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.