days pampering myself and taking care of those things that never get done. I'm pretty sure the world is out having fun while I do laundry and watch 22 Tivo-ed episodes of CSI. The freau (the term I will heretofore use to refer to the beau, given our limbo friend/more status) is in Vegas for his brother's bachelor party. The mere thought of having to share a room with five drunk men and boozing while playing nickel slots until 4 am makes my head hurt.
Maybe the Blanche in me will want to get back to such things after these Doan's pills kick in.
I went to my first DC Blogger happy hour (thanks to a wonderful planner) on Wednesday night. There are a few choice obs from the event that I made a mental note to share with you prior to/during consumption of much too much house Chardonnay:
1) DC Bloggers are hot. Not like normal, Bell-curve hot, but hot like "Lost" hot. If all of these bloggers were to be stranded on Roosevelt Island, unable ever to make it back to the mainland of Virginia, the world would not want for beautiful, talented, boozing writers.
2) Despite what people try to tell you, the green stuff in mojitos isn't really kelp. Stupid spinach.
3) I'm embarrassed as to how many of these DC talents never made it on my blogroll. There are so many excellent sites out there, more than I can keep up with. I have a good bit of a hreffing to do when I feel I'm awake again.
4) Thank God Heather B. showed up. The look of horror on her face convinced me a) that it probably wasn't cool to take off with the band's tambourine, b) that my dance moves aren't as smooth as I pictured them to be, and c) that we might want to catch a cab home before a fellow cutie blogger snapped incriminating pics to post to the Internets. Moral: Always trust a woman in pastel cashmere.
I went to see my boyfriend play the Verizon/MCI/FDS Woman/Cheez Its Center on Thursday night. Having a twenty-something trophy wife has apparently done wonders for my man, as he shook it well past my bedtime.
I am pleased to report that although I thought I could hear my bones creaking this week, I was not the oldest woman in the crowd as evidenced by the following:
1) The man next to me shielded his eyes painfully every time the stage lights hit on the crowd,
2) I saw two different women - within a three-minute time span - drinking their Bud Lights through a straw,
2a) Most everyone in my immediate vicinity brought a crossword, copy of Redbook or glucose monitor to keep themselves busy until Billy took the stage, and, proudly,
3) I didn't call my kids in the middle of New York State of Mind to tell them loudly about how mommy drank an entire daquiri and would be taking the train home.
I have spent the past two days pampering myself and taking care of those things that never get done. I'm pretty sure the world is out having fun while I do laundry and watch 22 Tivo-ed episodes of CSI. The freau (the term I will heretofore use to refer to the beau, given our limbo friend/more status) is in Vegas for his brother's bachelor party. The mere thought of having to share a room with five drunk men and boozing while playing nickel slots until 4 am makes my head hurt.
Maybe the Blanche in me will want to get back to such things after these Doan's pills kick in.
Labels: Blaahging
March 15, 2006
I spent Friday night on a bar crawl with Erika. Erika is a woman who could have fun in a ditch, and despite her being from rural Virginia, it’s not the type of fun you skeezers are thinking it is. Erika is always up for almost anything, which makes her my polar opposite, as if it isn’t in my Franklin Covey I probably won’t show up for it. She knows this and loves me anyway. She also tries to overlook the fact that I’m clearly out of her twenty something demographic, would voluntarily sing along to a Dick Marx song on 107.3, and that I give her my “when I was your age,” speech at least twice every time I see her before taking my teeth out for the night.
Deflowered, Metro style
I asked Erika to call a cab ten minutes prior to me leaving the house. A perfectly scheduled Yellow Cab would enable us to be on time for the FREE WINE tasting. (See, my neuroses are not all for naught.)
The cab never came. If we can just get to a major street, there will be tons of cabs. We convinced ourselves it was a truth just as Nick told himself Jess couldn’t be that stupid.
We made it to the main road. And behold. There were strollers. There were cars. There were minivans! There were no cabs, yellow or otherwise. Since getting into the back of unmarked townie vans wasn’t cool now that we were out of college, that clearly left us with only one choice: Please sweet Lord. Not the Metrobus.
I have mentioned my fear of the Metrobus before, a dread so debilitating that I have been prevented from stepping foot on one for the entire six+ years I have lived in the DC area. I fear not their maniacal drivers or their Mach 3 speeds. I sweat and stutter, however, when I think of boarding the bus without the correct change and then not knowing what to do with the five I do have and then me holding up the party when I ask if this one really does go to Upper Georgetown? and then the regulars coming home from a double shift starting to huff and I’M TRYING PEOPLE, JUST LIKE I DID LAST WEEK ON MY FIRST TRIP TO THE NEW LAUNDROMAT WHEN THE FRONT LOAD WASHER OPENED MID CYCLE, and then SOME ONE-EYED MAN WITH NO TONGUE THROWS AN OPEN BOTTLE OF MADDOG AT ME . . .
Nothing so dramatic happened and I hardly slipped on my sweat rings as I stepped off the bus. I then proceeded to approach the free wine tasting as only Kris would: by pouring taster glasses into one, fat real glass and hoarding other tasters in the corner. I’m nothing if not classy.
No one said E was for Desperate
Erika is effervescently single right now and is loving every minute of it. But up for most new things, she likes to date even if it only adds a new friend to her already overflowing collection. One of said friends heard from her mom of an eligible bachelor without children or bad music tastes. Score.
Did they mention that he was young? Successful? Without offensive piercings or Mad Cow?
They put the pressure on. What did she think? Maybe give him a shot?
Sounds like a winner. Until someone finally disclosed that this great guy only had a few years to live, which is not reason to disqualify, but then they confessed that they really just wanted to get him married off before he died.
Erika and I will be going out solo for a little while longer.
Narcissus
I started talking to a guy on the bar crawl who was wearing a woman’s nametag:
Yes, he’s that guy: I’m totally celebrating. I just signed a book deal for 100 grand! I’m the only one who knows anything about this topic in like the freakin’ universe. So I go in, and like totally dictate the terms to these guys, and basically blow them away.
Which is what I am wishing I could do to myself at this very moment. He keeps talking while I wonder if the cats are having more fun licking themselves or possibly choking on clumps of their own hair.
Yes, this guy gets even better: DC’s ok. I live in Memphis. But I pretty much have traveled to every major American city.
(Watch the male Chia head! Give it beer and it grows!)
I’m pretty sure at this point Erika slinked off with a tall tale about needing to volunteer for Unicef or reapply her leprosy cream or some other awesome excuse.
Kris, in blatant attempt to top his ridiculousness: I haven’t traveled much in the Americas. Most of my time has been spent touring the cities of Europe. On my bedazzled llama.
Robotic, socially-neutered male continues without a beat: Well, I actually own property in most American cities . . .
Insert Kris attempting to lick self or fake a hairball. Ugh. Almost makes you want to get engaged to Michael Bolton.
Deflowered, Metro style
I asked Erika to call a cab ten minutes prior to me leaving the house. A perfectly scheduled Yellow Cab would enable us to be on time for the FREE WINE tasting. (See, my neuroses are not all for naught.)
The cab never came. If we can just get to a major street, there will be tons of cabs. We convinced ourselves it was a truth just as Nick told himself Jess couldn’t be that stupid.
We made it to the main road. And behold. There were strollers. There were cars. There were minivans! There were no cabs, yellow or otherwise. Since getting into the back of unmarked townie vans wasn’t cool now that we were out of college, that clearly left us with only one choice: Please sweet Lord. Not the Metrobus.
I have mentioned my fear of the Metrobus before, a dread so debilitating that I have been prevented from stepping foot on one for the entire six+ years I have lived in the DC area. I fear not their maniacal drivers or their Mach 3 speeds. I sweat and stutter, however, when I think of boarding the bus without the correct change and then not knowing what to do with the five I do have and then me holding up the party when I ask if this one really does go to Upper Georgetown? and then the regulars coming home from a double shift starting to huff and I’M TRYING PEOPLE, JUST LIKE I DID LAST WEEK ON MY FIRST TRIP TO THE NEW LAUNDROMAT WHEN THE FRONT LOAD WASHER OPENED MID CYCLE, and then SOME ONE-EYED MAN WITH NO TONGUE THROWS AN OPEN BOTTLE OF MADDOG AT ME . . .
Nothing so dramatic happened and I hardly slipped on my sweat rings as I stepped off the bus. I then proceeded to approach the free wine tasting as only Kris would: by pouring taster glasses into one, fat real glass and hoarding other tasters in the corner. I’m nothing if not classy.
No one said E was for Desperate
Erika is effervescently single right now and is loving every minute of it. But up for most new things, she likes to date even if it only adds a new friend to her already overflowing collection. One of said friends heard from her mom of an eligible bachelor without children or bad music tastes. Score.
Did they mention that he was young? Successful? Without offensive piercings or Mad Cow?
They put the pressure on. What did she think? Maybe give him a shot?
Sounds like a winner. Until someone finally disclosed that this great guy only had a few years to live, which is not reason to disqualify, but then they confessed that they really just wanted to get him married off before he died.
Erika and I will be going out solo for a little while longer.
Narcissus
I started talking to a guy on the bar crawl who was wearing a woman’s nametag:
Yes, he’s that guy: I’m totally celebrating. I just signed a book deal for 100 grand! I’m the only one who knows anything about this topic in like the freakin’ universe. So I go in, and like totally dictate the terms to these guys, and basically blow them away.
Which is what I am wishing I could do to myself at this very moment. He keeps talking while I wonder if the cats are having more fun licking themselves or possibly choking on clumps of their own hair.
Yes, this guy gets even better: DC’s ok. I live in Memphis. But I pretty much have traveled to every major American city.
(Watch the male Chia head! Give it beer and it grows!)
I’m pretty sure at this point Erika slinked off with a tall tale about needing to volunteer for Unicef or reapply her leprosy cream or some other awesome excuse.
Kris, in blatant attempt to top his ridiculousness: I haven’t traveled much in the Americas. Most of my time has been spent touring the cities of Europe. On my bedazzled llama.
Robotic, socially-neutered male continues without a beat: Well, I actually own property in most American cities . . .
Insert Kris attempting to lick self or fake a hairball. Ugh. Almost makes you want to get engaged to Michael Bolton.
March 11, 2006
Today is my blogaversary. Hard to believe that for 365 days I have been writing for, obsessing about, forcing friends and their grandmas to read, and getting frustrated about those who just don't get this blog.I'm not entirely sure whether or not it's evident, but I don't take this site at all lightly. She is not unlike the child that I never want to have. I worry about whether or not she will be accepted by others and try to help her make friends in her new community. I dress her up so she looks presentable when she leaves the house. I spend time nurturing her content and trying to find new ways to grow and innovate. She is, after all, the most intimate reflection of me.
And I have loved every minute of it. Few things give me as much joy as putting out a new post and seeing what all of you have to say about it. Many times you've been through something similar or just want to weigh in. Sometimes you agree, sometimes you don't. Sometimes you've had a bottle of wine and a bag of Baked Cheetos and you are just dropping in to say hello.
I love that. Rest assured, I read each and every comment. Many times more than once. Many times more than twice.
In reading this, it strikes me that this might seem exceedingly lame. It is, after all, a BLOG, a site most people think of as a stream of consciousness journal for the narcissist. But I consider this to be my public record. A place where I can put down the oddest of thoughts with relatively little judgment. The haven in which I expose my quirks (read: a preoccupation with bad/glorious puns, an obsession with putting male actors under my bed and those two hairballs with insect names - oh, and that clearly diagnosable and most unfortunate social phobia of playing softball).
The personal ties that have grown out of this collection of thoughts exceed every expectation. I didn't know when I began that a glorious network of like-minded folks existed worldwide. It was entirely unexpected that I could establish and maintain an online connection with so many of you, or ever meet fellow bloggers for a drink or a weekend. As is the fact that with odd consistency it seems as if these friendships began on the playground. These bonds are an unanticipated and beautiful reward.
I am saddened that in this year I have seen so many talented blogger friends shut down their sites (e.g., Megarita, it makes the baby Jesus cry). It makes me wonder how long I'll keep this up. Maybe Life will eventually take precedence, I'll max out on fodder, or you'll find another wino with whom to meet up for a drink.
Strangely, I remember the sad feeling I had in grad school when looking inside the case of a Howard Jones' Greatest Hits CD. Twenty years ago, the writer made the prediction that if the first ten years were any indication of the future, the artist would be making another compilation CD in the next decade (clearly, it wasn't to be; I'm pretty sure Howard is set to star on the next Surreal Life).
So I will make no predictions about what the future will hold. But I sure would love to be around here for another year.
By the way, I have no idea who that child is. But she looks as if she might enjoy reading blogs.
March 8, 2006
I have spent the last two weekends with great girl friends. (Nay, gal pals. The word “girlfriend” seems to imply that we plant hyacinth together and share recs for calcium supplements.) These are down-to-earth, take-life-by-the-chops, put-up-with-my-antics gal pals. This isn’t like me. I don’t do large groups of people for extended periods of time. Particularly new people. I have been known to dart to the bathroom for some damn alone time, already or to volunteer to be the one to run out for ice/formula/paper clips just so I can hear myself think. I recall an ill-fated large gal pal excursion to the beach; you know the type, the one where you pack your entire sorority and the Keebler elves into a waterfront shack to keep costs in the cents. I thought I would die. Girls here. Girls there. Jo was jealous of the attention Meg was getting; Amy followed Beth around much to the chagrin of Marmee. Too. much. togetherness. makes me. feel smothered.
Female friends have also burned me in the past. I put more time into that friendship with stupid Maureen McCheatsalot* than I did into 8th grade math, and when I saw her walking down the hill holding hands with my beau, I was suddenly Molly Ringwald without the happy ending. Forget the more routine female failures: the acquaintances you have met 18 times but they just can’t place the face, the friends who sabotage your growth in insidious ways virtually beyond detection, the ones who have been around for years but have never found even minutes to ask a question about YOU.
And so it was refreshing to like waking up in the morning to the sounds of the girls giggling about the events of the night before. It’s rewarding to sit monumentside in the Sentra with your hangover and your hazards on to assist a good friend following her photography passion. To share your skinny clothes with a friend you know will love them until you fit into them again. To scare a new friend into thinking the human head jokes might actually be true.
I enjoyed every moment of the missed calls, Thai food, Bug beckoning, Cricket’s self-pimping, pizza, laughter, corner store runs, hubcap purchases, chunky milk, delayed elevators, Injera as a facial, shared towels, moisturizing your situation, foot shredding, intimidating tripods, failed air mattresses, and even the hugs goodbye. I nearly wept upon finding the remains of the vanilla vodka in the freezer.
Maybe I’m not so bad with women after all.
* Names have been changed to protect the identities of dim high school friends who stole boyfriends of this blogger.
I have a post waiting in the wings (like my men), but I would love to hear what you think about the mad scientist's new idea.
March 5, 2006
Hair and Hygiene
Tim Burton, I think it’s considered cool to shower prior to attending awards shows, particularly one in which your beautiful wife is walking in on your arm. I don’t want to speak for every woman, but last I checked my gender preferred when beaus didn’t smell of Gorgonzola and guinea pig cage.
Come Again?
“Please welcome Keanu Reeves, star of Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, Speed, several Matrices, and more recently, ABC’s In Need of Extreme Makeover: Career Edition!”
General Technical Notes
Best Song Awards and accompanying painful performances should be done in conjunction with the exceedingly lame technical honors, rumored to be awarded at 6 am at the Burbank Sleep Inn breakfast buffet. (Although I very much enjoyed Dolly Parton’s rendition of “It’s Hard Out Here For a Pimp.”)
FTLOG, does it not say clearly on page 42 of the Oscar Nominee Handbook that ONE SHALL NOT CLAP FOR ONESELF WHEN ONE’S NAME IS BEING READ FOR ONE’S AWARD?
I read everyone on my blogroll, made a tuna noodle casserole, and lost two pounds during the Honorary Oscar presentation.
Where was I?
Was William Hurt just nominated at like 4:30 today?
Was there a seat filler strike I didn’t know about?
When did J. Lo and John Leguizamo start dating?
On Giving Thanks
Appreciative Mentions Made During Acceptance Speeches: the Academy (78%); Dr. 90210 (49%); Jessica Alba (33%); Peyote (12%); God (1.3%).
I find few things more wonderful on Oscar night than the enthusiasm of true industry geeks who have likely given fewer speeches than I. They come clad in sequins and get blow outs and bring their kids as dates and when they win, some part of them just can’t believe this is happening and Nicholson is in the front row! And with complete grace, they compose themselves and excitedly thank all the people in their grade schools and the world who have made it possible for them to follow their passions. How. Incredibly. Cool.
On Jon Stewart
I have now purchased a new box just for you. It is waiting patiently under my bed. Next to Clooney’s.
Tim Burton, I think it’s considered cool to shower prior to attending awards shows, particularly one in which your beautiful wife is walking in on your arm. I don’t want to speak for every woman, but last I checked my gender preferred when beaus didn’t smell of Gorgonzola and guinea pig cage.
Come Again?
“Please welcome Keanu Reeves, star of Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, Speed, several Matrices, and more recently, ABC’s In Need of Extreme Makeover: Career Edition!”
General Technical Notes
Best Song Awards and accompanying painful performances should be done in conjunction with the exceedingly lame technical honors, rumored to be awarded at 6 am at the Burbank Sleep Inn breakfast buffet. (Although I very much enjoyed Dolly Parton’s rendition of “It’s Hard Out Here For a Pimp.”)
FTLOG, does it not say clearly on page 42 of the Oscar Nominee Handbook that ONE SHALL NOT CLAP FOR ONESELF WHEN ONE’S NAME IS BEING READ FOR ONE’S AWARD?
I read everyone on my blogroll, made a tuna noodle casserole, and lost two pounds during the Honorary Oscar presentation.
Where was I?
Was William Hurt just nominated at like 4:30 today?
Was there a seat filler strike I didn’t know about?
When did J. Lo and John Leguizamo start dating?
On Giving Thanks
Appreciative Mentions Made During Acceptance Speeches: the Academy (78%); Dr. 90210 (49%); Jessica Alba (33%); Peyote (12%); God (1.3%).
I find few things more wonderful on Oscar night than the enthusiasm of true industry geeks who have likely given fewer speeches than I. They come clad in sequins and get blow outs and bring their kids as dates and when they win, some part of them just can’t believe this is happening and Nicholson is in the front row! And with complete grace, they compose themselves and excitedly thank all the people in their grade schools and the world who have made it possible for them to follow their passions. How. Incredibly. Cool.
On Jon Stewart
I have now purchased a new box just for you. It is waiting patiently under my bed. Next to Clooney’s.
Labels: Men I'd like to keep in a box under my bed, Tipsy Blogging an Awards Show
March 3, 2006
I’m learning quickly. I think it helps if you ensure that she has something to eat before you pick her up from the airport, considering that she had already had three glasses of God’s nectar prior to getting into my Sentra (for which I bought new hubcaps yesterday, simply because the thought of any guest actually seeing the one black eye on both sides of my vehicle made the part of me that is my mother cringe.)
A splash of top-shelf margarita and some Will-Farrell-doing-Harry-Carrey impersonations cannot hurt.
Allow Cricket to perform her slightly uncomfortable sexual antics by rolling around on the carpet, exposing her white tummy and constant need for attention.
Turn off the heat in the bedroom, allowing the temp to plummet to a Jurgen-comfortable 61 degrees.
Did I mention the equal parts Absolut Vanil and fully-caffeinated Diet Coke thing? That works too.
Fight her and win for sleeping on the couch rights, but only after the two of you verbally assault innocent and sober fellow blogger Maliavale via cell.
Leave her nestled in the king bed as you attempt to find clothes that you didn’t already wear this week.
Rinse. Lather. And prepare to repeat.
A splash of top-shelf margarita and some Will-Farrell-doing-Harry-Carrey impersonations cannot hurt.
Allow Cricket to perform her slightly uncomfortable sexual antics by rolling around on the carpet, exposing her white tummy and constant need for attention.
Turn off the heat in the bedroom, allowing the temp to plummet to a Jurgen-comfortable 61 degrees.
Did I mention the equal parts Absolut Vanil and fully-caffeinated Diet Coke thing? That works too.
Fight her and win for sleeping on the couch rights, but only after the two of you verbally assault innocent and sober fellow blogger Maliavale via cell.
Leave her nestled in the king bed as you attempt to find clothes that you didn’t already wear this week.
Rinse. Lather. And prepare to repeat.
March 1, 2006
The infamous and ever-cute Jurgen comes this weekend to visit. I fear several things, but here are my top three:1) that Bug will sit (and rotate with claws out) on her head at 6 am, much like he did to his mama earlier this morning before I put him in the microwave,
2) Jurgen finding the human heads “freaky” or “gross” or “let me out of here, now!” and not the living art I know them to be,
3) that she will attempt to escape from the box under my bed, which formerly housed both Jorge and Peter (but not at the same time.)
If we can hold our heads up long enough to be clever, we plan to post pics of hair braiding and wine consumption activities.
Labels: Friends
