The Debutante Hippie

Retiring

2009-06-21T16:05:00.000-07:00

Obviously I haven't blogged in quite some time. The surface reason for this is that I've spent a lot of time since my last blog in a bed, either recovering from back surgery or trying to prevent it. This blog has been dedicated largely to funny happenings of my day-to-day, and truthfully, there just hasn't been that much funny going on. I had surgery, my brother-in-law almost died, I ruptured a new disc and my grandmother had a heart attack. None of that is funny.

Which leads me to the real reason I'm retiring this blog - I don't FEEL funny right now. And I write what I feel.

When things turn around, and I have something more interesting to write about than how my sheets feel today, I might pick it back up. But for now, vaya con nachos.

Liz

Omegle, Omyoh.

2009-04-01T18:23:00.000-07:00

Even though it will be completely obvious I'm stoned when I get to my topic this evening, I would like to preface this entry with the caveat that I am currently laid up awaiting back surgery and on fairly heavy pain meds.

That said, a friend introduced me to a site called Omegle.com today. There is no point to this site aside from chatting with strangers. That's it. And given I'm more or less stuck in a bed and hopped up on pain pills, I knew this would be entertaining. And oh my, has it ever delivered.

I love talking to strangers. I love sitting at the bar in restaurants by myself for that exact purpose. I love chatting with people on planes. But all of that is done in PERSON. It's a whole different world when you're talking to strangers in cyberspace and have no interest in discussing what you're wearing.

Most everyone hung up on me when I wouldn't tell them where I live. Others hung up as soon as they found out I'm not the person they'd been chatting with before. "AJ?" one asked. "Nope," I wrote back. *click* One hung up on me after I confessed I was neither naked, nor Asian. Another guy (or I'm presuming it was a guy), didn't even bother with "hello", preferring instead to great me with a friendly "I'm horny." His honesty was certainly appreciated, but after wishing him luck with that, I hung up on him.

The beauty of this thing is that you can immediately start a new conversation with someone else. I made it my goal to have one normal conversation and eventually succeeded with some kid in Argentina. We discussed music, his interest in studying film in Buenos Aires, I gave him some career advice and we exchanged restaurant recommendations. After a few minutes, though, I got a notice that our conversation had "asploded"...a word I would have associated with bathroom activities, but apparently it applies to internet activities.

But no matter. The entire evening was worth it simply for the exchange below:

Sweet, isn't it?

A gutter ball of a statement.

2009-03-20T13:36:00.000-07:00

So, last night, Obama was on Leno and today, all of cyberspace is up in arms about Obama comparing his bowling score of 129 to the Special Olympics. People found this offensive to the Special Olympics, and I can see why. If you're going to make a tasteless analogy, at least make it an accurate one. I attended a Special Olympics bowling tournament just a few weeks ago. (Further proof I don't have a lump of coal for a heart...) And, while none of the participants could give you their thoughts on capital gains taxes, I promise you every one of them bowled higher than a 129. I peronally think a man with no arms could bowl higher than 129 just by kicking the ball down the lane.

Beef stew: the Breakfast of Champions

2009-03-09T11:28:00.000-07:00

Anyone that knows me knows I eat breakfast every single day. But a day will come when I won't. And the day I get no mo' Cheerios, will be a sad, sad day FOR ALL OF YOU.

Sorry, I don't speak Crazy. (Or Chinese.)

2009-02-16T18:11:00.001-08:00

I will give $100 to the first person that translates this video for me...

My grandmother is adorable.

2009-02-16T17:43:00.000-08:00

*answering the phone*

"Hey Gigi, are you okay?"

"Hi love! Yeah, I'm fine..."

"Well, I saw you called earlier today, so thought maybe something was wrong."

"Oh, no! Everything's great. Just wanted to make sure you weren't hit by that fireball this weekend. Looks like it shot RIGHT over you!"

"Ah, well, no, I'm okay."

"Good, love. I'm so glad to hear that. Thought it might have shook the ground if nothing else!"

"Nope, everything was fine."

"Okay, well, I'm heading to bed..."

"At 6:45?"

"This old lady gets TIRED sometimes! Haha..."

"Well, thanks for calling, and love you. Sleep tight."

"You too, love, and so. so. glad you weren't hit by that fireball!"

*Picture of "fireball" over Austin, February 15th

How you know the cat's been on the computer.

2009-02-15T05:49:00.001-08:00

Winner, winner, chicken anal beads.

2009-02-08T21:11:00.000-08:00

I haven't blogged in over a month, which makes me a loser. Only I won a fierce competition tonight, which not only makes me a winner, but also cured my writer's block.

Last week, I got a call from my friend Megan. "So, I'm calling you because you're the only person I know that would go to this with me." With that opener, I was already sold; but she went on to tell me about this show at a local theater called "The Sickest F***ing Stories I Ever Heard". It consists of a group of local comics sitting around a poker table telling disgusting, politically-incorrect stories. It's worth noting the three movies I've laughed hardest in are: Jackass, Jackass 2 and Borat. This was right up my alley.

The show tonight didn't disappoint. There were several times when I laughed as hard as I could, yet still wasn't laughing hard enough to satisfy my amusement. And probably due to his charming tales of rub and tugs, I developed a mild crush on KLBJ's Charlie Hodge, one of the comics. But the best was yet to come. When the show finished, they announced a competition for the sickest audience story. I'm competitive as all hell, but for the life of me I couldn't come up with anything. A chick with a clipboard came by and asked if I had anything to contribute and I shook my head, disappointed in myself. Members of the audience went up to the mic and told stories about poop in a bag, "retards fucking" and even a two-toned dick, the result of a middle school masturbation accident. Suddenly, not one, but two sick stories popped in my head. I headed to the mic, was unanimously voted the winner and went home with a lovely prize package consisting of porn, a dildo, and some anal beads.

And because I'm the most competitive person on earth, it was pitifully a win I needed as last week, I challenged my friends' four year-old to Mario Kart with disastrous results.

"Jackson, you're about to get OWNED!!!"

Jackson's dad shot me a look that was a mix of disbelief and horror. "Are you seriously trash talking my toddler?"

"I prefer to call it 'managing expectations', but potato, potahto."

The kid demolished me. He sailed into 2nd place while I did circles, trying to figure out how to get the "U-turn" signal off the screen. That, combined with continually driving off cliffs ensured I never made it past 12th place.

"He can't even form full sentences!" I howled in my defeat. "This SUCKS! Hey, you don't have Zelda on here, by chance, do you?"

I was still licking my wounds last night, when we introduced my 89 year-old grandmother to Mario Kart. My grandmother had her license taken away from her three years ago, gets driven around like Miss Daisy, and yet somehow managed to finish first.

All this to say that quick thinking and two different but equally disgusting stories have ensured I won't be sobbing myself to sleep again tonight.

Christmas cards of the rich and famous.

2008-12-25T09:08:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-12-23T08:00:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-12-15T11:22:00.001-08:00

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.

2008-12-09T16:23:00.001-08:00

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.

2008-12-01T08:45:00.000-08:00

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!

2008-11-16T06:41:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-11-11T16:25:00.001-08:00

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

2008-09-14T15:12:00.001-07:00

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?

2008-09-01T08:22:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-08-28T07:09:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-08-18T17:31:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-08-17T14:56:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-08-15T15:38:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-14T11:44:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-08-02T12:34:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-07-24T21:11:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-07-14T10:36:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-07-08T08:25:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-30T16:09:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-29T20:41:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-27T21:48:00.000-07:00

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

What $10 won't get you.

2008-06-26T06:49:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-20T12:46:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-20T11:54:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-19T05:44:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-09T12:30:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-02T14:46:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-06-02T08:22:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-01T22:44:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-28T10:26:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-05-22T11:49:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-05-22T11:04:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-05-21T18:12:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-05-21T08:59:00.000-07:00

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.)

A lovely gift for anyone.

2008-05-20T11:58:00.000-07:00

But an ideal gift for Richard Quest. Behold, the edible anus...

He'd jump soooooo high...

2008-05-19T12:18:00.000-07:00

I had a conference call today in which we presented creative concepts to the clients, and had a ton of technical difficulties getting the call started. So by the time we sorted everything out, we only had about fifteen minutes left in the meeting, which is the only explanation I have as to why we all plowed ahead, trying to ignore the fact we'd somehow conferenced in the agency hold music.

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to present creative while Jerry Jeff Walker is singing "Mr. Bojangles"?

What would Jesus think, Joe?

2008-05-18T08:56:00.000-07:00

Proof karma exists: Former youth pastor, Joe Simpson, gave away his pregnant daughter to marry her bisexual rock-star baby daddy last night.

Why you don't eat pizza past 9 pm.

2008-05-17T08:34:00.000-07:00

I had a dream last night that Brandy drove by my house in a limo, popped her head out the sunroof and told me she was eating crab but really wanted some cheesecake.

I'm not sure what that was about, but is it just me or are Brandy's eyes ridiculously far apart?

How not to motivate people.

2008-05-16T11:57:00.001-07:00

I was watching the news this morning and saw a story about this kid that's walking across Michigan (820 miles, for those interested) on a pair of stilts. He's doing this to raise money for cerebal palsy, a condition he actually suffers from.

Forgive me, but what the hell does walking on stilts have to do with cerebral palsy? Are people really going to see a man towering three feet above them with "Cerebral Palsy Fund" or whatever written on his pants and automatically pull out their checkbooks? Maybe I don't have the faith in humanity I should, but most people I know would probably think, "Huh. A guy on stilts. Shit, that reminds me. I need to get the hem taken out on my new pants." (Apparently, I only associate with other tall people.)

I sat next to this guy named Lewis on a plane from Cape Town to London. Lewis is a swimmer, and by that I mean, he swam across the English Channel as well as across the North Pole (in only a Speedo and swim cap). He's the first man to have completed long distance swims in all five oceans, and he once swam the entire length of the River Thames, hopping out only to run over to 10 Downing Street, meet with Tony Blair on how to move England towards a low-carbon economy, then hopped back in the river and kept on swimming.

(Quick side note: Lewis is enormous. I should also mention he was in the middle seat, which caused me to be crushed up against the window for twelve hours. It wasn't completely horrible because he was hot and interesting and has this retardedly sexy British/South African accent thing going on, but still. I don't care how charming you are, I have no desire to be smashed against anyone for that amount of time. The best part, however, was that his knees were jabbing into the seat in front of him, which was coincidentally occupied by none other than Lewis's college girlfriend. "You had better be thankful you had a friend sitting in front of you, Lewis," she said to him after we landed in this fabulously bitchy English accent. It was awesome.)

The point of all his swimming is to raise awareness of environmental issues that are affecting our planet's rivers and oceans. And again, I say, seriously? I'd be more likely to donate to his cause because he's hot and asked me to, than because he's doing all this swimming. Don't get me wrong, I think both the stilts and the swims are impressive in their physicality, as well as sheer idiocy. But there are other, better ways to motivate people to make changes. For example, I'd be more than happy to work on my carbon footprint in exchange for say...a brief make-out session with Lewis. Otherwise, why am I going to change a damn thing when the shitty state of our environment is keeping Lewis plastered across the internet in a Speedo? (Yes, kids, I'm just. that. selfish.)

And I'm speaking from experience. I used to drive a certain vehicle shaped like an enormous hot dog for the purpose of promoting a certain meat company. People would FREAK when they saw us, run up to the vehicle, look around, ask us for trinkets, etc. But did they immediately head to their nearest grocery store and load up on this certain meat company's products? They would...but only if we were giving trinkets away with a product purchase.

The bottom line is that Americans are lazy, selfish people. (Myself very much included.) So for the swimmers and stilt-walkers of the world, know your audience and put your efforts into things that will actually prompt change.

(You know, things like making out with me. Heh.)

Shocking news.

2008-05-14T21:17:00.000-07:00

Angelina Jolie has announced she's pregnant with twins. Which is weird because I'd heard she was smuggling Gary Coleman to and from his divorce hearings.

Obama-Uma, Uma-Obama

2008-05-14T15:17:00.000-07:00

GodDAMN, I'm excited right now. Edwards has just announced he's going to support Obama, and I couldn't be happier. Mainly, because this will no doubt lead to the HOTTEST presidential ticket in the history of our country. But also because I'm beyond over this Clinton/Obama bullshit. It's almost as annoying as "Team Pitt" and "Team Aniston". Or even worse, when Letterman did his Oprah-Uma, Uma-Oprah thing.

So I'm thrilled to think this will soon be over, even though I actually like Hillary. Quite a bit, in fact. And in my personal opinion, she's got the best resume for the job out of all the three candidates. But John McCain scares the hell out of me, and the bottom line is Hillary would lose if she ran against him. And in that situation, I'd rather any Democrat win than risk John McCain. (Though truthfully, I'd feel better about a pair of Dockers running the country than McCain.)

And even though I think ol' Hill is more qualified, she and Barack share most all the same positions on the issues, so I'm more than happy to send Barack in. Plus, he's cute. And funny. And he smokes, which only endears him to me because I prefer men with vices.

So when I saw got spanked in West Virginia, I was beyond pissed. But now! NOW! There is light at the end of the tunnel. And it's shining brightly on two of the hottest guys in politics.

Back flip, toe touch, bitches.

Apparently the Rockets aren't enough.

2008-05-13T12:30:00.000-07:00

Rare is the day that I travel through my city and don't see something telling me to "Keep Austin Weird." But I'm starting to think that slogan is more applicable to Houston. Sure, Austin has it's share of kooks - we have a town drag queen for godssake. But our kooks are funny, or at the very least amusing. Houston's got some flat-out nut jobs.

Let's start with the three teenagers that were arrested last week for...hope you're sitting down...smoking pot out of the head of a corpse. Please note, I'm not saying "skull" for a reason - specifically, because they actually DUG UP a corpse and used its head as a bong.

Do they not have apples in Houston?

And today, I was sent an article about the girl that went to prom dressed like a ho, though no more so than any given attendee of any given VMA awards in the past 10 years. That she was dressed slutty wasn't the story. That she was arrested after school officials wouldn't let her in (even after she offered to cover herself up), was the story.

Houston is the fourth largest city in the country. That means there's lots of shit to do there. In fact, I saw Chelsea Handler there just a couple of weeks ago, and she spent the entire time talking about masturbating at the age of eight, but that's another story. Anyway, you'd think people would have more to do than get high with a skull and arrest slutty teens trying to get into their proms.

Besides, I think her dress is lovely.

Seriously.

2008-05-13T06:59:00.000-07:00

Oh my lord, do I hate Mariah Carey. Before I go any further with this, I will fully admit I have bounced around to more than one of her songs in my lifetime. In fact, was listening to "Touch My Body" just yesterday and (*gulp*) almost enjoyed it.

No, I don't mind her music, I mind her.

Remember when she was all washed up? When she was Pariah Carey, and we weren't subjected to the stories of diva antics, pictures of her in skin tight clothing, or news about her completely dumb weddings? It's like we've all jumped in a time machine and traveled back to 1993.

On second thought, I guess there are some key differences between now and then. For starters, she's a fat ass now. (Though still clearly wearing the same sized clothing she did then.) And instead of marrying giants in the record industry, she married Nick Cannon. WHO, it's worth noting, is TWELVE, and also gave Mariah the same damn ring he gave his Victoria's Secret-model-of-a-fiancee last year.

I saw her perform "Touch My Body" the other night on SNL, and I haven't seen that much lip-syncing since Ashlee Simpson performed there. And every camera shot came (this close) to showing all of America her business.

She sucks, and I'm going to stop writing about this before my eyes roll into my head and get stuck there.

But before I sign off, a HUGE thanks to "the nadmeister" for correcting me that the pair of balls showcased in my last blog are actually from http://www.yournutz.com/. Oh, and Nads (can I call you "Nads"?), congrats...you're this year's valedictorian.

Goodness, gracious, great balls of...rubber?

2008-05-12T09:03:00.000-07:00

As we were driving to the airport from South Padre yesterday, we passed the valedictorian of Douchebag High.

In case you're curious what that is dangling from the bottom of his Jeep, yup, it's a set of nuts. Apparently painting your Jeep the color of a banana isn't douchey enough. You need to add a ball sack for maximum effect.

Please keep in mind that I was leaving South Padre at the time of this sighting. For those not in the know...South Padre is like Mecca for tools. And this still took my breath away.

For those interested, you can buy your very own set of rubber auto testicles here: http://www.bullsballs.com/

Some drama for you mamas.

2008-05-11T16:10:00.000-07:00

Clearly I've been a slackass lately, but I also made a three-week trip to Africa in the time since my last blog, so go easy on me.

I'm sure at some point I'll think of something funny from my trip that I want to blog about, but today is not that day.

Currently, I'm in South Padre celebrating Mother's Day with my mother, grandmother, sister and her French boyfriend, JP, who I have decided must be called "Jeep". (Mainly because it's just funny calling a 6'7" Frenchman that.)

As today is Mother's Day, I've decided to write some thoughts about motherhood. For starters, I make no secret of the fact that I don't like children, nor do I want them. Despite the fact my mother thinks I should have children because the vet praised my cat's good behavior once (a rarity, I assure you), I have about as much maternal instinct as a walnut. This means I will spend the rest of my child-bearing years having self-righteous bitches openly judge me for not making the most of my reproductive organs. The only reason I don't experience more of this at my nearly 30 years of age, is that I'm not married. At this stage, I usually just get dismissed with a simple, "You'll have children. You just haven't met The One."

And because women feel they can regularly judge me for my decisions regarding procreation, I would like to do a little judging myself today. (First, a disclaimer: If you are one of my friends with a child, for the most part the following statements don't apply to you. I like most all of my friends' children, save one whose children I have quite literally seen eat carpet after drawing on a wall. There are some others whose babies are ugly, but I won't hold that against them, as I started out a gremlin as well.)

Now for the judging: In the event you decide to have a baby, you should know that outside of your family, you're lucky if even five people care to see a website documenting EVERY. SINGLE. MOMENT. of your pregnancy. We don't want to see your nast belly button. We don't want to read letters you've posted to your unborn child signed "Love, Mommy and Daddy". Put that shit in a baby book, not on the internet.

Once your kid is born, please note that not all people want to hear what types of shits your kid is having. I sat one day listening to a co-worker tell someone about what the different textures and colors of her kid's shit indicated. When I kindly asked that she please go somewhere else to discuss this, she fired back with, "Oh calm down, Liz. This is a NATURAL thing. You'll understand when you have kids someday, and I know you say you don't want them, but oh yes. You WILL have kids."

First of all, fuck you. Second of all, maybe I should tell you about MY shits just so you can experience the same auditory delight that I have listening to your discussion of mashed peas versus cereal. "Man, I just took the craziest dump ever. Like, it was kinda solid, but not really. And almost, I don't know, orange? I guess it was the beer last night. OH, but you know, now that I think about it, it wasn't as crazy as this one I took on Tuesday. That thing went around the entire circumference of the toilet bowl! Seriously!"

Additionally, if your kid is sick with colds more than once a month, I am judging you. And so is every other child-free - because it IS freedom - person around you. Particularly if you participate in that horse shit known as a "family bed". Oh, and if I'm responsible for picking up your slack at work because you're out taking care of your overly-sick kid, I will not only judge you, I will become very bitter and very bitchy. You'll no doubt blame it on my single-girl naivete and lack of understanding, but a scientist once said that babies could start each day by licking a seat on a subway and not get sick more than two times a month*.

Finally, if for some reason I do find myself knocked up one day and actually go through with it, God bless the first woman who says "I TOLD you you were going to have children," because everyone knows that ninja skills are only enhanced by heightened levels of estrogen.

*This is a true statement until someone proves me otherwise.

Facing the facts.

2008-04-03T15:29:00.000-07:00

There's a very good chance that no one will read this blog, because it's been ages since I updated this. And that's fine with me, because the subject of this blog is something I've already received more than an earful about: Botox.

When it comes to my face, I could retire in what I've spent over the years in tonics and potions to undo the sun damage I amassed as a teen. I developed some brown spots around my eyes a few years ago, and since then I've been a woman posessed. Mind you, these areas are places only my dermatologist and I would ever notice, but nonetheless, I have made it my mission to get rid of them. I've tried bleaching creams, retinols, and I exfoliate to a point where facial muscles should be exposed. The spots have slowly faded and though they are not completely gone, I feel better about them. At some point along the way, however, my obsession extended to my forehead, and the fine lines (emphasis on the fine) upon it.

And so, after saving my pennies, I bit the bullet last month and paid someone to shoot poison into my face.

Before I go further, a quick side note: I love, love, love the Botox commercials. Whoever did those ads MEANT that shit. The blatantly obvious consumer insight? Women are afraid if they get Botox, they won't be able to make facial expressions. The solution? A montage of women making the most over-the-top facial expressions imaginable. Expressions only mimes would ever make. Seriously.

Anyway, I wish I could give these ads credit for my decision, but alas, it was good ol' fashioned vanity. But there are side effects of Botox never discussed in the ads. No, I can't make the same expressions I used to, but I have yet to find someone who doesn't think I'm pissed when I am because the area between my eyes isn't wrinkling up. When it comes to making expressions, the only thing I find annoying is not being able to make crazy expressions just because I can. I generally don't have a need to look overly surprised at something, but that I couldn't make that over-the-top expression if I wanted to, no matter how hard I will my forehead to do so, is something I find a little irritating. I'm big into doing things just because I can. (It's why I spent four hours last Saturday in pajamas eating gummi bears and playing Super Mario Bros. 3.)

The worst side effect of Botox, though, is something they don't ever tell you. Since I had my forehead paralyzed, I easily spend a collective hour each day examining the foreheads of everyone around me. Newscasters and actresses on TV, co-workers, neighbors, my friends, people in bars, etc. I don't waste my time on baristas, because let's be honest...how many Botoxed baristas could there really be. (Particularly in Austin.) But outside of my trips to the Whole Foods coffee bar, very few are spared my critical eye. I've even found myself trying to provoke people to get them to make expressions that would give them away. I just can't help myself.

And I'd frown on my own ridiculous behavior, except luckily enough, I can't make that face anymore.

Moderation is key.

2008-02-22T08:40:00.000-08:00

I have a friend that's a model. She has always told me those girls swear by Preparation H when it comes to de-puffing eyes. Now, my face isn't the first place I'd want to put butt paste, but who am I to argue with a top supermodel. Which is how I got into my latest predicament.

A sushi dinner combined with tears over a boy, and puffy eyes were guaranteed. As with all facial products, I tend to go overboard with things and the Preparation H was no exception. Before going to bed, I took out the tube and smeared about a quarter-sized amount all over my eyes. I woke up around 3am and decided I'd put some more on just for good measure. Then, when I woke up again at 6am, I figured it would be worth putting just a little more on to seep in while I made my breakfast and watched the news.

Here's the problem with putting half a tube of hemorrhoid cream on your eyes: It makes it damn near impossible to blink. While my eyes were definitely not puffy, I spent all day looking like a Philippine tarsier.

A word to the wise, kiddies.

Bernice Crowley

2008-02-22T05:08:00.000-08:00

Each time I watch Candy Crowley (political correspondent on CNN) I'm reminded of that episode of Designing Women where Bernice gets a nose job and ends up looking like a pig. But maybe that's just me?

Tales of the absurd, part deux.

2008-01-27T20:34:00.001-08:00

I thought every Wal-Mart sold fish. How could I have been so horribly wrong? Apparently they don't, and despite the fact there already 3 living creatures in my 1100 sq ft. apartment, I desperately want a fish.

My roommate, of course, does not. I told her I wanted one and she went on a ten minute diatribe about how she doesn't particularly want a fish, because she thinks fish should be swimming freely, and when she sees fish in home aquariums it stresses her out, and then said something about Darwin, but I'd kinda tuned her out by that point, but she seemed very impassioned about whatever she was saying.

"So could we maybe just go look at a fish?" I asked an hour later at dinner.

She paused. "Um, perhaps I wasn't clear earlier..."

But she took one for the team and agreed to go with me, and although the pet stores were closed, I was convinced Wal-Mart would have them because I've actually bought several fish at Wal-Mart over the years.

They didn't have fish, but they did have a dual package of Sister Acts 1 & 2 on DVD, which I'm somewhat mortified to admit has provided an evening of entertainment in the form of a sing-a-long of our favorite scenes in both movies.

Tales of the absurd.

2008-01-27T20:04:00.000-08:00

An actual conversation my roommate and I had this evening en route to an unsuccessful trip to Wal-Mart to buy a goldfish:

Alexandra: "So you see that Goodwill over there? I was at the gas station next to it and noticed they have a sign that actually warned you that if you left things there after hours, your donations would likely be stolen."

Me: "Well, because naturally you'd be upset if things you didn't want anyway were stolen."

"Exactly. Not only that, but you're giving things to people in need. If someone steals a pair of my high heels, clearly they need them. Or at least want to wear them for awhile. Either way, I don't care what they do with them. If they'd like to steal my Hello Kitty alarm clock? Fine with me."

"WHAT? You Goodwill'ed the Hello Kitty alarm clock?"

"Yes."

"And the reason I wasn't conferenced into this decision was...?"

"Well, because I didn't think you'd care. You didn't even notice it was gone. But you could probably buy it back, if you'd like."

"Oh, because I'm gonna just go to the Goodwill and say, 'Hi, I'd like to purchase my roommate's old Hello Kitty alarm clock.'??"

"Yes, and they'll probably say, 'I'm sorry, ma'am. That was stolen.'"

When life hands you lemons...or wood rosin.

2008-01-22T06:07:00.000-08:00

I noticed recently at a local soda machine that Minute Maid ® Lemonade now has 0% juice. ZERO PERCENT. I had always thought "Contains 10% juice" was a horrifying admission. But to not contain any juice? I mean, at that point, I think it's false advertising to still include the name of a fruit in your product.

So I used the power of the interweb and looked up the ingredients of Minute Maid® Lemonade. There was a laundry list of very scientific sounding chemicals, including something called “esters of wood rosins”. Huh? Naturally, I then looked that up. According to Wikipedia it is “a food additive used as an emulsifier and stabiliser, to keep oils in suspension in water”.

At this point, I was completely grossed out. Oily “lemonade”? Needless to say, I never plan on drinking this again. If I'm going to ingest something that unnatural, I'd rather eat nacho cheese. This is all very sad because I’ve always loved lemonade. What I don’t love, however, is the idea Minute Maid® Nasty Concoction of Chemical Shit*.

*inspired by lemons

A tree by any other name.

2008-01-07T21:23:00.000-08:00

Here's a basic truth about me: I love contests. More specifically, I love winning contests. So I was beyond thrilled when three weeks ago, I came home to a note on my apartment door. It explained that two of the six oldest oak trees in Austin were on our apartment complex property, and the local arbor foundation wanted to commemorate them with plaques. Therefore, the management at our complex was holding a naming contest and asking residents to submit entries.

I. was. STOKED. I spent a week or so coming up with the perfect entry. I googled synonyms for strength. Looked up Latin and Greek words that might be fitting. But in the end, the perfect names weren't anything high-brow. And with my entry ready to go, I headed to the front office.

"Hi, I'd like to submit names for the tree-naming contest."

"Ohhh!" our manager said, laughing and seemingly surprised that anyone was actually bothering to enter, "Great! What are they?"

"Pancho and Lefty," I said while beaming with pride at my own brilliance.
She erupted into laughter. "Lefty? That's so funny!" She continued to laugh, then started to look confused. "I don't understand the Pancho part, though?"

Instantly, I was annoyed. I had come up with the perfect entry, and she didn't get it?

"Well, it's like the famous country song. You know, 'Pancho and Lefty'. It was a big hit for Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard."

She stared at me blankly, smiling.

"And it was actually written by Townes Van Zandt."

More blank looks.

"The famous singer-songwriter? One of Texas' greatest troubadours?"

...

"Which is why I think it's perfect. I mean, given Austin is the 'Live Music Capital of the World'," I continued in defense of my entry.

"Okay," she said, still clearly confused, "I'll write down 'Willie Nelson song'."

I was completely deflated. As I returned to my apartment though, I began to feel better. Surely, when it was time for residents to vote, they would appreciate my idea. And, surely I was the only resident nerdy enough to enter the contest to begin with. So by the time I arrived on my doorstep, I was convinced I'd win.

You can imagine my excitement when I found another note on my door several days later. The first line explained the office had received some great entries for the tree-naming contest. (Hooray! Victory was about to be mine!) It went on to say there had been three rounds of voting. (What? Voting? I didn't remember voting. Had other residents voted? Suddenly my title didn't seem so secure.)

"And although it was tough," the letter continued, "the winning names selected are: Treeana and Treeanon. Thanks to everyone that participated!"

WHAT?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Treeana and Treeanon???????????? Was this a joke? How in the HELL did that beat "Pancho and Lefty"? "Pancho and Lefty" was the perfect entry! And it was beat out by some Klingon-tastic bullshit like Treeana and Treeanon?

My roommate was out of town, and although it was quite late, this was an emergency.

"Treeana! and Treeanon!!! They named the trees, TREEANA AND TREEANON" I roared.

"Wow. That's definitely bad," she said, clearly sound asleep. "Did we even vote?"

"No! Because if we had, I can tell you what WOULDN'T have won!" I was completely irate.

"I mean, Treeana isn't horrible but Treeanon just sucks. Maybe if they had submitted 'Treeana and Acorn-nana' it would have been better," she said sleepily.

"Um, I'm sorry, Treeana and Acorn-nana? THAT'S your better alternative? I submitted 'Pancho and Lefty'! It was the PERFECT. ENTRY!"

"Yeah, that's much better. Definitely. I'm just saying if these names are going on plaques, I think Acorn-nana would be preferable to Treeanon."

I gave up, hung up, and went to bed trying to think of something...anything...that would rescue my ego from the crushing blow of losing the lamest contest I've ever entered.

The next day I received the following photo in an e-mail from my roommate.

Subject line: "Treeana, Treeanon, and little Acorn-nana"

People are lazy.

2008-01-06T20:05:00.001-08:00

I guess at this point in my life, I shouldn't be shocked by the laziness of Americans. But I feel that in the past few weeks, I've seen things that have astounded me.

For starters, I ordered new checks from Washington Mutual. I have ordered checks for thirteen of my 29 years on this planet. They arrive in a box that looks like it contains four pads of checks, and a register. However, this was not the case last week. The package I received was flat and contained a box that I had to build myself, and was surprisingly difficult to assemble. The thought occurred to me that perhaps they did this to thwart identity theft. But my package still looked like it contained everything it did, so I'm not sure they're fooling anyone with their new packaging. So I'm chalking that up to WaMu not wanting to waste time and money on check box development.

I also saw a commercial for a pair of scissors that cut things electrically. You just hold them, and there's absolutely no moving of your hands whatsoever. Seriously? They're SCISSORS, people. "But I'm arthritic," you say. And I say, use an exacto. The thing that killed me was that the demonstration in the commercial showcased the brilliance of wonder-scissors, by showing how quickly they cut...wrapping paper. Last time I checked, there's not really any cutting involved with wrapping paper. You just put it in the crux of your scissors and slide them along, right?

Then I went to Linens & Things, and there was a girl wandering around without any pants on, and a shirt that just BARELY covered her ass. I should mention it was quite cold outside, which probably explains her leg warmers.

And we all know leg warmers are just a lazy excuse for pants.

Who knew.

2008-01-06T18:15:00.000-08:00

Apparently Walgreen's sells telescopes. They're on the shelf above the face creams, naturally.

Hallmark holidaze.

2007-12-14T19:35:00.000-08:00

I've been buried under a mound of work (or, more accurately, a pile of greeting cards) and am finally resurfacing. And now looking around, I realize it's almost Christmas.

Here's what I can't stand: Christmas.

Actually, I shouldn't discriminate here because as a general rule, I hate most holidays. I'm probably the least festive person I know. So it's beyond ironic that I spend 70+ hours a week working to drive the sales of a company that arguably invented most holidays. Even better, I'm almost counting on my workload from this greeting card giant to serve as an excuse for getting out of Christmas festivities altogether this year.

It's not that I hate spending time with my family. For the most part, I quite enjoy seeing them. And stuffing my face with holiday treats is always enjoyable, even if staring at my ever-expanding ass isn't. When you get to the core of my distaste for holiday observances, really, I'm just lazy, cheap, and increasingly cantankerous. As such, I'm pretty much a massive pain in the ass from October to February.

Which is where living with an extremely festive person gets tricky. This past Halloween, I came home to find 12 tiny pumpkins strewn across the bench in front of our apartment.

"Soooo, what's the deal with the pumpkins?" I asked my roommate.

"OH! Well, you see, it's almost HALLOWEEN! And they're like little mini pumpkin children sitting on the bench!"

I tried very hard to keep my eyes focused, as they were all set to roll right up into my head.

"Ah. Yes, of course," I said, glancing down at a nasty, rain-warped case of Pabst Blue Ribbon that had been sitting on our front doorstep since our last party several weeks before. "I guess this case of PBR will be my contribution to the decorations."

Typically on Halloween, so as not to contribute to the childhood obesity epidemic, I make sure my lights are all out and hide out in my bedroom all night, cursing anyone that dares ignore the obvious "leave me alone" cues. But as fate would have it, this year I had a meeting at my client's headquarters on Halloween, and left that morning inadvertently dressed...

exactly like a jack-o-lantern. Because I'm not a festive person, and because my flight left very early that morning, I can only claim I wasn't fully awake when I pulled my new orange sweater over a black skirt, tall black boots, and green earrings as the finishing touch which I thought contributed nicely to my autumnal palette.

However, when I arrived at my meeting, I was met with my client cheerfully exclaiming, "Liz!!! You look just like a PUMPKIN!" I went totally red, glanced down and realized that I was the corporate equivalent of Mrs. Harris, my sixth grade math teacher who had a closet full of appliqued seasonal sweaters. "Oh..." I said awkwardly while faking enthusiasm through a clenched smile, "yeah, I figured if anyone would appreciate it, you guys would!" Despite winning points with the client, I couldn't have been more annoyed with myself.

Needless to say, my roommate laughed hysterically when I told her of my oversight - thrilled the universe had forced a celebration upon me. And because I knew she wouldn't count on the holiday gods to work their magic on me again for Christmas, I wasn't surprised when I came home two weeks ago to find a pack of ornament hooks on the coffee table. (Please note the genius of my roommate and her subtle preparation for what was to come.)

Four nights later:

"Guess what tonight is?!?"

"Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. I think both the dad AND a kid have cancer in this episode. It's nuts."

"Hmmm. Well, yes, that's on tonight. BUUUUUUUT," she squealed, "it's also time to DECORATE!!!"

The time had come. While she scurried off to her bedroom to put on Christmas music and begin pulling out ornaments, I went to the trunk of my car to get the only two holiday decorations I own: a Christmas tree and reindeer. Both are cut out of sheet metal, which is quite fitting for me, but also causes them to be quite heavy. And as I store them in my car trunk, I figured I'd give my gas mileage a break this month so I brought them upstairs and put them by the front door.

My roommate came shuffling in with her box of ornaments, and began hanging them pretty much any place she could...except on a tree.

"What are you doing?"

"Oh, well I don't have a tree, so I figured I'd just hang them wherever."

By the end of the night, ornaments were hanging off most everything in our living room. Each branch of our fake plant had one. Our "octopus lamp" that has lights at the end of five metal "tentacles" each had an ornament. She hung her stocking off the box that contains our doorbell, and then put three porcelain reindeer on top of the television as well as some colored lights on our bookshelf.

I have a cat that's beyond neurotic, and shiny things dangling from every surface of our home casting dancing lights on the walls sent him on what could only be described as a full-on trip. He was racing around everywhere, eyes wild and fully dilated, batting and eating ornaments, only to then try to scale the walls in an attempt to catch the lights being cast on them. As our neighbor later observed, it was as though someone had hung bags of heroin in Pete Doherty's apartment.

"You should know," I told my roommate as I watched my tripped out cat run around the room, "that I'm not going to apologize if something happens to these ornaments. You've lived with Gus long enough to know he's insane and that this is a recipe for disaster."

"Oh, he'll be fine," she said as she looked at Gus gnawing on a sparkly snowflake, his eyes darting around the room nervously.

I have to admit I was skeptical, but he has since come off his ornamental high and now ignores the decorations. Admittedly, the fact he doesn't have opposable thumbs (or really, even fingers if you consider he's declawed) and yet he, too, is already over Christmas, is a tremendous source of pride for me. And I'd devote more time to admiring his statement of solidarity, except I have work to do.

MIZZOU-RAH!

2007-11-24T06:50:00.000-08:00

"ESPN College Gameday" is being broadcast from Arrowhead Stadium today. An exciting reminder that today is the day. THE day of THE game.

I'm a Missouri Tiger, and tonight we play our biggest rival, KU, the outcome of which has huge implications for both teams.

I've been startled as this game has approached at the ignorance regarding this rivalry in other parts of the country. Everyone knows about TX/OU, USC/UCLA, Ohio St./Michigan. But very few people realize how bitter and intense our rivalry is. Our rivalry goes beyond sports. Its history goes back to the Civil War when William Quantrill led a Rebel guerrilla unit to Lawrence where they slaughtered 150 people and then burned the town. Admittedly, not something I enjoy having my school associated with, since Missouri was a pro-slavery state, Kansas an abolitionist state. But Kansas did their own fair share of atrocities, with John Brown murdering tons of Missourians, and a separate, earlier group of guerrillas (called "the Jayhawkers") who raped, pillaged, and killed countless Missourians in their attempt to spread their message of freedom.

And, despite the fact over 150 years have passed since any of this happened, people still remember. While an embarrassment to our common fan base, please note the following post from a Mizzou fan on a St. Louis Post thread, responding to a Jayhawk's comment of "Rock Chalk, Jayhawk":

Sober up and get back to terrorizing babies and old ladies, which is the only thing that a GayHawk ever excelled at . . . . .Raise the black flag and ride hard, boys. Our cause is just and our enemies many. Wm. Quantrill - 1863

And this deep-seeded bitterness has only blossomed throughout the years between both the states and the universities. Alums that live in Kansas City (a combined total of 90,000 between the two schools) oftentimes refuse to live in the state side of their rival. A division not even Los Angeles experiences. And last time I checked, no one at the Cotton Bowl anticipated the destruction of over 500 seats during TX/OU weekend, as the Arrowhead officials are anticipating today.

But neither KU nor MU have had historically strong football programs. The usual point of contention is basketball. But now they are each other's obstacles for a chance at the national title in football. For those that didn't attend these schools, it's hard to capture the magnitude of this situation. I grew up in an all-Longhorn family (which is why my hatred of KU is rivaled only by my hatred of both OU and A&M), and my family gets pumped. up. about the games. But they've always had plenty to be excited about, because they almost always have a great team. (Though what happened YESTERDAY, Horns?? A&M???)

But Missouri hasn't ever had that opportunity, because traditionally...well, we've sucked. Corby Jones was our quarterback when I was in college and even then, we never assumed we were going to win anything. It was great when we actually did win, but no one really got comfortable enough with the idea of us being "a winning team". This year, however, has been totally different. We go into games ASSUMING we're going to win.

And that's exactly how I plan to head into this game tonight.

"Rock chalk, chickenhawk, SCREW KU!!!"

Comment dit-on "Assholes"?

2007-11-23T09:04:00.000-08:00

My sister is currently dating a French guy. Correction, a French giant. JP is 6'7" and somewhat resembles Buzz Lightyear - comical since he's getting his PhD in Aerospace Engineering. He's officially the only guy my sister has ever dated that I actually enjoy being around, which is good, as he spent Thanksgiving with us yesterday.

And unlike when my sister has brought guys she's dated around in the past, I spent the day being mildly embarrassed for my family (myself, included) and not my sister's boyfriend. The last guy we met, paraded into my parents' house like he owned it, wearing a Nautica baseball cap, a MasterCraft t-shirt, khaki cargo shorts and Crocs, and proceeded to tell my parents all about his "toys". And after he'd run through his own material possessions, he rattled off an itemized list of his parents' assets. I've never witnessed such an overt display of douchebaggery in my life. I sat there vacillating between feeling sorry for him and wanting to punch him.

This scenario has pretty much been par for the course when it comes to guys my sister dates. They come in, say dumb things, and I get embarrassed for them and just wish they'd go away. (For their sakes.) But yesterday it was my family, and not JP, that was the source of my embarrassment.

My stepmother took French growing up. My brother is currently taking French. I used to take lessons, and have decided to start them again, now that I might actually have someone to practice with. And my sister, despite having no concept of the French alphabet or rules of pronunciation, is currently wagging around a book called, "Just Enough French" which she reads when waiting for doctor's appointments or stuck in traffic in preparation for her upcoming trip to meet his family.

All of this lead to a meal with half the table telling stories about France and making poor attempts to speak French, with JP patiently putting up with us. "Ma papa, il n'est pas intelligent parce qu'il ne parlais pas la francais," said my brother much to JP's amusement. Upon hearing "papa", my father felt compelled to share a story about his memorization of a French phrase book on the plane to Paris, only to get to dinner and struggle so badly with his order that the waiter finally said, "What do you want." And at the end of the meal, I proudly announced, "Je voudrais un desirez!"

"Um," my brother said, "You would like a desire?"

"Oh, right. I meant, 'un dessert'."

All of this was punctuated every so often with my sister blurting out her version of the classic French come on ("Voulez-vous coucher avec moi (ce soir)?") made popular by the song "Lady Marmalade". Only when she said it, it came out sounding something like, "Voooleee-voo sooshwah ah vey mwah say saw." With each exclamation, JP would smile and joke about my sister bringing home half the Parisian metro should she continue her attempts to master this phrase on their trip.

Through all of this, JP was a remarkably good sport. But I couldn't help but think to myself, "This is why the French hate us."

Pearls of Wisdom.

2007-11-19T18:07:00.000-08:00

Last night, I met up with friends for dinner. One of them brought a girl to dinner that I'd never met before. She looked at me quizzically, and explained she thought she knew me from somewhere. We did the usual where-are-you-from, what-do-you-do, where-did-you-go-to-college-type bullshit, when she finally looked like she'd figured it out.

"Are you in Junior League???" she asked, hopefully.

"No," I said, flatly.

Another friend noticed me bristle, and later called me out on it.

"So why do you think she thought you were in the Junior League?"

"I don't know."

"Yes you do," he said, trying to get a rise out of me.

I ignored him.

But it did bug me. I had to actually stifle a sneer when she asked me, and I had just met her. As a disclaimer, some of my very best friends are in the Junior League, and they all claim it to be a wonderfully worthwhile organization, and I'm sure it is. I only remember that one of these friends had to skip out on a girls' night one evening, because she had to, and I wish I were making this up, "organize a mime show."

I was beyond annoyed. "You're ditching us to organize mimes? Is that a joke?"

"Well, it's children at an under-privileged school. They're putting on the show."

"Right. Okay, well, what if you end up with an unruly mime, that locks himself in an invisible box and won't come out? Then you're going to be pissed you didn't come out with us."

I'm a terrible friend. I really am. But I have a healthy ego, and I wasn't about to get ditched for a 10 year-old mime, even though my favorite children are quiet ones.

Anyway, there's definitely a stigma associated with organizations like sororities and the Junior League. And I've spent most of my life either being in organizations like that, or being close friends with people in them. (It's called The Debutante Hippie for a reason.) But there are few things I hate more than when people just assume my WASP-y background. When that happens, I feel like I'm automatically slapped with this label that says "I think I'm better than you".

I should be clear, that I do think I'm better than most people. (It sounds obnoxious until you think about the idiots that make up the vast majority of this country, after which you'll realize you, too, are better than most people.) But that's one of my favorite things about myself - my mild superiority complex - and I feel it's something that should slowly reveal itself. It's like the pearl in my oyster that very few get to pry open and truly experience, which is definitely for the best.

But the metaphorical irony is that wearing pearls, as I did last night, ultimately blows my cover altogether.

The lesson here: I'd make a shit Clark Kent.

Tales from the Skies

2007-11-15T10:15:00.000-08:00

I was on a plane for the majority of the day yesterday, and would like to vent. For starters, I hate traveling for work. I don't like mingling with the great unwashed, and I particularly don't like doing so in tight spaces when there's nothing but meetings waiting for me on the other end. But lately, I've gotten very bitter toward air travel in particular.

First, when did they quit serving those delicious, warm and buttery nuts (yup, I said it) in first class? Now you get some crap "cocktail mix" consisting of pretzels, cheese things and something they're passing off as a cracker but tastes like the side of a tree.

Also, it pisses me off to no end it when you're delayed or sitting on the tarmac and the pilot thanks you "again" for your patience when he never thanked you to begin with.

And "in the event of a water landing?" WTF??? In the history of aviation, has there ever been an actual "water landing" that wasn't made in one of those weird boat-planes that only seem to be used in Alaska? Most "water landings" I've heard of resulted in pieces of wreckage floating on the surface of the ocean while the passengers are getting devoured in murky waters below. And I'm supposed to use my seat cushion as a floatation device in this situation? I find no comfort whatsoever just sitting on those damn things, but you expect me to find comfort in the idea of using them as a survival tactic?

Additionally, for everyone's benefit, I've gone ahead and made a list of reasons why I might hate you, should I encounter you while traveling.

1. If you are so fat, you spill over the arm rest and into my seat, forcing me to hang out in the aisle where I get hit by every passenger boarding and going to/from the loo, I will hate you. This happened a couple of weeks ago and when this fat ass pulled out his cheesesteak sandwich from Chili's Too, I quietly recited the fat and calorie content (55g, 1010 calories) under my breath.

2. If you bring your screaming baby on a plane and you're not traveling to one of the world's foremost hospitals for treating some illness your child has, I will hate you.

3. If you take your job at the security screening area too seriously, I will hate you. And if you comment on my name ("Well, the boarding pass says 'Elizabeth Taylor', but you sure don't look like her!"), I will knee you so hard in the nuts that you start seeing stars while I hiss, "Do I look like her now, bitch?"

4. If you don't know what to do in line at the security screening area, and screech things like, "I'ma not takin' off muh shooooooes!" in some defiant hillbilly accent, I will hate you.

5. If you or your snotty kid are watching a DVD without headphones, I will hate you. If said DVD involves Dora the Explorer, I will also punch both you and your kid in your ears.

6. If you are under 5'10" and are sitting comfortably in the emergency exit row on Southwest, I will hate you.

7. If I'm sitting next to you in coach on American, I will hate you because I should never sit in coach on American.

8. If you're a man, and you're bigger than me and standing beside me watching me struggle to get my suitcase into the overhead compartment and don't bother to help, I will hate you.

9. If I have the misfortune of sitting next to the lavatory and you take a massive dump, the stench of which mixes with that nast 2000 Flushes bullshit they keep in toilet making it smell like a goddamn port-a-potty, I will hate you.

10. If I catch so much as a glint of judgment in your eye if I order two alcoholic beverages during a 30-minute flight, I will hate you.

Because if there was ever an activity that required alcohol, it's traveling.

There are tattoos...

2007-11-09T11:14:00.000-08:00

and then there is this:

Meeeeooow.

Biscuits in the City.

2007-11-09T06:10:00.000-08:00

My friend Erika recently purchased "My So Called Life" on DVD. She IM'ed me yesterday to ask me if I'd ever noticed Rayann is eating in every. single. scene. I told her I'd never thought about it, but thinking back, I can only picture Rayann smacking while talking, so I guess that's probably right.

Last night, I also revisited an old favorite as I watched an episode of "Sex in the City". I loved this show when it was on. Own most of the series on DVD. Sat camped around the TV for every episode of Season Six with my best girlfriends, and actually saw Sarah Jessica Parker (or "SJP" as we called her back then) the night before the final episode aired which was, like, HUGE.

But now I realize I hate this show. How did I miss this before? Is it that I was younger and I thought that's how women behaved in their thirties, and just never questioned it? As I sat watching last night, I made the following observations:

1. Carrie looks like a 4 year-old that triumphed over her mom in getting to wear what she wants for the day.

2. Samantha is actually a pigeon masquerading as a skinny nympho bitch. That's the only plausible explanation for the fact she's cooing in every scene, because I know plenty of skinny nympho bitches (and just plain skinny nymphos) and NONE of them talk like that.

3. How did Miranda not realize she's a lesbian? More importantly, what producer would try to make a lesbian actress a believable straight character by dressing her in ties?

4. Charlotte (who could have out-WASPed Brooke Astor) ended up with a Jew? They should have just replaced Kristin Davis with a unicorn, as that would have been equally ridiculous and they wouldn't have had to mess with salary negotiations.

5. The best alternative to Mr. Big they could come up with was the most famous ballet dancer of all time? Who's writing this show??? Mr. Big is masculinity on HGH, and Carrie has gone from being attracted to that, to Baryshnikov?

When it comes to suspending disbelief, I could win a gold medal. (It's typically the sole reason I'm able to date, or hell, even get out of bed in the morning.) But that this show was ever passed off as being remotely exemplary of the lives of single women is astonishing to me now.

Last Friday, I went out with my little group of girlfriends. By 11pm, we were all drunk and hungry. We headed to a restaurant famous for their biscuits, which also happened to be located down the street from the home of one of the girls old boyfriend. As we approached the restaurant, my friend stopped dead in her tracks and exclaimed, "Oh my God, there is GREAT sex up the street." The rest of us stopped as well not sure what to do with that info, until my roommate quickly said, "Yes, but there are great BISCUITS inside!" With that, everyone - including our friend with gluten allergies - immediately snapped out of it and went rushing inside the restaurant.

And THAT, kids, is the reality of single women. In the real world, biscuits, not love (or even a great lay), will triumph over all.

Tracy Peterson, BEWARE!!!

2007-11-07T10:34:00.000-08:00

That missing Illinois mother is named Stacy Peterson? Seriously??

A busy body.

2007-11-06T10:49:00.000-08:00

Today a little girl in India had a very big surgery. She was born with a parasitic twin, thus giving her four arms and four legs. And, as of today, the superfluous limbs are gone.

Keep in mind this story takes place in India, a traditionally Hindu nation. For those of you unfamiliar with Hinduism, most all of their gods and goddesses have multiple limbs. Thus, when Lakshmi was born, the people in the village thought she was a reincarnation of the goddess by the same name. Therefore a great schism has formed between the people in the village that feel a temple should be built in her honor and those that feel she should join the circus. (It occurred to me our nation could also be divided into similar circus/temple camps regarding our current president. Though unlike Lakshmi's case, I think far more people would vote for the circus route.)

Personally, I feel they should have left her as is. Think of how much more productive she would have been with four hands instead of two? I'd be ready in thirty seconds flat each morning if I could brush my teeth put on makeup, a fix my hair all at the same time. Cooking would be a breeze. And that bitch Paula Radcliffe would have nothing on my girl, Lakshmi in a marathon. Paula would be there huffing along while Lakshmi would fly past her, running on two legs until those tired out, then switching to the other two.

I suppose I should just be thankful Lakshmi made it through surgery okay. Though admittedly, I'm going to get tremendous joy out of the mental image of Lakshmi winning the 2027 NYC Marathon a full two hours before anyone else.

Hey, Paula!

2007-11-06T05:35:00.000-08:00

As far as athletic activities, I've never been one for team sports. I'm a competitive person and hate relying on the abilities of others to win. Which is why running works for me. It's solitary and unless I'm in a race, the only person I'm competing with is myself.

That said, I have never had any desire to run a marathon. For one thing, I quite like my toenails. For another, I find the idea of bloody nipples beyond grody. (And yes, I said grody.) But I get there are people out there that have an overwhelming desire to destroy their bodies, pulverizing their joints running mile after mile.

What I don't get is Paula Racliffe. If you're unfamiliar with her, she's the current world record holder for the women's marathon with a time of 2:15:25. That, in and of itself, is INSANE. However, even more insane is that Paula won the NYC marathon this past weekend only ten months after giving birth.

Now, I don't pretend to know what happens down there after birth. Nor do I ever hope I find out. But I have visited one friend in the hospital the day after she had her twins, and she was wearing a diaper. So I have to believe that beginning training twelve days after giving birth was a bad idea for all involved - save maybe a dog running behind her.

Hey, Paula? Can we chat? You've just had a kid that you've hauled around for nine months, and then spent 27 hours expelling. You've been running your entire adult life. Take a break. Maybe just walk? Maybe jog lightly? Have you ever played Scrabble? I guarantee you a seven-letter word on a triple-word-score is every bit as much of a rush as winning a marathon.

More than that, you're making all of us look bad, Paula. You don't realize your own quest for athletic perfection just makes your fellow females look like fat, lazy assholes. And we resent you for that.

Okay, maybe other women don't resent her, but I do. And at the end of the day, my opinion is the only one that matters.

At least as far as this blog is concerned.

A proposition.

2007-11-05T05:45:00.001-08:00

I will pay $100 if someone can show me a food concept nastier than chicken fries.

E.V.Oh. My. God.

2007-11-04T03:32:00.000-08:00

I was at the grocery store earlier today, and the headline on the National Enquirer at the checkout stand proclaimed Rachael Ray (whose first name has one too many "a"s in my opinion) had kicked her husband out for cheating. I am a horrible person as I stood there wishing that headline was on something more reputable, like Star or Life & Style.

It's been a long time since there's been a celebrity that annoyed the shit out of me. Fran Drescher was probably the last one. But she has officially been dethroned, as I cannot stand Rachael Ray.

The tough thing about Rachael Ray, is that I feel I'm supposed to like her because the rest of the country does. Unlike with my hatred of Ms. Drescher or that kid that played Stephanie Tanner, when I express my severe annoyance with RR, I feel as though I need to explain myself. People don't just automatically get it.

This past week I got stuck out of town for business, and the only decent television program on one morning was Rachael Ray's talk show. So I watched it, trying very hard to find the appeal through the over-the-top cheeriness and giggling. I've always known I hated her cooking show, with her ridiculous acronyms (EVOO!) and made up words (stoups, sammies, etc). But maybe if she wasn't cooking, I'd like her?

This was not the case at all. In fact, I sat there wishing she had something to distract her (like getting ingredients from the fridge) so she'd shut up for two seconds. Instead, I watched as she interrupted Christy Brinkley for about fifteen minutes saying the most idiotic things imaginable.

"Last week, I was at parent/teacher conferences..."

"OH. MY. GOD! I love that fabulous supermodels go to parent/ teacher conferences!! Audience, can you BELIEVE that?!!! I mean, look at her, she's GORGEOUS, and actually WENT to parent/teacher conferences!! I'm sorry, I just think that's SO cool!"

And then she proceeded to giggle with glee, and I half expected her to start slobbering and rocking back and forth while clapping her hands.

"Ah, well, I'm still a mother and so of course I go to parent/teacher conferences..."

"But you're GORGEOUS! And you're almost FIFTY!! Audience, can you BELIEVE that?!!! She's almost FIFTY! Will you give us some of your beauty tips later?"

"Sure..."

"Audience, wouldn't you just LOVE to know the beauty tips of a SUPERMODEL?! I know I would!"

I expected the audience to come together in a unified statement of opposition against the fact Rachel insisted on absolutely spazzing out over her guest like a sixteen year-old at a Justin Timberlake concert. Instead they erupted in wild applause.

One time, I actually watched the full episode of "THS: Rachael Ray" hoping to find some tiny morsel to enjoy about her. This same THS approach had worked miracles for my once-hatred for Katie Couric, and I had high hopes it would do the same here.

But about halfway through the episode, they introduced a woman who runs an online club for people that hate Rachael Ray, and despite learning of her humble beginnings in New York state, I couldn't wait to sign up. This sentiment didn't change as I watched the remainder of the episode cringing as they explained how her media empire was expanding quicker than a family of rabbits. It filled me with unimaginable anxiety that at some point in the near future, I won't even be able to turn on my television as Rachael Ray will have taken over the airwaves completely. But given my standard programming choices, I think I'm safe.

Though, admittedly, I would probably enjoy watching Rachael if she were on "Rock of Love".

The wheels on the bus...

2007-11-02T08:04:00.000-07:00

There are certain times, despite all the responsibility, when I couldn’t be more thankful to be a grown up. Usually these moments occur on weekend mornings when I wake up wanting something like chili for breakfast, make myself a bowl, crawl back into bed where I eat said chili and watch rubbish television for at least five hours. (As an aside, I’m also very thankful I’m single during these moments.)

But today, I passed a school bus and I literally breathed a sigh of relief that I will never again be forced to ride one. I absolutely hated riding school buses growing up. As a student athlete, we had to take them to all our games. Inevitably, I ended up stuck next to the only other white girl on our team who spent rides to the game bitching about the jheri curl activator our teammates were leaving on the seats. The ride home was spent listening to the same girl sob about not scoring more points, while alternately complaining that she couldn’t lean her head back because of what she so sensitively termed, “that fucking jheri juice”.

As a member of the drill team, I traveled with a busload of girls on their way to football games, most of which insisted on changing into our uniforms while en route to the game. Marci, the team whore, would always smash her bare ass against the glass while changing, and when a car inevitably honked she would always claim that she *giggle* “totally forgot” everyone could see her. And more than a few of those girls never wore anything under their required pantyhose, providing more unwanted exposure to crotches than a weekend with Britney Spears.

Luckily, I only spent one year actually riding a yellow dog to school. But that year was more than enough for reasons far beyond the uncomfortable seats and ever-present sludge covering the floors. Our bus driver, Mr. Mallory, was an alcoholic and would typically show up at least 30 minutes late to pick us up, piss drunk, and then get us to school just as late. Our principal was outside nearly every morning, waiting for us with a ready yell for Mr. Mallory who would just laugh and apologize, and then repeat the exact same scenario the next day.

I now know that firing someone for being an alcoholic is a tricky thing, riddled with legalities since it’s a disease. Somehow, I would think if your job involved driving children to and from school, an exception could be made. Mr. Mallory was ultimately fired toward the end of the year, but not for being a drunk. He was fired after a particular afternoon when, on our way home, Mr. Mallory decided to let one of the students drive the bus. That we were thirteen would have been cause enough for concern. But the student Mr. Mallory chose to drive our death shuttle was a severely retarded boy named Walter. Certainly a drunk should not be driving. Nor should an eighth grader. But a retarded eighth grader is another matter entirely, and once we finally came to a stop, one of the girls on the bus went running home, crying hysterically, and told her mother that Mr. Mallory had let Walter drive the bus. The next day we had a new bus driver.

I think maybe it's time for some chili.

To host a ghost.

2007-10-31T15:38:00.000-07:00

As today is Halloween, I thought it was appropriate to discuss hauntings. Specifically, hauntings in the workplace involving the scariest ghost of all: the Ghost of Penises Past.

Today I received a frantic message from a friend of mine. Apparently Sarah had been in a meeting with the CFO when the new guy from accounting popped his head in to drop something off. The CFO quickly asked Dan if he'd met my friend yet, at which point he quickly said yes (in an attempt not to further disrupt their meeting) and left the room.

Sarah had not yet been introduced to Dan from accounting. This would make Dan a liar. However, as fate would have it, Dan was actually (perhaps unknowingly) telling the truth. About eight years ago, Dan and Sarah had a brief, week-long fling and hadn't spoken since.

It is worth noting that Sarah has, by no means, been "around the block". She did, however, recently get out of a relationship with a co-worker that she kept very secretive. Currently, there are three single guys in her office. She has now hooked up with two of them. Of course, she's the only one that knows this, but she's disturbed by it nonetheless. It is always awkward to be around people you've dated in the past. But there is nothing worse than the Ghost of Penises Past haunting you in the workplace, particularly if it's unexpected.

First, I should admit to being a Class A offender when it comes to dating guys I work with. Despite my best efforts to avoid this route, I have dated someone at the three ad agencies I've worked for. (Note to potential future employers: I chalk that up to extreme dedication to my craft, requiring hours upon hours of work therefore limiting my social life and only exposing me to the men I work with.) But at one point when I was dating a guy at work, The Ghost of Penises Past paid me a visit as well when a guy I was friendly with in college started working at my company.

I should be honest when I say my "history" with this Ghost consisted of a few dates and a couple of drunken makeout sessions. But it was haunting nonetheless, as I had really liked him at the time. Things got even more complicated when my Ghost and the guy I was dating joined the same team and began working together. Eventually the truth spilled out to everyone involved, after which began a ridiculous dick dance between my now-happily-married Ghost and the guy I was seeing, with me quite unhappily wedged in the middle.

And not unlike Sarah, I haven't dated a ton of guys, as my mother reminded me this weekend at another friend's baby shower. She first probed around trying to get confirmation on my sexuality, then proceeded to express her concerns about the fact I haven't found anyone, that I rarely like the guys I date, and when I do like them, I seem to hold them to ridiculous standards. Personally, I think my overall standards are abysmally low - tall, funny, must have opposable thumbs- but she is right that I have yet to find someone that meets these. Nonetheless, two of my ghosts ended up in the same office on the same team despite all odds.

Even more remarkable is another recent story from a different friend. While engaged to a wonderful guy, Karen started a new job. The first day of work, she went to get a cup of coffee. In the kitchen, she ran into a co-worker who paid her no mind at all, got his coffee and left.

Two years prior to this encounter, she and this co-worker, Eric, had met for coffee - the first actual meeting after a month or so of talking on an online dating site. Prior to coffee, she had been very excited about this guy. Everything seemed to be going wonderfully. Great conversations, lots in common, etc. But once she arrived at coffee, all chemistry was gone. She e-mailed him to thank him the next day and never heard from him again. Now, despite being married she continues to do her very best to avoid her Ghost.

It is by pure coincidence that a year prior to Karen's coffee date, some friends of mine tried to set me up with Eric. We had one painful date during which he made clear that despite being tall and smart, he most definitely was not funny.

He also had weird hair.

Robet Goulet died.

2007-10-31T12:37:00.000-07:00

"Da-da-deeeeeee-da-da-da-doooooooo..."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p2zRGQX2QLo

Wild gone wild.

2007-10-26T08:20:00.000-07:00

This week, on opposite sides of the planet, animals were making news. In Boston, wild turkeys have apparently taken over the city. Not only are these things showing up everywhere, but they’re actually chasing people. And they’re BIG. My God, I had no idea wild turkeys were so large. Some of them grow to be four feet tall. I sat next to a little person on a plane the other day that was about that height, and I was completely unnerved by him. I get uncomfortable around any men I tower over, but this guy was adjusting himself the whole flight which didn’t help my discomfort. But had this guy been a turkey of the same size (particularly if it spent three hours adjusting his tiny turkey gherkin) I would have completely freaked.

The article in The Boston Globe featured this picture (which I edited for my own amusement), but it gives you an idea of the craziness of this situation.

Meanwhile, as the turkeys were running loose in Boston this week, six drunk elephants were being electrocuted in India. Apparently forty of them came into a village looking for food. They like the rice beer brewed by the local tribesmen, got wasted off it, and proceeded to uproot a utility pole.

First, I’d like to extend my condolences to their elephamilies. Second, I would like to place the blame for this situation solely on the rice farmers who made the beer. According to the news, the beer the elephants drank was being stored in drums in the farmers’ huts.

Let’s pretend I live in a three-story brick home. Let’s also pretend I’m sitting on the third floor with headphones on. And say I have a keg on the first floor. This might be a bold statement, but I’m fairly certain I’d notice if an elephant came in looking for drink. These dumbasses, though, somehow MISSED elephants coming into their straw huts and drinking beer out of large drums that were sitting right next to their beds.

I had some fratty friends in college that tried to get a guy’s dog drunk one night. I’d assume maybe the same thing happened here, except I have to believe that for impoverished rice farmers beer is next to gold and they’re not going to take their fake IDs to the Party Barn to pick up another keg in the event the elephants drink them dry.

But I’ve never been to India, so that could be a very uneducated statement.

Pee-nko.

2007-10-24T11:10:00.000-07:00

I am truly one of the most embarrassing people I know, and one of my more embarrassing moments occurred when I was in fifth grade. I absolutely had to pee, but like most elementary schools we were only allowed to have one student out of the room at a time on a bathroom run. David, the class hooligan, had asked to go to the restroom and had been gone long enough that if I didn't know he was probably covering the side of the building with graffiti, I would have assumed he'd actually drowned in the restroom.

I finally took matters into my own hands and begged Miss Basigner to make an exception. "Please," I pleaded, "I really, really have to go."

"When David comes back you can leave," she kept saying without even looking up from her paperwork.

I wanted to tell her she was an idiot and should know David was most likely not ever coming back, when I simply couldn't hold it anymore. I stood there at the front of the classroom, right by Miss Basinger's desk, and pissed myself. I would say I was embarrassed, but at that exact moment any feelings of mortification were completely overwhelmed by the warm - very warm - feeling of relief.

I have to imagine this was not the case with Marie Fodale, who had essentially the exact same thing happen...only on national television. Ms. Fodale was a recent contestant on "The Price is Right". Like many contestants, when her name was called she ran up to Drew Carey, jumping up and down and screaming. But unlike most contestants, after learning she'd be playing Plinko, she confessed to Mr. Carey through screams of joy, "I gotta go potty."

And here's where Drew Carey made the same error in judgment as Miss Basinger. He told her she'd have to wait. That she'd have to play Plinko first. Everyone knows that Plinko is the greatest game on TPIR, maybe the greatest game ever invented. As such, people freak the hell out when they get to play it. That, of course, is exactly what this woman did. She stood at the top of the Plinko board screaming and jumping around (a terrible idea I thought, given her state) continuing to say she needed to pee. But Drew insisted she'd have to get through the rest of her Plinko chips, and the excitement just kept coming for poor Marie. Her first chip earned her $100. The next two, however, earned $10,000 each, and Marie jumped and screamed with the final clink of each chip.

Marie ended up with a handsome sum of cash. She also ended up covered in piss, and had to be blown dry with hairdryers backstage.

Today Marie was invited on the "Ellen" show to discuss her ordeal and was given a brand new washer and dryer. So I'd say between the Plinko prize money and a new washer and dryer, it was ultimately a net net situation for ol' Marie. Granted, pissing yourself on national television is horrifying. But she didn't have to sit in her teacher's chair for the rest of afternoon with a classroom of 10 year olds staring at her only to have her mom bring her clean clothes, but FORGET to bring underwear thus forcing her to spend the next two hours running errands with her mom in clean jeans only.

I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

How not to sell a car.

2007-10-24T08:15:00.000-07:00

This weekend I flew up to North Carolina to visit my friend Patrick. We were reviewing the plans for the weekend, when he asked if I would go test drive a car with him. The car he was interested in was the new C30 from Volvo. This car was essentially created to compete with the Mini Cooper, thus it is exactly the size you would expect: mini.

My friend is 6’4”. Why he was considering this car to begin with was beyond me, but I agreed to go along. He’d been e-mailing with a salesman at the dealership named Herbert. We got to the dealership, asked for Herbert, and I scooted off to the restroom while Patrick waited for him. When I returned, Patrick whispered, “He’s German,” and Herbert who was several feet ahead turned around to see me.

“Hallo! I am Herbert,” he announced in a thick German accent that was muddied by his even thicker German moustache. He looked sort of like Teddy Roosevelt, only shorter. “Let’s head ovah to zee little blue von,” he said, and gestured to this blue car with a dork-tastic Swedish flag painted on top. Clearly Herb wanted to sit in the front seat, which left me sitting in the back. As Patrick is so tall, he had to have his seat pushed all the way back leaving exactly three inches between his seat and the backseat.

I am not a small person. I’m 6’ tall, most of which is made up of my legs. I have few enemies in life, but ceiling fans and the back seats of cars are definitely two of them. So when I was finally able to crawl into the car, saw there was no room behind the driver’s seat and limited room behind Herbert, I knew this was going to be a very long drive.

As we drove along, Herbert explained all the benefits of the car. Safety features, gas mileage, how Vovlos are made. Meanwhile, in the backseat, I tried to admire the fall foliage but my knees were obstructing my view. I sat there getting increasingly annoyed that Patrick was even considering this vehicle as he looked like a total idiot in it, and obviously having passengers wasn’t going to be an option. The impracticality of this situation combined with Herb’s ramblings about the car’s benefits finally got the best of me, so I interrupted his safety speech to ask how long he’d worked for Volvo. He’d been there four months. He was married to an American, and she had wanted to move home. Apparently he had been a nurse in Germany, but his credentials hadn’t gone through yet in the States.

I explained I was in town just visiting, and Herbert asked what I was planning on doing while I was there. I mentioned I wanted to go to the state fair, as I’d heard they had a legitimate freak show. (I typically jump at any opportunity to boost my own ego, and if staring at the 27 inch woman with her five-legged goat won’t do the trick, nothing will.) Herbert mentioned he too, wanted to go to the fair but was waiting until Tuesday.

“Why Tuesday?” Patrick inquired.

“Because on Toosday, zay geev avay zee free things because it is zee last day. And I am German, and so I love zee free things. My vife hates it ven I haggle, because I LOVE to haggle. But at zee fair on Toosday, zay vill just geev me things for free!”

I consider myself a worldly person familiar with many cultures. I knew haggling was common in lots of countries, but I will be honest that Germany isn’t a country I automatically associate with haggling. Jamaica, yes. Germany, no. So I asked Herbert how he haggles in the U.S., as that’s not something typically done here in the States.

“Oh I haggle everyzing here. Zee other day, I haggled a pair ov jeans at zee Val-Mart.”

Now I was really interested. Wal-Mart has everyday low prices, afterall. But he had managed to talk them down?? Fascinating. I had to know more.

“Vell you see, I took zee jeans to zee till. And I said to zee lady, ‘This says recommended retail price ees $72.'”

After I got over my shock that Wal-Mart was peddling $72 jeans, I let Herbert continue on with his story.

“Yes, so zee lady at zee till says I have to pay $72. And I said, ‘Noooo, zis is the recommended price. But zat is not vat I vould like to pay.”

Oh my God, I'm glad I live halfway across the country as I would never leave the house if I knew that man lived in my town for fear I'd get stuck behind him at a checkout line.

“Zee line to zee till kept getting longah and longah, and finally I say, ‘May I please speak to zee managah,’ and zis Black American lady comes ovah and asks me vat zee problem is. I say, ‘This says recommended retail price is $72, but zat is not vat I vould like to pay.’ She said I had to pay zat and I told her no. 'Zis is only zee recommended price and it is my consumer right to not agree vith zis price.' So I told her I vould give her $55 in cash, and as it had been ten minutes since I had been standing zere, she said okay, and I gave her zee $55 and met my vife who vas standing very far away from me.”

No shit his wife was standing far away. I would be standing in the next county if i were her. With divorce papers in-hand.

“But you zee, I saved $17 in TEN MINUTES! You can’t make money like that!” and then Herbert erupted into laughter at his own brilliance.

“Herbert. I cannot imagine how horrifying it is being married to you,” I said with the utmost sincerity.

“Oh yes, vell my vife is horrified too, all zee time. Vee vent to zee Outback, and zay brought me a steak and I say, ‘Is this steak nine ounces? Because I’m not sure it is.’ So, zay brought me a much bigger steak, but I only paid for zee nine ounces!!” Again, he erupted.

I wanted to tell Herbert that he probably shouldn’t be telling stories like this to potential customers, since car sales is one of the few areas where haggling is actually acceptable in the States. I can’t imagine Herbert has sold a single car since coming to the U.S., but then again, he’s a nurse masquerading as a car salesman, so I guess you can’t hold that against him.

I’m just thankful he was able to surgically remove my knees from my chin following our ride.

One man's trash is Gigi's treasure.

2007-10-19T06:05:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine IM'ed me last night about the ordeal that has been moving her mother out of her home and in with my friend and her husband. She gave me a heads up that when I reach that life stage, I should prepare for the fact elderly people don't like throwing things away. They start seeing everything as keepsakes and memories.

I was quite happy to say I'd already learned this lesson a couple of years ago when we moved my grandmother out of her home. But in my grandmother's case, everything aligned to create the perfect storm of the most useless crap imaginable. First, her home was quite large, thus there was plenty of room to store plenty of junk. Second, my grandmother is in her eighties, so she's definitely at the everything's-a-keepsake stage. But what really made all this the perfect storm is that my mother's side of the family (my mother strangely excluded) has an inability to recognize what is trash. It's like a severely mutated form of the packrat gene.

So it was no surprise that my grandmother came to me last year with two treasures she thought I might like. The first were little plastic cake toppers (a clown, a little girl, etc.) that by the looks of them, had been on someone's cake in...1976, maybe?

"Gigi, what are these."

"Oh, well, I thought you might know someone that would like these."

"I'm pretty sure the trash can would like them."

"Ohhhhh, no!" she cried, "They're so cute! Maybe James or Catherine would like to have them?"

James and Catherine are my youngest siblings, and both are teenagers. I was fairly certain they would rather have, oh I don't know, an iPod over cake toppers from the 1970s. But I appreciated the gesture so took them and told her I'd check and see. She then proceeded to give me a bottle of Breck shampoo, that was probably retired the same day the cake toppers were. It was half full, and what was in there had separated out into different layers. I was familiar with this phenomenon with salad dressings, but was concerned to see the same thing happens to shampoo with enough time. In an attempt to see if the layers would actually mix, I turned the bottle upside down. The shampoo barely moved, and I was shocked to see the layers actually stayed in tact.

"And what, exactly, am I supposed to do with this?" I asked, watching the shampoo carefully.

"Well, it's shampoo, silly. We shouldn't just let it go to waste."

"If I put this in my hair, it most definitely won't clean it. In fact, I'm fairly certain it will preserve it, like sap does with insects."

After realizing the shampoo had moved about a centimeter in the time I'd had it upside down, she finally resigned it might be time to throw the shampoo away.

It would be easy to blame both of these gifts on the nostalgia of the elderly. But again, this isn't really a new thing for her, or anyone related to my mother. The summer after my freshman year of college, I lived with my grandparents. One morning, I was having a quiet cup of coffee with them. My grandmother was putzing around and suddenly said, "Honey, do you know what I found in the freezer yesterday?"

"What's that?" my grandfather responded.

"A turkey."

"A turkey?"

"Yes. Isn't that strange? I guess it was one Robert gave us for Christmas."

"Ah, yup. Bet that's it."

As it was July, I was somewhat horrified they had a turkey in their freezer leftover from Christmas. But before I could settle into this idea, my grandfather said, "Honey, how long has Robert been dead?"

Needless to say, I spewed my coffee across the table. "How long has Robert been dead??" I shrieked.

"Well, I really can't remember," my grandfather responded, clearly perplexed.

"You have a TURKEY in your freezer, that was given to you by a man that's been dead so long you can't even REMEMBER how long it's been?!?"

"Oh. Well, I guess that is a good point. Honey, maybe we should throw that out."

"MAYBE?!?"

Given the situation with the Breck, I guess I'm just happy they didn't eat it.

How to snake a toilet.

2007-10-18T08:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday in Brooklyn, a women went to the bathroom early in the morning and saw a couple of shiny things in her toilet. She turned on the light and learned the shiny things were eyes. They belonged to a SEVEN-foot python. She screamed, shut the lid, put a box on top of the lid and ran out of the room.

I have several issues with this story, not the least of which is the fact this woman had a kitchy toilet seat with coins suspended in lucite. (There's a place for creativity, kids, and it's not on your shitter.)

Here's another problem I have with this. After seeing a large snake head in her toilet, she closed her coin-filled lid, put something on top, and then ran. If I found a snake in my toilet, you better believe my ass would skip steps one and two and go straight to the running. A few years ago, I saw a tiny pink tail slip under the door of my bathroom linen closet. I screamed bloody murder, ran out of my apartment, called my boyfriend and wouldn't return to my apartment until after he'd removed what turned out to be a three-inch gecko from my closet.

Obviously this thing was someone's pet. Not surprisingly, the python-as-pet mentality is something quite foreign for me. But what kills me, is that this thing had been hanging out in the basement of this woman's apartment building for awhile. Um, seems to me that some phone calls should have been made.

"Hi, animal control? I have a seven-foot python that seems to have gone missing. Can you help?"

Or maybe, "Hi, pet store? I have a seven-foot python I don't want anymore. Would you be interested in it?

Or how about, "Yeah, we appear to have a seven-foot python living in our basement. Can you send someone out?"

At what point does a monstrous snake have NO other option than to crawl through pipelines and into someone's TOILET?! The craziest thing is this isn't the first time this has happened. In looking for additional information about this story on-line, I found FIVE other stories almost identical to this one.

Thank god she was simply washing her hands. How horrifying if she'd actually needed to use the restroom and received a little "kiss". Or worse, if she had been a he, and a snake of a python variety had met a snake of a completely different variety.

The only part of this story that made any sense to me is this lady's been using her daughter's training toilet since her run-in with Monty Python.

Here's hoping it's not covered in coins, too.

Popozao!!!

2007-10-16T15:17:00.000-07:00

My friend Jill forwarded me a picture of a One Tree Hill script she has that was signed by Kevin Federline. On it, he wrote, "To Jill, Thanks for all your support!" and signed his name with a heart and his scribbled name.

At that, I demanded to know what, exactly, Jill was doing to support Kevin Federline. I knew Britney was supporting him, but Jill, too? I was relieved and highly amused to learn she'd lied and told him she owned his album.

To quote Cowboy Mouth, "Everybody loves Jill," and this is a great example of why I especially do.

Doin' the doo.

2007-10-16T09:41:00.000-07:00

First, my apologizes for not having updated this recently. I've been working my ass off lately. Actually, my ass hasn't gone anywhere. If anything it's grown due to stress-induced junk food binges, which is the real bitch of the matter. But I digress.

When you spend excessive amounts of time at the office, inevitably times will come when you need to go to the bathroom. Like, GO go to the bathroom. (Particularly if you've spent the afternoon downing Doritos.)

And here's something I absolutely hate doing: THAT.

My friend Rachel has no problem whatsoever taking dumps at work. (Which is curious because we went toobing once and she absolutely refused to piss in the river, preferring instead to hop out and squat against a tree in front 200 drunken rednecks that make up the floating Wal-Mart that is the Guadalupe River in August.) But I've always been jealous of people that can do that. And why should we be embarassed? As Taro Gomi's book teaches us, "Everyone Poops."

Everyone poops, that is, except me when I'm at the office. Now, that's not to say there haven't been exceptions to this rule. But those exceptions typically involve me covered in chills, clenching the arms of my chair and sweating profusely for about an hour before that exception is made. Even then, I'm lucky to live close enough that if I'm not parked on the fourth floor of our parking garage, I usually pretend I have something at home that HAS to be mailed TODAY, jump in my car, and break every traffic law I can in the mile or so drive home.

But I don't always have that luxury. Historically, this has never been a problem. Every office I've worked in to date has had a "secret restroom", ideal for that sort of thing. My last office had one in the basement. The one before that had one way down this hall no one ever visited. My current office, however, has no such thing. Most people travel to the third floor of our office, as there are less people on that floor. But there are still plenty of people working on the third floor, and why should we subject them to the anal atrocities of the rest of the building just because their floor only has 150 or so people working on it?

Adding insult to the injury that is this scenario, we have polished concrete floors in our bathrooms. While very much in keeping with the hipster vibe of our office, they are not only prone to echoes, but - much to my horror my first week here - also reflective. So, theoretically, if one was left with no choice but to take a dump at work, not only would every sound be amplified, but theoretically someone in the next stall could actually witness one's agony in a very muddled, shadowy sort of way.

I should acknowledge this scenario would require working with complete and total sickos, which is thankfully not the case here. But I do think perhaps those shaggy rugs that wrap around the base of Me-maw's toilets would be a comforting investment.

Mylannah Spice.

2007-10-04T05:45:00.000-07:00

This week, two concerts sold out in a matter of minutes. The first was the Spice Girls, who sold out 20,000 seats in 38 seconds. So in the time it takes me to pee, 20,000 people simultaneously decided they HAD to see a bunch of middle-aged women with names like Posh, Baby, Sporty, Scary, and Ginger sing their two (yes, TWO) ten-year old hits along with a slew of other over-produced sugary-sweet pop songs off their new album. Who are these people???

And who are the promoters billing this as a "reunion" tour? This is the SPICE GIRLS, people, not the Police. And again, who wants these five reunited anyway? This is the cast of "Spice World", after all. It's like Mariah launching a "Glitter" tour and it selling out in record time. All of this makes me question England as a nation, really. But perhaps there's an undiscovered link between bad teeth and bad taste in music, so maybe they can't help it.

The other concert that caused mass hysteria this week was Hannah Montana. She sold out cities in mere minutes with tickets going for prices as high as $2,000. I (gracias a Dios) don't have children, so I don't pretend to know what the appeal of this kid is. From my perspective, she seems to have some sort of multiple personality disorder, at times calling herself Hannah and other times, Mylie. It was explained to me that Hannah Montana is the name of her character on the show of the same name, Mylie Cyrus is the name of the actress. But as obsessed as I once was with Mark-Paul Gosslear, I wouldn't have bum rushed Ticketmaster in an attempt to see Zack Attack sing "Friends Forever".

So in an attempt to understand this phenomenon, I've done some research. This girl, let's call her "Mylannah" is apparently Billy Ray Cyrus's kid. So the man that put the "mullet" in "mullet" has spawned a hit-making Cybil whose real name is Mylie Cyrus, character's name is Mylie Stewart, unless of course she's being her "secret" alter-ego, pop superstar Hannah Montana. Alright, so perhaps she doesn't have MPD, but if this bitch doesn't have an identity crisis by the time she's twenty, I'll eat a parakeet.

And am I the only one who thinks the premise of this show is absurd? A "normal" girl who happens to also be one of the biggest pop superstars around, and only her close friends know? Everyone knows kids can't keep their mouths shut with shit like that. My 14 year-old sister has a kid in her grade whose celebrity amounts to being in a local play once and having a head shot, and the whole class knows he's "an actor". And the man keeping a lid on this big secret , ol' Billy Ray (who plays her dad on the show, too!), is the same man who hasn't had a career as much as a handful of 15-minutes of fame moments strung together with all the finesse of a macaroni necklace.

I also feel compelled to mention that one of Mylannah's close friends includes her ex-boyfriend, "Jake Ryan". Oh Disney. Has the creative well run so dry that we're having to recycle boyfriend names from 80's films?

I'm no closer to understanding the appeal of Hannah Mylannah, but I am closer to believing a world in which the Spice Girls are a reunion tour, Billy Ray Cyrus's kid is a singing sensation and the first Jenga block has been removed from the empire Mickey built (JAKE RYAN, people!) is a (spice) world I'm afraid to live in.

Sad, but true.

2007-09-28T11:50:00.001-07:00

I will probably never be called "shawty" even if someone considered me that.

Mr. 86.

2007-09-26T17:42:00.001-07:00

I will still claim I had the worst first date ever. But my friend Roslyn has officially won the worst SECOND date award.

Her sister had met this guy and proceeded to set Ros up with him. Their first date was bad. For starters, he took her to the Cheesedick Factory. He then proceeded to text throughout the meal, so much so that Ros texted him, "Stop texting. You're on a date." (This is why we are friends.) He apologized, said his cousin was in the hospital, obviously the date wasn't going well, and could they try it again. Ros was ready to throw him on the scrapheap. Instead, she gave him a second chance upon the advice of her dear friend who coincidentally happened to be sitting in the booth next to her at dinner and watched the whole thing unfold.

This advice, while well-meaning, lead to the disaster below.

He began their second date by asking Ros where she was from.

"Houston."

"I hate Houston."

"And why is that."

"I don't know."

"Well, you can't say you hate something without having a reason."

"Yes I can."

"Fine."

"I prefer Dallas."

"I hate Dallas."

And then he mocked her and said, "Why do you hate Dallas? You know you can't hate something without a reason."

"I think it's materialistic."

"Well, you drive a BMW."

"Yes, because it gets me from A to B. That, and not because I'm trying to make a statement, is why I drive a BMW."

"If I were spending that kind of money, I'd buy another Corvette. I used to have a Corvette."

Okay, first of all, I don't trust anyone that would put that kind of money into what is, in my opinion, a "fancy" Camaro. Ros agreed and mentioned that "used to" was the theme of the evening. He used to drive a Corvette, used to have a motorcycle, used to own a home, etc. "Um, who wants to date the mother-fucking 'used to' guy? I want to date the has guy. Just as long as it's not a Camaro." Again, this is why we're friends.

She told him she was in advertising, and he asked what specifically she did. When she responded that she was an Account Manager, he replied, "Sounds like a secretary to me."

This made me laugh. But not as hard as Ros did when she told me her response. "Really," she said calmly, "And this coming from a man who works at Rooms To Fuckin' Go? Oh, and why do I know you work there? Because you're wearing a shirt that says 'Rooms To Fuckin' Go'."

Fantastic.

Right after her retort, his second cell phone rang, prompting Ros to give him a WTF look. "Oh yeah," he bragged, "I have a second cell phone." Then he followed that with, "You have to graduate to get this number."

I love this guy.

Ros shot back, "Then consider me a drop out," and went home. Of course he texted her the next day asking how her day was going. Could he be more predictable?

Hoping something was redeemable about this date, I asked if he was at least good-looking.

"He was okay," she sighed, "But he was light-skinned, and you know that shit went out with El DeBarge in '86."

The Camaro-lovin' Used-To Guy: Out in '86, and 86'ed in '07.

Gross, yet rewarding...

2007-09-26T14:25:00.000-07:00

1. Biore strips.
2. Clean and Clear oil-absorbing papers.
3. Popping zits.
4. Peeling sunburned skin.
5. Pooping.

Worst date ever.

2007-09-26T05:44:00.000-07:00

My youngest sister called this morning with some very exciting news. She's a freshman in high school and asked a guy to her Sadie Hawkins dance. She had all the bubbling enthusiasm you would expect of a 14 year-old who met "the CUTEST. BOY. EVER!" at the mall this weekend and subsequently got him to agree to attend this dance with her. It was nothing short of adorable. I was especially proud of her, as the first time she worked up the nerve to call and ask this guy, his buddy answered the phone, pretended to be his friend, and told my sister he wasn't sure about the dance. She was completely crestfallen. Then, my sister's crush called her back, apologized for his friend, and my sister had to ask all over again. Luckily, this time he said yes.

I couldn't tell her I had a similar experience in college. It was my first sorority mixer, and I had to find a date. One of my friends suggested I ask her boyfriend's friend, Jeff. So I called him, having never met him, and his roommate answered. He talked to me for awhile, posing as Jeff, and was nothing short of a total dickhead. Then Jeff called me back, apologized, and said he would go to the party with me. At the time I was happy about this.

It turned out Jeff was an alcoholic. Of course I had no way of knowing this...nor would I until he joined AA two years later. But as this was my first college party, and he was a year older, I followed his lead on the booze consumption and was quickly blasted out of my mind. On the bus ride back to campus (as this party had been in a field somewhere because that's how they roll in mid-Missouri), I started to get sick and as my motor skills had been compromised, couldn't figure out how to get the school bus window down. (Admittedly, I struggle with those sober.) Anyway, I proceeded to just puke on myself as it seemed to be the only option at the time. As a sign of how drunk my date was, he didn't even hop up out of his seat, despite the fact he was now sitting next to Linda Blair. He just patted my back and asked if I was okay.

When we got back to campus, we all headed to the dorm. Me covered in barf, my date stumbling all over the place. When we got up to our rooms, I went to take a shower and change. Apparently while I was off doing this, my neighbor asked if anyone wanted some champagne. At this point, my horribly intoxicated date took the bottle, chugged the whole thing, then stumbled to the balcony and proceeded to pee off it, nearly missing another friend and her date as they walked in the dorm down below. Of course I knew nothing of any of this until I got out of the shower and my neighbor was yelling at me for my date drinking all her champagne. (Was later bitched out for the balcony-piss-near-miss.) I apologized to my neighbor and went back to my room only to find him passed out on my bed. I put on my pajamas, rolled him up against the wall, and crawled under the covers.

Around 3am I woke up feeling like I was sleeping under weights. Quickly I realized why. It turns out if you piss on a down comforter, it gets quite heavy. And that's exactly what was going on. I was sleeping under a blanket of piss, and thus, was covered in piss myself. I screamed, jumped out of bed (with Jeff sound asleep) and ran across to my neighbor's room and banged on the door. She opened it to find me hysterical.

"He pissed the bed!!! Oh my GOD, he totally just PISSED. THE. BED!!!"

My friend, in her drunken stupor, reminded me that another shower might be in order. I did so, and spent the rest of the night sleeping in my roommate's bed. (She'd been out of town, and I'd thought about sleeping in her bed initially, but didn't feel like I should since this was the beginning of the year and we weren't that close yet.)

The next morning I woke up, and he was staring at me clearly still wasted. I sent him home immediately, and then went about the mortifying task of having to call my parents and ask them to send me a new comforter.

A fantastic postscript to this story was last year, my friend was in a wedding and one of the other bridesmaids went to college with us, though we didn't know her. But she had the same - unusual - last name as Jeff. My friend asked this girl to repeat her last name, and when she did, my friend made a brief face, quickly explaining that she'd thought it sounded familiar, but she was thinking of a different last name.

Later that night, this bridesmaid got drunk and stumbled up to my friend. "Yes, I'm married to Jeff. And yes, I know he pissed on your friend. Everyone does. But he's been sober now for SIX years, and I'm VERY proud of him!"

I'm crossing my fingers my sister's dance isn't met with the same amount of drama. Though having a story that can trump anyone's worst-first-date story almost made the whole thing worth it.

Almost.

Brads, Bans, Bushes and Bachelors.

2007-09-25T11:39:00.000-07:00

I watched President Bush's U.N. speech this morning and soon realized I was experiencing the exact same physical and emotional response as I did last night watching the bachelorette from Austin talk to the latest Bachelor. Yes, typically I'm mortified for all these girls. But when there's a bachelorette from your hometown, I think there's always part of you that roots for them. Until they open their mouths and say stupid things. Then you just get pissed. And this morning, as I watched Bush representing us at the United Nations climate summit, I had this overwhelming feeling of wanting to scream, "Shut up, shut up, shut up...OH. MY. GOD., SHUT UP!!" at the television while pulling at my hair.

Again, this was the exact same reaction I had watching Solisa, the aesthetician, bond with Bachelor Brad over being from Austin. Solisa is from Georgetown, which is not the same as being from Austin. To me, that's kinda like how being against mandatory emission cuts is not the same as caring about the environment. And just as the truth will ultimately reveal itself to Bachelor Brad, so too will the truth reveal itself to Bachelor Ban.

Please note, that Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon is not, in fact, a bachelor. But I thought the alliteration was quite nice and the mental image of him as the next Bachelor is beyond hilarious. If you need help with said mental image, please go to the Bachelor website and watch a day in the life of Bachelor Brad...running (and "looking hot!") at 6am, showering at 7am, making breakfast in his towel at 8am...and substitute Ban Ki-moon's face for Brad's.

Ban Ki-moon: "the best Bachelor yet", indeed!

Au revoir.

2007-09-23T08:44:00.000-07:00

Marcel Marceau died this week, making me wonder if he was buried in an invisible box.

Monkey see, monkey doo.

2007-09-20T19:06:00.000-07:00

I spend a great majority of each day bitching about stupid people. But when I'm not counting on them for anything, they can be wonderfully entertaining.

Tonight, I had a couple of great conversations about stupid people. My first conversation was about some girls I went to high school with. I went to an private all-girls high school that required testing to get in, so overall I went to school with very smart people. But in each grade, there were a couple of girls that slipped through the cracks. In our grade, there was a girl that while undeniably gorgeous, was also undeniably retarded. When disgruntled by an ex, she exclaimed, "I swear! He calls me 48 hours a DAY!" She also once asked me how many trimesters were in a semester. But the greatest of all these idiots was a duo two years ahead of me who, during the review for their World History final, shocked the class with the following questions...

Dumb: "I can't remember. Was the Holocaust in World War One or World War TWO?"

Dumber: "Wait a minute. There were TWO world wars?!?"

At that, the teacher threw up her hands, shouted, "I have FAILED as a teacher," and ran out of the room crying.

My college roommate, also a teacher, called tonight with an e-mail from one of her students. She teaches at a major state university and this was her student's actual e-mail explaining why he wouldn't be attending class:

"Hello, I am in your MWF His Class at 2 p.m. I'm sorry but I can't make it to class today, as unbeleivable as this might sound I have two monkeys and my female is pregnant causing my male to be quite aggressive. This morning when I was feeding them I noticed that he was acting extremely stressed and the top of his head was really red, so when I was trying to see what was wrong he attacked me and got ahold of the back of my head. I am fine, its just a little scratch but it has been a year since they have been to the vet so I have to leave now and drive to Jackson to take them to my vet and I also have to get a TB test to make sure I am okay. I am sure I will be fine because I am sure that they are healthy...it is just a precaution I have to take. I'm sorry once again about this. I know it sounds pretty made up but I assure you it is very true. Thank you for understanding."

When I was in college, I thought I was the smartest student alive for telling my Spanish professor I'd missed class because I had diarrhea. As Sarah Silverman brilliantly pointed out at the VMAs, no one will question you if you claim diarrhea. But it's missing the outstanding creativity of this monkey excuse. So the lesson here, boys and girls, is that a pet monkey suffering from explosive diarrhea might be the greatest excuse of all time.

Out of Africa.

2007-09-20T06:38:00.000-07:00

My roommate made me promise to begin this blog with a warning. So heads up: I'm going to write about my cat.

First, it should be acknowledged that I am not a "cat person". I didn't grow up with them, and a few years ago, my hatred for cats was so severe I almost got up and walked out of the musical "Cats" because I was so grossed out. At the time, I was renting a house and my neighbor to the west had a million cats they refused to fix. My hippie neighbor to the east, while hating the cats as much as I did, still fed them so as to avoid the karmic repercussions of letting them starve. Thus, I was kept up at night with fighting cats, greeted almost daily with cat turds on my back mat, and my car was constantly covered in dusty paw prints. People that knew me then are always stunned when they find out I own - by choice - a cat.

It's a long story as to how I came to get Gus, but I've had him about two years now. The great thing about having never had a cat growing up is that I only know how to treat dogs. And because Gus is actually very smart (and because a Super Soaker is far more effective than a squirt bottle when it comes to curbing bad behavior), he's turned out to be quite the pet. He runs to the door when anyone knocks, is very friendly, loves to play fetch and can sit on command. He also knows that when I say "out", it's time for him to leave whatever room he's in at the time, and he jumps down from the counter if I say "down". He's pretty quiet unless he's hungry, or it's 7am because he knows it's time for us to get up. And being a cat, I never have to "walk" him. So it's like having the benefits of a dog, rooster, and cat all rolled into one.

He's quite ugly - obviously a mutt of some sort, but we're not sure of which breeds. My roommate has a friend with an extensive knowledge of different cat breeds. He took one look at Gus and suggested he might be part African hunting cat. We basically thought he was full of shit, but after he left, we looked it up. Apparently, there are breeds of cats people have domesticated, but are essentially wild African cats. They're illegal to own in many cities, but gaining popularity. Gus does bear a striking resemblance to these cats, and upon further investigation, we learned there is a "cattery" breeding these things near where Mom found Gus. Based on Gus's brothers (which clearly have different fathers), we know Gus's mom was a slut. So my hypothesis is Gus's whore of a mom jumped the fence at this cattery, banged a Savannah cat (their technical name) and then went off to have Gus in a storm drain. The bad news is Gus is the feline equivalent of the prom night dumpster baby. The good news is, we now have a multi-ethnic household, and are looking forward to celebrating our first Kwanzaa this year.

DCH BAG

2007-09-18T06:15:00.001-07:00

Is it possible to have a vanity plate and not look like a total asshole?

I'm thinking no.

Love, marriage and a baby carriage.

2007-09-18T06:15:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've had several conversations with people about the dating challenges facing tall females. Specifically the dating challenges facing THIS tall female.

I'm 6' tall. Something I'm generally not fazed by, unless someone is making a supremely retarded comment. (Take "Austin Powers" this weekend, "My you're a tall glass of tea!" What does that even mean? Seriously.) But when it comes to dating, it definitely becomes a challenge, as I'm not even remotely attracted to men my height or shorter. I struggle with guys that are 6'1". And nothing pisses me off more than when people tell me I'm being unrealistic and should be open to dating guys shorter than me.

Here's the deal. It's not about whether or not I'm "open". It's about the fact that when I'm on a date with a guy my height or shorter, my instinct isn't to kiss him. Rather, I want to scoop him up, stick him in a baby carriage and roll him down a hill. Okay, maybe rolling him down a hill is a bit dramatic, but I start to feel very maternal or at the very least like an older sibling. What I don't feel is romantic.

I would love nothing more than to be attracted to guys at all heights, because statistically speaking I'm completely screwed. The average American male is 5'8", and only 14% of men are my height or higher. I'm typically most attracted to guys around 6'3", and I don't have a statistic for that, but I do know only .05% of the male population is 6'4" or taller. If I were being honest with myself, I'd also have to admit that I don't like dating guys that are much taller than 6'6" or so, only because at that point you start to look like you and your date escaped from the circus. (True story, I went out with a guy who was 6'7" once and a woman literally hid her baby when we walked into the restaurant.)

I know it will all work out in the end, and I'll meet my Prince Charming/Paul Bunyan at some point. (Preferably before I've turned to dust.) But the odds are definitely stacked against me in the romance department. Because if you take all the men in my acceptable height range, remove the ones that are married (usually to short chicks), gay, carnies, unmotivated, or ugly, the odds are higher that I'd hit by a man rolling down a hill in a baby carriage.

But wouldn't that be karma at its finest...

International Man of/and Mystery.

2007-09-17T17:59:00.000-07:00

This weekend was my best friend's 30th birthday. Her mother, despite my pleading, hired an Austin Powers impersonator to embarrass the hell out of my friend. In her mother's defense, she thought this would be funny, and people did seem to enjoy it overall. In my best friend's defense, she'd told her mother she wanted a low key party, didn't want any "surprises", and embarrasses easily.

You should know "Austin Powers" sang a song about the "skills" my best friend performs on her boyfriend, and the "wood" he'd consequently receives as a result of said skills. You should also know her boyfriend's uber-Jewish parents were there meeting her WASP-tronic parents for the first time and thus were in the audience. You should also know Austin stripped at the conclusion of his song.

It wasn't even my birthday, but at the end of his performance I would have been more comfortable wearing an Angora sweater in August filled with razors and bees. And while I was embarrassed for my friend, I was ten times more embarrassed for this guy who makes his living prancing around in a Union Jack Speedo with toupees taped to his chest, getting paid by over-zealous mothers and wives to humiliate their loved ones.

And speaking of things that are humiliating on at least two levels, I've been watching VH1's The Pickup Artist this evening. First, you have these Class A nerds blubbering on about how they can't pick up chicks. And the guy that's teaching them how to pick up chicks is a douchebag who calls himself "Mystery". (All together, "Of course he does.") This guy wears more makeup than a tranny, has cowboy hats he clearly stole from Jose Eber*, and has two nerd sidekicks with the worst dye jobs EVER. That said, I've been told I'm intimidating and terribly unapproachable in bars, so maybe I should be paying attention instead of judging?

Nah.

*Random, but true: Jose Eber is the only man in the state of Texas wearing a hat in his drivers license. You heard it here first, kids.

Coming to a gallery near you...

2007-09-14T05:07:00.000-07:00

I was at dinner last night with a friend of mine, when she started telling me about something she'd seen the other day. Someone had sent her the website for a guy that paints portraits with his penis.

When I got home I naturally Googled "penis painter" and, sure enough, found the website for this self-described "Pricasso". He's an Australian by the name of Tim Patch - a name which, alone, makes me chuckle. His site proclaims he's "The World's Greatest Penile Artist", which of course begs the question of just how many penile artists there actually are.

Art is one of my biggest interests (along with writing, running, and tuna). And I'm always intrigued when I come across things like this - art that isn't notable for its greatness, but more for the novelty of its artist. Admittedly, the idea of covering my genitalia in paint appeals to me in no way. But I'm certainly fascinated by the fact that someone not only did just that, but has made a career of it; and, I take solace in believing the people purchasing his artwork are doing so for the humor value and not because they take it seriously.

This was definitely not the case with some folks I saw recently in a news story about a painting dog. The reporter featured this dog, with a brush in his mouth, banging at a canvas. After that, they proceeded to show a gallery opening in the Hamptons, featuring this dog's "artwork". They interviewed a wealthy art collector who went on and on about how, even though he's a dog, the artist clearly had an eye for color and composition. I believe he purchased one of the paintings for around $4,000.

One day he will learn dogs are red/green colorblind and have 20/80 (read: horribly blurred) vision. Which makes me think that despite covering his genitals in paint, Tim Patch might actually be the wiser.

As an aside, one of Tim's featured portrait is of President Bush. I'm not sure what it is, but there's a seriously funny joke in there somewhere.

Suggestions appreciated.

Crack is whack...and so is this.

2007-09-10T11:37:00.000-07:00

Obviously, I'm trying very hard to update this thing more regularly. One of the reasons I'm doing so is I've learned more than five people actually read this blog. No one ever leaves comments so I've always assumed no one actually read it. Apparently that's not the case.

So for your amusement, I bring you another story from the "this is your brain on drugs" files:

A good friend of mine recently moved into a new apartment. Passing his next door neighbor in the hall he introduced himself. "Hi, I'm your neighbor, John. Nice to meet you," to which she naturally responded, "Hi, I'm Sonya. I run an escort service out of my apartment. And by 'escort service', I mean I, the only escort, fuck men for money not but one foot from the head of your bed through the wall between our apartments."

Understandably, John was a little startled. To help lessen the blow (ha), she went on to explain that sometimes she cooks these men dinner beforehand "to make it more of a date." But sometimes it's "just straight sex if that's all they want." Because this woman was clearly blasted out of her mind, she told John how she came into the business. Apparently she used to dance, and soon began to realize "that all men wanted was my pussy." She then proceeded to point to her crotch and mused, "I'm sittin' on a gold mine, here."

Earlier today, my neighbor Elizabeth invited me over tonight for turkey burgers and sweet potato fries. I was pretty excited about this until I heard John's story. Now I just think my neighbors are lame.

VMAs 2007

2007-09-10T05:44:00.000-07:00

A summary of the 2007 Video Music Awards: Chris Brown meant it. Britney didn't.

First, Britney. I feel the need to begin this commentary with the classic Texas cut-down: Bless. her. heart. Admittedly, I was shocked she actually followed through with her commitment to appear. I was even more shocked she followed through after seeing her. Um, I mean after seeing her performance. I wouldn't have thought it possible to be lackluster at the VMAs, but Britney proved me wrong last night. The "Chocolate Rain" dude would have opened the VMAs with more energy and entertainment value than what I saw last night. And I'm not gonna crawl the catwalks of Milan anytime soon; BUT, I will still say that unless you're Demi Moore in Charlie's Angels 2, you have no business parading around in a black bikini if you've given birth. Much less with a bad weave. Good. lord.

Now, as for my boy Chris Brown, I'm not sure I've ever seen anything quite like that. Admittedly, I'm partial to Chris as he appeared in the greatest piece of cinema ever - Stomp the Yard. But there's no denying he danced for his supper last night. That Charlie Chaplin stuff was crazy, then hopping around like a mental patient, leaping from one lit up lily pad to another - absolutely off the hook. And when I thought it couldn't get better, Rihanna showed up with her Umbrella-ella-ella-ella, joined Chris and just sexed the place right up. And the seamless transition from that to "Billie Jean"? Let's just say I'm shocked I didn't soil myself right then and there, because despite the mad heckling I've received over the years for this, "Thriller" is, AND WILL CONTINUE TO BE, my favorite album of all time.

The sad thing is, Britney used to be capable of equally riveting stuff. Which makes me think a good commercial would be replacing those eggs with Britneys previous VMAs performances juxtaposed against last night's show for a "This is your brain, this is your brain on drugs"-type message. (There's a reason I'm in advertising, kids.)

An era of judgment.

2007-09-10T05:40:00.000-07:00

I read a social commentary piece today called "7 Reasons the 21st Century is Making You Miserable." The number one thing cited was that we "don't have enough annoying people in our lives." The article argued technology is creating societies made up of like-minded people. Therefore, our tolerance for annoying people has lowered and we get more easily annoyed, in general.

I didn't necessarily agree with all of this article, but did feel they might be on to something. I work in a liberal industry in a liberal town. I'm rarely around people with ideologies vastly different from my own, and that suits me just fine. And when I am around people who have very different beliefs from my own, I do get annoyed. I've always thought this was due to an ego problem, but this column made me think perhaps that's not the case.

Perhaps society is changing in a way that is making us siloed? For example, twenty years ago, people that were really into games like D&D were most likely considered nerds and somewhat ostracized by mainstream society. But with the advent of the internet, they can leave their offices and head home to cyber-communities filled with people just like them. And unlike previous generations that worked for the same company for years and years without complaint, we now have the luxury of knowing what color our parachutes are and what industries are best for us. Then once we've found the right industry, we hop around until we find a company or job that we enjoy, which typically includes having co-workers similar to ourselves.

But the beauty of this something-for-everyone state of things made me wonder if the 21st century will usher in a new set of prejudices and discrimination. These won't be based on race or religion, but other, more stupid shit - like whether you're a Target or Wal-Mart person. Of course I immediately began to think through any stupid prejudices I might have. God knows I've been accused of over-the-top dating discrimination, but did I have any dumb prejudices, generally-speaking?

Turns out I do. Before I reveal these, let me be clear that I recognize they're ridiculous, and yes, if I were pure of heart, I'd accept and love all God's children. But I can be a shallow bitch, and regularly judge others for the following:

- Being an Aggie. (This is a HUGE one, and very problematic given I live in Texas.)
- Owning anything Brighton.
- Not thinking ninjas are awesome.
- Wearing Redwing boots with tapered khakis.
- Ordering overly-fussy coffee drinks.
- Fanny packs.
- Bad home dye jobs (particularly if they involve frosting on men).
- Being a "lake rat".
- Thinking Bud Light is actually good beer.
- Incorporating doilies into home decor.
- Excessive organization.
- Looooooovvvvviiing Vegas.
- Puka shell necklaces.
- Doing too much mommy-talk. (I don't care what different colors/textures of shit indicate.)
- Being both dumb and an asshole. (Either one on their own are fine.)
- Not being or appreciating things that are funny. (And by "funny", I mean what I find funny.)
- Not thinking the word "funny" is funny. Because it is.

Of course there are much, much more. But they'll most likely be the subjects of future blogs. So in the meantime, feel free to judge me for the things on this list, because God knows there's something I'd judge you for.