because that sucks. doesn't it? however, sometimes, external forces dictate that i must. i keep not making any more money, so i'm always a little strapped for cizzash, mainly because what little i do make i spend here. and here. and here. and here. funny story - i still look like crap in spite of dropping serious scrill on the fancy(ier than old navy and ross) brands. anywho, this month, june 2010, i am imposing a moratorium on apparel purchases. i have several pair of shoes that have gone unworn for years. dresses with price tags still attached. skirts i wore once then never ironed to wear again (because i am both lazy and afraid of hot things). well, june is the month when i reclaim my own wardrobe. i was going to do a thing where i wear a different pair of shoes each day, but i chickened out because i'm still super wobbly on heels. but maybe. we shall see. won't we won't see are bags from forever 21 stuffed with crap clothes (that i love, but still, they're crap) and scary credit card bills and bank statements. i can do it!
ghosts of closets past - i clearly have a problem. yes, it's weird because, yes, i still always look a little homeless even in my best outfit. it's a gift. marry me!
I'd like to just take a moment to share all of the sites I visit on a regular basis in hopes that someone will talk about them with me. Please? Anyone? ANYONE?
My Year Of Everything - Dave Holmes does all those other books and blogs doing shit for a year. Crockpotting, wearing one outfit, living biblically, cooking Julia Child recipes, you get the picture.
Anthroholic - someone shows how to not make Anthropologie pretties look like your gram's castoffs.
Mrs. Lilien - sumptuous, well sourced arrangements of things I can't afford (but shouldn't buy if I could. I mean really, a $1000 mint julep?)
What Would Emma Pillsbury Wear? - I can't get that into Glee, but I can get into cardigans. Heat Eat Review - Update this piece, bitches! But, in the meantime, very useful if you work in an office with a microwave. Fed Up with Lunch: The School Lunch Project - ew ew ew. This is why I packed my lunch everyday during school (Mom wouldn't do it). Also, the kids don't stand a chance.
that I look totally awesome when I check myself out at home before I leave for work, but by the time I get to work I'm a rumpled, homely mess? It's like that episode of Seinfeld when he has the simultaneously hot and ugly girlfriend depending on the lighting, etc. Good thing I work in a basement so no one can see me. Hooray for mole people!
Yesterday, you got on the tube and starting creaming your pleated front Dockers about "weather events" running amock around the state. And I listened. Like a 'tard. Your incessant screeching about baseball sized hail ripping through Noble heading toward Norman compelled me to seek shelter for my new (to me) car.
Now, I don't have a garage, per se, but a detachable old-timey garage-shed-type-thing at the end of the long gravel driveway. Classy, yes? So, the BF and I make a run for it into blinding rain to open the doors to this thing and jockey the cars around so I can pull in. Which I do. It's when I get out that I hear a hissing sound. The sound of a punctured tire. AWESOME! Soaking wet, the BF and I head back inside to wait out the impending weather armageddon before surveying the damage. We wait. And wait. And wait. Guess what? No hail. No straight line winds. No tornado (in spite of the screaming sirens all night). NO FUCKING ANYTHING! After the rain ended, skies cleared and the sun shined. And my heart closed forever to the Oklahoman in me that reveres all things Gary England. He is dead to me.
Much like my tire. The BF put on his man pants and put on the spare. I got the new tire put on this morning. Yes, $140 is cheaper than hail damage, surely. But still, Gary, you can make the check out to I am an idiot.
RIP (in my heart) Lord Gary
p.s. This is why I was motivated to move my car and attempted to believe these weather jokers.
Although I love to hate on Smith sometimes, I still love it. Like you love something like this. This year, Rachel Maddow was the commencement speaker, much better than my year's whoever it was... Anywho. Listen to her address. It's pretty rad.
Check out these super awesome graduate's shoes here.*
*Smith has a thing where you have to wear white and black shoes, which makes me want to die, but these are some pretty awesome shoes to offset the unnatural, virginal white they encourage.
couples with joint Facebook or email accounts. Seriously? Do these people understand the purpose of social networking and untraceable email accounts? Duh.
I wish I could stay up late enough to watch the new Adult Swim show featuring Dr. Steve Brule of Tim and Eric Awesome Show Great Job. But I can't. Because I'm old. Did you know that I'll be 29 in something like less than 80 days? I know, right. I have a lot to show for my 29 years, though, so that's cool. Mainly that I've watched every episode of seasons one through five of TAEASGJ. Marry me.
down the street from my house last night. I definitely had the interior most closet prepped with some pillows and a battery powered radio. Thankfully, the tornado hit The Commons aka apartment complex packed with annoying college kids. They were all fine. Whatever. In any case, 'tis the season! Tornado season.
I like blogs. I like reading blogs. I like commenting on blogs. I like reading comments on blogs. I like blogging. Sort of. I can't seem to get my act together keeping up with this thing, but I think that I need to try. Lately, I've become more boring than myself circa 2007, which is shocking, really. I didn't think it was actually possible. In any case, no one reads this, which is cool, so I'm just going to start posting for myself. Because it's always been all about me anyway.
And on that note, have you ever gone to get a hair cut, your first in say, six months (not cool, I know) and then left the salon with the midwestern news anchor? I just can't win in the hair department. I either need to go Crystal Gale or go home.
I love me some Smith College. I really do. But sometimes, I want to take its whatever it is, radical liberalism, something, I don't really know, and shove it up its cunt. Except I can't say that because that's gender specific. Except Smith's a college for women. So I want to shove it up its reconstructed peen hole.
Did you know that my house has two full baths? Well, it does. One has a shower, the other a tub. Since ghosts of roommates past always used the bath with the tub, I've always been skeeved out by it. But, yesterday, after deciding I'd sufficiently cleaned it (again), I went for it. And it was awesome. I listened to This American Life. I opened the window so it was kinda like a hot tub outside thing happening. I used an entire thing of bubble bath and kept refilling the tub with more hot water (we have two hot water tanks for some reason). Seeing as how my vacation budget has been eaten up by the dog, this is probably as good as it's going to get this year.
Dang! We had to take Zeb to the vet last night. I had to take out a small loan this morning. I joke, sort of. Little dude got his guts in a twist and was puking et al yesterday. So, we take him in and he's examined (for $41) and then probed (for $26) and then tested (for $100) and then diagnosed and finally treated (for $1,000,000.00). He had a high itestinal (lunch anyone?) bacteria count and was given injections of antibiotics and other stuff to get him back on track. I also paid for doggie Imodium, more antibiotics and had to cook him rice and chicken for dinner (more than I do for most people). Long story short, I'm out a lot of money for a dog that completely rebounded by midnight last night.
If Zeb were a kid, I'd totally have just pumped him full of Pedialyte and some saltines and plopped him in front of Sponge Bob while I mixed up some G&Ts for myself with the money I saved from not taking him to the doctor. Does this make me a bad person? How come I care more about my dog than a kid (Not that I have one. That I know of. There were some crazy times.)?
The bottom line is I should've been a vet.
P.S. Happy tax day! (Dear OK, you will get mine tomorrow. Love in Christ, B)
Or maybe it's that I use up all of my (very small) wit on FaceDevilbook. In any case, this thing needs an extreme blog makeover for all one zero of you still reading.
In the meantime, do you ever get a song so lodged in your head you justify listening to it 10 times in a row on your way to work? I thank you, Arcade Fire. I was completely sullen and wanting to learn to play the organ (not that one, get your mind out of the gutter) when I arrived at work this morning.
I have no idea where this video came from. I'm tool lame to figure out how to acutally post my music.
I am almost twenty fucking nine years old. Now, why do I have a zit nearish my chin? WHY? For fuck's sake. Good thing Zeb prevents me from leaving the house other than work. Soon, soon he will be able to stay in his crate alone and I will again be antisocial for different reasons. Soon.
why, oh why must i be in a relationship with someone who goes all liz lemon on v-day. yeah, i went to a ladies only college and should want to observe anna howard shaw day, but excuse me if i don't like a little attention and some lovin'. i got up bright and early (9) to trudge through the snow (again with this? i might as well have stayed in mass) to get him some old fashioned and blueberry cake donuts to at least do a tiny out of the ordinary thing for him. so, i did my part. i also bought myself a gift since as whitney houston sang, "learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all."
in a related story, on the whole, i have a pretty rad bf, so i should probably shut up and remember my inner smithie. also, zeb is a pretty sweet valentine.
Sorry I've been MIA. I've been busy not eating, being grumpy, suffering from SAD, surviving ice storms and local weather media, complaining about the gym, crying over my bank balance, having more dental work and ...
Glamour shot.
chilling with this little dude! His name is Zeb. As in Zebulon. Like Pike. Except we call him all kinds of things. Like Zebron James, Merriam-Zebster, zebutante, zebulator(! - you have to yell that one), Zebbie, zeptic tank, etc. Basically, he has no idea who he is.
Treats. Treats. Treats.
A dude at work brought him in because baby Zeb had followed his wife home. The BF and I discussed adding him to the household, but by the time we'd decided, someone else had offered to give Zeb a home. So, naturally, I was heartbroken for a week, but that's ok because there was an ice storm, so I had lots of things to distract me from checking out every.single.dog on petfinder.com. Not. Cut to Monday of last week when I learned that Zeb was still available! His interim owner wasn't sure Zeb was the right fit since he already had four grown Rotts and Zeb, was, well, a tiny puppy. So, I brought him home Monday night!
Give me some m-effing treats!
Naturally, he's adorable. I have no idea what breed, though. The vet put him at maybe 10 - 12 weeks last week and he weighed in at 11 pounds. I don't think he's gonna get that big, but who knows. What I do know is that he's had one accident inside in six days, chews the hell out of a stuffed toy, is a Kong addict, sleeps through the night, loves cheddar and freeze dried liver. I'm in lurv.
Thank you.
Right, so, thus far, training is going well. It's kind of exhausting, but in a good kind of way when he masters a command or we get a little snuggle time. Right now, he's sleeping in his crate next to me, making precious puppy snoring sounds that will surely be replaced by puppy destruction sounds in the coming months, so I'm signing off to enjoy his innocence.
I think I'm bored with the internet. Like, I've looked at all I can think of to look at and I either get sad because I didn't think of it, didn't understand it, or want to buy it then remember I sold my soul to the Department of Education. It's a sad, sad day when my most visited sites are gmail, weather.com and msnbc.com. WTF, self?
What I know about Haiti I (well, I mean I knew basic geographical, historical and political information) I learned from reading Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder about Paul Farmer and his work on cultural understandings of disease and medicine in Haiti and other countries plagued by infectious diseases. I read the book for a medical anthropology class in college, which turned out to be one of my favorite classes*, in spite of making probably a B- because I inexplicably refused to turn anything in on time. Tracy Kidder's writing and Paul Farmer's super human efforts really made an impact on me. I even donated to Partners In Health when I was still in school. So, not that Haiti is any more or less important than any other area struck by any kind of disaster, but it holds one of the few soft spots in my heart. I implore you to read the book. If you're going to donate to anything, consider a donation to Partners In Health.
*Thanks Dr. Joralemon. I sucked in your class, but you were a kickass professor and I shockingly retained and carry with me much that I learned that semester. Sorry for being an unresponsive jerk.
I realize it's now 1/10/10, but whatevs. I've been busy (lie). The point is, it's time to make some nutless declarations. Remember last year? I purchased both items while failing to return to my high school weight. However, I did develop a gym habit, quit caffeine for six whole months, can run several minutes without stopping, completed a boot camp, and dropped 12 pounds and a couple sizes without decreasing my boob size. So, halfway to awesome.
This year, I intend to work on the following:
Read books besides Real Simple, Living, New York Magazine, TV Guide, Cooking Light and Lucy, which are not technically books. I mean, real literature and shit. Not JD Robb and Patricia Cornwell. Recommendations?
Organize all of my music; digital, vinyl and and CDs. The gym has thrown me into a terrible shame spiral of popular music. Must climb out and reclaim my musical self.
Stop hitting the snooze button for hours. HOURS people. The BF loves this. Just ask him. I started a streak of getting to work not on time, but early before break and I intend to keep this up for the rest of the year, mainly so I can get to the gym, commute home, make dinner and get to bed before 1 am. Mornings will be mine!
Go on a real live vacation. I took a little staycation in October to burn some time off as well as regain my sanity after a difficult spell at work, which was wonderful, but I haven't been on a plane in almost a year. What the what? I need to get out of here. Fortunately, the NY Times has done my research for me. Now, I just need to come into some serious money.
Deep clean my house. Like Pledge the baseboards clean. I realize that I don't own this home, but it doesn't look like I'm going anywhere anytime soon, so I should just bite the bullet to make it a real home, which means clearing and cleaning the debris of a couple of years and a couple of roommates.
Change my hair! I've had the same essential hair cut since my page boy grew out in '85. I don't know if that means go lighter, go darker, go shorter, go longer, try side sweeping bangs again, but good Lord, I need to change something.
Watch less TV. There's nothing I love more than reading gossip blogs and having first hand knowledge of everything mentioned, but sweet Jesus, it takes a lot of TV time. I'm gonna turn in the remote.
Convince the BF to get dogs (yes, two, because I will never go through the heartbreak of losing a dog through a break up ever again). 2010 is the year!
Get the Jeff Dunham show canceled. Oh, sweet. Check.
Dress up at least once a week. I own probably 15 pair of heels that have never seen the pavement. I feel like an ass when I'm gussied up, but as a 28 year old woman, I'm certainly old enough to dress up whenever I Goddamn well please. So, I will.
Polish off the ol' resume and see what's out there. Let me know if you want to hire me. I'm good at general all around awesomeness.
Do everything I'm supposed to when I'm supposed to. Like teeth cleaned exactly every six months. Library books returned on time. Birthday cards sent out in at least the correct month. That sort of thing.
Stop sucking at blogging. My life has become super routine, super boring, super blah, which is probably a good thing, considering how things were a few years ago. But, this year, I need to kick it up a notch. Surely there's something left in my brain, right?
Try not to cry every time I see the ASPCA commercials.
Cook from recipes instead of my head. I can make a handful of meals pretty fucking well, but my repertoire is pretty limited. So, this year, I will put my cookbook library (seriously, I have like 30 and haven't even read through half of them, it's an addiction) to work and learn some new tricks.
Yesterday, I was leaving work around lunch and totally backed into a parked car behind me. I just threw it in reverse, looked behind me, didn't see anything that second, and started moving. It was only when I could feel the car meeting some kind of resistance and see the horrified look of the woman whose car door I was crushing before I realized something wasn't normal. BLAST! I haven't been in any sort of incident for over 10 years. 10 years! And now, my rate's gonna get jacked, I can't afford the deductible to fix the damaget my (new!) car, and my parents are disappointed in me for being a 'tard. The moral of this story is, Toyota Matrix's have fucking huge blind spots, so beware. Also, don't sit in your parked car along a no parking yellow lined curb unless you want someone to hit you.
Dude. For once, the high lords of plains weather got it totally fucking wrong. Three to five inches? I don't think so. Let's try 12 to 14. And wind! Blowing snow everywhere! The state has gone apeshit. The governor closed all the roads. Every.Single.Road.In.The.State. They're setting up shelters along the major highways for stranded travelers. Boo. If I lived close enough to the highway, I'd go invite people to stay the night in my cozy wozy house in exchange for beer. That's right. While my genius mother stocked up on TP, water and pasta, I forgot the golden rule of potential natural disasters. GET BOOZE! The BF and I are draining a bottle of some sort of German fortified wine that you heat (delicious!!!), but soon it will be gone and we will be left with our personalities or four bottles of apple flavored Smirnoff Ice. I want to walk to the gas station about a mile away for a rack of 'stones, but K says no. It's Christmas Eve, so maybe there will be a Christmas beericle, but I doubt it.
In the meantime, we bundled up like retarded yetis (no we didn't, I left my snow boots, real winter coat and gloves at my folks house, so I'm wearing pajama pants and old gym shoes with some awesome knee high wool socks and a hat some cousin left one time) and bounded about our pristine street. We walked up and down the street, unable to retrace our own footprints because of the blowing snow. Yay! Is it weird that this makes me totally happy? I don't like the part about being away from family this eve, or all of the car carnage out there, but I love snow and cold and white and sparkling and condensation on the windows and rocking legwarmers and drinking mulled wine and snuggling in my new Snuggie and wearing out my Netflix subscription. K is frying corn tortillas he found in the fridge (we literally have nothing else - we had planned to be house sitting and cleaned out our food) and has declared them the Christmas chips. I don't know what that means, but the smell of corn and salt is beckoning. Merry Christmas.
P.S. Gary England has been suspiciously absent today. Hmm.
Word on the local news weather street is that there's a big ass storm headed to the OK. By big ass I mean 3 - 6 inches. WOO! Kids play in my book, but everyone's fucking flipping their shit around here. My mom made my dad go buy TP, bottled water and the makings for lasagna in case we get snowed in tomorrow night and can't enjoy our ceremonial Christmas Eve dinner at Outback. I am dead fucking serious. This has been going on for like 10 years now. My brother gets two orders of cheese fries. It's disgusting.
Right, so I wish I had a fireplace. And I wish it would really snow a shit ton. I miss waking up to the sound of plows beeping and scraping up and down the streets foretelling the glorious white mounds of winter wonder.
Christmas brings out the worst in me, but this year I managed to purchase a relatively relevant gift for those in my immediate life as well as string up some ornaments (no tree) and a couple of lights from a window. I know, right?
Also, I'm now even lamer and older than ever before. My parents asked me what I wanted this year, which is retarded since they bought me a car and probably shouldn't purchase anything for me for about the rest of my life (although, I still pay a pretty penny each month for my student loans...), but I obliged and provided them with the most boring, sensible list of old person stuff ever.
I know, right? LAMEST CRAP EVER. What I really wanted was this, these, this bad ass, these guys for my living room, and a weekend trip here with the BF. Being old and sensible sucks. And poor. Being poor sucks too.
Surely, you've heard about Jersey Shore. It's truly miraculous. Mostly because it's on now that IASIP and The League are kaput for the season. Even the BF is mesmerized by the the awesomeness that is Jersey Shore. I can't really say anything without sounding like a total ass, so I won't. I will say that I'm jealous that all the kids have nicknames. I always wanted a nickname. I never got one. When you have a weirdo first name, I think you're precluded from a nickname since everyone's still trying to figure out how to say your first name. But no more! Behold, the Jersey Shore Nickname Generator. Enjoy.
Yes, I'll admit it. From sixth grade through my senior year in high school, I was a handbell playing fool, yo. I even went with my group to competitions and stuff. For realz. I've long thought handbell choirs are one of the greatest mechanisms for teaching people to be a team out there. Basically, a choir consists of a multi-octave human keyboard with one person accounting for maybe four notes total. So, every single person is crucial. There's rarely doubling, so when you're not there or sucking, it stands out, hence the terrific opportunity bells create for group work and commitment. Also, yes, I am lame. I wish I could write music. I would arrange "I Will" for handbells because it's my favorite song AND handbells, well, rule. Anywho, check out this installment from Improve Everywhere featuring some handi (not that kind) action. Agent Davis is a childhood friend. Awesome!
Immediately post breakup 06, I dropped like 25 el bees fucking overnight. Like snap your finger and bam! Best.Diet.Ever. When that happened, obviously, I had to get some new threads. I still find all of this mystical and amazing since I was drinking more alcohol than I can remember, which equals some serious calories, but anywho. Now that's been over for a long time and I'm happy again, which means the poundage has creeped up a bit rendering those old jeans useless (I refuse to sport a noticeable muffin top while standing, at least). But just by a little. So, every time I go to my parents house to walk my/their dog, put up Christmas crap, or help them with anything involving the internet, I sneak in to the closet of my old bedroom where I stash the crap I don't want at my house and am too cheap to pay for storage and pull out my old jeans. And try them on. I think one more trip and they're all going to fit again! So, yes, I visit my former jeans once a week. Weird, I know.
I recently conquered two, count 'em two fashion fears. The ever present skinny jean and boots over jeans combo. I'm hesitant since I'm what I like to call voluptuous (others might call it, well, something else) and rather vertically challenged. I can hear Trinny and Susannah, Clinton and Stacey telling me no. Really loudly. But I did it anyway! Kudos, me.
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me catching on to a trend that surely almost over.
I tried to do some x-mas shopping yesterday, until I realized I was poor. And besides, what is there that we don't already have? It's insane, really. I find myself making up problems so that I can buy the solution. It's ridiculous, really. And also, I'm flat broke. All. The. Time.
I was searching for images to accurately capture my current state of T-day overload and came across this, which doesn't really accomplish my goal, but is sufficiently weird, so there. I came, I saw, I ate Paula Deen's pumpkin gooey butter cake*. I'm now relegated to sweat pants. Marry me.
More later, you know, when I have enough energy to type.
*Not only did I partake on T-day, I definitely liked the mixer clean when making them. OHMYGODSOGOODFUCKYOUPAULADEENFORMAKINGMEFAT.ER.
I am at home, lazing about on mismatched sheets (my new thing is mixing up striped sheets with floral pillow cases - I know, crazy!) enjoying the remainder of my morning before T-day preparations commence. Last year, I pretty much made everything for my fam plus the BF and a stray uncle, but this year, we're headed to the homeland (Woodward, OK) so I'm not responsible for it all, just a few items. Crudite with lowfat yogurt dip, gooey pumpkin butter cake, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, and corn pudding.
But before that, here's what caught my eye and I thought I would share because, well, I'm nice like that.
NPR did one of those last minute bits on this blog, My Parents Were Awesome. It's endearing.
The Muppets are blowing up. And Rocking out.
Shoes. I like to live vicariously through those who can both afford and manage heels like these: Elle Shoe Blog.
Well, it finally happened. The exbf and I engaged in exchanging pleasantries at birthday time for the past few years. Last year, it took him almost a year to respond to my fab ecard. He did, though, and wished me a good one on my 28th this year. So, I followed suit earlier this month, but nothing. No acknowledgement, no nothing. I think that means we can officially stop doing that. Which is great!*
*I would not suggest listening to Nick Cave while thinking about past relationships as I am now. Just trust me.
Dudes, Amazon is selling all kinds of good shit for only $5! As if my iPod has room to store everything. Oh well. Maybe someone will get me a new one with more capacity for Jesus' b-day, but I doubt it. In any case, here's what I've downloaded so far:
A Charlie Brown Christmas - Vince Guaraldi Trio (This is a new one with more stuff. Yes, I have the old one. And the record too.
Odyssey and Oracle - The Zombies
Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes - Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes
The Definitive Rarities Collection - Nina Simone
And I have plans for many more. I just need time and $$.
Also, I downloaded "Bad Romance" (Lady Caca) and "I Can Transform Ya" (Chris "Ladybeater" Brown) for the ol' work out mix. Helpful tip: if you are trying not to be such a lard ass, do not, I repeat, do not get it into your head that it's ok to eat at Greek House even if it's the first time in many months and you've been good all week. JUST DON'T.
Currently, I'm laid up on the couch like a beached gyrowhale, fending off impending heartburn from the massive amounts of garlic and onion consumed watching my favorite movie on the CW (34 local) Home for the Holidays. It's about dysfunctional families eating gross food wearing terrible coats yadda yadda yadda Holly Hunter's character makes out with Dylan McDermott's. And it got me to thinking about how awesome making out can be. Just making out. Sometimes, I think it's kind of weird, because we're adults and can get down to business if we want, etc. But there's something about making out. And the final scene of the movie.
Saturday mornings, when the BF is out serving the public volunteering or other productive pursuits, I like to laze about in bed, swaddled in the down comforter, space heater pointed directly at my feet, and fire up some TLC so that I can catch what I missed Friday night, namely Say Yes to the Dress. There. Now you know my dirty secret. Right, so this bright Saturday morn, I click on the new flat screen and sure enough, there's Randy*, sobbing! And all is right with the world, except for one thing. We all know that Jon and Kate Plus has hit the skids and apparently Monday night is their final show (year right). TLC has chosen to inform everyone of this with a fucking annoying countdown at the bottom right of the screen. Great! Just what I want on a Saturday, something that tells me exactly how many hours, minutes and seconds until the weekend is over and then some. Thanks TLC dudes!
And then OU got punked by Texas Tech. In a related story, does anyone want my OU/OSU tickets for next weekend?
Also, I went to see 2012 with the BF and my mom because she wanted to go as part of her b-day weekend. OH MY SWEET LORD. I really have no words to express how ridonk this movie is. Worse than Bird on a Wire and Beverly Hills Cop III combined. It was a fucking insult. Good thing my mom paid. I'll leave you with three (one hyphenated) words: No more Pull-Ups™!
November is known for its holiday, no? Not t-day, but Liz day. Mom declares the entire month her birthday month. Basically, she just talks about how it's her birthday month and none of us do anything until her actual birthday, which happened to be yesterday. The family (plus my lil bro's GF and my BF) gathered at her favorite restaurant in town (which also happens to arguably be the nicest restaurant in town) to commemorate her umpteenth 35th birthday. [Brief back story: my brother worked at this restaurant for three years or so and knows most people who still work there, including the bartender, which also happens to be the youngest brother of L-Ma.]
While awaiting our entrees, we decided to think of the most awful drink one could order to be jerks. Dad busts out his iPhone and finds an article that says Manhattans, cosmopolitans, mojitos and lemon drops are the worst, but the BF pipes up that maybe we should order a Cleveland steamer. I had a personal record scratch moment, but everyone else just kept talking. About Cleveland steamers. Because they had no idea what they were saying. Until Dad looked it up. But not before practically screaming Cleveland steamer several times within earshot of small children (not that they would know, but kids sure do grow up fast these days). Soon, Dad is showing Mom the definition from Urban Dictionary on his iPhone. They're both laughing and Dad is compelled to mention dirty Sanchez.
SWEET JEBUS! Who are these people?
I'm not sure if the BF was trying to find a way to embarrass me or my family into ending things or what.
How do you know it's the right time, or at least a relatively ok time, to get a dog?
I really, really, really, really, really, really, reallyreallyreallyreally want a dog. Like bad. However, there's always an excuse not to commit to the whole thing. Like, they're expensive, messy, smelly, poopy, peey, furry, sheddingy, dirty, disobedient and potential relationship enders. All kinds of relationships. Ones with shoes, yards, fences, corners of couches, landlords and more.
On the minus side, I work about 20 minutes (with no traffic) from where I live, leaving me little time at home mornings and evenings. My typical schedule has me leaving the house about 7.20am and returning about 7.30 - 8pm. That's a lot of time away from a pup. However, I do have BF who offices at home, so it could be doable...
On the plus side, I am sure that I was more active without even trying when I had Zealand (dog lost to breakup '06). He was a big, goofy guy who needed lots and lots of walking and interaction with other folks and animals. So, there I was, day after day, him dragging me through the two mile loop at the dog park. Two miles a day, rain or shine, winter or summer adds up to a healthier me.
And yes, dogs are pricey, but I think the act of financial restraint and saving for something other than yourself is a worthwhile pursuit.
I feel like if I wait for everything to properly align, the soonest I'd get an animal is when they bring kittens to the old folks home.
Congratulations, me! I am now the proud owner of two pair of boots. The aforementioned black heeled boots, and now a pair of flatish brown boots. I literally have no idea how to properly wear either pair. I had grand visions of pairing them with stylish skinny jeans and dresses with unique tights, but at the end of the day, skinny jeans involve the word skinny and tights are, well tights. So, yet another trend fail.
Pumping gas when it's colder than a witch's titty out there. HATE IT. I pumped approximately 0.98 gallons just so I could get home. I'll deal with tomorrow's commute tomorrow. When it's still just as cold. BALLS!
Yesterday, I was watching TV on the local NBC affiliate when Linda Cavaneck started talking about some sort of supermarket sweepstakes thing. Not sure what the rules are, but you could win either a $200 gift card or a grocery grab shopping spree! Whee! So, I started thinking, what's the best strategy for one of those things? As if I would win. Anyway, I decided I'd hit up the spices aisle, rake all of the olive oils and expensive vinegars into my cart, grab up all of the nuts, hit the specialty cheese case and then sprint over to the health and beauty section to stock up on razors (they're fucking expensive and only four blades, nothing like these bad boys) and then snatch up all of the Excedrin I can find. The whole scenario would be choreographed to mimic the season five, episode four of Designing Women, "Miss Trial", where Julia serves on a retarded jury, but more aptly, Charlene wins a free for all shopping spree at a record store and invites Suzanne to be her partner. Pastel sweatsuits are deployed. Brill.
Love you ladies!
And that's what I'm thinking about this Sunday evening.
Last night, I went to sleep. All normal like and stuff. But, my night brain went to work creating a truly bizarre sleep movie that I can only remember bits of.
Andrew Bird is my tour guide on a night cruise of famous swimming pools. He drops a tiny boat into still, black celebrity pools (the first was one from a movie I could recognize in my dream, but can't remember now) and we paddle in a circle while he narrates the history. And he talks exactly like he sings. Here's a sample from the song "Sovay."
I was getting ready to consider my next plan of attack I think I'm gonna sack the whole board of trustees all those Don Quixotes un their B-17s and I swear this time yeah this time they'll blow us back to the 70's and this time they're playin Ride of the Valkyries with no semblance of grace or ease and they're acting on vagaries with their violent proclivities and they're playing ride Ride of the Valkyries sovay,sovay,sovay all along the day
Right, so, he paddles about, using newly created words to expound upon water and whistling. Very AB*. Suddenly, my mom is there, but she's a cartoon version and looks like Meg Griffin with Sideshow Bob hair. She wants to get off the boat because we've come to a stop at whatever hotel/monstrosity in Vegas has the "Venetian" canals and gondoliers.
I wake up thinking that Sideshow Bob's hair really isn't all that much unlike my mom's.
*Listen to "Armchairs." This was the only version I could find. I don't know who or what this is, but it's decidedly less weird than my dreams. Also, this song is good.
What are the dudes doing that just chill at the gym? You know, the ones that just pace around machines with their workout clothes, but absolutely no intention of working out except to adjust a seat, sit down, then get up again? Are they just scoping people out? The problem is, I stare at them and all their weirdness, which I'm sure they take as me staring at them because I'm into them. What I'm really doing is desperately trying to do anything besides think about how many minutes are left.
My seriously fucked up dreams. Ones in which my mom gives birth to a kitten. One in which my boss's daughter has progeria. One where my boyfriend is pregnant and I'm super pissed because I thought he was on birth control. Another one with Philip Seymour Hoffman on a boat. One where the spider from Charlotte's web turned evil and promised to kill me, someday, so I spend the rest of the dream scared shitless that a talking spider is trying to murder me. What is up, sleeping brain?
I've decided that "Modern Family" and "Park and Recreation" are, in fact, worth watching. Also, let me profess my secret love for "Castle." Imagine this in my Oprah voice - LOVE IT! It's truly terrible. Bad acting, stupid stories, a horribly appointed apartment, but still, fuck me if I'm not watching Monday nights at 9.
The $8 car wash is definitely better than the $5 car wash. Worth all 300 extra pennies. The black 'trix is still shining.
I'm enjoying September in November. It's been sunny and 70sish all week. Had I not had a vomit inducing, brain melting migraine for two days of it, I forgot where I was going with that. Migraines suck (but are always better when referred to as meegraines).
I'm afraid of watching and not liking "Precious."
I like to listen to these songs:
Bitter Heart - Zee Avi
I Don't Know What To Do - Pete Yorn and Scarlett Johansson
Right, so, I've been really, really, really trying to incorporate at least 30 minutes, if not an hour of cardio daily in my effort to not be such a lard ass. The up side is less jigglyness and realized value of super-expensive running shoes. The downside is a continued proclivity for TERRIBLE FUCKING music. I mean, craptastically awful. Check this shit out.
I'll be honest, I don't know who half of these people are or how I hear them. Except the old school Shakira. I heard new school Shakira and she was talking about being a wolf or something retarded and I flashed back to awesome Spanish class era Shakira and took an iTunes trip down memory lane (expensive). But, turns out "Estoy Aqui" good running music. So, there you go. Also, if there's anyone left out there who reads this (I know there are at least two and one is my mom), PLEASE HELP ME!
In a related story, I went to the OU/K State game Halloween. I dressed up as an OU fan e.g. I actually bought an $11 OU t-shirt and wore it public. Something I swore I'd never do. I rarely even wear Smith garb (mostly because people think it's a made up school). Basically, I have no school spirit for any school. I'm so much fun! Hang out with me! Anyway, it was a lovely evening, OU played perfectly for about 47 seconds, the band did Thriller, I got in some cardio climbing up and down the stadium stairs ten thousand times (we're up on row 67), and then we met some friends for a beer at Brother's on campus corner. They have cheap pitchers. Woo hoo! Since I'm trying to not be so lardassy, I'm trying to drink less. So, I actually only had about 1.5 solo cups of beer over two hours, which equals not even tipsy. You hear me? Good. I'm looking around, taking in the scene of oldsters (it was homecoming weekend) drinking it up and eyeing all the coeds in their retarded sexy anything getups. Two grey dudes are walking arm in arm toward the door. One tells the other to hold on, there's a big step here. I smile and think, someday, I hope I have a friend who will still hit the bars with me when I'm 80. Cut to us leaving. Our booth was directly in front of the front door, next to the big step. Cut to me falling off the big step and slow motion rolling onto the cold, brick floor, laying at the feet of ID checkers/bouncers and the owner of the bar. The moral of this story is, had I known that was going to happen, I'd have just said fuck it and had a pitcher. DAMN!
I dressed up as myself on Saturday for work today (everyone else is in pumpkin t-shirts, cat ears, etc). Holey jeans, holey sweater, pony tail, Tivas. I rule.
Where have I been this time? you might ask not give even the slightest shit about. Well, I will give you 10 guesses.
A) Developing a very special, very new product: the home pap smear. Seriously, every effing time I turn around, I'm making an appointment (six months in advance) to see my gyno so she can charge me a bajillion dollars to swab my bajingo. I'm over the two hour wait and am all set answering awkward questions about my sex life and lady parts. Hence the home pap smear. A medical degree is not required to successfully carry out a smear. Mainly, one only needs to be comfortable with her own body and voila! Dollar dollar bills saved, y'all. Send it off to a lab and you're good till next year. I am so serious about this.
B) Storyboarding my own fan video for "Party in the USA."
C) Perfecting my one woman version of "The Nightman Cometh."
D) Searching for the perfectly wearable pair of black boots to go with winter skirts and dresses. (I settled on these because I am part old lady - they're Naturalizers. Huzzah!)
5) Waiting in line for tickets to the This Is It premier.
6) Misunderstanding the new Facebook format.
7) Living in an alternate universe powered by beautiful and creative blogs, or, the total opposite of this pile and my life. Secret: I cannot stop reading home designish blogs. Blogs about food and cooking. Blogs about pretty stationary. Blogs about other people's boyfriends and perfect lives. Blogs about cities I'll never live in. Blogs where everyone's photogenic, creative, surrounded by succulents and vintage furniture. It's a sickness. And I don't think there's a cure. Don't get me wrong, I don't begrudge these people their diligence and creativity. I'm simply jealous. See here. And here. And here. And here. And here. And here.
So, my pretties, this is what I've been clogging my ear holes with at the gym. It's terrible. Horribly embarrassing. But, somehow, inspiring. This group is exactly 31.5 minutes, which means I get to listen to it twice!
*Click to enlarge, but beware, you will confront the likes of Miley, Lady Caca and Chris "lady beater" Brown. I warned you.
1. Went to slickdeals.net to look at coupons on a Saturday morning. Yeah. Believe it. Found coupon for 10 pair of Victoria's Secret Pink underwear for a mere $25. Almost creamed my current underwear at the prospect of so much panty for so little $$. Went to mall to purchase.
2. Did underwear fashion show (for myself, I would never subject others) and promptly turned into my mother. The bargain drawers were simply too low cut in the front and high cut in the back. I thought barely covering your ass market had been cornered by the thong, but I guess not. I actually uttered these thoughts aloud, sealing my fate as an oldie.
So, if you need to reach me, I'll be living the dream.
I do love me some Mariah Carey. But like old school Mariah. Size 10 shoe, crazy curly hair, rope swinging, roller coaster riding Mariah. I don't like post "Honey" Hello Kitty, let me slip out of yet another ensemble and into my bathtub with a towel on, butterfly chasing, straighhairweirdface Mariah. I'd kind of written her off my music radar. Which really saddens me. I spent many an afternoon after school singing along to Vision of Love full blast on the living room stereo until my parents got home (I sounded just like her! true story!). The other night, I was driving home from work at, you know, probably 11pm, which is totally normal, and needed to stay awake. Instead of listening to my carefully cultivated CD collection (RIP listening to iPod in the car since new car doesn't have the right equipment and I will NOT fuck around with the FM transmitter bullshit thing) of indie lady drivel, I ventured to the dial. Did you know that KJ103 still exists? It does! And some more stations too! It was wonderful! Until I heard this one song. "Obsessed" by traitor Mariah. The lyrics are so fucktarded, fucktastic, fuckified that I have to share them. Behold, the lyrical genius that is Mimi, well partially. She's 1/3 responsible for this mess. I've highlighted the best parts.
OBSESSED (Mariah Carey - C. Tricky Stewart - Terius “The-Dream” Nash)
I was like, “Why are you so obsessed with me?” So oh oh oh oh So oh oh oh oh So oh oh oh oh So oh oh oh oh Will the real MC please, step to the mike? So oh oh oh oh So oh oh oh oh So oh oh oh oh So oh oh oh oh All up in the blogs Saying we met at the bar When I don’t even know who you are Saying we up in your house Saying I’m up in your car But you in LA and I’m out at Jermaine’s. I’m up in the A You so so lame and no one here even mentions your name It must be the weed. It must be the E Cause you be popping hood You get it popping, Oh Why you so obsessed with me (Boy I wanna know) Lying that you’re sexing me (when everybody knows) It’s clear that you’re upset with me Finally found a girl that you couldn’t impress Last man on the earth still couldn’t hit this You’re delusional, you’re delusional Boy you’re losing your mind It’s confusing yo, you’re confused you know Why you wasting your time Got you all fired up with your Napoleon complex Seeing right through you like you’re bathing in Windex Boy why you so obsessed with me? You on your job You hating hard Ain’t gon’ feed you I’m gonna let you starve Gasping for air I’m ventilation You out of breath Hope you ain’t waiting Telling the world how much you miss me But we never were So why you trippin’ You a mom and pop I’m a corporation I’m the press conference and you a conversation Why you so obsessed with me (Boy I wanna know) Lying that you’re sexing me (when everybody knows) It’s clear that you’re upset with me Finally found a girl that you couldn’t impress Last man on the earth still couldn’t hit this You’re delusional, you’re delusional Boy you’re losing your mind It’s confusing yo, you’re confused you know Why you wasting your time Got you all fired up with your Napoleon complex Seeing right through you like you’re bathing in Windex
Oh, how I long for the days of yore. Maybe "Someday" she'll come around. Single tear.
I've been all down in the dumps lately. Maybe it's dumbasses who won't let the President speak to the school kids of America. Maybe it's gay fish/Kanye's outburst toward dear, sweet Taylor Swift. Maybe it's how fucking terrible Norman tap water tastes this time of year. Maybe it's that my iPod is full, but I have like one kajillion songs I'd like to add to it. Maybe it's knowing that this season of Mad Men is almost half over. But, probably, it's the theme I choose for Gmail. I picked the tree one, which somehow means it's always rainy or storming in my inbox. I'm switching to planets. Wish me luck.
I suppose I shouldn't complain. There was a stretch this summer when I had forgotten rain. When the OK was more dried up than a joke about Joan Rivers' vajayjay. Anywho, now it won't stop raining. Rained all day Saturday. I actually had tickets to the OU/Idaho St. game, but pussied out. Neither wet t-shirt nor pancho is a good look for me. Instead, I let my parents purchase the game on Pay-Per-View and watched my mom down Keystone Light out of a pilsner glass. Surreal. It rained again all day Sunday. ALL DAY! I remember many rainy days in Mass, but here it seems to storm and be done with it, so this hovering rain put me in a mood. It also made my hair crazy. Like lion's mane crazy. Girlfriend needs a haircut, which costs $$... but this is about music.
Rainy days and mondays always get me down. Not really. Rain gives me an excuse to indulge my inner (and sometimes outer) sad bastard.
2% pay cut, among other things (e.g. no retirement contribution match) for at least nine months. When you're as poor as I am, 2% is a big deal (like a student loan payment and/or rent). More than that, there's the idea that working your way up and through a complicated job with a huge personnel issue is rewarded by the expectation of more work for less money. Yes, I still have my job, which is good, because the Department of Education and Citibank would be pretty sad if I found myself unemployed, but what am I working for? Another round of salary reductions? Constant fear of a reduction in force? Working in HR is difficult, since I catch wind, but not details of these decisions and have ample time to obsess. Also, there will surely be exceptions to the official rules to wrangle our budget, and I will have to process them, all the while living on less myself. Life isn't fair. I know this. But I was so hopeful. So hopeful.
Right, so, do I use this as impetus to see what else is out there? Do I seriously look at grad school now that I know I'll be just as poor working as I would in school? Do I look into selling my eggs? Do I hang out at retirement centers and befriend oldies who will add me to their life insurance policies? Do I move back in with my parents and save as much as I can to fund some sort of real change? Or, do I just tread water and hope for the best since I do actually like my job, the people I work with, and am not through learning what I'd need to know to be marketable in this area. I could do other stuff, sure, but I just invested over two years learning benefits and compensation.
Ugh. Sad panda. I don't know what that means, Shain says it, so I repeat it.
Oh, hi there. It's been a rough beginning of the semester. Shit has hit the fan at work. Turns out higher education in Oklahoma is not, in fact, recession proof. Employment is the new poverty. Also, I've obviously been in mourning since OU's ridonk performance the other day. And I ate at Cheesecake Factory and fell into a coma. Oh, and I've been trying to follow both Top Chef and Project Runway. So yeah, I've been pretty preoccupied. Apologies. To my imaginary fans. However, in the past two weeks, two moderately entertaining things happened involving the fam.
::Story #1::
Flash back to the summer of 1999. A young Bee-spot is head over heels in love with high school boyfriend who has earned a dork award that requires him to travel to DC for two weeks. Two weeks without seeing each other! Oh the agony. Right, so you no one might or might not know care that my old bedroom window was essentially used a door for parent forbidden shenanigans throughout my tenure. I was quite used to late night visits from high school boyfriend. Sometimes, we would watch taped episodes of Jeopardy!, sometimes we would stare into each others eyes, professing our tiny love, and sometimes we'd, well. You know. Do it. Anyway, the night before HSBF leaves for DC, I hear a knock on the ol' window. There he is, out in my yard, brandishing a curious red gift bag. He thrusts the bag through my window and tells me that he's purchased a few items for me to help me withstand his absence. Aw. I peer inside to discover a treasure trove of very naughty items. It was the first time I'd seen anything of the like. I could've stocked my own Christie's Toybox.* I honestly didn't know what to say or do. I kissed him goodbye, opened the bag and shoved the vibrator between my mattress and box spring. I hid it because it was the only thing I recognized and knew I needed a safe place for it. The other things had no meaning to me at the time, so I shoved them deep in the depths of my bottomless closet thinking that even if someone found them, they too would be unclear of their purpose.
Flash forward to 10 years later. My brother rarely texts me. When he does, it's usually to tell me to leave him alone or he confuses me with someone who can sell him drugs. I joke. Sort of. I receive a text that says something like you'll never guess what Dad found. That's right. While my brother and dad were attempting to repair my old bed (it's a 100+ year old four poster monstrosity that's very fragile), they pulled off the mattress to uncover, yes, a 10 year old dormant vibrator. Awesome! I asked my brother what Dad did with it. Apparently, it's waiting for me in the desk drawer.
::Story #2::
Oh moms. And the internets. Hilarity always ensues. Mom's school district refused to show Obama's don't quit school speech (big surprise/Oklahoma is awesome!), but she was determined to have the text available for herself and any interested student and wanted to print it out as soon as it was published. Cut to me showing her the magic of cut and paste and word and font size and printing. It was a miracle. Now she wants to email the link to her super conservative brother. Ok. She frequently emails me, so I don't see why she'd need my help for this, but she thinks she does. I watch her close every open window and application on her computer. Weird, but ok. Then she opens Internet Explorer. Um, ok. Then she types yahoo.com into the browser. I think to myself, weird, since I set her up with a Gmail account. Next she types Google into the Yahoo search field. Yeah, it's true. She Yahoo's Google. Then she proceeds to Google Gmail. I died a little. Also, if you know me, I think this explains a lot about me.
Glamour shot.
Treats. Treats. Treats.
Give me some m-effing treats!
Thank you.
Super spoon.
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I was searching for images to accurately capture my current state of T-day overload and came across this, which doesn't really accomplish my goal, but is sufficiently weird, so there. I came, I saw, I ate Paula Deen's pumpkin gooey butter cake*. I'm now relegated to sweat pants. Marry me. 
![[greekhouse.jpg]](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtlj62wke8iTDyBx1DPs8FNw_-DGwOSvZTCOMntVdksa4M7qilTUfU0SgzhFBJ-aUckf-98x4E_fwdIzc8WYTbApeFZHVBvYHf_-e6lBxYQLVPgaC0C7me3gyhX3sQhtvSwP25kw/s1600/greekhouse.jpg)
Some good news: only two days of work this week! Yeehaw!
