Zack Harrison Memorial Music Monday: On repeat edition.

Hey there sportsfans. I know you all sidled up to your computers this week, your iPods or MP3 player of choice (j/k - there's no choice) awaiting the week's selections, but were disappointed only to read about my ass crack. And by disappointed, I mean fortunate. But the man's got me down and there's not much I can do about it except listen to the following on repeat as I drive to and from the OKC.

• This week, I am absolutely and completely Britney Spears crazy for Vampire Weekend. I am an elitist at heart, so as Columbia kids making weird music around campus, they have stolen my heart. Or what is left of it. Because I am so obsessed, I haven't listened to much else. LISTEN! It's crack. (And not ass crack.)

Oxford Comma - this song makes me feel smart.

Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa - this song sounds like a bastardized Graceland, which of course makes me want to dance around like an idiot, but with diamonds on the soles of my shoes.

• I think I put White Rabbits on a list in the recent past (maybe even as recent as last week - it's not like I read this thing), but it whenever it was, it was kind of without having completely appreciated, or maybe even listening to the song. Upon, oh, I don't know, 10,000 listenings, I pretty much love it. So, hear it again:

Kid On My Shoulders - sinister driving beats. Mmm.

• Summer is for Swedish music.

Clever Girls Like Clever Boys - Pelle Carlberg

• Hey, guess what's Monday? The Ben Kweller show at the Bricktown Ballroom. As usual, I've been listening up on my subject. Sha sha shawesome.

Falling - Oh Ben, your voice is like an old friend.

• Turns out I am a bigger J Dilla fan than I ever knew.

We Must Be In Love - J Dilla (Featuring Pharoahe Monch) - I can't say why I like this, and it's out of character, but I do. I also can't say why I chose this week's format, but I did.

• Some of you folks mentioned The Avett Brothers a few weeks back and I was all, yeah, I'll download me some of that and I did, but then I forgot to listen. But I did this week. Did I ever.

Die Die Die - I was missing out!

• Hey, guess who's playing the Bricktown Ballroom on Wednesday? As Tall As Lions. I've posted it before, but for some reason, this song get me totally hot (come on kids, because it's 103 in the evening here), so natch, I've got to see it live.

Love, Love, Love (Love, Love) - Swoon. The lead singer is adorable.

See you next week. If I really loved you, I would figure out how to embed stuff from next week's shows, but I don't think I'm going to, so...

While you are anxiously awaiting Cringesday...

read this. It's not me, but remember, this blog is about you. The reader. And if you need a judgement free zone to anonymously post, I'm here for you. It's how I do.

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Last Saturday night I went out with my roommate, her boyfriend, and two of her co-workers. Normally I go for dive bars with Smithwick's on tap, Skynyrd a permanent feature on the juke box, and there is no less than 3 alcoholics missing 40% of their teeth belly up to the bar at all hours of the night (and day). However, this time I was dragged out the the black hole of all Manhattan neighborhoods. Where nice Midwestern guys transform into Guido's with waxed pecs and hair so sharp you can impale yourself on it, and girls wear $500 4 inch open-toed heels to walk on cobblestone streets until 4 am in the dead of winter. Oh yeah, and did I mention the men in that area rape you, shove you in a suitcase and leave you in a dumpster in New Jersey? It's safe to say that every time someone drags me to that part of town, I really do fear for my life. This quaint part of town is known as the Meatpacking District (no, not a euphemism for gay sex. Sorry). You know, where you can get your fabulous couture Alexander McQueen dress next to a rotten dead bovine carcass. So there we are at this bar, and there is no air conditioning, and it's fucking hot. My roommate's boyfriend likes to complain. Yeah he is one of those. He was wearing shorts and Reef sandals which normally is a no-go in a "swanky" establishment like this, but considering he just entered the bar with three smoking hot chicks, they let him in. I'm wearing jeans, so dude has no right to complain to me about how hot he is. I don't want to hear it. So we sit down, I order my $7 Amstel (I just snapped a #2 pencil in half thinking about how ridiculous that price is for such a shitty beer. And yes, I still use #2 pencils), and we begin talking. After about 3 or so beers, my roommate's boyfriend notes about the black people standing around us (I got some junk in the trunk, so sometimes the brothas like me), "I wonder why black people don't have a lot of hair." Now let me give you a little background on yours truly before I divulge the rest of my tale. When I first arrived at the tender age of 17 (I'm young for my grade!) at the fine institution of the University of Iowa (go Hawks!), I was originally a microbiology major. However, once I realized organic chemistry was going to get in my way of Tuesday night dollar steins at Malone's, I switched my major to anthropology with a focus on human evolution/osteology. I even wrote a 50 page paper on Neandertal (no "h" for us anthropologists) mitochondrial DNA and its impact on the classification of Neandertals as a separate species or subspecies to Homo sapiens that I'm pretty sure my Human Origins professor jerked off to and used as a nut rag. So do we agree that I might know a little more about the subject than some guy who works at an insurance company and has seen Jurassic Park? I think so. So back to the douchey bar. We're staring at the black people in front of us (please no comments regarding whitey staring at the po' black folk. Wasn't like that at all), and I suggest the reason for their lack of hair was probably because their race evolved in Africa, you know, where it is hot. I think he just about shit his pants when I said this. "HOW CAN YOU FUCKING SAY THAT?!" he screamed, "ARE YOU FUCKING DUMB?" Whoa, there buddy. I go into my thing regarding why certain "races" look the way they do, from skin color (Africans have darker skin as to not burn from sub-Saharan sun) to noses, (those of us of European origins have a narrower nose which helps to warm the air we respirate from colder European air), etc. I don't need to go on. Are you asleep yet? WAKE UP! I try to explain that the first true humans appeared on this earth approximately 40,000 years ago, and the deviation of races from Africa occurred when our ancient ancestors all began to migrate out of the continent. And he raises his voice, "DO YOU THINK EVOLUTION BEGAN 40,000 YEARS AGO? WHAT ABOUT THE DINOSAURS? DON'T YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THE JURASSIC PERIOD?" Oh no he di-int. Now I'm starting to get pissed. I don't respond well to people I don't know very well implying I am dumb (that pleasure is reserved distinctly for my friends), especially when they sound like talking gorillas. Actually, I take that back. That would be an insult to the gorilla. Oh, but he keeps going. "WHAT ABOUT AUSTRALIANS THEN? THEY LOOK WHITE, AND IT'S HOT THERE TOO." With clenched teeth I, as calmly as I can, respond that white people did not originate in Australia, the Aborigines did, and they are in fact, darker skinned. To argue how white people evolved in Australia is the same idiotic logic that one would try to use to explain the evolution of white people in America. He was insistent that it was all about "genetics," which if actually listened to what I said, is directly related to my point. I calmly put my beer down, shushed him, and said I had to leave. I was going to get nasty, and being that this was my roommate's boyfriend, that was a luxury I just didn't have.

On my way out, he slides in, "YOU STUDIED THIS FOR 3 YEARS? I THINK YOU NEED ANOTHER YEAR."

Buddy, you know what you need? A fucking roundhouse kick right right to the jugular. And maybe some sterilization. Just sayin'. So that's it. Thanks Blythe for letting me use her forum for a stupid rant about a subject no one cares about. Now back to your regularly scheduled programming.

i found the marble in the oatmeal!

UPDATE: Real life is still kicking my ass all over the playground then stealing my lunch money, so...

Between work life and real life, the Bee-Spot is functioning on about 9 hours of sleep out of the past 72. It's not pretty. I am almost always incoherent to begin with, so now it's just sad. In the meantime, there's a hurricane? MC Rove resigned? What day is it? I'll get back in the saddle again, I promise. Don't miss me too much. Oh, you didn't even notice the lack of posting? Ok.

Do you ever just have one of those days

where you get the worst haircut of your life? That just happened to me. I mean, it's not the five year old mullet or anything. I mean, it's not that good.

More later.

XOXO,
B

Later: [Hey, watch out, TMI city here.] So, I wore a thong today because I had to get all gussied up (read I am in a dress!) for a work event and didn't want any VPL action in front of the VIPs and now I have thong burn or something. Whatever it is, my crack kind of hurts a little. Suffer for fashion.

For Normaneyes Only: A Shameless Plug.

One of the reasons Lacey is so awesome is due to her insane, yet endearing family (her words, not mine - ok, my words). Lacey's mom is my second mom (yet somehow, my mom is not her second mom and might not even be my first mom, but I digress) and her dad is pretty much around as much as my dad, which is not a lot, so he's just like my dad. Her little bro and my little bro cut their teeth on N64, Power Rangers and grass fires together. She has some brothers in between too, but... Ok, middle bro is awesome. Anyhoo, L's dad is tearing it up tonight with his band the Jamminators at Brothers (593 Buchanan) starting at 9. Seriously, what's more dope than your dad rocking a drum kit with his friends and making some decent music too? I would argue not much. So, as it was written by L's mom on my copy of the flier, "be there or be ."

Here they are, rockin' the stage at O'Connell's on St. Paddy's Day. They have a sign, so they are legit. Sweetness.

So, come on out, folks! What else were you going to do tonight? Also, I'll buy you a shiner, on you.

It's Friday, I'm in Love

with motherfucking summer. It's going to hit triple digits in the OKC (metro including Norman) today. I haven't experienced this kind of face melting (literally) heat in quite some time. There's nothing like getting second degree burns from your steering wheel and the sensation of knee sweat. Or everywhere sweat. Sexy. Know what I'm gonna do? After work, I'm stopping by Byron's Liquor Warehouse (sorry Sooner Spirit Shop, you are not on my way home and Byron has really been there for me the past month), picking up a six pack of something shitty because Oklahoma refuses to allow decent beer into the state instead pretending that Shiner Bock is adequate or even some kind of microbrewery favor, then heading to the park. There, I will take of my devil shoes, spread out my blanket, flop onto my belly and finish reading The Egyptologist. I will listen to Brandy Alexander on repeat. I will close my book, close my eyes, and think about nothing. Not even knee sweat.

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!

Zack Harrison Memorial Music Monday: Wednesday Edition.

Guess what happens when you work all the time, then come home and pass out, only to resurrect yourself for a 9pm beer, but then you pass out again almost immediately in your heels with mascara running down your face? You don't listen to as much music (or read as many blogs and it's not that I don't want to, it's just that I'm unconscious). Some of this stuff is old (e.g. has been posted on here before), some of it's crap, but all of it's what I've been listening to then thinking, "hey, this should go on a summer mix." And then I pass out cold. If you'd like a Blythe's Summertime07 Fantastic Fun-time Mix To The Max™, please send me a SASE and CD. And beer.

Let's get the beach ball rolling with a summertime guilty pleasure:
How Bizarre - OMC

Songs explicitly referencing summer:
Summertime - The Sundays
Summertime Cowboy - Husky Rescue
July, July! - Decemberists
Summersong - DecemberistsSummer Day - Coconut Records

Let's makeout outside and get sweaty and sticky with grass:
Wordless Chorus - My Morning Jacket
Can You Come For Me - The Poems
Butterfly Nets - Bishop Allen
Tender - Blur
Sundress - Ben Kweller
Sightlines - Rogue Wave

These are my dancing flip-flops:
Boyz - M.I.A.
Stop Me - Mark Ronson
Bounce That - Girl Talk
Stick your feet in the pool!
Clarity - Furu ft. Common
She Moves In Her Own Way - The Kooks
Work It Out - RJD2

Corndog - Mike Hosty *not the song, I can't find it. iTunes people. It's about corndogs and state fairs.
The Underdog - Spoon
Heart It Races - Dr. Dog
Oxford Comma - Vampire Weekend
Screendoor - Illinois
My Rights Versus Yours - The New Pornographers
Here Comes The Meter Man - Metric
Solta O Frango - Bonde Do Role

Cringesday on a Monday: Birthday that never ends edition!

Hey everybody, come and see how good I look! -- Ron Burgundy

I've never really been on the receiving end of a digital gift before, but this year, I got four! I will share three with you because one was deeply personal and quite filthy. One is cringe-worthy, one is a direct Cringesday contribution, and one is, well, I need your help with the last thing.

* Click here for more. You'll have to download it (it's a power point). This is as blog savvy as I get and I had to have help.

* Click here only if you want to ROTLFLMAO like a LOTR NAACP AARP CBS. Siobhlogger's outdone herself. Cringesday GOLD! Here is a preview.


* This was sent to me by someone that I don't know all that well, yet he somehow managed to distill my entire personality into 30 seconds and some graphics. So, do I marry him or file a restraining order because he's clearly stalking me? Which is sexy, of course.

So, uh, about that...

As you might or might not know, yesterday was the day I turned the big 2-6. I spent the day doing boring shit (e.g. making fried tofu, reading my Mao biography, staring at the Sunday Times thinking about how I should read it but then getting bored with myself for thinking about that) then napped like I've never napped before. Epic drool. It was lovely. Then, I put on a dress (I know, big time for the Bee-Spot!) and used my new crease brush to make myself look like I got punched in the eyes in an effort to look "sexy." I think I ended up looking methy - which is close. Finally, Lacey and I were ready to head out for a lavish dinner. And boy, was it lavish. Our darling waiter hooked us up with some lovely blueish martinis that Lacey drank two of - big deal time! We feasted on lobster, crab cakes, spinach and wedge salads, then I got the salmon and L got the filet. Our sides were sauteed corn and creamed spinach. And creamed pants. So effing good I wanted to kill myself! But I didn't. Next I was off to The Deli where I was serenaded by my favorite song, "My Ho Drives A Big Red Car," which was thoughtfully requested especially for me. Thanks. I then proceeded to drink my weight in Pacifico. I hippie danced like a tard. I got hippie hugged by a sweaty (but hot) dreadlocked chick with a fake British acccent. I peed 800 million times and made best friends in the bathroom. L and I took shitty pictures. I ran into an old high school friendish whom I hadn't seen in forever. I screamed along to "Level" (Raconteurs) all the way home. Speaking of home, I made it back with my earrings, underwear and whatever modicum of dignity I have left in general. And that's when it happened. C-tina promised me a slide show of a gift (yes, we are weird like that and more than likely, you'll see it on Wednesday) so I hopped online. Let me just say, milk was a bad choice. Old high school friendish had aready Facebooked me, so natch I replied to his message. I'm afraid to even look. I emailed C-tina in response to the HI-LARIOUS and touching slide show she made me with completely nonsensical ramblings. I commented on some blogs... so, uh Dan, the wedding's probably off now, huh. Do we have to return the gifts? I responded to some blogger emails - I have no idea what I said and am afraid to find out. Also, I sent some spectacular text messages to people I barely know (I am praying to the God I don't believe in that I didn't respond unkindly to the ex's text). Love me! My head is a cement mixer, but other than that, not too bad. The best gift of all was the gift of lateness this morning. I got to come in at nine! In closing, thanks for all of the b-day wishes, gifts, texts, calls, etc. Y'all are the best. Except you, Shain since you just called me an old lush. 26 is the new awesome.

Is this a Cringesday picture? No. This is why I hate having my picture taken. Ugh city. However, it was at least 12am and I was full of beer and stupid by then.

Coming up: pictures and Zack Harrison Memorial Music Monday. I'm going to feel really bad if I find out that Zack's really dead.

It's Friday, I'm In Love

well, I'm not in love this week, per se, but I have like 10 million mini-crushes, of which I will share a handful with you.

Blasting my ear drums:

D.A.N.C.E. - Justice: A few weeks ago, I very inaccurately predicted I would become less than enamored with this song almost instantly. I listen to it every morning, rocking out to the sights and sounds of OKC, cruising at a whopping 25mph for an hour. I dance in the car (well as much as one can dance wearing a seatbelt, which isn't unlike the way I dance when not wearing a seatbelt) like no one's watching™. An unstoppable smile spreads across my face like the first time I heard Motown Philly back in sixth grade. It's A.W.E.S.O.M.E.

Cinema enema:

Hot Fuzz - It's even better the second time. Rent it.

The Darjeeling Limited:

What are your favorite movies, Blythe? Well, aside from Breakfast at Tiffany's...

Wait, that's so clichéd, that's really your favorite movie?

Uh, hello, she's dressed in Givenchy for the entire movie? Anyway, my others are Bottle Rocket (my next pet will be named Dignan), The Royal Tenenbaums and Rushmore. I love The Life Aquatic, but it's not at the top of the list. But this might be someday:

On the small screen:

It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia - just watch it. Hi-larious. And, I'm in love with Charlie.

My Boys - I've been told it's for chicks. Turns out I'm a chick, so I get to watch it. But you should too.

On my feet:

Chacos. After nine hours of heels and office bullshit (although, yesterday, I wore a tiara for the better part of the day that I found secreted in a filing cabinet, but no one got my meta-ironical point including myself), there's nothing I love more than coming home, sliding into my little shoes made of heaven's pillows, cracking open a Miller Lite and internetting me some porn (this might be the only true thing on this entire blog). OMG - so comfortable. Also, they make me feel all outdoorsy and shit when really the most outdoorsy thing I do these days is take the bags of wine and beer bottles to the curb.

In my heart:

Any girl worth her weight in salads with no dressing, well, maybe fat free Italian on the side - on the side! knows that Urban Outfitters is the poor man's Anthropologie. I can't afford either, which is why literally every stitch of clothing I own comes from Hookers R Us. But a girl can dream, right? This little guys all sold out at the Hipster Factory, but I still covet it. Would I wear it? Certainly not.

Speaking of clothing, since when did maternity stuff become the new trend? And who's loving it? Me! I always might be a little bit pregnant, so this whole new look is awesome. I've decided to take it to the x-treme and drink all the beer I want (ok, was going to anyway) because I can just hide the ol' spare tire under something like this:

So, I've decided to take full advantage of the ambiguity of this contentious trend. Maybe people offer up their seat at the bar because I'm looking a little tired. Ok. Maybe I get a gift or two. Ok. You can totally return a Diaper Genie to Bed Bath and Beyond for a blender.

Rolling around in my brain:

I had a make out dream with Michael Cera last night. For reals. What? He's like 18. My inappropriate crush habit is getting out of control.

Baby wants a corndog* (or I am getting depressed by impending birthday).

Admittedly, I am totally psycho when it comes to my birthday. Nuts to the max. Thing is, it's not like I did anything on my birthday, it was my mother (God bless her) who spent 23 hours in labor to pop me out while watching and rewatching a video tape (probably beta) of Princess Di's wedding (priorities). Still, I am always hellbent on having the best birthday day (actual day is Sunday) ever (perhaps to make up for all of the shit days throughout the year or to quell my abandonment issues - I don't know, I'll ask therapist next week - ha! the only therapist I can afford comes in a can with a lovely blue ribbon on it), but it always verges on turning disastrous. I need elaborate cakes with marzipan figurines, 12 course dinners with a proposal, the biggest Barbie dream house made, purple Huffy, the coolest slumber party of all of 5th grade, etc. It's a sickness and generally very out of character. This year, in the face of my 26th, I am putting the kibosh on any expectations. Lacey and I are going to a fancy schmancy place where we will wear dresses and heels, swill expensive wine, and gaze longingly into each other's (lonely) eyes while unsexily mispronouncing menu items. No parties. No gifts. And certainly, no boys. In spite of all of the self help books I've read (coincidentally, they also come in cans with blue ribbons), being in a relationship on the big day is how I'd prefer it. Your parents have to care because they paid for you, your friends have to care because of the guilt, but your bf/gf doesn't have to - they can cut out anytime, but there they are, caring about your birth, you know? If you are going to send me a gift, might I suggest litter boxes for all the cats I will undoubtedly begin collecting as an old maid? Also, maybe something to collect all the clichés, too.

Also, the b-day is depressing because it marks another year of things I meant to do, but didn't (oh please, you are no better than me in this endeavor - don't even pretend). Well, things are going to be different this year. I vow to think about doing the following:

1. Karaoke more (by more, I mean at all, it's been far too long, perhaps for good reason, but that's pure speculation). I am horrible, yet I love it so. I mean, like painfully bad, but only because I think I'm 43% good. I'm that girl.

2. See Andrew Bird in concert. And Cold War Kids. And Feist. And make out with Craig Finn in my mind at The Hold Steady.

3. Find my signature cocktail. I have tried the sidecar, vodka tonic and Manhattan, but no luck so far. I do enjoy Hendrick's and tonic, but that's so someone else's drink. I can't survive on Pabst for the rest of my life. Or can I?

4. Learn to play the banjo.

5. Implement operation Boyfriend07. It's time. My disabled robot heart isn't getting any younger, so you know, hop to it lady.

6. NYC fall break trip - we're soooo going, Shain. You can meet my New York Boyfriend! We'll eat pancakes with G-race!

7. Get my NES to work so I can play some Zelda.

8. Not suck.

(Me, in case you can't tell.)
+

(Cake I wish I was getting, but stupid Jackson got it instead.)

=



(Eternally single Cathy, my hero. Oh, she finally got married or died? Hmm.)

*Obvs, I will end up at The Deli Sunday night. Buy me a red cup or else (and a menthol cigarette)! No, don't. It's never a good idea to feed the bears.

Cringesday!

UPDATE!

Take a look at Stew's contribution here.

And, who's this? Oh, it's Julie!

Julie says: So this picture was taken in 6th grade and my gym teacher who was also the yearbook in charge lady made me wear that shirt and hang on the monkey bars. Unfortunately that is my shirt. I think it had something to do with basketball. I never played basketball. I just stole it from my Aunt. My friends still tease me about it. It's really a good time. I can't wait to be embarrassed. Yea!

p.s. blogger and i.e. are not friends (i am work where they've never heard of firefox or something), hence this post now looks like it rode the short bus today.

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Hey folks. I told you it'd be back. Lest you forget, last week I posted what I thought was a horrifying picture of myself with a mullet. I realize now that this was a mistake because any picture of a five year old girl with a mullet is intrinsically cute. It's a law or something. So, friends (this term is used very loosely, of course), this week, I have decided to kill two birds while stoned. I will both embarrass myself and shed a little light on the weird relationship between Mr. Shain and I (which has been requested several times by many people, or once, or never - I don't really pay attention).

The year is 1996. The music is "Who Will Save Your Soul" by snaggle tooth Jewel and "Wonderwall" by Oasis. The movie is the re-release of Star Wars. The jeans are Guess. Awesomeness all around.

Mr. Shain and I find ourselves attending West Mid High in Norman, Oklahoma. We are in Mrs. Barse's yearbook class. I have no idea what compelled me to sign up for yearbook the previous spring, but apparently I did and there I was and Shain was the editor. I have no idea how that happened either - we've all (well, five of us) seen his typo riddled excuse of a blog. Anyway, I hate to speak ill of the dead (fine, these people aren't dead, but I haven't seen the majority of them for years), but they were mostly kind of re re (thanks Julie!). Shain and I, sensing that we were bound for the greatness we are currently living (oh, we're not?) bonded over, I don't know what, being a-holes, I guess. Bottom line, Shain has been giving me shit since 1996 and I can't seem to get enough of it.

This is Shain's "autograph" from the signature pages of the yearbook we created. Notice he takes up a whole page. Notice he writes in block letters. Notice his phone number. Call him!

Ah. The yearbook staff in all its glory. Oh, look at that girl in the striped shirt with the horrible bangs and terrible posture. Clearly, she will grow out of that ugly duckling stage and into a beautiful swan. No? She doesn't? That's unfortunate.

Now it's your turn. Send in a school picture, seventh grade journal entry, high school poem, etc. You'll feel better. I'm here for you. To laugh at you. I mean with you.

They're heeere (Poltergeist reference - get it? No? Ok.)

I went out for a drink last night at The Mont, a Norman mainstay and home of the "Sooner Swirl" a frosty, purple concoction with Everclear that I will not be enjoying again for quite some time. From my perch at the bar, I noticed something. Coinciding with the most wonderful time of the year (college football season) is its most horrifying byproduct - the infestation of frat rats in the lovely hamlet of Norman, Oklahoma. Now, this is the first summer I've spent in good ol' Norman since 2002, and damn, things have changed (or I've forgotten how they were because I'm getting old - I will go with change). Now, not all sorority sisters are of the sorostitute persuasion (this whole post is a bit of a gross generalization), but based on my completely unscientific research, it seems like more and more fall into this category. It appears to be an epidemic. A sexy epidemic. No, not sexy. Trashy. Ok, sometimes sexy. In spite of my palpable hatred of their vapid existence, some of them are fucking hot. And the others try real hard. Basically, I detest them because they lead the boys of Norman to believe that all girls should look and behave like these chicks. Not so, I say. I'm quite a catch (if you have no standards whatsoever) even if I do dress like a lesbina sometimes (yeah, I wore Chacos to the bar last night - that's how I roll).

The natural habitat of the sorostitute is the bar, fraternity or local Jamba Juice location. In off hours, they can be seen driving about town in Range Rovers, 4-Runners, or Lexus SUVs (those less fortunate 'tutes are often seen in Jeeps and Explorers) wearing Dior sunglasses larger than a small breed dog, carrying an oversized Coach bag (stocked with, I imagine, condoms and lip gloss) in shorts that barely cover their ass, a tank top emblazoned with Greek letters and Nike shocks. Chances are, you will catch a peek of Victoria Secret's PINK line of underwear where most normal people would be sporting a muffin top. During peak hours, they gather at local bars clad in BCBG heels, Miss Sixty cleavage baring dresses displaying a store bought tan, freshly highlighted hair, a (real) Prada purse, Chanel eye liner and saucer sized earrings. During the winter, they wear sorority issued black ass-pants, puffy North Face coats, and pointy toed boots that are more expensive than everything in my closet combined. Their diet consists of Keystone Light, lettuce, Coke (diet and Colombian) and semen. While they have evolved to develop a highly sensitive popped collar radar to detect potential husbands, they have been unable to increase their capacity to drink more than two beers without whipping out their pink Razr to drunk dial other sisters or make out with the button downed douche that bought their drinks.

God love 'em.

It's Friday, I'm in Love

with lovin.' Sweet, sweet lovin.' It doesn't take much to get a girl like me into bed e.g. a (1) PBR, kind(ish) glance, the promise of cheese flavored corn chips, etc, but it takes a lot almost nothing to keep me there. Hey, a girl has needs. I am a girl. Ergo needs. Or whatever. My needs are best met in the presence of the following albums. In the words of Ron Burgundy, my hero: "that's baby making music that's what that is."

1. Astral Weeks - Van Morrison: Need I say more? This is a sure way into my pants. I mean heart. The heart of my pants.

2. Kind of Blue - Miles Davis: Again, not much to be said here. Fuckin' genius.

3. Lovers Rock - Sade: It's freakin' Sade. She's the definition of sexytime music. Come on. Seriously.

4. Heartbreaker - Ryan Adams: Because I'll always have a little indie rocker in me. Well, hopefully not too little. ZING! (God, I hope my mother - or anyone for that matter - isn't reading this.)

5. Mutations - Beck: Perfect for space sex.

6. Between The Lines - Janis Ian: Weird choice, I know. That is all.

I'm cured! (SEMI SPOILER ALERT - literary, not near nudity)

of the HPV(VII)!! You may now speak to me about it.

On a side note, I want to get married sooo badly that I actually almost want to get married. Like to the first person that asks. And name my kiddos Lily, James, Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville, Albus and Voldemort. I laughed, I cried, it was better than the Da Vinci Code.

Oh Harry! How I will miss you! Until the sixth movie or until JK most certainly begins to pen a lengthy prequel.

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

UPDATED! Cringesday!

UPDATE: Annie wins the prize for actual participation (the prize is, of course, nothing). This will catch on. It will. Just wait for next week.

It's more embarrassing for my sister (she's the one wiht the tragic hair on the bottom), but it was definitely my idea to pose like this. I was always convincing her to put on pointless "shows" that ended with her on the floor and me looking easy-breezy-beautiful on top of the world. That's definietly cringe-y.

***********************************************************************************

Due to the most recent event in the life of LiLo that actually makes Katie Holmes glad she's a drugged, Scientologist mother of an alien, I am discontinuing Goulet Wednesday News Round Up. I'm no longer challenged. Between LaLohan's antics, Britney's downward spiral into the mere footnotes of Shar Jackson's biography, Nicole's babybulemic, and Paris' post prison extension emergency, quite frankly, I'm disgusted. With Perez Hilton.

So, instead, because I like the idea of blog features because I don't like the idea of actually writing anything because I'm pretty horrible at it, I've come up with Cringesday. What is Cringesday you ask and how do you stand being so beautiful and deal with all of those marriage proposals? Well, Cringesday is where I post a horrifying story, picture, piece of writing, or other memento from my youth and expect you to do the same (fine - I just made that other part up). It's like free therapy but without the credentials, drugs and results (but hopefully with the shame, tears and copays - for me). Come on! You might like it. (For serious, I'm almost 100% sure that no one will take me up on this, but seriously, send me a pic/story/scan something mortifying and I'll throw it up here. It'll be fun fun fun! We're all friends. Except you, Shain. Lacey, I know for a fact you have something to share.)

Cringenesday #1: The Five Year Old Mullet.

Yup, that's me, circa 1986ish. Let me tell you about kindergarten. I failed skipping in P.E. Fucking failed it like LiLo's field sobriety test. The best part about having a mullet when you're 5 or 6 or whatever, is that it can't get worse, right? Oh, yes it can and it's called a perm + mall bangs. Stay tuned.

Your turn! So, who's with me? This is my Jerry Maguire moment except even Renee Zellweger's squinty eyes aren't even following me out of the building.

Something has gone terribly wrong*

Case #1: This morning, at the fine institution of higher education in which I work, we had a little power outage. Actually, lightning struck a substation or some such nonsense so it was kind of a big outage. I don't really understand how electricity works. Blah blah blah. So, I have to pee because all I do at work is Wikipedia shit (well, not literally shit, but things like Martika (you know, from Kids Incorporated?) and the history of Sunny D) and drink Diet Coke. It is pretty, pretty, pretty dark in the "garden level" (read basement) where my office is located. Needless to say, the ladies room is pitch black. A coworker graciously offers her key chain that has one of those handy micro flashlights on it. I take it into the bathroom and light my way, till it's time for some flushing action. It all happened so fast, I can't really explain it, but the keys of the coworker ended up in the toilet. They were on a lanyard, so I caught that part before it was submerged, but the keys themselves definitely took a swim in Lake Toilet. I fished them out, banged into shit while Stevie Wondering it to the sink, and gave them a good wash. I didn't tell anyone. Does this make me a bad person?

Case #2: Monday night is Benson Family Dinner Night, since the little bro doesn't have to work. I've been having a spot of trouble with him as he has decided to live at home for his first year of college to save money (for what? I honestly don't see how the kid could spend more than he already does on various unnamed vices). I think this is a terrible idea for a multitude of reasons that I won't bore you with, but mainly I've been waiting 18 years to feel like an only child again. No sharing! So, Mother Bee-Spot outlines her concerns, chief of which is the fact that she feels that she and my father need more warning as to his comings and goings so they can best utilize the privacy. I throw up my pork chop a little (mostly because I don't like pork chops). She goes on to say that perhaps she and my father want to walk around nekkid, play loud music or even smoke pot. WHAT? My mother wouldn't know what pot smoke smelled like if it was billowing out from under my closed door stuffed with a towel. I ask her if she as promised my brother's room to Matthew McConaughey, to which she responded with something about bongos. Well done Mother Bee-Spot!

Case #3: Lacey and I went to Starfucks this evening in an effort to get some work done. She's going to be a doctor, so she has to, like, do important stuff or something. I don't know. I have to do the important work of finishing Harry Potter, which I just can't bring myself to do. I really don't want to talk about it. After we've alienated everyone in the place by laughing/snorting, ridiculing their outfits, declaring the new Paul McCartney album for old, deaf people in front of old, deaf people, examining our hair for split ends, singing Ain't No Mountain High Enough (I take the Tammi Terrell part, Lacey does her best Marvin Gaye), talking extensively about reflexive urination and ranking our best birthday experiences from 15 till present, Lacey shows me the masterpiece she's been fiddling with the whole time I've been reading one word of HPVII between snippets of convo. Behold:


Song of the day: A Change Is Gonna Come - Sam Cooke.
Funny business of the day: Business Time. Seriously kids, if you're not watching Flight of the Conchords, well, I just don't get it.

*most likely, this post.

Zack Harrison Memorial Music Monday: Accidental Suicide

Do not, I repeat, do not play the following in any combination or it might prove deadly:

We Rule The School - Belle and Sebastian
Fade Into You - Mazzy Star
More Adventurous - Rilo Kiley
Both Hands - Ani DiFrancoA Case Of You - Joni Mitchell
And No More Shall We Part - Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
Just Like Heaven - Katie Melua
Together - William Shatner
I'm In Love With A Girl - Bigstar
Don't Leave - Faithless
Mad World - Gary JulesJust One Thing - My Morning Jacket
Tender - BlurDamn, Sam - Ryan Adams
We've Only Just Begun - Grant Lee Buffalo
I'll Be Yr Bird - M. Ward
Samson - Regina Spektor
Someday You Will Be Loved - Death Cab For Cutie
The Blowers Daughter - Damien Rice
Our Way To Fall - Yo La Tengo
Plans - Ben Folds
The Stranger Song - Leonard Cohen
I Thought We Had - The Family Stand
One More Robot - The Flaming Lips


Also, last night, L-Ma and I made our way to the Hosty Family Picnic at Lyons Park. Seriously, guys, if you're a Normanite (or even a MetroOKCite) and you haven't been to a Hosty show, you're an idiot (how many times do I have to go over this - he's got a song about KFOR's LINDA CAVANAUGH! He did a bit about Chewbacca participating in a spelling bee - genius.) - and my b-day's on a Sunday, so you can guess where I'll be - he sings special birthday songs. We had a great time hanging out on our blanket. I had to pee. There were only porta thingies. It was traumatic. While waiting in line, I saw my ninth grade boyfriend (of three weeks - he wrote me a poem and gave it to me on V-day - I think that's when I broke up with him because I'm an asshole), point is, after a million years or however long it's been, still can't say anything to him. Then, I stepped it up a notch and followed the Hosty crowd to the Deli for the continuation of the fun, but with 6 point beer. I made friends with Wanda, the bar tender at a dive on Main Street. I think the key to life is making friends with bartenders. I helped her drink her drink. I hope I don't get the hep.

L-Ma!

Dear Stewpid: I went to take pictures of orange bejeweled skanks at Forever 21, but instead bought this shirt. DAMN IT!

Supercrappy5000 picture of the back of people watching Hosty.

Hey, I just noticed something. This post kinda blows.