Christmas cards of the rich and famous.

Who am I kidding. Of course I'm not going to run out of things to write about, particularly if it's Christmas. I'm currently in the middle of what is proving to be the most ridiculous Christmas ever but while I continue to let that play out, I have something else I'd like to discuss: the lameness of the Cruise family's Christmas card.

My friends clearly know cooler people than I do, but that's not the point. How lame is this thing? I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't a card wrapped in gold thread without so much as a picture. I mean, this is Tom Cruise. Shouldn't this have come with a little booklet on the story of Xenu and the Galactic Confederacy? Or perhaps some WWII memorabilia to promote Valkyrie? Better yet, why not send everyone a small bit of his vast fortune to help stimulate the economy? Hell, even a $20 would be something. Instead he invested all $20 in a gold stamped card, wrapped in gold thread, in a hand-calligraphied (with gold ink) envelope.

Yeah, well, Happy Holidays to you, too, TomKat, and may your family be blessed with only the highest levels of Operating Thetans.

My final post?

As we head into the final stretch of 2008, if I could sprint at this point, I would. This year has absolutely kicked. my. ass., as my therapist noted yesterday in our last session of the year. I should clarify which therapist I'm referring to, as over the past few months I've amassed three: a traditional therapist (who I visited yesterday), a hypno-therapist, and a massage therapist. The fact that I even have this therapeutic triumvirate, with a diminutive Scottish healer thrown in for good measure, is a testament to what a mess I've been the past twelve months.

Really, if I were being honest with myself, I've been hanging out in my "pain cave" - as my friend Karen so brilliantly termed it - for the past year and a half. That's an exceptionally long time to spend in a not-so-great place but just in time for the holidays, I've emerged like Scrooge on Christmas morning, and jimmy-kicked my way back into the land of the living.

Truly, things lately have been nothing short of spectacular. So much so, my therapist actually jumped out of her chair mid-session yesterday, threw her fists into the air and cheered. I've been in therapy consistently since I was five (which begs the question as to what I'd be like had this NOT been the case), and I have never had a therapist cheer. Ever. Quite the milestone, but also not entirely unwarranted.

For starters, I've rediscovered all sorts of things I used to love doing. Like going out with friends, for example. Turns out I'm fairly social. (Who knew, right?) I'm also running regularly again, but more than that I'm back doing yoga and pilates, two other things I used to really enjoy. I meditate every day. I'm reading books. I did a week-long detox for the first time in my life and when it was over, I detoxed my house and got rid of 18 trash bags-worth of stuff in the process. My living area is spotless now, but more than that, there's hardly anything in it. It's like the W in here - so peaceful and cozy. It's almost unnerving. Almost.

A few months ago, my roommate (who has been in her own pain cave for about as long as I've been in mine) asked me what made me happy, because she was trying to think what made her happy and couldn't come up with anything. At the time, I pitifully couldn't think of anything either. "Riding horses. Riding horses makes you happy," she finally said. And in the most wonderful twists of fate, I'm also now exercising a horse every week for a woman short on time due to her new job.

There's only one problem with all this greatness: I'm no longer angry. Like, at all.

What the hell am I going to write about now???

The REAL auto crisis.

I have today off. I love days like this, not because I get to be a slob (which I do), but because I get shit DONE. I morph into this uber-productive, errand-running machine, timing myself to see how quickly I can dash about town getting things crossed off my list. And I was flying about town in my cloud of productivity this morning, when my schedule hit a glitch.

I've been avoiding cops for over a month as my car inspection was due in October. So I went to the Acura dealership today to get that knocked out because apparently Jiffy Lube is completely incompetent when it comes to such matters (having held onto my car for 45 minutes and charged me for an inspection only to tell me they couldn't do it because they couldn't find the connection they needed for the computer, and subsequently FAILED me.) While the Acura was able to inspect my car (I passed), as well as rotating the tires (something else Jiffy Lube wasn't capable of doing), I must offer a commentary on the promptness of their service.

If your performance is such that a respectable-looking business man loses all dignity and can achieve this type of slumber in the middle of a showroom, I submit that perhaps your service is too slow. Mercifully, I keep 96G-worth of entertainment on me at all times for just such occasions, so I spent my two hours waiting getting caught up on episodes of "Fringe". But good Christ. This man was snoring. More alarming than that was that none of the sales folks or other Acura employees seemed fazed by the fact that Yao Ming (the pic doesn't do him justice...this guy was huge) was slumped over on his briefcase like a coma patient.

It made me wonder what would happen if a client fell asleep on the phone while waiting on me.

"Hey Liz, I was wondering if I could get an updated copy of our projected 2009 scope?"
"Sure, let me get that for you. But, well, make yourself comfortable..."
(two hours later)
"Uh, Amy? Amy??? Hey. I have your scope."
"Jesus, I fell asleep!"
"Yeah, sorry about that. Anyway, that will be $146.82. Thanks."

While DC figures out what to do with the "Big 3" and their lack of innovation, I'd like to counter that the real crisis concerning automakers in this country is the most shitastic service imaginable.

I'm now off to put my patched, inflated, rotated and balanced rubber to the road and continue my errands.

Words almost escaped me. Almost.

I hate Christmas.

This sentiment shouldn't really be a surprise to anyone, particularly those familiar with my family dynamics. But it's true. When Christmas comes around, I am filled with anxiety and dread. I pretend it's not happening until I'm absolutely forced to acknowledge it, as was the case last year when I came home to find that my roommate had decorated our apartment. I certainly wouldn't decorate for Christmas, although it's fitting the only decorations I own are a tree and reindeer cut out of sheet metal that could easily be used as weapons.

You can imagine my surprise when, several days ago, I found myself caught up in the Christmas spirit. I actually WANTED to get people gifts. And not just "check-them-off-the-list" gifts, but gifts I thought people might enjoy. Getting caught up in my own frenzy, I was done with all my shopping by Dec. 1st. A record on multiple levels.

But all my new found excitement over this most blessed of holidays came to a halt today, with an something a lawyer friend forwarded me. Reading through the trail of e-mails preceding hers, I discovered it had originated with a secretary trying to drum up business for a friend, by sending a firm-wide e-mail explaining: "A friend of mine make these little guys which make cute Christmas gifts..."

Harmless enough, I thought, until I actually saw what she was peddling.

To my friends and family, be glad I got your gifts before I discovered "Pons" by Wendy. To Wendy, if your tampon angel is any indication, I think you might hate Christmas more than I do.

How not to do things.

There have been several different things I've been meaning to blog about lately, but it occurred to me they are all examples of spectacularly bad form, so I thought it might be nice to create a handy guide to help others avoid these situations. So without further ado...

How Not to be a Good Host

My Danish family was in town a few weeks ago. They were to arrive in Dallas on a Friday, be picked up by my mother and taken to her house which is about two hours from the airport. The husband needed to return to Dallas for a conference on Monday, so my mother offered via e-mail, "We can take him and get him after the conference if necessary, but the funeral home has to make runs to the Dallas area often and if Bjorn won't be totally grossed out, he might ride with one of the funeral home guys. I promise it won't be a hearse. Usually a Suburban." I'm not sure I've ever mentioned on here that my family runs the funeral home in my hometown, but they do. This fact is something which alone would provide enough material for a hundred blogs, but the point here is that offering to send company in from Europe on a two-hour trip with a dead body is just...well, bad form.

When the Danes finally arrived, I apologized profusely for this only to learn that Bjorn's father had made coffins when he was a child, the stacks of which had provided "a lovely badminton net" for him and his friends.

Apparently dysfunction knows no boundaries, international or otherwise.

How Not to be a Good Guest

A friend of mine - and CHAMPION hostess, I might add - moved to Seattle about a year ago. She didn't know anyone there when she moved, so she's spent the past year trying to reach out to folks in an attempt to get a group of friends pulled together which is how she ended up inviting several of her co-workers over to her place after a company party for some wine the other night. Apparently at some point in the evening (and after they'd mowed through four bottles of her nicest wine), one of her co-workers decided to pull out his balls and put them on her coffee table.

That's it. He just set them there and then he proceeded to laugh his ass off while my friend stared on in horror.

I'm sorry, but what. the. hell. I swear to God, if one of the jackasses I worked with came to my place and put his balls on my coffee table, I'd take a picture and then send out a company-wide e-mail that says, "Why you shouldn't invite Mike over. Ever."

How Not to be a Respectful Boyfriend

While we're on the subject of jackass behavior, I would like to dedicate a portion of this blog to my best friend's now ex-boyfriend. This guy, let's call him Stan, dated my best friend for a year and a half. Then he dumped her. This was shitty enough because they work together and it was extremely uncomfortable for for both of them. But after they'd been "apart" for nine months, he came back and said he wanted to get back together, this time for good. He put the full-court press on her and her friends (who had been none too pleased with him after round one) and won us all over. After dating four months and talking about rings, he'd asked her if he could move in, only to dump her AGAIN two days later and right before Thanksgiving. (Oh, the irony.)

I went up to hang out with her this past weekend; understandably, she was nothing short of a mess. We have been friends since we were eight and until this past weekend, I had never seen her cry which completely broke my heart. And because no bad deed goes unpunished, while she was at a party Friday night, I hopped on her computer to check Facebook and after discovering her retard of an ex still had all his login info as the default, took matters into my own hands:

What you can't really tell from the picture, is that I also updated his profile pic to the ass of a fat chick with "Deliciously Evil" written across the back of her shorts. Genius, if I do say so myself.

How Not to Make a Joyful Noise

For those who feel my cyber-activities Friday night were out of line, please note that karma caught up with me the very next evening, and as they say it's a total bitch. That night, we celebrated my grandmother's 89th birthday, and after dinner I invited my family over to my place to play Wii. My mother is a huge fan of Wii Sports but when she saw the drum set in my living room, she decided to give Rock Band a shot, recruiting my sister and her fiancee in the process. And so you don't have to imagine what the von Trapps would sound like drunk with a two-year old banging a pot beside them, allow me to present the musical stylings of the Taylor Family Singers:

Eliminate the drama in YOUR life!

One of my most irritating qualities is my refusal to zip through commercial breaks. Obviously, this admitted character flaw is somewhat understandable given my profession, but if you just zip through commercials, you run the risk of missing gems like this:



My gut instinct wants to file this under "Badvertising", but I can't. This thing is the advertising equivalent of deep fried bacon - terrible, yet awesome. From the arguably racist caller IDs ("Baby's Momma"?) to what might be the greatest line of copy ever written ("This ain't T. You been DRAMATELLED, playa!") this spot is greatness from beginning to end. Not only that, but it actually makes you consider buying the product. We all know when our calls are being screened, and here's the solution. And this commercial, with its Sister Cleo-esque production quality, illustrates this "almost illegal" solution beautifully. Granted, actually utilizing this product would make you look both desperate and psychotic, but if there was a commercial to compel me to put those fears aside, this is it. If nothing else, I want a Dramatel just to screw with my friends and then shout, "You been DRAMATELLED, playa!"

Completely Adorable? Meet Bat-Shit Nuts.

Okay, just to prove that 1. I haven't forgotten this blog completely, and 2. I don't have a lump of coal for a heart, I bring you the following (which Blogger regrettably won't let me embed):

http://www.ustream.tv/videoplayerpopup/channel/317016

I'm not sure how this could get any more adorable. Maybe if pink butterflies were fluttering around them, or if the puppies were sleeping on a bed of marshmallows? Maybe adding a couple of baby bunnies in there would make this cuter? And maybe that would be a bad idea for the bunnies...

Regardless, that's the cutest damn thing I've seen in ages. But just so you don't think I've gone all fuzzy on you, here's a little jolt to the ol' system:

This is a picture of my mother. (Sorta puts things into perspective, doesn't it.) Obviously it's a picture of her at Halloween, not that this picture portrays her as any less crazy than she actually is. I asked her what the hell she was supposed to be. Her e-mailed response: "Kermit the Frog! Or with sunglasses...the UniBomber."

And here I was, stupidly thinking she was a homeless person with multiple organ failure who'd just received her next meal from a passerby trying to unload some of their kid's candy to save their own ever-expanding ass.

Obama/Huxtable '08

Since the moment McCain announced Sarah Palin as his running mate, I wanted to write a blog about it. I knew more than your average "Lower-48" American about Mrs. Palin, but I still wanted to do a little research before putting pen to paper, so to speak. While researching, I also debated writing anything at all because politics isn't the most entertaining topic, and there have been quite a few blog-worthy things going on of late: my sister's wedding planning, my travels through the remnants of Hurrican Gustav to Bentonville, AR, my subsequent introduction to the Wal-Mart corporate cheer, my discovery of the Intervention episode featuring an anorexic who inhales up to ten cans of computer duster a day, my horror at some of the items offered in the Sky Mall catalog...

But no. I have decided Mrs. Palin needs to be addressed. First, while I sincerely doubt anyone who has read this blog questions my political affiliations, it should be said that I...ahem...tend to lean toward the Democratic side of things. With that said, I'm also a female. Some might argue I'm a strong female. As such, I appreciate the drive and moxie Mrs. Palin brings to the table.

And that's pretty much where the appreciation ends.

With each passing day, I keep expecting Palin fever to end. I definitely understood the initial excitment. She was the dark horse. She's a GILF. She's a supermom. She's "folksy". But since then, people have had enough time to see where she stands on the issues, learn more about her, and frankly come to their senses.

While The Beverly Hillbillies were great entertainment, I don't think anyone would have considered Elly May Clampett a viable candidate for Vice President. And that's exactly what we have here, right down to her success resting on black gold. I can't imagine that any female supporting Hillary would vote for the Republican ticket based on the VP candidate being a fellow "Vagina American" (as Samantha Bee so brilliantly put it). However, I absolutely believe there are a lot of blue collar American men who are currently thinking with the wrong head, and that scares the shit out of me, particularly since she's been so shielded from any form of direct media scrutiny.

But luckily, McCain's team can't keep her in a bubble and away from the media forever, though after the grilling she received last week from Charlie Gibson, I have to imagine they wish they could. The woman is so clueless, so chock-full of soundbites, so in over her head, the interview would have been painful to watch had it not filled me with glee to watch the Palin mysitque come crashing down. It also confirmed my long-standing desire to have Charlie Gibson adopt me.

GIBSON: "Did you ever travel outside the country prior to your trip to Kuwait and Germany last year?"

PALIN: "Canada, Mexico, and then, yes, that trip, that was the trip of a lifetime to visit our troops in Kuwait and stop and visit our injured soldiers in Germany. That was the trip of a lifetime and it changed my life."

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Sarah Palin, head of the Department of Redundancy Department. Oh, and Sarah - everyone knows that Canada and Mexico don't count.

GIBSON: What insight into Russian actions, particularly in the last couple of weeks, does the proximity of the state give you?

PALIN: They're our next door neighbors and you can actually see Russia from land here in Alaska, from an island in Alaska.

Wheeeeeeeee!!!

GIBSON: What insight does that give you into what they're doing in Georgia?

(Which, for the record, you can't see from any island in Alaska.)

PALIN: Well, I'm giving you that perspective of how small our world is and how important it is that we work with our allies to keep good relation with all of these countries, especially Russia.

So that's why you're supporting Georgia? To keep good relations with all countries, especially Russia? Well, then I hate to tell you but the Russians probably won't appreciate your Georgian support on a matter that arguably doesn't affect our country in any way. Just sayin'.

This next exchange would have really cracked me up, were I not so terrified someone [this close] to the presidency is this retarded.

GIBSON: Do you agree with the Bush doctrine?

PALIN: In what respect, Charlie?

GIBSON: The Bush -- well, what do you -- what do you interpret it to be?

PALIN: His world view.

GIBSON: No, the Bush doctrine, enunciated September 2002, before the Iraq war.

You could tell Charlie wanted to finish that last statement up with a giant sigh and, "DUMBASS," but as a professional journalist, he kept his reserve and his complete and total annoyance with her was only marginally, and by that I mean completely, obvious.

PALIN: I believe that what President Bush has attempted to do is rid this world of Islamic extremism, terrorists who are hell bent on destroying our nation. There have been blunders along the way, though. There have been mistakes made. And with new leadership, and that's the beauty of American elections, of course, and democracy, is with new leadership comes opportunity to do things better.

Wheeeeeeee!!!

GIBSON: The Bush doctrine, as I understand it, is that we have the right of anticipatory self-defense, that we have the right to a preemptive strike against any other country that we think is going to attack us. Do you agree with that?

PALIN: I agree that a president's job, when they swear in their oath to uphold our Constitution, their top priority is to defend the United States of America.

I know that John McCain will do that and I, as his vice president, families we are blessed with that vote of the American people and are elected to serve and are sworn in on January 20, that will be our top priority is to defend the American people.

GIBSON: Do we have a right to anticipatory self-defense? Do we have a right to make a preemptive strike again another country if we feel that country might strike us?

PALIN: Charlie, if there is legitimate and enough intelligence that tells us that a strike is imminent against American people, we have every right to defend our country. In fact, the president has the obligation, the duty to defend.

This whole exchange went on for quite awhile and absolutely killed me. It reminded me of that episode of The Cosby Show where Vanessa tells her parents she's at a slumber party and she and her friends drive to Baltimore to see "The Wretched" instead. When they eventually get busted for lying, Cliff tries to stay calm even though he's clearly pissed and annoyed, while Vanessa stammers and tries to explain herself. I kept wishing Clair Huxtable would burst into the interview, lose her shit and say all the things you know Charlie was thinking.

"Here you think you because you've been cramming for a week that you know ALLLLLL about international politics and the Bush Doctrine, when your entire career, you've just been havin' BIG FUN in Alaska. Weren't you, Sarah? Having BIG FUN in Alaska. Ridin' snowmobiles, eatin' moose burgers, shootin' guns and killin' caribou. You don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about, do you?"

"But, Clair," Sarah would stammer.

"SHUT UP! Don't you DARE open your mouth when I'm asking you a question! RUDY, GO TO BED!"

Maybe she should wear pearls with her tape?

A few days ago, I spent the night at my aunt's house and she and I ended up talking late into the night. My uncle had fallen asleep in his chair, and as we sat there drinking wine and chatting, I suddenly interrupted her.

"I'm sorry, but how do you sleep with that???" I asked, nodding to my uncle whose snoring was causing the windows to vibrate.

And with her response, I got one of those weird glimpses into married life that, as a single person, leaves you completely befuddled.

"Oh, I tape his lips shut," she explained, and took a sip of wine.

...

"Wait, you do what?" I asked, with a horrified look on my face.

"Well," she explained as though this was all perfectly normal, "you know, he sleeps with a CPAP machine, but even with that mask on, he's just soooooo LOUD." She began to imitate my uncle by putting her lips together, then blowing air through her mouth which created this horrible sputtering noise. "So after a couple of nights of that, I decided if I taped his lips shut, he wouldn't be able to make that awful sound."

"Clearly, that was the next step," I deadpanned.

Unfazed, she continued. "Bless his heart, when we first got married, he made this styrofoam box that only his engineering mind could have, because he wanted a sound-proof...well, a sound-proof box, I guess...so he wouldn't disturb me. It was so cute," she remembered with obvious fondness, "Here he'd taken one of those gas station coolers and made this box, and he called me from the bedroom one day, and I walked in and he was lying in the bed with all this styrofoam around his head. It really was so precious. Of course it was also so funny, I had to take a picture of it. Speaking of which, I wonder what happened to that picture..." she trailed off.

While I briefly considered my uncle lying in bed with his head shoved in a styrofoam cooler, I was still confused. "Sorry, can we go back to the fact you tape his lips shut at night?" I asked, clearly perplexed.

"You know, the lady at the CPAP store the other day also thought that was strange, though I assured her I fold the ends under so he can rip it off more easily. I used to not do that and he had a terrible time getting it off in the morning..."

"Hang on, how did all of this even come up with the lady at the CPAP store?" I inquired.

"Well, I'd looked at his machine and saw it had this filter on it, and thought to myself, 'I bet that needs to be changed.' And sure enough, when I pulled it out, it disintegrated..."

Usually not a good sign.

"...So I went to the CPAP store, and told her I needed a new filter, that this one had disintegrated. Then she asked me how long it had been since we'd changed it, and I told her we'd never changed it. She gave me this puzzled look, and then asked how long we'd had the machine. When I told her we'd had it twenty years..."

Oh god.

"...then she seemed really troubled, because I guess you're supposed to change it every three months."

Oh GOD.

"So after she'd gotten my new filter for me, we were discussing what a great machine it is, and I told her that while I do think it's a good machine, it still doesn't keep him from snoring and that's why I have to tape his lips together. When I told her this, she looked at me like I was a murderer or something and said, 'M'am, if the electricity ever went out, he would die!' I mean, she really seemed upset about this! And I just laughed and said, 'Well, I guess we're lucky that hasn't happened!'"

My poor uncle.

A few days later, I was at dinner with them, when my uncle held up his wristwatch. "Dear, do you like my repair job?" Sure enough, around the clasp of his wristwatch was suspicious-looking tape.

"That's the stuff, isn't it," I asked.

"Oh, ha, yes! It is!" my aunt replied, and started laughing. I told my uncle I'd heard about his sleeping conditions and was concerned.

"You know, I'm not the only one who snores," he said with a groan, "But your aunt refuses to acknowledge that she could possibly make any noise at all while she's sleeping, but I assure you she does. And I've suggested perhaps she try sleeping with her lips taped shut, or at the very least with a CPAP mask on, but she won't do it."

With this, she gave him a knowing look, patted his arm and said, "Well, dear, that's just not very ladylike," and they went back to eating their meals.

The ties we find.

I've been hanging out a lot this week with a few of my aunts - two aunts and one great aunt - and have had a blast. Of course when you hang out with family, you end up talking about family and in our case, family history. Which made me curious to know more, so I joined a website called ancestry.com to do some research.

A couple of years ago, an episode of THS had me convinced I was related to Anna Nicole Smith. They had interviewed her hillbilly cousins and they all had the same last name some of my relatives in that area of Texas. So I figured if nothing else, doing a little research could help me solve the Anna Nicole mystery, as I haven't slept soundly since my initial realization.

I will also confess another reason for my ancestral interest is joining the Daughters of the American Revolution. We have a cousin that's very involved with DAR and after doing some research, I want a piece of the action. I found a couple of local chapters with some wonderful programs such as "Historical Shoes" and "White House China: A Retrospective". I'm only kicking myself that I didn't attempt to join sooner.

"Now these shoes belonged to Millicent Butts, of the Baldwin County Butts. And I think I speak for the room when I say, 'Thank the good Lord for Manolo Blahnik!'"

Surprisingly, I've found this whole ancestry thing mildly addictive. It's fascinating what, rather who, you'll find. Obviously, the first order of business was establishing my "patriot", so that when I attend the meeting on "How to Mark a Patriot's Grave", I'll know who the hell's grave I'm supposed to be marking. And sure enough, within a couple of days I'd established that I'll be riding into the DAR on the coattails of Private Evan Shelby.

But I didn't stop at the 1700s with my searching. On my paternal side, I was able to trace my family back to the 900s. We were Italian then, but sadly that was soon buried under 1000 years-worth of English and Scottish heritage, explaining why I can't get a tan to save myself.

Other interesting finds have been famous relatives I've come across. I'm related to an alarming amount of famous writers/publishers (William Randolph Hearst, Gore Vidal, Geoffery Chaucer, Mark Twain, Elizabeth Browning, and Robert Louis Stevenson, to name a few) which have given me comfort that genetically-speaking, there's no way this blog can suck. Other than writers, I learned most of my famous relatives fall into the categories of actors (Jimmy Stewart, Mae West), political figures (Zachary Taylor, Woodrow Wilson, Lady Bird Johnson, BOTH Bushes) and outlaws/robbers (Pretty Boy Floyd, Frank James, Butch Cassidy, at lease one of the Bushes).

But today I found something even more horrifying than discovering I was related to President Bush (my seventh cousin, twice removed).

At the time, I was working on the heritage of my sixth great grandmother, Susanna Clement, when suddenly I saw names that looked familiar: Simon Clement and Susannah Lockett. Why did they look familiar? I backed out for a bigger picture view and proceeded to throw up in my mouth.

They sounded familiar, because they were ALREADY ON MY TREE!!! My sixth great-grandmother married her goddamn COUSIN!!! And a first cousin, at that! I'm a product of incest, and not the ancient-European-royalty-keep-the-bloodlines-pure kind of incest, but the backwoods, Appalachian, cousins-screwin'-in-the-woods kind. Only in my case, they married each other.

I didn't even know what to do with this info. Part of me wanted to run to the bathroom like Fergus in The Crying Game, while the other wanted to run to the mirror to relish the fact I don't have three eyes.

So before you judge or yell at me for what my cousin has done to the economy, please keep in mind that unlike you, I'm just lucky to have opposable thumbs.

The glamorous world of advertising.

When I was in high school, I absolutely loved Melrose Place. Amanda and Courtney worked at D&D Advertising, and it was, like, the coolest thing ever. The pages of a magazine brought to life.

Now that I'm actually in advertising, I'm constantly irritated by the glamour conveyed on television and movies when it comes to representing my profession. I love advertising and can't imagine doing anything else, but it's still nothing close to what's shown on TV. And to illustrate my point I bring you the following...

"My Monday: A Story in 25 Acts"

Wake up at 3:30 after about 3 and a half hours of sleep.

Get to airport by 5am.

Fly to Dallas at 6:30am.

Eat a nasty breakfast at Chili's Too.

Board a plane at 8:30am to fly to Kansas City for a 10:30 meeting.

Take a seat on the last row by the shitter, behind a screaming child.

Get nauseated by the smell of the toilet.

Check out the cute guy across the aisle, and wonder if I could get past the fact he's missing a hand.

Decide I could live with the stub and proceed to flirt.

Bitch about screaming toddler with flight attendant in line to small/smelly lavatory.

Wonder what's going on with the plane.

Get excited the one-hand man is flirting back. (Yes, he was just. that. cute.)

Deplane an hour later due to "computer issues".

Realize we'll be missing the meeting if we try to fly now.

Watch my airplane crush board the next flight without me. *sniff*

Call-in to meeting.

Have an hour-and-a-half long conference call on consumer segmentation at Gate 8, while a creepy man stares at me.

Eat a nasty lunch at same Chili's Too.

Board flight home in a thunderstorm.

Experience heavy turbulence the entire way home.

Convince myself I'm about to die in a plane crash.

Embarrass myself by babbling nonsense to the co-worker seated next to me in a desperate attempt to distract myself from our impending demise.

Land safely and am back in the office at 3pm.

Eat two bags of popcorn for "dinner".

Finish working at 8pm.

-THE END-


Amanda never would have had a day this un-sexy at D&D. That said, she also never would've received an e-mail this awesome from her travel agent.


To: Liz
From: Travel*
Subject: since you had a bad day, hopefully this will make you smile

Here's a picture of a rabbit with a pancake on its head...enjoy.

*Not his real name.

Crack attack.

Speaking of unflattering pictures, here's one I snapped the other night at dinner with my mother.

This ass belongs to a 60-ish woman who came into our restaurant wearing a tunic over black tights. About thirty minutes into the accidental peep show, our waiter (who had been sending his other server friends through our area to enjoy the view) came over to our table.

"How."

"Man, I don't know what you do here," I replied.

"I mean, do I say, 'Excuse me m'am, but I think your dress is maybe riding up a little in the back.'??? How do I address this tactfully?"

"Sorry, you're asking the wrong person. I just took a picture of it."

"Well, it is funny," he sighed.

At this point, my mom chimed in. "I was awlready enjoyin' the sunset. Now I get to enjoy a full moon, too!"

Yes, mother. There's nothing like staring at the smashed ass of a senior while eating ravioli...

And the gold for the poorest taste goes to...

I realize I'm not a photo editor, but I have to imagine that Sports Illustrated could have found a better picture of Nastia Liukin to tout her gold medal in women's gymnastics.

I don't even know what I'm looking at. There's a pained, twisted face, terrible form, wrists bound in tape, some weird hair-like thing on her ass and a metallic, hot pink crotch. I mean, for godssake, is this the Olympics or S&M porn?

In seventh grade, my picture was on the front of the Sunday sports section in the town paper. (Which is sorta like being in SI for your Olympic performance, except way, way lamer.) Anyway, in the picture I was playing tennis and going for a backhand with my mouth flung open and my tongue hanging out. The next Monday, the hottest senior in school saw me and shot me his impersonation of my face. Of course, everyone howled and I wanted to crawl through the floor. That moment haunted me for years until said hot senior decided he wanted to date me and I discovered he was the single worst kisser on the planet.

One can only hope the universe bestows young Nastia equally good karma without the added insult of WAY too much tongue.

Squiggle, putter, Beelzebub, Zamboni

I know this whole Georgia/Russia thing is horrible, and will no doubt result in all of America staring at the noses of nuclear weapons because we've pissed off Russia. But, I've gotta be honest, I haven't heard anything as fun to say as "Tbilisi" in awhile.

Tbilisi, Tbilisi, Tbilisi.

It's like when a toddler discovers their mouth. You just want to say it over and over, or say it in a mock sneeze and see if it prompts a "Gesundheit!"

Miss Handler, your glorious euphemism "Shadoobie" has just been dethroned. (No pun intended.)

Westley, what about the R.O.U.S.'s?

The other day, I went to lunch at a local coffee shop. As I approached the restaurant, I saw a man seated at a table on the patio with his dog on a leash beside him. However, as I got closer I realized it wasn't a dog at all. Nor was it a pig. Nor was it any animal I've seen before in my life.

My first thought was that I'd taken a wrong turn and ended up in the Fire Swamp, face-to-face with an R.O.U.S. Turns out I wasn't too far off.

"Um, what is that?" I asked the man, trying to sound pleasant but clearly a little unnerved.

"It's a khaki-barra," he said, as though I was the dumbest person alive.

"It's a what?" I asked, as I reached out and ran my hand across what felt like boar bristles.

"It's a khaki-barra," he replied, clearly irritated with me.

Okay, listen, you arrogant prick. Don't sit there like whatever that is on a leash is something even remotely common. I watch an embarrassing amount of both the Discovery Channel and Animal Planet, and I have never seen anything like that. A sloth, for example, is not of our land. But if you had one on a leash, I'd be like, "Oh, there's a guy with a sloth on a leash." I'd proceed to judge you for that, but I'd at least know what the hell you had for a pet.

I went inside and was paying for my order while continuing to stare out the window.

"Ahem."

I snapped out of it and realized the woman at the counter was handing me my credit card. "Shit, sorry," I mumbled.

"It's okay. There's a kookaburra outside. It's understandable."

Now, see? Once again. I know what a kookaburra is. (A bird from Australia.) I used to sing a song about it in kindergarten, and I can promise you that whatever the hell that thing outside is never sat in the old oak tree, or was the merry merry king of the bush. But in the spirit of research, I feigned ignorance.

"Um, yeah, what is that exactly?"

"It's a Brazilian rodent."

So I was right. It is an R.O.U.S.

As soon as I got home, I googled, "large Brazilian rodent". This is what I found:

This, friends, is a Capybara - the largest living rodent in the world. They are semi-aquatic (apparently they're fond of ponds) and can grow to be about four feet.

I could go on all afternoon wondering why someone would want to have the world's largest rodent for a pet, why they'd take it to a local restaurant, and how one might obtain a permit for such an animal, but at the end of the day, it's all INCONCEIVABLE!

For Scott.

I love that someone commented on my feet being huge in the picture featured in my last blog, because I couldn't agree more. In fact, that's half the reason I love that picture. It's the only time I've ever been close to resembling a hobbit.

I wish I got more comments than I do, though apparently no one reads this thing. I got a comment from a stripper once, and after looking up her blog recently, it would appear she has about ten times the site visits I do. Sadly, she's had her blog for approximately the same amount of time I've had mine. And there aren't any nude pics, either. Just her thoughts.

I know I'm bad about posting regularly, but at the end of the day, a bitch has got to eat. I've been working my ass of lately, and when I'm not working, I'm taking French lessons. My French class will be the subject of a future blog, but right now I'm going to shove my hobbit feet under the covers and go to bed.

My new addiction.

So I discovered a new show this weekend: Intervention. Yes, I realize it's in its fourth season, but I quit watching A&E when it turned into Real Life. Drama., as I have plenty of that without turning on my television. (Seriously, give me a biography on Nostradamus any day over Gene Simmons and his family jewels.)

My friend Robert used to watch Intervention while stoned and raved about it. While comically ironic, I had dismissed his review as "impaired judgment".

That, friends, was a mistake.

This show is my new favorite thing. It's like an hour-long self esteem boost. I mean, I've got issues; but these folks have ISS-UUUEEEES. And their problems run the gamut, which I appreciate because I have a short attention span and would quickly lose interest if everyone was just addicted to booze. But some of these people are addicted to things (I'm proud to say) I've actually never heard of.

Which brings me to another great thing about this show: I learn things. I now know what DXM is thanks to Ben, the male prostitute with a genius IQ. While I'm not entirely sure I have the patience to methodically tear up lettuce into a million pieces before ingesting, I've nonetheless learned some great dieting tips from Emily, the anorexic. I have also learned driving is a bad idea in general, lest you get caught sharing a road with someone like Brooke, who takes two OxyContin pills, and up to twelve muscle relaxers and twelve Lortab painkillers...a DAY.

I would love to say that watching this show has made me never want to drink again. But as alcoholic Jill reminded me in episode 49, "You're always prettier when you're drunk." And as evidenced below, clearly she's right.

Pappas smear.

I have at least three blog-worthy subjects today. The first would my weekend trip to West Texas. However, there were two professional scribes on our trip and they've done a hilarious job at capturing the essence of our holiday so I'd advise you to read those instead:

http://www.inthepinktexas.com/2008/07/07/these-knees-werent-made-for-climbing/

http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=19009933881&ref=nf

A second topic is the zit I have on my eye. There's really not too much to this story except that, well, who gets zits on their eyes (seriously.) and somehow I've managed to scratch at it so much that I actually ran late to work this morning trying to stop the bleeding so as not to come to work resembling Massive Headwound Harry.

But the third topic is one that fills me with feelings of betrayal, anger and emptiness that are so deep, so severe, I will struggle to make it through this blog at all.

I'm talking of course about The Bachelorette finale.

WHAT. THE. FUCK. HAPPENED?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Jesse??? She picked JESSE?!!!!

Before I go any further with this rant, I should say that I never watch this series. Haven't since the days of Firestone, anyway. Find the bachelorettes to be vapid and slutty and the bachelors douchey at best. But I stumbled upon this season one day while sick (literally, I had a cold) and desperate (I pretty much watched every episode of every show featured on abc.com that day.)

At the time, I was thrilled with my find. I LOVED Deanna. The girl was kick. ass. "I'm Deanna. I had my heart broken. That's not happening again. I want a husband and three kids before I'm thirty. If you're not on board with this plan and don't worship the ground I walk on, I'm kicking you out."

The girl ROCKED.

She was smart, cute, and Southern, but obnoxiously so. She navigated every rose ceremony with diplomacy, even kicking a couple of guys to the curb before the rose ceremony just to spare them the embarrassment. And she was always ready with the perfect break-up speech. "This is breakin' m' heart..."

After watching just two episodes, I wanted to write a book: "Everything I needed to learn about dating, I learned from Deanna." I had placed an initial order of 10,000 WWDD bracelets to be produced in China that I'd planned to sell state-side in support of what I was convinced would be the most powerful movement among single women since birth control.

And then last night happened.

A recap: I went into last night convinced she would pick Jason. How could she not? He's cute, has his shit together, clearly isn't afraid of relationships, and yes, has a "3-foot wild card", but Deanna said she wanted three kids before she turned 30 and she's 26. PERFECT. Granted, I was worried he wouldn't age well, and looks a bit like a monkey (completely unrelated to the aging), but I was convinced. He was the one.

And DAMN you, ABC editors. You had me fooled. You showed him cruising into her family - fitting in perfectly. He's asking Papa Pappas for permission to marry Deanna (YES!) and Zsee-Zsee and Poo-tard (I think that was the grandparents' names?) adore him. (YES!)

And then what? Then you show Jesse who shows up at her family's home like an overheated Helen Keller.

Papa Pappas: "Nice to meet you Jesse"

Jesse: "grs...uh...grrrrllll...t...um." (*wipes hands on pants*)

Papa Pappas: "Um, do you have use of your tongue, son? Can you form any words at all?"

Jesse: "sh....bllaa...tup...glug..." (*continues looking around, sweating and grunting*)

Deanna: "Daddy, he's a mute. But give him a nug...he understands that. Isn't he cute?????"

Oh, and back to the "nugs". The first time Jesse was able to form a complete sentence all night was after meeting Zshaa-Zshee, or whatever her name is. "Gimme nugs!" he commanded, and after a mother-fucking FIST BUMP told the camera, "We nugged, and it was rad."

WHAT??!!!!!!!

But I wasn't worried. The family was sold on Jason. Zlar-zlar even blessed him. I'd called the whole damn thing macaroni by that point.

Then the one-on-ones. Frolicking on the beach with Jesse. Then he gives her a gift. It appears to be some sort of photo album cobbled together with figs and berries. Inside he's put pictures of the two of them with sentimental index cards narrating the photos and saying things like, "I like you. You like me too?" and "Jesse had big fun. First date. Glug."

It's time for "Dee" (*eye roll*) to go back to her room.

WAIT?!! What is this??? Did she just turn around and go back for more kissing??? SHIT!!! IS JESSE THE ONE??!!! NOOOOOOO!!!!

I continued to be concerned until I saw my boy Jason swim. with. SHARKS. for Deanna, then not give her a lame photo album made from fruits of the forest...no m'am...but instead, a BOARD GAME that he made himself.

I was all settled in for the rose ceremony. I was ready to pronounce Jason and Deanna man and wife. Jason walks out first in a completely ill-fitting suit. He gets down on his knee to propose. I've got the Kleenex ready to go.

"No," says Deanna.

WHAT?????????????!!!!!!!!

I expected her to follow that up with "No, let ME propose to YOU." But she didn't. Just said no, after letting the boy go down on one KNEE. (Um, way to not be like Brad, "Dee.")

By the time Jesse came out in his equally ill-fitting suit (Jesus Christ, is there not a tailor anywhere on that island?) I was done. I was curled up in an angry ball on my couch with my friend Cat - who had predicted this all along - gloating beside me.

"Blin...shrup...dl...lank...glurgla?"

"YES! Yes, I'll marry you!!!!"

With this, I realized I'd no longer be able to retire on the profits of my WWDD bracelets. I'd never again be able to trust a Bachelorette not to fall for some incoherent lug from Colorado. I'd never again be able to eat tzatziki.

And her excuse? "I guess I didn't know myself as well as I thought I did." (Translation: Remember how I seemed to have my shit together? Turns out I don't. Who knew? But Jesse's fun!!! Wheeeeeeeee!!!!!)

But oh, kids, it gets worse.

http://www.deannaandjesse.com/Home_Page.html

My friend forwarded me this little gem shortly before lunch today. Normally, this would have sent me into orbit except about thirty minutes prior to viewing this nausea-inducing mess, I realized the hole Deanna left in my heart could be filled with an order of kao soi from the local Thai joint.

Oopa!

Christmas came early.

Because I know you've all been waiting with bated breath, my gift from the Something Store arrived today, and was every bit as magical as I'd hoped for.

In case you're wondering what this is, it's a beautiful bracelet by "Expressively Yours". Really, it should be called "Exclusively Yours" because it's quality is unsurpassed and has a very special message: "Love Grandmother Forever". And if that wasn't enough, it comes with a verse card that reads, "Everything a Grandmother does is always special and filled with love. The hand she holds, the tears she wipes endears her forever."

And all for the bargain price of just. ten. dollars.

Unbelievable, I know.

All about my mother.

This past weekend, my mother took me to a spa for a mother/daughter weekend. I mentioned my weekend plan to one of my friends on Friday and she jokingly (and deservedly) called me a spoiled brat. And I would normally agree with her except she doesn't know my mother.

Despite the fact I fully intend to make a fortune off stories about my mom one day, I realize my blog has been noticeably void of such tales. Mainly because, despite my mother's insistence that, "If you're gonna make fun of me, at least make some damn money off it so that you can prop me up in the lifestyle in which I plan to become accustomed," she both loves and hates the mockery I regularly heap upon her and out of respect for the hatred part of that equation, I've thus far left her alone.

Until now.

But before I get into this weekend, here's a quick tale that should provide some insight into the character that is my mother. Last year, I went to visit my cousin in Houston. When I arrived, he had a friend over who upon being introduced to me, asked my cousin, "Wait, is this Snatch's kid?"

I was still trying to get my head wrapped around this question when to my great surprise, my cousin replied, "Yup."

Not surprisingly, I had questions. Apparently my cousin had gone home to visit our family in Paris, TX, where my mother also lives. He'd taken his friend Natalie with him, and for reasons known only to God, she decided to get a bikini wax while there. I've received two bikini waxes in Paris, and I will only say that one almost required surgical intervention and both resulted in me being comped the initial wax in addition to receiving gift certificates to the salons where they were performed. It turns out Natalie's experience was pretty similar to my own, and afterward, she relayed her tales of pain and horror to my cousin who (in what had to have been the nastiest game of "telephone" ever) then shared them with his mother, who in turn shared them with my mom.

Later that night, my cousins and Natalie went to my mother's house for dinner. Upon meeting Natalie, my mom stuck out her hand and said, "Hi, you must be Natalie. How's your snatch?"

With that in mind and an additional side note that Mom just returned from getting a tummy tuck in Albuquerque, I'd like to share a few quotes from the weekend:

"This place smells like a giant fart." - My mother's comment upon entering the lobby of the resort.

"Would you like me to get you lipo for your 30th birthday? Actually, I should probably just give that to you regardless because it's my fault you have the fat cells you do. You know, when you were a baby they thought switching to cereal early was a good thing. But now they know it just makes you a fat grown-up." - She gives and she gives...

"Well, I mean you still look tall, if that's what you're asking." - This was her response following my horror at her suggestion of lipo for my birthday, and asking (via shrieking) if she really thought I needed it. It's also a reference to a comment she made my junior year of college that was met with an equal amount of horror, specifically, "Baby doll, you don't even look tall anymore."

"Dragon butt." - An exclamation that came out of nowhere while we were watching television in our hotel room. After asking what the hell she was talking about, she explained she wanted to clarify her "giant fart" sentiment from several hours earlier. The hotel did not, in fact, smell like a giant fart, but rather "dragon butt".

(pointing at the bra-style hooks in the crotch of her compression garment) "THIS is how you know a man designed this thing. Gettin' this thing unhooked to pee is a nightmare because he put all these little hooky things back by your butt. A woman would have known to stick 'em up by your twat." - Proof my mother's range of epithets for the female anatomy knows no boundary.

"Si." -Her response to a question asked of her in English by a man visiting from France.

Once back from the spa, our weekend concluded with a shopping trip to Costco, during which my mother raised an enormous box of tampons over her head like John Cusack in Say Anything and shouted, "Liz, are these yours???" as I had wandered off to look at the flat screens. And I might normally have been horrified by this, except by that point, she could have run the perimeter of the store shouting "Cooter! Cooter! Cooter!!!" at the top of her lungs and I wouldn't have been the slightest bit fazed.

A word to the wise.

Never Ped-Egg your feet while drunk. Just trust me on this.

What $10 won't get you.

This weekend, I found a curious website called somethingstore.com. For $10, they send you something in the mail. Could be anything. But, they are very clear on what it won't be, giving a detailed list of things they absolutely, under no circumstances - not even acts of God, won't send you. Below is just a sampling of things I won't be receiving from the Something Store:

Alcohol
This is a bit of a shame because I'm a lover of most all alcohol, but wine especially. Speaking of which, I found out yesterday that Wal-Mart is selling bottles of decently-rated wine for under $5!!! Save money, drink better.

Body Parts
Well there's a pisser. Oh wait, no it's not. Because according to the website, "body parts" also includes body fluids (as well as stem cells and embryos). So no severed feet or placentas for me. *sigh*

Drugs and drug paraphernalia
Lame, but okay.

Drug test circumvention aids
Okay, jesus, we get it. Just say no.

Endangered or regulated species
This should provide my roommate with at least some temporary relief, as I've been begging her to let me bring an Asiatic Cheetah home. This might have delayed me, but I shan't be deterred. *shakes fist at sky*

Gaming/Gambling
Note: Magic eight balls were not listed in this section. Which means there's still hope, kids.

Miracle cures
No worries. I've got a spiritual healer for that.

Precious materials
Um. I sent you $10. I'm not expecting diamonds, bitches.

Prescription drugs or pharmacies
As someone that shares a name with one of the greatest prescription drug addicts of all time, this one hurt a bit.

Regulated goods
This includes: "Air bags; batteries containing mercury; Freon or similar substances/refrigerants; chemical/industrial solvents; government uniforms; car titles; license plates; police badges and law enforcement equipment; lock-picking devices; medical devices; pesticides; postage meters; recalled items; slot machines; goods regulated by government or other agency specifications; explosives; hazardous materials; personal data protected under applicable data protection laws"

Ha! Postage meters!! Funny.

The rest of the "won't send" list was pretty lame. No cigarettes, radar detectors, brass knuckles, etc. But I appreciate them managing my expectations, nonetheless. Because $10 can buy a lot in this economy. A banana. A gallon of gas. Oh, and two bottles of Wal-Mart wine.

Andrew's Angels

Yesterday, I went to my second appointment with my new spiritual healer, Andrew*. (This is where the hippie part of "Debutante Hippie" comes into play.) Anyway, I've suffered from migraines all my life, and for those of you unfamiliar with this type of existence, you'd pretty much be willing to smear bird shit on your face if it would mean you'd never have another migraine. So when I heard about this guy, I figured it was worth a shot.

The first appointment had been pretty uneventful. I didn't really say all that much, mainly because I was curious and a little on edge. (Despite my obsession with the Lifetime program Lisa Williams: Life Among the Dead, I'm not really all that into supernatural shit.) But as I'd gone to my first appointment with a headache in progress and left ten minutes later without an ounce of pain, my curiosity had been piqued and I had some questions for ol' Andy.

Andrew the Healer is originally from Scotland and sounds like Mrs. Doubtfire. He even uses the word "wee" from time to time. He's very big on the energy in his meeting area being one of serenity and thus everything is set up to be calming. Sitar music, candles, soft lighting, etc. When you arrive there are usually several people strewn about in the waiting room with their eyes closed in deep meditation.

Which only makes the idea of me being in this type of environment all the more ridiculous, because I'm easily one of the most frantic people I know. I'm usually a whirlwind of insanity, rushing around, making even the dumbest things as complex as possible. I'm the world's worst meditator, as I immediately start thinking about stupid shit like errands I need to run, boys I like, or my frustration with owning a cat that has both allergies and acne. (Seriously, how I got stuck with the feline equivalent of a nerdy eighth grader is beyond me.)

On my first trip, I felt sort of guilty for disrupting his energy field. Yesterday, I didn't give a damn.

"Hello lovely Elizabeth, how are you today?"

"Tired and stressed," (I figured I'd be honest) "...and you?"

"I'm filled with bliss."

"Of course you are."

"Yes. But, you know, I'm always filled with bliss. Ever since the day I quit working from m'heed and started working from m' heart."

"Yes, well, it's probably very easy to be filled with bliss and work from your heart when you're not in advertising."

"Not really."

The fact my eyes were shut didn't keep me from rolling them. We talked a few seconds more about bliss when he put my hands on my head.

"Um, so how exactly did you get into all this healing stuff?" I asked.

"I was born with the ability."

"Yeah, but I mean, did you do any sort of training or whatnot for this?"

"I had a fifteen year apprenticeship with angels."

...

Ask a stupid (and arguably insulting) question, get a stupid (and arguably hilarious) answer.

I kept waiting for him to follow this comment up with some sort of clarification, but he didn't. So with his hands on my head and my feet on the floor (to keep me "grounded" during the healing), I pressed him.

"So how was that for you? The apprenticeship, that is."

"Oh, it was lovely."

"It never got annoying having a bunch...or a flock, maybe? are they called a flock?...anyway, a whatever of angels looking over your shoulder, pointing out where you're screwing up?"

"No no, they just guide me. Tell me how a person is suffering and what to do about it."

"Okaaay. So what do they tell you about me?"

"That you think too much with your heed and not enough with your heart, but that you're extremely pure of heart." I was trying very hard not to laugh at this, when Andrew actually broke into a fit of Scottish giggles. "They've...hee...just corrected me that...hee...you think a LOT with your heed and not with your heart."

And here's where my neurosis kicked in. My first thought was not, "Okay, this is officially a load of shit," but rather, "Wait, angels are mocking me? Seriously? What the hell did I ever do to them? But maybe they have a point? Shit, are they right? Shit. SHIT!!!"

"Oh, and they tell me you're having trouble with your female bits."

WHAT????

"Um, my female bits? What's wrong with my female bits??? Are they telling you?!!" It was in this moment of frenzy I realized I'd completely lost my mind.

"No, but no worries. We'll get you all sorted out today."

Oh, really, Andrew? I'm probably dying of cancer-of-the-everything-down-there and my cervix will no doubt fall out as I'm leaving this appointment today, but you're going to get me sorted out with your hands on m'heed???

"There. All done. May God bless you, lovely Elizabeth."

And because I'm that vain, when he called me "lovely" all was forgiven - the angelic mockery, the prophecy of cervical doom - and I left with a smile on my face...

...only after making an appointment for next week.

*Names have been changed to protect the holy.

Mike the Eagle

I feel it's worth mentioning that whenever I see Michael Chertoff on TV, I pretend he's Sam the Eagle from the Muppets. It's both entertaining, and the only way I've found to make Chertoff tolerable.

Similarly, it's immensely entertaining to read the Wikipedia article on Sam the Eagle, and pretend they're actually talking about Michael Chertoff.

"[He] acts as a censor and comments on his being under-appreciated. He often gives important lectures in which he complains about some liberal idea only to find himself forced to stop in embarrassment at risk of sounding like a hypocrite. On one occasion he gives a lecture about conservationism in which he reads a list of endangered animal species that he feels are the focus of misguided conservation efforts, only to sheepishly withdraw his statement when he realizes that his own species is included."

Rushing through judgment.

Overall, I'm an okay friend. But there are times when I'm an AMAZING friend and last night was one of those times.

My friend Cat asked me to sign-up for speed dating with her a couple of weeks ago. "Oh, come on, it'll be fun. It's at a wine bar! You love wine!" While I do love wine, the idea of drinking pinot seated across to the Andy Stitzers of the world wasn't the slightest bit appealing. But after several minutes of pleading, I gave in.

Which is how I found myself seated across a tiny man, in camo-print shirt wearing a nametag that announced him as "El Capitan".

"El Capitan? Seriously?" I asked as he sat down across from me following the chime of the bell. They'd given us a list of "starter questions" to ask our dates, but given he'd taken the time to scribble out his actual name and write "El Capitan" over it, "So what do you do?" didn't seem like the place to start.

"Yes," he answered and leaned in, "I am. El Capitan."

Oh yeah, well, I am "Senorita What-the-fuck-am-I-doing-here-and-did-you-really-wear-camo-for-this-and-is-that-a-full-liter-of-hair-gel-you've-got-there-holding-your-comb-over-in-place-or-could-it-possibly-be-a-gallon?"

I then asked him what he did and (I should have seen this coming) he replied, "I'm a male dancer."

Right.

I eventually learned he's in "hardware sales", though wouldn't share who he worked for. (Translation: He works at Home Depot.) Mercifully, I only had to speak to him for six minutes or I would have bought a buzz saw off him to kill myself with.

*ding*

Next up was Drunk John. Despite having only been there for 45 minutes or so, John had somehow managed to down four drinks prior to getting to my table. "Hi. I'm John. So when was the last time you were drunk? Like, really shitfaced..."

Impressive lead-in, John. I told him a story about being so drunk I threw a bowl of ramen noodles in my purse after my roommate had lovingly prepared them for me, citing, "I'm too drunk to eat ramen," as my excuse for doing so. "Ramen. Cool. So when was the last time you puked from drinking?...Really, you can't remember? Man, that's impressive. I puked just a couple of weeks ago."

*ding*

"Liz. Hi. I'm Brad, and you're tall. I like that." He was the best-looking guy there by a long shot, and I'd had high hopes for him when we first got there. But after he opened his mouth, I imagined that commercial from a couple years back where a guy pulls up in a Corvette and the license plate says "The Brad". He had an inherently icky quality to him. Very used car salesman. "Listen, Liz, I'd like to see you again. I'm at Whole Foods all the time. Maybe we can get coffee there next week."

"Uh...well, yeah, I guess we fill out a little form and then say whether or not we want to see each other again? Or something like that?"

"You know, we don't have to follow the rules here. You could just give me your number right now."

Um, how about instead I give you a bogus e-mail address??? Done and done.

*ding*

"BUT I WANTED TO HEAR ABOUT THAT HAMMOCK!"

That's how my "date" with Bill started. With him talk-shouting (Bill has volume issues) at his last date.

First, a sidebar: I have a freakish memory when it comes to names and faces. If I was standing in line behind you at the grocery store in 1985, chances are good that I remember you, what you were wearing that day, and that you thumbed through the National Enquirer, but didn't buy it. While many are often envious of this gift, many others are freaked out by it...particularly people that have no recollection of meeting me, when I remember multiple details about them. Thus, over the years, I've learned to fake it. For example if I meet a girl at a party, and she says, "Hi, I'm Jennifer. Nice to meet you," I respond with, "Nice to meet you, too," and NOT, "I know. Your last name is Johnson, you have an older sister named Molly, you were in my second grade home room, had a locker four down from mine, ate more boogers than anyone I'd ever seen, and had weekly meetings with the school counselor to discuss your parents divorce."

Which brings me back to Bill. I met Bill at a Christmas party two and a half years ago. I remember him specifically, because he spent the evening hitting on me and by the end of the night I was genuinely concerned I might have ruptured an eardrum. He was also the first black guy I'd ever met that could be classified as "smarmy", and that threw me a bit. Case in point, as he was sitting down, I said, "Hammock?"

"HA...YEAH, THE LAST GIRL I WAS TALKING TO WAS ABOUT TO TELL ME ABOUT A HAMMOCK SHE JUST BOUGHT, BUT THEN THE BELL RANG, SO I DIDN'T GET TO HEAR ABOUT IT. BUT ENOUGH ABOUT ME, LET'S TALK ABOUT MEEEEEEE."

And so that we didn't have to talk about hiiiim, I decided to be completely creepy just to make sure I never had to risk shattering an eardrum again.

"Actually, I've met you before, Bill. At the Grinch Gala a couple of years ago. The one that was held at the bar that's now the Mohawk? You're an attorney, right? And like cigars. I remember that because there was a guy at that party rolling cigars, and we had a conversation about how my favorite cigars are cognac-dipped, and your favorite cigar is a Macanudo Vingage number 5."

Operation: Creep Out was a smashing success. And the irony of the situation was that Bill ended up hitting it off with this alcoholic that was one of only 100 girls in my high school graduating class. At the end of the night, she stumbled up to me and slurred, "Hi, I'm Cindy, nice tur meet you. A few orf us are gurring to dinner...wanna come?" And as I declined, I pretended I had no idea who she was.

Gross.

Um, so I just got back from a trip to the restroom. While I was in there, a girl in another stall was talking on the phone to a boy. She was giggling, saying "I love you....well, I love you more...nope, more than that...", etc.

WHO DOES THIS???

Seriously? I mean, okay, maaaaybe at home. Fine. But in the public toilet at work?

As I was walking back to my desk, I joined up in the hall with my friend Steve. I asked him if he's ever experienced anything like this in the men's room. According to him, this happens even more frequently in the men's room. AND, apparently the guys in our office are prone to taking reading materials in there and then just leaving them.

Am I the crazy one here? Am I insane for just wanting to go to the restroom, then wanting to leave right after? Are there a multitude of educational and social opportunities I'm missing out on because I don't enjoy hanging out in the restroom any longer than I have to?

Maybe next time I go, I'll play the kazoo while I pee. I'm not exactly sure what that will accomplish, but for some reason it sounds amusing.

Bless his drunken buttons.

One of the reasons I love being in advertising is you hear great tales like this:

A sound engineer we work with in LA apparently came into the studio one day and there was a bum passed out on the doorstep of the studio, sitting in his own vomit and piss. The engineer tried to wake up the bum, who groggily said he was supposed to be there. The engineer told him that he needed leave, and the bum argued that no, he was supposed to be there. After hearing him a second time, the engineer suddenly realized that the bum was in fact, Kelsey Grammer.

In not surprising news, Kelsey suffered a heart attack today.

Ick to the nth degree.

David Foster (pianist and producer extraordinaire) has confirmed that his 50 year-old sister, Jaymes, is pregnant with Clay Aiken's baby. Sources say Jaymes plans to name the baby Barry Manilow.

"Sex and the City": A synopsis.

For those of you that didn't make it to Sex and the City this weekend, here's what you missed. (Spoiler alert!!!)

From the desk of Christy Crank-ass

This morning, a guy who's been reading my blog came up to me and said, "My god, you hate EVERYTHING. Babies, men. I mean, it's hilarious, but I had no idea you hate everything."

First of all, if you're using this blog as the basis of any opinion about my psyche, you're retarded. This isn't a diary. It's a blog. If you expect people to read your blog, it has to be entertaining. And you can ask Lewis Black if talking about things that piss you off can be entertaining.

Second, the only things I truly hate are stupid shit like:

-Ambrosia salad
-Having to always pull the door handle (with your newly-cleaned hand) to get out of a public restroom
-The use of the term "milady"

And while I might not care for the majority of babies, I certainly don't hate men. I'm actually quite fond of them and even the ones I should hate, I don't. I wish them the best even when they're behaving like ego-centric jerkoffs. (I told you being sweet isn't very entertaining...)

But to further prove I don't have a lump of coal where my heart used to be, I'm gonna get all cultural 'n' shit and share some things I like:

Film

Weezer's video for "Pork and Beans". No, this isn't a movie; but this is my list so I can categorize things however the hell I'd like. Anyway, this thing is awesome. I hope every top musical act is kicking themselves for not thinking of this idea for their own videos because it's brilliant.




TV

Oh man, do I love Wife Swap. I love the irreverant children, love it when the husbands suddenly realize their wives suck, and I love it when the wives finally break. "I just," sob, "can't," sob, "DOOOOOO THIISSSS!!!" I particularly enjoy when the control freaks lose their shit as though they didn't realize what they had signed up for when they applied to be on the show. I actually had an old client that signed up to do an episode of "Wife Swap" a few years back. I was horrified by this revelation initially, but now that I've seen the show, I'm just bummed I missed that episode.

Music

I have always been a huge fan of Lauryn Hill. So life has basically sucked for me since she's been in some creative cavern since 1998. I've gone to desperate lengths to get my fix of new Lauryn Hill music, even resorting to going in the search of old Lauryn Hill music. (The solos from Sister Act 2, for example.) So that's why I'm excited about Estelle. Love, love, love her new album. She's not Lauryn, but in a pinch, she'll more than do.

IalsowillgoaheadandsaythatIheardJessicaSimpsonsnewcountrysongtodayandmighthavelikeditbutyoudidnthearthat.

So there, I like all those things.

Oh, and Norah Jones' new haircut.

I now return you to your regularly scheduled bitch-fest.

Baggage baggage.

Several people have expressed outrage over American Airlines charging $15 to check one bag and $25 for each bag after that, and suggested I write a blog about it. Fine. But I assure you this will be one of my least popular blogs.

I love nothing more than catching wind of things that fan the flames of my hatred against American Airlines. They have a fleet of flying sardine cans they try to pass off as planes, Al Queda is more hospitable, and I'm fairly certain their customer service training is conducted by the Soup Nazi.

However, and this will come as a shock to most everyone, this whole baggage thing doesn't piss me off at all. In fact, I couldn't be happier about it. Here's why: Gas prices are raping all of us right now...up the ass...without lube. The airlines are no exception. (And really, if you insist on being pissed about this, focus your attentions on the profits and bonuses enjoyed for years by the oil companies and the fruitless Congressional hearings that were supposed to bring an end that horse shit. "Supply and demand" my ass, you wads.)

Anyway, as I was saying, the airlines are affected as much as the rest of us, so costs are going to go up somewhere. That's just a given. Now, they could hide them in service fees or in the rates, but applying them to baggage also makes sense because the heavier the baggage, the more fuel used.

At least ninety percent of all the travel I do is for business, which means I rarely check any luggage. Even when I'm traveling for fun, unless I'm going on a three-week safari to Africa, I don't check luggage. (It's called efficiency, bitches.) However, I'm related to a flock of the most inefficient travelers on the planet. To illustrate my point, I would now like to reference the time we met up with my aunt and uncle in France, only to discover they'd packed FIVE full suitcases, one of which was filled entirely with Evian water.

"Um, why do you have an entire suitcase of Evian water?"

"Because the water here isn't safe to drink."

"You do realize Evian is, well, from France?"

The other swell thing about that trip is that my aunt has a heart condition, and thus couldn't carry any of the suitcases they'd brought. So we each got stuck with our own bag, as well as one of my aunt and uncle's. Hopping on and off trains with two pieces of luggage got old after about 20 minutes, but alas, it wasn't until about five days later that someone had the brilliant idea to buy one of those portable luggage carts. Sadly, the cart lasted only one day as the weight of all our shit caused the metal support bar to buckle, drag along the cobblestone in Venice, throw off a mess of sparks, and melt the cart's wheels while our Danish foreign exchange student screamed in terror.

This is one of several reasons I no longer travel with my family, but it also brings me back to why I'm not opposed to this American thing. Because idiots like the ones I'm related to are going to be punished for not stopping to think that returning exported products to their countries of origin is completely imbecilic. So to the vacationing jackasses with fifty bags and matching Hawaiian shirts: Bend over, Grover! And if you need me, I'll be in business class with my purse.

God, I'm immature.

Last night, I went over to my friend Julie's house for dinner. She'd suggested this week would be good because her husband was out of town and she'd "love the company". And I'm an idiot because I actually bought that, despite the fact she has a three-year-old son. For future reference, if your husband's out of town, and you really just want me to help out with feeding, entertaining, bathtime, etc., just say so. I won't come of course, but at least it will be an honest request. (Why you'd want me to help out with your kid is beyond me anyway. You'd be better off trusting your child with Britney Spears.) All of this said, at least Julie was feeding me dinner, and I actually like her kid, Brendan.

Or I did until last night.

At the moment, I seem to be doing nothing but damage control in the boy department. In the past three months, I've had my heart broken, broke someone else's, then (in the latest episode of my sitcom-of-a-life) an ex moved into an apartment only eleven units away from mine. (Yes, I counted.) As it was with these other guys, things started out okay last night between Brendan and I. We were laughing, having a good time...he even asked me if I'd take a bath with him. (And given how long it's been since a guy asked me that, it broke my heart to tell him that unfortunately I'd "left my jammies at home.")

Then, after my refusal and very much par for the course, things took a turn for the worse. As he was headed for the bathtub he turned around and, pretending his wang was a gun, proceeded to "shoot" me with it, complete with POW!-like sound effects. As if that wasn't humiliating enough, while I was reading him a story after his bath, he released about 7 metric tons of hydrogen sulfide gas onto my lap. "Sorry," Julie apologized while laughing, "I gave him some prunes earlier." I was wearing designer jeans at the time, and while she was busy apologizing, I was busy panicking over whether or not this collossal fart would leave a mark. (It was just that strong, and I'm just that shallow.)

But victory will one day be mine. Before I left, I made Brendan look like a mental patient by wrapping his head in toilet paper and took pictures of him making ridiculous faces. Plan on those being showcased at his dress rehearsal. Mwahahaha...

The real loser of American Idol.

My dad grew up in Houston with a guy named Billy. According to my father, Billy was a total weirdo, though to date the only proof Dad has offered up to support this is that Billy wore tennis shoes to the prom...with his tux!!! (Apparently Houstonians were known for wearing "outrageous" things to prom even back in '68.) Anyway, Dad wanted nothing to do with him, despite the fact their mothers were friends and my grandmother was always nagging Dad to invite Billy to various things. But Billy was a freak, and my Dad was a shallow ass hole. (Apple didn't fall far, I know...)

Anyway, Billy might have been an outcast at Robert E. Lee High School, but he also went on to form one of the greatest rock bands of all time, and my father has been kicking himself ever since.

But the one that should be kicking himself tonight is Billy. I don't know who had to do what to get ZZ Top to perform on the cheese-fest that is American Idol, but whatever was done clearly worked, because there they were on stage rocking out with finalist David Cook. Good. Lord. I can only hope that Billy Gibbons never comes out of the drug-induced fog he lives in, because he'll no doubt off himself if he ever finds out about this performance.

The Dear Leader's day off.

In case any of you were wondering what Kim Jong-il does on his day off, he puts his evil cat in a pet carrier, heads to a gay bar in Houston, eats a bucket of crawdads, and then takes a nap...at the bar.



(Note: Be glad I took a photo of the napping and not the eating of crawdads as they're clearly not big on manners in North Korea.)