They showed "White Wedding" on VH1Classic this morning, so obviously that's an omen that I'm gonna have a good week. They also played that "maniac" song from Flashdance. Can I just say, that movie has a lot to answer for to women of my generation. I mean, aside from the fact that we all left the theater and immediately went home to cut the necks out of all our sweatshirts. Talk about wish-fulfillment fantasy. Even for those of us who could neither dance nor weld, it planted the idea that there was someone out there just like us who could, and was doing it in a too-cool-for-school loft that was light years more awesome than our crappy apartments. Yup, there was someone out there living a life that was so much cooler than ours. The response? Yo, put some more Kahlua in the blender, and do you wanna do some lines? I mean, it wasn't like anyone was gonna learn to dance or weld***. But you could abuse substances in a shirt with the sleeves cut out. Sigh.
I was also going to tell you the amazing true story of how I got my badge back (!) yesterday but I'm running late.
Namaste, bitches.
xoxo
***I did, however, know how to solder, which is sorta like welding for beginners, if you ask me.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
arts n crafts appreciation
Will someone please buy me this for the next applicable gift-giving occasion? I will be your BFF. I mean it. I know the real next gift-giving occasion is Mother's Day and it's probably way inappropriate to ask one's offspring for a possibly sacrilegious, and most probably tacky, item emblazoned with profanity, but don't you people think I deserve a present for Arbor Day or something? In fact, now that I checked, I see March 12th is International Be Nice to Andrea Day. So, like, order now and you wouldn't even have to pay for expedited shipping.
Oh, Andrea, where do you find these things? Glad you asked! It's from the makers of regretsy.com, which M2 sent me a link to earlier this week. Regretsy's motto is "where DIY meets WTF." Ha! M2 especially wanted me to see the entry about how there is all this bear-on-woman erotic art on etsy. The most fascinating and disturbing example of which depicts a naked woman being cuddled by a bear (who is gazing sadly off into the distance) while she gazes adoringly up at him and apparently fondles, or perhaps covers, herself with one mittened hand. And, in case the syntax of that sentence is unclear, I do mean to suggest she is wearing only one mitten. I dunno. Far be it from me to mock anyone else's little fetishes or sexual predilections, but I'd guess the pool of interested buyers for chick-nekkid-except-for-one-glove-with-bear pron might be...small. A shallow pool, one might suggest. More like a puddle. Hope the artist has a day job. Or, y'know, SSI!
Namaste, bitches.
xoxo
Oh, Andrea, where do you find these things? Glad you asked! It's from the makers of regretsy.com, which M2 sent me a link to earlier this week. Regretsy's motto is "where DIY meets WTF." Ha! M2 especially wanted me to see the entry about how there is all this bear-on-woman erotic art on etsy. The most fascinating and disturbing example of which depicts a naked woman being cuddled by a bear (who is gazing sadly off into the distance) while she gazes adoringly up at him and apparently fondles, or perhaps covers, herself with one mittened hand. And, in case the syntax of that sentence is unclear, I do mean to suggest she is wearing only one mitten. I dunno. Far be it from me to mock anyone else's little fetishes or sexual predilections, but I'd guess the pool of interested buyers for chick-nekkid-except-for-one-glove-with-bear pron might be...small. A shallow pool, one might suggest. More like a puddle. Hope the artist has a day job. Or, y'know, SSI!
Namaste, bitches.
xoxo
Friday, February 26, 2010
pink tutu, stat!
The exclamation marks in blog titles will stop any time now. Any time now.
So, do y'all remember sometime last year when we were talking about sexting in here, and I said that I thought things were worse and more restrictive for girls in 2009 than back in my day? If not, too bad. You could look it up. Anyway! I have new evidence.
So, do y'all know who Shiloh Jolie-Pitt is? You can probably guess by the name that she's Brad and Angelina's kid. Furthermore, she's their biological child (and, therefore, hit the genetic megabucks, looks-wise.) She is three. Well, the whole world--by which I mean, of course, the effin' media--is in an uproar because little Miss Jolie-Pitt has a new, short boyish haircut. But even before that, they were on high alert: Angelina dresses her in "boy" clothes, the definition of which seems to be jeans, and shirts that are not pink. Apparently US Weekly did a whole story about whether Brad and Angie were going to confuse young Shiloh about her sexuality if they didn't knock that the hell off. They called in psychology experts and everything to weigh in on this crucial matter. I assume these experts got their psychiatry degrees from the same crackerjack box I did, but nevertheless they apparently said that it was okay as long as Angelina wasn't "repressing" Shiloh by forcing her to wear jeans.
Well, leaving aside the fact that parents of 3 year olds *have* to force their children to wear many things they would prefer not to (i.e. our lil MILF's 3 year old wanted to wear a sundress to school two days ago, in February, in the pouring rain, and protested being forced to wear a sweatsuit and UGGs instead by taking ten minutes to walk from the door to the car), it is apparently a given in 2010 that all little girls want to wear pink ruffles all the time and do not want to wear jeans like, say, their mothers. And if they ever deviate from this path, they are lesbians-in-training.
This is definitely a step back from my childhood wherein it was properly assumed that sometimes little girls would want to wear sparkly tutus and sometimes they'd want to wear grubby playclothes and they might go through phases when they wanted to wear a frilly dress every day and others when they refused to put a dress on unless forced. And there was none of this fetishization of the fucking color pink. My favorite dress when I was five was orange and purple paisley. Shut up, it was 1968. I also had hair shorter than Miss Jolie-Pitt's, which was not *my* choice. My mother followed through on her promise to cut it if I didn't cooperate with brushing it. (For the record, I grew up to have sex with men despite this horrible repression.)
Even in work today, all our stickers are gendered. Spiderman and Transformers for the boys, Disney Princesses and Barbie for the girls. I can't really compare that to my childhood, however, since if I remember correctly, there was no such thing as stickers-for-prizes. We got nice sugary teeth-rotting lollipops at the doctor, thankyouverymuch. But I do remember there being at least a nod towards there being things that boys and girls both like: animals! bike riding!*** Speed Racer! Snoopy!
I dunno. I know I'm just old and cranky, but you can't convince me things haven't gone backwards. Girls can play on boys' sports teams, which is great, but they better have long hair and pink nail polish while they're doing so, which isn't.
xoxo
**Okay, alright, my first bike was a raspberry/magenta color with sparkly silver handlebar grips with fringe and a sparkly silver banana seat, but it wasn't pink and it didn't have a Disney Princess anywhere on it.
So, do y'all remember sometime last year when we were talking about sexting in here, and I said that I thought things were worse and more restrictive for girls in 2009 than back in my day? If not, too bad. You could look it up. Anyway! I have new evidence.
So, do y'all know who Shiloh Jolie-Pitt is? You can probably guess by the name that she's Brad and Angelina's kid. Furthermore, she's their biological child (and, therefore, hit the genetic megabucks, looks-wise.) She is three. Well, the whole world--by which I mean, of course, the effin' media--is in an uproar because little Miss Jolie-Pitt has a new, short boyish haircut. But even before that, they were on high alert: Angelina dresses her in "boy" clothes, the definition of which seems to be jeans, and shirts that are not pink. Apparently US Weekly did a whole story about whether Brad and Angie were going to confuse young Shiloh about her sexuality if they didn't knock that the hell off. They called in psychology experts and everything to weigh in on this crucial matter. I assume these experts got their psychiatry degrees from the same crackerjack box I did, but nevertheless they apparently said that it was okay as long as Angelina wasn't "repressing" Shiloh by forcing her to wear jeans.
Well, leaving aside the fact that parents of 3 year olds *have* to force their children to wear many things they would prefer not to (i.e. our lil MILF's 3 year old wanted to wear a sundress to school two days ago, in February, in the pouring rain, and protested being forced to wear a sweatsuit and UGGs instead by taking ten minutes to walk from the door to the car), it is apparently a given in 2010 that all little girls want to wear pink ruffles all the time and do not want to wear jeans like, say, their mothers. And if they ever deviate from this path, they are lesbians-in-training.
This is definitely a step back from my childhood wherein it was properly assumed that sometimes little girls would want to wear sparkly tutus and sometimes they'd want to wear grubby playclothes and they might go through phases when they wanted to wear a frilly dress every day and others when they refused to put a dress on unless forced. And there was none of this fetishization of the fucking color pink. My favorite dress when I was five was orange and purple paisley. Shut up, it was 1968. I also had hair shorter than Miss Jolie-Pitt's, which was not *my* choice. My mother followed through on her promise to cut it if I didn't cooperate with brushing it. (For the record, I grew up to have sex with men despite this horrible repression.)
Even in work today, all our stickers are gendered. Spiderman and Transformers for the boys, Disney Princesses and Barbie for the girls. I can't really compare that to my childhood, however, since if I remember correctly, there was no such thing as stickers-for-prizes. We got nice sugary teeth-rotting lollipops at the doctor, thankyouverymuch. But I do remember there being at least a nod towards there being things that boys and girls both like: animals! bike riding!*** Speed Racer! Snoopy!
I dunno. I know I'm just old and cranky, but you can't convince me things haven't gone backwards. Girls can play on boys' sports teams, which is great, but they better have long hair and pink nail polish while they're doing so, which isn't.
xoxo
**Okay, alright, my first bike was a raspberry/magenta color with sparkly silver handlebar grips with fringe and a sparkly silver banana seat, but it wasn't pink and it didn't have a Disney Princess anywhere on it.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
danny ainge!
So I missed a couple weeks of bar trivia, during which time our team went right down the crapper. Proving, of course, that I am indispensable. However, last night I was back, baby. We not only won the evening, we totally humiliated the competition, winning by over twenty points. Mr Barma suggested I show my $25 Simon Mall gift card prize around the office today and brag, but you know I have to brag here instead.
My absolute most brag worthy contribution was that solely on the basis of the clues NCAA, born in 1959, and Brigham Young, I came up with Mr Ainge. When I was teased the rest of the evening for now being the sports-trivia-go-to-person (you know I'm not--when Mr Barma and his friend Sean correctly answered Robert Parrish to another question later, I was deeply dubious), I kept saying, "I know my Mormons!" Ahem. It's bar trivia. There's drinking involved.
There was also something else I was supposed to brag about in work today, but we're not even going there.
But if we are gonna also discuss stuff I should be deeply ashamed of, I thought Ecuador was spelled with a Q. Luckily, ::cough:: Paco ::cough:: knew I was wrong.
Alright. Enough nonsense. I just would also like to draw your attention to the fact of spring training, suckahs. Just think, I will soon return to our normal blog feature of bitching and grousing about the Red Sox. You know you missed it. Who will be the next E6 or "Nancy" Drew? Stay tuned!
xoxo
My absolute most brag worthy contribution was that solely on the basis of the clues NCAA, born in 1959, and Brigham Young, I came up with Mr Ainge. When I was teased the rest of the evening for now being the sports-trivia-go-to-person (you know I'm not--when Mr Barma and his friend Sean correctly answered Robert Parrish to another question later, I was deeply dubious), I kept saying, "I know my Mormons!" Ahem. It's bar trivia. There's drinking involved.
There was also something else I was supposed to brag about in work today, but we're not even going there.
But if we are gonna also discuss stuff I should be deeply ashamed of, I thought Ecuador was spelled with a Q. Luckily, ::cough:: Paco ::cough:: knew I was wrong.
Alright. Enough nonsense. I just would also like to draw your attention to the fact of spring training, suckahs. Just think, I will soon return to our normal blog feature of bitching and grousing about the Red Sox. You know you missed it. Who will be the next E6 or "Nancy" Drew? Stay tuned!
xoxo
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
in which i think everyone should be interested in my bullshit
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Monday, February 22, 2010
just a numbah
Mr Indemnity and I were talking about how close our respective EyeGuys have told us we are to needing bifocals, and I reminded him that I was told I was just a few years away in the very same conversation that I was informed my dry eyes were very common in women "approaching 50." This led to a little mini-rant on how it just isn't possible that I'm almost fifty. I mean, I have a grown child, so obviously I can't delude myself into thinking I'm a young woman. And I've had more doctor's visits in the last year than in, probably, the previous ten, so obviously my body is falling apart. But goddamn it. I can't possibly be closer to death than childhood.
In a way, I've been lucky that, since my mid-30s, I've had various older women friends over 50 who didn't seem "old", who didn't seem to have given up and settled for being stodgy, uninteresting, unattractive, and whatever other stereotypical adjectives you could pin on women approaching, or through, menopause. They were learning and doing new things. They didn't dress solely from the Dowdy Department at LLBean. They were interested in sex. (Coincidentally or not, they all also live(d) in the city [which just reinforces my own opinion that suburbs=death] and they are/were all in long term marriages [which just reinforces my opinion that I'm doomed, I guess.]) But, anyway, y'know, I've had role models. I'm not going quietly, and you can pry my hoodies and funky shoes and lace camis from my cold dead hands and/or feet and/or pudgy belly, bifocals or not.
In summary, fuck you again, Eye Guy. And I can't be closer to death than childhood. There was a point to all this. Really.
xoxo
In a way, I've been lucky that, since my mid-30s, I've had various older women friends over 50 who didn't seem "old", who didn't seem to have given up and settled for being stodgy, uninteresting, unattractive, and whatever other stereotypical adjectives you could pin on women approaching, or through, menopause. They were learning and doing new things. They didn't dress solely from the Dowdy Department at LLBean. They were interested in sex. (Coincidentally or not, they all also live(d) in the city [which just reinforces my own opinion that suburbs=death] and they are/were all in long term marriages [which just reinforces my opinion that I'm doomed, I guess.]) But, anyway, y'know, I've had role models. I'm not going quietly, and you can pry my hoodies and funky shoes and lace camis from my cold dead hands and/or feet and/or pudgy belly, bifocals or not.
In summary, fuck you again, Eye Guy. And I can't be closer to death than childhood. There was a point to all this. Really.
xoxo
Sunday, February 21, 2010
random sunday breakfast thoughts
1.) What do they call English muffins in Britain? American muffins? Actually, are they crumpets? What's a crumpet?
2.) Obligatory Tiger Woods comment, so I don't get drummed out of the blogosphere for neglecting my duty: I wish I had been one of the people on the street the local news vultures were asking "What would you like to hear Tiger say?" (in his apology) last week. How much satisfaction would I have gotten in my opportunity to say,"Not a goddamn thing. How is this any of my, or your, business? It's between him, his wife, and his mistresses"? A lot. That's how much.
3.) Obligatory Tiger Woods comment #2: I think "sex addiction" is a load of crap. People who just can't keep their pants on even when it's likely to lead to a whole lot of trouble may have certain mental issues, but "addiction" is not one of them. The whole addiction model is the bane of the fucking late 20th/early 21st century. IMHO.
4.) My new rug looks awesome, but do you know how heavy a 8x10 "jute boucle" carpet is? I have no idea how I would have gotten that thing up the stairs and into the other room without my kid. Which is, I suppose, a point in favor of procreating for any of you who are on the fence.
5.) They are playing really sucky videos on Totally 80s this morning. I mean, Whitney Houston? When Billy Idol has a whole ouevre they could be showing me? C'mon now. I suppose that is my cue to stop screwing around and go get dressed and outta here.
Adios!
xoxo
2.) Obligatory Tiger Woods comment, so I don't get drummed out of the blogosphere for neglecting my duty: I wish I had been one of the people on the street the local news vultures were asking "What would you like to hear Tiger say?" (in his apology) last week. How much satisfaction would I have gotten in my opportunity to say,"Not a goddamn thing. How is this any of my, or your, business? It's between him, his wife, and his mistresses"? A lot. That's how much.
3.) Obligatory Tiger Woods comment #2: I think "sex addiction" is a load of crap. People who just can't keep their pants on even when it's likely to lead to a whole lot of trouble may have certain mental issues, but "addiction" is not one of them. The whole addiction model is the bane of the fucking late 20th/early 21st century. IMHO.
4.) My new rug looks awesome, but do you know how heavy a 8x10 "jute boucle" carpet is? I have no idea how I would have gotten that thing up the stairs and into the other room without my kid. Which is, I suppose, a point in favor of procreating for any of you who are on the fence.
5.) They are playing really sucky videos on Totally 80s this morning. I mean, Whitney Houston? When Billy Idol has a whole ouevre they could be showing me? C'mon now. I suppose that is my cue to stop screwing around and go get dressed and outta here.
Adios!
xoxo
Saturday, February 20, 2010
i'm so irritated
Mostly with myself. Also with this crappy new purse I've complained about before. And, y'know, the universe in general.
So, like I said, I was going to watch my friend perform last night. As most of you all know, I next to never go out on Friday night. I get up really early Friday morning and then again Saturday morning, so Friday is actually the very worst night of the week for me to do anything, despite its party central reputation. But of the various days and times my friend was going to be on stage this weekend, late Friday evening was the only one that was going to work for me. And I'd promised that I'd go. And I did want to go to show my support anyway.
Therefore, despite my tiredness, I came home, bathed, changed, put on my new boots, and got ready to go into town. Before I was leaving, I looked in my purse to see what I could leave home to lighten my load. I took out my planner. I took out my sunglasses. Then, in a fit of precognition, I looked at my work badge, thought about it, then decided it wasn't heavy anyway and if I took it out, I'd forget to put it back in in the morning.
Went to the festival. Along the way put my gloves in my purse, took them out, put them in. Took my iPod out, put it in, took it out, put it in. Took my wallet out once and put it back. Put the play program in, took it out, out/in...repeat several times. Took my glasses out. Took my phone out to mute it and then half-took it out a few times to check the time. Almost nodded off in the dark theater a few times, from tiredness, not boredom. Was completely exhausted by the time I got home just after midnight.
Get up five hours later, go to work, realize as I'm walking in that I can't find my badge in my purse to swipe in. Go down to my office, dump the entire contents of my bag on the stretcher and realize that it's NOT IN THERE. Ransack my desk to find my old, broken badge which nevertheless still swipes, and go back upstairs to do so, so, y'know, I'll get paid. Call D and ask him to search the upstairs for my badge in case I *had* taken it out last night when I looked at it. Nope.
So, apparently, last night between my exhaustion, my normal klutziness and disorganization, and the bad bad design of that fucking bag, when I was pulling one of many objects out of my purse on one of those many occasions, I accidentally dumped my badge out too, didn't notice, and have now lost it. Which means Monday I have to go to work early, go to Human Resources where, if I present ID, a DNA sample, and my firstborn child, *maybe* they'll give me the paperwork authorizing a new badge which I will then have to schlep over to security in order to actually get one. Pain in my ass.
Plus the idea of some stranger finding my ID on the street freaks me out for reasons that are somewhat unclear.
Boo!
xoxo
So, like I said, I was going to watch my friend perform last night. As most of you all know, I next to never go out on Friday night. I get up really early Friday morning and then again Saturday morning, so Friday is actually the very worst night of the week for me to do anything, despite its party central reputation. But of the various days and times my friend was going to be on stage this weekend, late Friday evening was the only one that was going to work for me. And I'd promised that I'd go. And I did want to go to show my support anyway.
Therefore, despite my tiredness, I came home, bathed, changed, put on my new boots, and got ready to go into town. Before I was leaving, I looked in my purse to see what I could leave home to lighten my load. I took out my planner. I took out my sunglasses. Then, in a fit of precognition, I looked at my work badge, thought about it, then decided it wasn't heavy anyway and if I took it out, I'd forget to put it back in in the morning.
Went to the festival. Along the way put my gloves in my purse, took them out, put them in. Took my iPod out, put it in, took it out, put it in. Took my wallet out once and put it back. Put the play program in, took it out, out/in...repeat several times. Took my glasses out. Took my phone out to mute it and then half-took it out a few times to check the time. Almost nodded off in the dark theater a few times, from tiredness, not boredom. Was completely exhausted by the time I got home just after midnight.
Get up five hours later, go to work, realize as I'm walking in that I can't find my badge in my purse to swipe in. Go down to my office, dump the entire contents of my bag on the stretcher and realize that it's NOT IN THERE. Ransack my desk to find my old, broken badge which nevertheless still swipes, and go back upstairs to do so, so, y'know, I'll get paid. Call D and ask him to search the upstairs for my badge in case I *had* taken it out last night when I looked at it. Nope.
So, apparently, last night between my exhaustion, my normal klutziness and disorganization, and the bad bad design of that fucking bag, when I was pulling one of many objects out of my purse on one of those many occasions, I accidentally dumped my badge out too, didn't notice, and have now lost it. Which means Monday I have to go to work early, go to Human Resources where, if I present ID, a DNA sample, and my firstborn child, *maybe* they'll give me the paperwork authorizing a new badge which I will then have to schlep over to security in order to actually get one. Pain in my ass.
Plus the idea of some stranger finding my ID on the street freaks me out for reasons that are somewhat unclear.
Boo!
xoxo
Friday, February 19, 2010
this will all make perfect sense
There are two ways I could approach telling all y'all this story, because two threads need to come together to explain my behavior properly. Not excuse it, explain it. Just to get that out of the way.
So, eeny meeny miney mo, let's go with this. Every year around this time, I wake up one day and am so sick of all my winter clothes that the thought of putting any of them on one more time makes me want to spit. This usually leads to very unwise shopping trips, where beguiled by the early spring clothing in the malls and gripped with my hatred of what I am wearing, I purchase things like pastel colored sweaters (keeping in mind pastel colors almost universally make me look like I died three days ago) or button-down blouses (keeping in mind that the button-down shirt that fits both my boobs and my ribcage and shoulders properly does not exist in this particular universe). Things like that. Unwise. Well, I think yesterday was in fact the day I woke wanting to give every piece of cold weather clothing I own and wear to work to some poor homeless person who'd probably prefer a garbage bag, thnx. This is particularly exacerbated this year by the fact that I've been wearing a lot of my work clothes pretty much year round: black pants, thin cardigans over camis, thin cardigans over plain dresses, blah blah. Blah is right.
Part the second. I have this monetary quirk. I will not spend any money other than what I really really have to for a few months at a time, try to build up my checking account, take great satisfaction in seeing my balance at the end of the month being higher than at the beginning, etc. But then I'll need (or, yeah, want) to make a significant purchase--in this case, my visit from the got-junk-guys and my new picture--and it's as if the flood gates will open and I will feel like, okay, I spent some money, so let's spend some more! So, you know, I bought the jacket with my gift card, which therefore shouldn't count, but I also bought the new rug for my massage room, which was a supah wicked good deal, I thought, so also shouldn't count. But then again, I've got the electrician coming probably the first week in March. So, yeah, in a spend, not save, cycle.
And this is how it came to pass that last night at 10:30 pm I bought two new pairs of shoes from zappos for full price. The End.
xoxo
Addendum: You know you wanna see. Don't lie.
cool blue-green boots and funky massage therapist shoes
Addendum II: I ordered them last night at 10:30 pm and this afternoon the UPS man brought them to my door at 4:15. With standard shipping. Zappos has the best customer service in the world. And my "algae" boots are on my feet right now so that I might wear them to the the-ay-tuh.
So, eeny meeny miney mo, let's go with this. Every year around this time, I wake up one day and am so sick of all my winter clothes that the thought of putting any of them on one more time makes me want to spit. This usually leads to very unwise shopping trips, where beguiled by the early spring clothing in the malls and gripped with my hatred of what I am wearing, I purchase things like pastel colored sweaters (keeping in mind pastel colors almost universally make me look like I died three days ago) or button-down blouses (keeping in mind that the button-down shirt that fits both my boobs and my ribcage and shoulders properly does not exist in this particular universe). Things like that. Unwise. Well, I think yesterday was in fact the day I woke wanting to give every piece of cold weather clothing I own and wear to work to some poor homeless person who'd probably prefer a garbage bag, thnx. This is particularly exacerbated this year by the fact that I've been wearing a lot of my work clothes pretty much year round: black pants, thin cardigans over camis, thin cardigans over plain dresses, blah blah. Blah is right.
Part the second. I have this monetary quirk. I will not spend any money other than what I really really have to for a few months at a time, try to build up my checking account, take great satisfaction in seeing my balance at the end of the month being higher than at the beginning, etc. But then I'll need (or, yeah, want) to make a significant purchase--in this case, my visit from the got-junk-guys and my new picture--and it's as if the flood gates will open and I will feel like, okay, I spent some money, so let's spend some more! So, you know, I bought the jacket with my gift card, which therefore shouldn't count, but I also bought the new rug for my massage room, which was a supah wicked good deal, I thought, so also shouldn't count. But then again, I've got the electrician coming probably the first week in March. So, yeah, in a spend, not save, cycle.
And this is how it came to pass that last night at 10:30 pm I bought two new pairs of shoes from zappos for full price. The End.
xoxo
Addendum: You know you wanna see. Don't lie.
cool blue-green boots and funky massage therapist shoes
Addendum II: I ordered them last night at 10:30 pm and this afternoon the UPS man brought them to my door at 4:15. With standard shipping. Zappos has the best customer service in the world. And my "algae" boots are on my feet right now so that I might wear them to the the-ay-tuh.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
the end times be coming
There is some argument over whether this hilarious crazeeness is a hoax or for real, but the latest I've heard is that it was started by an atheist to bilk nutty fundies out of their money, which he then donates to charity.
I think if I were a nutty fundy, I would be teaching Evil Kitty how to operate a can opener on her own, lack of opposable thumbs notwithstanding, rather than trust her well-being to a bunch of godless heathens, who'll be busy being consumed by plagues, etc, anyway.
(If I have that right. Catholics don't believe in the Rapture, so they didn't teach me any of the specifics of this back when I used to go to church. Someone correct me if I'm wrong about the plague thing.)
xoxo
I think if I were a nutty fundy, I would be teaching Evil Kitty how to operate a can opener on her own, lack of opposable thumbs notwithstanding, rather than trust her well-being to a bunch of godless heathens, who'll be busy being consumed by plagues, etc, anyway.
(If I have that right. Catholics don't believe in the Rapture, so they didn't teach me any of the specifics of this back when I used to go to church. Someone correct me if I'm wrong about the plague thing.)
xoxo
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
let's pimp some things
1.) A very, very good friend of mine has been volunteering for, and is performing in, a Russian theater festival this weekend. See? Despite the fact that, as we all know, theater is not my thing, I shall be attending and I'ma like it, goddamnit. If theater *is* your thing, I recommend you check it out!
2.) Remember this jacket/vest? On sale for $60, so I bought it with an Xmas giftcard I've been holding on to. They still have it in most of the colors in most of the sizes, in case you wanna be my glam jacket twin. Check it out!
3.) As I mentioned to someone the other day, Trudie Styler has a yoga video out. I haven't bought it, but since, like Jay-Z, I think Sting needs more money, I suggest you check it out!
Okay, I think that's the end of my commercial endorsements. No lite beer required.
xoxo
2.) Remember this jacket/vest? On sale for $60, so I bought it with an Xmas giftcard I've been holding on to. They still have it in most of the colors in most of the sizes, in case you wanna be my glam jacket twin. Check it out!
3.) As I mentioned to someone the other day, Trudie Styler has a yoga video out. I haven't bought it, but since, like Jay-Z, I think Sting needs more money, I suggest you check it out!
Okay, I think that's the end of my commercial endorsements. No lite beer required.
xoxo
Monday, February 15, 2010
this the life that everybody ask for
For a good chunk of my childhood, my uncle, aunt, and little cousin lived in the first-floor apartment in my house. My cousin, whom we shall call Ann because that was her name, was two years younger than me. Because neither of us had a sister, we had somewhat of a sisterly relationship between us. The crucial difference being, of course--besides that whole "mom loves you better than me" thing--that when one of us got on the other's nerves, we could just go to our own house. It was brilliant.
(Though, I have to say, this was the source of an important life lesson for me. One day when I was probably ten or so, Ann was upstairs playing at my house and my BFF Debbie called and asked if she could come over. So I told Ann she had to go home. Lemme tell you, when my mother found out I had done that, she was *so* angry with me. I got in so much trouble. I swear, I hadn't done it to be mean. It hadn't even occurred to me I was being mean. But, ohmygod, once it was forcefully pointed out to me, I've never done that shit again.)
Anyway, often when we got home from school, if neither of us was doing anything else, I would go downstairs to Ann's house. And when I was in fourth or fifth grade, what would happen is this: Ann would beg me to play Barbies, I would say no, she would beg some more, and then I would "give in." Except, actually, I wanted to play Barbies all along but was supposed to be too old and too cool to do that, so I had to pretend I was doing her the favor. We would act out these elaborate soap operas, many of which would leave Barbie and friends nekkid, limbless, with unfortunate humiliating haircuts, etc. I'm sure a psychologist would have had a field day.
What brings this up? I woke up out of this dream I was having this morning (in which I was staying at a hotel at a conference with three other people and the toilet above our room exploded, ruining all our stuff, and infuriatingly, the hotel was only going to buy us one set of clothes in recompense, but dolls were also involved somehow) and for some reason, it occurred to me that writing fiction was the [somewhat] socially acceptable equivalent of playing Barbies for adults. You get to make up all these people and what they do and say and think and feel and wear and where they go and how they get there, and if they end up nekkid and limbless, oh well. Of course, when you're *really* writing fiction, you have to worry about things like plausible plotting and consistent characterization and interesting dialogue blah blah. Buzzkill. So, y'know, you can always just make up stories to yourself about the people on the bus. Ahem.
xoxo
(Though, I have to say, this was the source of an important life lesson for me. One day when I was probably ten or so, Ann was upstairs playing at my house and my BFF Debbie called and asked if she could come over. So I told Ann she had to go home. Lemme tell you, when my mother found out I had done that, she was *so* angry with me. I got in so much trouble. I swear, I hadn't done it to be mean. It hadn't even occurred to me I was being mean. But, ohmygod, once it was forcefully pointed out to me, I've never done that shit again.)
Anyway, often when we got home from school, if neither of us was doing anything else, I would go downstairs to Ann's house. And when I was in fourth or fifth grade, what would happen is this: Ann would beg me to play Barbies, I would say no, she would beg some more, and then I would "give in." Except, actually, I wanted to play Barbies all along but was supposed to be too old and too cool to do that, so I had to pretend I was doing her the favor. We would act out these elaborate soap operas, many of which would leave Barbie and friends nekkid, limbless, with unfortunate humiliating haircuts, etc. I'm sure a psychologist would have had a field day.
What brings this up? I woke up out of this dream I was having this morning (in which I was staying at a hotel at a conference with three other people and the toilet above our room exploded, ruining all our stuff, and infuriatingly, the hotel was only going to buy us one set of clothes in recompense, but dolls were also involved somehow) and for some reason, it occurred to me that writing fiction was the [somewhat] socially acceptable equivalent of playing Barbies for adults. You get to make up all these people and what they do and say and think and feel and wear and where they go and how they get there, and if they end up nekkid and limbless, oh well. Of course, when you're *really* writing fiction, you have to worry about things like plausible plotting and consistent characterization and interesting dialogue blah blah. Buzzkill. So, y'know, you can always just make up stories to yourself about the people on the bus. Ahem.
xoxo
Sunday, February 14, 2010
you're living in your own private idaho II
Okay, I couldn't resist. The wall color still doesn't show up right, even without the flash on, but it's closer to what it looks like in real life.
And, here's your bonus:
Some of the Blik, in case that's not obvious.
In other news, 'cause there's always other news, when I just took my little walk to the CVS and the bakery (because my dad made it to 84, did I mention?), I saw a kid walking his girlfriend on a leash. It was a choke chain, too. Happy Valentine's Day! Ha!
xoxo
And, here's your bonus:
Some of the Blik, in case that's not obvious.
In other news, 'cause there's always other news, when I just took my little walk to the CVS and the bakery (because my dad made it to 84, did I mention?), I saw a kid walking his girlfriend on a leash. It was a choke chain, too. Happy Valentine's Day! Ha!
xoxo
you're living in your own private idaho
Speaking of advertising... Anyone get emails from redsox.com? Today's little offer in my inbox is for SRO flex pax which give you "the best access to concessions and restrooms." Well, that's certainly putting a positive spin on things, isn't it? Yup, I wouldn't want anything like an actual seat to stand in the way of my buying expensive, crappy beer and then peeing it back out again.
In other news, my massage room is finished. Done. (Well, except for the fact that I need an area rug in there to cover up the parts of the carpet that are irredeemably stained. I'm close to ordering one of those, too.) I spent about two hours yesterday moving around furniture in there and, while I'm not completely convinced the arrangement is any better than the one I had before I moved everything out to paint, it looks really good. I even kinda sorta fixed the broken closet door. With some (mostly) hidden duct tape. I may not have skillz, but I have ingenuity.
There'd be pictures but, you know. Crappy camera.
xoxo
In other news, my massage room is finished. Done. (Well, except for the fact that I need an area rug in there to cover up the parts of the carpet that are irredeemably stained. I'm close to ordering one of those, too.) I spent about two hours yesterday moving around furniture in there and, while I'm not completely convinced the arrangement is any better than the one I had before I moved everything out to paint, it looks really good. I even kinda sorta fixed the broken closet door. With some (mostly) hidden duct tape. I may not have skillz, but I have ingenuity.
There'd be pictures but, you know. Crappy camera.
xoxo
Saturday, February 13, 2010
unhappy with the riches, 'cause you're piss-poor morally
How hard do you think this would be to put up on my ceiling?
For context, it's paintable wallpaper. See? http://www.grahambrown.com/us/product/12011/Small%20Squares/5?show=
I know, I know, "just say no, Andrea." Sigh. These are the times I really, really miss my mom. In my old house in the 'hood, where we lived when D was little, she and I wallpapered D's nursery, and my dining room. By which I mean to say, obviously, she did all the hard parts that took skill and I followed orders and did the grunt work. It looked really nice (though it's really bothering me that I can't remember if the wallpaper in the dining room was above or below the chair rail, goddamnit.) I'm a lot more skeptical of decent results trying to do it by myself.
Maybe I need to go hang out in Home Depot today in a hoodie that's unzipped enough to show some boob. My future contractor second ex-husband ain't gonna find himself. I should probably do my hair and put some makeup on if I'ma do that, though! This staying home from work and painting thing hasn't exactly led to what one would call good grooming. By any means.
xoxo
Friday, February 12, 2010
go hard or go home, back to your residence
See what I bought today? (Probably not, because I can't figure out how to make it any larger than this. Put on your glasses!)
Anyway, it's a Tibetan thangka, or rather, a picture of a Tibetan thangka. (If you could actually see it, I'm sure you would agree it's awesome.) Art.com had better stop sending me coupons, because I use them. 22% off a piece of art you don't need is still 22% off. And I did need to buy myself a Valentines Day gift. Because I love myself. Ahem.
But before I purchased myself a prezzie, I painted my massage room. And before *that*, I had the 1-800-gotjunk guys over. They are big strong young gentlemen, lemme tell you. I only got two, though, not a whole team like on Hoarders.
Anyway, my point is, I had a productive day. ARE YOU IN A COMA YET????? I'll have to try even harder.
xoxo
Anyway, it's a Tibetan thangka, or rather, a picture of a Tibetan thangka. (If you could actually see it, I'm sure you would agree it's awesome.) Art.com had better stop sending me coupons, because I use them. 22% off a piece of art you don't need is still 22% off. And I did need to buy myself a Valentines Day gift. Because I love myself. Ahem.
But before I purchased myself a prezzie, I painted my massage room. And before *that*, I had the 1-800-gotjunk guys over. They are big strong young gentlemen, lemme tell you. I only got two, though, not a whole team like on Hoarders.
Anyway, my point is, I had a productive day. ARE YOU IN A COMA YET????? I'll have to try even harder.
xoxo
from my brain is where I bleed
You've heard about Lindsey Vonn, the Olympic skier, and her shin injury? In an attempt to get her recovered enough to compete in all her events, they are trying a number of desperate measures. She is having manual lymph drainage, which is a type of massage that I know very little about, other than it exists and is very popular in Europe. They are slathering her leg in castor oil, which puzzles me, since I thought that was an internal, not topical, treatment. And, finally, they are also topically applying a certain type of Austrian cheese. Huh? I know cheese is in many ways a magical substance, but I was totally unaware of its physical healing properties. (Obviously, mentally it makes everything bettah.)
Dunno. I'm thinking that if you have a huge debilitating sports-injury bruise and you're looking to Alpine products to heal it, you might be better off with arnica.
xoxo
Dunno. I'm thinking that if you have a huge debilitating sports-injury bruise and you're looking to Alpine products to heal it, you might be better off with arnica.
xoxo
Thursday, February 11, 2010
meet you downstairs in the bar, and hurt
In good news--and my attempt to bore you all into a coma deeper than the one my ex-husband recently emerged from--let me tell you that my electrician came today, apologized profusely that he screwed up yesterday, and gave me an estimate for $300 for all the work I want done (which I thought was more than reasonable). In bad news part 1, when I asked him how easily he could put in an outlet in a wall which has none, he had to go down into the basement to see what was under there, and I was totally humiliated. Sigh.
In bad news part 2, my happy happy vacation mood has dissipated, which is primarily, if not solely, my own damn fault, since a.) I did something(s) that I pretty much knew would put me in a bad mood and b.) even though I know my negativity is more about me than about objective reality, I un-Buddhistly still mired myself in it. In one of my Buddhism books, there's a quote from Mark Twain which is, paraphrased, "I've lived a life of tragedies and misfortunes, most of which never happened." I can identify. The Buddhists are big on "the stories we tell ourselves" and not blindly accepting them. I think I was doing better with that, but apparently I'm backsliding. Sigh again. I think it's probably partly that since I haven't been doing yoga while resting my back, I also haven't been meditating. I should probably do the meta while I'm painting or some such shit.
ARE YOU IN A COMA YET????? I'll have to try harder.
xoxo
In bad news part 2, my happy happy vacation mood has dissipated, which is primarily, if not solely, my own damn fault, since a.) I did something(s) that I pretty much knew would put me in a bad mood and b.) even though I know my negativity is more about me than about objective reality, I un-Buddhistly still mired myself in it. In one of my Buddhism books, there's a quote from Mark Twain which is, paraphrased, "I've lived a life of tragedies and misfortunes, most of which never happened." I can identify. The Buddhists are big on "the stories we tell ourselves" and not blindly accepting them. I think I was doing better with that, but apparently I'm backsliding. Sigh again. I think it's probably partly that since I haven't been doing yoga while resting my back, I also haven't been meditating. I should probably do the meta while I'm painting or some such shit.
ARE YOU IN A COMA YET????? I'll have to try harder.
xoxo
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
hey sista go sista soul sista go sista
I can't spell the French lyric, but I remember what a scandal they were to a bunch of sixth graders. That same bunch of sixth graders thought the lyric in Bennie and the Jets was "she's got electric boobs..." Ah, puberty.
Hey, kids! It is 4:50 pm and my electrician never came by for the estimate and never called. Once again, people are refusing to take my money. The new vet's office I want to take Evil Kitty to never returned my call either. Do people not *want* business? How can you run a capitalist system like that? But I did give the upstairs hallway another coat o' paint. Without any loud music. Because I wanted to be able to hear the doorbell and/or my phone. In case the electrician remembered that I'm alive and that I would like to write him a big check. Sigh.
After dinner I shall do more things upstairs and there will be rocking out. Hand to god.
In other news, did I tell you? I'm going to the Buddhist chanting thing next Tuesday. I'm pretty excited about that. Secondly, I got two new yoga videos from amazon today, which I would totally be trying out if I didn't eff up my back last week. Should I just slather on some arnica and go for it anyway? Thirdly, did you know Jay-Z is coming to the "Banknorth" Gahhhden this summer? Anyone got a fourteen year old I can borrow? Because I don't think old white people like me are allowed in if they aren't chaperoning teenagers, and I would really like to add to Mr Carter-Knowles' fortune so he can buy some better basketball players. Or something. Lastly, speaking of Mr Carter-Knowles and that song of his that's stuck in my head, as I was telling Mr Indemnity yesterday, the video for Run This Town is very post-apocalyptic Mad Max-ish, and I would really, really like someone in academia to write a paper on how that movie, besides introducing the world to Mel Gibson, has been a seminal influence on rap videos. Actually lastly, do not feel bad for Mr Indemnity that he has to listen to me go on about this stuff. He owes me for all the many hours of relationship advice I've given him over the years. "If you're havin girl problems, I feel bad for you, son..." Ha!
Even my electrician problem has not destroyed my very good mood! Because, y'know, I'm on vacation. True fact.
xoxo
Hey, kids! It is 4:50 pm and my electrician never came by for the estimate and never called. Once again, people are refusing to take my money. The new vet's office I want to take Evil Kitty to never returned my call either. Do people not *want* business? How can you run a capitalist system like that? But I did give the upstairs hallway another coat o' paint. Without any loud music. Because I wanted to be able to hear the doorbell and/or my phone. In case the electrician remembered that I'm alive and that I would like to write him a big check. Sigh.
After dinner I shall do more things upstairs and there will be rocking out. Hand to god.
In other news, did I tell you? I'm going to the Buddhist chanting thing next Tuesday. I'm pretty excited about that. Secondly, I got two new yoga videos from amazon today, which I would totally be trying out if I didn't eff up my back last week. Should I just slather on some arnica and go for it anyway? Thirdly, did you know Jay-Z is coming to the "Banknorth" Gahhhden this summer? Anyone got a fourteen year old I can borrow? Because I don't think old white people like me are allowed in if they aren't chaperoning teenagers, and I would really like to add to Mr Carter-Knowles' fortune so he can buy some better basketball players. Or something. Lastly, speaking of Mr Carter-Knowles and that song of his that's stuck in my head, as I was telling Mr Indemnity yesterday, the video for Run This Town is very post-apocalyptic Mad Max-ish, and I would really, really like someone in academia to write a paper on how that movie, besides introducing the world to Mel Gibson, has been a seminal influence on rap videos. Actually lastly, do not feel bad for Mr Indemnity that he has to listen to me go on about this stuff. He owes me for all the many hours of relationship advice I've given him over the years. "If you're havin girl problems, I feel bad for you, son..." Ha!
Even my electrician problem has not destroyed my very good mood! Because, y'know, I'm on vacation. True fact.
xoxo
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
who gonna run this town tonite
I think I'm going to use random lyrics that have nothing to do with my subject for blog titles for the rest of the week. I'm on vacation. I CAN DO WHATEVER THE FUCK I WANT. Ha! You're lucky, I coulda picked "she got a ass that'll swallow up a g string."
I had a very very busy first day of vacay. First I went to M2's house to give her a massage and then, it being a lovely warm afternoon, we took a nice long walk to The Kebab Factory in Somerville for a two hour $8 Indian buffet lunch. You can't really go wrong. Not only do you get a whole bunch of delicious entree choices, it's all the chai you can drink, and the yummy rosewater (?) cardamom rice pudding for dessert. Eight bucks. Srsly.
But the point of this all is not to brag that I was lazing around chatting and eating two hour long super-cheap tasty lunches while you were probably working, sucka, nor is it to suggest places you really ought to try the next time you're in Somerville, though there is that. No, there's more. Do you all remember my discussing that there are certain friends of mine who do not know this blog exists? I've always felt I wanted to be able to express whatever I wanted in here, because otherwise what's the point. And as time's gone on, I've only lost more and more discretion. (Frankly, after November 2008 was oral sex month in The Adventures, I kind of gave up on even trying to keep myself in check.) Not everyone knows all the facets that make up your charming blog hostess, because, unlike in here, in real life I do have some ability to keep my mouth shut and practice circumspection.
Or so I've always liked to think.
Cut to this afternoon. Before we left the restaurant, M2 decided to visit the bathroom. I was sitting, waiting for her, and waiting for the waitress to come grab our check, and I looked up at the wall that M2 had been sitting against. There was this picture of two women in the seraglio, lounging about in their skimpy little harum outfits, and in the background the sultan or whoever entering. Not that I'm an art critic or anything, but it wasn't the most technically well done of all possible paintings. The colors were nice, though, and it was pretty. When M2 came back, I pointed it out and said, "I like that cheezy painting. I wouldn't mind having that in my house."
M2 looks at it, and at me, and narrows her eyes at me, and smiles, and she says, "That one kind of looks like you." Pause. "I could definitely see you in that outfit."
Okay. So M2 has given me a lot of massages over the past four and a half years. I suppose she could have looked up the meaning of that tattoo I have that's mostly hidden, out of, y'know, curiosity. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm just not as fucking slick as I like to think I am! It was pretty hilarious. I love M2.
Anyway, eventually she had to go home because she had a client! I repaired to Mr Indemnity's office to get his keys so I could proceed with our Top Secret Project while he was working. Not that his not being there for the project saved him from my forcing him to listen to my latest download "Drop the World," which is the song that was so heavily bleeped at the Grammys. After hearing the actual lyrics, we both were forced to agree that, yes, you really *couldn't* say muthafucka forty or so times on network TV, so *just maybe* the censors weren't actually overreacting.
So, that's day one of vacation. Tomorrow, if all goes well, my electrician will come to give me an estimate and I shall paint something in this house. While I paint, I'll think of a good lyric to use for tomorrow's blog title. It will not be "it be on, muthafucka, cause all the bullshit made me strong, muthafucka." As far as you know.
xoxo
I had a very very busy first day of vacay. First I went to M2's house to give her a massage and then, it being a lovely warm afternoon, we took a nice long walk to The Kebab Factory in Somerville for a two hour $8 Indian buffet lunch. You can't really go wrong. Not only do you get a whole bunch of delicious entree choices, it's all the chai you can drink, and the yummy rosewater (?) cardamom rice pudding for dessert. Eight bucks. Srsly.
But the point of this all is not to brag that I was lazing around chatting and eating two hour long super-cheap tasty lunches while you were probably working, sucka, nor is it to suggest places you really ought to try the next time you're in Somerville, though there is that. No, there's more. Do you all remember my discussing that there are certain friends of mine who do not know this blog exists? I've always felt I wanted to be able to express whatever I wanted in here, because otherwise what's the point. And as time's gone on, I've only lost more and more discretion. (Frankly, after November 2008 was oral sex month in The Adventures, I kind of gave up on even trying to keep myself in check.) Not everyone knows all the facets that make up your charming blog hostess, because, unlike in here, in real life I do have some ability to keep my mouth shut and practice circumspection.
Or so I've always liked to think.
Cut to this afternoon. Before we left the restaurant, M2 decided to visit the bathroom. I was sitting, waiting for her, and waiting for the waitress to come grab our check, and I looked up at the wall that M2 had been sitting against. There was this picture of two women in the seraglio, lounging about in their skimpy little harum outfits, and in the background the sultan or whoever entering. Not that I'm an art critic or anything, but it wasn't the most technically well done of all possible paintings. The colors were nice, though, and it was pretty. When M2 came back, I pointed it out and said, "I like that cheezy painting. I wouldn't mind having that in my house."
M2 looks at it, and at me, and narrows her eyes at me, and smiles, and she says, "That one kind of looks like you." Pause. "I could definitely see you in that outfit."
Okay. So M2 has given me a lot of massages over the past four and a half years. I suppose she could have looked up the meaning of that tattoo I have that's mostly hidden, out of, y'know, curiosity. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm just not as fucking slick as I like to think I am! It was pretty hilarious. I love M2.
Anyway, eventually she had to go home because she had a client! I repaired to Mr Indemnity's office to get his keys so I could proceed with our Top Secret Project while he was working. Not that his not being there for the project saved him from my forcing him to listen to my latest download "Drop the World," which is the song that was so heavily bleeped at the Grammys. After hearing the actual lyrics, we both were forced to agree that, yes, you really *couldn't* say muthafucka forty or so times on network TV, so *just maybe* the censors weren't actually overreacting.
So, that's day one of vacation. Tomorrow, if all goes well, my electrician will come to give me an estimate and I shall paint something in this house. While I paint, I'll think of a good lyric to use for tomorrow's blog title. It will not be "it be on, muthafucka, cause all the bullshit made me strong, muthafucka." As far as you know.
xoxo
Monday, February 8, 2010
blog policy change
I am now officially fed up with the weird anonymous comment spam I keep having to delete from here, so I have changed my setting to "only registered users can comment." That means you can only comment through Blogger or Open ID. Since I think all y'all who comment normally do that anyway, we should be okay. Just letting you know.
what are you doing that for?
I'm at work today, but I'm taking the rest of the week off as vacation. I suppose that should make me nervous since I don't have short term disability anymore. What if I get hit by a truck tomorrow? Be that as it may, I am indeed using up some ET in order to work on a few little projects around the house, which you can be sure you'll hear about, whether you want to or not.
But can I tell you? The blog title is exactly what I will be hearing from the old man for the entire week. When I put up the Blik wall art last week and I showed it to him, asked if he liked it, etc, his response was, "It's nice. Why are you doing that? Are you going to turn this into a massage office when I die?"
I told him, yeah, I was *just waiting* for him to kick off so I can annex his bedroom and make it my new office. Eyeroll. Then I patiently explained that I was doing it because when the house looks pretty, it makes me feel better and happier. He just doesn't get it. I declutter the kitchen and while he agrees it looks better, he's all "but whyyyyyy?" I clean a bunch of crap out, and he bitches because there's too much trash going out. Yeah, that's what happens when you frigging clean. It makes trash. The city has to pick up all our trash, no matter how much we put out. Why are you stressing?
I realize that part of why I didn't even bother with even trying for awhile--besides, of course, the bad years with D sucking up all my mental energy and will for a time--was all his resistance to change, to doing anything, to spending the money (even when it's my money), etc etc. Why even try when all you get is complaints? But now that he's completely dependant on me and there's no equal balance of power any more, I'm at the point where, fuck it. I'ma do whatever I want, and he can just be bewildered and/or bitch and/or decide this is some sign that I just can't wait for him to die. Is that horrible? I try to be sensitive to the fact that he's an old man with many anxiety and OCD issues (the crazee doesn't fall far from the tree) but all the stuff I am doing is good. And a little anxiety and discomfort never killed anyone. Believe me, I know.
xoxo
P.S. Suck it, Manning.
But can I tell you? The blog title is exactly what I will be hearing from the old man for the entire week. When I put up the Blik wall art last week and I showed it to him, asked if he liked it, etc, his response was, "It's nice. Why are you doing that? Are you going to turn this into a massage office when I die?"
I told him, yeah, I was *just waiting* for him to kick off so I can annex his bedroom and make it my new office. Eyeroll. Then I patiently explained that I was doing it because when the house looks pretty, it makes me feel better and happier. He just doesn't get it. I declutter the kitchen and while he agrees it looks better, he's all "but whyyyyyy?" I clean a bunch of crap out, and he bitches because there's too much trash going out. Yeah, that's what happens when you frigging clean. It makes trash. The city has to pick up all our trash, no matter how much we put out. Why are you stressing?
I realize that part of why I didn't even bother with even trying for awhile--besides, of course, the bad years with D sucking up all my mental energy and will for a time--was all his resistance to change, to doing anything, to spending the money (even when it's my money), etc etc. Why even try when all you get is complaints? But now that he's completely dependant on me and there's no equal balance of power any more, I'm at the point where, fuck it. I'ma do whatever I want, and he can just be bewildered and/or bitch and/or decide this is some sign that I just can't wait for him to die. Is that horrible? I try to be sensitive to the fact that he's an old man with many anxiety and OCD issues (the crazee doesn't fall far from the tree) but all the stuff I am doing is good. And a little anxiety and discomfort never killed anyone. Believe me, I know.
xoxo
P.S. Suck it, Manning.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
really? really?
Imagine that second "really" in italics, please.
In my continuing efforts to totally compromise my own internet privacy, lemme tell you about the new development at work. It seems they are changing the name of the hospital at which I am employed, in order to add MGH to it. I cannot even tell you the amount of eye rolling this has occasioned around here. As part of this stoopid marketing ploy, all the doctors who work here are also being credentialed at MGH. Are the standards for being credentialed at MGH any higher than the ones these physicians need to meet to be credentialed here already? Why no, no, they are not. But the stoopid, stoopid populace is supposed to be impressed and flock here in droves to see "Mass General" doctors.
Jesus wept. Nothing is exempt from branding these days.
What makes this sad in addition to funny is the obscene amount of money they are now going to spend replacing all the stationary, all the printed materials, and all the signage with the new name and logo. This, of course, after we've all already been told no one's getting a raise in 2010. Well, I'm sure they pay the people who sit around thinking up these idiotic marketing schemes three or four times what they pay me to actually produce revenue for the hospital, raise or no raise, but that, my friends, is how this country operates.
xoxo
In my continuing efforts to totally compromise my own internet privacy, lemme tell you about the new development at work. It seems they are changing the name of the hospital at which I am employed, in order to add MGH to it. I cannot even tell you the amount of eye rolling this has occasioned around here. As part of this stoopid marketing ploy, all the doctors who work here are also being credentialed at MGH. Are the standards for being credentialed at MGH any higher than the ones these physicians need to meet to be credentialed here already? Why no, no, they are not. But the stoopid, stoopid populace is supposed to be impressed and flock here in droves to see "Mass General" doctors.
Jesus wept. Nothing is exempt from branding these days.
What makes this sad in addition to funny is the obscene amount of money they are now going to spend replacing all the stationary, all the printed materials, and all the signage with the new name and logo. This, of course, after we've all already been told no one's getting a raise in 2010. Well, I'm sure they pay the people who sit around thinking up these idiotic marketing schemes three or four times what they pay me to actually produce revenue for the hospital, raise or no raise, but that, my friends, is how this country operates.
xoxo
Friday, February 5, 2010
find my logic FAIL
If I have one. I'd really like to know if what I'm saying is not supported by reason, leaving emotion out of it. I can't actually leave emotion out of the argument, because I'm going to talk about the Tim Tebow bullshit again, and it pisses me off to no end that public policy in this country is being influenced by one group's religious beliefs, when supposedly there's a separation of church and state built into the whole concept of America. (See that? I'm foaming at the mouth already.) Be that as it may, all y'all who are way smarter than I am can tell me where exactly my logic runs out.
I gather the gist of Mr Tebow's commercial is that if his mother hadn't gone against medical advice and continued her pregnancy with him, he wouldn't have been born and grown up to win a Heisman trophy, and that makes him sad, 'cause he's happy to have been born and had a wonderful life full of things like Heisman trophies. And we're supposed to be sad over his possible abortion too, because, y'know, America needs quarterbacks! (See? Sarcastic as hell already.)
You know what I think? Imagine if his parents hadn't had sex the night he was conceived. Imagine if his mother had had a headache or his father was too involved in some project or other to be interested in booty or one of the other kids was sick and climbing in bed with mom and dad. Imagine if his dad just couldn't get it up. There'd be no Tim Tebow.
You know what else I think? Imagine if one of his father's sperm had swum a little bit faster than the sperm that made Tim Tebow. The Tebows would have had a whole different child. Maybe that one would have been a violin virtuoso or maybe it would have been just solidly average at everything or maybe it would have been a sociopath. Hell, if the faster swimmer was carrying an X chromosome, it would have been a girl. There'd be no Tim Tebow.
You know another thing I think? Imagine if none of the sperm made it to the egg that night or that month. Imagine if Mrs Tebow didn't conceive until the following month. Whole different egg as well as a whole different sperm. Once again, totally different kid. There'd be no Tim Tebow.
You know the fourth thing I think? Imagine if Tim Tebow's parents had never met. Imagine if they'd disliked each other. Imagine if they'd liked each other but they'd had some horrible misunderstanding before the wedding and broken up. There'd be no Tim Tebow.
You know yet another thing I think? Imagine if his mother's doctors had been right. Imagine if her placenta had abrupted completely. There'd be no Tim Tebow. (And perhaps no Mrs Tebow.)
You know the final thing I think? There are a lot of occurrences that have to happen and others that need to not happen for any one of us to be born and to be *us*. Whether it's god or fate or karma or just chance, if we're here and we're us, we were meant to be here and us. The whole infinite number of other people who could have been born and lived instead of us weren't meant to be here. (Maybe they're alive in some parallel universe. I don't know my quantum physics but I'm not ignorant of science fiction, yo.)
So for us to buy into "oh, if Mrs Tebow had been weak and sinful and selfish and followed her doctor's advice and aborted fetus Tim, the world would have missed out on him and he would have missed out on his wonderful life" and mourn that possibility, we also have to mourn the possibility of all the infinite number of possible human beings who were never born because their parents didn't meet, didn't mate, didn't have sex on one particular night, would have resulted from an egg or a sperm that was "wasted", were miscarried early before the possible mother even knew she was pregnant, or were miscarried at some later point. Any one of those possible human beings could have been another Tim Tebow, Gandhi, Pol Pot, Albert Einstein, Barack Obama, Paris Hilton, or Jeffery Dahmer. Any one of them could have had the most blessed or most cursed or most average life. But they're not. They were never born and they never grew up and that's just the reality of this particular universe you and I are living in.
I think I'm done now.
xoxo
I gather the gist of Mr Tebow's commercial is that if his mother hadn't gone against medical advice and continued her pregnancy with him, he wouldn't have been born and grown up to win a Heisman trophy, and that makes him sad, 'cause he's happy to have been born and had a wonderful life full of things like Heisman trophies. And we're supposed to be sad over his possible abortion too, because, y'know, America needs quarterbacks! (See? Sarcastic as hell already.)
You know what I think? Imagine if his parents hadn't had sex the night he was conceived. Imagine if his mother had had a headache or his father was too involved in some project or other to be interested in booty or one of the other kids was sick and climbing in bed with mom and dad. Imagine if his dad just couldn't get it up. There'd be no Tim Tebow.
You know what else I think? Imagine if one of his father's sperm had swum a little bit faster than the sperm that made Tim Tebow. The Tebows would have had a whole different child. Maybe that one would have been a violin virtuoso or maybe it would have been just solidly average at everything or maybe it would have been a sociopath. Hell, if the faster swimmer was carrying an X chromosome, it would have been a girl. There'd be no Tim Tebow.
You know another thing I think? Imagine if none of the sperm made it to the egg that night or that month. Imagine if Mrs Tebow didn't conceive until the following month. Whole different egg as well as a whole different sperm. Once again, totally different kid. There'd be no Tim Tebow.
You know the fourth thing I think? Imagine if Tim Tebow's parents had never met. Imagine if they'd disliked each other. Imagine if they'd liked each other but they'd had some horrible misunderstanding before the wedding and broken up. There'd be no Tim Tebow.
You know yet another thing I think? Imagine if his mother's doctors had been right. Imagine if her placenta had abrupted completely. There'd be no Tim Tebow. (And perhaps no Mrs Tebow.)
You know the final thing I think? There are a lot of occurrences that have to happen and others that need to not happen for any one of us to be born and to be *us*. Whether it's god or fate or karma or just chance, if we're here and we're us, we were meant to be here and us. The whole infinite number of other people who could have been born and lived instead of us weren't meant to be here. (Maybe they're alive in some parallel universe. I don't know my quantum physics but I'm not ignorant of science fiction, yo.)
So for us to buy into "oh, if Mrs Tebow had been weak and sinful and selfish and followed her doctor's advice and aborted fetus Tim, the world would have missed out on him and he would have missed out on his wonderful life" and mourn that possibility, we also have to mourn the possibility of all the infinite number of possible human beings who were never born because their parents didn't meet, didn't mate, didn't have sex on one particular night, would have resulted from an egg or a sperm that was "wasted", were miscarried early before the possible mother even knew she was pregnant, or were miscarried at some later point. Any one of those possible human beings could have been another Tim Tebow, Gandhi, Pol Pot, Albert Einstein, Barack Obama, Paris Hilton, or Jeffery Dahmer. Any one of them could have had the most blessed or most cursed or most average life. But they're not. They were never born and they never grew up and that's just the reality of this particular universe you and I are living in.
I think I'm done now.
xoxo
Thursday, February 4, 2010
...and the normal people...
I'm feeling inordinately pleased with myself because I just washed the floor in the upstairs (i.e. "my") bathroom for the second time in three and a half weeks. My usual timetable for that is once every 4 months or so. In a good year. Oh, c'mon. It's *my* bathroom. Nobody pees on the floor in there. To be honest, I couldn't see that it really needed to be cleaned today, but Hoarders has me scared into thinking if I don't mend my ways, someday I'll end up in a house with two tons of poop and a couple or three flattened cat corpses.
But then I was thinking--maybe I shouldn't be inordinately pleased about that. Maybe "normal" people actually wash their bathroom floors every week. Twice a week? I seriously have no idea. My mother was what I have learned is termed a "crisis cleaner", at least in my formative years. She'd do the bare minimum necessary to keep the house from being a complete pit, then before every holiday, every party, every occasion for which the house had to look nice, she'd clean the living crap out of it. Fourteen hour long cleaning binges, fueled by black coffee, cigarettes, and Diet Coke, till everything sparkled and she was a raging bitch from resentment and exhaustion. I didn't learn any useful habits there.
Similarly, my whole adult life most of my close friends have been indifferent housekeepers at best. Maybe your cleaning-freak types could size me up at a glance and stayed away. (Though I must say, I think Whatever He Was to Me tended in that direction. Taking a shower with that man was an education. I have never seen anyone, before or since, soap up every millimeter of their skin so intensively and thoroughly. But since we never lived together, I didn't get any housekeeping tips. And he claimed he was a slob, though I never saw evidence of it. /digression)
So, I'm not being disingenuous when I say I really don't know what's normal. I'm thinking three times a year is probably far over towards the "disgusting" end of the scale, but cleaning stuff that doesn't seem dirty? I dunno. That one book I have about this stuff, which I've mocked in here before, seems to have been written by a woman with OCD-germaphobe problems, so I can't look at her advice as normal. I've tried reading stuff online but it still escapes me. I feel like this is stuff you're just supposed to know, but I don't know how other people know it or why I don't.
In the face of no firm evidence to the contrary, I'm just going to continue thinking twice in three and a half weeks is fabulous and keep patting myself on the back!
xoxo
But then I was thinking--maybe I shouldn't be inordinately pleased about that. Maybe "normal" people actually wash their bathroom floors every week. Twice a week? I seriously have no idea. My mother was what I have learned is termed a "crisis cleaner", at least in my formative years. She'd do the bare minimum necessary to keep the house from being a complete pit, then before every holiday, every party, every occasion for which the house had to look nice, she'd clean the living crap out of it. Fourteen hour long cleaning binges, fueled by black coffee, cigarettes, and Diet Coke, till everything sparkled and she was a raging bitch from resentment and exhaustion. I didn't learn any useful habits there.
Similarly, my whole adult life most of my close friends have been indifferent housekeepers at best. Maybe your cleaning-freak types could size me up at a glance and stayed away. (Though I must say, I think Whatever He Was to Me tended in that direction. Taking a shower with that man was an education. I have never seen anyone, before or since, soap up every millimeter of their skin so intensively and thoroughly. But since we never lived together, I didn't get any housekeeping tips. And he claimed he was a slob, though I never saw evidence of it. /digression)
So, I'm not being disingenuous when I say I really don't know what's normal. I'm thinking three times a year is probably far over towards the "disgusting" end of the scale, but cleaning stuff that doesn't seem dirty? I dunno. That one book I have about this stuff, which I've mocked in here before, seems to have been written by a woman with OCD-germaphobe problems, so I can't look at her advice as normal. I've tried reading stuff online but it still escapes me. I feel like this is stuff you're just supposed to know, but I don't know how other people know it or why I don't.
In the face of no firm evidence to the contrary, I'm just going to continue thinking twice in three and a half weeks is fabulous and keep patting myself on the back!
xoxo
blitz
D had SportsCenter on this morning. Since this is February 4th, you know what that means, don't you? No, no, no, no, not nonstop Super Bowl coverage, though there is that. What I'm referring to is the barrage of commercials suggesting to SportsCenter's presumed male fan base that they had better get their asses in gear and buy/order something for Valentines Day so that they can either a.) get laid or b.) stay out of the doghouse. I guess those are flip sides of the same coin, more or less.
Seriously. The presumption is clearly that those are the only two reasons you would ever buy a woman anything. You would never want to buy your wife or girlfriend anything just to make her happy. You would never want to give a gift out of genuine love or affection. That would be absurd! I guess the Kay commercials, as offensive as they are, are the least offensive in that regard: they at least suggest that the woman in question would love some of their cheesy diamond jewelry and thereby love you. The rest are more blatantly "buy her something to at least shut her up or at best get a blowjob."
Probably the worst one I caught in my ten minutes of viewing today was from Edible Arrangements. I'm pretty sure the Edible Arrangement itself was suggesting that it makes a good "wingman", though I may have been hallucinating talking produce since my coffee was still brewing. But I am absolutely positive the commercial was promising sex. I dunno about you, ladies, but personally a basket of carved fruit doesn't actually make a guy all that much more sexually attractive to me. (Note: Those things *are* tasty, though. We had one in work once for someone's retirement or going away party.)
I know I probably rant about this every year, but I really don't understand why this kind of stuff doesn't enrage guys. The fact that the whole advertising industry hinges on the premise that you're all idiots, and isn't even subtle about it, would enrage me if I had a penis. So I'll just bitch for you all, in sympathy. You're welcome.
In other news, I spent like 4 hours yesterday putting my Blik wallart up in my foyer. I was going to post pictures, but the batteries in my camera were *this* close to dying, and I couldn't get a good shot of the whole thing from any angle anyway. I'd probably give someone a blowjob for a new digital camera! (Oh, stop, you know I really wouldn't. That's a joke. I don't trade sex for carved fruit *or* consumer electronics. Geez.) I was a little concerned last night that it was too "busy" but seeing it fresh this morning, I think I like it. I'm concerned I need to maybe edit some of the other stuff in the foyer now, though, so it won't be too busy. The decorating decisions never end.
That's all I got for now!
xoxo
Seriously. The presumption is clearly that those are the only two reasons you would ever buy a woman anything. You would never want to buy your wife or girlfriend anything just to make her happy. You would never want to give a gift out of genuine love or affection. That would be absurd! I guess the Kay commercials, as offensive as they are, are the least offensive in that regard: they at least suggest that the woman in question would love some of their cheesy diamond jewelry and thereby love you. The rest are more blatantly "buy her something to at least shut her up or at best get a blowjob."
Probably the worst one I caught in my ten minutes of viewing today was from Edible Arrangements. I'm pretty sure the Edible Arrangement itself was suggesting that it makes a good "wingman", though I may have been hallucinating talking produce since my coffee was still brewing. But I am absolutely positive the commercial was promising sex. I dunno about you, ladies, but personally a basket of carved fruit doesn't actually make a guy all that much more sexually attractive to me. (Note: Those things *are* tasty, though. We had one in work once for someone's retirement or going away party.)
I know I probably rant about this every year, but I really don't understand why this kind of stuff doesn't enrage guys. The fact that the whole advertising industry hinges on the premise that you're all idiots, and isn't even subtle about it, would enrage me if I had a penis. So I'll just bitch for you all, in sympathy. You're welcome.
In other news, I spent like 4 hours yesterday putting my Blik wallart up in my foyer. I was going to post pictures, but the batteries in my camera were *this* close to dying, and I couldn't get a good shot of the whole thing from any angle anyway. I'd probably give someone a blowjob for a new digital camera! (Oh, stop, you know I really wouldn't. That's a joke. I don't trade sex for carved fruit *or* consumer electronics. Geez.) I was a little concerned last night that it was too "busy" but seeing it fresh this morning, I think I like it. I'm concerned I need to maybe edit some of the other stuff in the foyer now, though, so it won't be too busy. The decorating decisions never end.
That's all I got for now!
xoxo
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
not so private parts of famous people
Just for Mr Indemnity, 'cause he asked nicely and I'm eating my lunch.
Taken from gofugyourself:
Taken from gofugyourself:
I guess you can't bleep *cleft*to protect the innocent children of America (or, like, y'know, me.) I might possibly be scarred for life from this. Yeast infection waiting to happen too, yo.
xoxo
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
i take it back
The nurse practitioner is as incompetent as the rest of those idiots. For the first time in many, many months, they have, for two days and at least three phone calls, screwed up faxing the blood work form to CVS so D can get his prescriptions. I am so frustrated I could just punch someone.
So instead I'll probably eat some more chips. Motherfuckers.
xoxo
Addendum: resolved, but not without three trips to the pharmacy in three days, goddamnit.
So instead I'll probably eat some more chips. Motherfuckers.
xoxo
Addendum: resolved, but not without three trips to the pharmacy in three days, goddamnit.
continued, and other emotional stuff
Since I figure I'm basically talking to myself at this point, I thought I might as well continue. Because you know how I get, really fascinated with a person, place, or thing for a bit, and then I can go on to something else. (At least I've stopped writing about Hoarders, even though I faithfully watch it every Monday, and have hooked my son into it too. Ahem.)
N E Way. To pick up (almost)where I left off yesterday, last night D was watching TMZ and Access Hollywood after dinner, as he usually does. That, by the way, is my disclaimer about really, seriously, not watching that stuff on purpose myself. Seriously. So, on one of those, they had a clip from a home video of, yes, Beyonce and Jay-Z. Apparently he was surprising her in her dressing room on tour, or some such. It was fascinating. Both their faces absolutely lit up when they saw each other, and she basically launched herself across the room and threw herself into his arms. Hugggggg. Kissssssss. So it is *not* that Mr Shawn Carter is non-affectionate to his beautiful wife. It *is* that he is terribly uncomfortable and apparently unable to be so in public, either because he is in fact too concerned with his reputation as a badass, or because he is terribly, terribly, terribly repressed. I find that sad! He probably needs more massages!
In other news. (Yes, I'm calling it news.) When I was lying in bed this morning, trying to psyche myself into getting up, I had this idle memory of something that happened in the early 90s. As I have discussed, probably ad nauseum, that was not a good time for me, crazee-wise. I was depressed *and* unhappy, and my self-esteem was basically zero. This memory I had today was not of any horrible, traumatic experience or event. But it was something that reminded me of how bad I felt then, and I gotta tell you, it's put me in a weird mood today.
I'm not sure, but I'm suspicious that all the stuff with D's dad the last couple weeks, and the catharsis and (kinda) resolution I felt with that, has dredged up other stuff in my subconscious that I was pretty sure had all been dealt with. I'll probably start crying for no reason during acupuncture today, is what I'm saying. Or maybe I just have PM-fucking-S. The fact I ate half a bag of chips last night during Hoarders points to the latter. But, y'know. It *could* be some kind of important psychological release, not hormones. The chips were probably therapeutic too. Srsly.
xoxo
N E Way. To pick up (almost)where I left off yesterday, last night D was watching TMZ and Access Hollywood after dinner, as he usually does. That, by the way, is my disclaimer about really, seriously, not watching that stuff on purpose myself. Seriously. So, on one of those, they had a clip from a home video of, yes, Beyonce and Jay-Z. Apparently he was surprising her in her dressing room on tour, or some such. It was fascinating. Both their faces absolutely lit up when they saw each other, and she basically launched herself across the room and threw herself into his arms. Hugggggg. Kissssssss. So it is *not* that Mr Shawn Carter is non-affectionate to his beautiful wife. It *is* that he is terribly uncomfortable and apparently unable to be so in public, either because he is in fact too concerned with his reputation as a badass, or because he is terribly, terribly, terribly repressed. I find that sad! He probably needs more massages!
In other news. (Yes, I'm calling it news.) When I was lying in bed this morning, trying to psyche myself into getting up, I had this idle memory of something that happened in the early 90s. As I have discussed, probably ad nauseum, that was not a good time for me, crazee-wise. I was depressed *and* unhappy, and my self-esteem was basically zero. This memory I had today was not of any horrible, traumatic experience or event. But it was something that reminded me of how bad I felt then, and I gotta tell you, it's put me in a weird mood today.
I'm not sure, but I'm suspicious that all the stuff with D's dad the last couple weeks, and the catharsis and (kinda) resolution I felt with that, has dredged up other stuff in my subconscious that I was pretty sure had all been dealt with. I'll probably start crying for no reason during acupuncture today, is what I'm saying. Or maybe I just have PM-fucking-S. The fact I ate half a bag of chips last night during Hoarders points to the latter. But, y'know. It *could* be some kind of important psychological release, not hormones. The chips were probably therapeutic too. Srsly.
xoxo
Monday, February 1, 2010
random award show commentary
1.) I read this morning that Taylor Swift is 20, while Lady Gaga is 23. Really? Really? I thought they were, respectively, like 16 and 30. It makes the fact that Taylor Swift is writing and singing all those songs from the perspective of a high school sophomore kinda creepy, doesn't it? Okay, excuse me while I go on a related tangent, which is probably better than the unrelated tangents I usually go on. I was at Mr Indemnity's yesterday working on the Top Secret Under the Table Don't-tell-the-feds-on-me job I'm doing for him, and in his car either before or after we went to Kellys for dinner, the radio was playing that "Fight for the Right to Party" (or whatever its real name is) song by the Beastie Boys. After we mutually agreed that the Beastie Boys kick ass, even after all these years, I pondered whether they still perform that song now that they're all, y'know, middle-aged. And it occurs to me now that of course none of them were high school sophomores when they wrote that, and rather than find it creepy, I find it a charmingly cynical attempt to connect with the teenaged audience they wished to capture. So why my problem with Ms Swift? (Besides that she butchered Rhiannon.) And I think it's that she's being marketed in such a way that people like me kind of assume she really is a sweet lil 16 year old, instead of a young, but definitely grownup, woman.
2.) I found it extremely amusing that when Beyonce won her award, they cut to her and her husband (recent frequent blog-subject Jay-Z, in case you've forgotten) engaged in the most awkward stilted hug you've ever seen. It looked like the kind of hug you give the person who's *presenting* you the award--if they're someone you've never met before in your life and you're not a hugger in the first place. I was like, really, dude? Really? You're too badass (or repressed?) to kiss your very lovely wife in public? Too funny.
3.) Oh, what a travesty when they were bleeping the whole Dr Dre/Eminem/Lil Wayne performance. They were not just bleeping words, it was like whole lines and verses. D and I were wondering if our satellite was fucking up because it didn't seem possible they'd be bleeping half a fucking performance. But, no. They were. This was the last song before the last award, so the climax of the entire show. Um, why invite three renowned rappers to perform your climactic number if you aren't willing to let them, y'know, rap? I'm sure Taylor Swift coulda sung another song about puppies, rainbows, and cute boys instead.
Every time I tell myself I'm not going to watch another award show ever, I do. I never learn. In my defense I was tired from my Top Secret Project and my onion rings were sitting in my belly like greasy lead. That's my excuse, and I'm stickin' with it.
xoxo
2.) I found it extremely amusing that when Beyonce won her award, they cut to her and her husband (recent frequent blog-subject Jay-Z, in case you've forgotten) engaged in the most awkward stilted hug you've ever seen. It looked like the kind of hug you give the person who's *presenting* you the award--if they're someone you've never met before in your life and you're not a hugger in the first place. I was like, really, dude? Really? You're too badass (or repressed?) to kiss your very lovely wife in public? Too funny.
3.) Oh, what a travesty when they were bleeping the whole Dr Dre/Eminem/Lil Wayne performance. They were not just bleeping words, it was like whole lines and verses. D and I were wondering if our satellite was fucking up because it didn't seem possible they'd be bleeping half a fucking performance. But, no. They were. This was the last song before the last award, so the climax of the entire show. Um, why invite three renowned rappers to perform your climactic number if you aren't willing to let them, y'know, rap? I'm sure Taylor Swift coulda sung another song about puppies, rainbows, and cute boys instead.
Every time I tell myself I'm not going to watch another award show ever, I do. I never learn. In my defense I was tired from my Top Secret Project and my onion rings were sitting in my belly like greasy lead. That's my excuse, and I'm stickin' with it.
xoxo
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