I'm up in the Air

If you look out your plane window, and see labels on the wing, written in what appears to be Brother P-Touch, is that bad?

This one on the right says "Boost Pump" -- good to know. I wondered where I'd left that thing.


Conversely, the one to the left says "No Step Aft", and has a line that one can only assume you should not step aft of. All good, but if you were not supposed to, oh, step aft of a particular line on a 737 wing, wouldn't you want the label to be a skosh more permanent?

Up For Breakfast So Early In The Morning

Seen at one of my local Mickey D's. What happened to quality control here, folks? Times must change, but standards must remain.

I Know Where You've Been, I Saw You Walk in Your Door

I was at BFE's holiday party Tuesday night -- the annual hilarity of the Grab Bag Gift Exchange was up to its usual high standards (with a room full of improvisers, it was every bit the bit-fest one would expect). I walked away with a $15 iTunes gift card, which I traded to get (the original recipient does not have an iPod, so I gave her my girly bath stuff that I received).

The problem is, I am not an Improviser. I am not a Company Member. I am the Wife of a Company Member (okay, the Fiancée of a Company Member) -- as such, I go to a fair amount of shows and events related to The Company, and have seen all of these people Perform. So I know all their names, and have zero clue which of them know mine, or even know why I am there. Under normal circumstances, I find it hard to not act overly familiar with them -- I've seen them a million times, but as Random Audience Member.

Not surprisingly, many of them are also bloggers. And I have been known on occasion to read said blogs, and have learned all kinds of personal information about them as a result. So now, what was an already weird moment for me (being overly familiar with them just because I saw them in a bunch of shows) has become a Super Weird Moment because of all the personal details I'm now privy to. I know their kids names, where their parents live, what they ate this week, that their uncle/cousin/cat/career is dying, and other esoteric info... and the desire to comment on it when I see the bloggers in question becomes overwhelming. I want to make Overt Reader statements ("I loved what you wrote about peanut butter sandwiches - it really spoke to me") and Processed Information statements ("If it helps, our vet put the cat on the Waltham SO dry food, and it really seems to help with the seizures"). Either way, I am afraid they're going to get weirded out by the fact that I read their blogs, which is either insane of me to think or insane of them to do. Insane of me because their blog is public, and why make it public if you don't want it read? Insane of them for, well, the same reason.

It's not just BFE's co-workers blogs, though -- I have friends with blogs, friends who know I read their blogs, and I still blanche when I catch myself starting a reference to something I've read there. Why? I think it's something like getting caught in a lie -- if I say "Miette is so cute" and the blogger in question all of a sudden thinks "Wait... I never told her about Miette" then I come off as a stalker (which I'm not) rather than an information whore (which I am).

I think the answer may be Gratiuitous Comments. From now on, I am going to write comments on every post of every blog I read. They'll probably be more of Type 2 than Type 1, but even if it's just me commenting "Werd" on each & every post, at least that way the blogger in question will know that I read their shit. And THEN the conversation we'll have will be less "Wait, how did she know about my boob itch?" and more "Hey there, Inanegirl McCommentsmuch... back off a lits. Just a skosh."

Down Along Division Street

So we had our company's holiday luncheon Thursday the 14th -- traditionally, it takes place on a Thursday because the post-party is at Butch's, and many have a hard time making it in to work the next day. This is the ceiling of one of the rooms at Butch's -- I fell instantly in love with the place because of this ceiling. It reminds me of Indian restaurants in New York City, with all the lights and lanterns and crap? The first time I experienced same, I was delighted -- arriving at Butch's, I felt much the same way, despite the substitution of Xmas-y stuffed animals for the lanterns. It's a particularly fun choice for a bar, with the sense of play it creates. They tell me the lights are only seasonal, though, which makes me a little sad.


Last year was my first holiday luncheon, and I was feeling puny so bowed out before the post-party. This year I had to therefore help make up for lost time... and I would say I did. Feeling shockingly fine today, so either I drank the right combination of things (mostly Harp and Irish Car Bombs -- thanks, Juice), or just got lucky. Could just be that because I am an extremely lucid drunk, and am not prone to drunken sloppiness.

This brings to mind the recent conversations I have had about Corporate Policy -- I've read any number of news blurbs about people getting fired for blog content, and now when I read or write blog entries, I think "Is this sentence actionable?" It's effed, but it's true. So do I blog about this post-party? Do I blog about which co-workers fell down, or peed themselves, or made out in the basement (sorry, Ho-larm)? No. Because it would be wrong. Narf.

Mama's Pearl

So I broke down tonight and bought the new Blackberry Pearl. Was tired of weird glitchy things with my old 7100T, most of which may be attributable to several recent droppings thereof -- one, awkwardly, during an already strained call with my mother, caused the device to hang for about 10 mins, and even then it would not allow me to call out for another 5. I'm sure she thought I had hung up on her, and am surprised she spoke with me at all when I finally got her on the phone.

The major perk is the long-awaited addition of a camera feature -- love it. Loving this device in general so far -- set-up was incredibly easy, and now it's just about tweaking things to get them the way I like them.

And now I can finally take part in Project 365 if I want. :)

Oooh, and notice the sad glow of the cast-off 7100T in the background... that thing is so going to murder me in my sleep. In the horror version movie of my life, that is -- every pic I take with Pearl will be fine and normal, but then when I look at the image, the 7100T is looming somewhere in the background, perhaps ever closer in each image. Spooky.

If I Should Fail, If I Should Fold

Feeling really unmotivated right now. The wedding planning is coming together, so that I am excited about, but I feel otherwise really off-track and uncentered right now. And strangely cognizant that there must be hundreds of bloggers out there right now with at least one post of this ilk in their archives.

Why is lack of motivation and/or desire to get re-motivated not enough in and of itself to jump-start motivation? Wanting the thing is not enough. It is not the missing flint. And in many ways, it is it's own vacuum. Motivation is like love, it is a form of self-love [insert masturbation or auto-fellatio joke here]. And like love, wanting it does not make it so. You can sit at home and type into your blog all you want about you are ready for love, and how you want love in your life, but love does not fall into your lap. Love is a set of circumstances, bound by timing and mindset and fortune and sheer will, and then lit by a spark.

Maybe that's why I collected Zippos all those years. Who knew?

On The Black Satin Sheets...

Which NICOLE KIDMAN Character Are You?

"Satine" in MOULIN ROUGE! You're not just a star in your own mind, you're the real deal. Beautiful, talented, and gorgeous. But life is short: stop worrying about money and fame. Above all things, life for love. Take this quiz!

So basically I'm a tuberculosis-ridden whore...

In The Cold November Rain...

This picture hurts me...

What We Got Is Hotcakes

Hubba, hubba, hubba!

So now it looks like I'm going to have to do this thing... people are donating like hotcakes.* Guess that means I should train, huh? Actually, I confirmed that the high-rise I work in has stair access, so it's all about getting out several floors early and walking up the rest of the way. Then I just need to keep increasing the number of floors.

When I was a kid, the Hancock was my attraction of choice -- I used to love it, and got giddily excited every time we came around the bend on LSD and it came into view. Heidi and I went to the Observatory a few years ago for what was my first trip back up since the '70s -- I suddenly felt like I was five again. Giddy. Mesmerized.

Recently BFE and I had dinner at the Signature Room, and it was hard not to get that same feeling. I damn well love this building, so I am super excited to be climbing up 52 flights of it. This is of course intellectual/emotional excitement, not so much physical excitement. Because it's gonna suck. And then, it will be over, and it will be awesome again.

So give me money.

* Wouldn't it be awesome if you could donate hotcakes? Mmmm. Or Zücker waffles. Delicious and altruistic. They're altruicious! (TM)

Waiving Your Banner

Okay, so not being someone who knows much about writing in HTML, but still being someone that is pretty quick on the uptake, I've spent the past couple of days hacking the Blogger templates to modify they look and feel of 'Blah and Deee' -- isn't it sexy? SAY YES!

Inevitably this is how I approach computers... I turn my head & play dumb for a while, then quick-like-bunny teach myself til I'm current, then turn my head again. It's kind of how I approach laundry: Wait til too much has piled up, then do 48 hours of laundry, then let it all pile up again because the memory of the Launderfest 2006 is still too fresh and painful to risk getting a little All in it.

Dork.

Sleeping With The Television On

BFE just woke up from his TV-induced slumber on the sofa. He asks me "How did it end?" but I've been researching blogging tools/web hosting, and was not watching his programme. If anyone has any recommendations -- for blogging tools or if you know how 'it' ended -- please send me a message.

Suffering Until Suffrage

Prepping to vote tomorrow. Because I can. What say we all go out there & protect our rights? C'mon, America!*

*Pee before you get in line, though. I believe, though I am not certain, that peeing down your leg while in line to vote means your ballot is automatically converted to a 100% Republican slate. Of course if you ARE Republican, you can just save yourself some time by peeing down your leg as soon as you get in there. That's democracy in action.

When You're All Alone (With a Loaf of Bread)

Another reason the Japanese are kicking our asses: Kogepan.

I, You, and Everyone We Knew

Senioritis kicked in for me mid-November of my senior year of HS. I was already accepted to the college of my choice -- that is, to the college of my second choice. My first choice was ruled out when my mom said I could not go to an out-of-town college because "[she was] not going to scrimp and save to put [me] through school while [I] ran around with [my] friends." Think that would make a kid bitter? Oh, I was bitter -- I was soaking in it, like a finger-bath of negative-energy Palmolive.

By the time graduation rolled around, I did not even want to attend the ceremony. There are pictures of me on Graduation Day looking surly as hell because I was being made to walk. I wanted them to mail me my diploma. I wanted out. And I sure as hell did not want to see 99% of those fuckers again. [Note: With 698 people in my graduating class, that means I wanted to only ever see about 7 of them again. Sounds about right.]

By the time my 10 year reunion rolled around, I had warmed to the idea. Again, I love transformation (in a time-lapse-photography sort of way, not a Francis Dolarhyde sort of way), and although one decade is not as marked a metamorphosis as two, I suddenly wanted to see how we all turned out. At the time, though, I was playing Winnifred in Once Upon A Mattress -- stranded in Michigan with no understudy, and the reunion was the middle weekend of our run.

So now, as a result, I am bizarrely hunting down my classmates on purpose, trying to assist the 20-year reunion point person with tracking down my whole class. Some of it so far has been fun. Some has been bizarre. But I'm looking perversely forward to seeing us all in August. Of course for me, with my work, I will only be able to run out there for the weekend, hopefully with BFE (BHE by then), but how long to I really need to ogle these folks for anyway?

Ticking Away With Me

Ever want to fake a post date/time? I just discovered all you have to do is log on, safe a blank draft, and then complete the post later. It will list the finished post as being written on the day and time you saved that first draft, even if the post was completed days later. Bastard people!

It's a Little Too Little, and You're a Little Too Late

So I just now discovered this... BOO! Talk about missing your window of opportunity. I want free shit too! Brilliant idea, though. Especially for people like me that forget for weeks at a time that they have a blog or three.

I Woke Up at Seven and My Body Was Vibrating

So yesterday morning I was up at 7am for a dental appt -- my current employer provides for medical but NOT dental insurance, so dental's out of pocket these days. Hey, at least I have medical, right? A teeth cleaning two weeks ago resulted in the need for a small filling in my #30 molar -- quoted to me as a $185 expense. Prior to Tuesday, mind you, I wouldn't know my #30 molar from my #31 molar, but since I now do (it's you third molar from the back on the lower right, starting with your wisdom tooth), I figured a little specificity here might endear me to any dental school geeks that may be reading, possibly resulting in future dental discounts.

Now that I pay out of pocket, I am back with my formerly-beloved dentist -- figure shit, I might as well enjoy paying someone, right? Since my last visit to them, they've renovated the building -- everything from the street-level entrance to the elevator banks to the in-cubicle TV for the patients. Not gone is the waterfall in the lobby. My chiropractor has one too. Between these two water features and the Drinkwell Pet Fountain we have at home, I may never stop peeing.

Turns out one filling became four, to the tune of $410 -- there were two other spots that were iffy, and rather than come back in 6 months and be shot full of novocaine again, my dentist and I agreed to do them all now while the decay was microscopic. Plus, while he was in there, he pulled out a silver filling in a tooth he was already working on and replaced it with tooth-colored amalgam. So now the entire lower right quadrant of my mouth is pristine. Again, for $410.

They asked me if I wanted the TV on, to watch while I waited for the novocaine to take effect (and the topical anesthetic before that) -- I said sure, and when they asked me if the Today show was okay, I said yes. What the hell, it's like 830am in the morning, it's not like I'm going to find Electric Company on, so Today will do. In their studio (because it was cold as tits outside), they had little miss Kellie "What's a calimari?" Pickler on, singing the first single off her post-American Idol debut album -- a little ditty called "My Red High Heels" that Kellie told Billboard online she just (co-)whipped together at the last minute because she felt the album needed a shoe anthem (I shit you not). Thank god (or Yuck Mouth) I was there to see the live performance.

Kellie comes out looking a little puffier than usual, which enough upper-arm pudge to make me send her a silent prayer titled "Be Careful, Lest You Go Where I Hath Gone (Requiem for Sleeveless Shirts)." She was wearing a shapeless black shift dress, that besides being neither a little bit country nor a little bit rock-n-roll, was completely unflattering to her bustline or cute little figure. This of course further supporting my theory that the figure has become less little and/or cute. Accompanying this disaster was a pair of black opaque tights. Lest anyone in Middle America think she has become a Koken, she set all this off with her platinum hair pulled back in a severe ponytail* and enough makeup to render her slightly unrecognizable. Oh, and ubiquitous red high heels... mary janes, to be precise.

The song? Forgettable. The song, the look of the band, the lamentable styling** on Ms Pickler... all of it made the performance seem like a bad public access show. She overworked the camera, in that Early Tori Amos way that makes female singers seem more psycho than confident. And, laughably, about six people applauded at the end of the performance -- since they were not outside at their performance stage, there was no audience except a couple of crew, a stage manager, and probably Kellie's reps (including her stylist/saboteur), and therefore hardly anytone to applaud. Made it all the more Public Access-like. Hell, even Chic-A-Go-Go acts draw a warmer response.

Luckily, other than Kellie, all I had to sit through was Matt Lauer's interview with Tim Allen, and a story about a little girl with brain tumors -- she and her family raised $4.5 mil for her local Texas hospital to buy their own copy of the machine that enabled doctors to save her life. It was a heartwarming tale bookended by Meredith Viera, who then introduced the folks in charge of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade -- they informed the now-twelve year old that she was being awarded the honor of Grand Marshall or Chief String-Holder or whatever for the parade. Oh, and they have her a coupon for a free Caramel Coolatta from her local Dunkin Donuts. Okay, I made that last bit up, but wouldn't that be awesome? "Hey, congrats on beating The Cancer! Here's a coupon for a free box of Munchkins!"

*The hair is extensions, I'd bet my fup on it. Don't believe me? Watch the actual music video and tell me that's not extensions she's sporting these days.

** We've got one of two problems on our hands: Either they're letting her dress herself (MISTAAAAKE!), or her stylist hates her. Either way, everything that was charming about this girl has been spackled over.

Stay In Motion, Keep An Open Mind

So today, I inexplicably signed up for the Hustle Up The Hancock half climb. I have never done ANYTHING like this before, only walked a couple of 5Ks, that sort of thing. It's terrifying in a good way. Gives me a nice tangible goal pre-wedding to train for -- it's one thing to be going to the trainer with the wedding in mind, but another to have something that requires training, you know? I mean, I don't have to train for my wedding, other than perhaps getting my tolerance up for booze and dysfunction.*

So wish me luck. Or, better yet, throw me a bone. No donation is too small -- would you buy me a latte? Pledge the $3 instead.

* Please note that the aforementioned dysfunction refers not to my wedding, my marriage, or BFE. It refers instead to my family, his family, and the zombie apocalypse that may occur as a result of putting both of said familial units in the same room together. Then again, there are few things that I love more than a good zombie apocalypse....

I Really Can't Exist if You Don't See Me

So I know I have spoken before of my invisibility... I've been out on the streets at lunch with Amy & Sarah and wound up getting walked through recently. But THIS is taking things to a new and ridiculous level:

HowManyOfMe.com

There are: 0 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

Descarte would love me. :)

S-E-X-X-Y (x because it's extra, baby)

I am super hot. And at last I have the proof.

In high school, I had a...

75% resemblance to Catherine Zeta-Jones
74% to Jessica Alba
73% to Michelle Rodriguez
73% to Jodie Sweetin (LMAO)
72% to Hillary Rodham Clinton
72% to Kelly Preston
72% to JoJo
71% to Jenna Malone
70% to Katherine Heigl
70% to Sela Ward

Pretty mind-blowingly hawt, huh? Yeah. That's why I was a drama and choral music geek -- everyone was too intimidated by my extreme beauty. But now I have mellowed, grown into my looks. Oh, and apparently become significantly more Eurasian...

72% Hillary Duff
71% Sofia Vergara (Columbian actress)
71% Allison Hannigan
70% Preity Zinta (Bollywood actress)
68% Woranuch Wongsawan (Thai actress)
68% Jenna Elfman
67% Song Hye-kyo (Korean model/actress)
66% Melissa Joan Hart
66% Jolin Tsai (Taiwanese Mandopop singer)
66% Kelly Hu

Nice to know that three things remain contstant:

1) I've retained the teen pop singer market (internationally, it now seems)
2) I'm still in the teen sitcom star demographic
3) I remain just a *wee* bit Scientological

This is of course all courtesy of the MyHeritage.com face recognition software.
Visit. Try it out. Record the results -- heck, if you were to ever wind up
horribly disfigured, maybe they can use the results to sculpt you a new face, a la Kathleen Quinlan in The Promise. And Melissa Manchester can sing your theme song. Fade to credits.

The Sweat Keeps Rolling Off the Tip of My Nose

So the personal trainer has been kicking my ass Mondays and Fridays at 6am -- imagine my ongoing shock that I get up at 5am to work out. LMAO. In addition to the twice-weekly workouts, I am to be getting daily cardio (I don't) and tracking my food in a journal (I do). The food journal is illuminating, to be sure... did you know you can get fat if your daily food intake is 47% fat? Mind-blowing, huh? Next thing, she'll tell me that my cardio-avoidance is sabotaging my training. Oh, wait... she did.

Living in walk-ups since 1998, the bane of my existence is stairs -- bastard things. Heck, in the old-old apartment (the apartment I was living in when I met BFE), I used to call Peapod and have them deliver the heaviest shit I could think of, just so I did not have to haul it up the stairs. Kitty litter, laundry detergent, cases of soda... I'd make big burly Peapod men drag it up three flights, tip them well, and wallow in my lazy consumerism. Bliss. Haven't done Peapod in years now, and BFE and I lug everything ourselves.

But now, more than two score lighter, lugging stuff is not so bad. I mean it's no trip to the Jewel bakery aisle (mmm... crappy Jewel cake...), but it's better. Hauling my own ass up the stairs is easier, let alone with stuff. Recently, I was loaded down with several heavy bags, including my own overloaded purse and my gym bag, and mid-hike I wondered what all that stuff weighed -- as soon as I reached the apartment, I hopped on the scale, still loaded for bear. My burden weighed less than half what I had lost, meaning that I used to carry more than twice that extra weight around ALL THE TIME. Amazing.

Funnily enough, the thing I hate most about the workout is the eliptical trainer -- I have to get on it for ten minutes at the top of each session, to get my heart rate up. Three sessions ago, she had me switch to doing five minutes forward, then five backward -- what fresh hell?! I am not sure what it is I hate so much about the eliptical -- I've tried them at various gyms, and hated them every time. Would rather do an hour on a treadmill than 10 mins on the eliptical.

So now's time to stop fucking around. I am about 1/3 of the way through the 50 sessions, and need to get serious. Yahoo serious. So if you see me bundled up and running the streets this winter, just get out of my way. Please.

There's Always the Lies in the Locker Room

So, on the 15th (two scant weeks from today), I start work with a personal trainer. The current plan is for 50 sessions, which will take me right up to the wedding. It's a chance to finally transform myself in a quantifiable, tangible way -- I watch celebs like Madge transform from waify-feed-me-I'm-a-starving-dancerdom to cute-80s-danceteria-pudge to lean-post-Penn-yoga/jogger-tour-whore. And I wonder how far I can push the envelope myself.

I have always been amazed by transformation. Evolution, aging, makeovers, plastic surgery, drag queenery... watching someone go beyond the limits of what you thought was possible from the raw material they were given. One could say that getting fat is a means of transformation as well, of pushing the (flesh) envelope. But to me, getting fat, the acquiring of fat, is less an act of transforming than an act of obscuring and obfuscating. Transformation is the carving of the elephant from the rock by removing everything that does not look like an elephant. Getting fat is hiding elephant in the rock, like a fossil waiting to be uncovered. Fat is the La Brea Tar Pits.

I'm nervous -- I know I can do it, but am afraid I won't. I'm excited -- the next seven months (see newly added countdown clock) will be an amazing time, en route to becoming a new person... in both name and body, spirit and flesh.

You Shook Me All Night, Long(a Long-Fellow Serenade)

This weekend, I saw Accepted -- that movie about the kids that invent a college, perhaps you've seen the previews? Turned out to be a much better, smarter film than one would have suspected. The benefits of walking into a movie theatre with low expectations, I guess. Plainly put, I loved this movie. Plus, it features a fun punky band -- in a nice, quiet way, like when the Plimsouls were in Valley Girl, or actually more like when The Yardbirds were featured in Blow Up. Yeah, I just referenced an Antonioni film... smell me. Anywho, the band's called The Ringers, and they have a new album coming out, which I'm buying on basic principle. Give them a listen -- you should love them, or at least be a little amazed that I love such chaotic music. Yeah, I'm an enigma.

Accepted features the uber-charming Justin Long, who has this Borg-like likeability (resistance is futile), and whom I've loved in everything I've seen him in. Look at that mug: How cute is he? I even loved him in the otherwise-not-as-funny-as-we'd-hoped Dodgeball, so there you have it. He's also attached to the upcoming Die Hard 4 pic (aka Live Free and Die Hard), and lord knows I love me a Die Hard movie. And a Bruce Willis movie. Heck, if we get Samuel L in this one too, it's like a trifecta for me.

I know now that I'm going to have to go back & watch dreck like Galaxy Quest, and even rent Herbie: Fully Loaded just to get my Justin Long fix. [Sidebar: From time to time I get a random fixation, and have to watch as much as possible from a particular oeuvre. Since I've frequented the same Blockbuster since 1998, I know the staff's tastes and admit to more than a passing embarassment when I bring crap up to the counter. Case in point? When I rented everything Freddie Prinze Jr had made to date, in a misguided attempt to figure out why he gets work. I still don't know why. Is America still trying to make it all better that his daddy died? Yeah, I said it.]

My favorite movie of Mr Long's to-date had been Jeepers Creepers. Perhaps you've seen it at the video store? Just rent it. Don't ask, JUST RENT IT. Again, a much better movie than it let on it was. They had me from "hello" -- more appropriately, they had me from the opening shot. The long, slow shot of the winding road. It gives you that instant sensation of something not quite being right... an otherwise serene shot that you just know is lying to you. And, my friend, it is. So rent it, already!

Me? I'm going to go buy some hobo-stab insurance. :)

Besos a todos, K

You Fondle My Trigger, Then You Blame My Gun

Okay, so to Yes-And my own post about the dirty, dirty whores demographic and bizarrely targeted marketing, I submit the following piece of amorality as evidence:

WHAT. THE. FRESH. HELL?!?

"My hair's limper than my boyfriend after a few drinks"?!? (and yes I know that last bit of punctuation is wrong, but we have a MORAL APOCALYPSE on our hands, people!!! Suck it up!) Why are we degrading our whiskey-dicked mates in the name of HAIRCARE?!? Isn't this the kind of talk we save for after we've broken up with the guy? You know, where you swear you're not going to trash him to your friends because you're "better than that," but one night, after a few too many Belvedere dirty martinis with the blue cheese stuffed olives, you break down and whisper to your friend, "You know, he never could keep it up when he had a couple of beers in him."

Why, in the name of all that is bouncin' and behavin' are we stooping to this?!? What's next, America? A campaign for Champion stating: "Because I want a tube sock that doesn't sag as much as my girlfriend's tits." ?!? (Again... APOCALYPSE) "Secret (TM): So your pits don't smell like your husband's balls."?!? What the fuck?!

Wash Your Face, You Dirty Whore

So I was at Fizz a week or so ago, and went to the ladies room. Apparently Noxzema has a new campaign for their Wet Cleansing Cloths product line, and are using the in-bathroom advertising like Zoom Media or some such to market to dirty, dirty whores. The tagline? "Wherever you wake up, look like you just didn't."

WHAT THE HELL?!?

Now I'm hoping someone down at Procter & Gamble owns a copy of Warriner's English Grammar and Composition, so I will not get into the awkward sentence structure of said campaign. But a campaign targeting women's restrooms in bars, leading with "Wherever you wake up..." amazes me. Wherever I wake up? Why not just cut to the chase and make the campaign "Wash your face, you dirty whore!" since that's what you're implying. You evil P&G whoremongers, you want me to buy these cloths, which need no water to use, and keep them in my wee bar-hopping purselet, so I can use them to cleanse myself no matter which ho-bag flophouse I arise in? Fuck balls.

Gettting Carved-Out Lettuce From People I Don't Even Know

A nice long post, to help make up for my absence.

My best friend in HS, Linda Raisinette (sort of her real name), was the best for misheard lyrics. Both of us loving to sing, it was all about knowing the words... and sometimes Linda would learn them with disasterous results. This post is about two of my favorites.

"Dreams" ~ Fleetwood Mac

Thunder only happens when it's raining
Players only love you when they're playing
They say women, they will come and they will go
When the rain was changed you cleaned your nose


With dear Stevie Nicks' former propensity for the nose candy, I now find that one even funnier. Maybe it was her ass that should have been cleaned -- were the Rumours that she used to have an assistant she paid to put coke up her ass (because her nose was too destroyed) ever proven out? Though when she looked like this it was probably easier to hire them.

BTW, the actual lyric is "When the rain washes you clean you'll know."

But the main reason I bring you all this is for misheard lyric # 2, which is also the title of this post. "Getting carved-out lettuce from people I don't even know." Linda and I would battle over her misheard lyrics, her adamantly insisting these were the words, and me saying "They CAN'T be... that doesn't MEAN anything!" Conceptually, this one blows my mind -- imagine this happens to you. People you don't know giving you carved-out lettuce. WTF, right?

Okay, now imagine you're David Hasselhoff. Imagine you're adored by legions of Germans. You do big music specials on German televsion, and you sing songs like this...




This may be the best piece of television I've ever seen. God bless. Of course, circa 1975, I was *mesmerized* by Glen Campbell and this song. I remember running to the TV anytime he was on singing it, and sitting as close as I could for as long as I could until hollered about me ruining my eyesight.

Glen Campbell was my first crush, back in the days when I wanted to be Toni Tenille. Glen was tossed aside like an old shoe for Donny Osmond, whom I was CERTAIN I would marry some day. See, Donny was 12 when I was born, and somehow I knew when I was seven or eight that although the then-20-year-old Donny was far too old for me, someday I would be older, and the age gap would not be so big. And then I would pounce.

Then came Shawn Cassidy, whose poster adorned my wall for several years. I think it was not much of a leap from Shawn's hairless-chested androgeny to the next (and last) Poster Boy to adorn my wall: Adam Ant. Adam was the apotheosis of my scrawny-white-british-boys-in-makeup phase. Still love his music. Shame he went nutballs, culminating in these recent charges (2002):

Charges of criminal damage, assault causing bodily harm and possession of an imitation firearm were dropped against the 47-year-old Ant, who was released on bail awaiting an October 2 sentencing hearing.

The incident, according to prosecution lawyers, occurred January 12 when Ant showed up at the Prince of Wales pub in north London wearing a cowboy getup. Patrons began to laugh and mockingly hum the theme song from the 1966 Clint Eastwood spaghetti western "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly," according to the AP report.

The "Goody Two Shoes" singer reportedly stormed out of the bar and returned later in the day with a WWII-era starter pistol that belonged to his father, then threw a car alternator through the pub's window, hitting a local musician. When patrons began chasing him down the street, Ant pulled the gun, "which they thought was genuine, and threatened to shoot them if they didn't back up," Ant's lawyer, David Tomlinson, told the court in an earlier proceeding, according to AP.

Ant was arrested a half-hour later when police found him trying to hail a cab. The report described Ant as looking "pale and drawn" during the proceedings, during which he wore an understated black fedora and tight-fitting pinstripe suit.

Sad, really. Apparently he's had a long-time battle with depression. Still, it made me laugh til I cried when I first heard. The cowboy outfit, the "Good/Bad/Ugly" whistling, the alternator. It's almost as good as 'carved-out lettuce' IMHO. You can't make this shit up.

Besos a todos, K

Thick as Split Poop Soup

To the drivers on Lake Shore Drive this morning:

Hi guys. I get that it's super foggy, but at road level, visibility is actually pretty clear, so there's really no need to ride your brakes. I know you're probably scared the all the big buildings have disappeared, but guess what? The mag mile is still there. John Hancock? Still there. Navy Pier? Still there.

Maybe you're just startled that the buildings are rising up Brigadoon-like as you approach them... don't worry. They were there all along. Maybe you're worried that *I* might be worried, and are hoping the soft glow of your taillights will comfort me somehow. Again, don't worry. Just concentrate on your driving, and maintain a safe yet comfortable rate of speed so that we can all get where we're going.

Me? Oh I'm headed to a high-rise, and with today's fog there's zero visibility outside my window. But you know what? I know it's still all there, so I'm at peace with it. A warm, calming peace that does not cause my braking foot to in any way press down towards the floor.

Besos a todos, K

Gay for Natalie Wood

I admit it, I am gay for Natalie Wood. Hopefully Milla Jovovich will forgive me for this betrayal, but it's so easy to love the dead -- they can do no wrong. But Milla, everytime you do another comic-book-or-computer-game-based film and kick major cinematic ass, I love you just a little bit more.

But right now, this is not about you, Milla (you cherry-booted vixen, you) -- this is about Natalie Wood. For many years I denied my inherent Nata-lust because of my father, who had worshiped her as the ideal female. And he should know from ideal females. But there was no denying her, not Natalie. One of my favorite movies is Inside Daisy Clover wherein she is brilliant and tortured, and you too just want to drink martinis and marry Robert Redford and make out with Christopher Plummer and have a breakdown and blow shit up, just so you can hang with her.

It's something about the eyes. Those Wood eyes (hairlip). And her slightly squeaky/raspy voice, like she stayed up too late being one of the boys, but still found time to powder her freckles and put on some eyeliner before she met you for lunch that day.

So all of this gayness means that I now have to get off my ass and buy/read the recent bio book -- I know there were men (Elvis, James Dean, Warren Beatty, Steve McQueen) and there was sadness (drinking, rape, suicide attempts), but I want to know more. Maybe it will humanize her for me, and make her less of a pretty picture, albeit one I would kill to look like.

But I do still love you Milla. Don't you worry, I'll gay-out about you all over this blog someday. In the meantime, keep kicking ass, showing your tits like any good former model would, but just one word of advice: If RJ and Chris Walken ask you on a boat ride off Catalina Island, JUST SAY NO.

Big Fat Woman

Okay, so I'm a big fat woman. Regardless of the fat, I'm big -- about 5' 10" on a good day -- but it's still big enrobed in a delicious coating of fat. Sometimes "I'm a big fat woman" is more or less true, and of course it all depends on your perspective, but I feel pretty fucking confident that by all modern standards I am fat. I do not mean this to self-denigrate, but to state the obvious and take ownership. I fit on planes without the seat belt extender, fit in my seat at the movies, but I'm no waif... not by a long shot. Let's put it like this: If I were single, and I met you on MySpace, and your "Who I Want To Meet" said 'no fatties'... you'd be pretty bummed if I got in your Jetta and tooled off to tapas with you. Thwaap.

So when I am out in public, and people off in their own little worlds walk right into my path and practically knock me down, it takes me by surprise. Not in the common, everyday, "Holy shit, someone just knocked me down!" way that you or your mom or the guy that delivers your Chinese takeout might experience... rather, it's in the "Um, how is it possible that you could not see ME?!? I am a big fat woman!" way. If you're not one, get in touch with your Inner BFW, and you too can be amazed when people half your size practically walk right through you.

In my car, I get it. I have a teeny tiny shitty little compact car. Mine is the car that you think is an empty parking space until you get closer, and then you swear at my car for being so wee. But my car can't help it. Maybe it's its metabolism. My car gets cut off at least a couple of times a day, in part ( believe) because it's small and people don't see it in their blind spot. [Side Note: I also have a super-ineffectual (oxymoron?) car horn, so if someone does cut me off or almost hits me or something, and I honk, they're oblivious. It's the difference between shooting a bullet and throwing it.]

In person, however, it's another story. I may not be a semi, or a tractor trailer, but I'm at least an SUV, or maybe a 1979 Cadillac Coupe DeVille. Pro-fat activists (Fativists?) say that to be fat in modern society is to be invisible... is that it? Have I rendered myself invisible? As I lose weight, is it like the end of Back To The Future where the picture of MJF and Wendie Jo Sperber and Marc McClure fades back into vibrant focus? Will there be a badly-overdubbed and inappropriate rendition of Johnny Be Goode when I hit my goal weight? It's odd to think of myself as being more alive when I'm more compact -- being compact only does so much for my car, after all. At least I'll get an Enchantment Under The sea dance out of it.

Pissing Myself

So I just got my first laptop, from which I am blogging as we speak. Holy craptop, I am so excited!!!

Cocksucker Laptop Thief

Someone stole BFE's laptop Saturday night, off his desk at work.

It's such a horrible thing, that hollow panicky feeling you get when things go wrong -- when you lock your keys in your car, or have something stolen, or almost hit something (a dog, another car) while driving. The sensation as your mind tries desperately to rewind and correct what is obviously an error... and then discovers it can't, because This Is Reality.

Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance: The Five Horsemen of Tragedies Large and Small. When it's something like a laptop or cell phone, add to it Raw Panic -- we live in an age of identity theft, so you're left wondering if they just hocked your merch for money to buy Nyquil and Qtips, or if they're busy buying tickets to the Bahamas.

All I know is: I want to find the person, shove the laptop up his or her ass, and then open it.

Lancelot Link, Secret Chimp

Fan of "Freaks & Geeks" or "That 70's Show" much? Looks like their creators had a major flame war.

If you're not familiar with the Trailer Park contest, it involves cutting new, cross-genre trailers for popular movies. The results are usually pretty brilliant -- check out The Shining as the feel-good movie of the summer, and Se7en as a gay love story. IMHO, scary movies turned happy & shiny work better than the other way around, but there are some exceptions -- Big as a child molestation thriller and West Side Story as a zombie flick.

This one kills me -- impeccable delivery. A comedian's 'signed' version of Natalie Imbruglia's "Torn."

That's it for me whoring other people's links for now. Oh and if you're wondering where the title of this post came from...

Dork Chic (or Nice Guys Scream Like Girls)

What is it about dorks that appeal to us girls? I'm sure someone somewhere has quantified it. My last post was in part about machismo -- is it as simple as a lack thereof? My MBA-student client thinks the world owes him a living and I'm just here to serve -- being in a Client Services -type position, I can only bitch about this so much. But the Better-Than attitude is unnecessary, and actually counterproductive to getting what you want from a service worker.

Dorks do not pull the Better-Than -- at least not in this way. There's the competitiveness of a I-Can-Remember-Encounter-At-Farpoint-Better-Than-You initiation, but not a I-Have-More-Worth-Than-You thing. Something about Growing Up Geek that makes them humble.

This is all of course a broad generalization, but there you go. I know lots of IT guys that would normally fall under 'Dork' but are assholes with definite superiority complexes. Of course in my F'ed up head, it just makes them more irresistable. The Moderate Asshole Guy is always more desireable than the Super Nice and Treats You Well All The Time Guy.

And what's THAT about? I remember dating this guy when I was 16-17 -- my mom called him Ol' Black Joe, no matter that he was neither Old or Black. He was Joe, however, and he was the nicest guy ever.

Too nice, in fact. WAY too nice. Like put-you-on-a-pedestal nice. Yucky. Gave me the wiggins. But he was soooo nice, and liked me so much, I could only politely decline the date so many times before I figured "WTF. Maybe I'll see something in him on a date that I'm not seeing at work."

We went to a ChiChi's or some such crap for dinner -- it was not a love connection, at least not for me. That became apparent at dinner, but we were scheduled to see a movie after dinner, and rather than feign a headache or cramps or diptheria, I accompanied him to our intended movie nonetheless. The movie? Nightmare On Elm Street III.

If you're a Nightmare On Elm Street afficionado, you know that III is the Dream Warriors, where the kids of all the Elm Street residents are all nutballs and living in a locked facility. Craig Wasson, king of the sleazy horror flick (rent Body Double if you doubt me), is the protagonist-doctor, and Heather Langencamp is back as Nancy Thompson -- all growed up, with a psych degree, and a fakey silver streak in her hair to indicate age and wisdom. Her specialty? Sleep disorders. Duh. It writes itself.

So, if you *really* know these movies, you know there's a scene in III where our lead troubled-teen (portrayed by Patricia Arquette) dreams she is walking into Nancy's old house on Elm Street. It's all dusty and cobwebby and whatnot, and in the formal dining room is a full formal set up, including a dusty roast suckling pig with an apple in its mouth.

So, seen any horror films EVER? Seen any Nightmare films? You see a roast suckling pig on a table, in a Dream where Anything Can Happen -- what do you think happens? Of course. The pig comes to life. I saw it a mile away, you saw it a mile away, people a mile away saw it, um... a mile away. Joe? Joe did not see it.

Pig comes to life. Joe SCREAMS. Not jumps, not gasps -- SCREAMS. And not a big girly shriek, but a Big Deep Manly Bellow, leaving no doubt in the minds of anyone else in the audience that he was a big Horror Movie Puss. The rest of the audience gasped a bit, and a couple of girls shrieked, but Joe was the loudest and most protracted, and the rest of the moviegoers looked over and laughed. I, meanwhile, tried to disappear.

We walked around for a while after and talked, and he drove me home, but that was it. I did not go out with him again. We could have been friends, but he wanted more, and I did not... and I wanted to see horror movies sans mortification. So I blew him off. I suck.

Lest you write me off as a complete bitch, cut to a few months later, and the Let's Be Friends part of me thought of him fondly and wondered what he was up to. So I called him.

MISTAKE!!!

He immediately asked me out. "Want to go out this Friday?" Busy (legitimately). "Saturday?" Also busy (legitimately). "Sunday?" No, I'm sooo busy (not quite as legitimately). "Monday?" Nooooo!

So annoyed that my gesture of kindness and good will was immediately translated into an overture of Date Me, and that he began giving me the full court press to set a date.

I never called him again. Dork.

The Gender Card

I am not one to play the Gender Card very often, but there are times that I get the distinct feeling that a man would not be getting the same push-back that I am. Usually it's when I interact with people from specific cultures, like... MBA students. And ethnicities with more than a dollop of machismo/misogyny. And it pisses me off more than usual, specifically because I am *not* someone that looks for sexual discrimination in every nook and cranny. If I were, it would probably be status quo -- "See what I mean?" But I tend to work under the dreamy and/or naive liberal fantasy that most people don't discriminate against ANYONE, so I figure that when it's bad enough to set of my WTF bell, it's gotta be pretty bad.

So I punch them. Is that wrong?

Word To Your Mother

So I find that the words 'bowel movement' bug me lately.

Yeah, okay, sure -- "Fun, but where's she going with this?" right? But lately friends and cohorts of mine have been discussing words they hate. My co-workers hate the words 'orientated' and 'moist' -- me, I've always found the word 'panties' to be obnoxious. But lately I find people using the words 'bowel movement' in such a way as to creep me out. Just gave myself the shivers thinking about it.

Now I *get* that it's proper terminology. I *get* that we're not 12, so poo-poo doo-doo caca does not cut it any longer. Fine. What's so wrong with 'poop' these days??? C'mon, America! "We put some castor oil in with the milk in her bottle, because it helps her with her bowel movements" was the sentence that prompted this post. WTF?!? Are you Dian Fossey? It's your CHILD. She poops. I poop. Hell, they wrote a book about it: Everybody Poops.

[Sidebar: "Everybody Poops" always makes me think of the REM song "Everybody Hurts" and leaves me desirous of singing "Everybody poops... sometimes..."]

So here's a compromise: "it helps keep her regular." Voila. After all, you're never too young to be worried about regularity, right?

I realize I am being unfair to my friend here. It's not her, it's not that sentence per se -- that's just the 'bowel movement' that broke the camel's back. It's the combo platter of several people before her using that phrase when something less clinical would be more user-friendly, and the sad fact that I am now 36 years old, and I do things like stand in my childhood friend's big-girl grown-up married-person kitchen and discuss things like her child's bowel movements. None of those benchmarks freak me out in and of themselves, but linked together, they make a charm bracelet of "Holy shit -- this is my life."

Kiss the baby!

Catbox

Weird as it may be, I work in a condo in a high-rise. Literally, my 'office' is the living room, with a southern view and a cut-out in the wall that goes into the kitchen. It's weird. I mean it's a home, but it's work. Like I could get naked, but not.

The unit above 'mine' is undergoing some sort of renovation today -- I'm guessing the walls are being plastered? All I know is it sounds like a very-amplified version of the scratching my cats do on the side of the catbox, after they're 'done' but before they exit. You know, that 'oh, fuck -- I have litter stuck in between my paw pads' noise? It sounds exactly like that... only much, MUCH louder. Like their whole living room is a giant catbox for... well, let's just say that we let *that* fucker loose in the streets, and Daley's dumpster issues are a thing of the past. That and the homelessness. And babies. Delicious, plump little babies....

Too Much Cologne-Wearing Landlord of Co-Worker

It's called restraint -- look into it.

Tulips

I never was much for tulips, but I'm warming to them. In part because I have a vase of them on my desk at work -- makes me feel less like it's gloomy as shit outside. In part because they're so commonplace in Chicago this time of year. I have to therefore consider them for the wedding.

It's amazing to me that I'm planning this wedding. I've always hoped to marry, but never went out of my way to make it happen. And now I'm on that path. I'm happy about it all, and I know we'll have the perfect wedding for us, but I do have to say I wish that money were not an object. I don't want some enorm-o, elaborate wedding with doves and filet and Barenaked Ladies as my wedding band (damn you, Jason Priestley!!!), but I wish I did not have to watch *quite* every penny. Waah waah waah... my golden shoes are too tight and my magical pony doesn't fly high enough.

Sassy Is As Sassy Does

This is my sassy-face picture... Maia took my headshots almost a year ago, and I'm just getting around to turning them into, well, headshots. There are several less sassy ones, but my favorite pix are the sass-face ones... makes me happy.

LMAO... World's Suckiest Blogger

So it's cracking my ass up that I've been a 'blogger' since Aug 2004 and only have one post, chock full o' ennui-y goodness. But now I'm rejoining the blog community, exploring my blog-uality, feeling my blog-ness.

I feel like I've been on this journey for a while now, and can't quite figure out what it is I'm not getting. I'm beginning to suspect that "what I'm not getting" is that I need to not give a shit about getting it. To, as my subheadline states, learn to stop worrying and love the blog. Substitute 'life' or 'neuroses' or 'what I am' or 'what I got right now' for 'blog' -- it's all the same noise.

I was a suck-ass improviser. I mean I was good enough to get myself laid, but that's not saying much. I sucked. Too much in my head. Left my studies because it was upsetting me how bad I was. Which is fucking lame. When we're kids, we suck and it's cool, or at least it's immaterial. When do we learn to put so much pressure on ourselves?

I need to be more like my cat. He's all id. In fact, his id is driving his claws into my leg right now, demanding attention. He could give a shit if I'm a blogger. He wants love. He demands love. We could all learn something from that.