I will just say that my trip home was like the prison bus to the 18th power. There was a pack of guys who I could only charitably characterize as an entire halfway house given a pass to go Christmas shop(lift)ing. There was also a woman who was a friend of at least some of them, with her two children. With my earbuds in and my iPod set to "cochlea damage", I could still hear her children screaming. Not screaming with crankiness. That would be understandable, given that, judging from facial expression, 80% of the adults on the bus would have indulged in such if it were socially acceptable for persons over the age of five. No, these children were just being loud. I wanted to turn around and suggest to the mother that she teach them about the concept of indoor voices, but god knows you don't want to mess with people who are buddies with a good quarter of a work release program. Oh! On the way *to* the mall, there was a guy smoking on the fucking bus. He claimed he didn't know any better because he is from South Carolina and he couldn't read the no smoking signs 'cause he's "50% legally blind." Whatever that means. Seriously, you cannot make this shit up.
But while I was in Macys evilly-lit dressing room, trying things on I had absolutely no intention of buying once again, I examined my thighs closely in the nasty mirror to see how my cellulite is doing. (Shut up.) I must say, I am very pleased with my right thigh progress. The left is lagging. And neither could be characterized as "20 year old girl thigh" of course. But I am far more pleased than I have any right to be. Plus, even with my clothes on, you can see my quads are just popping. There's my effin' genetic endowment colliding with the leg press machine. You comin' home, you gonna have to slide, mofo. Ha!
In totally unrelated matters, I took an online quiz which purported to tell me which Jane Austin character I am. Here are the results:
42-50 points: Jane Fairfax (EMMA)
A sweet and trusting nature is both the making and the undoing of Jane Fairfax. She is the epitome of femininity and demure countenance, matched with an intelligent brain and an artistic though understated flair. All good, right? Except that this creature attracts and is attracted to the kind of man who falls wildly in love, almost in spite of himself, and perhaps before he is ready. Jane's open nature is far too trusting and she might not notice that she's falling in love with a Lothario until it is too late. That said, her strength of character and her many allures might be just the thing to take the "play" out of a "player", but at what cost to her happiness?
Best matched with an outgoing, friendly, center-of-attention type who will balance her quiet beauty, like Frank Churchill, Henry Crawford or Mr. Bingley.
A sweet and trusting nature is both the making and the undoing of Jane Fairfax. She is the epitome of femininity and demure countenance, matched with an intelligent brain and an artistic though understated flair. All good, right? Except that this creature attracts and is attracted to the kind of man who falls wildly in love, almost in spite of himself, and perhaps before he is ready. Jane's open nature is far too trusting and she might not notice that she's falling in love with a Lothario until it is too late. That said, her strength of character and her many allures might be just the thing to take the "play" out of a "player", but at what cost to her happiness?
Best matched with an outgoing, friendly, center-of-attention type who will balance her quiet beauty, like Frank Churchill, Henry Crawford or Mr. Bingley.
Isn't that amazingly accurate? Besides the whole taking the play out of a player, Lothario business, that is. But nothing says "epitome of femininity" and "quiet beauty" like a woman who ends a sentence with the word mofo. Amirite? You know I am.
Oh, and I would like to tell you about the last half of that awful movie, because again, suffering builds character. Let's just say Naveen Andrews soon enough becomes a deranged opium addict which kills his pretty, so even the eye candy fails, and that there's an obligatory, dreary girl-on-girl scene when Maya and Tara make up, plus further totally unbelievable plot points, only a tiny bit redeemed by the death-by-elephant execution. If you ever get the urge to rent this mess, hit yourself in the head with a brick instead. It will be less agonizing.
Finally, M2 passed along this link, which I hope works after the last miserable FAIL. Very clever. Though I do feel a little guilty about the lulz, considering I am the woman who used to bring manuscripts to writing group with such scintillating titles as "Yeah, Like I Know What to Call This Thing." Which, honestly? I'd pick that up at Borders and at least read the back cover.
I'm tired. Over n' out.
xoxo
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