First, two questions. 1) Every morning I heat ½ C milk in the microwave and then add my coffee for a splendid lindylatte. And I always put the milk in for 1 minute, and then when the time is down to 20 seconds left, I take it out. I know my milk takes 40 seconds to heat, but I HAVE to put it in for 1 minute. Is that some sort of OCD behavior??? 2) Why is the one guy in my office that’s from IN a condescending douche? And not only is he from IN, but he’s from my dear hometown of Carmel. He’s supporting the Carmel stereotype that I have been fighting for so long, and it pisses me off. Big dumb douche.
Anyway. Went to HH last night and enjoyed several glasses of $3 chardonnay. Who is living the high life? It’s me! I really have nothing to report, I think the usual vulgar topics that tend to come out when coworkers get tipsy were discussed. I guess the best part was the fact that on the menu was a “sausage sampler.” And this provided a good solid 30 minutes of entertainment if you combine all the random, “Yes, she’d like the sausage sampler.” “Oh you like sausage do you? So I’ve heard!” “Excuse me, what size are those sausages on that sampler? I like mine extra large.” Etc. etc. Yes, sausage, that silly food sure is entertaining.*
I got home from HH right in time to make myself a grilled cheese sandwich and settle into my favorite chair at the surrogates’ house for that most fantastic ½ of tv that you may know as Laguna Beach, or as I affectionately call it, LB.
There were no surprises guys. Cameron: still a total ass who is playing Kyndra and Jessica like little fiddles. He’s also still not that hot, or awesome. Can I interject an obsy here though? Thanks. What’s weird to me is how these kids talk about one another, kind of like they are people they have just met. Like, at least once per episode, Kyndra and Cami will be hanging out, discussing an upcoming even and who will attend. And they’re like, “Oh, yes, Cameron. The thing is he’s just such a great guy.” I find this odd. I don’t talk about my friends with my best friends like that. I might say, “shit, did you hear that so and so hooked it with so and so the other night?” Or, “I can’t believe that so and so said that. What a bitch.”
No I’m kidding. I don’t really shit talk like that. But what I’m trying to say, and saying very very poorly is that these girls seem to talk about their supposed good friends w/ one another in very general vague terms as though they are people they have just met. And I find it odd. You get???
Anyway, other than talking about people in weird ways, I think all these kids do is crash each others’ parties. Come to think of it, they have huge, planned, theme parties like every night also. Oh wait, someone just walked by and told me I look like a sunflower today. An f’in sunflower. Is that good? Anyway. Continuing. So Cami and Kyndra crash a Rocky/Tess party, and then vice versa. And then they talk about it for like 3 hours after making weird ass generalized comments. I think that’s really all that happens on this show. Well I’m writing this, and I’m starting to realize that there is no redeeming value in this show whatsoever. I’m kind of stumped at this point why I not only watch it, but kind of obsess over it. At least Sweet 16 provides excellent laugh value. This doesn’t. But, will I give it up? Hells no I won’t. that would be like heating my coffee for 40 seconds instead of 1 minute and removing when 20 secs are up.
Look at that. I’m back to where I started. Mary, Moe: It’s all so cyclical, it’s just all so cyclical. The end.
*Side note: Did anyone catch y-days NTimes article re: the return of the pig in a blanket? It’s hot hot hot. Everywhere. You just can’t keep that food down, and it makes ms so happy, b/c I LOVE pigs in a blanket. Just love them. Foie gras, you are tasty and extra fatty, crazy Asian won-tons filled w/ crazy Asian shellfish, you are cute, but y’all don’t have the staying power of a 2-cent cocktail weenie wrapped in Pilsbury Doughboy goodness.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Bad Jokes and Wardrobe Missteps
I saw this license plate on my drive to work this morning (which btw took 40 v. 20ish minutes cuz there was this accident on the 5 that everyone was TOTALLY rubbernecking at, and I did too): 66PLUS1. Does 67 have any significance? (you know I love the license plates game…) I don’t think it does, other than ending in 7 and thus being a number loved by this girl (I LOVE LOVE LOVE 7). I think what she meant was 68PLUS1, or maybe, 66PLUS3. Because you know what that equals…69!!! And honestly, who doesn’t tire of a great 69 joke?
Actually, I think I’m finally over that. Actually I think I got over it when I was like 16 or something. Or 25. Whatever, who’s counting.
This leads me into another really bad joke I was privy to this morning. Scene: I’m at Brian’s desk. Brad walks over to his desk (right across from Brad’s), banana in hand. Dialogue:
Brian: Wow Brad, that’s a big banana you have.
Brad: It’s actually my new cell phone. The Chiquita 100.
--Brad holds banana up to ear and pretends it’s a phone.
Sara: Wow, Brad, that sure was a funny joke.
Brad: Yes, it does have its “a-peel.”
--Sara laughs.
Sara: You get it Brian? A PEEL? Like a banana peel?
Brian: Ha! Oh, oh yeah.
Anyway, I have more important things to discuss than bad jokes this morning. Important might not be the best word, but we’ll use it anyway b/c I can’t think of a better one right now. Here’s the topic: clothing in the workplace – appropriateness. I think I might be crossing a line this morning, but I really don’t care. I don’t go to meetings or interact w/ anyone important unless I see them in the kitchen, so who is going to bust me? I’m wearing the black dress I wore to my bday celebration night recently, a black number. Oh but rest assured, I have a tank underneath it to prevent my enormous cleavage from leaping out. The questionable part is the back, which dips down below my shoulder blades and kind of reveals some bra staps b/c the dress straps are wideset. Not the across the back strap. The vertical ones. Anyway.
Now I think, who cares, cuz everyone knows women have bras on anyway. And mine is really boring and nothing provocative anyway. And I did bring a sweater to cover up the back if need be, but the outfit is so much less cute w/ the sweater. So hmmm….am I crossing lines…that is the question.
This is a topic I thought about frequently at my old company. Well I really didn’t think about it so much as have it shoved down my throat every 2-3 days. My company was run by old people but sustained by the very young, you see (we were all like 23), and in the summer DC is so f’in hot that I think people would have contests with themselves to see how little they could get away with wearing to work. This was one particular damsel who would occasionally bare some midriff, and almost always bare some cleave. She looked good, she was hot, but, you know…work. Office.
B/c of her (I swear, she was in fact the source of the majority of the memos we received if rumors were true) we got frequent email/voicemail reminders of our dress code. Pretty much something like, “Ladies and gents, we would like to remind you of our dress code. Please do not wear midriff-baring tops.” And it’d be funny, cuz I’d talk to Bill or Katie and be like, so did XXXXX wear something risqué the other day? And yeah, totally she did. It was so obvious who the memo source was. And it wasn’t like a 100 person office, it was like 1500, and it was very gossipy anyway. But I don’t think she really cared. B/c it’s not like it happened just once. And you know, that chick got promoted fast, like hot cakes cooking on a griddle (who says that???). So I guess no one really cared.
So maybe showing off my shoulder blades will work for me instead of against me. I think I’ll consider my full time offer in the bag. No wait, I won’t. Having expectations never works for me. So scratch that from the record. But maybe I’ll at least spur some sort of memo about not wearing top-of-back-baring dresses. That would be a fine accomplishment to put on my resume. Suuuuuuuuuuure would.
Actually, I think I’m finally over that. Actually I think I got over it when I was like 16 or something. Or 25. Whatever, who’s counting.
This leads me into another really bad joke I was privy to this morning. Scene: I’m at Brian’s desk. Brad walks over to his desk (right across from Brad’s), banana in hand. Dialogue:
Brian: Wow Brad, that’s a big banana you have.
Brad: It’s actually my new cell phone. The Chiquita 100.
--Brad holds banana up to ear and pretends it’s a phone.
Sara: Wow, Brad, that sure was a funny joke.
Brad: Yes, it does have its “a-peel.”
--Sara laughs.
Sara: You get it Brian? A PEEL? Like a banana peel?
Brian: Ha! Oh, oh yeah.
Anyway, I have more important things to discuss than bad jokes this morning. Important might not be the best word, but we’ll use it anyway b/c I can’t think of a better one right now. Here’s the topic: clothing in the workplace – appropriateness. I think I might be crossing a line this morning, but I really don’t care. I don’t go to meetings or interact w/ anyone important unless I see them in the kitchen, so who is going to bust me? I’m wearing the black dress I wore to my bday celebration night recently, a black number. Oh but rest assured, I have a tank underneath it to prevent my enormous cleavage from leaping out. The questionable part is the back, which dips down below my shoulder blades and kind of reveals some bra staps b/c the dress straps are wideset. Not the across the back strap. The vertical ones. Anyway.
Now I think, who cares, cuz everyone knows women have bras on anyway. And mine is really boring and nothing provocative anyway. And I did bring a sweater to cover up the back if need be, but the outfit is so much less cute w/ the sweater. So hmmm….am I crossing lines…that is the question.
This is a topic I thought about frequently at my old company. Well I really didn’t think about it so much as have it shoved down my throat every 2-3 days. My company was run by old people but sustained by the very young, you see (we were all like 23), and in the summer DC is so f’in hot that I think people would have contests with themselves to see how little they could get away with wearing to work. This was one particular damsel who would occasionally bare some midriff, and almost always bare some cleave. She looked good, she was hot, but, you know…work. Office.
B/c of her (I swear, she was in fact the source of the majority of the memos we received if rumors were true) we got frequent email/voicemail reminders of our dress code. Pretty much something like, “Ladies and gents, we would like to remind you of our dress code. Please do not wear midriff-baring tops.” And it’d be funny, cuz I’d talk to Bill or Katie and be like, so did XXXXX wear something risqué the other day? And yeah, totally she did. It was so obvious who the memo source was. And it wasn’t like a 100 person office, it was like 1500, and it was very gossipy anyway. But I don’t think she really cared. B/c it’s not like it happened just once. And you know, that chick got promoted fast, like hot cakes cooking on a griddle (who says that???). So I guess no one really cared.
So maybe showing off my shoulder blades will work for me instead of against me. I think I’ll consider my full time offer in the bag. No wait, I won’t. Having expectations never works for me. So scratch that from the record. But maybe I’ll at least spur some sort of memo about not wearing top-of-back-baring dresses. That would be a fine accomplishment to put on my resume. Suuuuuuuuuuure would.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
This Entry Is About My Hair
And there is really nothing you can do about it. Well I guess you can not read it, but 1) I bet you will just b/c you bet there might be some redeeming value in it but I bet you there won’t be, and 2) I don’t really much care if you don’t read it. Well it might hurt my feelings a little.
Anyway, home over the weekend I was “hair”-spired (wow that does not even work AT all) by an old friend who used to be a sort of medium brown and is now fully, officially, 100% blond. And wow, I tell you what friend, she looks AMAZING, hands down the best color job I’ve ever seen, in or outside of Hollywood. You’d never know she wasn’t a natural honey blond. Sadly she lives in Chicago so I can’t use her colorist on a trip home to Indy. Anne – if you’re reading this – now I have told you not like 80 times how good it looks but like 81.
Well, I certainly cannot go blond b/c it would ruin my locks, cost a fortune, and require insane upkeep (my hair grows like a weed children). Oh, I also might look “pe”-tarded. But I can change things right? That is my general hair cycle: grow it out, grow it realllllly out (like it is now), then chop it, and recycle. I tried bangs last year (it was a bad cut), I used to highlight pretty heavily (cut that and now go dark/natural), but nothing ever really crazy. Although when I was living in Venice I did get a really monstrous cut that made me cry. Damn Italians.
Anyway, as I’m currently in the v. long stage, I think it’s time to chop, and I think I have my muse: the infamous 72-lb Nicole Richie. I don’t so much admire what she’s doing to her physique, but man, I have to give her credit, she has worked some wonders w/ her image/fashion. Do you REMEMBER when she first busted up on the scene – with her dreadful rat’s nest hair w/ purple extensions and terrible ill-fitting clothes? Umm, I do, and it was NOT pretty. Now, she may look on the verge of human-breakage, but at least she’s a polished looking little twiggling. Twiggling. Does anyone use that word? I am coining it. It refers to a rex-dawg. Here: “Wow, that Nicole Richie, she sure is a little twiggling!!!”
Ok, anyway, so this twiggling, in my opinion, has a great wardrobe (except that ghastly bandeau bikini that she owns in 28 diff colors) and a wicked hair cut. I’ve provided a visual reference point for you here. I want this!! Can I pull it off?? I am going to give it a try. To note, I did have a change of heart yesterday when I saw a picture of Rachel Bilson who I adore, and she had her long locks hanging nice and straight and looking fab, and resembling my current cut. But then, thing is, I really hate my hair down anyway, don’t really think it does much for my little face, so it’s always back anyway.
So, it’s official. My friend Lori does hair and she’s pretty wicked good; I’m going to trust my tresses w/ her and let her work some magic when I’m back home again in two weeks. May even get some little highlights to boot. I know, I know, I almost need to slow down!!!!
I get really deep here:* But I do have a deeper point to note here, in the context of hair. I have to say that as a woman, it’s kind of sad when you have really long tresses and you make the move to chop them off. You are not just losing hair, guys, you are losing a piece of your womanhood. I will go so far as to say that you are losing a piece of your sex appeal. And when you are virtually breastless and people call you ‘teen I don’t think you necessarily have that much sex appeal to lose (see!! I make fun of not only others, but myself, too). Bet you think this sounds crazy, but seriously. When your hair is up (and mine virtually always is), and then you take it down, men have this certain reaction. They are like, wow, look at all that hair. And they get this certain look in their eye. I already know about facial symmetry and body ratios and that shit, but does anyone know the connection b/t long hair and physical attraction? Hmm.
So it’s sad a little, b/c once you chop, you don’t get that wow factor when you unravel your hair, b/c you no longer have hair to unravel. So I suppose that for the next couple weeks I’ll be playing w/ my hair a lot just so it gets a nice sendoff. I will probably also put it up/take it down/put it back frequently. Feel free to be like, “oh wow, look at all that hair.” Or to slap me up side the head. Your pick.
B/c, in a matter of a few short weeks, I’ll be kissing my hairs goodbye. Sniff, sniff. Don’t cry for me Argentina, it does grow back. The end.
*No I don’t!!! I’m talking about f’in hair!! But I bolded it so you’d look anyway.
Anyway, home over the weekend I was “hair”-spired (wow that does not even work AT all) by an old friend who used to be a sort of medium brown and is now fully, officially, 100% blond. And wow, I tell you what friend, she looks AMAZING, hands down the best color job I’ve ever seen, in or outside of Hollywood. You’d never know she wasn’t a natural honey blond. Sadly she lives in Chicago so I can’t use her colorist on a trip home to Indy. Anne – if you’re reading this – now I have told you not like 80 times how good it looks but like 81.
Well, I certainly cannot go blond b/c it would ruin my locks, cost a fortune, and require insane upkeep (my hair grows like a weed children). Oh, I also might look “pe”-tarded. But I can change things right? That is my general hair cycle: grow it out, grow it realllllly out (like it is now), then chop it, and recycle. I tried bangs last year (it was a bad cut), I used to highlight pretty heavily (cut that and now go dark/natural), but nothing ever really crazy. Although when I was living in Venice I did get a really monstrous cut that made me cry. Damn Italians.
Anyway, as I’m currently in the v. long stage, I think it’s time to chop, and I think I have my muse: the infamous 72-lb Nicole Richie. I don’t so much admire what she’s doing to her physique, but man, I have to give her credit, she has worked some wonders w/ her image/fashion. Do you REMEMBER when she first busted up on the scene – with her dreadful rat’s nest hair w/ purple extensions and terrible ill-fitting clothes? Umm, I do, and it was NOT pretty. Now, she may look on the verge of human-breakage, but at least she’s a polished looking little twiggling. Twiggling. Does anyone use that word? I am coining it. It refers to a rex-dawg. Here: “Wow, that Nicole Richie, she sure is a little twiggling!!!” Ok, anyway, so this twiggling, in my opinion, has a great wardrobe (except that ghastly bandeau bikini that she owns in 28 diff colors) and a wicked hair cut. I’ve provided a visual reference point for you here. I want this!! Can I pull it off?? I am going to give it a try. To note, I did have a change of heart yesterday when I saw a picture of Rachel Bilson who I adore, and she had her long locks hanging nice and straight and looking fab, and resembling my current cut. But then, thing is, I really hate my hair down anyway, don’t really think it does much for my little face, so it’s always back anyway.
So, it’s official. My friend Lori does hair and she’s pretty wicked good; I’m going to trust my tresses w/ her and let her work some magic when I’m back home again in two weeks. May even get some little highlights to boot. I know, I know, I almost need to slow down!!!!
I get really deep here:* But I do have a deeper point to note here, in the context of hair. I have to say that as a woman, it’s kind of sad when you have really long tresses and you make the move to chop them off. You are not just losing hair, guys, you are losing a piece of your womanhood. I will go so far as to say that you are losing a piece of your sex appeal. And when you are virtually breastless and people call you ‘teen I don’t think you necessarily have that much sex appeal to lose (see!! I make fun of not only others, but myself, too). Bet you think this sounds crazy, but seriously. When your hair is up (and mine virtually always is), and then you take it down, men have this certain reaction. They are like, wow, look at all that hair. And they get this certain look in their eye. I already know about facial symmetry and body ratios and that shit, but does anyone know the connection b/t long hair and physical attraction? Hmm.
So it’s sad a little, b/c once you chop, you don’t get that wow factor when you unravel your hair, b/c you no longer have hair to unravel. So I suppose that for the next couple weeks I’ll be playing w/ my hair a lot just so it gets a nice sendoff. I will probably also put it up/take it down/put it back frequently. Feel free to be like, “oh wow, look at all that hair.” Or to slap me up side the head. Your pick.
B/c, in a matter of a few short weeks, I’ll be kissing my hairs goodbye. Sniff, sniff. Don’t cry for me Argentina, it does grow back. The end.
*No I don’t!!! I’m talking about f’in hair!! But I bolded it so you’d look anyway.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Indiana Makes me Random
I think Beyonce’s new album drops this week or sometime v. soon. It’s called B’Day, pronounced “Bee Day.” But you wanna know how I would pronounce it, were I to see it and not really know the context? “Bidet.” You know, like the European posterior-cleaner. Because that’s really how it looks, phonetically speaking. Do you think she gave this any thought? Apparently not. I think this is quite an unfortunate album name, but I guess my opinion doesn’t so much count. B/c, as you can see by the picture, I have poor judgment anyway. No, the side ponytail is really just a function of having been back in Indiana over the weekend. Ok! I’m kidding again! They don’t even wear the side pony in IN, I’m totally pulling your chain. Regardless, that’s Bethy there, the one in the wedding dress. She’s currently en route to Hawaii, and I’m currently sitting at my damn desk. Can someone hurry up and marry me already so I can go on a honeymoon? I’m a catch, I swear, I really am.
Ok, so, the wedding was lovely, was back in the company of my high school friends, drinking champagne (nectar of the Gods) and dancing with young boys. Yes, most of the men were attached, and therefore the only ones that invited me to dance were Bethy’s 21-year old brother and his friend. It’s cool though, I totally jive with the youngsters. Post-wedding we hit up Broadripple, of course, and combed our favorite establishments, Bleeker Street, Tavern, in search of old high school friends, and after turning up only a group of guys who were frat brother of my HS ex and our friend Cally and her bf, we gave up and headed to La Bamba’s for burritos as big as your head. They aren’t REALLY as big as your head, but that’s their little tagline, so I’ll give them that.
But, I have to say, something really big this weekend happened. I fell in love. Totally head over heels. The kind of love that you think only happens in the Notebook. I let my new lover chew on my hair and bite my wrists all night long, and I don’t even care that his biggest accomplishments in life involve going poopy. He’s like 1 foot tall, like 20 pounds, even has lots of body hair which many of you know I despise. Hmm, it’s not funny anymore is it? Ok, anyway, I obvi finally met little Jack Bauer. I don’t care who the f your dog is, our new dog kicks your dog’s ass. He is nearly pure white, and he has the most precious face on earth, and he has this silly little waggly walk and he treats you like a human chew toy, and I so wanted to steal him, take him home, and rename him Kirby. And dude, everyone loves this dog. We took him for a walk on Friday and everyone who drove past stopped to say hi and gawk. He’s that cute, I swear. My mom told me several times about how these neighbor kids, Anna and Luke (4&6) are obsessed with him, and I’m like whatever. But we’re walking right, and then Anna and Luke are with their mom like way down the street walking toward us, and they start clapping and yelling and run toward Jack. They are all about him, and their mom is like, ok, time to go, and they’re like, no we don’t want to leave Jack. So my mom is like you can come walk him home. So their mom heads home and the kids come back with us to our house b/c they refuse to leave Jack.
I love kids, btw. Love them. They are so f’in honest. We get to our house, and we go in, and they quickly lose interest in the dog, and they’re like, “umm, we’re hungry. Can we have a snack?” And my mom is like, sure… And they’re like, “we’d like Doritos.” We didn’t have any, but they were cool w/ the Oreos my mom offered. And then they’re like, “we’re thirsty. Do you have juice?” Seriously, kids don’t fool around. You go over to a neighbor’s house, and if they offer a snack you’ll take whatever they give you. We’re not talking about your best friend’s house here, we are talking about total random neighbor. Like you go over to drop off a neighbor’s package you picked up. You would never be like, “hey, um, got any Doritos?” But kids do. I love it.
The only thing that worries me is how big kids are these days. Ok, maybe it’s just that I’m really short. But whatever. The fact remains that this six year old girl was not really much smaller than me. And I’m sure that when she’s 10 she’ll probably be my height. This worries me, b/c I fear I’ll have no authority with my munchkins. Like, I’ll tell my kids to make their beds or eat their broccoli or whatever, and they’ll be like, “Umm, mom, I’m taller than you. So you’re not the boss of me.” I kind of think I might be screwed like that.
Well, I just re-read this, and it’s a pretty retarded little entry. I sound like that child in that old cell phone commercial that lays on the dining room floor in his swimsuit and fins and just talks about one million different things that don’t have any connection. So I guess I’ll stop now. The end.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Meatballs: I Miss You!
Was im’ing w/ Dave K this morning about nothing much at all. He asked where he should go to lunch, and we made a mutual decision of Greek Deli. Well actually I’m not so sure he did in fact go there. Dave K, did you go to Greek Deli? Oh, PS – Greek Deli is this fantastic place that’s around 18th and M in NW DC (am I way off here? Is my memory of DC geo already failing me) and it’s kind of Soup Nazi style, and you wait in the 100 degree heat sweating in your work clothes in this big ass line so you can get a $7 styro box full of like 5 pounds of food, including 3 mongo meatballs, salad spruced w/ feta, and marvelous orzo pasta. Actually you can get other stuff but who cares it’s all irrelevant to me save for those tasty meatball treats.
But anyway, I sure do miss those meatballs. See the thing, in DC, and actually in any big urban working neighborhood, you have this mecca of delish dining at you beck and call. Every lunch is a virtual food adventure. It’s like, “Hmm, what shall I eat today? Shall I go big time and hit up Morton’s*? Shall I have some Indian veggie delights from Karma? Shall I go delicious stuff full sandwich at the local pita shop? Corner Bakery? ” It’s a smorgasbord, and it’s all within close walking distance.
So I had that going for me three years, which was nice. And now where I am. I’m in randoid coastal but still inland surburban SoCal city. At lunch time, it’s like, “shall I have the special at MJ’s café downstairs? Shall I drive 5 minutes to Arby’s? Shall I go big time and hit up…Chili’s??” Umm, so I pretty much bring my lunch, all things considered. It bums me out. I don’t know if I can work in the burbs. And it pretty much boils down to the food options.
Anyway, that’s all I’ve got. I am mondo happy today though cuz it’s a four day week. Heading to LA tonight and flying out tomorrow home to IN for a wedding. And guess what. Despite the fact that I’ll have minimal clothing, guess I know now that I can’t carry my bag on if I want to arrive w/ my toiletries intact. Oh, and I have to remove my lip gloss from my purse. At least I only have like 2 now as I have yet to receive the collection that I had to mail home to myself.
*I like really never did that unless the company was paying.
But anyway, I sure do miss those meatballs. See the thing, in DC, and actually in any big urban working neighborhood, you have this mecca of delish dining at you beck and call. Every lunch is a virtual food adventure. It’s like, “Hmm, what shall I eat today? Shall I go big time and hit up Morton’s*? Shall I have some Indian veggie delights from Karma? Shall I go delicious stuff full sandwich at the local pita shop? Corner Bakery? ” It’s a smorgasbord, and it’s all within close walking distance.
So I had that going for me three years, which was nice. And now where I am. I’m in randoid coastal but still inland surburban SoCal city. At lunch time, it’s like, “shall I have the special at MJ’s café downstairs? Shall I drive 5 minutes to Arby’s? Shall I go big time and hit up…Chili’s??” Umm, so I pretty much bring my lunch, all things considered. It bums me out. I don’t know if I can work in the burbs. And it pretty much boils down to the food options.
Anyway, that’s all I’ve got. I am mondo happy today though cuz it’s a four day week. Heading to LA tonight and flying out tomorrow home to IN for a wedding. And guess what. Despite the fact that I’ll have minimal clothing, guess I know now that I can’t carry my bag on if I want to arrive w/ my toiletries intact. Oh, and I have to remove my lip gloss from my purse. At least I only have like 2 now as I have yet to receive the collection that I had to mail home to myself.
*I like really never did that unless the company was paying.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
For the Record
You know how newspapers have to go in and edit shit when they misprint something? That's b/c usually the stories are something of value I guess and the misprints might actually be slander or libel or just plain mistatements of fact.
Well I kinda slandered or libeled or something I guess this morning. And although my blog posts host absolutely nothing of value or importance, I feel the need to edit my shit. So, through a lengthy email chain w/ Frou I discovered that Blake in fact had a case of mistaken identity. See now, Frou actually MET Blake at the soup kitchen, where they were both serving community service. Ask me why she was serving community service. Ask me!! Because she had been CAUGHT streaking the quad. Well she did have some sort of undergarments on. And I recall that the police report provided full detail on their appearance...I'll leave that out...for your sake Frou.
Anyway, so that explains the combination of "soup kitchen quad streaking pi phi," where I myself am actually just a pi phi that once streaked the quad and worked the soup kitchen. And we did both hang out w/ the kid together. A likely mix up I suppose. This also explains why Blake associated all these random details. And Frou's pic does appear on my myspace page...and we do both have brown hair... Anyway. So there you have it. The full story.
Oh ps: my lunch today was absolutely 100% dreadful. I thought I might vomit all over myself. I would recap, but, it's much too painful.
Well I kinda slandered or libeled or something I guess this morning. And although my blog posts host absolutely nothing of value or importance, I feel the need to edit my shit. So, through a lengthy email chain w/ Frou I discovered that Blake in fact had a case of mistaken identity. See now, Frou actually MET Blake at the soup kitchen, where they were both serving community service. Ask me why she was serving community service. Ask me!! Because she had been CAUGHT streaking the quad. Well she did have some sort of undergarments on. And I recall that the police report provided full detail on their appearance...I'll leave that out...for your sake Frou.
Anyway, so that explains the combination of "soup kitchen quad streaking pi phi," where I myself am actually just a pi phi that once streaked the quad and worked the soup kitchen. And we did both hang out w/ the kid together. A likely mix up I suppose. This also explains why Blake associated all these random details. And Frou's pic does appear on my myspace page...and we do both have brown hair... Anyway. So there you have it. The full story.
Oh ps: my lunch today was absolutely 100% dreadful. I thought I might vomit all over myself. I would recap, but, it's much too painful.
Well Damn
Umm, I think I’m finally reaching the end of my rope here in the OC. I am running out of ways to entertain myself during the week, and last night I did something I always said I wouldn’t do: I created a MySpace page. Sigh. It is a work in progress; right now it has content and pics but I have yet to actually friends on that thing yet. That will be step 2 and most likely a mini project for this evening.
But, as cynical as I was about MySpace (b/c, my sentiments on that thing are like my sentiments toward Friendster or whatever, what the f’ is the point of it), I have to give it a big thank you b/c in less than 24 hours of officially creating MY “space,” I already received a return on my time investment in the form of a message that gave me a Wed morning giggle. I received notice via my gmail account that one “Blake” had sent me a message entitled “Well Damn.” The content:
“Look who the hell it is, the soup kitchen quad streaking pi phi.”
I think that Blake was a football player two years my junior that I met through Frou (and maybe he was at the soup kitchen w/ me? I don’t know), and I can honestly say I have no idea how he found me nor do I have any idea how he remembered these three very important details re: my time as a Demon Deacon. And I don’t really care b/c that is some funny shit. Well I doubt it’s funny to you, but I’m personally remembering my time at the soup kitchen (I was there out of the goodness of my heart!!!) and the time…well never mind…no need to get bogged down in details.
Oh PS: just talked to Frou. Asked her if she remembered Blake. Took her second, then she was like, “sophomore football player? Blakey?” So I was right about that. Although didn’t remember that we called the kid Blakey. I’m sure he just loved that. Why do I add an “y” to the end of everything? Seriously. I do.
Anyway, so, yeah, this MySpace thing. If I continue to get entertainment like this out of this, then maybe it actually is worth signing onto. And oh it’s also cool if you want to like make up an alias and send me totally random messages to make me laugh. No, seriously, come on, I still have 11 days left here.
Alright, I’m out. I’ll leave you with one completely unrelated tid-bit. Yesterday, when turning into work I passed Drew, the 19 year old intern that we affectionately call Freshy, who rides a skateboard to work so I’ve taken to calling him Skateboard P, even though he sure ain’t no Pharrell who I’d have babies with in a heartbeat but hey I’m digressing. Then I passed by him at his desk in the morning and he had a big bandage around his elbow. I was like yo Drew what happened. He told me that had I driven past 30 seconds later I would know – I guess the poor kid took a spill on his board right there on the sidewalk in front of B&D. Who knew the morning commute could be so hazardous?
I hate to say this, but it was kinda funny. Brian laughed. Now you think I’m really mean. I’m not though. I just occasionally get a laugh out of others’ misfortunes, but I’ve said that before. Anyway, I’m not a terrible person. Love you! The end.
But, as cynical as I was about MySpace (b/c, my sentiments on that thing are like my sentiments toward Friendster or whatever, what the f’ is the point of it), I have to give it a big thank you b/c in less than 24 hours of officially creating MY “space,” I already received a return on my time investment in the form of a message that gave me a Wed morning giggle. I received notice via my gmail account that one “Blake” had sent me a message entitled “Well Damn.” The content:
“Look who the hell it is, the soup kitchen quad streaking pi phi.”
I think that Blake was a football player two years my junior that I met through Frou (and maybe he was at the soup kitchen w/ me? I don’t know), and I can honestly say I have no idea how he found me nor do I have any idea how he remembered these three very important details re: my time as a Demon Deacon. And I don’t really care b/c that is some funny shit. Well I doubt it’s funny to you, but I’m personally remembering my time at the soup kitchen (I was there out of the goodness of my heart!!!) and the time…well never mind…no need to get bogged down in details.
Oh PS: just talked to Frou. Asked her if she remembered Blake. Took her second, then she was like, “sophomore football player? Blakey?” So I was right about that. Although didn’t remember that we called the kid Blakey. I’m sure he just loved that. Why do I add an “y” to the end of everything? Seriously. I do.
Anyway, so, yeah, this MySpace thing. If I continue to get entertainment like this out of this, then maybe it actually is worth signing onto. And oh it’s also cool if you want to like make up an alias and send me totally random messages to make me laugh. No, seriously, come on, I still have 11 days left here.
Alright, I’m out. I’ll leave you with one completely unrelated tid-bit. Yesterday, when turning into work I passed Drew, the 19 year old intern that we affectionately call Freshy, who rides a skateboard to work so I’ve taken to calling him Skateboard P, even though he sure ain’t no Pharrell who I’d have babies with in a heartbeat but hey I’m digressing. Then I passed by him at his desk in the morning and he had a big bandage around his elbow. I was like yo Drew what happened. He told me that had I driven past 30 seconds later I would know – I guess the poor kid took a spill on his board right there on the sidewalk in front of B&D. Who knew the morning commute could be so hazardous?
I hate to say this, but it was kinda funny. Brian laughed. Now you think I’m really mean. I’m not though. I just occasionally get a laugh out of others’ misfortunes, but I’ve said that before. Anyway, I’m not a terrible person. Love you! The end.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
I Don't Get This
So Pepsi and Coke are battling the Indian market right now, cuz India is threatening to stop selling their products due to reports that the drinks are contaminated w/ pesticides. This article I just read notes the following:
"In any case, the strategy did not stop the crisis from growing much worse, as newspapers printed images of cans of the companies’ drinks with headlines like “Toxic Cocktail” and news channels broadcast images of protesters pouring Coke down the throats of donkeys."
Why are protestors pouring what could be a "toxic cocktail" down a poor defenseless animal's throat? How is possibly killing a living thing an intelligent statement of protest? This is really lost on me. It truly is. Explanations welcome.
"In any case, the strategy did not stop the crisis from growing much worse, as newspapers printed images of cans of the companies’ drinks with headlines like “Toxic Cocktail” and news channels broadcast images of protesters pouring Coke down the throats of donkeys."
Why are protestors pouring what could be a "toxic cocktail" down a poor defenseless animal's throat? How is possibly killing a living thing an intelligent statement of protest? This is really lost on me. It truly is. Explanations welcome.
Geoff, I KNEW You Couldn't Resist
For the record, my cold is gone, but I’m continuing to drink Airborne b/c it tastes good. Is that weird?
Anyway, three random things before I talk about the lovely birthday dinner that I had with the surrogates last night.
--I downloaded a ring tone y-day (inspired by Sauj, thanks friend) – Promiscuous Girl by Nelly. Well actually it’s the part where she sings so it’s Promiscuous Boy, but whatever. It makes me giggle and blush a little when it rings. But I downloaded yesterday late afternoon in the office. Didn’t realize though when it downloads that it would actually PLAY the music, but it does. I quickly snapped my phone shut, which stopped the download. Because I rarely learn from my mistakes (and I’m really tempted to write about my personal life here but I’ll resist), I of course began downloading one more time, and of course it happened again, and it was obnoxious….again.
--This morning, on the radio, I heard the following commercial snippet: “Do you text message so often that you have well-developed thumb muscles? Then DeVry University is for you!” I changed the station after that…but is this effective marketing? Somehow, I don’t feel like it speaks highly of a university if they are searching for candidates whose most outstanding skill is their ability to text. I mean, I’m SURE they had a good point, surely they did…but it was lost on me just a little bit. I don’t know. I signed up for UCLA when I heard it’s a really good place for people that go to pasties-pool-parties.
--I also heard a song that includes the following song lyrics: “You're the typa girl I wanna roll with tonight / I'm at the Double Tree / I got an early flight…” Wow, SEXY!!! Seriously, I hear you’re at the Double Tree and all I wanna do is come by your room and do it. Because the Double Tree just SCREAMS sex. Really, it does. I can think of no bigger turn on. Except maybe my glass of AirBorne. Or, maybe my calculator. Or like any other random object sitting on my desk.
Hmm. Guess what. Now that I’ve written about this mostly pointless stuff, I really don’t feel like writing much more. Which is saying a lot as I typically can go for hours, if you know what I mean (that’s from a Pink song). I don’t though: for the record, inquiring minds have asked, and a typical blog entry takes about 20 minutes of my precious, precious time. And I know, they are long, but that is just the way I roll.
Anyway, I just need to note, that my real mom asked for my summer mom’s address last week cuz she wanted to send them a thank-you note for taking care of me. I forgot to do it last week. Then I get home y-day and real parents had sent me flowers. Ha! That is why you wanted the address. So sneaky. But anyway, when I called her after the flowers she was like “Yeah, you forgot to send the address, so I Googled Sylvia and found their address and phone number.” Jane, you’re an f’in Internet expert.
She then apparently called Sylvia and they chatted for what must have been at least 20 minutes about me given what my summer mom now knows about my life. She was even sure to tell them how much I hate family photos at restaurants but encouraged my summer dad to bring a camera to get plenty of shots of me smiling over my mahi. Mom, thanks, no really, that is a sincere thank you. The evening was quite pleasant though. I found that like my real mom, my summer mom could talk to a spoon for 3 hours straight, and my fake dad, like my real dad makes incredibly corny comments like, when the waiter asks if we’re three, “Yep! Unless you can find us a fourth!” (insert cymbal clash sound here). And of course the night would not have been complete without the waiter asking me if I am getting sick or something, pointing to his throat. I don’t explain anymore. I just said very briskly, “Nope. This is just the way I talk.”
Anyway, look at that. I wrote more. Hot damn. Ok, times up. Time to go continue working on my write up all about faucets and hotels. Sure is fun. Suuuuuuuuuuuuuureee is.
Anyway, three random things before I talk about the lovely birthday dinner that I had with the surrogates last night.
--I downloaded a ring tone y-day (inspired by Sauj, thanks friend) – Promiscuous Girl by Nelly. Well actually it’s the part where she sings so it’s Promiscuous Boy, but whatever. It makes me giggle and blush a little when it rings. But I downloaded yesterday late afternoon in the office. Didn’t realize though when it downloads that it would actually PLAY the music, but it does. I quickly snapped my phone shut, which stopped the download. Because I rarely learn from my mistakes (and I’m really tempted to write about my personal life here but I’ll resist), I of course began downloading one more time, and of course it happened again, and it was obnoxious….again.
--This morning, on the radio, I heard the following commercial snippet: “Do you text message so often that you have well-developed thumb muscles? Then DeVry University is for you!” I changed the station after that…but is this effective marketing? Somehow, I don’t feel like it speaks highly of a university if they are searching for candidates whose most outstanding skill is their ability to text. I mean, I’m SURE they had a good point, surely they did…but it was lost on me just a little bit. I don’t know. I signed up for UCLA when I heard it’s a really good place for people that go to pasties-pool-parties.
--I also heard a song that includes the following song lyrics: “You're the typa girl I wanna roll with tonight / I'm at the Double Tree / I got an early flight…” Wow, SEXY!!! Seriously, I hear you’re at the Double Tree and all I wanna do is come by your room and do it. Because the Double Tree just SCREAMS sex. Really, it does. I can think of no bigger turn on. Except maybe my glass of AirBorne. Or, maybe my calculator. Or like any other random object sitting on my desk.
Hmm. Guess what. Now that I’ve written about this mostly pointless stuff, I really don’t feel like writing much more. Which is saying a lot as I typically can go for hours, if you know what I mean (that’s from a Pink song). I don’t though: for the record, inquiring minds have asked, and a typical blog entry takes about 20 minutes of my precious, precious time. And I know, they are long, but that is just the way I roll.
Anyway, I just need to note, that my real mom asked for my summer mom’s address last week cuz she wanted to send them a thank-you note for taking care of me. I forgot to do it last week. Then I get home y-day and real parents had sent me flowers. Ha! That is why you wanted the address. So sneaky. But anyway, when I called her after the flowers she was like “Yeah, you forgot to send the address, so I Googled Sylvia and found their address and phone number.” Jane, you’re an f’in Internet expert.
She then apparently called Sylvia and they chatted for what must have been at least 20 minutes about me given what my summer mom now knows about my life. She was even sure to tell them how much I hate family photos at restaurants but encouraged my summer dad to bring a camera to get plenty of shots of me smiling over my mahi. Mom, thanks, no really, that is a sincere thank you. The evening was quite pleasant though. I found that like my real mom, my summer mom could talk to a spoon for 3 hours straight, and my fake dad, like my real dad makes incredibly corny comments like, when the waiter asks if we’re three, “Yep! Unless you can find us a fourth!” (insert cymbal clash sound here). And of course the night would not have been complete without the waiter asking me if I am getting sick or something, pointing to his throat. I don’t explain anymore. I just said very briskly, “Nope. This is just the way I talk.”
Anyway, look at that. I wrote more. Hot damn. Ok, times up. Time to go continue working on my write up all about faucets and hotels. Sure is fun. Suuuuuuuuuuuuuureee is.
Monday, August 21, 2006
She's Downstairs Getting Her Pasties On
First things first. Today is my birthday. I’m sure I’ve told you 26 times, which, coincidentally, is my new improved age, but I don’t care. Your birthday only comes once a year, and I will shove it down your throat whether you want me to or not (most likely: or not). Anyway, thanks for the love, if you’ve give me some, and if you haven’t: friendship cancelled. BTW: I was so glad to see the presence of several great San Diego-ans over the weekend, and Mark, I’m calling you out, you suck. But anyway, enough of that. The weekend was fantastic. And, DJ No Beer, I don’t know what we’ll do when you go abroad and we lose “our” beach house, it will be a sad day indeed, and I’m hoping that someone will be able to fill this void with a new Manhattan house so I can continue to play.
Anyway, I could do a weekend in review type thing, but I’d much just show a couple pictures that recap my Saturday (beach by day, bar by night) and than discuss my Sunday afternoon which was one of the weirdest days of my twenty-SIX-year-old life. Last week I wrote about a 1) beta-fish-eating friend (he’s ok), 2) a random guy at work who divulged his entire life story to me (and he just called and invited me to lunch on Wed, won’t that be fun), and 3) a v. Hollywood pool party. Picking up where we I left off, I absolutely MUST share more detail of #3.
First, a recap of the “guest” policy: “To be clear, the criteria for “quality” should go far beyond physical beauty and generally include whatever criteria you would use in selecting guests for your own high-end private functions.” I must say, I don’t think anyone bothered to read this guest policy. I have never in my life seen so many coked-out (I don’t KNOW if they were coked out but they must have been b/c no one acts like that without the influence of drugs), skanked-up, girls gone wild at one single pool.
Let’s set the scene: Sunday afternoon, 3pm. Roll up to party, held at wicked-awesome mansion in Hollywood Hills. Walk down to pool deck. I’ve never actually been on the set of a rap video, but I’ve watched enough to comfortably say that they might film at these Sunday pool parties. The men: a sea of True Religion jeans, D&G sunglasses, wife beaters, and bling bling bling – mostly motionless, just staring at the women. The women: fake breasts, fake butts (yes! I swear!), Brazilian cut bikini bottoms, 6 inch heels, and pasties – gyrating around the pool deck. I said pasties. White leather couches, white tables topped with buckets of Moet. There are two things to note here: a) why are the men wearing SO much clothing, and the women, SO little? B) Why are the women wearing pasties?
I can’t answer the first question. I can address the second. One deck below the pool, they were doing free manicures, free haircuts, and free massages (and the massages kicked ass). They also had a body painting station, where women would remove their tops and get their arms/chests/back painted with crazy paint and then have their little boobies topped off with feathered pasties. Please don’t even ask me if I partook. I may have done some stupid shit in my life, and I’m no prude, but I do keep my clothes on. Or at least my bikini.
It was a really distracting scene. You didn’t WANT to stare, you didn’t even want to LOOK, but you could not help it. How do you talk to a woman when she’s wearing pasties? Like, we were taking a picture of us (btw, most of the pics we took were in fact attempts to get other people doing weird shit in the background caught on film) and this woman walks up to Mana and is like, “want me to take it for you so you can get in?” Like, it’s totally normal for her to just be hanging out in pasties. But it’s really not!! Maybe in bizarre-o world it is…so maybe we were in bizarre-o world…I just really don’t know anymore.
Anyway, my favorite was this one girl that I’m fairly certain was getting paid. She was wearing quintessential stripper shoes (6 in spike stilettos, clear Lucite heels, clear toe strap), a “skirt” that was perhaps 3 inches long…and…I won’t use the word again. She was dancing like a stripper and she didn’t stop man. She was like a machine. Her #1 dance move: she flips into a handstand, and then does the splits while in the handstand, and then flips out into a backbend. She’s like 2 feet away from us. I also liked this one chick who was wearing a long skirt and a long halter and she was dancing by herself for hours on end. At one point she hopped into the pool, fully clothed, danced more, and then got right back out and continued to dance in her soaking clothes.
Wow, I just can’t do this thing justice. I’m trying, I’m really trying, to paint a picture, but this place just can’t be put in words. It was too ridiculous. I know what you’re thinking: “why were you there? It sounds rather atrocious!” It, at points, was. But, you just couldn’t pull your eyes away from the scene around you. I think that one of Mana’s friend said it well, when, near the end of the day when were sitting in the hot tub, she announced that if a midget in a cowboy outfit came out on a unicycle and then started having sex with the stripper woman on the pool deck, she would be neither surprised nor shocked. That was the essence of the day. It was absolutely fantastic people watching. And I think that people watching falls into my top 10 and maybe top 5 pastimes. And that, that made the day worth it. I like to think of it as a broadening experience, considering that it was the first time I’d worn a sundress and makeup to a “pool” party and then felt supremely out place b/c I kept my bikini top ON (and it was Abercrombie…not Versace) and wore flip flops instead of heels.
Well, that’s pretty much all I have to say about that. But, rest assured, I’ll be sure to write about it should I ever again attend another Hollywood pasties party.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Please Rank the Following on a Weirdness/Skeeviness Scale of 1-3
Ok. First off, let me remark that I’m fortified this morning by the meal of ribs, steak (yes, ribs AND steak!!!), baked potatoes, grilled corn on the cob, and salad that my surrogates prepared for me last night. Yes, summer in the OC does have its perks. So thank you S&J for fueling my Friday. It gives me the energy I need to write about stupid, pointless things…
Anyway, I think there are three things that I need to call out this morning, and the only thing they have in common is that they are all a little weird. This should be appreciated, as it creates an almost interactive experience where one has the opportunity to read, contemplate, and ultimately rank which thing strikes you as the oddest or skeeviest. On with the show.
Jeff’s Medical History, Revealed: I am in the kitchen yesterday, when this engineering guy that I’m fairly certain I’ve never really met or talked to asks me, “Sara, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you Yiddish?” Hmm. Well, I’m thinking, I don’t think Yiddish is something you can technically “be.” It’s more an old Polish/Jewish dialect. So I stammer a little, and I’m like, “well, umm, Yiddish…I guess, can you be Yiddish? I mean…I am Jewish…and I think my background is rooted in Eastern European nations…” And he’s like “Well, yes, I meant Jewish. I just asked because I’m actually Jewish. And your last name, I thought you were too. There are so few Jews in this area. It’s kind of nice to meet more Jews.”
So then we start talking about being Jewish, and I tell him that he should come to LA b/c it’s a definite Jewish hot spot. And then very quickly, it spirals in a new direction after I mention UCLA. He’s like, “I went to UCLA, too! That’s also where I got my heart transplant and leg transplant 9 years ago!” Right. So I still do not know this guys name, but I know he’s Jewish, I know he has a fake heart (and he was Class 5 and very nearly didn’t get his transplant), a prosthetic leg, the names of his medical team, and the fact that his brother owns a Kosher meat market where one of his doctor’s purchases his dead animal products. The conversation ends with this guy saying we should totally go to lunch, and I’m like “Yes! Of course.”
And I walk away, and I still don’t know his name…even though I feel like I know his entire life story… So I have Brian do some recon work and discover his name, so that’s good, but hey guys, come on – weird, right?
Hate to Break this to You, but Those Fish Are DECORATIVE: I received a 1am text from a friend who will remain nameless only b/c this story makes him look like such a jackass: “Is it too fratty to eat a Beta fish at a trendy bar?” Umm, did you really need to ask me that? You are over the age of 20 aren’t you? and you do have the wherewithal to realize that eating live fish decorating the flower vase on the table of the bar where you are drinking, most likely, a $7 beer, is not adult behavior, right?
If you people are going to participate in such inane and completely moronic activities, do not come crying to me when I write about them in the public domain. It’s almost like you WANT me to write about you. So, pretty f’in skeevy right? BTW, my response was calling him and telling him a recent NYTimes article I read about these massive 30 feet tapeworms that you can acquire through eating uncooked freshwater fish.
What if I Don’t Make the Cut?: Again, I really want to emphasize the importance of this weekend – in case you’ve forgotten, Monday is my BIRTHDAY which I will actually be celebrating on Saturday. And Sunday. And perhaps, tonight. Anyway. Mana invited me to some pool party thing that is sponsored by this private club that one of her friends is in. I still really have not figured out what the hell this club actually is, or does, or who belongs, or what I’ll be getting myself into…but according to Mana most of the other women will be very tall, anorexic, fake blond, with fake large breasts. Boy oh boy, sign me up bitch!
Anyway, she forwarded me an email from this club thing today and I gave it a skim. Read about some celebrity line ups, read about some poker tournaments, read about the weekend plans…and then got to this section:
New Female Guest Policy: X… is now reserving the right to not admit all female guests to X… events. As you all know, we are running private events in which we exercise discretion and check references with respect to the acceptance of new members, and we are now going to exercise similar discretion with respect to any guests as well.
We still absolutely encourage all members to bring as many female guests as you’d like to X… events (the more the better!), but we also do expect you to exercise your own discretion in selecting quality guests. To be clear, the criteria for “quality” should go far beyond physical beauty and generally include whatever criteria you would use in selecting guests for your own high-end private functions. If you have any questions with respect to specific individuals you’d like to have guest privileges, please email Gina at…
Guys, what kind of place IS this??? What if I don’t in? What if I don’t make the “physical beauty” cut (impossible!)? What if I don’t meet the “criteria you would use in selecting guests for your own high-end private functions?” (well, I don’t really ever have private high-end functions, so this somewhat irrelevant…but…what do you think these criteria would be??).
Anyway, this weird little policy and possibly very interesting little scene that I’ll be getting into on Sunday is my third and final weird/skeevy (with a weighting toward the skeevy in this case) thing. This now concludes the list of options, so happy ranking, should you choose to participate.
Oh, again, reminder, Monday IS my birthday. I’ll be 26. Mark your damn calendar.
Anyway, I think there are three things that I need to call out this morning, and the only thing they have in common is that they are all a little weird. This should be appreciated, as it creates an almost interactive experience where one has the opportunity to read, contemplate, and ultimately rank which thing strikes you as the oddest or skeeviest. On with the show.
Jeff’s Medical History, Revealed: I am in the kitchen yesterday, when this engineering guy that I’m fairly certain I’ve never really met or talked to asks me, “Sara, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you Yiddish?” Hmm. Well, I’m thinking, I don’t think Yiddish is something you can technically “be.” It’s more an old Polish/Jewish dialect. So I stammer a little, and I’m like, “well, umm, Yiddish…I guess, can you be Yiddish? I mean…I am Jewish…and I think my background is rooted in Eastern European nations…” And he’s like “Well, yes, I meant Jewish. I just asked because I’m actually Jewish. And your last name, I thought you were too. There are so few Jews in this area. It’s kind of nice to meet more Jews.”
So then we start talking about being Jewish, and I tell him that he should come to LA b/c it’s a definite Jewish hot spot. And then very quickly, it spirals in a new direction after I mention UCLA. He’s like, “I went to UCLA, too! That’s also where I got my heart transplant and leg transplant 9 years ago!” Right. So I still do not know this guys name, but I know he’s Jewish, I know he has a fake heart (and he was Class 5 and very nearly didn’t get his transplant), a prosthetic leg, the names of his medical team, and the fact that his brother owns a Kosher meat market where one of his doctor’s purchases his dead animal products. The conversation ends with this guy saying we should totally go to lunch, and I’m like “Yes! Of course.”
And I walk away, and I still don’t know his name…even though I feel like I know his entire life story… So I have Brian do some recon work and discover his name, so that’s good, but hey guys, come on – weird, right?
Hate to Break this to You, but Those Fish Are DECORATIVE: I received a 1am text from a friend who will remain nameless only b/c this story makes him look like such a jackass: “Is it too fratty to eat a Beta fish at a trendy bar?” Umm, did you really need to ask me that? You are over the age of 20 aren’t you? and you do have the wherewithal to realize that eating live fish decorating the flower vase on the table of the bar where you are drinking, most likely, a $7 beer, is not adult behavior, right?
If you people are going to participate in such inane and completely moronic activities, do not come crying to me when I write about them in the public domain. It’s almost like you WANT me to write about you. So, pretty f’in skeevy right? BTW, my response was calling him and telling him a recent NYTimes article I read about these massive 30 feet tapeworms that you can acquire through eating uncooked freshwater fish.
What if I Don’t Make the Cut?: Again, I really want to emphasize the importance of this weekend – in case you’ve forgotten, Monday is my BIRTHDAY which I will actually be celebrating on Saturday. And Sunday. And perhaps, tonight. Anyway. Mana invited me to some pool party thing that is sponsored by this private club that one of her friends is in. I still really have not figured out what the hell this club actually is, or does, or who belongs, or what I’ll be getting myself into…but according to Mana most of the other women will be very tall, anorexic, fake blond, with fake large breasts. Boy oh boy, sign me up bitch!
Anyway, she forwarded me an email from this club thing today and I gave it a skim. Read about some celebrity line ups, read about some poker tournaments, read about the weekend plans…and then got to this section:
New Female Guest Policy: X… is now reserving the right to not admit all female guests to X… events. As you all know, we are running private events in which we exercise discretion and check references with respect to the acceptance of new members, and we are now going to exercise similar discretion with respect to any guests as well.
We still absolutely encourage all members to bring as many female guests as you’d like to X… events (the more the better!), but we also do expect you to exercise your own discretion in selecting quality guests. To be clear, the criteria for “quality” should go far beyond physical beauty and generally include whatever criteria you would use in selecting guests for your own high-end private functions. If you have any questions with respect to specific individuals you’d like to have guest privileges, please email Gina at…
Guys, what kind of place IS this??? What if I don’t in? What if I don’t make the “physical beauty” cut (impossible!)? What if I don’t meet the “criteria you would use in selecting guests for your own high-end private functions?” (well, I don’t really ever have private high-end functions, so this somewhat irrelevant…but…what do you think these criteria would be??).
Anyway, this weird little policy and possibly very interesting little scene that I’ll be getting into on Sunday is my third and final weird/skeevy (with a weighting toward the skeevy in this case) thing. This now concludes the list of options, so happy ranking, should you choose to participate.
Oh, again, reminder, Monday IS my birthday. I’ll be 26. Mark your damn calendar.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Hey, Lauren, What Comes Before Part B? Part-AYYY!!!
Key Takeaway: So let’s just cut right to the chase. Laguna Beach, Season Three premiered last night, and as you already knew, or guessed, this girl watched it. Well I really watched 20 minutes of lame ass commercials with 10 minutes of content tossed in for good measure, but who’s being analytical. Let’s start at the “20,000 foot view” (I hate when people say this in business, especially when they use it thematically, like, “oh, those guys, they operate at the 20,000 foot level, and then these guys, they have more a 10,000 foot view, and then these guys, they are really close to the customer, like 1,000 feet”) Ok I got way off track. Anyway, key takeaway: girls are bitches. I am very insightful this morning.
Would that be Weird?: I know that girls can be mean. I’ve had my share of gossipy back-stabbing scenarios, and I’ve been the giver and the taker. But seriously, in Laguna Beach it’s like a whole new level. I think my favorite part was actually at the beginning, when outcast Tessa, who is oddly enough the narrator (which brings whole new refreshing spin to the show) is talking to her friend Rocky. Oh, and I’m sorry, Rocky, but that has got to be the worst choice of nickname I’ve ever heard of. You sound like a damn man, and your name is Raquel, and you’re tremendously feminine. And this is coming from a girl who has let her friends call her such monikers as Linderstupid (thanks Mibs, you bitch) or Linderslut (thanks Mare, you whore). Continuing on though, Tessa has just gotten invited to a BBQ at the head Alpha female’s house, Kyndra, and she tells Rocky that she has to come with her. And Rocky’s like, “but wouldn’t that be weird?” and Tessa is like “No, she invited me and you’d be with me.”
Yes, that Would Be Weird. And Awkward: Switch scenes to expensive boutique where Kyndra is shopping with her uber-dreadful-bitch best friend Cami. I really need to stress this again. Cami the very definition of human misery. The things that come out of this girl’s mouth must have been thought of by the devil himself. Oh, and Cami, you are UGLY. Seriously, she kind of has a pig face. Now, I don’t like to directly jab at others’ looks, but when people are mean and happen to be ugly, I consider jabs at their looks fair game b/c they suck. Anyway. So Kyndra is like “Umm, I sent a text msg to Tessa inviting her to my party.” And Cami is like, “That is random. Why did you do that? What if she brings that freak Rocky?” (or something like that). And Kyndra is like, “Why would she do that? That would be weird.” So, Rocky, I guess you are right, it would in fact be weird, and Tessa, you were wrong.
Nothing Went Down: The bbq is one of the most awkward things I’ve ever seen. Kyndra and her bitch clique (they really like to actually use the word clique on the show and constantly talk about their cliques) recline on poolside sofas and throw dagger eyes and opening spew venomous comments directed at Tessa and Rocky until they finally leave. “Way to make a girl feel comfortable” as Rocky put it. Good job, Rocks, you were right on w/ that thought. I’m personally surprised they even let Tessa inside the party…I thought there was going to be a little “girlfight” (Cami did a nice ref to the R&B song, good work) action going down. (sidenote: I guess E-Four-O would’ve been there b/c everywhere you meet that guy it’s goin’ down).
Boy Analogies: So that is that with the girls. Now let’s do some parallels b/t the boyz of this season and the boyz of seasons past. In my esteemed opinion, Cameron=Jason W (big, dumb, not really that cool but everyone thinks he is, huge man slut) and Chase=Talan (the sensitive, sweet one who lends the shoulder to cry on and most likely will get totally douched on by at least one of the girls at some point).
Cameron, You Suck: Cameron, all the girls think you are totally hot and shit. I will not lie, you have one hot body my friend, but your face leaves something to be desired and you also seem like a total jackass. But, in true Jason fashion, the girls lust after you anyway, and now you’re in a Jessica/Cameron/Kyndra love triangle, and mark my words, any love triangle that involve Jessica is only going to become a disaster sooner or later, and probably sooner (and I can’t wait!!!).
Chase, You Can’t Sing: Chase, I don’t know about you. I don’t have much to go on. But honey, despite what Tessa told you, I think your music rather sucks and I really don’t see a future there for you. So I hope you have other stuff to offer.
That about wraps things up. Just to note, the show closed with Jessica watching her little Adonis Cameron frolicking in the waves. She’s talking about having 1 million of his babies (not really, but I bet she would. She’s a self-admitted slut, remember that priceless scene from last season???). And little does she know…he was sleeping with Kyndra the night before… Oh the drama and the madness. Is it next Wed. yet???
Would that be Weird?: I know that girls can be mean. I’ve had my share of gossipy back-stabbing scenarios, and I’ve been the giver and the taker. But seriously, in Laguna Beach it’s like a whole new level. I think my favorite part was actually at the beginning, when outcast Tessa, who is oddly enough the narrator (which brings whole new refreshing spin to the show) is talking to her friend Rocky. Oh, and I’m sorry, Rocky, but that has got to be the worst choice of nickname I’ve ever heard of. You sound like a damn man, and your name is Raquel, and you’re tremendously feminine. And this is coming from a girl who has let her friends call her such monikers as Linderstupid (thanks Mibs, you bitch) or Linderslut (thanks Mare, you whore). Continuing on though, Tessa has just gotten invited to a BBQ at the head Alpha female’s house, Kyndra, and she tells Rocky that she has to come with her. And Rocky’s like, “but wouldn’t that be weird?” and Tessa is like “No, she invited me and you’d be with me.”
Yes, that Would Be Weird. And Awkward: Switch scenes to expensive boutique where Kyndra is shopping with her uber-dreadful-bitch best friend Cami. I really need to stress this again. Cami the very definition of human misery. The things that come out of this girl’s mouth must have been thought of by the devil himself. Oh, and Cami, you are UGLY. Seriously, she kind of has a pig face. Now, I don’t like to directly jab at others’ looks, but when people are mean and happen to be ugly, I consider jabs at their looks fair game b/c they suck. Anyway. So Kyndra is like “Umm, I sent a text msg to Tessa inviting her to my party.” And Cami is like, “That is random. Why did you do that? What if she brings that freak Rocky?” (or something like that). And Kyndra is like, “Why would she do that? That would be weird.” So, Rocky, I guess you are right, it would in fact be weird, and Tessa, you were wrong.
Nothing Went Down: The bbq is one of the most awkward things I’ve ever seen. Kyndra and her bitch clique (they really like to actually use the word clique on the show and constantly talk about their cliques) recline on poolside sofas and throw dagger eyes and opening spew venomous comments directed at Tessa and Rocky until they finally leave. “Way to make a girl feel comfortable” as Rocky put it. Good job, Rocks, you were right on w/ that thought. I’m personally surprised they even let Tessa inside the party…I thought there was going to be a little “girlfight” (Cami did a nice ref to the R&B song, good work) action going down. (sidenote: I guess E-Four-O would’ve been there b/c everywhere you meet that guy it’s goin’ down).
Boy Analogies: So that is that with the girls. Now let’s do some parallels b/t the boyz of this season and the boyz of seasons past. In my esteemed opinion, Cameron=Jason W (big, dumb, not really that cool but everyone thinks he is, huge man slut) and Chase=Talan (the sensitive, sweet one who lends the shoulder to cry on and most likely will get totally douched on by at least one of the girls at some point).
Cameron, You Suck: Cameron, all the girls think you are totally hot and shit. I will not lie, you have one hot body my friend, but your face leaves something to be desired and you also seem like a total jackass. But, in true Jason fashion, the girls lust after you anyway, and now you’re in a Jessica/Cameron/Kyndra love triangle, and mark my words, any love triangle that involve Jessica is only going to become a disaster sooner or later, and probably sooner (and I can’t wait!!!).
Chase, You Can’t Sing: Chase, I don’t know about you. I don’t have much to go on. But honey, despite what Tessa told you, I think your music rather sucks and I really don’t see a future there for you. So I hope you have other stuff to offer.
That about wraps things up. Just to note, the show closed with Jessica watching her little Adonis Cameron frolicking in the waves. She’s talking about having 1 million of his babies (not really, but I bet she would. She’s a self-admitted slut, remember that priceless scene from last season???). And little does she know…he was sleeping with Kyndra the night before… Oh the drama and the madness. Is it next Wed. yet???
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
What Exactly Are You Implying?
First off all, I want to note that I have remained largely offline today. Yesterday was highly unproductive and I have to admit that when I went to bed last night, I wondered what the f’ I’d done all day and got a little nervous about my project. I’m happy to report that today has been highly productive and I’ve added about 5 solid pages to my business plan so far.
But that is pretty boring to discuss.
Anyway, b/c I have kept off IM, for the most part, I thought it’d be ok to add another quick blog entry. ‘specially since I am typing like mad fast since I’m in writing mode for work. So here is the deal. Brian from works comes over to my cube earlier. He’s like “Hey, Sara, are you gonna watch the premier of the new Laguna Beach season tonight?” Me: “Of course. Hello!!” Brian: “Ha!! Brad! Hey! See, I told you!!” I walked back to their cube region and asked Brad if they had money down on the likelihood of me watching this. Brad said there was no point since they both were pretty sure I would be watching it. What exactly were they implying?
I then changed the subject and was like, “So, hey! Look! I wore my hair wavy today!” (got this John Frieda stuff that enhances/creates waves, very fun, highly recommended, and it works) They were like “Yeah, we noticed that you wore it down and that it was curled. We have already discussed this.” It made me wonder…I know they are discussing my tv habits…I know they are discussing my hairstyles…and I know they gossip about everyone else in the office (particularly those poor women down in customer service who apparently…well…never mind I’m feeling nice today…and the speculated love affair b/t Ms. Sequins and someone else…) I head back there to participate from time to time, but I still feel like I’m missing out on a lot of good chat and it makes me 1) sad that I’m missing out, and 2) a little nervous about the specific topics going on. Maybe I should listen to my iPod less and eavesdrop on The Odd Couple back there more. Just a thought.
But that is pretty boring to discuss.
Anyway, b/c I have kept off IM, for the most part, I thought it’d be ok to add another quick blog entry. ‘specially since I am typing like mad fast since I’m in writing mode for work. So here is the deal. Brian from works comes over to my cube earlier. He’s like “Hey, Sara, are you gonna watch the premier of the new Laguna Beach season tonight?” Me: “Of course. Hello!!” Brian: “Ha!! Brad! Hey! See, I told you!!” I walked back to their cube region and asked Brad if they had money down on the likelihood of me watching this. Brad said there was no point since they both were pretty sure I would be watching it. What exactly were they implying?
I then changed the subject and was like, “So, hey! Look! I wore my hair wavy today!” (got this John Frieda stuff that enhances/creates waves, very fun, highly recommended, and it works) They were like “Yeah, we noticed that you wore it down and that it was curled. We have already discussed this.” It made me wonder…I know they are discussing my tv habits…I know they are discussing my hairstyles…and I know they gossip about everyone else in the office (particularly those poor women down in customer service who apparently…well…never mind I’m feeling nice today…and the speculated love affair b/t Ms. Sequins and someone else…) I head back there to participate from time to time, but I still feel like I’m missing out on a lot of good chat and it makes me 1) sad that I’m missing out, and 2) a little nervous about the specific topics going on. Maybe I should listen to my iPod less and eavesdrop on The Odd Couple back there more. Just a thought.
Why Women Are Screwed (Umm, not Literally)
My friend Melissa’s boyfriend, Dan – he can be kind of a douche at times…whenever Melissa would make a silly/nonsensical comment, he’d pat her head and say, “But she’s pretty.” And there was this specific voice that went w/ the phrase too but clearly I can’t do the voice in writing…could YouTube it…but umm, I won’t. BTW, I’m not implying that she made frequent nonsensical comments, cuz she didn’t, just pointing out the outcome. Anyway. Brett picked this up and used on me occasionally as well. But we all know that I never make silly comments so he didn’t get much use out of this. Right.
So, moving on with this thought… Was chatting w/ Jane last night and she mentioned some article from the NYTimes about some study that indicates that if two attractive people have kids, they are 36% more likely to have a girl as their first child than if two unattractive people mate. Basically the premise is that beauty is as important of a trait as intelligence, strength, etc. and it’s something your genes want to pass along. And, women apparently benefit from beauty over some other traits in comparison to men. Confused? Here, read this: http://health.theledger.com/article/20060808/FAMILY/1411/0/RSS2 Guess it explains why you can single out feminine beauty and just say she got hosed elsewhere: “But she’s pretty.” No, I’m kidding on that – I know that we’re also smarter and generally better, but I had to tie back into my opener.
Anyway, I guess my mom wanted me to know that she thinks she and my dad are attractive as I was the first born. And clearly, I took all the beautiful genes. After all, “I’ve always been attractive.” That is a joke, ps, and it’s directed at a certain someone, who will remain…nameless.
Anyway, this is not really the funny part of the article. The more interesting piece is the study author’s conclusion that essentially, women are more attractive than men, and I quote: "Because physical attractiveness is heritable - and because physically attractive parents have more daughters and less attractive parents have more sons - the average level of physical attractiveness among women increases over time relative to men," he said. "In my study I demonstrate that more men than women are average-looking, while more women than men are either attractive or very attractive," he said.
I don’t know what you conclude from this, but I conclude that women, as usual, get f’ed here. This just validates that phenomenon you see every day: A much higher percentage of couples where the woman is more attractive than the man. It does tie back to another conclusion of the study, that “men value physical appearance more than women do when seeking a partner…,” but it also indicates that hey, we really have no choice, we must date down, b/c the pickings are slim for us. How unfair is that? And then, they even get to benefit from our pretty genes when we procreate!! So unfair.
That’s all I have to say about that. But I bet you’re now really anxious to find out if your first born will be a girl or a boy. Or maybe you’re not. But I’ll be honest. I’m curious. The end.
So, moving on with this thought… Was chatting w/ Jane last night and she mentioned some article from the NYTimes about some study that indicates that if two attractive people have kids, they are 36% more likely to have a girl as their first child than if two unattractive people mate. Basically the premise is that beauty is as important of a trait as intelligence, strength, etc. and it’s something your genes want to pass along. And, women apparently benefit from beauty over some other traits in comparison to men. Confused? Here, read this: http://health.theledger.com/article/20060808/FAMILY/1411/0/RSS2 Guess it explains why you can single out feminine beauty and just say she got hosed elsewhere: “But she’s pretty.” No, I’m kidding on that – I know that we’re also smarter and generally better, but I had to tie back into my opener.
Anyway, I guess my mom wanted me to know that she thinks she and my dad are attractive as I was the first born. And clearly, I took all the beautiful genes. After all, “I’ve always been attractive.” That is a joke, ps, and it’s directed at a certain someone, who will remain…nameless.
Anyway, this is not really the funny part of the article. The more interesting piece is the study author’s conclusion that essentially, women are more attractive than men, and I quote: "Because physical attractiveness is heritable - and because physically attractive parents have more daughters and less attractive parents have more sons - the average level of physical attractiveness among women increases over time relative to men," he said. "In my study I demonstrate that more men than women are average-looking, while more women than men are either attractive or very attractive," he said.
I don’t know what you conclude from this, but I conclude that women, as usual, get f’ed here. This just validates that phenomenon you see every day: A much higher percentage of couples where the woman is more attractive than the man. It does tie back to another conclusion of the study, that “men value physical appearance more than women do when seeking a partner…,” but it also indicates that hey, we really have no choice, we must date down, b/c the pickings are slim for us. How unfair is that? And then, they even get to benefit from our pretty genes when we procreate!! So unfair.
That’s all I have to say about that. But I bet you’re now really anxious to find out if your first born will be a girl or a boy. Or maybe you’re not. But I’ll be honest. I’m curious. The end.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Not Down with OPV
I bet you’re like, what is OPV? It’s a riddle for you. If you can’t solve it after you read this, then, I hate to be mean, you’re dumb. Cuz I think it’s pretty easy to solve.
Anyway, so I’m at the beach on Sunday, and I get a text from Joe, saying that someone threw up on Greg’s hand on Sat night when they were out. I talked to him y-day to verify this story, and I guess they were walking through the dance floor area, and Greg was like “dude, someone just vomited on my hand.” I’m serious. I think that is one of foulest things that could happen to you in a bar. It also skeeved me out a little b/c ask me what bar they were at. I’ll just go ahead and tell you. They were at 217, which, coincidentally, is the bar where my birthday celebration is this coming weekend. What if someone vomits on me???
Because, you know, I’ve actually been vomited on before. It was freshman year at Wake, and I’m at an off-campus party, and when we leave we all pile into an SUV and there are like 20 of us (well not really 20 but something like that) and I’m in the way back sandwiched in b/t someone, someone, someone, and Robin. Robin’s a guy, btw – but he’s southern so he has one of those weird-ass family name. In fact his real name is Robertson. Also he lives on a plantation. But, I’m digressing.
So, here we are, on the way back to the dorm, when Robin casually tilts his head to the side and begins to vom. And where does a good amount of this bodily fluid land? In my luscious mane, err I mean, my hair.* And I pretty much freaked. But there was nowhere to escape. So I tilt my hair away from me and just panic until finally we arrive and I leap out of the car and run into the building. And I’m shouting, hysterically, at the top of my lungs, “get me my shampoo!! Somebody grab my shower stuff!!! I have vomit in my hair!! I think it’s going to make me vomit!! Help me please!!” And I’m running w/ my head tilted fully sideways to keep my hair away from me, and I’m dry heaving, and I’m stripping off clothes and depositing them on the floor as I run so I can get into the shower as quickly as possible. Anyway, so, that is a pretty shitty ending, but that’s pretty much what happened. Then I washed my hair like 8 times and all was restored. And, I forgave Robin, b/c I’m nice like that.
And, while we are on the topic of other people getting their bodily fluids on you (get your mind out of the gutter please!!), I have to tell one of my favorite “anecdotes.” While living in DC, Brett was out one night w/ his old frat brothers and they were in various states of drunkenness, but Larry (who we used to call funny looking Larry) was the kingpin of drunkeness. He was hammered. I guess he needed to be taken home but no one wanted to deal with him. So Brett is standing by the corner of the bar, and Larry saunters up, and I guess he proceeds to: unzip his pants, pull his junk out, and pee, right there, on the bar. So Brett is standing right by him, and I guess Larry pretty much pees like all over one of the legs of Brett’s jeans. Brett is usually very even keeled, but he got like super pissed off, and when Brett gets pissed he kind of goes incredible hulkish. It’s like there is normal Brett and there is really, really, really angry Brett, and there is no gray area. I think he was about this close to breaking a beer bottle over FLL’s head, which, I would like to point out, would’ve been a very, very bad thing. Brett does not like to be reminded about this story, but personally, I get a little giggly just thinking about it. I guess I like to laugh at other people’s misfortunes.
I can think of other nasty stories that involve people getting other people’s fluids on them, but they are really pretty icky so I’ll refrain, which means this is The End. So…OPV.you get it?????
*Side note: I’m currently drinking a glass of Airborne-tableted-water courtesy of Brian, and it tastes gooood!!!
Anyway, so I’m at the beach on Sunday, and I get a text from Joe, saying that someone threw up on Greg’s hand on Sat night when they were out. I talked to him y-day to verify this story, and I guess they were walking through the dance floor area, and Greg was like “dude, someone just vomited on my hand.” I’m serious. I think that is one of foulest things that could happen to you in a bar. It also skeeved me out a little b/c ask me what bar they were at. I’ll just go ahead and tell you. They were at 217, which, coincidentally, is the bar where my birthday celebration is this coming weekend. What if someone vomits on me???
Because, you know, I’ve actually been vomited on before. It was freshman year at Wake, and I’m at an off-campus party, and when we leave we all pile into an SUV and there are like 20 of us (well not really 20 but something like that) and I’m in the way back sandwiched in b/t someone, someone, someone, and Robin. Robin’s a guy, btw – but he’s southern so he has one of those weird-ass family name. In fact his real name is Robertson. Also he lives on a plantation. But, I’m digressing.
So, here we are, on the way back to the dorm, when Robin casually tilts his head to the side and begins to vom. And where does a good amount of this bodily fluid land? In my luscious mane, err I mean, my hair.* And I pretty much freaked. But there was nowhere to escape. So I tilt my hair away from me and just panic until finally we arrive and I leap out of the car and run into the building. And I’m shouting, hysterically, at the top of my lungs, “get me my shampoo!! Somebody grab my shower stuff!!! I have vomit in my hair!! I think it’s going to make me vomit!! Help me please!!” And I’m running w/ my head tilted fully sideways to keep my hair away from me, and I’m dry heaving, and I’m stripping off clothes and depositing them on the floor as I run so I can get into the shower as quickly as possible. Anyway, so, that is a pretty shitty ending, but that’s pretty much what happened. Then I washed my hair like 8 times and all was restored. And, I forgave Robin, b/c I’m nice like that.
And, while we are on the topic of other people getting their bodily fluids on you (get your mind out of the gutter please!!), I have to tell one of my favorite “anecdotes.” While living in DC, Brett was out one night w/ his old frat brothers and they were in various states of drunkenness, but Larry (who we used to call funny looking Larry) was the kingpin of drunkeness. He was hammered. I guess he needed to be taken home but no one wanted to deal with him. So Brett is standing by the corner of the bar, and Larry saunters up, and I guess he proceeds to: unzip his pants, pull his junk out, and pee, right there, on the bar. So Brett is standing right by him, and I guess Larry pretty much pees like all over one of the legs of Brett’s jeans. Brett is usually very even keeled, but he got like super pissed off, and when Brett gets pissed he kind of goes incredible hulkish. It’s like there is normal Brett and there is really, really, really angry Brett, and there is no gray area. I think he was about this close to breaking a beer bottle over FLL’s head, which, I would like to point out, would’ve been a very, very bad thing. Brett does not like to be reminded about this story, but personally, I get a little giggly just thinking about it. I guess I like to laugh at other people’s misfortunes.
I can think of other nasty stories that involve people getting other people’s fluids on them, but they are really pretty icky so I’ll refrain, which means this is The End. So…OPV.you get it?????
*Side note: I’m currently drinking a glass of Airborne-tableted-water courtesy of Brian, and it tastes gooood!!!
Monday, August 14, 2006
I Lied to You When I Said the Water Was Fine
I am sick. I came in late to work b/c it was absolutely necessity to start the morning off w/ a trip to Target to pick up cold medicine, Kleenex, chap stick, and orange juice. And I blame my terrible, dreadful illness on the shit-drenched (I know, I said that, and it’s really really gross, but I think it’s most likely true) waters of the Santa Monica area beaches. Why was I swimming in the cesspool to begin with? Likely question.
I finally decided this weekend that it was time to buckle down and learn how to surf. I’ve had in my possession for some weeks now “the big green monster” which is my brother’s first surf board, it’s a “ten-sixer” and it’s green, hence the name. It’s been chilling on my balcony all this time but I was honestly kind of afraid of it cuz it’s like 4 times my size, so when Greggy told me last weekend that I can inherit his current board cuz he’s moving on, I jumped on it. It’s a “seven-sixer” (I kind of sound like I know what I’m talking about, like I’m kind of vaguely cool, right??) and much more manageable for a small fry like me.
Meredith and Dorothy are learning to surf, so Greggy and I met them out on Sat morning. I was out there for a couple hours. I didn’t technically ever stand up, but I did catch many waves and come close. I also got bruise #1 of the weekend, which is a super-hot purple little guy on my right rib. Darkened quite nicely overnight on Saturday. I went out again on Sunday, but this time by the time I got to the beach Mere and Dorothy were heading out and I was w/ a friend that actually knows what he’s doing, and I wanted to let him have his fun, so I rather went it alone.
I got my ass handed to me, I kind of got raped by the sea. Yes, it was pointed out that you would’ve thought the waves were actually big, but I won’t lie, they really weren’t. I still got knocked off and around so many times that my head started to spin. Finally, when one wave knocked me off at the end of an attempted (used loosely) ride, and kind of just hammered me right into hard-packed sand up in the shallows, I said enough. I was sitting there contemplating how badly the sand burn felt on my left-ass felt and how I had like 2 pounds of sand in my swimsuit bottoms and how I had 2 gallons of seawater creeping through my sinuses, and I said f’ it, I’m out. At that point, sitting there in the ½ water, ½ beach, I wanted someone to come pat me on the head on scoop me up and carry me some place warm and dry.
Moving on though, this is apparently how it’s gonna work. I’ll go out, and I’ll have fun, but I’ll get back home coated in sand, orifices saturated with dirty water, and bruises and sand/board burns taking over my body. But now I feel like I have to commit and that this is something I really want to tackle, so I can’t let it go. Also I can’t lie, it does kind of make me feel a little bad-ass having all these minor injuries. So I guess unless I get eaten by a shark I’ll have to stick with it... By the way, at the end of y-day my friend got out and I went over to meet him cuz I’d gotten out like 10 min before and he was like, “Oh there you are. I couldn’t find you at all. I figured you’d either gotten out or drowned. Good thing you didn’t drown.” He said it so nonchalantly. Like, had I drowned, wouldn’t have been so big a deal. I beg to differ.
Anyway, so to recap, to complete the circle: a) sara “surfs;” b) sara gets shit tons of water up her sinuses which are like crazy little water traps b/c even though she’s a swimmer she apparently doesn’t know how to blow bubbles in the water; c) water is infested with lots of icky stuff; d) icky stuff gives sara sinus infection and possible ear infection too; e) sara is sick. The craziest thing is that, early prediction, f) sara goes surfing again next weekend and remains sick. Sara!!! Stop!!! You’re killing me! Or you…or…however you’d say this if you’re talking like a big giant herb in the third person.
But let it be known that I do expect to be in tip-top shape for my birthday weekend so will be guzzling OJ and water like a fiend and sleeping like crazy and doing everything I can to be in shape and prepared to drink enough to make myself sick again next Saturday. I’m truly a go-getter.
I finally decided this weekend that it was time to buckle down and learn how to surf. I’ve had in my possession for some weeks now “the big green monster” which is my brother’s first surf board, it’s a “ten-sixer” and it’s green, hence the name. It’s been chilling on my balcony all this time but I was honestly kind of afraid of it cuz it’s like 4 times my size, so when Greggy told me last weekend that I can inherit his current board cuz he’s moving on, I jumped on it. It’s a “seven-sixer” (I kind of sound like I know what I’m talking about, like I’m kind of vaguely cool, right??) and much more manageable for a small fry like me.
Meredith and Dorothy are learning to surf, so Greggy and I met them out on Sat morning. I was out there for a couple hours. I didn’t technically ever stand up, but I did catch many waves and come close. I also got bruise #1 of the weekend, which is a super-hot purple little guy on my right rib. Darkened quite nicely overnight on Saturday. I went out again on Sunday, but this time by the time I got to the beach Mere and Dorothy were heading out and I was w/ a friend that actually knows what he’s doing, and I wanted to let him have his fun, so I rather went it alone.
I got my ass handed to me, I kind of got raped by the sea. Yes, it was pointed out that you would’ve thought the waves were actually big, but I won’t lie, they really weren’t. I still got knocked off and around so many times that my head started to spin. Finally, when one wave knocked me off at the end of an attempted (used loosely) ride, and kind of just hammered me right into hard-packed sand up in the shallows, I said enough. I was sitting there contemplating how badly the sand burn felt on my left-ass felt and how I had like 2 pounds of sand in my swimsuit bottoms and how I had 2 gallons of seawater creeping through my sinuses, and I said f’ it, I’m out. At that point, sitting there in the ½ water, ½ beach, I wanted someone to come pat me on the head on scoop me up and carry me some place warm and dry.
Moving on though, this is apparently how it’s gonna work. I’ll go out, and I’ll have fun, but I’ll get back home coated in sand, orifices saturated with dirty water, and bruises and sand/board burns taking over my body. But now I feel like I have to commit and that this is something I really want to tackle, so I can’t let it go. Also I can’t lie, it does kind of make me feel a little bad-ass having all these minor injuries. So I guess unless I get eaten by a shark I’ll have to stick with it... By the way, at the end of y-day my friend got out and I went over to meet him cuz I’d gotten out like 10 min before and he was like, “Oh there you are. I couldn’t find you at all. I figured you’d either gotten out or drowned. Good thing you didn’t drown.” He said it so nonchalantly. Like, had I drowned, wouldn’t have been so big a deal. I beg to differ.
Anyway, so to recap, to complete the circle: a) sara “surfs;” b) sara gets shit tons of water up her sinuses which are like crazy little water traps b/c even though she’s a swimmer she apparently doesn’t know how to blow bubbles in the water; c) water is infested with lots of icky stuff; d) icky stuff gives sara sinus infection and possible ear infection too; e) sara is sick. The craziest thing is that, early prediction, f) sara goes surfing again next weekend and remains sick. Sara!!! Stop!!! You’re killing me! Or you…or…however you’d say this if you’re talking like a big giant herb in the third person.
But let it be known that I do expect to be in tip-top shape for my birthday weekend so will be guzzling OJ and water like a fiend and sleeping like crazy and doing everything I can to be in shape and prepared to drink enough to make myself sick again next Saturday. I’m truly a go-getter.
Friday, August 11, 2006
No! Not My Lipglosses!!!
I ventured to Vegas yesterday, for work, not for play. A day trip. 8am flight in, 5:30pm flight out. Let me tell you, I could not have picked a more cherry day for travel.
Growing up, my mom made us arrive to the airport like 5 hours early. It always pissed me off to no end. So as soon as I started flying alone, I started traveling on my own terms, which generally involves arriving the airport like an hour TOPS before my flight and seeing how close I can cut it. I guess it gives me an adrenaline rush or something. It also results in me nearly missing my flight on a somewhat regular basis, but that is all part of the game.
Anyway, so I get to John Wayne/OC airport y-day around 7:10. The traffic is insane, I’m baffled. I valet my car. I enter the AP, there are like 20,000 people jammed into this little AP in lines that wrap like 7 times and run the length of the building. I find nice people and cut in line (yes, I know, you hate people like me), but the cut really does me nothing cuz I’m still way at the back. I ask the people, “is this AP always like this?? What is going on?” I have now established that I’m 99% idiot, completely oblivious to the fact that there was very nearly a massive terrorist attack. And that these terrorists are getting super creative, with their liquid/gel explosives.
I’m like there is no way I’m going to make my flight. I try twice more to cut in line again, but no dice, although I did see a guy who was my attempted partner in crime pull a super slimy move where he somehow cut w/out permission and got away with it. I think, hmm, I should call my boss and the guy I’m going to meet and warn them about my situation. Reach for cell phone. It’s not there. Of all days to forget your cell phone, I think I picked the worst. I felt like I was missing my right arm or something. Luckily I managed to borrow a phone from not one but two people during my travel day to make stuff work.
More important than the lines was the issue of liquids and gels. It cracked my shit up. There were tables put out, and they were strewn with everything you can imagine. Deodorant, Vaseline, shampoo, creams, religious oils (no joke), Carmex, etc. One thought that did cross my mind…what if you had like…a tube of KY in your bag? What would you do??? Anyway, they were not kidding around. I had only a purse with me and I’m like I’m cool.
But then I hear them announce that you couldn’t bring on lipsticks/chapsticks/etc. And I started to hyperventilate. Not really, but what if I did? Anyway. I leaf through my bag. Here’s what we have inside: 1 tube Chanel lipstick; 1 tube Laura Mercier lipstick; 1 tube Bourjois lip gloss; 3 tubes Stila lip gloss; 2 tubes Stila lip stick. The rational mind asks, why on earth were you carrying that amount of lip-product? But guys, variety is the spice of life. Never mind that all my glosses and sticks pretty much are the same color… And I’m doing math in my head, and I’m like this is well over $100 worth of product, and I refuse to give it up so the sketch-dawg AP security guys can take it home to their girlfriends. No way. I ask the security guy if he’ll help me out and he points me in the direction of the Security Mailer drop box. Guys, in 3-4 weeks my lipsticks will find their way back to Santa Monica. 3-4 weeks. Really???
Anyway, some people like long-story-short. I prefer short story long. So in the end I made it to Vegas, cuz my flight was delayed like 40 minutes. Note, btw, that it’s very, very sad to be in Vegas and stare longingly at the casinos and then head to Kelly Pipe and Supply to talk faucets. Very sad. And now I’m back.
In closing, I want to note that I called my mom last night around 10:30 her time to tell her how our travel is going to be revolutionized and how we will always have to check bags and stuff. We talked for like 20 minutes. She was totally lucid. She calls me this morning, she’s like “Umm, where are you?? Are you in Vegas or something? Did you fly yesterday?” I’m like, “Mom, what are you talking about. I talked to you last night. We talked for 20 minutes. Are you on crack?” (I did actually ask her if she was on crack – my friend Brian suggested that she is actually on meth b/c I guess that is the new housewife drug of choice). I guess she had taken her Lunesta and claims that has no real memory of our conversation last night. Said my dad said she was talking about Vegas or something. I love my mom…but I told her that our conversation was officially weird and that I had to go.
So, here’s to airport mailers and moms on meth. Long live America.
Growing up, my mom made us arrive to the airport like 5 hours early. It always pissed me off to no end. So as soon as I started flying alone, I started traveling on my own terms, which generally involves arriving the airport like an hour TOPS before my flight and seeing how close I can cut it. I guess it gives me an adrenaline rush or something. It also results in me nearly missing my flight on a somewhat regular basis, but that is all part of the game.
Anyway, so I get to John Wayne/OC airport y-day around 7:10. The traffic is insane, I’m baffled. I valet my car. I enter the AP, there are like 20,000 people jammed into this little AP in lines that wrap like 7 times and run the length of the building. I find nice people and cut in line (yes, I know, you hate people like me), but the cut really does me nothing cuz I’m still way at the back. I ask the people, “is this AP always like this?? What is going on?” I have now established that I’m 99% idiot, completely oblivious to the fact that there was very nearly a massive terrorist attack. And that these terrorists are getting super creative, with their liquid/gel explosives.
I’m like there is no way I’m going to make my flight. I try twice more to cut in line again, but no dice, although I did see a guy who was my attempted partner in crime pull a super slimy move where he somehow cut w/out permission and got away with it. I think, hmm, I should call my boss and the guy I’m going to meet and warn them about my situation. Reach for cell phone. It’s not there. Of all days to forget your cell phone, I think I picked the worst. I felt like I was missing my right arm or something. Luckily I managed to borrow a phone from not one but two people during my travel day to make stuff work.
More important than the lines was the issue of liquids and gels. It cracked my shit up. There were tables put out, and they were strewn with everything you can imagine. Deodorant, Vaseline, shampoo, creams, religious oils (no joke), Carmex, etc. One thought that did cross my mind…what if you had like…a tube of KY in your bag? What would you do??? Anyway, they were not kidding around. I had only a purse with me and I’m like I’m cool.
But then I hear them announce that you couldn’t bring on lipsticks/chapsticks/etc. And I started to hyperventilate. Not really, but what if I did? Anyway. I leaf through my bag. Here’s what we have inside: 1 tube Chanel lipstick; 1 tube Laura Mercier lipstick; 1 tube Bourjois lip gloss; 3 tubes Stila lip gloss; 2 tubes Stila lip stick. The rational mind asks, why on earth were you carrying that amount of lip-product? But guys, variety is the spice of life. Never mind that all my glosses and sticks pretty much are the same color… And I’m doing math in my head, and I’m like this is well over $100 worth of product, and I refuse to give it up so the sketch-dawg AP security guys can take it home to their girlfriends. No way. I ask the security guy if he’ll help me out and he points me in the direction of the Security Mailer drop box. Guys, in 3-4 weeks my lipsticks will find their way back to Santa Monica. 3-4 weeks. Really???
Anyway, some people like long-story-short. I prefer short story long. So in the end I made it to Vegas, cuz my flight was delayed like 40 minutes. Note, btw, that it’s very, very sad to be in Vegas and stare longingly at the casinos and then head to Kelly Pipe and Supply to talk faucets. Very sad. And now I’m back.
In closing, I want to note that I called my mom last night around 10:30 her time to tell her how our travel is going to be revolutionized and how we will always have to check bags and stuff. We talked for like 20 minutes. She was totally lucid. She calls me this morning, she’s like “Umm, where are you?? Are you in Vegas or something? Did you fly yesterday?” I’m like, “Mom, what are you talking about. I talked to you last night. We talked for 20 minutes. Are you on crack?” (I did actually ask her if she was on crack – my friend Brian suggested that she is actually on meth b/c I guess that is the new housewife drug of choice). I guess she had taken her Lunesta and claims that has no real memory of our conversation last night. Said my dad said she was talking about Vegas or something. I love my mom…but I told her that our conversation was officially weird and that I had to go.
So, here’s to airport mailers and moms on meth. Long live America.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
But Where Did It Go?
JTimb: I'm 100% delighted that you are bringing sexy back...really, I am. But I'm just really confused, because I don't understand where sexy ever went. I feel like I'm pretty sure sexy has always been right here and can't truly every disappear, but you feel differently.
If anyone can explain where sexy has been as of late, I'd love to know. In the mean time, just rest assured, it is back.
If anyone can explain where sexy has been as of late, I'd love to know. In the mean time, just rest assured, it is back.
We're Going Theme-Less Today
When I begin my morning blog session I usually try to pick a theme and then go with that. It’s just like in 6th grade when you were learning how to create a composition and the teacher would be like: “Your Favorite American President” – Go. And you’d be like, “My favorite American President is Abraham Lincoln because he was very honest.” And then your whole paper would be about good old Abe and his good old honesty and the cherry tree and all that. FYO: I never actually did a paper on Abe. But I did write a report once about koala bears in 5th grade, and it kicked ass. PS: did you know that koalas are very mean? They are.
Anyway, I’ve got news guys. I have no theme this morning. Instead I have a random collection of thoughts.
Thanks for Reading, Friends: First of all, I had dinner with Kelly last night at my new fav place for the summer, Coyote Café. It’s directly on the PCH and the patio overlooks the water, views are stunning and the langastino tacos are TREE-mendous. This is all irrelevant. So, Kelly picks me up and says he has a present for me. He pulls a bag of Cheetos and a sixer of Miller Light out of the backseat from me in homage to my rant re: today’s modern manorexic. Kelly could eat even me under the table and I know that a meal w/ Kelly will not make me feel like an un-dainty hoss. Thank you, KK.
Can I Send You Some Faucets, or Something?: This is my new line. Seriously. I have been talking to all these people for research purposes, and they spend upwards of an hour on the phone – or sometimes in person – with me, giving me all this info to help me with my project. In return they get nothing at all, which makes me feel bad L. So now at the end of the convo I thank them gushingly and the offer up the only you can when you work for a faucet company, I say, “Can I send you some faucets or something?” They typically decline, although I did send one guy like 6 deluxe showerheads. They don’t want the “or something” either. I don’t really know what the “something” is anyway, so that’s good.
It’s a Lot of T&A: I was talking to this woman in our office, she’s an assistant, she rocks. She’s your motherly type, very sweet and helpful. I’m talking to her about Vegas, cuz I’m going there for ONE day tomorrow for work (sad!). She is like “Oh! I LOVE Vegas!!” And we start talking bout various Vegas things. I mention that I really like the pirate show, and she goes, “Oh, me too! But I don’t really like the new one.” I’m like “Oh, I haven’t seen the new one.” She’s like, “Yeah, it’s a lot of T&A.” And I’m stunned for a second. Can you picture your grandmother using the phrase “T&A?” No? Well that’s what this was like. Stunner!
What the F Does that Mean?: You know those vanity plates that display some really cryptic message? You get stuck in traffic behind “MR IM89STY” and you’re like, what the f does that MEAN??? They “drive” me insane (ha!). Why did you do that? Am I supposed to get it? Do you like to annoy and anger people? Or maybe most people don’t get annoyed or angered, but I do. Anyway, Veeve is really good at them. I am not. I sent her one this morning: “BNALANT.” The best I came up with was “banal ant.” But that really makes no sense at all.
Bringing Clothes and People Together: I occasionally listen to Ryan Seacrest on KIIS FM in the morning. He’s rather amusing, I must say. But anyway, he has some chick on the radio this morning and she’s kinda silly, and he asks her, “what’s your story? What do you do for a living?” Her response: “I’m a stylist. I, you know, work with clothes, and people…together.” I think that is a very, very LA response. It made me giggle. Especially since it reminded me of this book I read once called Slammerkin, and my friends Mary and Lorraine gave me endless shit for reading it (go find it at Borders if you want to know why). I always defended myself by saying, “What! It’s good! I mean, I like clothes! I like freedom!” So whenever I’m with Mare or Raindawg, I get a “I like clothes! I like freedom!” at least 28 times. It really sucks. That was pretty much one of the dumbest quotes that’s ever come out of my mouth.
You probably have a headache now from reading this rambly stuff. Go take an aspirin. The end.
Anyway, I’ve got news guys. I have no theme this morning. Instead I have a random collection of thoughts.
Thanks for Reading, Friends: First of all, I had dinner with Kelly last night at my new fav place for the summer, Coyote Café. It’s directly on the PCH and the patio overlooks the water, views are stunning and the langastino tacos are TREE-mendous. This is all irrelevant. So, Kelly picks me up and says he has a present for me. He pulls a bag of Cheetos and a sixer of Miller Light out of the backseat from me in homage to my rant re: today’s modern manorexic. Kelly could eat even me under the table and I know that a meal w/ Kelly will not make me feel like an un-dainty hoss. Thank you, KK.
Can I Send You Some Faucets, or Something?: This is my new line. Seriously. I have been talking to all these people for research purposes, and they spend upwards of an hour on the phone – or sometimes in person – with me, giving me all this info to help me with my project. In return they get nothing at all, which makes me feel bad L. So now at the end of the convo I thank them gushingly and the offer up the only you can when you work for a faucet company, I say, “Can I send you some faucets or something?” They typically decline, although I did send one guy like 6 deluxe showerheads. They don’t want the “or something” either. I don’t really know what the “something” is anyway, so that’s good.
It’s a Lot of T&A: I was talking to this woman in our office, she’s an assistant, she rocks. She’s your motherly type, very sweet and helpful. I’m talking to her about Vegas, cuz I’m going there for ONE day tomorrow for work (sad!). She is like “Oh! I LOVE Vegas!!” And we start talking bout various Vegas things. I mention that I really like the pirate show, and she goes, “Oh, me too! But I don’t really like the new one.” I’m like “Oh, I haven’t seen the new one.” She’s like, “Yeah, it’s a lot of T&A.” And I’m stunned for a second. Can you picture your grandmother using the phrase “T&A?” No? Well that’s what this was like. Stunner!
What the F Does that Mean?: You know those vanity plates that display some really cryptic message? You get stuck in traffic behind “MR IM89STY” and you’re like, what the f does that MEAN??? They “drive” me insane (ha!). Why did you do that? Am I supposed to get it? Do you like to annoy and anger people? Or maybe most people don’t get annoyed or angered, but I do. Anyway, Veeve is really good at them. I am not. I sent her one this morning: “BNALANT.” The best I came up with was “banal ant.” But that really makes no sense at all.
Bringing Clothes and People Together: I occasionally listen to Ryan Seacrest on KIIS FM in the morning. He’s rather amusing, I must say. But anyway, he has some chick on the radio this morning and she’s kinda silly, and he asks her, “what’s your story? What do you do for a living?” Her response: “I’m a stylist. I, you know, work with clothes, and people…together.” I think that is a very, very LA response. It made me giggle. Especially since it reminded me of this book I read once called Slammerkin, and my friends Mary and Lorraine gave me endless shit for reading it (go find it at Borders if you want to know why). I always defended myself by saying, “What! It’s good! I mean, I like clothes! I like freedom!” So whenever I’m with Mare or Raindawg, I get a “I like clothes! I like freedom!” at least 28 times. It really sucks. That was pretty much one of the dumbest quotes that’s ever come out of my mouth.
You probably have a headache now from reading this rambly stuff. Go take an aspirin. The end.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Era of the Manorexic?
I think of my old roommate Bill and I think of what a man should be. Picture this: it’s Saturday late morning. Bill is in a tshirt from 1992 and some old sports shorts. He’s wearing slippers. Showering has not occurred and most likely won’t until the evening…or the next day. He’s got are paper in his lap, opened to the sports section. His beloved “Pats” are on tv. He’s in his green lazy boy chair, reclined. He has a huge plastic cup with the Incredible Hulk on it that he got with his value meal at McDonald’s in 2001, filled with Gatorade. Bag of Wise brand Potato Chips in his laps. Crumbs being brushed off hands directly onto recliner. This, this is manhood. No grooming products here. No counting calories. No gym obsession. Pure, unadulterated embracement of being male.
Now picture this. I'm hanging out with a guy friend last weekend. I am guessing his his morning routine looks like this: He wakes up, showers (probably uses something pomegrante-scented in the shower) gets dressed in jeans (probably from Neiman Marcus) and some trendy t-shirt. Rubs some hair wax (from Kiehl's most likely) into his locks. I meet him for brunch. I order: Eggs, pancakes, bacon, and a side of toast to sop up the yolks. He orders: two pancakes and a side of fruit. After eating he estimates he has eaten 500, at most, 600 calories. I invite him to yoga with me. It’s not enough. Forces me to run with him post-yoga. He is practically is on the verge of pinching his waist to ensure its still trim.
What has happened to males embracing their maleness? How on earth am I to feel dainty and feminine if I am constantly eating more than my male companions at meals? (well, one issue here is that I generally eat like a man, but let’s ignore that…). I shouldn’t be the one dragging you to Carl’s Jr. late night – you should be dragging me there! I should be counting the calories post-dinner, not you! And I should feel much less confident in my bikini than you do in your swim trunks. Well, except…no…nevermind…let’s keep the ego under wraps.
Anyway. It’s not just the example cited above that has made me call this male stuff into question. It’s a number of creatures I’ve encountered over the past year. I won’t name names, but, Newman obsesses over the gym and food like it’s his job. Joe, I eat more than you on a consistent basis. Eric caresses his abs more than SS touches her hair. Oops!! I think I named names. But I need concrete examples in order to make my point.
The thing is, I do try to take care of myself and preserve my sexy, of course, but I think it’s important to let go, particularly on weekends. Enjoy food when you hit up a restaurant. Eat that bread! Go ahead, dip it in olive oil! Drink that third glass of wine if you want it! I’m personally fine w/ the metro-ness in respect to grooming, b/c girls go crazy for a sharp dressed man (that’s an 80s song right??) but when I start to feel like the man in the relationship, and I’m pretty prissy, I feel like nature’s balance is being thrown off. I hear that machismo is coming back – check out the new Hummer commercial (hate the car but like this message) and take it to heart, please, so I can feel dainty again. And pretend like you keep your body looking svelte by eating cheetos and Miller High Life. No one has to know you are on the Lemon Cleanse. Oops, I’m slipping off my soap box, time to go. The end.
Now picture this. I'm hanging out with a guy friend last weekend. I am guessing his his morning routine looks like this: He wakes up, showers (probably uses something pomegrante-scented in the shower) gets dressed in jeans (probably from Neiman Marcus) and some trendy t-shirt. Rubs some hair wax (from Kiehl's most likely) into his locks. I meet him for brunch. I order: Eggs, pancakes, bacon, and a side of toast to sop up the yolks. He orders: two pancakes and a side of fruit. After eating he estimates he has eaten 500, at most, 600 calories. I invite him to yoga with me. It’s not enough. Forces me to run with him post-yoga. He is practically is on the verge of pinching his waist to ensure its still trim.
What has happened to males embracing their maleness? How on earth am I to feel dainty and feminine if I am constantly eating more than my male companions at meals? (well, one issue here is that I generally eat like a man, but let’s ignore that…). I shouldn’t be the one dragging you to Carl’s Jr. late night – you should be dragging me there! I should be counting the calories post-dinner, not you! And I should feel much less confident in my bikini than you do in your swim trunks. Well, except…no…nevermind…let’s keep the ego under wraps.
Anyway. It’s not just the example cited above that has made me call this male stuff into question. It’s a number of creatures I’ve encountered over the past year. I won’t name names, but, Newman obsesses over the gym and food like it’s his job. Joe, I eat more than you on a consistent basis. Eric caresses his abs more than SS touches her hair. Oops!! I think I named names. But I need concrete examples in order to make my point.
The thing is, I do try to take care of myself and preserve my sexy, of course, but I think it’s important to let go, particularly on weekends. Enjoy food when you hit up a restaurant. Eat that bread! Go ahead, dip it in olive oil! Drink that third glass of wine if you want it! I’m personally fine w/ the metro-ness in respect to grooming, b/c girls go crazy for a sharp dressed man (that’s an 80s song right??) but when I start to feel like the man in the relationship, and I’m pretty prissy, I feel like nature’s balance is being thrown off. I hear that machismo is coming back – check out the new Hummer commercial (hate the car but like this message) and take it to heart, please, so I can feel dainty again. And pretend like you keep your body looking svelte by eating cheetos and Miller High Life. No one has to know you are on the Lemon Cleanse. Oops, I’m slipping off my soap box, time to go. The end.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Locked Out, V2
Do not readjust your bifocals, you did indeed read the title correctly. That is right. I am absolutely a huge retard and have now locked myself out of my home, well, both of my homes, not once, but twice over this so far 6-week long summer.
We will need to backtrack, back across this past weekend which was most….interesting…to last Thursday night. I had a biz mtg (thank you Sean!!) on Friday morning in San Diego, so I’m like oh I’ll just beat traffic and have a little fun while I’m at it and head down to SD on Thursday night. I get home post-work, pack my stuff, and go out for a run before I head out of town. It’s around 6ish, and I am due in SD to have dinner w/ Erin and some of her friends at 8. Anyway, surrogate mom and surrogate dad are not home, and I know I’m going to be gone for like 40 minutes, so I just leave the door unlocked and head out (yes, I know, why didn’t take my key, really, b/c I didn’t have to, and b/c I was too lazy to do so).
So about 40 minutes later I return to my abode, reach for the door…and…ready for the punchline?? She doesn’t open! (yes, I do like referring to inanimate objects as he’s or she’s, and why is the door a she? I don’t know). I push harder. I shove. I kick. I knock. I ring the doorbell. I soon realize, v. quickly, that 1) the door is definitely not stuck…it’s locked. 2) My surrogates must have locked it. 3) My surrogates must have departed as soon as they locked it. 4) I have no idea when my surrogates will return, most likely not until 11. And 5) I need to leave for SDiego…and what the hell would I do for 4 hours in Laguna Niguel anyway – sit outside in the grass and meditate??? 6) I’m f’ed. This sucks, big time.
So, conclusions drawn, I take my sweaty self next door to the neighbors. Lady of the house answers, I introduce myself and explain my unfortunate situation. And ask perchance do they have a key? They do not. For the next 30 minutes, frustration ensues. We go next door and search the perimeter for alternate ways in (open window? Key hidden in bushes? Throw brick through sliding glass door? Hmm maybe not). We call surrogate mom…we call her three time…leave three messages… We try TommyBahama where surrogate dad works part time…no go. The whole time, lady of the house (LOH), who, I’m sorry, is tremendously dumb, will not give the phone to me to explain situation but instead makes “I’m thinking really hard” faces and leaves confused messages on my behalf.
I finally decide I need a locksmith. LOH asks MOH for “the” locksmith’s number, like they call locksmiths all the time. She tells him I need to get into my car. No, I need to get into the house. What good does getting in my car do? He’s like, “woman, I don’t know the locksmith’s number.” She’s like “oh I thought you would know someone to call.” Then son pipes in that his friend got a locksmith to remake him a car key for like $100. I’m like “oh, I need to get into the house.” For about 5 minutes LOH and son remain very much hung up on getting me into my car and finally after the third (very gentle!) correction they get it…and I get a phone book.
Locksmith says he’ll be there right away. 25 minutes (is that right away??) he comes with his giant toolbox and picks the damn lock open. I get in, and I get ready in like 15 minutes flat which is magical. Now it’s like 8:30. I head downstairs, and here’s the kicker, surrogate parents are sitting there watching tv. Surrogate mom is like, “Oh! I just got your message! How did you get in?” I’m like, oh well I spent $125 on a locksmith.” Fan-tas-tic. I’m overjoyed, really I am. Thank you for locking the door behind me and then leaving without your cell phones. Thanks for never giving me the code to enter the garage. Thanks a lot bitches!!! I know it’s not their fault but at this point I’m turning irrational and I’m kind of fuming internally, so I get myself out of that house as fast as possible before I start speaking to the surrogates like they are flesh and blood v. just surrogates.
I miss dinner w/ Erin but luckily join Meg and her friends in La Jolla, which is lovely, best part of the evening being observing the delightfully tacky and horrendously horrible outfits that all the cougars in the place were donning. We did actually use my camera phone to document the horribleness, but I don’t know how to transfer those over to a computer yet so that will have to wait.
Anyway, today is a new day right? And the $$$ has been spent, and what’s $100 when you’re $100K+ in debt for school anyway? I’ll just call it a day and quit whining. And will be sure to run w/ keys henceforth. The end.
We will need to backtrack, back across this past weekend which was most….interesting…to last Thursday night. I had a biz mtg (thank you Sean!!) on Friday morning in San Diego, so I’m like oh I’ll just beat traffic and have a little fun while I’m at it and head down to SD on Thursday night. I get home post-work, pack my stuff, and go out for a run before I head out of town. It’s around 6ish, and I am due in SD to have dinner w/ Erin and some of her friends at 8. Anyway, surrogate mom and surrogate dad are not home, and I know I’m going to be gone for like 40 minutes, so I just leave the door unlocked and head out (yes, I know, why didn’t take my key, really, b/c I didn’t have to, and b/c I was too lazy to do so).
So about 40 minutes later I return to my abode, reach for the door…and…ready for the punchline?? She doesn’t open! (yes, I do like referring to inanimate objects as he’s or she’s, and why is the door a she? I don’t know). I push harder. I shove. I kick. I knock. I ring the doorbell. I soon realize, v. quickly, that 1) the door is definitely not stuck…it’s locked. 2) My surrogates must have locked it. 3) My surrogates must have departed as soon as they locked it. 4) I have no idea when my surrogates will return, most likely not until 11. And 5) I need to leave for SDiego…and what the hell would I do for 4 hours in Laguna Niguel anyway – sit outside in the grass and meditate??? 6) I’m f’ed. This sucks, big time.
So, conclusions drawn, I take my sweaty self next door to the neighbors. Lady of the house answers, I introduce myself and explain my unfortunate situation. And ask perchance do they have a key? They do not. For the next 30 minutes, frustration ensues. We go next door and search the perimeter for alternate ways in (open window? Key hidden in bushes? Throw brick through sliding glass door? Hmm maybe not). We call surrogate mom…we call her three time…leave three messages… We try TommyBahama where surrogate dad works part time…no go. The whole time, lady of the house (LOH), who, I’m sorry, is tremendously dumb, will not give the phone to me to explain situation but instead makes “I’m thinking really hard” faces and leaves confused messages on my behalf.
I finally decide I need a locksmith. LOH asks MOH for “the” locksmith’s number, like they call locksmiths all the time. She tells him I need to get into my car. No, I need to get into the house. What good does getting in my car do? He’s like, “woman, I don’t know the locksmith’s number.” She’s like “oh I thought you would know someone to call.” Then son pipes in that his friend got a locksmith to remake him a car key for like $100. I’m like “oh, I need to get into the house.” For about 5 minutes LOH and son remain very much hung up on getting me into my car and finally after the third (very gentle!) correction they get it…and I get a phone book.
Locksmith says he’ll be there right away. 25 minutes (is that right away??) he comes with his giant toolbox and picks the damn lock open. I get in, and I get ready in like 15 minutes flat which is magical. Now it’s like 8:30. I head downstairs, and here’s the kicker, surrogate parents are sitting there watching tv. Surrogate mom is like, “Oh! I just got your message! How did you get in?” I’m like, oh well I spent $125 on a locksmith.” Fan-tas-tic. I’m overjoyed, really I am. Thank you for locking the door behind me and then leaving without your cell phones. Thanks for never giving me the code to enter the garage. Thanks a lot bitches!!! I know it’s not their fault but at this point I’m turning irrational and I’m kind of fuming internally, so I get myself out of that house as fast as possible before I start speaking to the surrogates like they are flesh and blood v. just surrogates.
I miss dinner w/ Erin but luckily join Meg and her friends in La Jolla, which is lovely, best part of the evening being observing the delightfully tacky and horrendously horrible outfits that all the cougars in the place were donning. We did actually use my camera phone to document the horribleness, but I don’t know how to transfer those over to a computer yet so that will have to wait.
Anyway, today is a new day right? And the $$$ has been spent, and what’s $100 when you’re $100K+ in debt for school anyway? I’ll just call it a day and quit whining. And will be sure to run w/ keys henceforth. The end.
Friday, August 04, 2006
I Swear I'm Not Trying to Steal Trade Secrets
I have an important announcement. Actually, it’s really not important at all. Also it’s not really an announcement, it’s pretty much just something I thought needed to be pointed out. So some entries ago I noted that I have been terribly abusing my cell phone plan and that it’s causing me serious financial pain. I walked my butt into Cingular today and decided to do something about it! Yessir, I have upgraded my plan. So now I am free to talk until my voice no longer exists and text until my fingers fall off (although seriously I doubt they’d really ever fall off). Just umm, wanted you to know. I am also working on getting a pink razor, but even a fake note on my account about some story to give when I call customer service courtesy of RJ “give me a call sometime I’m in Lake Forest all the time” Cingular Store man (side note why would I ever call you) doesn’t seem to be getting me anywhere.
Anyway, so they are really strict about security around here at work. I have my little badge right and it has this really awful picture and stuff, and you have to show it every time you walk through the door. Or you can go in the side door through a scanning device and avoid the annoying front desk people.
But, I switched bags over the weekend and left my badge in my white purse up in LA and therefore have not had it all week and cannot avoid them. Now, you’d think that since I have been coming in and out of this place for like 6 weeks and they do seem to know my face they would be cool with that, but, they are
not. In fact, I have to get a paper badge EVERY SINGLE DAY. And sign in. It’s like, hello, hi, clearly I work here. Why must you give me a sticky label with my name (spelled incorrectly each time even though S-A-R-A is really not so hard to spell, they prefer their own spellings, such as Sarah (not weird) or Sera (weird). I am not going to wear the damn thing, b/c I hate those stupid nametags. So why really why??? It ends up stuck to my cube wall.
And then I’m like, ok, not only is it weird that you insist on making me sign in even though you know me practically by name and know that I work here, but it’s also weird that you’re so low-tech. Don’t you at least have some sort of computer-based look up system? I suggest you get one. You know it’s rumored that they will even be like, “Oh, hi Bob. Please sign in for us” and have asked our VPs and Prezs to sign in when they forget the badges. This is not the damn CIA! Faucets, for crying out loud, faucets and lock systems. Honestly. There. Done.
Anyway, so they are really strict about security around here at work. I have my little badge right and it has this really awful picture and stuff, and you have to show it every time you walk through the door. Or you can go in the side door through a scanning device and avoid the annoying front desk people.
But, I switched bags over the weekend and left my badge in my white purse up in LA and therefore have not had it all week and cannot avoid them. Now, you’d think that since I have been coming in and out of this place for like 6 weeks and they do seem to know my face they would be cool with that, but, they are
not. In fact, I have to get a paper badge EVERY SINGLE DAY. And sign in. It’s like, hello, hi, clearly I work here. Why must you give me a sticky label with my name (spelled incorrectly each time even though S-A-R-A is really not so hard to spell, they prefer their own spellings, such as Sarah (not weird) or Sera (weird). I am not going to wear the damn thing, b/c I hate those stupid nametags. So why really why??? It ends up stuck to my cube wall.
And then I’m like, ok, not only is it weird that you insist on making me sign in even though you know me practically by name and know that I work here, but it’s also weird that you’re so low-tech. Don’t you at least have some sort of computer-based look up system? I suggest you get one. You know it’s rumored that they will even be like, “Oh, hi Bob. Please sign in for us” and have asked our VPs and Prezs to sign in when they forget the badges. This is not the damn CIA! Faucets, for crying out loud, faucets and lock systems. Honestly. There. Done.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Oh, Silly Memories
I have very sensitive ears and certain sounds tend to give me the heebs, no joke. Obvi, no on likes nails on a chalkboard. Other things I hate include the sound that manicure people make when they buff your nails (so I tell them now, “no buff please”), and the sound of sweeping on pavement (like when you’re cleaning out a garage). But why I am talking about this?
B/c I am this close to grabbing this chick standing in my cube area using the damn paper cutter and being like, “yo, seriously, go cut your paper somewhere else cuz you’re killing me here.” It makes this dreadful squeaky noise when you bring the arm up and then this awful icky indescribable noise when it cuts the paper. Ok thank G_d! Good karma! I wrote about it, and it stopped! Maybe this would work for other things…no… probably not.
Anyway, I was just IM’ing w/ Sauj. I think she’s actually doing work today. She’s researching about some sex doctor or something. She noted something about organisms. Yes she typed organisms, not orgasms. And this made me giggle, cuz I was reminded of this one time in seventh grade when I was giving an oral report on organisms and afterward, my teacher pulled me aside, and was like, “Umm, during your report, you used the word ‘orgasm’ instead of ‘organism.’” I don’t think I knew what the former was, but I knew it was bad, and I think I turned mad red. Kind of also like when during a game of Scattegories when I was little and the letter was “h” and the description was “adjective” and when they (they being my parents and my aunt and uncle) got to me my answer was “horny.” Giggling. “Do you know that means?” Of course I did! My response: “Yeah! Like, happy, or excited.” More giggling. “Yes, I guess that’s right…”
I don’t really have much else to offer on this topic, so I will leave you with a thought that will hopefully make you giggle cuz I get to giggle and it’s only fair if you do, too. Anyway, here you go. I was in the car last weekend w/ Sean and the new Paris Hilton song comes on and I’m like “Oh it’s the new Paris Hilton song! I love this!” And I turn it up. But I do so to be irritating cuz I’m waiting for him to fume and be like “turn this shit off.” But instead, he’s like “I do too! I do! I love it!” So, umm, Sean loves the new Paris Hilton song. If you know Sean, wow, this is tremendously funny, and you should laugh. The end.
B/c I am this close to grabbing this chick standing in my cube area using the damn paper cutter and being like, “yo, seriously, go cut your paper somewhere else cuz you’re killing me here.” It makes this dreadful squeaky noise when you bring the arm up and then this awful icky indescribable noise when it cuts the paper. Ok thank G_d! Good karma! I wrote about it, and it stopped! Maybe this would work for other things…no… probably not.
Anyway, I was just IM’ing w/ Sauj. I think she’s actually doing work today. She’s researching about some sex doctor or something. She noted something about organisms. Yes she typed organisms, not orgasms. And this made me giggle, cuz I was reminded of this one time in seventh grade when I was giving an oral report on organisms and afterward, my teacher pulled me aside, and was like, “Umm, during your report, you used the word ‘orgasm’ instead of ‘organism.’” I don’t think I knew what the former was, but I knew it was bad, and I think I turned mad red. Kind of also like when during a game of Scattegories when I was little and the letter was “h” and the description was “adjective” and when they (they being my parents and my aunt and uncle) got to me my answer was “horny.” Giggling. “Do you know that means?” Of course I did! My response: “Yeah! Like, happy, or excited.” More giggling. “Yes, I guess that’s right…”
I don’t really have much else to offer on this topic, so I will leave you with a thought that will hopefully make you giggle cuz I get to giggle and it’s only fair if you do, too. Anyway, here you go. I was in the car last weekend w/ Sean and the new Paris Hilton song comes on and I’m like “Oh it’s the new Paris Hilton song! I love this!” And I turn it up. But I do so to be irritating cuz I’m waiting for him to fume and be like “turn this shit off.” But instead, he’s like “I do too! I do! I love it!” So, umm, Sean loves the new Paris Hilton song. If you know Sean, wow, this is tremendously funny, and you should laugh. The end.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
And You Would Be...
For work I've been calling all sorts of people. Hotel people, architects, designers, plumbers, sales people, etc. etc. etc. Kind of cold calling. LIke, "hi, I'm an intern. Want to help me with my project?" Except much more formally and politely and all of that stuff. And of course I have this delightful color-coded tracking spreadsheet set up on Excel so I know who's who and when I talked to them and whatnot.
And when I leave VMs, most them actually call me back! Which is nice. But sometimes, like, say, just now, my phone rings, and I see a random area code and number, and my heart flutters, b/c I know I'm going to pick up and there will be someone there and they will say their name and I'm like great, who the f are you? Like just now. When Kevin called. And I'm like, "Oh, hello Kevin! So good to hear from you! Thanks for getting back to me!" And for a good 30 seconds I'm thinking, "Kevin. Kevin. Who are you Kevin? What do you do? What do I want to ask you?"
It clicked, eventually, but I'm sure that for a bit I sounded like a total idiot. I hate that! I am getting so bad with names. You know I walked past this woman Robi today and I've only known her now for like 6 weeks but for a minute I totally blanked her name. Is it transparent when someone says to you, "Hi (insert your name here!)" And you just say "Oh hey! What's Up?" back to them? Does that person know that you didn't address them by name cuz you had a temporary brain fart? I always feel like they know. I could keep going on with this subject b/c in my opinion there are many related issues, like when you are with a friend and you run into someone else you know and you need to intro the friend, but you have forgotten the other person's name. Bad!!! But, b/c it's nearly 5pm, I am done. So, ta ta! The end.
And when I leave VMs, most them actually call me back! Which is nice. But sometimes, like, say, just now, my phone rings, and I see a random area code and number, and my heart flutters, b/c I know I'm going to pick up and there will be someone there and they will say their name and I'm like great, who the f are you? Like just now. When Kevin called. And I'm like, "Oh, hello Kevin! So good to hear from you! Thanks for getting back to me!" And for a good 30 seconds I'm thinking, "Kevin. Kevin. Who are you Kevin? What do you do? What do I want to ask you?"
It clicked, eventually, but I'm sure that for a bit I sounded like a total idiot. I hate that! I am getting so bad with names. You know I walked past this woman Robi today and I've only known her now for like 6 weeks but for a minute I totally blanked her name. Is it transparent when someone says to you, "Hi (insert your name here!)" And you just say "Oh hey! What's Up?" back to them? Does that person know that you didn't address them by name cuz you had a temporary brain fart? I always feel like they know. I could keep going on with this subject b/c in my opinion there are many related issues, like when you are with a friend and you run into someone else you know and you need to intro the friend, but you have forgotten the other person's name. Bad!!! But, b/c it's nearly 5pm, I am done. So, ta ta! The end.
Other People’s Business: Same Thing as My Business
There was this big hoopla going on in the cuberhood today over in Brian’s neck of the woods. It was over some inappropriate email. Of course I jump up and am like “what’s going on? Let me see! Let me see!” B/c of course I cannot stand to be left in the dark over exciting things like randoid emails that have nothing to do with me. But my boss (who has maybe five years on me) is like, “no man, don’t show her. She doesn’t need to see that kind of stuff.” He’s laughing…but he’s like totally serious – he is censoring me like I’m the little kid in the office. I may be called Linderteen on occasion but I am still 25 – oh and 19 days 26 so mark your calendars – and I do NOT like this. I’m like “come on Nick I’m sure I’ve seen worse” but no dice.
Of course I did finally take a look like ½ hour ago. It was rather funny. But I won’t bore you with the details, as the real issue at hand is that I apparently am perceived as the little office innocent and not privy to viewing possibly offensive content. The irony here is that meanwhile, back at my desk, I’m reading a four part email sent from a friend in NY who was recently in the Hamptons. It’s a summary of one of her friend’s romps on the beach and it kind of reads like a Danielle Steele novel. Well I’ve actually never read Danielle Steele but I imagine that’s how they read cuz isn’t she like pretty trashy? I was blushing at my desk. Ok maybe I am a little kid. No I don’t think I am. Anyway I’m done arguing with myself now.
So then I’m GChatting with, actually, same friend. And she just returned from St. John. My friend Roo (who was recently visiting), her parents have a house there (yes, it’s ridiculous and tremendously lucky), and she took a few of our college friends with her for the weekend. And how bitter am I that I have to work and had to miss out on that trip? Off the charts bitter, sore subject, let’s not go there. But anyway, she’s giving me the brief recap of the trip. It’s something like this:
Friend*: We asked a police officer to strip. We went skinny dipping with randoms, in a condo pool where no one of us lived.
Friend: I stole a cripple's crutches, so she had to hop back from the bathroom. I got cut off at a bar. Went bushwacking through the forest in the nude.
Me: oh this is being blogged about.
Friend: oh NO IT'S NOT!!
Me: Come on. It's hilarious.
Friend: ok well wait until you have the whole story
I didn’t wait. Takes too long. And I’m impatient. Oh btw, anything in my life, which means anything in my friends’ lives, is up for grabs for blogging. Oops, maybe I shouldn’t say that. But I tend to be an honest abe so may as well throw it out there. So aside from learning that I do have to steal material from friends’ lives for my blog, I am also trying to make the point that it’s ok to show me silly stuff at the office guys! I’m big girl! I can handle it! In fact I thrive on it… Oh also, you guys, you St. Johners: what the f were you doing stealing a cripple’s crutches? That is terrible! And you, “friend” – you got cut off? I’m not surprised. And finally, bushwacking nude? The obvious question here is “why the f?” But also it just sounds incredibly painful. So much potential for bodily harm.
Ok need to run. They are yucking it up back in the cuberhood. Need to go not mind my own business.
*“Friend” is replacing said friend’s name to protect the innocent. Or, not really innocent. Whatever.
Of course I did finally take a look like ½ hour ago. It was rather funny. But I won’t bore you with the details, as the real issue at hand is that I apparently am perceived as the little office innocent and not privy to viewing possibly offensive content. The irony here is that meanwhile, back at my desk, I’m reading a four part email sent from a friend in NY who was recently in the Hamptons. It’s a summary of one of her friend’s romps on the beach and it kind of reads like a Danielle Steele novel. Well I’ve actually never read Danielle Steele but I imagine that’s how they read cuz isn’t she like pretty trashy? I was blushing at my desk. Ok maybe I am a little kid. No I don’t think I am. Anyway I’m done arguing with myself now.
So then I’m GChatting with, actually, same friend. And she just returned from St. John. My friend Roo (who was recently visiting), her parents have a house there (yes, it’s ridiculous and tremendously lucky), and she took a few of our college friends with her for the weekend. And how bitter am I that I have to work and had to miss out on that trip? Off the charts bitter, sore subject, let’s not go there. But anyway, she’s giving me the brief recap of the trip. It’s something like this:
Friend*: We asked a police officer to strip. We went skinny dipping with randoms, in a condo pool where no one of us lived.
Friend: I stole a cripple's crutches, so she had to hop back from the bathroom. I got cut off at a bar. Went bushwacking through the forest in the nude.
Me: oh this is being blogged about.
Friend: oh NO IT'S NOT!!
Me: Come on. It's hilarious.
Friend: ok well wait until you have the whole story
I didn’t wait. Takes too long. And I’m impatient. Oh btw, anything in my life, which means anything in my friends’ lives, is up for grabs for blogging. Oops, maybe I shouldn’t say that. But I tend to be an honest abe so may as well throw it out there. So aside from learning that I do have to steal material from friends’ lives for my blog, I am also trying to make the point that it’s ok to show me silly stuff at the office guys! I’m big girl! I can handle it! In fact I thrive on it… Oh also, you guys, you St. Johners: what the f were you doing stealing a cripple’s crutches? That is terrible! And you, “friend” – you got cut off? I’m not surprised. And finally, bushwacking nude? The obvious question here is “why the f?” But also it just sounds incredibly painful. So much potential for bodily harm.
Ok need to run. They are yucking it up back in the cuberhood. Need to go not mind my own business.
*“Friend” is replacing said friend’s name to protect the innocent. Or, not really innocent. Whatever.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Too Clumsy for Roller Shoes?
I was at the grocery store last night, and I’m strolling over to find the plastic bags and Tupperware which were placed in a really obscure isle that made no sense, and I see this little girl glide by with her mom. I said glide, you notice, b/c she’s not walking – she’s holding onto the cart and just rolling long on these newfangled contraptions that I have noticed over the past couple years that make me really insanely jealous.
Have you seen these things? They are shoes…but they have wheels built into the bottom in a way that you can just tilt your feet and they convert into temporary roller skates. I’m not sure if I’m describing them that well, but I can't get a pic to upload, so you'll have to check them out on the In-Ter-Net for yourself. It’s nuts actually cuz I googled them and I typed in “roller shoes” just on a hunch and guess what: they really are called roller shoes!!! Wait hold up. I guess they are also called “heeleys.” How clever. Ok anyway, I always feel like I see kids in airports wearing this things.
As bad as I want them, my guess is I’d totally have busted my ass if I’d had a pair as a kid. Don’t kids still fall down all the time like they used to? It was normal to have skinned knees all the time right? I think I must have fallen off my bike racing through gravelly streets like at least once every two weeks. I think I remember taking particularly bad spills when I’d go rollerblading with my dog and let him pull me. When that dog got distracted and took off I was totally screwed and there was nothing I could do but go with it and know a fall was in my near future.
Granted, I suppose that I’m kind of clutzy – I actually did run my cart into the corner of a bread display last night when I turned my head to watch the girl on her roller shoes – and I have no balance in the morning when I first wake up in the morning and usually run into a bedpost or something – but I still think those things have to be dangerous.
And to close, I must say that I just can’t afford to be endangering my limbs at this point. My legs already look like two battlefields right now. I’ve got those bites from the bugs from hell on my thighs from hiking, I’ve got blisters from my fabulous hot but not so fabulous comfortable new shoes, I’ve got huge cutty-type things on ankles from my 10 year old rollerblades, and I have a large bruise on my left knee cap from I don’t know, probably bumping into something when I woke up one morning last week.
So it’s sad, cuz I really want some of those roller shoes, but it’s just not in the cards. Although you know, my birthday is around the corner and if someone bought me a pair I prolly won’t turn them away…
Have you seen these things? They are shoes…but they have wheels built into the bottom in a way that you can just tilt your feet and they convert into temporary roller skates. I’m not sure if I’m describing them that well, but I can't get a pic to upload, so you'll have to check them out on the In-Ter-Net for yourself. It’s nuts actually cuz I googled them and I typed in “roller shoes” just on a hunch and guess what: they really are called roller shoes!!! Wait hold up. I guess they are also called “heeleys.” How clever. Ok anyway, I always feel like I see kids in airports wearing this things.
As bad as I want them, my guess is I’d totally have busted my ass if I’d had a pair as a kid. Don’t kids still fall down all the time like they used to? It was normal to have skinned knees all the time right? I think I must have fallen off my bike racing through gravelly streets like at least once every two weeks. I think I remember taking particularly bad spills when I’d go rollerblading with my dog and let him pull me. When that dog got distracted and took off I was totally screwed and there was nothing I could do but go with it and know a fall was in my near future.
Granted, I suppose that I’m kind of clutzy – I actually did run my cart into the corner of a bread display last night when I turned my head to watch the girl on her roller shoes – and I have no balance in the morning when I first wake up in the morning and usually run into a bedpost or something – but I still think those things have to be dangerous.
And to close, I must say that I just can’t afford to be endangering my limbs at this point. My legs already look like two battlefields right now. I’ve got those bites from the bugs from hell on my thighs from hiking, I’ve got blisters from my fabulous hot but not so fabulous comfortable new shoes, I’ve got huge cutty-type things on ankles from my 10 year old rollerblades, and I have a large bruise on my left knee cap from I don’t know, probably bumping into something when I woke up one morning last week.
So it’s sad, cuz I really want some of those roller shoes, but it’s just not in the cards. Although you know, my birthday is around the corner and if someone bought me a pair I prolly won’t turn them away…
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