Wednesday, August 27, 2008

I'm off to holiday at the Cape.

Aren't you jealous of my poser self? I've never been to Cape Cod. Or anywhere on the East Coast other than NYC and DC, although I do firmly feel if I had to choose, I'd be an East Coast Woah-man. But you know, I'm landlocked currently. Unless I drive a couple of hours away that is. I digress.

I'm off to vacay and have a wonderfully long weekend with a bunch of excellent, intellectually stimulating women. (Actually I've never met most of them but whatever. It's best to start with bright expectations.) I'd be happy with a good joke and a free-flowing bottle of wine actually. I'm not terribly hard to please.

I'll be hitting up Provincetown and seeing the infamous Varla Jean (I hope I got that right) from the drag queen Project Runway ep. She was the winning model, at least in the sense that she was wearing the pink pantsuit that won. I'll also be stopping by the Marc Jacobs store because I'm a sucker for "special items" found only in-store. Plus there are no stores here in ATX.

I purchased some very naughty items for a certain lingerie shower that shall remain to-be bride nameless. I bought (don't read past here B if you've found the time in your busy schedule to actually read this dribble!) an awesome riding crop thing that makes me want to hit everyone I know. With the riding crop, that is. And only when I'm holding it in my hand. Which I haven't done so very often, really. I mean, it is at my house and all. And I wouldn't be a very good friend if I gave her faulty goods, would I? I should really make sure it works well...

I haven't used it any kind of dirty way, unless you count slapping the couch with it and telling Hillary to "get in line" right before she spoke last night at the DNC. But I don't count that. Speaking of HRC, sisterhood of the traveling pantsuits? How awesome was that line? When she started in on sisterhood, I was weary, when she got to traveling I was audibly groaning, waiting for the shitty punchline, but when she came to pantsuits, I laughed out loud at both myself for expecting the worst and HRC for making a funny.

I've always been a HRC fan. Until the last few months. And I'm pretty sure I'm no fan of Bill's anymore either. I defended his bad behavior when it was helping me but I'm pretty sure he's a big, fat asshole who can't keep it in his pants. I have enough ego to satisfy my entire world. I don't need it from him too. BUT. I fell in like with HRC all over again last night. It was if the prior devious and dirty months were erased. I didn't put on my pink, rosy glasses or anything and I'm still suspicious of motives, but she done good. Good job, Hills. You deserve the praise.

Long way of saying, I'll be out for a few days. Try not to cry and if the empty comment section is any indication, I'm sure all the varied and many people out there who read this blog (um rambling?) will manage just fine.

See you next fiscal year! (Oh my. Too nerdy?)

Monday, August 25, 2008

Ding dong, the Olympics are dead.

I love the Olympics as much as the next anti-nationalist gal. It's the only time I can truly get excited about the American flag, the national anthem, and random chants of "USA!" That said, I'm so glad they're over. Truthfully I'm so incredibly sleep-deprived from the event that I could be bordering on delirious. Last night was the first night I've slept more than 5 hours in over a week.

Here are some highlights/random thoughts about the whole experience:

1) Do Nastia Lukin's legs bend outward? (I got into a point and shout match with a couple of friends over this one. They couldn't see and everytime one of her legs bent inside out, I pointed and shouted, "See? Right there! Those should not be concave from that angle!" It was awesome.)

2) It's that damn Phelps squiggly kid again. I get he's got more medals than all the African countries put together but if a person has no knowledge base with which to compare the greatness of a mess of medals, does it really matter? Meaning - how the hell can so many freaking people give a rat's ass about this weirdo swimmer guy?

3) Except in the case of that amazing relay. That was straight up awesome.

4) I'm only a fan of basketball in All-Star game situations, i.e. the Redeem Team (dumb name though). And when I'm a fan I'm also suddenly an expert. It's only annoying to those people in the room who aren't me.

5) Gymnastics rules. Unless it's on a trampoline or uses a hula hoop. Then it's just dumb.

6) Speaking of gymnastics, how do those girls not have the worst shin splints in the world? Mysterious...

7) I'm secretly in love with Usain Bolt. He's too quick for me to catch up to him though. Get it? Quick? 'Cause he's, um, fast? Whatever. Nonetheless that dude seriously made the other runners look like they were mall walking. When he wasn't showboating and you could tell he was crazy nervous, he made me love him just a tiny bit more. USAin! What? It's similar.

8) What I wouldn't give to be a fly on one of the many walls at the Athlete's Village. Heard those folks got all kinds of busy.

9) How exactly do you break a sweat playing ping pong? And why isn't it called ping pong?

10) Way to make a girl feel old - change the rules to volleyball since she last played it (in junior high).

11) Why is beach volleyball an Olympic sport? I can't stand it on the beach and I especially can't fucking stand it on tv. Shoot me if I hear another commentator talk about hard it is to leap and jump from the sand. You know what would make leaping and jumping easier for you freaks? Being indoors on a real gym floor, that's what. Shut up.

12) Listening to boxing commentators is probably the most hilarious thing I've ever done (in the last 2-3 days). And I quote: "You better learn how to fight if your mom makes you wear a dress. Or run." But all in this slightly insane high-pitched Jersey accent. He was talking about a boy, in case you didn't put it together. It was damn funny.

Here's hoping the Dem Convention will be just as entertaining! MSNBC, here I come. Keith O better rule that jackass Chris Matthews or I'll be pissed.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

And then there was meat.

The meat story.

Guy called me at work seeking out some phone numbers and addresses. I went to a government agency's website and gave them to him (all stuff he could have done himself, which is not to say I wasn't happy to help but to signify how slight the help I gave him was).

A few days later an Admin walks in my office and tells me she has a package for me but can't open it and can she borrow my scissors? I hand them to her, she perches the package on the edge of my desk as she cuts into the the thing, starts to reach in the envelope, starts giggling (which made me look up from my oh-so-busy-and-time-consuming spreadsheet), and begins to pull out what I was certain was a ziploc bag full of black hair.

Upon further examination, which was difficult given that I'd slammed my chair (and myself) far across my office to get away from the bag of hair, we realized it was not hair but was, instead, some form of dried meat product.

My loud use of words and phrases (i.e. "what the fuck!" and "who the fuck sends shit like that in the mail?") attracted another co-worker to my office. When he realized it was a bag 'o meat, he reached his hand in, grabbed a hunk, tore into it like the savage beast (read: stupid) we all knew he was, and said "tasty" right before he walked back down the hall with the remaining hunk still clutched between his clammy, dumb hands. (Hands can be stupid - see: hands of a person who take random meat products out of unknown packages and feed them to said person's stupid mouth.)

There was a note inside that said the "meat" was homemade and thanks for helping aforementioned guy. But no notice as to what kind of meat product it was. The guy was from Arkansas and while I hate to be state-ist, who knows what they turn into edible products over there? Now I'm assuming it was a beef jerky of sorts but I have no way of knowing for sure.

Oh and did I mention that I don't eat beef? And just an fyi, although I wouldn't classify my job as dangerous, more than once my name or other people at my office's name has come up in correspondence to and from jail cells. Just saying.

Luckily the dumb co-worker didn't die. Luckily my office can't accept gifts. Luckily there's a homeless guy who hangs out right around the corner from my building. Luckily he was there, that fate meat day, and luckily he accepted my offer or dried meat product.

Long story short: grossest fucking day ever.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

How personal should a blog be?

I've debated how in-depth to go here, how much to share with complete strangers on the internet, and I've come to the conclusion that I'm just going to go there. I'm stripping away all the barriers of electronic media and feeding my ill-informed vanity even more by posting about my deepests and darkests. Here goes:

Today I found a 2" hair growing in the middle of my forehead. Technically it was slightly above my right eyebrow but completely disturbing nonetheless. It was blonde, had a bit of a wave or curl to it and it was freaking long! How have I missed that over the months that it's been growing? I mean, I'm not exactly a non-vain person. (Although I can't say I'm too concerned with physical appearance though, if my work attire/lack of make-up is any indication.) I have multiple mirrors in my house. There's the bathroom with two mirrors (already there when I moved in), the full-length mirror in the hallway, the full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door (also there when I moved in and I never use it because my bedroom door is always open), the vanity in my bedroom, the large mirror in the entryway, and the wall of mirror tiles in the dining room (to make the space look larger and all). So it's not like I don't look at myself - critically even. So how did I miss a giant hair growing out of the middle of my forehead? It's a mystery.

So there, internet, you now know all about me. I'll expect gifts of tweezers in the mail after you google all my info (that you gleaned from my overshare in this post).

Oh and one more thing. A guy sent me meat in the mail at work today as a thank-you. I yelled "fuck" many times today at work as well. Possibly the two were related? A homeless guy on the corner has some good eatin' coming his way.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Perpetual Fear of Hair Death

Shannon mentioned in a comment how she thought I'd be able to understand, above all others, the sense of dread and fear that comes over a person when he or she finds out their beloved stylist is moving on to greener pastures, i.e. not somewhere they could follow, tail wagging pathetically.

And I do understand.

I had my hair styled and poofed and colored within an inch of its life last weekend. My stylist was very excited about some avant garde work she'd submitted for some industry award. She talked about how winning the award will put her work in every industry mag and possibly get her some crazy editorial content job for fashion mags and a whole host of other potential star-making endeavors that I tuned out.

I should have been happy for her. And at first I was. I should have been proud that MY stylist was so artsy and good and all that jazz. And at first I was. Until. Until it started to sink in that if she became all fancy and wanted and everything, she'd leave me. That's when the fear and slight waves of panic took me over. I guess that's what Brian Austin Green must have felt like when Megan Fox got her Transformers gig. Or whatever it was that she did first that made her a name. Happiness that leads to dread over the realization that the other person will eventually leave you? Worst. feeling. ever.

So Brian Austin Green - you can come sit with me. I'll understand. I might have roots down to my shoulders and split ends up my back, but damnit, I'll feel you.