So weddings...

Love 'em. (Given I like the couple getting married, of course.) I think they're fun and I like the planning phases. Wedding gowns? Beautiful. Love the shopping-for-them-part and the walking-down-the-aisle-in-them-part.

Here's the rub: I have no interest in getting married anytime soon (if ever). I also could never, in a million years, wear a wedding dress in any popular shape and/or form. Except for the party part, I could never tolerate the actual act of getting married. I do think tiaras and registries are cool though (if I was the one getting the gifts). I wish I could wear a tiara for other occasions. And register for like my birthday or something. That would be very worthwhile.

Here's my point: I think it's only possible to be really, truly happy for another person when the thing that they're getting/achieving is nothing you'd ever want in a million years. Or possibly if it's something you already have or already achieved. If you disagree, leave examples. Otherwise I won't believe you.

If I were going to the inauguration...

I'd wear this:



But with better hair and possibly in a deep, royal/peacock blue. I'd prefer a royal blue with the iridescent parts in peacock blue. Damn, I'd look good next to Obama. Not, you know, in place of Michelle, per se, just for pictures and what not.

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.)

My cups filleth over - who knew?

I went for a bra fitting today at a real lingerie shop. No Vicky S or even the Oprah-touted Nordies. I went to a place that's been around for ages, sells really expensive lacy things, and is practically the only store in town where one can find a 32 FFFF (if that's even a size).

You don't just walk into this store to browse either. Oh no. There's a sign-up sheet when you first walk in and a professional fitter (aka salesperson) takes you in the back and starts bringing in bras (after a firm measurement, of course). You never even get to walk through the store and think about what you might want. Instead you tell the "fitter" and they bring you different shapes, colors, materials, etc. The fitter also gets super personal with your ladies. It's not a place for the shy.

I originally went in the store thinking I would get a new bra (mine is currently held together by luck) and possibly some appropriate undergarment for the bridesmaid dress I'll be wearing in an upcoming wedding. Apparently the makers of BM dresses, not so unlike other dress makers, assume that a person with a significant bottom half must have a top to match. I don't know if they make bra sizes big enough to match my ass, but if they do they're at the store I went to today. Needless to say, I have A LOT of room up top in the dress and I was curious what advice the "fitter" would give. She suggested a bustier. I suggested going bra-less. We settled on cups that can be sewn in by the tailor. Apparently looking completely flat-chested in a dress isn't a good "look" for me, i.e. the bra-less version. Whatev.

So as it turns out I'm about 2 cups sizes bigger than I thought. I was right on the band size but this is all quite a shock to me (a girl who swears by the "miracle" of VS to help them look like anything other than the smallest of the small). I tried on the new, bigger bra and was completely overwhelmed. I think I still am. The cup was so huge! It's not like it made my boobs look bigger or anything. The bigger bra just made the bra look bigger. Very weird and disconcerting. Apparently the boob-look I'm used to is not the natural boob-look. Go figure.

The other weird thing? VS tried to tell me last year that my cup size was too small but I laughed in their faces thinking they were dumb VS salespeople. Now I've had a 2nd professional fitting and they say the same thing. I don't know who to believe - them (the professionals) or my own conception of boob-look and sizes. I think I need a 3rd fitting to fully accept the unavoidable: I now have a grown-up girl bra size. Sad.

A new, terrifying thought: do I have to reevalate my low-cut blouses that I always thought were okay to wear because my boobs were so small (a la Debra Messing, pre-baby)? My world is askew...

*sniffle* I'm the biggest sports nerd.

There's a new female attorney in my office who plays fantasy football. That fact aside, I like her a lot. (I'm opposed to all fantasy sport leagues. I think it takes away from the team aspect of the game although I'm very familiar with the pros, so don't lecture me.)

We were at a work conference this week and one of my male co-workers (whom I've wrote about in the past, ahem, pesos jackass) described the her as "probably the girl in the office with the most sports knowledge." I've spoken with this male co-worker (who I'll refer to as Jackass Yankees Fan or JYF) on a few different occasions about baseball. JYF assumes I know nothing because a) I'm a "girl" and b) I'm not a JYF. Um, dude? MY team's 3 games out. Your team is in shambles. Let's talk next season, kay? He's never once brought up the subject of football or basketball or any other sport for that matter. He never even discussed the Olympics with me, which we all know I was all over.

So how does he know the new woman has the most sports know-how? It's obviously an unresearched statement, at best and a downright fabrication at worst.

I know it seems petty to obsess over something so slight but as any woman sports fan can tell you, random baseball and/or football conversations are few and far between, at least as compared to our male counterparts. Of course the bf and I can discuss until we're blue in the face (although his baseball knowledge, which he touted when we first started dating, is seriously lacking - is this what "fraud" means in those weirdo annulments?) but what about the watercooler? I keep up with a lot of the breaking sports news through my online connection to the world (i.e. my computer at work), and I can only call the bf randomly during the day so many times.

It's like JM and S (hello!), two of my very good friends who are dating. Neither JM (the man) nor S (the woman) are seriously into sports but S is very enthusiastic. And JM constantly makes fun of her for getting excited when we watch a sporting event together, which is completely odd to me because why wouldn't you get excited when someone's scoring a touchdown, swimming a race, hitting an ace, or knocking one out of the ballpark? If S were a guy (all oddities in the scenario removed of course), would JM make fun of her/him for being excited about sports even if he/she admitted he/she didn't watch all the time? Of course there's the whole bf/gf dynamic I'm overlooking but I'm trying to illustrate a point.

What this all comes down to is that I want to be the woman in the office (not the girl - I won't even get into the naked misogynist undertones of JYF referring to the new co-worker as a girl) who knows the most about sports. I'm willing to go head-to-head in a little sports trivia with the new co-worker to earn the title, although I'm not sure she'd be willing as she doesn't label herself as a sports afficiando, and hell, I'm willing to go head-to-head with the men in my office too. I bet a million dollars I'd be in the top 10%, especially if the trivia involved actual, present-day strategies, rules, regulations, players, etc. I love the sports trivia person who can name every Heisman trophy winner but can't tell me the ins and outs of small ball play. (I'm looking at you bf.)

On a related note, the 'Stros are 3 games out!! I will admit I had no confidence. I was wrong. Go Astros, Go!*

*I can only hope Ike doesn't ruin their winning streak since they have to postpone at least 2 games against the Cubs (who the swept last series) due to sheer freaks of nature. And for those that care, I doubt my town will even see a drop of rain, much like the great Rita Dustbowl of 2005. Although I am moving my new car in a parking garage tonight, just in case the trees of never-ending falling branches at my house decide to multiply, like they did a few months ago with the old car.

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.

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.

Speaking of renewable resources...

If someone could figure out a way to turn human hair into an energy product, I could fuel the earth for centuries.

That's a fancy way of saying that I shed a lot hair. A lot. There are long, blonde hairs all over my work building and home. And last night they were all over my pilates mat, thanks to an inefficient hair tieback.

I haven't seen any sign of baldness so I'm guessing my hair officiall counts as a renewable resource. I command thy scientists to get on it!

SATC - The Movie

I saw SATC Saturday night. It was a fun girls' night out. (I know people are making fun of those of us who used a movie about sex and overly priced consumer goods as an excuse for a girls' night but I say fuck off to those people. It was fun and I enjoyed it.)

We got dressed up to go to a semi-fancy restaurant and wine bar. We spiced up our wardrobe a tad in a nod to SATC itself, but mainly we dressed up for the dinner and bar portion of the evening. Except for J. She wore "beach-ware," as she described it. I did find a home for my beautiful Arden B shirt that is too small for my boobs and that I waited to long to take back. My friend L was wearing a similar color and it looked amazing on her. So she gets my beautiful, ruffly, sparkly, cleavage-creating shirt. I hope her bf appreciates it.

I wore a pretty, blue-green, vintage dress I got in NYC last summer (or was it the summer before?) and a pair of awesome, yellow wedges from Target. I put on extra eyeliner and earrings I normally don't wear because they're slightly heavy, and I'm terrified I'm going to have droopy earlobes when I get old. And, to top it all off, I wore my huge cocktail ring to show that I meant business (i.e. having fun with my girls and drinking as much as I wanted).

I'm here to defend SATC and my money-spending ladies on two fronts:

1) SATC was not a horrible movie like a lot of reviews are making it out to be. Yes there was consumerism and yes they made questionable choices in story-telling, but all in all, I really liked the female friendships in the film, which is what I think the show was always all about, no matter how many times Samantha sexed, Charlotte married, Miranda bitched, or Carrie pouted. In that regard, it did its job. I even cried a bit. (I mostly kept it in check and hid my face though, because I didn't want to get skewered by my ladies. They're very quick to point out my emotional neediness when it rears its ugly head - probably because I reap what I sew but that's another story.)

2) Women have just as much say over what movie will do well opening weekend as men, if not more so. I will occasionally see a movie I'm not terribly jazzed about with the bf, but I'm much more likely to put the kabosh on a film than he is. For Matt Lauer to get on the Today Show and talk about how men must have wanted to see SATC after all (since it topped the box office) is ignorant and slightly degrading. Women see movies by themselves. Women see movies with their girlfriends. Women make decisions about what movies to see with their significant others/guy friends. Women make enough money to buy their own movie ticket. Women make up more than 50% of the population of the U.S. Women watch god damned movies and are a fucking voice in this economy, okay? Okay. Perhaps one day when women are in charge of the movie companies, some of this dismissive attitude will change. Until then, suck it movie execs. You do me no favors.

*breathes in and out, in and out*

Oh and my tiny secret? I've always secretly hated Manolos. I think they look too old and frumpy for my tastes. I know that's not a popular opinion but I've yet to run into a pair that I thought was worth all the hype and/or money. And they're not well made. (This is not my opinion of all designer shoes, just MB in particular.)

DHEA deficient

Apparently I have low DHEA Sulfate levels. According to my research, low levels are caused by laziness and overeating or by being an ana. I wonder which category I fall under? I bought some supplements but then I read about how there's a movement in Congress to make DHEA supps controlled substances, needing a prescription to get them. I also read that it increases body hair, and I have really light hair on my legs and practically none on my arms and face. I'm concerned that a) I'll end up looking like Sly Stallone, b) my potential political career could be ruined by questions of taking a drug that will later be illegal (aka baseball giants), and c) that I'll start growing a beard (or worse a porn 'stache). Do any of you, ahem, science people know the answers to these questions?

Randomness

Last night at CardioTennis a random girl asked where the other girl was who is usually there complaining about everything? I was like, um me? But then she added that she meant the funny one. Ouch. I just want to point out that it was me who came up with the safe word bit, which is now a part of our regularly scheduled programming. C came up with schooner (SATC shout out!) as the safe word itself but the bit? Mine. See? I'm funny. I'll admit it's mainly funny because our tennis pro doesn't know what the whole S&M safe word thing is. He's sweet like that.

And do you know how many times I've been tempted to make balls/pain/safe word jokes? In the tennis arena the opportunities are endless. But I would like to thank our class leader for assuring us the mats will be cleaned thoroughly after every class. I do not want mat herpes. C & I discussed which would be worse - staph or mat herpes. I say mat herpes because that shit is on your face, yo. Excluding the nose job Project Runway designer, you hardly ever see people with staph on their faces. Sure you might die but honestly it doesn't happen that often. And I'd rather be pretty while having a life-threatening infection than ugly while having to continue going to work every day. Faulty logic? I think not.

My "Dying Instructions" List

I figure if I can obsess about retirement, I can lay out the specifics of dying, death, my own in particular.

First thing to do if I die or am close to dying: read this blog entry.

Regarding being hooked up to machines: Don't unplug me! I hate to be a drain on the environment and someone's electricity bill (charge it to my Visa, they won't care), but damn! give a girl a moment, ya know? I'm slow in most things I do, especially if it involves physical activity like, say, coming back to life. So give me a few months to sort things out. If I'm not awake in oh, 3 months, you can put a dimmer on my switches. Turn me down low at night and see how I cook. If in another 3 months I've shown no improvement and instead show obvious signs of distress when I'm on the "low" setting, I concede that it's probably time to start planning the funeral.

Regarding the funeral:

1. Open casket.

2. Pin my butt and thighs back, maybe even some stomach, and push my boobs up. I want everyone to admire my post-mortem body.

3. Put me in something cute. I don't want to wear any black or yellow or red. I'd be happiest with a dress in peacock blue (favorite color and all), because it makes my eyes look good. I have a great one from Anthro that you can use if no one wants to have it after I'm dead.

4. Can you open eyes on a dead person? If so and if they look halfway decent, prop those babies open. It's my best asset. Everyone might as well enjoy it.

5. Get a real makeup artist to do my face. I don't want one of those clown, funeral home people. I'm cool with eyeliner as well. Just be sure to apply it like I would. No red lipstick.

6. I want tears. I don't want any of this laughing through tears, telling funny stories junk. I want honest-to-goodness sobbing.

7. If you put a cross on or near me, I will rise up and haunt you. Not kidding. I'll accept a flask though.

8. I want everyone to stand up and tell a story about me. I prefer it to be inspirational in a way that will encourage people to cry more. If you can't think of a story where I acted in an upstanding, moral way, make one up. No one will know and it will greatly decrease your chances of the aforementioned haunting.

9. Song choice - sad songs. Yesterday (Beatles), O Danny Boy (any old Irish guy), It's So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday (Boys II Men), My Wild Irish Rose (Hank Lucklin), Hallelujah (Jeff Buckley), Tiny Dancer (Elton John, although the Foo Fighters version is also acceptable), Sitting on the Dock of the Bay (Otis Redding - don't fuck with this one), Rio (Duran, Duran), and Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain (Willie Nelson). I reserve the right to add to and/or change this list at any time.

10. Burial or cremation? Couldn't care less. But only cremate me after the open casket if that's the choice. Make me into diamonds or amber, keep me above the fireplace, vacuum me up, or throw me off a cliff. I don't care. Just make sure there's a marker out there somewhere that's bigger and better than all the other grave markers. Make it interesting enough so that classes of kids will want to come over and do grave rubbings on my headstone/marker thing. Put swirlies and ridges and stuff.

Oh and the most important bit: if and when I am getting to that point, run to wikipedia (or whatever the future equivalent is) and create some entry calling me the inventor of cold fusion or some such thing. Make sure all the newspapers know the inventor (creator?) of cold fusion just died and the whole scientific community (or whatever community it is that I'm a part of) is in mourning. Call it a loss for the Nobel Prize Committee. (I'm open to true songwriter of all Beatles songs, muse for Jackson Pollack, or whatever other really significant thing you can think of that would be hard to prove.)

Oh and G? When you go to my house to remove anything incriminating? Don't forget the, er, things that are in the strawberry shortcake tin.