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.