Because I couldn't let the last post of the year

Be about Mel Gibson's BJ demands, I thought I'd show you what Beau was able to crank out in mere hours. I wish I had a tenth of his talent.

 

 

He does portraits (pet and human) too. At reasonable prices. Hit me up in the comments if you're interested.

I hope your holidays are wonderful, and I'll be back in '11, full of stories about Christmas dinner with Grandma (always a treat), New Year's Eve, and the inevitable torture at the gym that will follow my insane gluttony this season (I had two cinnamon rolls for dinner last night--but they were small, so they only count as one, right?).

Merry Merry, Happy Happy, and All Good Things to You!

But FIRST...

I'll say right here that Mel Gibson's racist, misogynist, threatening remarks are NOT funny in context. He's got a biiiiig problem. He needs therapy. He needs rehab. Hell, he needs a muzzle and an exorcism.

But there's one theme that continues through those rants that becomes remarkably funny: his perpetual obsession with being blown. This obsession culminates in two unforgettable quotes (and many more variations on this theme):

1. But FIRST... you will blow me!
2. But I deserve to be blown first!

About a month ago, Beau and I decided to watch RANSOM. Crazy Gibson aside, it's a pretty good movie.

And Beau and I came up with a way to make it even better.

We discovered that you can insert But FIRST... you will blow me! after pretty much any of Mel's lines in the movie. And, for some reason, this game does not get old. You can do it for two hours and it's still funny.

GIVE ME BACK MY SON! BUT FIRST... YOU WILL BLOW ME!

I had a dream

In the dream, I was in crazy-good shape thanks to my recent gym and pedometer efforts.

Then I woke up.

Sigh. 

Wookies need not apply

I glanced through the treatments available at a local spa and chuckled when I got to the cost breakouts for waxing procedures:

• Brows - $15
• Underarm - $25
• Brazilian Bikini $60 and up
• French - $50
• Bikini $30
• Full Leg $90
• Half Leg $45
• Men's Back   $50 and up
• Men's Chest   $50 and up

*Special circumstances may incur extra charges.

As you might have guessed, it's that last bit that piqued my curiosity. 

What constitutes a special circumstance? And can they tell just by looking at you when you walk in the door? How mortifying it would be to disrobe and hear Oh my God. I'm gonna have to charge you extra for this!

Or... is a special circumstance more of a bio-hazard situation? 

My mind reels!

 

Teen *Effing* Mom

I'll admit I've never watched this MTV "staple." First of all, it just sounds depressing. Who wants to watch teen parents saddled with responsibilities for which they're not ready?

Second of all, why is MTV glorifying teenage pregnancy? The show has been a ratings supernova for the channel, so I'm sure their reps have a big line of bullshit ready, saying that the show is a cautionary tale.

And it should be.

Except now I hear that little teenage famewhores everywhere are getting knocked up on purpose in an effort to get on the show.

Great.

So if impressionable youngsters are so eager to emulate what they see on MTV, I've got some programming ideas/titles for the channel:

• I'm a High School Graduate!
• I Use Birth Control!
• I Keep My Knees Together!
• I'm Going to College!
• I'm Nice to My Parents!
• My 16th Birthday Party Cost Less Than the GNP of Sweden!

Grrrrr.

Smilin' like the cat who ate the canary

Beau will probably be irritated that I'm posting this, but he can get his own blog and post stupid things  about me if it really upsets him (she typed, knowing full well that he won't).

Last Christmas, I paid the adoption fees for a kitten for Beau (he already had a cat, but that one doesn't like me, so I decided to get him one that would).

So now, when I'm out and about, he sends me pictures of what she's doing. They always make me laugh.

 

 

 

Hazy watches TV with her stuffed pet squirrel.

Hazy looks for a good deal on a used car in the Post.

... in a tree!

It's not Christmas until you've heard this!!

I'm about to betray my own kind

But if you ever hear I was an English major in college... in casual conversation, you should probably either walk away or tune out the rest of the chat as best you can. Ex English majors who did not get teaching, reading, or writing jobs (and even some who did) can be absolutely insufferable.

Not only will they TELL you they were English majors, they'll bend over backwards to PROVE it to you (whether you care or not). And they will likely do it in the most longwinded and boring manner possible.

I'll let you in on another secret, we're also very likely to go into the classics section in the bookstore so that we can stand there, smile to ourselves, and think to I read that one and that one and that one! We can do it for hours, so tread lightly in that section. :)

I think it's kind of an ego thing. We don't major in English to get the million-dollar jobs. We do it because we like to read. And, in lieu of the fat wallet, I guess we're driven to show off our fat brains.

So beware of English majors at cocktail parties. Don't say I didn't warn you!

Holiday party update

The office holiday party was on Friday night.

It was lots of fun. And, because I was sober that night (I didn't want to leave my car there overnight), I got quite a show.

But I'm not writing to dish about that.

I'm writing to express how proud I am that nobody wore the Urban Outfitters fancy-underpants ensemble to the party!

There was one ice-skater dress (I honestly don't even think that those two worked for the company), but I'll let it go in the spirit of gratefulness. :)

My Christmas gift to Dad

My grandparents are puritanical teetotalers.

And they think everyone else should be too. 

Wine with Thanksgiving dinner? No thank you. I'm thankful for the fact that I don't NEED alcohol to enjoy a nice meal.

Wine on Christmas Eve? Blasphemy!  

A little champagne on New Year's Eve? Certainly not! 

You get the picture.
 
My dad and I, on the other hand, like to tip a glass every now and then. Grown-ass adults are allowed to do that, you know. 

I made the mistake of drinking a beer in front of Grandma and Grandpa once and they confronted Mom and Dad about my "problem." During this discussion, they let my dad know how disappointed they were that he taught me how to drink. (It couldn't have been any one of the thousands of kids I went to college with. Noooooo!)

So that's been the running joke over the years whenever Dad and I have a beer together. Here's to the day you taught me how to drink, Dad!

This year, as I was writing a Christmas card to my folks (I found one with a candy-cane martini on the front), I wrote the following inside:


Merry Christmas! Boy do I have a Christmas gift for you, Dad. I unearthed an old memory this year. On Grandma's and Grandpa's 40th anniversary, you served them pink champagne. Grandma told me that it "tasted like soda pop" and she might have even given me a sip. 

In other words...
GRANDMA TAUGHT ME HOW TO DRINK!!!

Methinks the holidays will be joyous!

How many?

Last night on my way home, there was an older fella in a super-expensive Mercedes who was all over the road. Dude, just because you own an expensive car doesn't mean you own the road. Anyway, he ended up behind me and he was one tailgatin' mo-fo.

I didn't hit the brakes... I just let off of the gas a bit, which really pissed him off.

When another lane opened up, he was quick to whip around me, giving me a dirty look as he did so.

And when I looked at him, all I could think was What's wrong with the side of your head?

When he got ahead of me, all was answered.

He had vanity plates that--I shit you not--said 1 EAR.

The horror!! The horror!!

So I went to the gym again.

And while I was on the track playing the butt-comparison game in my head (my butt's better than that one, that one's much better than mine, etc.--what else are you going to do on the track?), I noticed women starting to congregate in the aerobics area. One was there with her daughter. She was in her early 40s and she had on a Twilight sweatshirt that said Bite Me, Edward. Please. I wanted to smack her. I'm betting her daughter did too.

But the best part came after the class started. They warmed up to a classic piece of music. It was a mash-up, but (and may the good Lord strike me dead if I'm lying to you) one of the songs was the theme music from Halloween!

I heard on NPR

(Side note: isn't it annoying when people announce that they heard something on NPR? You know they're just bragging about the fact that they listen to NPR. But I digress.)

Anyway, I heard on NPR that Mark Twain smoked 20 to 30 cigars a day. I don't even know how that's possible when you factor in eating and sleeping, but he did (is NPR gonna lie about Mark Twain? I don't think so).

The great writers always seem to have unhealthy vices. Look at F. Scott Fitzgerald. He drank 20 to 30 glasses of scotch each day. (Ok, maybe not that much, but I'm probably close, considering the fact that he managed to drink himself to death by the age of 44 [before he finished The Last Tycoon, the beginning of which leads me to believe it could have surpassed even Gatsby]. But, again, I digress.)

I began to wonder what kind of unhealthy vices I could cultivate to enhance my writing skills (that's how it works, right?). I tallied up my unhealthier activities and came up with the joy I get from eating shredded cheese out of the pouch in front of the open fridge and the effortlessness with which I can sleep for 12 hours at a time.

That probably won't turn me into a Twain or a Fitzgerald, but it might make me a better blogger. Plus, I'll need something to do indoors when my cheese-eating, sedentary lifestyle makes it so that I can't make it out of the house without the jaws of life and a flatbed truck.

Never let it be said that I didn't suffer for my art. :)

Haiku of the day

To the Gap perfume
I unwittingly tried on:
O. M. G., you reek!

Don't forget...

I have Beau's permission to repeat this story (I think).

We all have a friend or two who has lived and aged... a little harder than the rest of us.

Last weekend, Beau stopped by an old friend's house for a visit. After the visit, on his way out, Beau saw a sign taped to the inside of the front door. It was a drawing of a smiley face with the message:

Don't Forget Your Teeth!

Beau had to ask about it (I'd like to meet the person who could walk by that sign without asking).

The friend's wife piped up and said "Oh, that's mine. My front two teeth are false. One day, I went to the store and forgot my teeth and my bra and I didn't brush my hair. And I ran into my boss! So now I have that sign to remind me not to forget my teeth."

Now, I've walked out the door and forgotten my keys or mascara or (very rarely, but I'll admit to it) deodorant. But TEETH? How could you forget your teeth? How could you forget your bra? What must her boss have thought? Yikes.

But, nonetheless, it's a good life lesson. Next time you're on your way out of the house, don't forget your teeth.

Your "reward"

On Sunday, I managed to drag it off of the couch and make it down to the gym (pauses, flushes with pride, pats self on back, resumes typing).

There's a little running track upstairs that overlooks the pool and circles around a little aerobics area.

While I was on the track (I would say that I was running, but we both know that would be a lie. I was speed walking; running's bad for the joints anyway, right?), there was a class going on. It looked medieval. There were step stools; weights; some sort of poles; reeeeeeally bad music; and--worst of all--a peppy, perky, skinny little sadist leading the bunch.

With every lap, I saw a new method of torture. Flushed faces. Looks of desperation. The smell of fear (or maybe that's just the sweat that they kept having to mop up from the floor).

Toward the end of my 40-minute trot, I heard one of the girls in the back of the class screech Ouch! This sucks! I wanted to hug her (but she was all sweaty. And she was a stranger).

And then the perky sadist said THIS: Of course, you're going to feel a little pain. But that's your reward!

WHUCK?

Pain is a byproduct of exercise, not the reward. WTF is wrong with her?

Pain is a reward. Humph! Screw that. My reward was the heaping bowlful of mac 'n cheese I wolfed down when I got home.

Spotted!

This gentleman, sporting flowing mullet, varicose veins, gloves, and shorts in December in Denver at Target.

And you thought this only happened at Walmart.

Of course, it's pathetic

But I'm wondering HOW pathetic it is that:

• I'm not that excited about the gym membership
• The ideas of being healthier and having a cuter butt are nice... 

BUT:

• The thought buying new sweatpants is what makes me happiest about the whole arrangement

Need a gift for someone special?

Fellas, buy the women in your life a Pink Stinger. It's a tampon-shaped taser. I shit you not.

It shoots out cottony tampon-like tasers that deliver 50,000 volts from 7 to 10 feet away (again, I shit you not). Just be sure your lady doesn't mistake one for the other. Yikes.

Ladies, I haven't forgotten you. If you're just plain stumped about what to get for the gentleman in your life, eschew the cashmere socks and electric razors. Just buy him a Lexus!

I loathe these commercials.

Joy to the world, mon

I did a little holiday shopping over the weekend (I did very little holiday buying; the very worst of 80s fashions are back. Puffy sleeves, extreme ruching, pink and teal satin with black-lace overlay--all in one outfit! And I could swear I saw a hint of acid-wash).

The one thing that was ubiquitous was really shitty Christmas music.

Do we need a reggae version of Joy to the World? Why must Manheim Steamroller crash through each holiday classic like Godzilla on a three-day bender? I also love the somewhat disturbing R&B versions; why not get a little sticky, sweet, and sweaty this holiday season? (Baby, you know it's Christmas.... awwwww yeah. You know what I want under that tree. Awwwww yeah. Tied up with a big red bow. Just waitin' for me. Awwwwww yeah.)

And don't even get me started on the ear-bloodying tones of Miss Jessica Simpson. I have a sneaking suspicion that she has a deal with any department store that carries her "shoes", "jeans", "jewelry", or "purses". You carry her lines? Her bubble-gum encrusted holiday tunes get heavy rotation. (Side note: I dare anybody to wear the Jessica Simpson line without looking like a hooker. I really don't think it's possible.)

I guess I'm just a sucker for the classics. The Rat Pack, the Charlie Brown Christmas album (totally worth it if you don't have it), and the Johnny Mathis Christmas album. They're all golden in my book.

But I do have a guilty pleasure or two (as anybody who grew up in the 80s does)...

Freelance

In my spare time--when I'm not creating cardboard-pizza masterpieces in my oven or listening to the various ways Beau would kill me if I was a zombie--I'm editing someone's grandpa's memoirs.

It's pretty interesting. He was an Air Force pilot during the war, much like my grandpa was.

HOWEVER...

If my grandpa wrote his memoirs, I doubt he'd go into such vivid detail describing grandma's perky little tits.

[shudder]

I am a true gourmet

That's why the frozen pizza at my house is legendary. (I can do wonders with cold cereal and a spoon too, but I digress.)

Last night there was nothing on TV (except for the premiere of Skating With the Stars, and, despite my enormous crush on Johnny Mosley, I opted out). But I found Beautiful Girls On-Demand, and I bounded into the kitchen for some culinary accompaniment.

Ah, Freschetta, come to mama and ease the pain.

I took off the plastic wrap, popped it into the oven, set the timer, and I was on my way to cheesy, pepperoni-ey goodness.

And then, three minutes before the timer was set to go off, I asked myself one heart-sinking question:

Did you remember to remove the cardboard from beneath the pizza before you put it into the oven?

DAMMIT! DAMMIT! DAMMIT! DAMMIT! DAMMIT! DAMMIT!

Holiday store-window displays

Window shoppers love the holiday season (Notice how I didn't cap "holiday"? Feel free to follow suit). All of those lovely store windows enticing you to come in and see all of the treats inside!

Merrrrrry Christmas! Ho! Ho! Ho!

I hate to break it to you

But I am human.

And, despite my editorial profession, it's entirely possible that I might make a grammatical mistake here and there on this blog.

I usually go back and correct them when I see them.

But now I think I'll leave them in because it seems to give some of you out there such a charge when you notice that I've made a mistake. :)

Need a pick-me-up?

I highly recommend the mirror in the dressing room at Gap Body.

It's a skinny mirror at the end of a perfectly lit hallway.

Last night, I wandered down there to get a better look at a sweater I'd tried on. As I walked toward my reflection, it was a whole new experience. I looked good. Helloooooo, gorgeous!

My self-esteem has taken a few hits lately, so the skinny mirror made a huge (or tiny, depending on how you look at it) impression on me. I could hardly tear myself away. I started to think that Narcissus got a bad rap!

Alas, I managed turn my back on my thinner, perfectly lit reflection and walk back out into the world of regular mirrors and fluorescent lighting.

But boy was that fun. Sigh.

Would that it were the whole world was one big skinny mirror.

Fellas, we can tell

When you're looking at our boobs, we can tell.

Even when you think you're being sneaky about it, we can still tell.

And when you're not sneaky about it, we can really tell. A couple of you out don't even try to hide it. A few months ago, a peer of mine had a conversation with my crossed arms (guess what they were crossed over?) for twenty minutes. Never once looked up.

Really, dude?

This morning, Beau dropped an article on my desk (he got it from the Internet, so it MUST be true). It states that when men stare at women's breasts, they're improving their cardiovascular systems, lowering blood pressure, and adding years to their lives!

My investigatory bent got the best of me, and, alas, I had to burst his bubble.

Again, fellas, we can tell. :)

Driving a muscle car through the desert is a lot like...

having erectile dysfunction, apparently.

The new Viagra commercial is a little silly.

A handsome man in (I'd say) his mid- to late 50s is tooling through the desert in a gorgeous 1969 Camaro.

Suddenly, the car starts to overheat, and it can't perform like it should (it's at this point that you're supposed to realize that the car is actually a penis). But as "a man who knows how to take care of things," the guy pulls over to a conveniently placed garage. He walks past the old coot in the garage to the convenience store, where he buys spring water. This "man who knows how to take care of things" salutes old coot, gets under the hood, pours the water in, and is good to go [FYI: When a car overheats like that, spring water ain't the answer, folks].

And then, to drive home the car-is-penis message, Camaro guy drives into a quiet suburb and pulls his "muscle car" in to "the garage" with ease.

Because the old train-through-the-tunnel trick was just too tacky?

I guess it's better than Viva Viagra, but just barely.

Over the weekend

My mom (who rocks and is better than all y'all's moms put together--sorry, the truth hurts) bought me a really cute wool winter hat. It's warm, but it won't smush my hair. And it goes with everything. And it's got little wool flowers on the side.

The only downside to this adorable hat is that I'm terribly allergic to wool. The second it touches my skin, it's an itch-marathon.

I look cute in the hat; I look considerably less cute in the hat when I'm constantly scratching my forehead where the hat doesn't have a hair buffer.

I mentioned this to Mom and she said that I could just sew a little piece of fabric in there to serve as a buffer.

The thought of finding fabric AND a needle and thread (ugh, threading the needle alone!) disheartened me a bit.

Then--EUREKA--the old light bulb went off!

But Mom frowned at the idea of sticking a pantyliner in there, so I guess it's back to the drawing board.

Sigh.

Overheard

Inane, moronic, mind-numbing Monday-morning kitchen chit-chat:

Fella 1: How are you?

Fella 2: Fine.

F1: Well, it's Monday, if that means anything. 

F2: Hey, we're still alive, right?

F1: Yeah. 

WTF is the point of an exchange like this?

It made me want to throw a hammer through a plate-glass window.

I'm so damn crabby today.

What ever it is, I don't want one

I love the Cake Wrecks blog. Makes me laugh out loud (and, let's face it, it makes me want cake).

This stopped me in my tracks.

I have no idea what a PEROID is (other than an egregious misspelling), but this cake is so wrong on so many levels.

Theme jewelry

Never been a big fan. So I don't have a tennis bracelet or a journey pendant or one of those big, diamond-encrusted circle necklaces in my bejeweled repertoire. Why get something that everyone else has?

[I also LOVE the fact that they've found a way to market brown diamonds: Chocolate Diamonds! But I digress.]

The worst of the bunch has to be the Jane Seymour Open Hearts Collection.

The sentiment behind it (her late mother told her to always leave her heart open and that love would find its way in) is sweet, but the execution is dreadful.

To me, it looks like a pair of boobs on top of a big butt.

Today's shoes

My beloved friend Q had a great idea. I am a shoe and coat addict. (The first step is admitting it, right?) DSW loooooves it when I pull into the parking lot. I'm a sure thing; I never leave without shoes.

Beau lovingly calls me Imelda (and then he runs like hell). 

So why not blog about the shoes I'm wearing? I blog about dumber things, right?

Today's shoes: Teal-Gray and Grape Corduroy Argyle
Rocket Dog Sneakers With Orange Accents.

(BTW: that's the first time I've correctly typed Corduroy without getting dinged by spell check)

Forgive the bad photography; this was a tough angle to get.

I love these shoes. Getting to wear them is a sure sign that fall has arrived. They're comfortable without looking like a chunky running shoe, and they're whimsical without being obnoxious. And because the teal-gray color doesn't really match anything, it matches everything (this is my theory for purses too). The orange heart eyelet makes me happy every time I tie my shoes. Who could ask for anything more?

20 things I'd tell my 13-year-old self

1. You are not fat. You will look back at these days and curse yourself for thinking that you were fat.
2. The better you think your hair looks now will be in direct proportion to how ridiculous that style looks 20 years later.
3. Your T-shirts don't really need to be XXL. 
4. Your parents know so much more than you give them credit for. 
5. It's ok that that boy doesn't like you back. He grows up to have political leanings and opinions that are diametrically opposed to yours. It never would have worked out. 
6. You will never get any better at math, and you will never use algebra in real life.
7. Some of the friends you have now will be with you your whole life. 
8. Enjoy those guilt-free double-doozie cookies and full-sugar cokes while you can. 
9. At some point, you will understand and actually appreciate the reason why your parents never bought you that ridiculously expensive handbag. 
10. That independent streak of yours will keep you in good stead.
11. Stop worrying about what other people think of you; they're much too busy worrying about what other people think of them to bother with you.
12. Be patient; boys will grow to be taller than you are. 
13. That frizzy hair you have now is actually curly; you will learn how to style it eventually. 
14. That dream you had about a computer that spits out answers when you type in questions actually comes true. It's called Google. 
15. It's ok to be a bookworm; in fact, you'll make a career out of it. 
16. Contrary to popular belief, it's actually better to be different than it is to be like everyone else. 
17. Your predictions for where you'd be and what you'd be doing in the year 2000 at the age of 26 were waaaaaaay off. 
18. You think Grandma treats you like a four-year-old now? Wait until you're 37. (She actually gives you a BATHROOM SCALE for Christmas '08).
19. Being nerdy will be a badge of honor (of sorts) later on.
20. Get used to it now; life will always be a little bit like Junior High.

I love this book

Amazon.com kept suggesting The Hunger Games to me and I kept clicking not interested. It's young-adult fiction. And I got burned on those silly vampire books. More YA fiction? No thank you. Get the point, Amazon. Sheesh.

[Side note: Those Twilight books were so egregiously awful. I kept reading the series in case it got better. It. Never. Did.]

Fool me once, YA fiction...

But Amazon finally wore me down. Fine, I'll order it. But don't expect me to like it.

Well, kiss my grits, it's good. Really good. It's inventive and creative and compelling.

And there's no sign of that dumbass lovelorn vampire or his bitchy virginal counterpart!

Good work, Amazon. Please send me the next two books in the series.

Are you out of bed? Are you out of the house?

Then put on some pants!

If sweatpants tell the world you've completely given up, then wearing pajamas in public must broadcast the fact that you're dead inside.

Don't get me wrong. I love pajama pants. I probably own more pairs of pajama pants than I do actual pants (just ask Beau; it's ubersexy when I wear a pair of droopy XL pjs around the house). But when did fuzzy fleece pants with pink bunnies on them become acceptable daywear?

They're not. Not when you're at the supermarket or the DMV.

If you are over the age of five, show some respect for yourself and the people who raised you, and put on some pants before you leave the house. Why is that such an insurmountable task?

If you cannot be trusted to put on real pants, we can't trust you not to violate other laws of society. Pretty soon, men will be shirtless and wearing cutoffs at Starbucks. Women of all ages and sizes will wear camel toe-glorifying hotpants! Innocent children will don mullets!

If it's just that hard to get dressed and face the day, stay home. It's ok. I'll write your boss a note.

The buying boycott is over

I cheated twice. Kind of.

1. Beau gave me a watercolor (that he'd whipped out in an hour; I couldn't produce anything similar even if I had 100 hours). I bought a $6.99 frame to protect it. 
2. On the last day of Boycott Month (Saturday) I bought a cookie-recipe magazine, but I justified it because I was making cookies for the United Way bake sale that happens today at work.

I felt a little bad, but I feel better coming clean. Still, spending less than $20 bucks on myself for a month is pretty good. Oh, and I got some Christmas shopping done to boot!

I win!

Love has its limits

Last night, Beau and I watched the first episode of the new AMC show The Walking Dead (I swear that's not all we do with our spare time, it just sounds like it lately). It's a good show. Violent, but good. If you can get through the first five minutes, you can totally do it (maybe until the part with the horse, but I digress).

At one part in the show, a man is conflicted; his wife was stricken with the fever and has turned into a zombie. He has her in the crosshairs of his rifle, but he just can't bring himself to pull the trigger because she was the love of his life.

At that point, I turned to Beau and said In that situation, you'd totally pull the trigger and put me down, wouldn't y...

ABSOLUTELY.

[Ok, it's not as though I didn't expect him to say it, but it was the speed and ease with which his answer came that gave me pause.]

So you'd just shoot me in the face without a second thought? 

No, I'd probably shoot you in the back of the head. Or beat you to death with a baseball bat.*

I sat there for a minute, just soaking in the romance of that vision.

Then he said Come on! You're a zombie. You'd WANT me to do it. You'd do the same thing to me. 

Well, now I would.

Sigh. Note to self: No more If We Were Zombies discussions with Beau.

*This violence is 100% zombie-situational. Beau would NEVER lay a hand on me in anger in a non-zombie situation.

Overheard

Woman 1: Who waxes your eyebrows? 

Woman 2: (Unintelligible salon name). Why?

Woman 1: Because I noticed you haven't gotten them done lately.


Wow and ouch! Wowch! 

Haiku of the Day

Why do elections
Bring out hate and bigotry
And yet no real change?

Inane anxiety of the day

When I'm at a restaurant with friends (or anybody, really) and there are chips and dip/salsa to be had, I experience immediate anxiety.

I love savory snacks. I don't allow myself to have chips at home because I'll eat them all in one sitting and gain 40 pounds before you can say Tostitos!

So when they're on a table in front of me, I'm really happy to see them. And I have to be very conscious of how many I'm eating and how fast I'm eating them and that I'm not elbowing others out of the way to get to them.

It's a crunchy blue-corn tightrope, friends. 

And no matter how conservative I am in my chip-eating, I'm always worried that folks will joke about that insane chip woman as they drive home from dinner.

And if I die before I wake

DO NOT let anybody bury me under this!

(I shit you not; it's a Hello Kitty headstone)

I voted. Did you?

I voted last week. And, as usual, the polling place was run by senior citizens. They were all very nice, except for the one who chastised me, saying It's Very Important to Vote. (Duh. Why do you think I'm here?).

My voting experience this year reminded me of one I had about 10 years ago. It reminded me that hormones are hormones, no matter the age of the body they're coursing through.

The polling place was very quiet, and as I filled out my name and address on a card, I overheard two elderly women remarking on the gentleman across the room:

Mmmm! Mmmm! Mildred, you are right. He looks sooooo good when he has his leg on.

Mirror, mirror on the wall

What's the unsexiest Halloween costume of them all?

Mine.

You can go sexy or you can go creepy on Halloween, and I opt for creepy (I went as Sarah Palin two years ago... I know creepy).

This year, I decided to face my fears and go as the joke that folks make about me anyway.

Today is the company Halloween party. I'm going as a crazy cat lady.

To clarify, I only have TWO cats. But if you're a woman over the age of 28 who lives alone (regardless of whether you've purposely made that choice or own the house you live in), you get The Jokes. Which is fine. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. (I will say here that Beau has two cats and also lives alone and he gets no crazy cat man jokes. I don't even think there are crazy cat man jokes.)

Last night, I ran a pair of dark corduroy pants over the scratching-pole tower that my cats practically live on. Dark no more! I went to my Mom's and borrowed kittycat earrings (she's a former second-grade teacher who will always have things like kittycat earrings) and a stuffed cat. Then I found a kittycat T-shirt in my closet (go ahead and judge). And then, the piece de resistance, I shall cover my face, hands, and arms with these nail polish + fork "scratches":

Ooh-la-la! Beau is out of town this week. I hope I can fend off all of the sex-crazed men who will, no doubt, be driven mad with lust after they see my costume!

Sometimes a simple "cheer up!" doesn't do the trick

Today on Facebook, I saw a status that, while well-meaning, incensed me:

The seeds of depression CAN NOT take root in a grateful heart. DAILY, write down 5 things for which you are grateful.

I completely agree with her that we all need to be grateful for everything we have when so many in this world have so little. I also believe that if you aren't grateful for what you have, you will never have enough (which might explain the credit crisis in this country).

But she doesn't know shit about depression.

I do. I've gotten the help and the medication that I need, and I live a happy and fulfilling life as a result. But I suffered for years before that because of the stigma attached to something society deems a weakness that can be overcome by pulling one's self up by their bootstraps. 

Recently, a 23-year-old Denver Broncos player committed suicide in his home. From an outsider's perspective, he had the world by the tail. It came out later that he'd had problems with depression for years. He always had a smile for everybody and he never reached out to friends, family, or teammates. Depressives are very good at hiding their conditions.

Abe Lincoln had crippling bouts of melancholy.

Clinical Depression is a horrible, debilitating disease. It's a chemical imbalance, not simply a case of the mopes. The "seeds of depression" can take root in anyone (and it tends to run in families). And when you're in such a deep, dark hole that it's a miracle you can get out of bed in the morning, having someone belittle your situation is unbearable.

Suggesting that depressed individuals are simply ungrateful and feeling sorry for themselves is insulting. And it's that kind of stigma that keeps people who need help from seeking it.

If you don't suffer from depression and you don't have any friends or family who suffer from it (that you know of), let that be one of the five things for which you are grateful today. And if you're going to speak out, do your research and have a little empathy or keep your mouth shut.

(Steps off of the soap box, promises to write silly posts about movies, work, and nacho cheese from here on out.)

Overheard

And I just turned to him and said "Screw that! I'm not going to any dry boyscout camp where you can't drink any beer!"

They're coming to get you, Barbara...

Have I mentioned that I loooove the scary-movie marathons in October?

I do believe I have.

On Saturday, Beau and I spent a lazy afternoon perusing the free scary movies On Demand.

I was excited to find the original black and white 1968 version of Night of the Living Dead. Eeeeee! If you haven't seen it, you must. It's a classic. I've seen it multiple times.

We had to pause the movie in the middle because dinner was ready (yep, I can cook AND watch a zombie movie--I'm a multitasker). As we were getting out plates and silverware, I started thinking aloud:

This would probably be a good place to be when the zombies come. They'd never find the crawlspace. Though we'd have to cover this kitchen window and the three windows in the living room. These windows are so big! The doors are strong though. But we'd have to find large pieces of wood. Would the closet doors upstairs work? Probably, but where would we get nails long enough to secure them? I have a hammer, but only itty-bitty nails. I wonder if we could improvise with...

And then Beau stopped me and reminded me that Night of the Living Dead is a movie and not an educational film on how to survive a zombie attack.

Sigh. Buzzkill.

If you're selling lovely red fused glass items on Etsy.com

you do yourself a disservice by giving them names like:

Bloodsoaked
Crime Scene
Blood Spatter

Please take the poll on the right hand side of the page

Pretty, pretty please.

Duff and I need to know if this is funny or not.

Clever, clever Beau

Usually in the evenings, Beau and I will text back and forth and maybe send a picture or two (not those kinds of pictures, Favre).

I got this one the other night and it made me smile because:

1. I love wordplay
2. I adore Disney movies about singing animals

A RITZ 'O CAT! 

I stand by my theory

that nobody's ever met the love of their life at a Chipotle.

It's impossible to be sexy or alluring while you're eating a three-pound burrito.

I'm a giant hypocrite

I rail against sexy Halloween costumes, but I really like this one. 

Granted, her thighs are thinner than ACTUAL Tootsie Rolls. But my hair is better. And it's the color of ACTUAL Tootsie Rolls (which I've decided is somehow superior, though I don't know why, really). And I might fill out the dress just a tad differently. Oh, and I'll never buy it. 

But I'll concede that it IS cute. 

Whatever it is I think I see becomes a Tootsie Roll to me!

Ruh-roh

There wasn't much on TV last night, so I watched an episode or two of Scooby-Doo! Mystery Incorporated.

Go ahead and judge, BUT:

• I read all day long
• I listened to NPR on my drive home
• I made whole-wheat couscous/feta/green onion pancakes for dinner
• I watched a documentary later

I EARNED those Scooby-Doo mysteries, friends.

And they were as cute and fun as I remembered. With two exceptions:

1. The Mystery Mobile has GPS. WTF? 
2. Velma (who is voiced by Natalie from The Facts of Life, by the way) and Daphne continually bitch and moan about their relationships with Shaggy and Fred, respectively. 

Whuck?

This is prime time on the Cartoon Network. Do we need sexual tension in the Mystery Mobile? And, more to the point, can book-smart (albeit fashion-challenged) Velma do no better than a (let's face it) pothead who loves sandwiches and his dog more than he'll ever love her?

Daphne and Fred are utterly vapid; they're made for each other, but I wanted so much more for poor Velma.

Reminder

It's a reminder to myself as much as anyone else.

Try to be kind to others. You never know what their personal struggles might be.

Hello, Danny. Come and play with us.

Forever and ever and ever...

I love watching The Shining around Halloween. It's so deliciously creepy.

Some of the creepiest moments come from these two. They've got to be the scariest children in movie history (much scarier than the Children of the Corn and waaaay freakier than Linda Blair in The Exorcist). I double-dog dare you to find someone scarier.

YIKES!!

Those girls are so unnerving that you're not really surprised (or upset) to see what happens next.

EEEK!

But my favorite shot is the next one. I love it for the sheer HolyShitWhatTheHellWasThat? factor.

HolyShitWhatTheHellWasThat???

And what's so great about all of it is that none of this is really integral to the plot of the movie. It's just scary window dressing. Iloveitiloveitiloveit.

I know true Stephen King fans (and Stephen King himself) rail against this movie, saying it has nothing whatsoever to do with the book. I've read the book, and that's true. But I'll argue that both are scary masterpieces that stand on their own.

Wendy, give me the bat.

(And, yes, I'm dorky enough to have paused/taken pictures of my television during the movie.)

Guerilla campaign in the ladies' room

There's one of these on each stall door. 

I hasten to remind you that I (allegedly) work with adults, not children.

Buying boycott

(I realize this sounds a little silly on the heels of a post showing off the necklace I bought, but, for the record, I bought the necklace before the boycott.)

Each year, for one month, I don't buy things for myself. I can buy household items and food and experiences, but no books, no shoes, no clothes, no toaster jewelry, no ridiculous plastic dancing solar flowers for my desk, etc. None of that.

I do this for a few reasons:

• It saves me a nice bit of money (in time for the holidays).
• It helps me discern want from need.
• I have more money to donate to food banks as the weather turns cold. 
• It makes me feel less like a conspicuous consumer. 

My friend Duff (jokingly, I hope) admonished me, telling me I'm tanking the economy, but I don't think the discretionary spending habits of one editor are going to tip the scales one way or the other.

If I want something during boycott month, I might write it down to remember it for when the boycott is over. But, most of the time, what I wanted on October 8 sounds silly by November 8.

I challenge you to do the same this year. It's easier and more rewarding than you think!

Because I love the Beau toast story so much

I bought this necklace. It makes me smile and it made Beau smile (in an eye-rolling kind of way).

If you're selling "curvy" jeans to curvy girls...

Don't use a boy-hipped, stick-figure model to do it. The Gap has been doing that for years and it gets on my last nerve.

Also, don't call women who aren't curvy curvy. Someone in the media called Evangeline Lilly curvy.

THIS is not curvy. 

 

Also, on a semi-related note, if you're going to use the word voluptuous in a sentence, don't pronounce it VOLUMPTUOUS.  

Thus ends today's rant. 

Brutal in its desperation and honesty

When I walked in the office this morning, I saw this on the bulletin board by the door. :)

New business lingo

I like to share things like this with you so you can be in the know and impress your friends at parties.

Here goes:

My frustration is...
translates to
This is the reason I, personally, think you suck at your job.

If you slip this into a looooong, repetitive, whiny voicemail (similar to one I got this afternoon), it'll sound businesslike and uberbitchy all at once!

Go forth and use this with abandon!

I am here to help you.

Made my Saturday

Beau and I had lunch on Saturday at a pub near my house. We got both the regular menu and the brunch menu.

This one item at the bottom of the brunch menu caught my attention and made my afternoon.

(it says Blue Plate Special: An ice cold can of PBR and a plate of bacon)

Stalking that you can dance to

1. Jenny, Jenny, you're the girl for me. You don't know me, but you make me so happy.
2. I want you to want me. I need you to need me. I'd love you to love me. I'm beggin' you to beg me.
3. Every single day. Every word you say. Every game you play. Every night you stay, I'll be watching you.
4. If I was invisible, then I could just watch you in your room.
5. I will follow him. Follow him wherever he may go.
6. I'd rather see you dead, little girl, than to be with another man.
7. You belong to me. Tell her you were fooling. You don't even know her. Tell her that I love you.

The very charming messages above are brought to you by the following:

1. Tommy Tutone
2. Cheap Trick
3. The Police
4. Clay Aiken
5. Little Peggy March
6. The Beatles (I shit you not)
7. Carly Simon

Why does stalking sound so much better when it's set to music?

And what are YOU going to be for Halloween, little girl?

I'm going to be a sexy iPhone!
I'm going to be a sexy garbage collector!
I'm going to be a sexy condor!
I'm going to be a sexy rendering-plant worker!
I'm going to be a sexy retail sales associate!
I'm going to be a sexy telemarketer!
I'm going to be a sexy butcher!
I'm going to be a sexy rocket scientist!
I'm going to be a sexy blogger!
I'm going to be a sexy zookeeper!
I'm going to be a sexy lumberjack!
I'm going to be a sexy grocery bagger!
I'm going to be a sexy breakfast-burrito vendor!
I'm going to be a sexy recycler!
I'm going to be a sexy vegan!

(I think you can see where I'm going with this)

I'm going to be a sexy dockworker!
I'm going to be a sexy transmission specialist!
I'm going to be a sexy...

My argument against the thong

I could tell you that they're uncomfortable, they cause infection, and that men aren't foolish enough wear them, but you already know that.

This is my argument.

Sure, VPL (visible panty lines, for those of you living under a rock) are not desirable. But how desirable is VAC (visible ass crack)? If you're wearing a thong with pants or a dress of a certain kind of fabric, the fabric... *ahem* settles right in, creating an even more distracting/distressing look than VPL ever did.

If we all wanted the world to see a big crease down our backsides, we wouldn't wear pants at all.

I'm just sayin'.

Would it kill you to smile?

I work in a friendly (sometimes overly friendly, but that's another story for another day) office. People say hello to each other. We all try to know a little about each others' lives. It's a creative, team-based environment, so we all try to help each other out.

And folks usually smile at each other when they pass in the halls.

Except for four.

These are the most sour-faced, dour people on the face of this earth. They are never friendly and they give the impression that they are much too good to smile back at you or even return a hello.

Who raised them? How did they get their jobs?

The rudeness of it drives me crazy.

I lament the death of common courtesy!!!

My favorite Beau story

A few years ago, he and I went to Glenwood Springs for the weekend. Glenwood Springs is a quaint, touristy little mountain town near Aspen.

Our first morning there, we woke up too late for the free continental breakfast (who eats breakfast before 8:00 on vacation?), so we ventured downtown to a nice little cafe.

The only downside to nice little cafes is that they're a little slow when it comes to service. And Beau's blood sugar was getting low (which is very dangerous for his health--and a little dangerous for our relationship because he gets pretty grumpy). As soon as he eats, he's his sweet self again.

Our breakfasts arrived, and as Beau started to dig in, he groused They're late with my toast.

I knew that more toast was on the way, so I offered him my toast in the interim.

And at that moment, that he uttered the phrase that would delight me and haunt him for the rest of his days:

I don't want YOUR toast. I want MY toast.

:)

Even if you're not a reader...

Don't say the following in the company of another human being:

I read a book once and the ending sucked. That's why I don't read anymore. 

*Sigh*

I concur!

(Courtesy of TheFrisky.com)

New-age experience

I went to a fair with Mom over the weekend. It's always the first weekend in October and we try to make it every year.

We walked around and looked at all of the wares folks had for sale (we bought, but only from nice people without high-pressure sales tactics).

Toward the end of the afternoon, we stopped at a booth with multiple stone/mineral pendants. Each one had a description card with it that told you how the stone would help you. We stayed for awhile, partly because the descriptions on the cards were so interesting, but mostly because we like pretty, shiny, sparkly rocks.

The woman at the booth was chatting with folks, letting them know which stones they needed (she was a little bit psychic). She taught one woman how to let the stone choose her.

1. Stand away from the other stones and put down your purse and other items. 
2. Hold the stone in question to your heart chakra.
3. Clear your mind. 
4. Ask God, Mother Mary, Allah, whomever (your higher power) if that's the stone for you.
5. Then wait. Your body will either be pulled forward or pushed back.* If you're pulled forward, it's right. If you're pushed back, you need to find a different stone.

*This apparently also works in the vitamin aisle at your local supermarket because vitamins are minerals too (though you might raise an eyebrow or two).

Not afraid to try something new (or look like a fool; ask any waitperson in the greater Denver area), I gave it a shot. 

I'll be damned if it didn't work. It was a really odd feeling, but I was pulled forward. I went home and tried with all of my vitamins. All but two pulled me forward (and the others pushed me back). 

Interesting. That's all's I'm sayin'.

New fake word

This time, I'm the guilty party.

Next time you're going for dinner at an Indian restaurant, you should call it...

Dindia!

(I'm ridiculously happy about this)

Hairy situation

Riddle me this:

How come it's socially acceptable for men to look like gorillas but women are not allowed to have hair south of their eyebrows? And even our brows have to be immaculately coiffed.

I'm more than a little unnerved that women are now expected to look like prepubescent girls.

WTF is going on, people?


(I won't mention this again; I just think it's weird.)

Another installment of weird dream theater

{Note: when I told Beau about this dream, he summed up his feelings with the following sentiment: It's just a dream; it doesn't mean anything. Well, duh. So here it is, even though it doesn't mean anything.}

Beau and I went to a psychic, who told him that he and two other guys would die on motorcycles within a week. We were crushed. Beau started getting his ducks in a row and making arrangements.

Then I had an idea: How about just staying off the motorcycle for a week to see what happens?

What's this? Free will?

By golly, it worked! But, unfortunately, the two other dudes died.

So we had a horseshoe party/funeral for them in someone's backyard (of course!). People milled around, drank beer, and mourned. There were two big holes at the back of the yard with two (occupied) open coffins (they were old-timey, wild-west coffins that you had to nail together).

I went inside for a moment and looked out the window just in time to see a huge passenger jet crash down the street. I tried to get outside in time to warn everybody, but I was too late; a huge debris cloud enveloped everything in the backyard.

After the dust settled, I looked to the graves just in time to see one of the dead motorcycle dudes crawl out of the coffin and stroll away.

Those damn zombies always have to make an appearance somewhere. :)

I heard this during my morning commute

And it immediately picked up my mood and set the tone for the day.

What a beautiful legacy. George Harrison has been gone for nine years (!) and he still has the power to touch people and make them smile.

We miss ya, George!

If you can still suck in your stomach

to where you'd like it to be, you're not that far gone, right? :)

How to please your man*

(*If your man likes pickles. Women like them too, but I'm using the Cosmo theory of pulling folks in with unnecessarily sexy headlines.)

Make these. They're easy, tasty, and fast. Beau and my dad and the fellas in the office who've tried them give 'em two thumbs up.

Nearly Hands-Free Dill Pickles
(courtesy of RealSimple.com)

[my tweaks appear in pink]

Makes 16 spears| Hands-On Time: 05m |

Ingredients

• 4 Kirby cucumbers (about 1 pound), quartered lengthwise [I used the cucumbers I had]
• 3/4 cup white wine vinegar [Plain old white vinegar works well; it's not as acidic]
• 1/4 small sweet onion (such as Vidalia or Walla Walla), thinly sliced
• 2 cloves garlic, smashed [I used a bit more, but I like garlic]
• 2 tablespoons sugar [That's a helluva lot of sugar; I used one tablespoon]
• 1 teaspoon dill seed
• 1 teaspoon black peppercorns
• 1 bay leaf
• kosher salt
• [If you like a kick, give it a couple of shots of red pepper flakes]

Directions

1. Place the cucumbers in a 1-quart jar or some other container with a tight-fitting lid.
2. In a bowl, combine the vinegar, onion, garlic, sugar, dill seed, peppercorns, bay leaf, 2 teaspoons salt, and ¾ cup hot tap water. Stir until the sugar dissolves.
3. Pour the vinegar mixture into the jar with the cucumbers, cover, and refrigerate for at least 1 day before serving. The pickles will last up to 1 week.

Jake Ryan

Those two words evoke a dreamy sigh from almost every woman I know.

He was THE iconic 80s boyfriend against whom we measured all others (and they failed, miserably, every time).

He was handsome, wealthy, popular, sensitive, and he wasn't just in it for the sex. He wanted a relationship. Swoon. The only bad thing about him was his taste in girlfriends (I'm talking about Carolyn, who could name 20 guys who would kill to love her).

We loved him because back then, we were all Samantha. Nice girls who did well enough in school and were kinda cute, but we weren't perfect. We were flat-chested or we didn't like our thighs (or both). We felt unnoticeable. Sometimes we were grouchy and we were a bit self-involved. We were flawed (everyone is, but at that age, you don't realize it), and Jake loved us anyway. He even baked a birthday cake!


Now we realize that not even Jake Ryan was as perfect as he seemed. He was flawed too (after all, he slammed the door on his girlfriend's hair, sent her home with Farmer Ted, lent his dad's Rolls to an unlicensed driver, etc.).

But we needed Jake. We needed to believe that our own Jake Ryans were out there somewhere, just waiting for us. Ready to love us for who we are, despite our many flaws.  

And they are out there, in their varied forms. 

Beau has a cool red car and beautiful black hair... but I'd never trust him to bake a cake. :)

(You know I had to attach John Hughes' most swoon-worthy contribution to the cultural lexicon. Enjoy.)

*Sigh*

Haiku of the day

I lost an old friend
And I gained some perspective
She wasn't that nice

And her little dog, too!

Dorothy started something ugly when she put Toto in that picnic basket all those years ago.

I'm so tired of seeing women with little dogs in purses everywhere I go.

Walk into any store (particularly a clothing store) and you'll see at least one woman walking around with a chihuahua or minpin or some kind of 'poo as she browses through sweaters, slacks (yes, I said slacks), and purses.

These dogs' delicate paws rarely touch the ground; their "mommies" carry them everywhere. How happy can these furry little baby stand-ins be?

What are these women missing in their lives that makes them want to carry things that can (and likely do) poo in their purses?

And what happened to the no-animal policy that nearly all stores used to have??? It's not like these furballs are service animals.

It's creepy. It's right up there with women who carry on long phone conversations in public restrooms.

Tips on how to stop... you know... Doing That

My friend Bob sent this to me for laughs. It's real, which makes it that much funnier. My comments will follow (of course).

STEPS IN OVERCOMING MASTURBATION
From The Mormon Council of the 12 Apostles

Be assured that you can be cured of your difficulty. Many have been, both male and female, and you can be also if you determine that it must be so.

A Guide to Self-Control

1. Never touch the intimate parts of your body except during normal toilet processes.
2. Avoid being alone as much as possible. Find good company and stay in this good company.
3. If you are associated with other persons having this same problem, YOU MUST BREAK OFF THE FRIENDSHIP. Never associate with other people having the same weakness. Don't suppose that two of you will quit together, you never will. You must get away from people of that kind. Just to be in their presence will keep your problem foremost in your mind. The problem must be taken OUT OF YOUR MIND for that is where it really exists. Your mind must be on other and more wholesome things.
4. When you bathe, do not admire yourself in a mirror. Never stay in the bath more than five or six minutes -- just long enough to bathe and dry and dress AND THEN GET OUT OF THE BATHROOM and into a room where you will have a member of your family present.
5. When in bed, if that is where you have your problem for the most part, dress yourself for the night so securely that you cannot easily touch your vital parts and so that it would be difficult and time consuming for you to remove those clothes. By the time you started to remove protective clothing you would have sufficiently controlled your thinking that the temptation would leave you.
6. If the temptation seems overpowering while you are in bed, GET OUT OF BED AND GO INTO THE KITCHEN AND FIX YOURSELF A SNACK, even if it is in the middle of the night, and even if you are not hungry, and despite your fears of gaining weight. The purpose behind this suggestion is that you GET YOUR MIND ON SOMETHING ELSE.
7. Never read pornographic material. Never read about your problem. Keep it out of mind. Remember -- "First a thought, then an act."
8. Put wholesome thoughts into your mind at all times. Read good books -- Church books.
9. Pray. But when you pray, don't pray about this problem, for that will tend to keep it in your mind more than ever. KEEP THE PROBLEM OUT OF YOUR MIND BY NOT MENTIONING IT EVER -- NOT IN CONVERSATION WITH OTHERS, NOT IN YOUR PRAYERS. KEEP IT OUT of your mind!

My Thoughts:

• Regarding step 1: what's a normal toilet process? 
• You're not supposed to be alone, but you can't be friends with anybody who Does That. However, contrary to what you might hear, EVERYBODY Does That. It's a total Catch-22. 
• You can't be in the bathroom. You can't be in the bedroom. You will dwell in the kitchen and the family room for the rest of your life (but only if other family members are there also). 
• Re: dressing in restrictive clothing when going to bed as a preventive measure. Restrictive clothing causes friction, which, in turn, causes... you know.
• If strait-jacket pajamas don't do the trick, you have to get out of the bedroom ASAP and make a snack. EVEN IF YOU ARE NOT HUNGRY. Hmmmmm. I think we've gotten to the heart of the obesity problem here in the U.S. (particularly in the Bible Belt).
• Pray for help, but don't ever pray for help about not Doing That. The church is here to help. 
• Here are nine steps to help you stop Doing That, but don't think about It. Don't mention It. EVER. Even though the nine steps above kind of make you think about It.

STOP THINKING ABOUT IT!!!

To the mystery woman in the ladies' room

I heard you flush.
I heard you dress.
I heard you purposefully walk out of the stall (your shoes made a distinct clomping noise).
I heard you stop at the mirror to check your hair.
I heard you open the door and leave.

I DID NOT HEAR YOU WASH YOUR HANDS!

(I'll be listening for that clomping sound all day to suss you out.)

EVEN IF...

You're the same height with similar builds.

It's still mortifying when your boyfriend tries on your jeans for fun... and. they. fit. 

Even if they were your "relaxed" pair.

Still sucks.

23 things that are fun to say

1. Chapultepec
2. Tajikistan 
3. Mahmoud Ahmadinejad*
4. Quotidian
5. Tika Masala
6. Du Fluurgen Buurgen**
7. Baton Rouge
8. Fernando
9. Mellifluous
10. Plume
11. Marmalade
12. Beauregard
13. Sashimi
14. Splenectomy
15. Rohypnol
16. Interlocutor 
17. Superfluous 
18. Perpendicular
19. Perforation
20. Turpitude
21. Pawhuska
22. Imprecision 
23. Intrauterine

*Not all words that are fun to say are actually good things.
**Not all fun words to say are actually words.

Not hot

Beau had a barbecue over the weekend. There were different people from lots of different backgrounds there, which made it fun.

As we watched a bizarre game involving two PVC pipes, two Corona beer bottles, two drunken teams, an insane number of rules, and a frisbee, I chatted with Steve, one of Beau's old friends. Pretty soon, one of the buxom girls at the party approached him with a sharpie-scrawled napkin and said Here's my information. Let me know when you have more details about the shoot.

When she walked away, I looked at him and he said Oh, that's for a photo shoot we're doing with motorcycles. We need some hot girls for it. I saw her and thought she was perfect. I also asked Chris' girlfriend (he pointed her out) because she's hot too.

I nodded and we resumed watching the game. And then it hit me. HEY, WAIT A MINUTE!

That wasn't even subtle.

When it comes to seminude motorcycle-photo-shoot standards... I. Am. Not. Hot.

Coming just six days after the birthday that landed me a year closer to 40, that was a bit rough. 

I let it roll off my back. Kind of. Beau heard about it plenty. I joked about it. And though I have nice, cute girl-next-door qualities, I realize I'm not the kind of girl you'd picture bending over a motorcycle--not even when I was 18. But still.

It was one of those milestone blows. I think I've hit that period of life where I look good... for my age.

Sigh. :)

Our ancestors would shake their heads in wonder

At the notion that we buy our clothing pre-distressed.

They built the railroads. They fought WWI and WWII. They did it all by the sweat of their own brows.

And now we are a nation that is too lazy to distress its own garments. :)

Dad's review of the Gillette Fusion ProGlide Power Razor

If you're not up on your razor technology, this is Gillette's brand-new five-blade, battery-powered, vibrating razor.

They were handing them out at work this week, so I snagged one for Dad.

He used it this morning and called me at work with the following review:

It's like running a vacuum cleaner over your face, but in a good way.

Today is my anniversary

Not with Beau.

With my job.

Nine years ago today I joined The Firm. Which is kind of funny, because I thought this would just be a temporary pit stop on the road to editorial greatness. But then I realized that I like it here. I like the people (I've met great friends here; hell, I met Beau here). I like the atmosphere. I'm good at my job.

Nine years. That's longer than any relationship (friendship notwithstanding) I've had. Longer than I spent in college. Longer than I've lived in any one house.

It's a long time in my book.

There's no real fanfare for nine years here. At ten years, you get a plaque (I almost typed plague--yikes!), fanfare, your photo taken, and two extra weeks off. For nine, you get thumbs up and a keep up the good work vibe, which is fine. I'm really happy to be employed in times like these.

Nine years. Wow.

Today is ALSO my oldest friend's birthday. (We're the same age; she's not the oldest friend, she's the friend I've had for the longest amount of time--since third grade.)

So if you're reading this, Q:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I LOVE YOUR GUTS! HUGS AND KISSES! YOU'RE THE BEST!

Age is relative

My birthday was earlier this week, and with it came the inevitable step closer to 40. I'm ok with it (though I did wear a Cookie Monster T-shirt today... overcompensate much?).

But most of the time, I feel about 20, and Beau acts like a 17-year-old on a sugar high much of the time. Age is just a number, and it's much, much better than the alternative.

But it reminds me of a story.

At the ripe old age of 26, I attended my roommate's birthday party. The theme was Wig and Skate. It's very complicated, so allow me to explain: we wore wigs and went rollerskating.

We were a massive (albeit tipsy) hit at the roller rink, and little kids swarmed around us as we skated.

One little girl asked if I would skate with her. As we rolled around the rink to a Britney Spears tune, she turned to me and said How old are you?

I smiled, confident in my 26-year-old hotness, and replied How old do you think I am?

She looked at me and concentrated and said I don't know. About 75?

So much for 26-year-old hotness. :)

At DSW over the weekend...

I mentioned to my mother that many of this season's boots have an... uncircumcised quality to them.

She immediately rolled her eyes and laughed at me.

And then she told me I was right.

Don't believe me? Look for yourself!

DSW.com

35 things that just don't do it for me

1. People who let silverware hit their teeth when they eat
2. When something is lodged in my teeth and nobody tells me
3. Those Martina McBride SunnyD commercials
4. When anchors editorialize on CNN
5. Folks who try to hijack the prepositions around and against (with dumbass results)
6. Folks who can't be happy about others' good fortune
7. Bad hold music
8. TV static
9. The use of the apostrophe to denote pluralization (when you ONLY use it to denote ownership or a contraction)
10. Passive voice
11. Passive aggression
12. Folks who let the door slam behind them instead of waiting one extra second and holding it for the person following them
13. Anyone who says excuse you, when they feel they've been slighted in some way (see 11)
14. Papercuts
15. Fish in the microwave
16. When someone changes lanes and leaves their blinker on
17. The question Can I ask you a question?
18. When anyone tells me You look like you need something to do
19. The way that high school boys get to look like boys but high school girls feel pressured to (or *shudder* actually want to) look hookered out
20. Men who go shirtless in public
21. Folks who always Reply All
22. Funnel cakes
23. Gristle
24. People who tell me what to do
25. When anybody hangs up on me
26. Strapless bras
27. People who flip out when I mention that the difference between Coke and Pepsi doesn't really matter that much to me
28. The 927 Viagra spam e-mails I get each day
29. That eye twitch that arrives with stressful situations and sticks around for a week
30. Folks who are just a little too smug about always buying organic
31. Individuals who walk in the front doors of a Big Box store and just stand there in awe (note, this is most annoying when I am behind said person)
32. Flossing
33. Velveeta
34. Folks who add an H to my name where an H clearly does not belong
35. Breaking News that is neither Breaking nor News
    

I don't like it when

My ex clicks "Like" on my Facebook status.

It feels condecending.

New fake word

One of my coworkers just invented this one.

Delighter: (noun) something that delights.

The Sunday brunch was a significant delighter to Mom.

I give up.

Fat, furry alarm clock

Lola, my cute tabby cat (that's her on the left, not just some cat model lifted from Google), has packed on some serious lard.

She's getting orca-fat.

When she jumps off of a piece of furniture, there's a serious thud. She makes fat old-lady sounds when she jumps too. It's pretty pathetic

I'd like to say it's because the weather is a bit cooler and she's getting ready for the winter.

But the fact is, kitty likes to eat. And eat. And eat. And between feedings, she's not running marathons. She's pretty much flopped on her side, working up the energy to make it back to the food dish.

I know she eats all day while I'm at work, but I can't take up the food (I have another cat without a binge problem; she's a dainty eater). So I'm putting up the food at night when we should all be sleeping anyway.

It's not been a popular decision.

When the sun comes up, Lola cannot wait one. minute. longer. She hops up on the bed (Whump! Fat Old Lady Noise). I get a little are you awake? meow. Then she tries to lick my nose. Then she (not so gently) bats at my nose (oops! were my claws out? so sorry!). And, as a last resort, she grabs a mouthful of my hair and puuuuuuulls.

OK! OK! I'm up!

Sigh.