Apparently I just have Blog Fever today.
In a fit of total insanity, I have started a new blog over on Tumblr.
To be totally honest, despite my rather impassioned "competition" speech from earlier today, the thought having to come up with entire thematic entries that are worthy of posting, even if it is fueled by my psychotic desire to beat Sarah, was making me sweat in uncomfortable regions...
I am going to see if I am any funnier or more witty when taken in smaller doses.
Check it out and let me know what you think:
so-calledwriter.tumblr.com
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Girlfriend is goin' DOWN!
I wouldn't necessarily call myself a competitive person. I never really excelled at competitive sports (my poor mother who sat through two seasons of soccer games waiting to see if I made it off the bench can attest to this. Here's a hint: I didn't). I steer clear of Fourth of July pool volley ball games (where that same mother becomes a trash talking fiend). Truth be told, it is also a reason why I don't enjoy reality competitions like Top Model and Idol and the like (ignore for a moment that I adore project runway and gladiators), because I don't like seeing the monsters that people become when that competitive edge gets embedded deep into their soul.
However, I have come to realize that there are two major exceptions to my non-competitive state. 1) Sing Star and 2) Blogging.
Let's get that first one out of the way: I have only played it once, (ONCE!) but that was enough to make me dream about it at night and practice for in the car by day. Last night I dreamt that I was in an arcade in London (The Trocadero for those in the know) and that they had a large Sing Star machine, and I got up there to play against a stranger and a large crowd gathered round to chant my name and hoist me up on their shoulders. It is actually getting to the point that I might considering buying a video game system just to play sing star. That is just plain messed up. I hate video games. Because they are competitive and require hand eye coordination, which is not one of my skills (nor is hand, foot... hence the soccer bench warming). Regardless, let's just say that if I was to ever play you in Sing Star, I would murder you.
Now, as for #2. This is my dirty little secret. I only copped to it out loud for the first time yesterday while speaking to Ethan Cushing (www.ethancushing.com). About a month ago, ethan had challenged me to blog more often, and I agreed that it was probably a good idea, considering that I make money off of being a writer and I should be keeping my skills sharp. Also I have no hobbies. None. I don't even knit. So Blogging for a few minutes each day shouldn't really put a strain on the rest of my life activities. However, even after promising Ethan that I would blog with regularity, I felt uncompelled to do so. Until my friend Sarah did. (See Sarah Crosland's blog link on my sidebar.... just don't click it yet).
You see, Sarah and I are great buds. The best in fact. We were roommates for two years plus one summer. We can laugh about dumb, stupid things that no one else understands (Cheesy Delights!) and we speak a secret language of shared memories that will forever bond us in a most warm, loving way. Anyone who has lived with us or near us will tell you that our particular brand of togetherness can be downright exclusive and annoying... which just makes us that much more proud of it. Damn! Love that girl.
But, as it would happen, we are also both professional writers, which means, of course....
girlfriend is goin' down.
Understand, I don't mean to compete with Sarah. In fact, I shouldn't even bother. She is naturally funnier than I am (her self deprecation is so honed that it is like a fine art). Weird stuff happens to her like, daily, which makes for much better blog fodder (see the entry about her post man, and the part of her most recent entry that involves a man spitting peanut pieces on her on his way to rehab). Also, she went to journalism school which gives her blog a bit of professional credibility that mine just will never have. I've got a few big names on my resume, but she's got better job titles on hers. I have a few more published years than she does, but that just means that she caught up with me in less time, which gives her the edge again. There is even one magazine that we BOTH write for, and her name goes above mine in the masthead (that might have something to do with it being alphabetical.... but still!) As you can see, despite my deep unabiding love for this girl, I have these bubbling feelings of competitive rage and there is only one logical place for me to let them have their day: the blogosphere.
My blogs will never be as funny or readable as hers are, and I won't waste my key strokes trying to beat her there. No, this is about sheer quantity. Everytime I see that she has put up a new post, I feel compelled to immediately sit down and hammer out my own. And UGH! when she gets TWO up before I get up my next one it makes me want punch a wall! Like a dude! So yes Ethan. I will post more often. But not because I am inspired by creativity.... but because I am determined to stay pace for pace, post for post with Sarah Crosland until I have blogged her into submission.
If you are still reading this... thank you. Because I am assuming that most of you clicked on Sarah's blog a few paragraphs ago and never came back. You are probably going to want to bookmark her blog instead of mine. It's alright. No one can blame you. She is also like 5'10" blond and gorgeous, so you know. Ugh. (Love her though. seriously. besties forever.)
*** For those of you interested in following this one-sided (at least so far it is one sided... she hasn't read this yet) fight, you might be interested to know that starting Saturday, Sarah and I will be sharing one hotel internet connection for an entire week, which means that if we are going to competiblog, we will actually have to shove each other out of the way to access the computer to do it. This could get interesting, very very quickly.***
However, I have come to realize that there are two major exceptions to my non-competitive state. 1) Sing Star and 2) Blogging.
Let's get that first one out of the way: I have only played it once, (ONCE!) but that was enough to make me dream about it at night and practice for in the car by day. Last night I dreamt that I was in an arcade in London (The Trocadero for those in the know) and that they had a large Sing Star machine, and I got up there to play against a stranger and a large crowd gathered round to chant my name and hoist me up on their shoulders. It is actually getting to the point that I might considering buying a video game system just to play sing star. That is just plain messed up. I hate video games. Because they are competitive and require hand eye coordination, which is not one of my skills (nor is hand, foot... hence the soccer bench warming). Regardless, let's just say that if I was to ever play you in Sing Star, I would murder you.
Now, as for #2. This is my dirty little secret. I only copped to it out loud for the first time yesterday while speaking to Ethan Cushing (www.ethancushing.com). About a month ago, ethan had challenged me to blog more often, and I agreed that it was probably a good idea, considering that I make money off of being a writer and I should be keeping my skills sharp. Also I have no hobbies. None. I don't even knit. So Blogging for a few minutes each day shouldn't really put a strain on the rest of my life activities. However, even after promising Ethan that I would blog with regularity, I felt uncompelled to do so. Until my friend Sarah did. (See Sarah Crosland's blog link on my sidebar.... just don't click it yet).
You see, Sarah and I are great buds. The best in fact. We were roommates for two years plus one summer. We can laugh about dumb, stupid things that no one else understands (Cheesy Delights!) and we speak a secret language of shared memories that will forever bond us in a most warm, loving way. Anyone who has lived with us or near us will tell you that our particular brand of togetherness can be downright exclusive and annoying... which just makes us that much more proud of it. Damn! Love that girl.
But, as it would happen, we are also both professional writers, which means, of course....
girlfriend is goin' down.
Understand, I don't mean to compete with Sarah. In fact, I shouldn't even bother. She is naturally funnier than I am (her self deprecation is so honed that it is like a fine art). Weird stuff happens to her like, daily, which makes for much better blog fodder (see the entry about her post man, and the part of her most recent entry that involves a man spitting peanut pieces on her on his way to rehab). Also, she went to journalism school which gives her blog a bit of professional credibility that mine just will never have. I've got a few big names on my resume, but she's got better job titles on hers. I have a few more published years than she does, but that just means that she caught up with me in less time, which gives her the edge again. There is even one magazine that we BOTH write for, and her name goes above mine in the masthead (that might have something to do with it being alphabetical.... but still!) As you can see, despite my deep unabiding love for this girl, I have these bubbling feelings of competitive rage and there is only one logical place for me to let them have their day: the blogosphere.
My blogs will never be as funny or readable as hers are, and I won't waste my key strokes trying to beat her there. No, this is about sheer quantity. Everytime I see that she has put up a new post, I feel compelled to immediately sit down and hammer out my own. And UGH! when she gets TWO up before I get up my next one it makes me want punch a wall! Like a dude! So yes Ethan. I will post more often. But not because I am inspired by creativity.... but because I am determined to stay pace for pace, post for post with Sarah Crosland until I have blogged her into submission.
If you are still reading this... thank you. Because I am assuming that most of you clicked on Sarah's blog a few paragraphs ago and never came back. You are probably going to want to bookmark her blog instead of mine. It's alright. No one can blame you. She is also like 5'10" blond and gorgeous, so you know. Ugh. (Love her though. seriously. besties forever.)
*** For those of you interested in following this one-sided (at least so far it is one sided... she hasn't read this yet) fight, you might be interested to know that starting Saturday, Sarah and I will be sharing one hotel internet connection for an entire week, which means that if we are going to competiblog, we will actually have to shove each other out of the way to access the computer to do it. This could get interesting, very very quickly.***
Monday, January 14, 2008
Yes. This is a post about Jessica Simpson.
Okay - so. I've never been a J-Simp fan. (With the exception of her gorgeous Vera Wang wedding gown, which I did covet for many years.)I definitely am on "Team Nick" when it comes to her divorce, and good for him for finding love with a woman who doesn't want their entire courtship and marriage to be captured on MTv (also, I blame Newlyweds for all of the quasi-scripted, relationship-heavy reality crap that now clogs much of basic cable). However, I feel the poor gal has been dealt an unfair hand.
No, I am not talking about the Tony Romo Curse (though seriously dude, vacay with your paparazzi-stalked girlfriend days before a major playoff game? Not your smartest play.), and I am not talking about how her sister got a nose job and turned out to be hotter than her (how much does THAT suck). What I am talking about is the bum rap she's gotten for her latest box-office effort, Blonde Ambition.
No. I haven't seen it. No, I don't plan to (unless it airs on TV one day and I have nothing better to do. This is also how I ended up seeing Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen). No, I am not saying that maybe critics have been too harsh, I am sure it is crap. I can't really vouch for Jessica's acting chops (other than the acting she may or may not have been doing on Newlyweds). I never saw Dukes of Hazzard or Employee of the Month or anything that she is in.
So Jenn, you ask, what is your point? My point is this: EVERY gossip blog and magazine from one coast to the other has given her a load of guff about how her movie was only open on 8 screens in Texas and made less money in one weekend than a teenager working minimum wage at Jimmy John's Gourmet Subs. But they neglect to mention that Jessica was NOT the only person to make the poor decision to be in this Daddy Simpson-produced monstrosity.
Just take a gander at Blonde Ambition's IMDB page. Go ahead. I'll wait here.
Actually, I'm gonna grab a Perrier, but I'll be here when you get back.
Okay, am I right?
There are like at least four other legit actors in that movie!
Where is their verbal lashing?
Where is their public castration?
Memo to the following actors/actresses: As dear old Stevie C. would say, I am putting you ON NOTICE!
Luke Wilson
Did he get confused and think this was Legally Blonde 3: Blonde Ambition? I mean, I can see how that might happen, it seems like a likely title. Perhaps he has a clause in his contract that says he will appear in "all Blonde movies", thinking it was shorthand for Legally Blonde sequels, but not realizing it would make him liable for this as well. Could happen. Does this mean he should be forgiven for appearing in this movie.... ehh... not so much. You were in Old School. Sack up and try to salvage a little credibility before you end up taking the role Jason Lee turns down for Chipmunks 2 (assuming Lee turns it down. JASON LEE, TURN IT DOWN! Do you hear me?)
Rachel Leigh Cook
Okay, not a major star, but someone with a little bit of established indie cred.... Wait, what's that? That was her in Josie and the Pussycats? Oh. Okay. Nevermind then. Wait! But wait. She was in the Babysitters Club Movie, and starred in Dawson's first full length feature film on Dawson's Creek, so that counts as credibility in my book.
Andy Dick
Now, not really an actor or credible person in any sense of the word (even though yes, he too was also in Old School, but in the only scene I find unwatchable), but why then isn't HE being blamed for the unsuccessfulness of this movie? Why aren't we pinning this failure on the complete psychotic mess that is Andy Dick instead of making Jessica bear all the weight of failure? That just doesn't seem fair.
Penelope Ann Miller
Her IMDB resume lets me know that she was on The Facts of Life, Family Ties AND she played Winnie in Big Top Pee Wee, one of my favorite childhood movies. So, we are thus going to count her as credible as well. (She has also appeared and will appear in The Closer and Saving Grace, which I am to understand are big time hits on cable, "Especially for shows that are centered around a female character!"... I am far too bored by the previews to watch either of them. Sorry Sister Sufferagette. I have let you down.)
Drew Fuller
Adult Chris from Charmed!!! How could you. True, that decision to team up with Little Miss Sunshine for that tear jerker "last day before I die" type movie probably was the first sign that you don't know how to manage a film career. But, honestly, I expected more from you and your blue blue, oh so blue eyes.
So, my point here - Jessica isn't the only star who should be shouldering the blame for this cinematic dung-pile, so give the girl an f-ing break.
Also, I need to put Big Top Pee Wee in my Netflix Queue.
No, I am not talking about the Tony Romo Curse (though seriously dude, vacay with your paparazzi-stalked girlfriend days before a major playoff game? Not your smartest play.), and I am not talking about how her sister got a nose job and turned out to be hotter than her (how much does THAT suck). What I am talking about is the bum rap she's gotten for her latest box-office effort, Blonde Ambition.
No. I haven't seen it. No, I don't plan to (unless it airs on TV one day and I have nothing better to do. This is also how I ended up seeing Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen). No, I am not saying that maybe critics have been too harsh, I am sure it is crap. I can't really vouch for Jessica's acting chops (other than the acting she may or may not have been doing on Newlyweds). I never saw Dukes of Hazzard or Employee of the Month or anything that she is in.
So Jenn, you ask, what is your point? My point is this: EVERY gossip blog and magazine from one coast to the other has given her a load of guff about how her movie was only open on 8 screens in Texas and made less money in one weekend than a teenager working minimum wage at Jimmy John's Gourmet Subs. But they neglect to mention that Jessica was NOT the only person to make the poor decision to be in this Daddy Simpson-produced monstrosity.
Just take a gander at Blonde Ambition's IMDB page. Go ahead. I'll wait here.
Actually, I'm gonna grab a Perrier, but I'll be here when you get back.
Okay, am I right?
There are like at least four other legit actors in that movie!
Where is their verbal lashing?
Where is their public castration?
Memo to the following actors/actresses: As dear old Stevie C. would say, I am putting you ON NOTICE!
Luke Wilson
Did he get confused and think this was Legally Blonde 3: Blonde Ambition? I mean, I can see how that might happen, it seems like a likely title. Perhaps he has a clause in his contract that says he will appear in "all Blonde movies", thinking it was shorthand for Legally Blonde sequels, but not realizing it would make him liable for this as well. Could happen. Does this mean he should be forgiven for appearing in this movie.... ehh... not so much. You were in Old School. Sack up and try to salvage a little credibility before you end up taking the role Jason Lee turns down for Chipmunks 2 (assuming Lee turns it down. JASON LEE, TURN IT DOWN! Do you hear me?)
Rachel Leigh Cook
Okay, not a major star, but someone with a little bit of established indie cred.... Wait, what's that? That was her in Josie and the Pussycats? Oh. Okay. Nevermind then. Wait! But wait. She was in the Babysitters Club Movie, and starred in Dawson's first full length feature film on Dawson's Creek, so that counts as credibility in my book.
Andy Dick
Now, not really an actor or credible person in any sense of the word (even though yes, he too was also in Old School, but in the only scene I find unwatchable), but why then isn't HE being blamed for the unsuccessfulness of this movie? Why aren't we pinning this failure on the complete psychotic mess that is Andy Dick instead of making Jessica bear all the weight of failure? That just doesn't seem fair.
Penelope Ann Miller
Her IMDB resume lets me know that she was on The Facts of Life, Family Ties AND she played Winnie in Big Top Pee Wee, one of my favorite childhood movies. So, we are thus going to count her as credible as well. (She has also appeared and will appear in The Closer and Saving Grace, which I am to understand are big time hits on cable, "Especially for shows that are centered around a female character!"... I am far too bored by the previews to watch either of them. Sorry Sister Sufferagette. I have let you down.)
Drew Fuller
Adult Chris from Charmed!!! How could you. True, that decision to team up with Little Miss Sunshine for that tear jerker "last day before I die" type movie probably was the first sign that you don't know how to manage a film career. But, honestly, I expected more from you and your blue blue, oh so blue eyes.
So, my point here - Jessica isn't the only star who should be shouldering the blame for this cinematic dung-pile, so give the girl an f-ing break.
Also, I need to put Big Top Pee Wee in my Netflix Queue.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
"This would be the third best thing. Having a baby. Gettin' Married. And Whoopin' his Ass."
As an avid Tivo addict, there is perhaps no one as distraught by the persisting writer's strike than I. In preparation for the months ahead I have ambitiously amped up my Netflix cue, easily forgetting the fact that I kept a copy of Dead Poet's Society for 4 and a half months and then mailed it back covered in dust without even watching it.
However, I have managed to find one completely supercalifragilisticexpialamazing upside to the strike: The return of American Gladiators to broadcast television.
I cannot even count the hours of my youth that were spent watching two blissful, back to back hours of American Gladitors on USA (10am to 12pm). Every morning of my summers I was greeted with a buffet of awesomely bad TV... Gladiators followed by such gems as My Two Dads, Major Dad, Just the Ten of Us, Facts of Life and, of course, Parker Lewis Can't Lose. The bowls of velveeta shells that were consumed... the many sunny afternoons that could have been spent outside... Childhood doesn't get much better than that.
So please, try to imagine my glee as I watched, in complete awe, as 5 foot 4 inch contestant Venus practically had a heart attack on the eliminator which now features A TWENTY FOOT SWIM UNDERWATER WHILE FLAMES BLAST OVER YOUR HEAD (???!!!) The Gladiators are more terrifying (by a long shot) and the contestants, from what I can tell, might actually possess some athletic talent (Anthony the Fire Fighter kicked that swinging bridge's ass). Who ever the television executive was that risked his career by proposing a renaissance of American Gladitors as the next reality television sensation - kudos my friend. I hate reality television (except for anything on HGTV and Bravo. Those don't count.) And now, I am officially going to TIVO reality TV on NBC.
Justice, Titan, Big Bad Wolf, Crush, Venom, Fury, Stealth,Mayhem - welcome to my living room. I am f-ing psyched to see you.
And, just for funsies, here is my list of Truly Terrifying Gladiator Names that didn't quite make the cut:
Hymen
Menses
Bosom
Pex
8-Pac
The Dude
Roids
Hernia
Tanorexia
‘Stache
Homeland Security
Mr. Jiggles (The Clown, obviously)
Hangnail
Peroxide
Atomic Wedgie
Botox
The Clap
However, I have managed to find one completely supercalifragilisticexpialamazing upside to the strike: The return of American Gladiators to broadcast television.
I cannot even count the hours of my youth that were spent watching two blissful, back to back hours of American Gladitors on USA (10am to 12pm). Every morning of my summers I was greeted with a buffet of awesomely bad TV... Gladiators followed by such gems as My Two Dads, Major Dad, Just the Ten of Us, Facts of Life and, of course, Parker Lewis Can't Lose. The bowls of velveeta shells that were consumed... the many sunny afternoons that could have been spent outside... Childhood doesn't get much better than that.
So please, try to imagine my glee as I watched, in complete awe, as 5 foot 4 inch contestant Venus practically had a heart attack on the eliminator which now features A TWENTY FOOT SWIM UNDERWATER WHILE FLAMES BLAST OVER YOUR HEAD (???!!!) The Gladiators are more terrifying (by a long shot) and the contestants, from what I can tell, might actually possess some athletic talent (Anthony the Fire Fighter kicked that swinging bridge's ass). Who ever the television executive was that risked his career by proposing a renaissance of American Gladitors as the next reality television sensation - kudos my friend. I hate reality television (except for anything on HGTV and Bravo. Those don't count.) And now, I am officially going to TIVO reality TV on NBC.
Justice, Titan, Big Bad Wolf, Crush, Venom, Fury, Stealth,Mayhem - welcome to my living room. I am f-ing psyched to see you.
And, just for funsies, here is my list of Truly Terrifying Gladiator Names that didn't quite make the cut:
Hymen
Menses
Bosom
Pex
8-Pac
The Dude
Roids
Hernia
Tanorexia
‘Stache
Homeland Security
Mr. Jiggles (The Clown, obviously)
Hangnail
Peroxide
Atomic Wedgie
Botox
The Clap
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Thank you Pop Candy!
I wanted to say a quick thanks to Whitney and the Pop Candy readers for stopping by my blog. Now that I know that I have greater readership than just my college roomie (hi Sarah!), my L.A. buddy Ethan (hi Cush!) and my aunt (hi Nancy!) I will start posting with a bit more urgency! Stay tuned for my next post, live to you from Metamora, Illinois (don't know exactly where that is? yeah, me either.)
I'll post soon! Thanks again for making me the reader of the day, Whit! My 15 minutes of internet fame was delicious!
I'll post soon! Thanks again for making me the reader of the day, Whit! My 15 minutes of internet fame was delicious!
Monday, December 17, 2007
A word from our sponsors
A few years back I blogged about my dislike for some of the products that companies like to hawk for Valentines day, namely, hideous heart-shaped jewelry that should have been taken off the production line around the time that Back to the Future Part II came out. (Speaking of which, where the hell is my hover conversion, Doc?) Well, my animosity for that stupid cupid-inspired necklace pales in comparison to the harsh feelings I am currently harboring. Before I delve into my current complaints, let me give you a little bit of background.
I have Tivo. I love my Tivo. I love my Tivo a little too much. And I am sure that if you have a Tivo, you understand where I am coming from. I was not an early adopter of the Tivo. I laughed and scoffed and belittled those who were so television obsessed that they had to purchase this pricey device to record live TV. "How frivilous!" I thought. But then, upon my move to Chicago, I was told by the nice customer service agent at Direct TV that I could have a Tivo box for free with my service, and all I had to do was pay a few extra dollars a month for the package. Seemed simple and harmless enough, also, I was entering into my first full time job in the real world and I smartly realized that I may not be able to do normal things like catch Gilmore Girls in real time as it was airing anymore. "This is a sensible decision." I congratulated myself.
Well, if you have a Tivo, you know what happened next. First it was The West Wing marathon Mondays on Bravo. Then it was the Daily Show which I had always been meaning to start watching. Then it was episodes of One Tree Hill that I could fast forward through looking for any appearances by Lee Norris. Then it was the old episodes of Gilmore Girls that ran as reruns on ABC family in ADDITION to the new episodes on the WB. Not to mention the stand by must see's like Lost and 24, and new shows that normally I never would have had time to consider, but hey! They were recording all by themselves! No pressure.
I was addicted. And it was glorious.
Now another fantastic side effect of Tivo addiction is that you don't have to watch commercials anymore, obviously a plus. But there is a hidden, nasty side effect that no one bothers to tell you about.... on the rare occasions that you actually watch live TV, the commercials become absolutely intolerable. Never before had I realized how many gratingly terrible commercials there are on the air. I find that it is somewhat comparable to living in a city like Los Angeles or Chicago that has smoke free bars and then coming home to North Carolina and realizing just how stomach churning and putrid it is to spend your evening standing in a cloud of second hand smoke. Now, this has brought me back around to the original purpose of this post: to bitch about some truly horrendous commercials. I have a feeling that this is a list that may grow in its scope on a daily basis, so this may be just the beginning of a truly epic rant.
Here it goes:
"Brain Training" video games for aging adults.
You know the one. Two men with their wives meet on the street. "Honey, this is Bill, we went to high school together!" "Oh yeah, honey this is uh... uh...uh... uh... uh... uh... uh..." That ear splitting echo effect while the dufus just stands their with his mouth hanging open. First of all, any good spouse would jump right in and introduce herself and save her husband the humiliation of standing there slack jawed, secondly, these video games are nonsense. Have you seen the other one that supposedly trains your periphreal vision? Because obviously the best way to train the outer corners of your visual field is to stare at a 3 inch screen that is right in front of your face. Unless you decide to actually hold your gameboy out to the side of your head and try to play the game, you aren't doing jack for your periphrial vision. End o' story. Then there is the one with the elementary math problems that flash across the screen followed by the haunting computerized face of a man asking "Does looking at these numbers give you a headache?" No, but your creepy face just gave me nightmares.
Related Offenses: Miracle drugs with a fake doctor wearing a lab coat who vouches for their medically proven effectiveness. Aside from being total crap, these commercials truly concern me as there are plenty of people in this country who need serious medical help but are afraid to seek it, and instead spend hundreds of dollars ordering "miracle" drugs off of the television and probably endanger their health even further. Also, any doctor worth his degree would never go on a commercial to lend their name to a product like this. If they truly did support it they would just tell their patients about it one on one, as a doctor recommendation.
Any commercial featuring a man being overly proud of himself for purchasing a "Journey" diamond necklace, or any woman who looks touched and honored to have received one.
Yes, this complaint is similarily related to my hatred for the heart pendant, but actually, I think this one is worse. A Journey diamond necklace is made up of, typically, SEVEN diamonds. Seven whole, sparkly diamonds arranged in one soul-chewing DNA-strand shape. There are SO MANY ways that those seven diamonds could be put to better use. SEVEN! DIAMONDS! AT least one or two of which are actually quite large in size! Those poor diamonds could have been made into beautiful stud earrings and a three-stone ring and STILL had diamonds left over. They could have adorned a simple, thin cuff bracelet. They would even have been better off as a brooch. But instead, they met the fate of so many other diamonds... destined only to be set inside a cliche of affection. If that weren't bad enough, there are at least two commercials per jeweler on the air RIGHT NOW that do nothing but extol the perfection of this incredibly unattractive piece of jewelry. Men, slapping high five on their way out of a Kay Jewelers, Journey necklace safely inside their little Kay bag. Man, declaring "surrender" to the snowball attack by his wife and kids by waving the jewelry bag from behind a bush, causing his wife to weaken in the knees ( in her defense, she didn't know what was inside the bag. She might have been hoping for that cuff bracelet). I could go on, but it is just too depressing to chronicle all the many different instances in which this truly terrible jewelry design has been exalted.
Related offenses: "He went to JARED!" - enough said.
TJ Maxx "Moment" commercials
These are the commercials featuring a woman being so overcome with joy about the deal she just got on some last season designer clothes that she inappropriately blurts out her accomplishment of frugality in front of an audience of people who don't give a crap. There is several things wrong with these commercials. First of all, all women know that the true joy that one experiences upon finding a great deal is contingent upon people thinking that you paid full price. There is nothing more satisfying that hearing someone say "Oh my gosh, great bag!" and you saying, "Thanks! I snagged it on clearance at Target and it has become one of my favorites!" Not only does this make you seem style saavy and money-smart, it makes the complimenter instantly envious that something they just sincerely coveted was as cheap as it is adorable. Some women are even known not to ever reveal that they got something discounted, no matter how many people ask "Where did you get that!" They do this not out of shame but so that they and they alone can revel in the pleasure of knowing they scored such a find. But no woman, and I mean NO woman would ever PRE-announce that something was super cheap before anyone has had the chance to tell her that they like it. That is like telling your boss that you had a hangover and therefore only spent 15 minutes working on the presentation you are about to give, eliminating any chance that someone is going to be impressed, but increasing your chances of someone looking at your presentation and saying, "Well, yes, that looks like you spent about 15 minutes on it after waking up face down in the bathroom." If you tell someone that you got something cheap or off season, that is what they will see when they look at it, and therefore you have to take any compliments that come after such an admission to be total lies.
Related offense: Have you ever noticed the reaction from the other people who have to bear witness to the crazy lady freaking out over her cheap clothes? There are two versions of this commercial that I have seen, one with a classroom full of children and one with an auditorium full of adults trying to watch their children's christmas pageant. In both instances, the sea of faces looking up at the bat-shit nuts woman all have the expression of total disbelief, disinterest, and/or total embarassment for the apparent fit of insanity that she seems to be experiencing. Now, call me crazy, but if I was trying to advertise how awesome my discounted prices are, I would ask that the reaction from the crowd in the commercials be one of elation, excitement or at least feigned interest, wouldn't you?
The Yoplait "Dieter Desserts" commercial
This is the little diddy featuring the woman who would like to have all her pants taken in at the waist because of all "desserts" she has been indulging in. The premise could have been tolerable - white chocolate strawberries and apple turnovers that make you skinny! oh ha ha! how clever! - except for the fact that they decided to make it into a running joke that goes on interminably. "So you mean you want your pants let out?" "No, in." "You mean out." "No, in." "I don't understand." "Take them in." "But you said." "I want them taken in." JESUS woman! Just tell her you were talking about yogurt! The joke has died! You killed it. Repeatedly.
Related offense: If you are craving a hot apple turnover from McDonalds, a 80-calorie container of artificially flavored yogurt is not going to help you. It will, however, leave a really nasty aftertaste of aspartame in your mouth, which in order to get rid of it, you will have to eat at least two other things to cancel out the flavor. Sorry to destroy the dream.
You would be shocked, and I imagine somewhat disturbed, to know how many other commercials I could go on about in this post. For your sake, and my sanity, I will stop here. But rest assured that I will be keeping my eye out for more offenses of the advertising variety, and I may even keep my finger off the fast forward button on my Tivo just for funsies.
I have Tivo. I love my Tivo. I love my Tivo a little too much. And I am sure that if you have a Tivo, you understand where I am coming from. I was not an early adopter of the Tivo. I laughed and scoffed and belittled those who were so television obsessed that they had to purchase this pricey device to record live TV. "How frivilous!" I thought. But then, upon my move to Chicago, I was told by the nice customer service agent at Direct TV that I could have a Tivo box for free with my service, and all I had to do was pay a few extra dollars a month for the package. Seemed simple and harmless enough, also, I was entering into my first full time job in the real world and I smartly realized that I may not be able to do normal things like catch Gilmore Girls in real time as it was airing anymore. "This is a sensible decision." I congratulated myself.
Well, if you have a Tivo, you know what happened next. First it was The West Wing marathon Mondays on Bravo. Then it was the Daily Show which I had always been meaning to start watching. Then it was episodes of One Tree Hill that I could fast forward through looking for any appearances by Lee Norris. Then it was the old episodes of Gilmore Girls that ran as reruns on ABC family in ADDITION to the new episodes on the WB. Not to mention the stand by must see's like Lost and 24, and new shows that normally I never would have had time to consider, but hey! They were recording all by themselves! No pressure.
I was addicted. And it was glorious.
Now another fantastic side effect of Tivo addiction is that you don't have to watch commercials anymore, obviously a plus. But there is a hidden, nasty side effect that no one bothers to tell you about.... on the rare occasions that you actually watch live TV, the commercials become absolutely intolerable. Never before had I realized how many gratingly terrible commercials there are on the air. I find that it is somewhat comparable to living in a city like Los Angeles or Chicago that has smoke free bars and then coming home to North Carolina and realizing just how stomach churning and putrid it is to spend your evening standing in a cloud of second hand smoke. Now, this has brought me back around to the original purpose of this post: to bitch about some truly horrendous commercials. I have a feeling that this is a list that may grow in its scope on a daily basis, so this may be just the beginning of a truly epic rant.
Here it goes:
"Brain Training" video games for aging adults.
You know the one. Two men with their wives meet on the street. "Honey, this is Bill, we went to high school together!" "Oh yeah, honey this is uh... uh...uh... uh... uh... uh... uh..." That ear splitting echo effect while the dufus just stands their with his mouth hanging open. First of all, any good spouse would jump right in and introduce herself and save her husband the humiliation of standing there slack jawed, secondly, these video games are nonsense. Have you seen the other one that supposedly trains your periphreal vision? Because obviously the best way to train the outer corners of your visual field is to stare at a 3 inch screen that is right in front of your face. Unless you decide to actually hold your gameboy out to the side of your head and try to play the game, you aren't doing jack for your periphrial vision. End o' story. Then there is the one with the elementary math problems that flash across the screen followed by the haunting computerized face of a man asking "Does looking at these numbers give you a headache?" No, but your creepy face just gave me nightmares.
Related Offenses: Miracle drugs with a fake doctor wearing a lab coat who vouches for their medically proven effectiveness. Aside from being total crap, these commercials truly concern me as there are plenty of people in this country who need serious medical help but are afraid to seek it, and instead spend hundreds of dollars ordering "miracle" drugs off of the television and probably endanger their health even further. Also, any doctor worth his degree would never go on a commercial to lend their name to a product like this. If they truly did support it they would just tell their patients about it one on one, as a doctor recommendation.
Any commercial featuring a man being overly proud of himself for purchasing a "Journey" diamond necklace, or any woman who looks touched and honored to have received one.
Yes, this complaint is similarily related to my hatred for the heart pendant, but actually, I think this one is worse. A Journey diamond necklace is made up of, typically, SEVEN diamonds. Seven whole, sparkly diamonds arranged in one soul-chewing DNA-strand shape. There are SO MANY ways that those seven diamonds could be put to better use. SEVEN! DIAMONDS! AT least one or two of which are actually quite large in size! Those poor diamonds could have been made into beautiful stud earrings and a three-stone ring and STILL had diamonds left over. They could have adorned a simple, thin cuff bracelet. They would even have been better off as a brooch. But instead, they met the fate of so many other diamonds... destined only to be set inside a cliche of affection. If that weren't bad enough, there are at least two commercials per jeweler on the air RIGHT NOW that do nothing but extol the perfection of this incredibly unattractive piece of jewelry. Men, slapping high five on their way out of a Kay Jewelers, Journey necklace safely inside their little Kay bag. Man, declaring "surrender" to the snowball attack by his wife and kids by waving the jewelry bag from behind a bush, causing his wife to weaken in the knees ( in her defense, she didn't know what was inside the bag. She might have been hoping for that cuff bracelet). I could go on, but it is just too depressing to chronicle all the many different instances in which this truly terrible jewelry design has been exalted.
Related offenses: "He went to JARED!" - enough said.
TJ Maxx "Moment" commercials
These are the commercials featuring a woman being so overcome with joy about the deal she just got on some last season designer clothes that she inappropriately blurts out her accomplishment of frugality in front of an audience of people who don't give a crap. There is several things wrong with these commercials. First of all, all women know that the true joy that one experiences upon finding a great deal is contingent upon people thinking that you paid full price. There is nothing more satisfying that hearing someone say "Oh my gosh, great bag!" and you saying, "Thanks! I snagged it on clearance at Target and it has become one of my favorites!" Not only does this make you seem style saavy and money-smart, it makes the complimenter instantly envious that something they just sincerely coveted was as cheap as it is adorable. Some women are even known not to ever reveal that they got something discounted, no matter how many people ask "Where did you get that!" They do this not out of shame but so that they and they alone can revel in the pleasure of knowing they scored such a find. But no woman, and I mean NO woman would ever PRE-announce that something was super cheap before anyone has had the chance to tell her that they like it. That is like telling your boss that you had a hangover and therefore only spent 15 minutes working on the presentation you are about to give, eliminating any chance that someone is going to be impressed, but increasing your chances of someone looking at your presentation and saying, "Well, yes, that looks like you spent about 15 minutes on it after waking up face down in the bathroom." If you tell someone that you got something cheap or off season, that is what they will see when they look at it, and therefore you have to take any compliments that come after such an admission to be total lies.
Related offense: Have you ever noticed the reaction from the other people who have to bear witness to the crazy lady freaking out over her cheap clothes? There are two versions of this commercial that I have seen, one with a classroom full of children and one with an auditorium full of adults trying to watch their children's christmas pageant. In both instances, the sea of faces looking up at the bat-shit nuts woman all have the expression of total disbelief, disinterest, and/or total embarassment for the apparent fit of insanity that she seems to be experiencing. Now, call me crazy, but if I was trying to advertise how awesome my discounted prices are, I would ask that the reaction from the crowd in the commercials be one of elation, excitement or at least feigned interest, wouldn't you?
The Yoplait "Dieter Desserts" commercial
This is the little diddy featuring the woman who would like to have all her pants taken in at the waist because of all "desserts" she has been indulging in. The premise could have been tolerable - white chocolate strawberries and apple turnovers that make you skinny! oh ha ha! how clever! - except for the fact that they decided to make it into a running joke that goes on interminably. "So you mean you want your pants let out?" "No, in." "You mean out." "No, in." "I don't understand." "Take them in." "But you said." "I want them taken in." JESUS woman! Just tell her you were talking about yogurt! The joke has died! You killed it. Repeatedly.
Related offense: If you are craving a hot apple turnover from McDonalds, a 80-calorie container of artificially flavored yogurt is not going to help you. It will, however, leave a really nasty aftertaste of aspartame in your mouth, which in order to get rid of it, you will have to eat at least two other things to cancel out the flavor. Sorry to destroy the dream.
You would be shocked, and I imagine somewhat disturbed, to know how many other commercials I could go on about in this post. For your sake, and my sanity, I will stop here. But rest assured that I will be keeping my eye out for more offenses of the advertising variety, and I may even keep my finger off the fast forward button on my Tivo just for funsies.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
A Christmas Miracle Come Early
I can't whistle.
It is (one of) my secret shame(s).
My dad can whistle any tune in two part harmony. My mom can do that really loud finger whistle thing that can be heard for three square miles. My brother, who used to be similarly afflicted with a lack of whistling ability actually sat down and TAUGHT himself to whistle and is now on his way to pro status. I can't produce anything except this pathetic, anemic, "mostly just sounds like breathing through a small hole" type sound. It is truly a sad sound to behold. I am convinced it has something to do with my remarkably small, and strongly attached tongue (see, I do have more than one secret shame).
Then came the miracle.
The other day, on my way home from the vet's office, I was waiting in the right hand turn lane for the road that leads to my house and I was attempting to do to the "sexy girl" wolf whistle (Why? I don't know). It was my usual pathetic display until the light turned green, and something truly incredible happened. I could whistle. Strong and clear and exactly the right notes. My lips were curled with perfection. Just the right amount of moisture and dryness. The right amount of pucker. (This sounds a little gross, but it is all true). This magical confluence of whistling talents lasted exactly 90 seconds. Just long enough for me to turn on Hwy 51, wait at another red light, and turn onto Fullwood Ln. And just as quickly as it came... it was gone again. I turned into our neighborhood, and with one last gasp, my whistling prowess died in the wind, and all I was left with was the sad sound of soundless, tuneless, talentless oxygen being forced through my lips. But in those 90 seconds I experienced a thrill unlike any other. I mastered the sexy whistle and quickly moved on to other songs I had always wished I could whistle, like "Happy Birthday", "My Girl" and (inexplicably) "Achy Breaky Heart". It was pure magic.
Of course, since that day, I have been whistling in the car non-stop, trying to recreate those perfect circumstances and rediscover my "sweet spot". All I have achieved is the subsequent chapping and cramping of my lips, and the permanent lodging of "Achy Breaky Heart" in my brain.
Perhaps this year I will ask Santa to bring me the ability to whistle. He still owes me from Christmas 1987 when I asked him to bring me magical powers in a glowling Glenda the Good Witch-type orb that I would somehow absorb inside myself and thus be imbued with said powers. All I got was as sparkly purple scooter and a white tutu with pink rosettes sewn on the skirt, which obviously was not that shabby of a runner up prize, but still.
Happy Holidays kiddos. Give thanks for those you love... and, if you've got it, the ability to whistle whenever the whim strikes you. For that is truly a beautiful thing.
It is (one of) my secret shame(s).
My dad can whistle any tune in two part harmony. My mom can do that really loud finger whistle thing that can be heard for three square miles. My brother, who used to be similarly afflicted with a lack of whistling ability actually sat down and TAUGHT himself to whistle and is now on his way to pro status. I can't produce anything except this pathetic, anemic, "mostly just sounds like breathing through a small hole" type sound. It is truly a sad sound to behold. I am convinced it has something to do with my remarkably small, and strongly attached tongue (see, I do have more than one secret shame).
Then came the miracle.
The other day, on my way home from the vet's office, I was waiting in the right hand turn lane for the road that leads to my house and I was attempting to do to the "sexy girl" wolf whistle (Why? I don't know). It was my usual pathetic display until the light turned green, and something truly incredible happened. I could whistle. Strong and clear and exactly the right notes. My lips were curled with perfection. Just the right amount of moisture and dryness. The right amount of pucker. (This sounds a little gross, but it is all true). This magical confluence of whistling talents lasted exactly 90 seconds. Just long enough for me to turn on Hwy 51, wait at another red light, and turn onto Fullwood Ln. And just as quickly as it came... it was gone again. I turned into our neighborhood, and with one last gasp, my whistling prowess died in the wind, and all I was left with was the sad sound of soundless, tuneless, talentless oxygen being forced through my lips. But in those 90 seconds I experienced a thrill unlike any other. I mastered the sexy whistle and quickly moved on to other songs I had always wished I could whistle, like "Happy Birthday", "My Girl" and (inexplicably) "Achy Breaky Heart". It was pure magic.
Of course, since that day, I have been whistling in the car non-stop, trying to recreate those perfect circumstances and rediscover my "sweet spot". All I have achieved is the subsequent chapping and cramping of my lips, and the permanent lodging of "Achy Breaky Heart" in my brain.
Perhaps this year I will ask Santa to bring me the ability to whistle. He still owes me from Christmas 1987 when I asked him to bring me magical powers in a glowling Glenda the Good Witch-type orb that I would somehow absorb inside myself and thus be imbued with said powers. All I got was as sparkly purple scooter and a white tutu with pink rosettes sewn on the skirt, which obviously was not that shabby of a runner up prize, but still.
Happy Holidays kiddos. Give thanks for those you love... and, if you've got it, the ability to whistle whenever the whim strikes you. For that is truly a beautiful thing.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Guilt Tripping
Well, nothing will inspire a girl to blog better than feeling guilty about not blogging.
My dear friend and anglophile Sarah actually had time to leave the blogging community (officially, for job-related reasons) and come back, meanwhile I, who have not officially abandoned the blogosphere at all, haven't posted since before last Christmas. That is just flat out humiliating. Especially when you consider the fact that since last December I managed to get myself engaged, and I have been planning a wedding.... ripe territory just begging to be blogged.
So, here I am. Atoning for my sins and hoping that you will be so kind as to welcome me back. I will try to make it worth your while.
Since I am blogging in earnest to win back your respect as a reader, I might as well air some random thoughts I have been having recently:
Have you noticed how many inanimate objects can TALK to you these days? Before it just used to be creepy dolls (helloooo Teddy Ruxpin), but now, just about everything can talk to you. Having a car that sharpens its tone to inform you that you have made a wrong turn is scary enough, but recently I have noticed that it is more than just my GPS that can be gabby. My blackberry will occasionally outburst from my purse "Give Verbal Command!" It wants me to talk back to it... that is a line I am not willing to cross. I never have. I saw iRobot. I know how this ends. The only exception I have been forced to make is the automated phone systems that actually hear and understand your voice and react accordingly. I recently renewed my health insurance coverage without speaking to a single human. I had a 45 minute conversation with a computer program that was answering my questions flawlessly. I had a solid case of the heebie jeebies for at least two hours afterward, but I'll be damned if it wasn't one of the most efficiently customer service experiences I've ever had. But perhaps even more disturbing than the fact that all these objects and machines can talk and apparently comprehend my voice as well is the fact that they speak with increasingly more human voices. I remember the days of ancient PC programs that would awkwardly stutter out whatever syllables that you typed into it. That was all good, clean, robot fun. But a few months ago, an elevator in Washington D.C. announced to me that I had reached the 12th floor and I swear, hand to heaven, "she" said it like a woman in the mist of romantic ecstasy. "I am imagining things," I told myself as I made my way to the room. A few hours later, I took the same elevator back to the ground floor. "You have reached the L-ahh-bee", she purred. I blushed. The guy beside me giggled. Something about this whole thing is decidedly not okay.
I used to make fun of "crazy cat ladies". I used that hackneyed nickname as a punch line just like everyone else does. But I have recently come to realize that there is a VERY fine line between "Crazy Cat Lady" and.... me. I have two cats. I just had one, but I decided he was lonely so I adopted him a friend. I stalked these two new buddies incessantly, hiding behind doorways with a camera, just waiting for that moment when they would finally curl up on the bed together for a snuggle and I could capture the incredible cuteness on film. And capture it I did. I now have more duo-kitten cuddle photos than I will ever admit to... and I still feel compelled to take more. I have given both of my cats full names. First, middle and last. All of which are imbued with great meaning. Additionally, I have furthered their identities by composing for each of them an entirely unique "Theme Song" which I will sometimes perform whenever I feel that they are doing something (drinking water, batting at a balled up sock) that I think would benefit from a bit of a jaunty soundtrack. I may have also sent emails to other peoples pets and written them from the perspective of one of my cats. They are both good writers. Sawyer is the more sarcastic of the two. Marty is charmingly innocent, but unknowingly wise. SEE LISTEN TO ME!!!! You know that thin, thin, thin line I was talking about between me and Crazy Cat Lady???? I think I crossed it a while back but I have been mentally moving the line in my own mind... justifying my behavior in comparison to what I think is totally unacceptable crazy cat lady behavior. "Well," I think, "At least I don't wear clothes covered in cat hair without realizing it." Days later I discover that a the lampshades on both of my bedside tables have a thin coating of black hairs. The lampshades. That neither cat has ever been near. Do you understand what this means? This means that the hair is IN THE AIR. It is just there. Floating around. I officially hate myself. But not my babies. No. Mr. Sawyer Gobias Meowsky and Mr. Martin Neville Meowsky are totally innocent. Please make sure someone takes care of them when the men in white coats come to take me away to the sad little land where they send all the other Crazy Cat Ladies.
Alright. I have blogged long enough. I now need to go change clothes (preferably into something hair-free) and head out to a meeting. If this blog could talk, it would say "Thank you for reading." (God, please tell me this blog can't talk. I don't think I could handle it.)
My dear friend and anglophile Sarah actually had time to leave the blogging community (officially, for job-related reasons) and come back, meanwhile I, who have not officially abandoned the blogosphere at all, haven't posted since before last Christmas. That is just flat out humiliating. Especially when you consider the fact that since last December I managed to get myself engaged, and I have been planning a wedding.... ripe territory just begging to be blogged.
So, here I am. Atoning for my sins and hoping that you will be so kind as to welcome me back. I will try to make it worth your while.
Since I am blogging in earnest to win back your respect as a reader, I might as well air some random thoughts I have been having recently:
Have you noticed how many inanimate objects can TALK to you these days? Before it just used to be creepy dolls (helloooo Teddy Ruxpin), but now, just about everything can talk to you. Having a car that sharpens its tone to inform you that you have made a wrong turn is scary enough, but recently I have noticed that it is more than just my GPS that can be gabby. My blackberry will occasionally outburst from my purse "Give Verbal Command!" It wants me to talk back to it... that is a line I am not willing to cross. I never have. I saw iRobot. I know how this ends. The only exception I have been forced to make is the automated phone systems that actually hear and understand your voice and react accordingly. I recently renewed my health insurance coverage without speaking to a single human. I had a 45 minute conversation with a computer program that was answering my questions flawlessly. I had a solid case of the heebie jeebies for at least two hours afterward, but I'll be damned if it wasn't one of the most efficiently customer service experiences I've ever had. But perhaps even more disturbing than the fact that all these objects and machines can talk and apparently comprehend my voice as well is the fact that they speak with increasingly more human voices. I remember the days of ancient PC programs that would awkwardly stutter out whatever syllables that you typed into it. That was all good, clean, robot fun. But a few months ago, an elevator in Washington D.C. announced to me that I had reached the 12th floor and I swear, hand to heaven, "she" said it like a woman in the mist of romantic ecstasy. "I am imagining things," I told myself as I made my way to the room. A few hours later, I took the same elevator back to the ground floor. "You have reached the L-ahh-bee", she purred. I blushed. The guy beside me giggled. Something about this whole thing is decidedly not okay.
I used to make fun of "crazy cat ladies". I used that hackneyed nickname as a punch line just like everyone else does. But I have recently come to realize that there is a VERY fine line between "Crazy Cat Lady" and.... me. I have two cats. I just had one, but I decided he was lonely so I adopted him a friend. I stalked these two new buddies incessantly, hiding behind doorways with a camera, just waiting for that moment when they would finally curl up on the bed together for a snuggle and I could capture the incredible cuteness on film. And capture it I did. I now have more duo-kitten cuddle photos than I will ever admit to... and I still feel compelled to take more. I have given both of my cats full names. First, middle and last. All of which are imbued with great meaning. Additionally, I have furthered their identities by composing for each of them an entirely unique "Theme Song" which I will sometimes perform whenever I feel that they are doing something (drinking water, batting at a balled up sock) that I think would benefit from a bit of a jaunty soundtrack. I may have also sent emails to other peoples pets and written them from the perspective of one of my cats. They are both good writers. Sawyer is the more sarcastic of the two. Marty is charmingly innocent, but unknowingly wise. SEE LISTEN TO ME!!!! You know that thin, thin, thin line I was talking about between me and Crazy Cat Lady???? I think I crossed it a while back but I have been mentally moving the line in my own mind... justifying my behavior in comparison to what I think is totally unacceptable crazy cat lady behavior. "Well," I think, "At least I don't wear clothes covered in cat hair without realizing it." Days later I discover that a the lampshades on both of my bedside tables have a thin coating of black hairs. The lampshades. That neither cat has ever been near. Do you understand what this means? This means that the hair is IN THE AIR. It is just there. Floating around. I officially hate myself. But not my babies. No. Mr. Sawyer Gobias Meowsky and Mr. Martin Neville Meowsky are totally innocent. Please make sure someone takes care of them when the men in white coats come to take me away to the sad little land where they send all the other Crazy Cat Ladies.
Alright. I have blogged long enough. I now need to go change clothes (preferably into something hair-free) and head out to a meeting. If this blog could talk, it would say "Thank you for reading." (God, please tell me this blog can't talk. I don't think I could handle it.)
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Maternal Instinct
Well folks, it's official.
I am becoming my mother.
As any CBS family sitcom or Cathy comic strip will tell you, this is a fate that eventually befalls all women. And, like most things in life, it has it's upsides and its downsides. Since my mother will likely read this (she is very supportive of me as a writer), I will start with the not-so-good stuff and work my way up.
Thus, I present to you...
The Downsides
1) I buy lemons for no discernable reason.
Until recently, I only had the desire to buy a lemon about once a year. Usually to have on hand for Coronas, and even then it would sit in the crisper until it got soft and (on rare occasions) fuzzy. Now I find myself gathering up near-bushels of those tart little suckers without so much as an inkling as to what their purpose will be. This is not a habit one randomly aquires, it is something that has to be learned. I learned it from the woman who practically has an entire fridge reserved for "you just never know" citrus fruits.
2) I have found actual uses for the copious amounts of lemons I buy.
About a week ago I sauted fresh green beans with lemon-pepper herbs (which I also bought for no discernible reason) and squeezed a fresh lemon over top of them.
A few days after that I put half a lemon down the disposal to freshen its odor.
Then, I may or may not have filled a hurricane vase with lemons as a kicky centerpiece.
3) My gift wrapping this year has a "theme".
Apparently I have very strong feelings about wrapping paper. This year I find myself utterly devoted to a sort of quasi-DYI theme of simple brown and red paper with sponge painted holly stamps and big, ivory cardstock tags. Now, given I haven't actually executed any of this yet. But today I did spend several hundred dollars at target buying the paper. I also bought bulk floral stems to fashion myself a tree topper. Also, while we are on the subject of inexplicable domesticity, my former hatred of Rachel Ray has morphed into what can only be described as begrudging respect and tentative acceptance. Just let that thought "hang out" for a quick minute.
4) My driving ability is deterorating at a vastly exponetial rate.
Now, I did my fair share of complaning about driving when I lived in LA and in Chicago (see entries below for proof of that bitchery). I truly thought that my behind-the-wheel anxiety was a result of my stressful surroundings. Apprently that was a load of crap. Because here I am, back in Charlotte, North Carolina, where I rarely traverse off of three main roads, I park in my very own driveway in front of my house, and parallel parking is virtually extinct. I should be golden, right? And yet.... no. During the short six months that I have lived here I have managed to dent my hood, scrape paint off my rear bumper, back into my neighbor's SUV and narrowly escaped death pulling out of the school parking lot while my coworker screamed in terror. All of you had better hope that teleport-technolgy is on the front burner for the world's scientists, because by the time I am my mother's age I will be a bonafide public menace.
5) I am a compulsive counter-wiper.
The other day I sprayed and wiped-down my glass-top stove WHILE MY DINNER WAS STILL COOKING. Not only did I burn a paper towel onto the stove surface, I also gave my brown rice a not-so-subtle Lemon-Piney Fresh flavor. I must be stopped.
Now... lets talk about a few of
The Upsides:
1) My house looks amazing for the holidays.
Due to my mothers excellent guidence, my house is a warm, inviting, christmas wonderland filled with tasteful garland, bright red berries, expertly looped ribbons and artfully arranged pine cones. I can't help but smile everytime I walk in the front door. This is what a home is supposed to feel like.
2) I am an expert gift-giver.
This year I have hit my own personal record of gift ideas that are clever, meaningful and creative. I wouldn't even call them gifts. I would dare call them "tone-poems". My gifts have themes and auras. And I have managed to do it all without dipping into my savings account. This deserves a medal. Or a present. I'd prefer a present.
3) I have a scent.
One of my mom's greatest qualities is her smell. Actual strangers have asked her if it would be okay to lean in for a sniff. She is downright addictive. And now, after three and a half years wearing my signature scent ( Happy Heart) I can officially say that i am following in her fragrant footsteps. I can only hope that my spell is nearly half as comforting and enchanting as my mother's.
You all know me... have you noticed any other ways that I am like my mom? Feel free to share.
In the meantime, stop me if I ever try to force feed you without consent. (Just kidding Mommy).
I am becoming my mother.
As any CBS family sitcom or Cathy comic strip will tell you, this is a fate that eventually befalls all women. And, like most things in life, it has it's upsides and its downsides. Since my mother will likely read this (she is very supportive of me as a writer), I will start with the not-so-good stuff and work my way up.
Thus, I present to you...
The Downsides
1) I buy lemons for no discernable reason.
Until recently, I only had the desire to buy a lemon about once a year. Usually to have on hand for Coronas, and even then it would sit in the crisper until it got soft and (on rare occasions) fuzzy. Now I find myself gathering up near-bushels of those tart little suckers without so much as an inkling as to what their purpose will be. This is not a habit one randomly aquires, it is something that has to be learned. I learned it from the woman who practically has an entire fridge reserved for "you just never know" citrus fruits.
2) I have found actual uses for the copious amounts of lemons I buy.
About a week ago I sauted fresh green beans with lemon-pepper herbs (which I also bought for no discernible reason) and squeezed a fresh lemon over top of them.
A few days after that I put half a lemon down the disposal to freshen its odor.
Then, I may or may not have filled a hurricane vase with lemons as a kicky centerpiece.
3) My gift wrapping this year has a "theme".
Apparently I have very strong feelings about wrapping paper. This year I find myself utterly devoted to a sort of quasi-DYI theme of simple brown and red paper with sponge painted holly stamps and big, ivory cardstock tags. Now, given I haven't actually executed any of this yet. But today I did spend several hundred dollars at target buying the paper. I also bought bulk floral stems to fashion myself a tree topper. Also, while we are on the subject of inexplicable domesticity, my former hatred of Rachel Ray has morphed into what can only be described as begrudging respect and tentative acceptance. Just let that thought "hang out" for a quick minute.
4) My driving ability is deterorating at a vastly exponetial rate.
Now, I did my fair share of complaning about driving when I lived in LA and in Chicago (see entries below for proof of that bitchery). I truly thought that my behind-the-wheel anxiety was a result of my stressful surroundings. Apprently that was a load of crap. Because here I am, back in Charlotte, North Carolina, where I rarely traverse off of three main roads, I park in my very own driveway in front of my house, and parallel parking is virtually extinct. I should be golden, right? And yet.... no. During the short six months that I have lived here I have managed to dent my hood, scrape paint off my rear bumper, back into my neighbor's SUV and narrowly escaped death pulling out of the school parking lot while my coworker screamed in terror. All of you had better hope that teleport-technolgy is on the front burner for the world's scientists, because by the time I am my mother's age I will be a bonafide public menace.
5) I am a compulsive counter-wiper.
The other day I sprayed and wiped-down my glass-top stove WHILE MY DINNER WAS STILL COOKING. Not only did I burn a paper towel onto the stove surface, I also gave my brown rice a not-so-subtle Lemon-Piney Fresh flavor. I must be stopped.
Now... lets talk about a few of
The Upsides:
1) My house looks amazing for the holidays.
Due to my mothers excellent guidence, my house is a warm, inviting, christmas wonderland filled with tasteful garland, bright red berries, expertly looped ribbons and artfully arranged pine cones. I can't help but smile everytime I walk in the front door. This is what a home is supposed to feel like.
2) I am an expert gift-giver.
This year I have hit my own personal record of gift ideas that are clever, meaningful and creative. I wouldn't even call them gifts. I would dare call them "tone-poems". My gifts have themes and auras. And I have managed to do it all without dipping into my savings account. This deserves a medal. Or a present. I'd prefer a present.
3) I have a scent.
One of my mom's greatest qualities is her smell. Actual strangers have asked her if it would be okay to lean in for a sniff. She is downright addictive. And now, after three and a half years wearing my signature scent ( Happy Heart) I can officially say that i am following in her fragrant footsteps. I can only hope that my spell is nearly half as comforting and enchanting as my mother's.
You all know me... have you noticed any other ways that I am like my mom? Feel free to share.
In the meantime, stop me if I ever try to force feed you without consent. (Just kidding Mommy).
Friday, June 16, 2006
Chicago: A Retrospective
Well Chicago. ‘Twas fun while it lasted.
But if you’ll excuse me, the land of sweet tea and salty (not sweet) cornbread is calling me home. At least for now.
Here are a few final thoughts on things I will miss about this Midwestern Metropolis:
1) Our perfect apartment. Original Victorian walls and crown moldings. A huge kitchen. Hard wood floors. All for under $1200 a month.
2) Filter’s sweet potato fries. Seriously. How did I ever exist without them? I wonder if I can make them myself. It wouldn’t be the same. Like trying to make Frosty’s yourself, right Mr. Deeds?
3) The shopping. It has been ages since I actually shopped in a mall. Yes, the mall offers a degree of convienence that neighborhood boutique style shopping does not… but where is the charm I ask you? Where is the character? Where is the money I need to do any of this shopping? Where is THAT I ask you? No, seriously. Where am I going to get money. I just left a full time job. Oh god. What have I done.
4) Time Out. I will miss you. Working for Time Out fulfilled a dream I have had since I was 14 years old. I know! How cute is that! Why am I leaving again?
5) Oh right. The buses. The trains. The stink. The dirt. The angry old women and the loud screaming babies. Bring on the “rush hour” of Charlotte traffic and the wide expanses of easy to maneuver parking lots in front of every store and establishment. God help me if I never have to parallel park again.
6) The weather. Good riddance. Stupid big puffy coat. Stupid boots. Hmm actually I kinda liked the boots. And scarves, I like scarves. But you, coat that I had to actually depress the air out of in order to zip it up, you are stupid and you can stay in the closet for many winters to come.
7) How did this become a list of things I won’t miss? Let me try to get back on track: The plethora of culture. Yes, truth be known I never actually went to any art museums or movies in the park or concerts while I lived here. But I did drive by them. And heard about them on the news each morning. And just knowing that such culture is just outside your door makes you feel… superior somehow. Guess I am back to being a rube.
8) Oh sweet jesus the Sweet Potato Fries.
9) The Whole Foods, because where I am moving, there isn’t one. WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM CHARLOTTE? Winston salem managed it, why can’t you?
10) The Parks. I had big plans to get a dog and take him to the park for walks and to play fetch with a Frisbee and lay in the grass and read and have picnics. Instead I got a cat and Tivo and never left the apartment again, but I had BIG PLANS that surely I would have made good on eventually. If there was nothing on TV.
And here is a list of things I learned while I lived in Chicago:
1) I am actually not as tolerant of others as I thought. See also: screaming women, whiny babies, smelly people, rowdy school children – all listed under Chicago Transit Authority. Turns out, I have a rather short attention span for smelly, loud, annoying people. Thus, I sweetly persuaded my kind boyfriend to drive me to the train each morning to avoid waiting for the bus. Lesson number two: a well timed cutesy baby voice with the added ammunition of an adorable pouty mouth works wonders.
2) (Although technically this is lesson number three) Tivo. Is. God’s. Gift. To. Well, Me. I adore it. I worship it. I am breaking at least three commandments as a result of my relationship with Tivo. God how did I live with out it. God’s name in vain. That’s four.
3) Writers don’t make a lot of money. I guess I knew this lesson was coming, but still. It ain’t pretty. I mean, I still think that teachers and social workers and the like deserve more money than they make… but couldn’t capitalism throw a little bit more our way? We give you shit to read on the train on the way to your jobs in the big banks downtown. Isn’t that worth anything to you? No? Oh, well. Okay then.
4) I can withstand inhumane conditions. Namely, I did not cease to exist when we didn’t have heat for a week in our apartment during the coldest week of the year. Aren’t you proud? I didn’t even really complain that much. I just wore long underwear and bought an electric blanket. I am a freaking SURVIVOR. A fighter I tell you.
5) I am a god awful terrible driver and I don’t miss it a bit. I have driven a car maybe twice in 7 months and I couldn’t be happier about it (aside from the residual effect of the CTA. See Lesson #1).…. And, if I must be honest, the people of Chicago are safer on the streets as a result. There is no sense in denying it. Look out Charlotte. I’m coming back. Lucky for you, Charlotteans, the Queen City doesn’t require much in the way of parallel parking. I am crap at it.
6) I have totally outgrown college life. Although some might argue that I was never really a part of it. Maybe for a few months somewhere in between sophomore and junior year. But , I am officially over it. I went to an “Art Fair” last weekend which turned out to be nothing more than an overblown frat party. Complete with red Solo cups and– I shit you not– a Dave Matthews cover band. Standing there, choking on the smoke that was (of course) wafting from some dude wearing rainbows and a popped collar, unconsciously singing along… “Celebrate we will, ‘cause life is short but sweet for certain,” it hit me… I wanted to go home. I wanted to go home, salvage my clean hair before it wreaked of Marlboros, and watch a movie. Perhaps watch a movie in bed. I am old. F&*# it . Who cares. I’m old, I don’t want to party and I don’t care. God bless America, Good Night.
That's probably the last you'll hear from me until I move back to the lovely Carolinas!
I assure you, plenty of introspective rants based on how different I feel now versus when I was in high school will surely follow.
Tata, love ya, kisses,
Jenn
But if you’ll excuse me, the land of sweet tea and salty (not sweet) cornbread is calling me home. At least for now.
Here are a few final thoughts on things I will miss about this Midwestern Metropolis:
1) Our perfect apartment. Original Victorian walls and crown moldings. A huge kitchen. Hard wood floors. All for under $1200 a month.
2) Filter’s sweet potato fries. Seriously. How did I ever exist without them? I wonder if I can make them myself. It wouldn’t be the same. Like trying to make Frosty’s yourself, right Mr. Deeds?
3) The shopping. It has been ages since I actually shopped in a mall. Yes, the mall offers a degree of convienence that neighborhood boutique style shopping does not… but where is the charm I ask you? Where is the character? Where is the money I need to do any of this shopping? Where is THAT I ask you? No, seriously. Where am I going to get money. I just left a full time job. Oh god. What have I done.
4) Time Out. I will miss you. Working for Time Out fulfilled a dream I have had since I was 14 years old. I know! How cute is that! Why am I leaving again?
5) Oh right. The buses. The trains. The stink. The dirt. The angry old women and the loud screaming babies. Bring on the “rush hour” of Charlotte traffic and the wide expanses of easy to maneuver parking lots in front of every store and establishment. God help me if I never have to parallel park again.
6) The weather. Good riddance. Stupid big puffy coat. Stupid boots. Hmm actually I kinda liked the boots. And scarves, I like scarves. But you, coat that I had to actually depress the air out of in order to zip it up, you are stupid and you can stay in the closet for many winters to come.
7) How did this become a list of things I won’t miss? Let me try to get back on track: The plethora of culture. Yes, truth be known I never actually went to any art museums or movies in the park or concerts while I lived here. But I did drive by them. And heard about them on the news each morning. And just knowing that such culture is just outside your door makes you feel… superior somehow. Guess I am back to being a rube.
8) Oh sweet jesus the Sweet Potato Fries.
9) The Whole Foods, because where I am moving, there isn’t one. WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM CHARLOTTE? Winston salem managed it, why can’t you?
10) The Parks. I had big plans to get a dog and take him to the park for walks and to play fetch with a Frisbee and lay in the grass and read and have picnics. Instead I got a cat and Tivo and never left the apartment again, but I had BIG PLANS that surely I would have made good on eventually. If there was nothing on TV.
And here is a list of things I learned while I lived in Chicago:
1) I am actually not as tolerant of others as I thought. See also: screaming women, whiny babies, smelly people, rowdy school children – all listed under Chicago Transit Authority. Turns out, I have a rather short attention span for smelly, loud, annoying people. Thus, I sweetly persuaded my kind boyfriend to drive me to the train each morning to avoid waiting for the bus. Lesson number two: a well timed cutesy baby voice with the added ammunition of an adorable pouty mouth works wonders.
2) (Although technically this is lesson number three) Tivo. Is. God’s. Gift. To. Well, Me. I adore it. I worship it. I am breaking at least three commandments as a result of my relationship with Tivo. God how did I live with out it. God’s name in vain. That’s four.
3) Writers don’t make a lot of money. I guess I knew this lesson was coming, but still. It ain’t pretty. I mean, I still think that teachers and social workers and the like deserve more money than they make… but couldn’t capitalism throw a little bit more our way? We give you shit to read on the train on the way to your jobs in the big banks downtown. Isn’t that worth anything to you? No? Oh, well. Okay then.
4) I can withstand inhumane conditions. Namely, I did not cease to exist when we didn’t have heat for a week in our apartment during the coldest week of the year. Aren’t you proud? I didn’t even really complain that much. I just wore long underwear and bought an electric blanket. I am a freaking SURVIVOR. A fighter I tell you.
5) I am a god awful terrible driver and I don’t miss it a bit. I have driven a car maybe twice in 7 months and I couldn’t be happier about it (aside from the residual effect of the CTA. See Lesson #1).…. And, if I must be honest, the people of Chicago are safer on the streets as a result. There is no sense in denying it. Look out Charlotte. I’m coming back. Lucky for you, Charlotteans, the Queen City doesn’t require much in the way of parallel parking. I am crap at it.
6) I have totally outgrown college life. Although some might argue that I was never really a part of it. Maybe for a few months somewhere in between sophomore and junior year. But , I am officially over it. I went to an “Art Fair” last weekend which turned out to be nothing more than an overblown frat party. Complete with red Solo cups and– I shit you not– a Dave Matthews cover band. Standing there, choking on the smoke that was (of course) wafting from some dude wearing rainbows and a popped collar, unconsciously singing along… “Celebrate we will, ‘cause life is short but sweet for certain,” it hit me… I wanted to go home. I wanted to go home, salvage my clean hair before it wreaked of Marlboros, and watch a movie. Perhaps watch a movie in bed. I am old. F&*# it . Who cares. I’m old, I don’t want to party and I don’t care. God bless America, Good Night.
That's probably the last you'll hear from me until I move back to the lovely Carolinas!
I assure you, plenty of introspective rants based on how different I feel now versus when I was in high school will surely follow.
Tata, love ya, kisses,
Jenn
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
For the love of Lee Norris!!
I just have to brag on my good friend Lee here a bit. Kristin the TV writer for E! online just did this interview with the creator of One Tree Hill, and she didn't ask about any of the other characters specifically EXCEPT for the adorable Mouth McFadden. Read below to see the heaping of adoration.
K: I have to ask on behalf of the fans, when is Mouth going to get some lovin’?
M: You know, Mouth is going to be well taken care of next season.
K: So Mouth should really want the show to come back!
M: Yes! As a matter of fact, Lee knows a couple of the things I want to do with Mouth next year. Actually, I just hung up the phone with Lee, who plays Mouth, to talk to you, and he said nobody wants the show to come back more than he does! You know what’s great about that is, early on, the network wasn’t quite sure what to make of that character. You know, he wasn’t a kid on the poster and so they wondered why I spent so much time writing for that character, and one time we were on a call with the network and one of the executives said ‘We don’t understand why you’re writing for Mouth!’ and I put the phone on mute and I looked at my partner, Joe Davola, and I said ‘They don’t get it. Mouth is me.’ Like, they don’t understand that that’s who I was in school! And so Mouth gets all these great adventures, because it’s stuff that I’m like ‘What would I want to do next?’! But what’s very cool about it is, I told them at the time that he is going to be a beloved character, because he is more the every man, and there aren’t a lot of boys watching our show, but the ones that are watching are probably closer to Mouth, and it’s sort of wish fulfillment [for them]. So what has been really wonderful is that Lee Norris is a regular now and he has been accepted as a regular, and he is beloved. When we did the mall tours, there was just as much reaction to him as any other regulars on the show, if not more. I’ve been a little protective of him, but in season four, he’ll get to stretch as much as any other character on the show if not more so.
K: I have to ask on behalf of the fans, when is Mouth going to get some lovin’?
M: You know, Mouth is going to be well taken care of next season.
K: So Mouth should really want the show to come back!
M: Yes! As a matter of fact, Lee knows a couple of the things I want to do with Mouth next year. Actually, I just hung up the phone with Lee, who plays Mouth, to talk to you, and he said nobody wants the show to come back more than he does! You know what’s great about that is, early on, the network wasn’t quite sure what to make of that character. You know, he wasn’t a kid on the poster and so they wondered why I spent so much time writing for that character, and one time we were on a call with the network and one of the executives said ‘We don’t understand why you’re writing for Mouth!’ and I put the phone on mute and I looked at my partner, Joe Davola, and I said ‘They don’t get it. Mouth is me.’ Like, they don’t understand that that’s who I was in school! And so Mouth gets all these great adventures, because it’s stuff that I’m like ‘What would I want to do next?’! But what’s very cool about it is, I told them at the time that he is going to be a beloved character, because he is more the every man, and there aren’t a lot of boys watching our show, but the ones that are watching are probably closer to Mouth, and it’s sort of wish fulfillment [for them]. So what has been really wonderful is that Lee Norris is a regular now and he has been accepted as a regular, and he is beloved. When we did the mall tours, there was just as much reaction to him as any other regulars on the show, if not more. I’ve been a little protective of him, but in season four, he’ll get to stretch as much as any other character on the show if not more so.
Friday, April 28, 2006
mmmmm bop
Today, for some ungodly reason, my dear friend Joel who sits one cube over decided to rip the cellophane off of his newly recieved HANSON-LIVE album and play it for the whole office to hear. I am now having 7th grade flashbacks of the day that Mary Margaret Williford and I sat in Health class talking about the middle Hanson brother (he was the hottest) and how there was a rumor that they were moving to Charlotte and thinking of going to our school (this was totally false of course, but it caused so much pandemonium among the under 15 crowd that finally Hanson called into the local top-40 station to put the rumor to rest. It was a sad sad moment in all our lives.). I also remember that was the year that self tanner hit the market, and all of us were slightly streaky with visible splotches on our hand and around our ankles and knees. Hotness.
Anyway, here is a quick game of catch-up: I am moving back to Charlotte. My Midwestern boy-toy Joe has been hired to teach 7th grade U.S. History and Upper school Psychology and AP Psychology at Providence Day. But most importantly I have been asked to take a free trip to Belize to stay at a five-star resort and write about my experience. Try to detect the lie in the above sentences. Go ahead, try.
You totally thought it was the Belize thing right? But it isn’t. Actually there isn’t any lies up there. I guess calling Joe my “boy-toy” is kind of a lie since I would never normally use that label and I have no idea what possessed me to do so here. But that isn’t so much of a lie as it is a terribly un-classy choice of words. So I guess me asking you look for a lie turned out to be a lie. Not as fun for you though, I’m sure. But I don’t care what is fun for you. I am going to Belize, dammit.
Yes, five days and four nights at The Inn at Roberts Grove in Belize. Free airfare, free accommodations, free food, free excursions, even a free night on a private island. Best of all, I am getting paid to write about it. I have no idea how this happened. I am expecting somebody to jump out and tell me that because I am signed up to go on this trip now I have to buy a time share, or give them my first born child. Don’t get me wrong, I’d probably do it. Free trips to Belize don’t come along every day. Children are a dime a dozen, right?
Ok, let me take a moment to quell my overzealous wanderlust and tell you about the other things I mentioned up above. I am moving back to Charlotte. This is an unexpected but not unhappy development, certainly not unhappy if you were to ask my mother– who appears to be planning a ticker tape parade along with a full six weeks of preparing every meal that I have ever said I enjoyed. How did this happen? Well, long story short Joe’s patience with the miscreants of the South Side of Chicago began to wear thin a few months back. Not to say that he doesn’t like the kids. He loves them. He just never sees them. Week after week they fail to show up for their therapy sessions, rendering Joe essentially useless aside from his incredible penchant for developing organized filing systems. Joe wanted out, and he was interested in exploring other careers, like that of a college counselor.
Now, I am not sure how big my readership on this blog really is, so I don’t know what sort of experiences you all might have had with the counseling staff at your high school, but the College Counseling office at Providence Day is legendary. Not only do they get to you when you are still practically in braces, they are with you every single step of the way, reminding you to turn in applications, making phone calls on your behalf, and turning “Two summers working in the Snack Shack at the pool” into a resume entry that sounds worthy of a Nobel Prize. So naturally, I put Joe in touch with the Queen Bee of the PDS counseling hive – Phyllis Gill. She put him in touch with her cohorts in Chicago, one of whom took a serious shining to Joe and told him he should ditch his plans to sink more money into grad school and become a teacher at an independent school instead and then work his way into the counseling office over a series of a few years. Yada yada yada, a few phone calls later Joe was getting an interview at PDS. ‘ It will be good practice” I said, not wanting him to feel pressured to take a job in my hometown, so far away from his family and friends. “Yeah totally” he said, being the good-natured sort that he is. But the closer the interview got, the more the pressure grew. ….. Oh my holy lord. This is the most boring story of all time. Why on earth would you care? If you want to know the whole story, ask me. Geez, I mean are your eyes bleeding? I am so sorry. I can’t believe I just went into that degree of detail catching you up on my life. What is this, Livejournal? Am I 15? I am so sorry. Moving on.
Allow me to share a few left over thoughts I have been chewing on since my most recent tabloid binge:
Brangelina, you bore me. “We don’t talk about our relationship, we just live it.” Yeah right Angie. I am sure that Brad managed to legally adopt your children and hyphenate their last names without so much as a chit chat over a cup of coffee with you. By the way, Brad, was that entirely necessary? You say you didn’t cheat with Jolie, and your immediate post-divorce shack-up was enough for us to stop beliving that bullshit, did you really have to go the extra mile and tack your last name on to those poor children? Couldn’t you just share a room at the Chateau, galavant on the beach and get spotted “ring shopping in Beverly Hills” like a normal Hollywood couple? To encapsulate my feelings on this subject, I would like to pass on a single question to Brangie, TomKat, and the moldy pile of white trash that is Britney and Kevin:
Do what ever the hell you want- you are rich, famous, f&*#ed up, it makes sense. But why, why, WHY GOD WHY do you bring children into the equation?
While our society is still bumfuzzled and backwards over whether or not is unfair to bring a child into a life with two homosexual parents, our idols, our demigods of Hollywood are having children as an equivalent alternative to having their lover’s name tattooed on their ass (or in Angie’s case, probably in addition to). You want to give your flavor of the month a sign of your undying commitment? Buy her/him a goldfish. If you keep the tank clean, those things live for-fucking-ever. Is there a lack of contraception in Los Angeles? I lived there for a while and as far as I can remember, they sold condoms in every drug store, gas station and bar bathroom in the whole damn city. Perhaps Trojan is missing a golden opportunity to become a gift-bag sponsor. Next year at the Oscars just give all the winners a sampler box of the latest thrilling textured condoms and a lifetime prescription to the Nuva Ring. Either that, or the U.S. Government better start allocating a portion of our tax money to giving monetary incentives to people who want to become psychiatrists. Because assuming that America likes to mimic behavior other than the wearing of leggings and cowboy boots from their beloved celebrities, there are going to be generation upon generations of seriously disturbed children mingling amongst us. And yes, Tom Cruise, your kids will go to a psychiatrist, because I have hope that they will grow to realize that the religion you brought them into is the most amazingly horrifying load of horse shit ever spouted from the mouth of man. They will divorce you as a parent and go on to seek the most normal life possible, even if it means moving to Amish country, which compared to the Scientology Celebrity Centre, is the most normal place on earth.
WHEW.
Ok. That’s all I have to say about that.
Anyway, here is a quick game of catch-up: I am moving back to Charlotte. My Midwestern boy-toy Joe has been hired to teach 7th grade U.S. History and Upper school Psychology and AP Psychology at Providence Day. But most importantly I have been asked to take a free trip to Belize to stay at a five-star resort and write about my experience. Try to detect the lie in the above sentences. Go ahead, try.
You totally thought it was the Belize thing right? But it isn’t. Actually there isn’t any lies up there. I guess calling Joe my “boy-toy” is kind of a lie since I would never normally use that label and I have no idea what possessed me to do so here. But that isn’t so much of a lie as it is a terribly un-classy choice of words. So I guess me asking you look for a lie turned out to be a lie. Not as fun for you though, I’m sure. But I don’t care what is fun for you. I am going to Belize, dammit.
Yes, five days and four nights at The Inn at Roberts Grove in Belize. Free airfare, free accommodations, free food, free excursions, even a free night on a private island. Best of all, I am getting paid to write about it. I have no idea how this happened. I am expecting somebody to jump out and tell me that because I am signed up to go on this trip now I have to buy a time share, or give them my first born child. Don’t get me wrong, I’d probably do it. Free trips to Belize don’t come along every day. Children are a dime a dozen, right?
Ok, let me take a moment to quell my overzealous wanderlust and tell you about the other things I mentioned up above. I am moving back to Charlotte. This is an unexpected but not unhappy development, certainly not unhappy if you were to ask my mother– who appears to be planning a ticker tape parade along with a full six weeks of preparing every meal that I have ever said I enjoyed. How did this happen? Well, long story short Joe’s patience with the miscreants of the South Side of Chicago began to wear thin a few months back. Not to say that he doesn’t like the kids. He loves them. He just never sees them. Week after week they fail to show up for their therapy sessions, rendering Joe essentially useless aside from his incredible penchant for developing organized filing systems. Joe wanted out, and he was interested in exploring other careers, like that of a college counselor.
Now, I am not sure how big my readership on this blog really is, so I don’t know what sort of experiences you all might have had with the counseling staff at your high school, but the College Counseling office at Providence Day is legendary. Not only do they get to you when you are still practically in braces, they are with you every single step of the way, reminding you to turn in applications, making phone calls on your behalf, and turning “Two summers working in the Snack Shack at the pool” into a resume entry that sounds worthy of a Nobel Prize. So naturally, I put Joe in touch with the Queen Bee of the PDS counseling hive – Phyllis Gill. She put him in touch with her cohorts in Chicago, one of whom took a serious shining to Joe and told him he should ditch his plans to sink more money into grad school and become a teacher at an independent school instead and then work his way into the counseling office over a series of a few years. Yada yada yada, a few phone calls later Joe was getting an interview at PDS. ‘ It will be good practice” I said, not wanting him to feel pressured to take a job in my hometown, so far away from his family and friends. “Yeah totally” he said, being the good-natured sort that he is. But the closer the interview got, the more the pressure grew. ….. Oh my holy lord. This is the most boring story of all time. Why on earth would you care? If you want to know the whole story, ask me. Geez, I mean are your eyes bleeding? I am so sorry. I can’t believe I just went into that degree of detail catching you up on my life. What is this, Livejournal? Am I 15? I am so sorry. Moving on.
Allow me to share a few left over thoughts I have been chewing on since my most recent tabloid binge:
Brangelina, you bore me. “We don’t talk about our relationship, we just live it.” Yeah right Angie. I am sure that Brad managed to legally adopt your children and hyphenate their last names without so much as a chit chat over a cup of coffee with you. By the way, Brad, was that entirely necessary? You say you didn’t cheat with Jolie, and your immediate post-divorce shack-up was enough for us to stop beliving that bullshit, did you really have to go the extra mile and tack your last name on to those poor children? Couldn’t you just share a room at the Chateau, galavant on the beach and get spotted “ring shopping in Beverly Hills” like a normal Hollywood couple? To encapsulate my feelings on this subject, I would like to pass on a single question to Brangie, TomKat, and the moldy pile of white trash that is Britney and Kevin:
Do what ever the hell you want- you are rich, famous, f&*#ed up, it makes sense. But why, why, WHY GOD WHY do you bring children into the equation?
While our society is still bumfuzzled and backwards over whether or not is unfair to bring a child into a life with two homosexual parents, our idols, our demigods of Hollywood are having children as an equivalent alternative to having their lover’s name tattooed on their ass (or in Angie’s case, probably in addition to). You want to give your flavor of the month a sign of your undying commitment? Buy her/him a goldfish. If you keep the tank clean, those things live for-fucking-ever. Is there a lack of contraception in Los Angeles? I lived there for a while and as far as I can remember, they sold condoms in every drug store, gas station and bar bathroom in the whole damn city. Perhaps Trojan is missing a golden opportunity to become a gift-bag sponsor. Next year at the Oscars just give all the winners a sampler box of the latest thrilling textured condoms and a lifetime prescription to the Nuva Ring. Either that, or the U.S. Government better start allocating a portion of our tax money to giving monetary incentives to people who want to become psychiatrists. Because assuming that America likes to mimic behavior other than the wearing of leggings and cowboy boots from their beloved celebrities, there are going to be generation upon generations of seriously disturbed children mingling amongst us. And yes, Tom Cruise, your kids will go to a psychiatrist, because I have hope that they will grow to realize that the religion you brought them into is the most amazingly horrifying load of horse shit ever spouted from the mouth of man. They will divorce you as a parent and go on to seek the most normal life possible, even if it means moving to Amish country, which compared to the Scientology Celebrity Centre, is the most normal place on earth.
WHEW.
Ok. That’s all I have to say about that.
Friday, February 17, 2006
A lot of guys get a bad rap for being total clueless idiots when it comes to romance. But it's really not their fault. Really, it's not. How can they be expected to avoid the pitfalls of tacky romantic cliché when everywhere they look (TV, internet, magazines) they are being fed shitty ideas.
Like for example the persistence of the heart-shaped diamond pendant.
This style necklace has been out of style for at least 12 years. In fact, I am not even entirely sure it was ever in style. I know I had a fake one that I wore in the 3rd grade, but I usually wore it with a hot pink and teal wind-suit, so my taste may not have been so au currant. But lord knows they are out of style now. And yet, every jeweler on the planet had a commercial hawking their fine selection of heart-shaped diamond pendants as the perfect gift for your Valentine. Unless your Valentine lives in a trailer park or has been in a coma since 1984, this is an ill advised purchase. But how would you, the man, know that! You couldn't! Just like you couldn't know that buying a Vermont teddy bear and having it sent to your beloved's office with a sappy message strapped to his chest is more likely to get you dumped than laid. It's not your fault. The media has brainwashed you. And now that Valentines day is over, they are finding new, even more diabolical ways to infiltrate your brain and fill it with the most repugnant suggestions. Don't believe me? Check out the list of "Best ways for a man to pop the question" as provided by MSN.com:
Convince the local theater to spell out your proposal on their marquee. Phrase it like a film title: "The Love of a Lifetime, starring (insert names here)."
[Even if you were both drama majors and met while performing in a play, those words on a marquee will make the girl vomit.]
Create a Web page declaring your love and intentions. Leave your sweetie a clue with the Web address written on it -- don't say a word. After the proposal has been officially accepted (which of course it will be!), she can proudly send the page to friends and family.
[Yes, this is the technological age. But dear god. You simply cannot have any http's or .coms associated with your proposal]
Give your girlfriend a foot massage and place the ring on her little toe.
[No. No we do not involve feet. Feet and engagement rings need to be kept separate. End of story]
Want to really surprise your sweetheart? Cut out the bottom of a big box, wrap it with pretty paper and ribbon, and attach a card that says, "What's inside the box is a gift to last a lifetime." "Deliver" yourself to his or her office or front door.
[This has that classic "Oh didn't I see that on an episode of Full House" feel to it. Best to steer clear of anything that gives off a Danny Tanner vibe]
Is she a deep sleeper? Slip the ring on her finger while she's dozing and wake her with champagne and strawberries. The gesture will just seem romantic -- until she discovers a new piece of jewelry adorns her.
[This is just fucking creepy.]
Surprise her with an intricate gift basket. Pile in yummy delicacies -- the best chocolate, caviar, coffee -- but don't limit yourself to food. You could also include silk slippers, a book or CD. Hide the ring among all these wonderful presents (in its box, so it doesn't get lost in the goodies).
[ A GIFT BASKET? This is the love of your life, not the old lady next door who watched your dog and watered your plants for a week. Do you really want your fiance's last thought before you propose to be "Oooo Peppridge Farm Trail Mix." ?]
Spell your proposal out in glow-in-the-dark star stickers on your ceiling. Get into bed, turn the lights off, and wait for the inevitable gasp.
[This sounds like what Tom Hanks in Big might have done if he had stuck around as a big boy and not gone back to his child-like form. In other words, this is only ok if you sleep in a bunk bed. And if you sleep in a bunk bed, she should have dumped your ass months ago.]
Write "Will You Marry Me?" on the underside of a kite and take flight one warm, breezy afternoon.
[ Honestly, when was the last time you flew a kite. It's not that easy, dude. Don’t embarrass yourself like this. Also, don't you think she might find it a bit odd that a grown man has bought a kite and wants to go fly it? My first thought is "Oh god you have brain cancer don't you."]
Spell out your proposal with refrigerator magnets.
[This is the laziest proposal idea ever. What you were on your way to get a sandwhich and just decided that this was a good time? So you disassembled the dirty phrase you had concocted three nights ago when you were drunk so that you can get the "you" magnet and you can't find "me" magnet so you stop at "Will you marry" and then hope she will get the gist while she is grabbing for some Light Ranch?]
Take her to the local Fourth of July fireworks show, and have someone announce your proposal before your whole town.
[On the next episode of Gilmore Girls.]
Write your proposal in sunscreen on your stomach, so that your tan will "stencil in" the words. She will be so touched you've taken such an, um, interesting approach, she will accept immediately.
[Or she will "take a walk" down the beach so she can call her friend to come pick her up and get her away from your weird ass.]
Tongue-tied? Hire a plane to fly a banner with your "Marry me (insert name here)" message written on it. Take her to a wide-open space -- a beach, park, or stadium -- and simply point. When your sweetie notices what the pilot is doing, tell her that your love was heaven sent.
[Simply point? Not even a grunt? Me. Want. Marry. You. Also, if you use that "heaven sent" line… Well, you better be rehearsing for a role in a bad teen romantic comedy. And even then, you could do better.]
Propose in a different language, or lots of different languages -- starting with French, the language of love. [What? Seriously. Are you fucking kidding me.]
Buy a baby animal that she has always wanted (bunny, kitten, puppy) and loosely tie the ring around its neck. Make a commitment to the pet and each other. [Um… not gonna lie. I kinda like this one. Who can say no to a puppy?]
Thursday, December 22, 2005
These are a few of my favorite things.....
Best of 2005
Ok Go "A million ways video" www.okgo.net
Dream cream www.lush.com
Since u been gone www.itunes.com
Grey's Anatomy www.abc.com
Batman Begins www.bestbuy.com
Queen Bee wallets www.buyolympia.com
Coke zero www.coke.com
Sarah Crosland's single status and hilarious blogging sarahsthoughtsonline.blogspot.com
Time Out Chicago www.timeoutchicago.com
Where does the good go (Tegan and Sara) www.itunes.com
Hide and Seek (Imogen Heap) www.itunes.com
The Colbert Report www.comedycentral.com
Sawyer Gobias Meowsky www.anticrueltysociety.com
Innuendo's sophomore album "Second Base" (coming soon) groups.wfu.edu/innuendo
Ok Go "A million ways video" www.okgo.net
Dream cream www.lush.com
Since u been gone www.itunes.com
Grey's Anatomy www.abc.com
Batman Begins www.bestbuy.com
Queen Bee wallets www.buyolympia.com
Coke zero www.coke.com
Sarah Crosland's single status and hilarious blogging sarahsthoughtsonline.blogspot.com
Time Out Chicago www.timeoutchicago.com
Where does the good go (Tegan and Sara) www.itunes.com
Hide and Seek (Imogen Heap) www.itunes.com
The Colbert Report www.comedycentral.com
Sawyer Gobias Meowsky www.anticrueltysociety.com
Innuendo's sophomore album "Second Base" (coming soon) groups.wfu.edu/innuendo
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Great Scott!
Here is a small tidbit from this morning's entertainment news cycle:
Michael J. Fox is heading Back To The Future for a fourth time-traveling movie. The actor, who suffers from Parkinson's disease, admits he's in negotiations for a final film in the series - but only if they make his character as old as he is in real life. The former Spin City star wants to take over Christopher Lloyd's eccentric scientist character, Doc, in the sequel. He tells movie website Moviehole.net, "The only way it would work would be if I played Doc. I'm 44-years-old now and I'm not interested in running around on skateboards! I think after 1, 2 and 3 we all kind of felt we had done it. And I think if they did it again now they would do it with a younger cast and just do a different realisation of it, which would be fun."
Woah. This is heavy.
Is this news:
a)The answer to 12 years of my girlish prayers
b)The most awful idea ever to be inflicted upon man kind.
I haven't decided yet.
Michael J. Fox is heading Back To The Future for a fourth time-traveling movie. The actor, who suffers from Parkinson's disease, admits he's in negotiations for a final film in the series - but only if they make his character as old as he is in real life. The former Spin City star wants to take over Christopher Lloyd's eccentric scientist character, Doc, in the sequel. He tells movie website Moviehole.net, "The only way it would work would be if I played Doc. I'm 44-years-old now and I'm not interested in running around on skateboards! I think after 1, 2 and 3 we all kind of felt we had done it. And I think if they did it again now they would do it with a younger cast and just do a different realisation of it, which would be fun."
Woah. This is heavy.
Is this news:
a)The answer to 12 years of my girlish prayers
b)The most awful idea ever to be inflicted upon man kind.
I haven't decided yet.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Click my heels three times
Sorry I have been slouching in the update department. I have been spending all of my extra mental energy day dreaming about one thing... home. Home sweet lovely home. I have never wanted to go home so much in my life. Except maybe the time that I went away to church camp for 10 days because some of my friends and the boy I had a crush on (Daniel McCullough for those of you who are keeping track) were going. At the 27th chapel service, the girl beside me broke out in hysterical tears and threw herself on the ground asking to be taken up by God's mercy. I think maybe right then, at that moment, I wanted to go home more than I do right now. But other than that, right now takes the cake. The beautiful white sparkly snow that I waxed poetic about last week has become a pile of grimy slush that stands between me and the bus every morning, leaving me no choice but to curse like a sailor and watch as my leg sinks in up to my knee. The cold blustery weather that seemed so crisp and festive is now bitter and vindictive, as it blows harshly into my eyes like an evil glacouma tester, causing them to leak, thus washing off my concealer and my eye liner, which means that by the time I make it to the office in the morning I have soggy feet, a blurry blotched face and a sour disposition. Only one thing can fix this. I need my mommy.
Of course, when I am stuck in my office counting the minutes until my American Eagle pudddle jumper takes off on Thursday Dec 22nd, I start to remember what it was like way way way back (last year) when I was still in school:
Last Year: I would have been home already.
This Year: 10 more days of suffering.
Last Year: I could stuff my laundry in the car and take it home with me.
This Year: It is f-ing time to get quarters again because I need to do laundry before I can pack.
Last Year: One Month of Beautiful Time Off.
This Year: Almost One Week of Time Off.
But then again...
Last Year: I suffered through a few exams.
This Year: I suffered through a few weeks of LOST repeats.
Last Year: I pulled an all nighter to finish a thesis on youth voter participation.
This Year: I spent a full 20 minutes writing about the rising trend of skinny jeans and the possible perils of camel toe.
Which is better, I leave you to judge that.
Now if you will excuse me, I need to come up with 70 words about super-long scarves: are they the new pashmina?
Of course, when I am stuck in my office counting the minutes until my American Eagle pudddle jumper takes off on Thursday Dec 22nd, I start to remember what it was like way way way back (last year) when I was still in school:
Last Year: I would have been home already.
This Year: 10 more days of suffering.
Last Year: I could stuff my laundry in the car and take it home with me.
This Year: It is f-ing time to get quarters again because I need to do laundry before I can pack.
Last Year: One Month of Beautiful Time Off.
This Year: Almost One Week of Time Off.
But then again...
Last Year: I suffered through a few exams.
This Year: I suffered through a few weeks of LOST repeats.
Last Year: I pulled an all nighter to finish a thesis on youth voter participation.
This Year: I spent a full 20 minutes writing about the rising trend of skinny jeans and the possible perils of camel toe.
Which is better, I leave you to judge that.
Now if you will excuse me, I need to come up with 70 words about super-long scarves: are they the new pashmina?
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
How rich can one person really be?
Ok, lets be honest, in my line of work you become a little jaded when it comes to ye ol price tag. Yes, everything in my closet is of the chain store variety (Banana Republic Sale Rack? H&M knock offs? Music to my ears), but oddly I don't even twitch an eyelash when I haul a $350 sparkly bolero jacket and a $500 pair of boots up to the counter of a snotty boutique and hand over my card. No, I am not a terrible coniving daddy's girl who is racking up millions of dollars and sky miles on her fathers credit card. I am handing over my business card. And with that, I walk out of the store with arms full of pricey designer merchandise.
Wait, before you start to hate me let me add that I have to bring back all that pricey designer merchandise a few days later and all I am left with is a byline and a loss of ciruculation in my hands and feet from having to walk around in the cold borrowing and returning stuff that I am afraid to even breathe on.
But no matter how warped my perspective on The Price You Pay for Goods and Services gets, there are always people out there trying to step it up and provide just a little bit "more" for their consumers. Their consumers who are, by the way, insanely disgustingly mind-warpingly rich. How else can you explain this: a luxury package provided to "elite customers" at the Peninsula Hotel in Chicago. Wrap your brain around this one guys and gals....
The Pen-Ultimate Peninsula Hotel Experience
Features:
Luxurious overnight accommodation for one night in the 3,600-square-foot Peninsula Suite, the most magnificent suite of all, featuring a formal living room, dining room, media room, study, 2000-square-foot private outdoor terrace with stunning views and a private Jacuzzi, master bedroom, private workout room and more
A Bentley Continental GT Coupe 2005 (to keep!) - valued at $ 169,000
Lavish welcome amenities, including the traditional aphrodisiac of oysters and champagne and five dozen red roses placed throughout the suite
Fully stocked bar
The services of a Peninsula Page as your personal valet throughout the stay
Graff beautiful cushion-cut white diamond ring for her, at over 5 carats - valued at $ 174,000
Graff platinum and invisible set white diamond square cufflinks for him, with nearly 8 carats - valued at $ 98,000
Relaxing, in-room couple's massage with special aromatherapy treatments provided by The Peninsula Spa
Choice of a five-course dinner for two in Avenues or The Lobby followed by ‘Chocolate at the Pen’ savouring an endless array of delectable chocolate desserts and an evening of dancing cheek-to-cheek to the Eric Remschneider Trio featuring vocalist Stephanie Browning
Ok, seriously, I feel fancy when they fold the end of the toilet paper into a point and provide actual glasses instead of plastic. Who are the people for whom this sort of "package" is feasible? I don't even think this would have been up Vince Vaughn's alley (the Peninsula is where he and Jen were seen straddling and smootching). Celebs dont get Bentleys from hotels. They get photographed looking at Bentleys and test driving Bentleys and sitting at Koi looking through a Bentley catalogue until Bentley calls them and asks if they would like one for free. That is the way celebs do it. So who the hell is buying this? Oh speaking of which... do you want to know how much it costs?
$400,000.
you want to know the worst part? after reading the description of the package as many times as I have and after writing this whole meandering blog... I am starting to look at that price tag and it isn't looking that bad to me. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH MY BRAIN. I HAVE $4 IN MY PURSE RIGHT NOW AND IT IS MOSTLY IN NICKLES. I HATE THE NICKLE MORE THAN I HATE THE PENNY. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY NICKLES YOU HAVE TO PUT INTO THE VENDING MACHINE TO GET SOME BAKED LAYS!
Ok. I think I am feeling better now.
Wait, before you start to hate me let me add that I have to bring back all that pricey designer merchandise a few days later and all I am left with is a byline and a loss of ciruculation in my hands and feet from having to walk around in the cold borrowing and returning stuff that I am afraid to even breathe on.
But no matter how warped my perspective on The Price You Pay for Goods and Services gets, there are always people out there trying to step it up and provide just a little bit "more" for their consumers. Their consumers who are, by the way, insanely disgustingly mind-warpingly rich. How else can you explain this: a luxury package provided to "elite customers" at the Peninsula Hotel in Chicago. Wrap your brain around this one guys and gals....
The Pen-Ultimate Peninsula Hotel Experience
Features:
Luxurious overnight accommodation for one night in the 3,600-square-foot Peninsula Suite, the most magnificent suite of all, featuring a formal living room, dining room, media room, study, 2000-square-foot private outdoor terrace with stunning views and a private Jacuzzi, master bedroom, private workout room and more
A Bentley Continental GT Coupe 2005 (to keep!) - valued at $ 169,000
Lavish welcome amenities, including the traditional aphrodisiac of oysters and champagne and five dozen red roses placed throughout the suite
Fully stocked bar
The services of a Peninsula Page as your personal valet throughout the stay
Graff beautiful cushion-cut white diamond ring for her, at over 5 carats - valued at $ 174,000
Graff platinum and invisible set white diamond square cufflinks for him, with nearly 8 carats - valued at $ 98,000
Relaxing, in-room couple's massage with special aromatherapy treatments provided by The Peninsula Spa
Choice of a five-course dinner for two in Avenues or The Lobby followed by ‘Chocolate at the Pen’ savouring an endless array of delectable chocolate desserts and an evening of dancing cheek-to-cheek to the Eric Remschneider Trio featuring vocalist Stephanie Browning
Ok, seriously, I feel fancy when they fold the end of the toilet paper into a point and provide actual glasses instead of plastic. Who are the people for whom this sort of "package" is feasible? I don't even think this would have been up Vince Vaughn's alley (the Peninsula is where he and Jen were seen straddling and smootching). Celebs dont get Bentleys from hotels. They get photographed looking at Bentleys and test driving Bentleys and sitting at Koi looking through a Bentley catalogue until Bentley calls them and asks if they would like one for free. That is the way celebs do it. So who the hell is buying this? Oh speaking of which... do you want to know how much it costs?
$400,000.
you want to know the worst part? after reading the description of the package as many times as I have and after writing this whole meandering blog... I am starting to look at that price tag and it isn't looking that bad to me. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH MY BRAIN. I HAVE $4 IN MY PURSE RIGHT NOW AND IT IS MOSTLY IN NICKLES. I HATE THE NICKLE MORE THAN I HATE THE PENNY. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY NICKLES YOU HAVE TO PUT INTO THE VENDING MACHINE TO GET SOME BAKED LAYS!
Ok. I think I am feeling better now.
Monday, December 05, 2005
It's beginning to look a lot like...
BIG NEWS! We have heat. Praise the almighty God. And the furnace guy. We have heat and it is fantastic. We also, as you can see from the pictures here, have a tree. My very first, on my own, big girl tree. The finished product of course, looks quite magical. The process by which the tree was procured.... not as magical. It was -8 degrees with the windchill yesterday. And this tree was chosen in a "close your eyes and point" sort of way from the nursery section at Home Depot. I would have taken more care in choosing the perfect tree to be my very first on my own big girl tree, but it was freaking freezing and I couldn't feel my toes. As it turned out, impending hypothermia makes me an excellent judge of trees because the one we got is perfect. We decorated it with a mix of thoughtful family ornaments and cheap thrills from Target. We also hung some jingle bell ornaments near the bottom to hopefully distract the kitten from hatching a plan to climb to the top of the tree and dive bomb off. We know our efforts might be in vain, but it is worth a shot. We might be in luck because he appears to be entirely consumed by the twine that we used to attach the tree to the top of our car. I think in his head he is a super hero. Spider man perhaps. That would explain his penchant for hooking his spidey claws into me and climbing from my ankle to my neck for no apparent reason. Perhaps I shall write him a theme song.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Jennsicle
So there I was, calmly getting dressed and putting on my makeup, batting away the persistent claws of my kitten who seems to be intrigued rather than frightened by the large hot curling iron at the end of the super fun swinging cord.
First of all, let me point out that normally this makeup and hair routine would be taking place in the bathroom where the kitten does not venture ( I think he is seriously afraid of the toliet.) But today and for the past three days I have spent as much time in the bedroom as is humanly possible. Why? Because that is where the space heater is. Once you step outside the temperature in our apartment drops, LITERALLY, 30-35 degrees. I. shit. you. not.
Last night, I came home, changed out of my work clothes and in to... wait for it.... long johns, fleece pajama bottoms, ski socks covered with knitted wool booties, a long sleeve t shirt, a fleece turtleneck, and a North Face zip up polar fleece. And that was just my "cooking dinner" outfit. Once it came time to sit on the couch with out the added benefit of the stove and oven to keep me warm, I added two blankets and a fuzzy hood to that ensemble. Considering that it is only December 1st and I have about five more months of winter ahead of me, I am thinking I am not off to the best start.
Granted, we have no heat right now. Why you ask? Oh well, we thought it was best to turn the heat off after our carbon monoxide alarm went off for the third time and started jumping up to something like 97 parts per million ( which sounds deadly, but as it turns out it would take 8 hours of that level of exposure to even give you a headache. Do you think this stopped me from writing out a "goodbye world" letter in my head before I went to bed? Not a chance. I was convinced that every time the kitten jumped off the bed it was because his body had succommed to poisoning and he was keeling over. "That didn't sound like a hop. That sounded like a thud. Check his pulse Joe check his PULSE!!!!!")
Don't worry, we are getting a new furnace. Supposedly we are getting it up and running "before the weekend". So you know, as long as the temperature doesn't keep dropping and as long as it doesn't snow or anything, I think we should be o- Wait. What's that you say? It's freaking SNOWING outside?
Yes, let me take you back to the beginning of the story, when I was removing the kitten broach from my shoulder so that I could put on mascara. Joe comes into the room and says "Is that what you are wearing?" (never wise words gentlemen). "Yeah, why?" "There is more than an inch of snow on the ground." I assume that the look on my face after that was a mix of shock, fear, dismay, and annoyance at the fact that I could now feel the draft coming from the living room as Joe didn't close the bed room door behind him when he came to deliver this news.
Now, the part that comes next, well. I think it is the most convincing evidence that I am really unprepared for the Chicago winter. I was a good girl and i changed out of my stiletto boots into my flat ones. I sacrificed my hard-earned curls and covered them with a hat, and I zipped up my puffy down jacket over my suede skirt. And then I stepped outside. And while Joe was trudging down the stairs headed towards his snow covered car, I just stood there. And then, although I am not sure anyone heard it, I squealed a little. Because you see, the first thought in my head when I saw the street covered in white was not "oh geez what a bother." or "goddammit i need to get the ice scraper" but rather it went something like this ... " Oooooo pretty!!!!!! What do you mean I have to go to work? Don't they cancel work when this happens? " Because you see, where I come from, they do. If there was an inch and a half of snow on the ground and it was still coming down, classes would be canceled, school children would be told to stay home and make snow angels, and working professionals would be glued to the 6am news waiting to see if their place of business had shut down for the day. Sigh, sometimes I just adore the south.
Anyway, you can see my cause for concern. The fact that I am still a dumbstruck 6 year old every time I see fluffy white snow means I am in for a rude RUDE awakening. I am sure it won't take long before I am cursing the snow or before I am outright indifferent toward it, but that will be a sad day for me. It's nice to know that some things, like a first snow, can still feel magical even when you are all grown up. But Chicago is about to kill that magic for me. I know he doesn't mean to. Just like my sister didnt mean to ruin the whole magic of santa claus thing for me by writing "merry christmas jennifer" on my brand new "lets play schoolhouse" blackboard on christmas morning in her very recognizible bubbly cursive. These things happen. But for today, just today, I am going to continue to think of snow as magical. Just one last time.
First of all, let me point out that normally this makeup and hair routine would be taking place in the bathroom where the kitten does not venture ( I think he is seriously afraid of the toliet.) But today and for the past three days I have spent as much time in the bedroom as is humanly possible. Why? Because that is where the space heater is. Once you step outside the temperature in our apartment drops, LITERALLY, 30-35 degrees. I. shit. you. not.
Last night, I came home, changed out of my work clothes and in to... wait for it.... long johns, fleece pajama bottoms, ski socks covered with knitted wool booties, a long sleeve t shirt, a fleece turtleneck, and a North Face zip up polar fleece. And that was just my "cooking dinner" outfit. Once it came time to sit on the couch with out the added benefit of the stove and oven to keep me warm, I added two blankets and a fuzzy hood to that ensemble. Considering that it is only December 1st and I have about five more months of winter ahead of me, I am thinking I am not off to the best start.
Granted, we have no heat right now. Why you ask? Oh well, we thought it was best to turn the heat off after our carbon monoxide alarm went off for the third time and started jumping up to something like 97 parts per million ( which sounds deadly, but as it turns out it would take 8 hours of that level of exposure to even give you a headache. Do you think this stopped me from writing out a "goodbye world" letter in my head before I went to bed? Not a chance. I was convinced that every time the kitten jumped off the bed it was because his body had succommed to poisoning and he was keeling over. "That didn't sound like a hop. That sounded like a thud. Check his pulse Joe check his PULSE!!!!!")
Don't worry, we are getting a new furnace. Supposedly we are getting it up and running "before the weekend". So you know, as long as the temperature doesn't keep dropping and as long as it doesn't snow or anything, I think we should be o- Wait. What's that you say? It's freaking SNOWING outside?
Yes, let me take you back to the beginning of the story, when I was removing the kitten broach from my shoulder so that I could put on mascara. Joe comes into the room and says "Is that what you are wearing?" (never wise words gentlemen). "Yeah, why?" "There is more than an inch of snow on the ground." I assume that the look on my face after that was a mix of shock, fear, dismay, and annoyance at the fact that I could now feel the draft coming from the living room as Joe didn't close the bed room door behind him when he came to deliver this news.
Now, the part that comes next, well. I think it is the most convincing evidence that I am really unprepared for the Chicago winter. I was a good girl and i changed out of my stiletto boots into my flat ones. I sacrificed my hard-earned curls and covered them with a hat, and I zipped up my puffy down jacket over my suede skirt. And then I stepped outside. And while Joe was trudging down the stairs headed towards his snow covered car, I just stood there. And then, although I am not sure anyone heard it, I squealed a little. Because you see, the first thought in my head when I saw the street covered in white was not "oh geez what a bother." or "goddammit i need to get the ice scraper" but rather it went something like this ... " Oooooo pretty!!!!!! What do you mean I have to go to work? Don't they cancel work when this happens? " Because you see, where I come from, they do. If there was an inch and a half of snow on the ground and it was still coming down, classes would be canceled, school children would be told to stay home and make snow angels, and working professionals would be glued to the 6am news waiting to see if their place of business had shut down for the day. Sigh, sometimes I just adore the south.
Anyway, you can see my cause for concern. The fact that I am still a dumbstruck 6 year old every time I see fluffy white snow means I am in for a rude RUDE awakening. I am sure it won't take long before I am cursing the snow or before I am outright indifferent toward it, but that will be a sad day for me. It's nice to know that some things, like a first snow, can still feel magical even when you are all grown up. But Chicago is about to kill that magic for me. I know he doesn't mean to. Just like my sister didnt mean to ruin the whole magic of santa claus thing for me by writing "merry christmas jennifer" on my brand new "lets play schoolhouse" blackboard on christmas morning in her very recognizible bubbly cursive. These things happen. But for today, just today, I am going to continue to think of snow as magical. Just one last time.
Monday, November 28, 2005
The most wonderful time of the year...
It's official.
The Christmas season has begun.
How do i know?
Because the worlds most delicious and festive product is back on the shelves.
Candy Cane Tootsie Roll Pops.
OH MY GOD how i adore these things.
The Christmas season has begun.
How do i know?
Because the worlds most delicious and festive product is back on the shelves.
Candy Cane Tootsie Roll Pops.
OH MY GOD how i adore these things.
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