Turns out G was right...

G is always telling me not to shoot the finger to people while driving. He's always saying one day I'll get more than I bargained for. As an irate driver himself, it turns out he knows of what he speaks.

Two things one should immediately know about me: I'm too stupid to walk away from an aggressive situation and I'm a total wuss. I guess this translates to me having brass balls but punching like a person who doesn't know how to punch (I refuse to say "like a girl"). I'm kind of like my grandfather's rat terrier (rip to both), Bo, as in Bo Diddly, who didn't realize he was a tiny dog. And to be fair, he was triple the size of all his rat terrier brothers, so he came by his complex honestly. Bo was a big barker and growler and all around penis shower. All fine and dandy until he tried to scare away a possum in the yard and the possum wasn't having it. (Aside: this was also the day I realized those damn animals have lots and lots of teeth and thus developed a fear of them.) After much hissing and showing of teeth (by the possum), the dog lost his shit. For those of us watching, it was almost the funniest thing since the bulldog chasing incident of 1999. (That's another story altogether but the visual is Bo trying to jump inside the house, which wouldn't be that hard except he's too afraid to slow down enough to actually make the turn because a bulldog is hot on his heels. They proceed in laps around the house until one of us stops laughing long enough to take pity on him.) Anyway. I was Bo yesterday. And Jackass was the possum.

Short version: Jackass drove badly. I shot the finger. He banged on my car.

Long version: Jackass was driving an old bronco or jeep type of thing (no windows or ceiling) with a long flat bed trailer thing hoooked up. So his bad driving was especially bad driving given his load. I honked my horn at Jackass once he tried to get in my lane and smash my car. It was a bit of a long honk, because hello? The Jackass was trying to run me over. He turns around in his non-car and starts screaming and yelling at me for daring to honk at him. (At this point I probably should have realized I was dealing with a wild animal and it was best not to provoke but refer to the above paragraph and the thing about being stupid.) I waved my hands at him to shut up and move on into my lane if he needed to. See? Nice? He kept yelling while he was attempting to maneuvre lanes, even after I'd told him he could squeeze in in front of me, so I gave him the finger. (FYI, this is the action G is always telling me not to take. I have a prolific finger and use it at will.) Biiiig mistake. Jackass starts to get out of his car. Oops. My bad!

So I dart off in the next lane and go through the light we were waiting at (it was green). I just assumed that was the end of it and was waiting at the next light on the next block, mentally compiling my list for the grocery store. I looked in my rear view mirror and guess who was back? Jackass was pulling his trailer load and driving all over the street in an attempt to get in the lane next to mine. Jackass was driving even crazier than before. Imagine that! He pulls up next to me and definitely gets out of his car this time. He starts pounding on my car window yelling profanities, saying "watch where you put that finger," and spouting various other lovelies.

Still being a smart ass, I picked up my cell phone and showed it to him. Then I mouthed "9-1-1" as I started to push the buttons to show him I was going to call the cops on the crazy person acting a fool at 38th and Lamar. Of course he jumped right back into his jeep thing. That being that, I closed my phone, having had no intention of actually calling 911. I guess he realized I was fucking with him, because he seemed to get even angrier. Now I, personally, have never been called a whore. At least not to my face. But yesterday I was called a whore so much, I actually looked down at my sweater and jeans to verify that no boobs were sticking out or anything, just in case he thought I actually was advertising my body for money. It was just as I'd expected and everything was in place. I guess he wasn't being very accurate with his name calling and was just falling on whatever horrid female insult he could hurl at me.

I thought about giving him the finger a second time, especially when he was loudly lecturing me on my use of hand gestures (in the form of profanity filled screams), but by then my instincts told me to not aggravate the obvious crazy person. Too bad those instincts didn't kick in earlier. But by then the light turned green and he screeched off down the road into crappy car oblivion while I went on to the grocery store to buy my week's worth of lettuce and feta cheese.

If you guys ever come across a jackass in a white jeep/bronco with a TX license plate P48-KJM, tell him I said hi. And give him the finger, from me. Oh and did I mention the load in his trailer was a pink pedi-cab (those bicycle driven cab things)? I think the cosmic joke is on him.

I am at a loss...

Roman Polanski is a rapist. There is no discussion about it. The facts are not disputed. He gave a quaalude (or a "sliver" of one - whatever) with some champagne and then raped a 13 year-old girl orally, vaginally, and anally (that word seems wrong somehow). And let's be specific about her participation in the whole thing, if one can really say a 13 year-old has the wherewithall to participate in anything sexually, especially with a 43 year-old man. She told him to "keep away" from her and told police she didn't resist more because she was "afraid of him."

Regardless of whether she resisted or not, she was 13. A 13 year-old girl (kid) CANNOT consent to sexual activity with a man, 30 years her senior. Especially when she's drugged.

So why, then, are celebrities and/or artists (if that's what they really are) calling for the release of Polanski? They are going so far as to sign petitions asking for his release calling his arrest a "travesty," saying he's an artistic genius, etc., etc., etc. Of course there are issues involving any kind of extradition but to excuse his behavior because a) it was merely sex with a minor (no such thing - that's called rape)* or b) Polanski is a genius and therefore doesn't deserve to be locked up with all the common, gutter trash is absolutely fucking insane.

*I do believe there is a difference between this situation and a senior in high school having sex with his under 18 high school girlfriend.

If those assholes want to sign petitions eschewing their allegiance to a rapist, artistic or French as he may be, I will help them along. I'm posting their names and boycotting their products and/or work. It'll hurt but these fools deserve it. And I'll add any name I find along the way who supports Roman Polanski being released from prison.

Here are the ones I know of right now (I'm listing in order of my own personal importance w/r/t boycotting - the ones that'll hurt the most and then alphabetical after that):

David Lynch (this hurts my heart)
Wes Anderson (really? I always thought you were a freak but in a good way. Guess I was wrong.)
Martin Scorsese (give me a fucking break)
Diane von Furstenburg (ouch. good thing I can't afford her dresses anyway)
Michael Mann (guess I can't see anymore of your stupid movies with G now)
Jonathan Demme (like his work - Rachel Getting Married, Philadelphia, Silence of the Lambs, etc. Oh well.)
Harvey Weinstein (what has Polanski or child rape ever done for you that you owe them so?)
Tilda Swinton (um... you're living in a group marriage thing so I can understand you wanting to stand up for non-traditional relationships but this is not one of those)
Woody Allen (big surprise - pot, meet kettle)
Salman Rushdie (as if boycotting this douche will really hurt)

Isabelle Adjani
Pedro Almodovar
Paul Auster
Pedro Almodovar
Asia Argento
Jean-Jacques Annaud
Darren Aronofsky
Fanny Ardant
Asia Argento
Olivier Assayas
Gabriel Auer
Christophe Barratier
Gilles Behat
Marco Bellochio
Monica Bellucci
Jean-Jacques Beineix
Yamina Benguigui
Patrick Bouchitey
Jacques Bral
Pascal Bruckner
André Buytaers
Christian Carion
Henning Carlsen
Jean-Michel Carre
Patrice Chéreau
Elie Chouraqui
Souleymane Cissé
Alain Corneau
Jérôme Cornuau
Miguel Courtois
Alfonso Cuaron
Alexandre Desplat
Arielle Dombasle
Georges Dybman
Betrand van Effenterre
Jacques Fansten
Michel Ferry
Stephen Frears
Thierry Frémaux
Sam Gabarski
Tony Gatlif
Costa Gavras
Jean-Marc Ghanassia
Christian Gion
David Heyman
Laurent Heynemann
Isabelle Huppert
Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu
Gilles Jacob
Just Jaeckin
Pierre Jolivet
Neil Jordan
Nelly Kaplan
Wong Kar Waï
Jan Kounen
Harmony Korinne
Milan Kundera
Emir Kusturica
John Landis
Claude Lanzmann
Patrice Leconte
Bernard-Henri Levy
François Margolin
Mario Martone
Radu Mihaileanu
Jeanne Moreau
Claude Lanzmann
André Larquié
Claude Lelouche
Claude Miller
Mike Nichols
Michel Ocelot
Alexander Payne
Michele Placido
Jean-Paul Rappeneau
Yasmina Reza
Laurence Roulet
Walter Salles
Jean-Paul Salomé
Marc Sandberg
Julian Schnabel
Barbet Schroeder
Ettore Scola
William Shawcross
Abderrahmane Sissako
Paolo Sorrentino
Radovan Tadic
Danis Tanovic
Bertrand Tavernier
Cécile Telerman
Alain Terzian
Pascal Thomas
Daniele Thompson
Giuseppe Tornatore
Serge Toubiana
Nadine Trintignant
Tom Tykwer
Wim Wenders

Titsapity...

I've been traveling for work all week and while we were wasting our time waiting for people to not show up for scheduled meetings, my coworker A and I seriously killed some crossword puzzles. And by killed I mean cheated. But I digress. I'm doing an NYTimes one, she's doing some local paper one, and we switched halfway through. We're both asking each other questions, talking out loud, etc. (as you do), when I hear her say something along the lines of "titsapity is a bitch one." And then, "titsapity is a whore, right? Or a bore?" After hearing her say "titsapity" a few more times, I realized she was a) talking to me and b) I had absolutely no idea what words were coming out of her mouth. What follows is a brief breakdown of our conversation, as I remember it:

Me: Wha?
Her: Titsapity is a whore.
Me: Are you speaking english?
Her: Yes.
Me: Who's a whore?
Her: What's a bore?
Me: I'm confused.
Her: Titsapity. Is it she's a whore? Or she's a bore?
Me: I have no clue what words you are saying.
Her: T-I-S A P-I-T-Y
Me: Are you saying 'tis? (pronounced correctly as in tizz)
Her: Right. 'Tis. (pronounced incorrectly as in tiss)
Me: I have no idea if your tits are whorish or borish but the word you're trying to say is prounounced tizz, not tiss and not tits.
Her: I know it's not tits. Tiss a pity.
Me: No. Tizz.
Her. Right. So is it titsapity she's a whore or titsapity she's a bore?
Me: Good god.

So in the world of made up wrong words (i.e. hyperbowl instead of hyperbole and now titsapity instead of 'tis a pity), I'm officially adopting titsapity into my everyday vocabulary. How is it used you may ask? Like this:

Friend: That cute neighbor guy of yours plays in the gay tennis league.
Me: Damn. Titsapity, man, titsapity.

And then something happened...

I've been worrying for a few days that nothing exciting or post-worthy has been happening to me. Although most things I write about aren't exactly happening to me, they're things I care enough to form an opinion about, which, come to think of it, is not really saying much. But as soon as I decided I was washed up and work was sucking the life out of me (and it is), something slightly entertaining and slightly destructive happened.

Two factors combined yesterday to bring me to this time time and place. 1) My pilates instructor talked about a cool movie room at the gym she goes to a few miles north of me. She said they play the same movie all day long, over and over, and it makes the minutes fly by. My interest was piqued (I had to look that word up to make sure it wasn't really peaked). 2) My coworker/friend got in a car accident yesterday and due to recent hail storms, had to have a ride to a car rental place that was convienently a few miles north of me. So of course I decide to try out this crazy movie room gym thing I'd heard about. (Maybe other gyms have cardio cinemas and these aren't actually weird and new but to me? Insanity.)

I drug my coworker/friend to the gym with me - she kinda had to since I was giving her a ride and all - and we walked into the gym and stood outside the "cardio cinema." The sign next to the door said 7 Pounds was playing. I've been wanting to see at least a little of that movie, because the boy says it's really interesting (although I don't trust his movie judgment at. all.). We went in and were immediately consumed by darkness. It was really dark! I thought I would trip over people and/or equipment, so I stood like an idiot for a few minutes trying to figure out exactly what the set up was in the room. We found two treadmills together in the front and hopped on. It took a little less than 2 minutes before I realized there was a reason the treadmills at the front of the room (next to the giant, movie-sized screen) were empty. I nearly fell twice (or so I thought nearly fell, but I'll get to what nearly falling looks like in a minute) trying to look at the screen and run in a straight line, which I've decided is basically impossible.

We moved to treadmills in the middle of the room after a couple of minutes. Actually the coworker/friend left the entire cardio cinema after she ran a few minutes because she couldn't handle the intensity of the big screen, the dark room, and the blinking red lights of the machines, which were pretty much the only indicators of any kind of depth perception. Oh yeah! (in my best Peggy Hill)

I, on the other hand, really enjoyed the treadmill and the dark room. I vowed not to look at my time until the current scene was over. Turns out the scene I was watching was never over. 7 Pounds is a looong and boring movie. Good thing I caught the end. I had a sweater draped over the front of the treadmill, so a) I could cover my time with it (it's a mental thing) and b) it wouldn't sit on the dirty floor because I care about my sweater, you see? About 10 minutes into running, my sweater fell of the treadmill and traversed the length of the treadmill onto the ground behind me. I looked back to watch it land and turned back to running. I figured it would stay there and I would pick it up once I was done. A couple of seconds later the belt on the treadmills lurched and practically stopped. You know that almost falling I talked about earlier? That was nothing. This almost falling was much more palpable. Although I didn't technically bust it, I did flail supremely well and I yelled/screamed so loud that I drew the entire (full) room's attention away from a Will Smith sex scene to me.

The treadmill then went on its merry way, only at a slightly slower pace. I stupidly thought it was a really sensitive machine and it must have felt my sweater fall on it and fall off on the ground. I tried, repeatedly, to up the speed back to a workable pace and when that failed, I looked back to see if my sweater was somehow the culprit. Of course it was gone from behind the treadmill. I sighed, stopped my machine, and knelt down like a fool at the foot of the treadmill. Of course my sweater had somehow got stuck up in the rolling belt. Of course it got so stuck that I couldn't pull it out. I did hear some ripping when I tried though. One good thing about the darkness of the cardio cinema? No one can tell the exact idiot you're making of yourself. They have some sense of it but not an entire grasp of it.

I went to the front and asked for help. A really hot, gym guy came to help me and declared my sweater stuck. You don't say? He went for help from another really hot, gym guy ("the muscle" according to the first hot, gym guy), and they proceeded to laugh at me, stare in wonder at the predicament, laugh some more, and then use absurdly stupid boy logic to get the sweater out (i.e. pulling). The first guy told me, apologetically, that the sweater probably would not come out in the same condition it when in. As I'd already accepted that portion of future events, as any relatively cognizant person would, I told him not to worry about it. Between the two of them and many grunts they finally managed to pull the pretty, pink sweater from underneath the treadmill belt. The first hot guy fell backwards into an elliptical machine and almost made that person fall off, which sort of made the whole experience worth it for me (seeing one of those hot gym guys look like an uncoordinated ass at the gym? priceless), and held up a tattered, holey, ripped pink sweater that somewhat resembled the one I'd been wearing earlier. The second guy handed me a button he'd managed to retrieve - real funny - and they ambled off, still laughing.

And all I could think as I attempted to re-find my running groove (never happened) was that finally I had something to write about.

I also realize that if I wrote more often, I could have condensed that into a much funnier, briefer post but since I haven't written in a week, I figured blogspot could handle it.

Calorie counting is new? What?

I read a blog post on Jezebel about the resurgence of calorie counting and then I read this NYTimes article about the same thing. I have two thoughts: 1) Why is Jezebel so blatantly ripping off the NYTimes? and 2) What? Huh? How is this new?

I'm not going to pretend to be an expert on weight loss (as anyone who has seen the size of my ass can attest to), but if ever me and mine are trying to lose a few pounds, it's always straight to the calorie counting. Any reader of Bridget Jones knows that food diaries (complete with caloric breakdown, and for the more OCD among us, protein and carb breakdowns too) and exact knowledge of calories in any given piece of food are a part of life. I can't remember the last time a diet didn't involve obsessive counting of calories. Who doesn't know that 3700 calories equals a pound of fat and that to lose 2 pounds a week, you have to cut (either through exercise or better nutrition) 7400 calories a week? Who doesn't eyeball the Starbucks menu and know exactly which skinny drink to order in exactly the size that fits in your "snack" quota of calories for the day? Who also doesn't know which fast food items to order (if one must order fast food) off the menu for the lowest-calorie meal?

I know extreme calorie counters (B, I'm looking at you) and I know lazy calorie counters. But pretty much everyone I know - at least the females - count calories in some way, shape, or fashion. I'm quite surprised about the "calorie counting is so 1980s" theme these articles are espousing.

I'll leave you with a Bridget Jones' Diary quote, which related to alcoholic units, calories, and cigarettes: Calories/Units/Cigs? "Oh ziiiillllliiiiooonnnsssss....." (It's possible I added a letter or two.)

"Son, be a dentist. You'll be a success."

Me yesterday at work: "Dentist appt. In late." on Where Are You? Board (preparing for next morning)
Me last evening: double checking calendar for time of appointment.
Me this morning: sleeping a tad late, fun!
Me later this morning: walking in dentist office for appointment approximately 2 minutes early (my goal in all appointments).
Nurse in dentist office: Why are you here, sweetie?
Me: my appointment, duh. I have one on Tuesday the 22nd.
Nurse: This is Tuesday the 23rd. You had one yesterday on Monday the 22nd. You missed it.
Me: Shit.

Tom Ridge is a moron. Or is he?

I've searched and searched and searched and I cannot find any video evidence to document what I'm about to tell you but trust me when I say that I heard him (Tom Ridge) loud and clear.

I was watching the Republican National Convention last night when I saw Joe "I Swear I'm a Democrat Even Though None of Them Will Let Me Be One" Lieberman sell his soul to the devil. On an aside, I can tolerate JLie campaigning for McCain and touting his friend's accomplishments. I cannot tolerate him lying to people about Obama. Keep it to what you know, Joe, McCain's ass. (I tuned in 100% during the JLie speech because my man Gonzo lost to Roddick in the Open. It was over quite quickly and pathetically. Gonzo still looked good though. I be Chilean men really know how to woo American, slightly stalkerish, women.)

One of the MSNBC reporters, I think Andrea Mitchell, interviewed Tom Ridge after all the speeches were done. She was asking him about his take on Palin. I can't quote directly without a source, as I'm not that smart, but he basically said that Hillary voters, aka women, will vote for Palin because vaginas will vote for vaginas, regardless of policies.

I think this is what my friend B was trying to tell me when I was still in a sleep-deprived stupor Monday evening. Did McCain really pick Palin because he assumed we would all vote with our lady parts as opposed to our lady brains? I don't think many women who supported Hillary would support an anti-choice woman, regardless of her genitalia. Not to mention the fact that HRC was all about the semi-socialized healthcare and I have yet to meet a Republican who would support such things. (I'm sure they exist, I just don't know them.)

Back to my thesis: Is Tom Ridge a moron? Or is he a truth-teller? Or thirdly, does he have a case of sour grapes over not being chosen as the VP choice and attempting sabotage?

I guess only time will tell...

Sarah, Palin and Tall

Just a few, quick thoughts (keen insight to follow once my brain has recovered and I've become re-hydrated):

How hilarious is it that the "rumor" about this crazy christian, gun-toting ex-beauty queen is that her most recent kid is actually her 17 year-old daughter's kid and she's pretending it's hers? How very V.C. Andrews. How even more hilarious that she counters this rumor by saying her daughter is 5 months pregnant as we speak? As if that makes the likelihood of the above rumor lessened? But even if it's not true (and really the kid has Down's, which is much more likely to occur in older parents), how awesomely did the rumor mill work is terrible, black magic? "You will admit your failings as a parent Mrs. Palin, oh yes, you will." (so sayeth the black magic)

Brief text message conversation with my Repub friend at 8:00 a.m. Friday morning went something like this:

Me - NBC confirms the alaskan beauty queen.
Her - Woohoo! Change we can believe in.
Me - Change you can hang your tiara on.
Her - Not a beauty contest, a scholarship opportunity.

I later saw footage of Palin shooting an AK 47. I wonder what her talent was...

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.

Pet Peeves, Issue #435,598

Pet Peeve: Guys who think they know better than girls because the topic is a "guy" type of topic, or better yet, because they have a penis.

Scenario: I'm in the elevator at work when two of my guy co-workers jump in. We all say hello, exchange pleasantries, etc. They continue on with their conversation re: money in Mexico (for one of the guy's upcoming vacation). I jump in the coversation - and while I'll admit that maybe is a bit impolite, these are two coworkers I'm very comfortable with and have lunch with - and mention that the dollar goes over better than the peso in Mexico in most places. Jackass coworker #1 says that if you throw a 10 peso at a person for a tip, they'll flip out and give you the best service ever. I laughed out loud and said that I was certain he'd get a better response from people if he tipped with dollars or at least more pesos than that. (I mean 10? Hello? That's $1.) They both looked at me and jackass #1 said "just give them a 10 peso," in a manner that strongly suggested I did not know of which I was speaking. And then they promptly went back to talking and completely ignored me the rest of the elevator ride and the walk through our floor as we were all going back to our offices.

I am a bit beyond pissed. In my grand, old age I'm beginning to have less desire to rein in my anger than perhaps I did when I used to run into situations like this frequently: in law school. In law school I would be so taken aback by such blatant behavior that I'd spend my time shocked that the situation was occuring. Then I learned to stop being shocked by bad behavior because it was inhibiting my ability to react. That's not to say I did anything more in this particular elevator. I didn't. I stood quietly as my opinions were derided because I was a girl and therefore couldn't possibly know anything about money. (Did I mention we work in a finance-related field?) Hence the livid anger. But! I was not shocked at the behavior and I knew exactly what was happening as it happened.

And don't worry. I'll have my revenge. I'm completely vindictive and passive-aggressive at work (when I'm not being aggressive-aggressive), and Jackass #1 will pay, most likely in a large group of our peers. The best payback is public payback.

Oh and again - hello? Do you know anyone, Mexico or not, that would bend over backwards for you for a $1 tip? I don't think so. It's not like they have no concept of money in Mexico. They know very well how much a $1 is. And they especially know how little 10 pesos are. So give me a goddamned break, jackass coworker #1.

I'm sad and random dribble about vehicles.

My new car? Stopped working yesterday for a brief period of time. Apparently it's a battery issue, although all the lights still worked and it's working now. But really. How much is it to ask for a car that doesn't break down every five seconds? I thought shelling out my spending money each month (i.e. shopping now = car payment) would solve the problem but I guess not.

And now I'm driving a Prius rental car (for work, not because of my car) and it's plain 'old weird. I couldn't figure out how to control anything for the first 10 minutes or so (a/c, radio, rear windshield wiper, etc.). Finally, after changing the language on the computer screen thing to French I realized all the controls were on the steering wheel. While it's convenient for the driver, the passenger has no control whatsoever, which I don't like. Not because I want my passengers to have control over temperature or radio controls but because I like to have control over those things when I'm a passenger. I'm totally one of those people who changes your radio station and points all the air on you, the driver. But if any of my friends drive a Prius, I'm shit out of luck.

I really like riding in my mom's car, for instance, because it has a seat warmer. Sometimes I have to vacate my seat for my grandmother and she gets all freaked out because her ass is hot. She always thinks the car is about to explode or she's having some kind of butt attack. I, in the backseat, giggle uncontrollably like a 4 year-old kid. I do love seat warmers.

Explain god's people to me.

How can a person (or people) go around quoting scripture and be WWJD all over the place and still get the big stuff so fucking wrong?

I'm not into god or all that spirituality stuff (although if I keep getting scared by ghost shows I might have to revisit some things), but I'm down with Jesus.* He was a cool enough guy I guess. Or, at least, the version people created was cool enough. So why do certain people spend their lives memorizing bible verses, decorating their houses with crosses, making cookies for church groups, and all that good "christian" stuff but still not get what the whole thing is about?

Here's what I have to say about it all: I'm rubber and you're glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you. Bastard.**

*I'm referring to Christian gods in this post because I'm specifically referring to Christians. I'm down with some of the other dieties as well.

**I can't say all the details I really want to say because there's a very slight chance someone might read this. And although I'm right about the thing I'm right about, I'm nice enough to not destroy certain people over it.

Since I need it and this is a horrible post to end the week on:



You're welcome.

My errant phone is embarrassing.

I had Pilates this morning. I woke up at 5 a.m. with a head pounding and ovaries hashing it out over unpaid electricity bills. (I named my ovaries Stella and Joe. I figured it was very Tennessee Williams-esque up in there, so I named them accordingly. Stella and Joe decide to get angry and fight about stupid shit about once every three months. They used to fight more frequently but they've been on anti-depressants so it's now down to a few times a year. When they fight they throw everything out of their vacation home and toss it down the garbage shoot. It's annoying but ya know, ovaries/uteran vacation homes, right? What are you going to do?)

Needless to say I was not in the mood to be all bendy this morning - especially at a god awful early hour. I decided to text J and tell her I wouldn't be making it. My phone has a tendency to send my text messages to random people. I'll specifically pick someone from my contact list to text and when it's sending it will send a message to my mom, for instance. This morning I was very careful and pulled J's name out of my contact list. I deliberately typed: "Period. Headache. Gross. Staying in." As I was tossing the phone back into its trusty bedside drawer (where it sleeps), it starts singing at me tell me I have a return message. I look and it's from my gay boyfriend C. Love him! He writes me: "And it's raining. I'm staying in too."

Shit. My phone sent my period excuse text not only not to J but also to a boy! Argh! Luckily it's C and he totally understands but still. Is it really necessary for my phone to inform my entire contact list of the goings-on of Stella and Joe?

I need a new phone...

I learned something new on Saturday night.

I saw Baby Mama - or is it Mamma? - Saturday night and I learned what a "taint" is. I had to ask but that's what asking is for, no? My friend J tried to tell me it was your perineum but I didn't know what that was either. I am stoopid. But a little more thorough explanation helped me figure it out. I call it the "you've missed" spot but apparently that's what taint means anyway (an ineffectual stab with a lance).

Don't say I never taught you anything. Or maybe you already knew. Oh well. Consider yourself refreshed.

Watching MTV reality shows is a bad, bad thing.

So I was watching The Paper last night. It's a new MTV reality show about a high school paper and its staff. I'm guessing the paper is slightly better than the two-sided flier my high school printed once a semester and called a school newspaper. But I'm not sure. The only actual paper stuff I've seen was a discussion regarding gray scale, for which I care not.

One of the main characters (people? is it only a character if it's fiction?) is the new editor-in-chief, Alice or Alex or something like that. I know it starts with an A but I can't remember her actual name. Amanda? Anyway. The majority of the other people on the paper basically talk shit about A the entire show. She's a total Andrea Zuckerman but without the punch, so I can kinda understand but mainly it sucks. She seems oblivious to the chatter going on behind her back, which I guess is the point of "behind her back," although there are a few staffers who are a little too free with the bitch talk when she's in the vicinity. And half of the peeps who talk bad about her behind her back discuss their undying "friendship" to her face.

My question - this is high school? Was my high school like this? I remember having petty dramas and what not but the back biting? I don't remember that at all. So either I was a saint (highly unlikely) or I was the A girl in my high school. If I don't remember trash talking others ad infinitum, does that automatically mean I was trash talked? According to The Paper, you have to be one or the other. I wasn't one so I must have been the other? Is this faulty logic?

To be fair I have little to no memory of high school left and only flashes from the years before that. I remember driving a little too fast to clubs to try and get in while there was still free cover, a few too many parties, getting in trouble for saying "fuck" a lot, discovering poetry a la Norton Anthology (I read in the back of class while others were reading the book I'd finished a week ago), and completely giving up on fashion at school by the end of my senior year and resorting to t-shirts and jeans every day. Everything else? A blur. There are bits and pieces from stories people have reminded me about but pure, organic memories? I've got very few.

I think all of the above really reaffirms my decision last year to not attend my high school reunion. And The Paper? I pretty good reality show after all.

I've been home sick for 3 straight days...

and yet I've done more work in these 3 days than I do in a week at my actual office. It turns out my brain really works well in the after midnight hours. That must be why I find Frasier so much funnier before midnight than after. That's not to say Frasier isn't funny. Sometimes it is. But it's not Mensa funny. Apparently Mensa thinks they know what smart tv shows are. I beg to differ if this is really the best they have to offer. If you don't want to bother clicking on the link, I'll do the damage for you. Here's their list of smartest shows:

Frasier
The West Wing
Boston Legal
Jeopardy
Cosmos
House
CSI
All in the Family
Mad About You
MASH

I'll give them Jeopard because duh! and Cosmos since that's a totally nerdy PBS type thing. I'll also agree with All in the Family because the satire and sarcasm in that show was brilliant. Voltaire couldn't have done better himself. But Mad About You? And CSI? I refuse to believe those are smart shows. It's not that they're dumb but really? And where are Gilmore Girls and Veronica Mars? Admittedly those are my favorite tv shows period but part of the reason is because they were so freaking smart. Certainly they were more intelligent than stupid, old Frasier (which I do enjoy).

Mensa. Pshaw. Dumbasses.