Is that a taco in your purse or are you just happy to see me?

Did you know, that on no less than two occassions, I have found a taco in the side pocket of my purse? Sometimes, I go to Taco Cabana (jealous?) and order too many tacos. So, I put one in my purse for safe keeping, until I'm ready to eat it at a later date. And then, you know, later, I find a taco in the side pocket of my purse.

XOXO,

Blythe

Pop Quiz

Where have I been?

a. Working security at the DNC.

b. Winning like 5,000 gold medals in field hockey. *I did go to a college for ladies...

c. Welcoming baby Bee-Spot into the world!

d. In a room at 900 E. Main St., Norman, OK.

e. Washing my hair.

f. Two words. Gender reassignment.

g. I'm now Mrs. Bee-Spot!

h. Preparing for ACL by immersing myself in thousands upon thousands of mp3s and irony.

i. Filming with the rest of the new cast of Real World: OKC.

j. Waiting in line at Wal-Mart to pay for just one tube of toothpaste.

k. First month of medical school!

l. Boycotting all things blog.

m. Watching every possible Lost episode and webisode in preparation for the impending season.

n. Hospitalized for Diet Coke OD.

o. Totally sweet and awesome vacay!

p. Preparing for the US Open, only to be knocked out in the first round.

q. On the campaign trail with McCain.

r. Lost in Forever 21.

s. Knocker reduction surgery.

t. Drinking.

u. Drinking.

v. Painting my face and body crimson and cream for tomorrow's opening game!

w. Hosting the eighth hour of the Today Show.

x. Just watching the Today show (full time occupation).

y. I predict no one makes it this far down the list.

z. Wallowing in self pity, despair, laziness, beer, wine, and Taco Bell.

The one where no one cares about my blog.

Man, if only I'd kept the genius coming instead of succumbing to the man.

This could've been me!

Hey Clinton, blogbuddy of ZFS, did that ramen come from Chinatown? Zing! Oh, no? Not a zing!? Ok.

Or this!

Lost Ogles, I met you at the NMF and you snubbed me. Then no mention in your 15 minutes of Oklahoma metro fame (which is equal to -25.8 seconds of national fame)? Ok, fair enough.

But, instead, it's just this:

T.C.O.B.

So, where have I been, you no one might ask?

1. Stuck in traffic on 2-35 North.
2. Mourning the end of The Wire. I've Netflixed Friday Night Lights, Freaks and Geeks, Lost, and now The Wire. What's next?
3. Getting a promotion at work, which means I feel increasingly guilty about using company bandwidth to support this habit. Also, I actually kind of have to do stuff now.
4. Contemplating a haircut.
5. Spending some QT with Mr. Shain and Rockband. Spending some QT with Shain and my dad at a forensics tournament. Yeah, it's weird.
6. Hating on the mega-churches that have sprung up all over the metro.
7. Buying reusable grocery bags from eBay because there's no place I can think of that would sell them here.
8. Watching Ade get presumably whacked on the A&E Sopranos marathon. I'm glad it was Sil.
9. Getting lost in the aisles of Sam's. Did you know you can buy three pounds of Cinnamon Toast Crunch for only $6? Shiiiiiiiiiit.
10. Drinking too much Lion's Head. Not going to the gym.

I owe a cock us

Hey look! After a self imposed exile from technology ranging from blogs, email, phone, digital camera, and electric toothbrush, I'm back! And I'm pissed and/or feeling wittily insightful about a number of topics ranging how to properly load a dishwasher, the best way quell murderous feelings towards one's family, why it is always a good idea to show way too much cleavage at Christmas Eve mass, how to be utterly disappointed in your football team and the benefits of eating your weight in ham. Yay! I didn't mean to scare y'all, I just needed a break. More later, I promise.

Love in Christ,
B.

P.S. If you live in Iowa, please just don't go for Romney, Huckabee, Giuliani, Thompson, or any of the Retardlicans, really.

It turns out that I am alive.

However, Christmas has sent me into a sadness spiral.

Zack Harrison Memorial Monday

I had kind of a ridiculous Monday. So, this is happening on a Tuesday. I know you're crushed. Or not. Whichever. Ok, so some random songs rumbling around my brain and/or in my iPod:

Prodigal Son - Two Gallants

Dream A Little Dream Of Me - Mama Cass

Two Headed Boy - Neutral Milk Hotel

Myriad Harbour - The New Pornographers *the line about PS1 is so genius, it blows my ungenius mind like every time.

Lebanese Blonde - Thievery Corporation *they've been playing this on NPR after segments about the Middle East. seriously.

Scythian Empires - Andrew Bird

Me Gusta - Manu Chao

Waiting Line - Zero 7

Love Love Love - The Mountain Goats

Ready Or Not, Here I Come - The Delfonics

Winter Windows - Sea Wolf

Kingdom of Doom - The Good, The Bad and The Queen

Girl Talk - Bounce That

Take The Skinheads Bowling - Camper Van Beethoven

Parentheses - The Blow

Let's Get Out Of This Country - Camera Obscura

Your Rocky Spine - Great Lake Swimmers

PMS: Part II

I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm kind of a little bit rere (I think Julie Gong's working to trademark this term, ask permission before using) at 114% of anything and everything I endeavor to do. Lately, I've put my mind to taking an ungodly amount of time to decide whether or not I'm in a relationship and whether or not this is a good thing. Good news! I am and it is! (You know, for now, until I fuck it up or he notices that I live at home or something.) In the meantime, I guess I've fallen into that age old trap of all your friends are belong to hating you. No one calls anymore because they think I'm busy (gettin' busy - zing!). Then they get mad if I don't call even though they didn't call in the first place leading me to believe they don't like me. Well, guess what, kids. I don't need any of you. I've got a new MySpace friend. We're gonna be eternal BFFs, like forever.

It's Friday, I'm in Love

Not. Not even remotely. In fact, I'm in hate. Except I was taught not to say hate. Instead, I had to say severely dislike. I hate that I had to say that.

Things I am in hate with: Asshat drivers of the OKC metro area. Rudy Giuliani. Work. Cell phone bills. Student loans. Unloading the dishwasher. Drying my hair. Mint mojito gum. Hannah Montana. Baked Lays. Blogs. Sitemeter. Cheap tequila. People who leave pizza boxes open for all of the warmth to escape leaving cold, congealed slices. Sore boobs. The fact that there is NO GOOD BEER in the entire freaking state. Unripe bananas. Toy sized dogs. myfriendspacebook. Soggy french fries. Running out of hot water in the shower. Stop signs. Nightly nightmares. Miracle Whip. Everything.

Things that would make me feel better: These. A few of these. Maybe a little of this. A beer from this place. Him. Being here. Eating an entire bowlful of these delicious, delicious morsels of goodness. Hanging out with her. Wearing this.

Blah.

It's really not funny,

but what if Hollywood and Malibu and the OC or wherever the rich and famous people that don't live in New York or on a ranch in Taos or Whistler and drive a Prius except to premiers when they take private jets and ride in Hummer limos totally burned down? What if there were celebrity refugees like displaced Katrina victims? See, I told you, not funny. But sort of. Like what if Lauren Conrad had to come live at my house while she waits for FEMA money to replace her Louboutin shoe and wide headband collection? Obvs, hilarity would ensue. Or what if Jennifer Aniston came to reside in the Benson household. She'd have to eat my mom's hashbrown casserole and she couldn't throw it up because of our faulty plumbing. Ha. But seriously, fire isn't funny. I'll admit something. It was high school before I could light a candle (and shuffle cards, I'm a late bloomer, so sue me). Once, I remember my dad was trying to make his own tortilla chips in our battered toaster oven. As the flames licked the underside of our kitchen cabinets and with the fire alarm blaring, I gathered up my pet mouse in her traveling cage, an assortment of clothes and stack of R.L Stine books and headed out into the yard awaiting the fire trucks. I would not go back inside for hours.

Zack Harrison Memorial Monday: Random Crap Edition.

I kind of forgot to post on Friday. It was going to be about beer (surprise!), so I'll save it for this week, since beer and I have the most successful and lasting long term relationship I've ever had e.g. we're not breaking up anytime soon. In the meantime...

Boomer Sooner!

Yup. Steamrolled another team. Also, how come no one ever told me that Tulsa is the Golden Hurricanes? WTF, man. Hurricanes in northeastern OK? Um. The game was a little intense at the beginning, but then the more Shiner I had (shut up) the better we did, so all was well. All was not well for the other Oklahoma team. Holy balls watch this!

I got some culture.

Saturday night, I went to a movie called Strange Culture at the Oklahoma Museum of Art (if you haven't gone to a movie here, I highly suggest it - mainly because you can drink before right in the bar downstairs!!) recounting the events surrounding the weirdness and sadness that is Steve Kurtz. Totally bizarre subject matter and use of documentary conventions. I wish I could recommend it, but I'm not sure I can. It did get me thinking, though. Until I started drinking later.

Jam Factor 5,000

Lacey's dad did it up at the Midway music fest thingy. It was pretty sweet. Lloyd rocked the drum kit while the Matthews clan and friends watched little kids in Superman t-shirts run around and bump into shit. Also, there were dogs and lots of bikes. A perfect Sunday afternoon activity.

The Jamminators! They're pretty sweet for jam band made of dads.

L's little brother, Luke. Look how happy he is.

Lacey doesn't have children (yet), so instead she settles for dognapping, then treating the hostage like a baby. Poor Willow.

What I really did this weekend

Um. So. MTV replayed the ENTIRE season of So You Think You Can Dance. Needless to say, when you called asking me to do stuff and I was all 'I'm really busy doing important cool stuff' I was really laying in bed crying to the choreography of Mia Michaels. It's my challenge.

But what about the music?

That's where you come in. I'm so tired of everything I've been listening to, I don't know what to do. I mean, it's all good since I've got such awesome taste, but I'm burning out. Help?

Um, yeah, so I'm kind of a big deal...

Sometimes, I check Sitemeter to make sure my mom's not reading as per our legal agreement. Guess what I learned when I logged on today? Bee-Spot has been nominated for a 2007 Okie Blog Award! I know, right? Obvs this is award winning blog (potentially/not). No? That's not what you were thinking? Oh. In any case, I'm truly surprised as I didn't threaten anyone to nominate me or anything. Not even my mom. I'm not sure how it happened (or why Mr. Shain didn't stop it because of his unbridled and unrivaled jealousy), but I'm relieved that I can now wear my "I'm kind of a big deal" t-shirt legitimately. And really, it's just an honor to be nominated because the bloggers of Oklahoma would have to be crazy not to vote for the The Lost Ogle, my favorite site re: the OKC.

I need an adult!

In spite of being a 26 year old woman who has indiscriminately dabbled in slut a time or two (who hasn't? don't lie) and who had a BF for a million years, I have a really hard time talking about s-e-x. I mean, really hard (ha!). Like I'd rather say vajayjay or bajingo than the v-word. I snicker when I hear boner. Saying breasts is too adult. I prefer boobies. I don't know how I've managed to get this far without being able to utter simple anatomy, but here I am, red faced, giggly and squirmy. The whole thing's quite ridiculous, really and I'm certainly not proud of it. I am an educated woman who should be able to talk about s-e-x like a normal person (whatever that means), but I just can't - without laughing a little bit. Like in the middle. The thing is, I want to learn. Is it something you're born with? Because I don't have it. I think part of the problem was having a BF from high school through, I don't know, last year whose idea of dirty/sweet talking was "hey, you wanna?" later, this would be followed up with me saying, "get that away from my butt" and then "seriously, dude, get that away from my ass" and then finally, "hey, I was talking to your mom this morning about our plans for Christmas..." and then he'd roll over. Match made in heaven. I need 900 operator training. Is there a workbook? Remember when Elaine whispers dirty nothings into Jerry's tape recorder and they all fall for her? Just sayin.'

Everything That's Happened To Me Since Wednesday or, Sorry to Disappoint, Crimenotes:

1. Work has kicked my ass. But I also might be offered a new job, which would result in less ass kickings and more $$. In the meantime, I am boring.

2. Ultimate extreme tragedy struck. My cell phone finally bit it. Bitch snapped in half. I, of course, followed suit. I had a total and utter meltdown Friday night that resulted in me drinking margaritas at Chili's. In a related story, I have lost everyone's numbers. To most, this would be absolutely devastating, but for me, it's ok, since I only have like three friends. But if you want me to call you or not screen your call since I won't recognize your number, send me an email with your digits, yo.

3. My dad runs on bacon. Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, my dad somehow managed to incorporate bacon into every meal prepared at the old homestead (no, Shain, I wasn't eating it - jerk didn't ask me if I wanted any). Now, don't get me wrong, I love me some bacon, but it's not really all that sexy to go out smelling like Waffle House.

4. See ya C-tina! C-tina made her brief, but triumphant return to Nompton before she departed for Slovakia for 10 months. We ate quiche at La Baguette just like the old days. We bought too much food at Forward Foods. We wandered around Guest Room Records for an hour. I bought Whatever and Ever Amen and was amazed that I still know every word to every song. We had ninth grade in my bedroom. It was wonderful.

5. I saw a movie. And a good one. I think. I might be the only one, though. Eagle vs. Shark played at the Oklahoma City Museum of Art. I was obligated to like it because Jemaine Clement is in it, so. Also, there were shark and eagle costumes. And most importantly, a supremely awkward relationship. All of those things are near and dear to my heart. The theater was really quiet, so I had to stifle my laughter quite a bit. That, plus my desperate need to pee, but refusal to get up proved to be a multi-media viewing experience. I'm fairly certain my viewing companion thought I was having a seizure. Which is cute right? No? If you can, see this movie. You'll like it. Oh, and then I went to this bar you'd also like. It's called Edna's. You can drink something called a Lunchbox. At first, I thought Edna's Lunchbox was akin to the Houston Ham Sandwich or Cincinnati Bow-Tie and was quite skeptical of the suggestion (but hey - I'll try anything once), but it's actually a delicious, yet cheap drink. That and other beverages required a trip to the bathroom. Which was fun, since there was only one stall and it had no door. Nothing like having to ask a random girl to guard your front. I did get felt up, though. I somehow always do in the ladies room. I dunno.

6. I bought a book. It's by Anthony Bourdain, of course. Is it weird I only read it before bed so I can dream of not (only) him, but the food?

7. I am contemplating the end of this blog. I am either depressed or thinking about being happy. I am no longer wallowing in abject misery, which seemed to be what worked best. What do you think?

My limit is three. THREE!

A note from the desk of Blythe: this post will be brief and unsatisfying, much like most encounters with me.

I have made a new rule for myself - the rule of three. Only three orange bejeweled skank shirts from Forever 21 in one outing, only three diet DPs at the office, only three viewings of Knotting Hill in one sitting, you get the idea. This also means only three drinks in one evening. Previously, I had made a pact to limit myself to three drinks per establishment, but I don't think that's going to work out. Last night, after a particularly easy day at the office, Lacey and I went out to dinner and stuffed ourselves with Mexican food. Delish times 4. We also had one ginormous margarita each - we totally got upsold by this creepy, yet charming waiter. Needless to say, we were a tad tipsy. I had planned to watch SYTYCD, but was informed that the results show would not be tonight and I just couldn't fathom waiting longer tan 24 hours to know who got the boot. It's a sleepless night already. So, I agree to meet up with high school friendish while he's in town for a drink. Let me just say that by this point, Margaritaville has taken the last train to Clarksville. Stone cold sober. But then I have a few Flying Dog whatevers and I launch into let me scare you with my life story mode. Poor kid. This is my least favorite of my drinking personalities. Blah, blah, blah I ramble about sushi, Native Americans and the War of Jenkins ear. Then it's pumpkin time and I'm ready to go. I start the epic search for my keys in the bottomless depths of my purse only to come up empty handed. They are simply not there and are simply in the ignition of my locked (totally sweet if you are into a totally lame) car. I am reduced to calling my little brother for a key, but he's out being cooler than I am and can't meet me for some time. So, high school friendish offers to take me home. I then realize that he probably thinks this is a line. Oh, I locked my keys in my car before I even started drinking, now you have to take me home.... But sadly, not the case, although, I might start using it. Fortunately, I was immediately distracted from this sad state of affairs by satellite radio. F-ing sweet! I need it. Like yesterday.

And then I found $5.

MY LIMIT IS THREE!

Dear Shain (letter #3 in a series):

Why did you have to post this picture on your blog? Although we communicate all day via email, gmail chat, (other people's) blog comments sections, telephone and telepathy, I still find myself checking *The Life & Times hundreds (4) of times a day. Lately, I have been greeted by this mesmerizing image. 9.5 times out of 10, I find myself pulling a Super Troopers muttering "enhance, enhance, enhance" while enlarging the image on my screen much to the dismay and concern of my coworkers. What does this mean? I can't look away.

Love in Christ,

Blythe

It's Friday, I'm in Love

with love.

Perhaps it is the alignment of HPV [the movie, people - and yes, I saw it for a second time last night and yes, I spent a fair bit of the remaining night rereading HPVI in a red and gold scarf I knitted for the occasion and no, I don't have a boyfriend] and HPVII (the book). Perhaps it is the fact that my mother's cell went dead on her week long trip to visit relatives in the "resort" town of Galveston, Texas. Perhaps it is because the first OU game's like a month away or something and I've got tickets. Perhaps it is hearing from long lost friends. Perhaps it is sleeping with my windows wide open. Perhaps it is because I had a dream where I was actually on Red Eye. Perhaps it's knowing someone else loves to hate on Dean Blevins as much as me. Perhaps it is the impending visit of my great aunt and uncle who are driving down from Tulsa to distribute their emu oil, because yeah, my relatives run an emu ranch, to Dodson's Health Foods. Perhaps it is the word "incontrovertible," which I am really enjoying right now. Perhaps it is because I have pretty decent eyebrows that require little plucking (although, I do none) because I have enough other things to worry about. Perhaps it is the grand opening of Sooner Mall's Forever 21 (aka Hooker's R Us - or in my case, me). Perhaps it is tomorrow's farmers market. Perhaps it's tonight's drink that I will get all by myself like an adult at a bar after work because I am a grown up and can do things like that if I want.

But mostly, it's this fucking song that is making my robot heart leak oil like Lohan leaks drool when she passes out in Samantha Ronson's car. Fuck you Old 97's and your Zach Braffian ways into my heart.

Question - Old 97's

Dear Shain, I just don't think this relationship is working out anymore.

today's gmail chat:

me: worst. lunch. ever.
sloppy joes in the cafeteria.
mr.shain: how many did you have?
me: ...
mr.shain: can't remember
?
that many eh?
me: um

Because I am totally obsessed with Journey and blogs,

I happened on something pretty special via Stewpid Thoughts. There are no words.

Enjoy.

Uh, sorry.

That last post was kinda, well, terrible. I think I've hit a blogging brick wall. I probably hit it before I actually started this blog, but that's just timing. Here's an apology of a link since I am always scouring the blogosphere thinking of you. If you obsess about The Sopranos and music as much as I do, then you're going to love this™.

via Stereogum: Score The Sopranos.