Archive for May, 2007

Roaring of the Bliss

I have a few dreams in life that have been pretty consistent. Generally, I’m not a big dreamer – it’s not like I’ve always wanted to conquer the world or be president or anything, but there are things in my life that I want to happen, and mostly, some small part of me believes that they will happen. I’m all about the attainable, pragmatic dreams, you see, and this whole dream big bullshit just isn’t for me. I think wanting to have a family and write a book is big enough, and anything on top of that is just gravy.

I have had one dream, however, that has lurked in the back of my mind for decades, and it’s been the most frustrating kind of dream – the kind where everyone else holds the cards, and nothing I ever do could make it come true. It was as pointless as whiling away hours wishing I could win the lottery or that Gary Oldman would decide that he was truly, madly, deeply in love with me and wanted to escape to Paris for a midnight elopement, despite the fact that we’ve never met. The dream was so impossible that it seemed that futility was mine to cherish instead, because until today, I’d merely written it off as a hopeless cause.

Today, that dream is a reality.

We have been selected as a Nielsen family. Nielsen ratings, y’all. My whole LIFE I’ve wanted to be a Nielsen family! And that day has finally arrived, and I just…well, I don’t know what to do with myself. We’re in the qualitative group, which means that next week, a packet (a packet! A whole packet!) of information with notes and questions and comment boxes will be arriving at our doorstep! They care what we watch. They care.

I got so excited that pumped my fist at the office when Adam told me they called. I pumped my fist, and then I had to explain to all of my coworkers why I was pumping my fist, which drew a lot of blank stares and a few snickers, because it’s not like Nielsen is a common dream, and even I will acknowledge that it’s pretty pathetic.

However, gone are the days of merely bitching about television and ratings and moaning in wild frustration that no one ever asked us, because oh yes, they’re asking us, and ASK AND THEY SHALL RECEIVE. Adam actually asked the woman if she would accept stapled notes if our thoughts could not be contained in mere packets, and I am thrilled to report that she welcomes notes! And extra packets! And attached notes, maybe even NOTEBOOKS on our television-watching!

We strategized our approach over dinner – who would take what TV, what we would watch and who, exactly, would keep the best notes to send in. Because we have a responsibility to television watchers across America, and ladies and gentlemen, I will not let you down.

Sigh. Sometimes dreams really do come true.

You mock me, but look, we’ve already covered my love for surveys, which is only eclipsed by my love for television,and to combine those loves is like some kind of perfect storm of madness and ecstasy. Yes, I love television, and I am always irritated by those who look down on those of us who imbibe a little time every evening to stare blankly at a screen that does nothing but embarrass us with its idiocy, but I just figure they’ve never watched Big Love, because Big Love is magic. It’s MAGIC, I tell you, and it’s also coming back on Monday, and to say I’m excited is like saying that Sunny likes to lick her own ass, which is an understatement.

Speaking of television, did anyone see that kid spell schuhplattler on the National Spelling Bee? SCHUHPLATTLER. Honest to Christ, the second the judge busted out with the word in that remarkably Hitler-esque accent, I thought I’d die, because again: SCHUHPLATTLER.

And finally, I’ll leave you with both a warning and a recommendation, should you find yourself near a Barnes and Noble this weekend. First, I recently finished The Kite Runner, and for all of its insane buzz, I’m here to act as a wet blanket: I hated it. I thought it was ridiculous and far-fetched, and completely and utterly overrated. My heart did not soar, as one Amazon reviewer promised. In fact, my heart ached, because I was so intensely irritated by the never-ending implausibility and overwrought drama. You have been warned. And if you read it and loved it, it’s likely that I offended you and for that I am sorry, but I did not like it.

However! Because all I seem to do is bitch about books these days, I’m here to tell you that Prep is absolutely fantastic, and I can’t put it down. I’ve even taken to bringing it in the car just in case a reading emergency arises, like a stoplight or something. Lawyerish recommended it, and hoo boy was she right!

I hope you have a great weekend, full of good books and warm rain and whatever else it is you want. And maybe you, too, will get the phone call of your dreams!

*Tangerine Dream

35 comments May 31st, 2007

Get Down, Make Love

I love carrot cake, y’all. It’s not really an ordinary kind of love, but a deep, sensual – almost lewd – adoration that sighs heavily with each velvety bite of cool cream cheese frosting in a thick, creamy layer on warm cake flecked with just the right amount of sweet carrot and raisins. Oh, carrot cake. How I long for your sweet spongy embrace.

The problem with carrot cake is that, as with cheesecake, I cannot stop myself with just one bite, just one piece, just ONE CAKE. I become consumed with unbridled desire for more carrot cake until I’m naked and panting, face down in a roomful of smushed cakes with a satisfied smile on my face as I finally succumb to sweet carrot-laden slumber. Maybe a stray raisin dangles in my hair, I don’t know. I just know that I can’t control myself, so most of the time it’s best that I avoid it altogether.

Mmm…carrot cake.

Enter Weight Watchers. You can imagine my squeal of excitement when I saw this just before I rang up my grapes and cherries at the checkout counter this morning:


Make love to me, carrot cake. For only one point, we shall enjoy guilt-free ardor!

(Seriously, I can’t believe I just used ‘make love’ in a sentence, even if it was only around carrot cake. Honestly, I’d rather talk about using sanitary napkins on my moist nipples for DAYS ON END than talk about making love in any sort of serious context. This stems not only from the fact that it is perhaps the smarmiest term ever, but also from a perpetual prank caller I had in my formative years – a gentleman who called at all hours and simply pleaded, in a too-high John Malkovich-esque voice, “Make love to me.”)

(Back to carrot cake lovemaking.)

(“Make love to me.” SQUICK. I can’t get it out of my head.)

(Also worth noting that although I got a decent camera, my picture-taking skills have not improved. I mean, is that a masterpiece or what?)

Seriously! One point! Carrot cake! God had spoken, or so it seemed, and before you chastise me that I so should have seen this coming, remember, I am the same person who bought FizzyFruit, because I honestly thought it would transform the way I looked at fruit forever (“It’s…fizzy! WOW I LOVE GRAPES!”). I am also the same individual who let my leg hair grow out for four or five weeks while I waited for the Sweet Simplicity at-home sugar waxing kit to arrive at my doorstep because I believed in my heart of hearts that I would never shave again (Never mind that a strip of wax got trapped in my ass, which required assistance from my roommate, just NEVER MIND) (Also, I keep seeing that story pop up as an urban legend, which infuriates me, because it actually happened to me, unsavory hair and all, and my only hope is that many others have suffered the same fate. At-home bikini waxes are not for everyone, is what I’m saying, not even a little).

Over the years, at least until I grew up a little bit at least, dear God, I’ve also bought a juicer, a food chopper and various and sundry informercial items, thoroughly believing their claims of miracle-working and fast-chopping and can-cutting knifing and most of all juicing, because like the JuiceMan, I was totally going to turn into Dick Clark and never age again. Ron Popeil and I are likethis. The As Seen On TV kiosk in the mall is my favorite place ever, really it is.

So you can imagine my (repeated, crushing) disappointment when I opened up the box and found this:

Does that look reasonable to you? Does that look like a piece of cake you’d like to have an intimate relationship with?

Really?

STILL?

Fine. I should note that I have freakishly small hands, for starters – seriously, my ring size is a four, and my wedding rings are almost too loose on me, which means I’m closer to a three and three-quarters, which is so small I’m embarrassed about it. But if that doesn’t sway you, let me demonstrate what happened after I took a bite out of it. Mind you, I was eager and excited, so it was a large bite, but it’s not like I was choking or anything.

Disappointment looms large, Weight Watchers. IT LOOMS LARGE.

But the cake – the waxy, miserable cake – it looms very, very small. And so, Weight Watchers carrot cake takes its place next to ineffectual wax, bad choppers and unused juicers. Shattered dreams, my friends. Shattered dreams.

*Queen. Because once I get something annoying in my head, I am unstoppable and I pick at it like scab.

35 comments May 29th, 2007

Lonely in Your Nightmare

Does anyone remember poop wars? To briefly recap, in retaliation for neighborhood dogs pooping in yards that are not their own, a few of my neighbors have been passing around a bag full of old dog poop, depositing it on the doorsteps of suspected dog-dropping offenders during the night. I have come to refer to it as the Asshole Bag.

Well. The creator of the Asshole Bag has extended her repertoire to a line of Asshole Booby Traps. Across from her house, you see, is an electrical box-generator-type thing, which holds the power and switches for the electrical-like things in the neighborhood (fountains, streetlights, etc.), which kids REALLY like to hang out on and sit on top of late at night. This does not please her. In fact, one might say it pisses her off immensely, because today she told me that she’s been laying out a thick layer of Vaseline on the sittable surfaces (why didn’t I say flat? Why?), then dotting the Vaseline with dog poop procured from the Asshole Bag, so that unsuspecting sitters will find themselves covered in months-old dog shit mixed with petroleum jelly, which will never, ever come out of clothes. Ever. Did I mention never? Never, oh my God, never.

This seems a bit extreme, does it not?

Separately, yet also neighbor-related, I loathe one of my neighbors, for reasons that are completely centered around the fact that she’s very, very mean, and in fact, is actually an asshole. Yet, she’s perpetually complaining how no one likes her because she’s fat and unattractive, and people are prejudiced against those with a “larger girth and a face that’s been hit by a shovel, goddammit,” (her words, oh my God, way to treat yourself nicely) and life is not fair, just NOT FAIR, to heavy unattractive people.

Honestly, and I really mean this: I never noticed or cared if she was fat or unattractive (her appearance is fine, seriously), even though I think there’s some validity to her claims in the world at large. I do, however, both notice AND care that she’s mean. If I had any balls at all, I would explain this to her the next time she goes Rosie O’Donnell on my ass, but then of course, she’d tell her comrade- in-arms, Asshole Bag Neighbor, and my house would be Vaselined and Pooped-On within moments, and I lack the intestinal fortitude for such clean-ups.

I’m feeling a little homesick this weekend, if you can’t tell, and though I am entirely grateful for the life I have here, and for my apparently hunky (thanks, Suebob!) and extremely funny husband (We laugh. A whole lot), all I wanted to do this weekend was tool around western Massachusetts and hike in the woods and have dinner with friends and oh, some days I just want to go home, you know?

Anyway. Bucking up. This weekend was full of dog park visits, bathroom painting and caulking (riveting!) and barbecuing. But most importantly, there was Trivial Pursuit playing, and not just any Trivial Pursuit, but the Totally 80s edition, and oh yes, it rocked, but more importantly, I rocked the music category, to Adam’s extraordinary irritation. Most question and answer sessions went something like this:

A: Which group’s video for “Girls-”

J: GIRLS ON FILM. DURAN DURAN.

Not that that question was particularly HARD, but I wouldn’t even let him finish most of the questions, and oh, I was downright smug about it. I can be a little competitive, when it comes to game playing, to put it mildly, and I’m quite good at Trivial Pursuit of all forms (savant-like really, given that most games that require actual skill leave me stuttering in the corner, yet obscure facts about Israeli Mossad activities and what year Mary Hart joined Entertainment Tonight? My brain capacity knows no limit!), and hereby vow to humbly beat the pants off of any of those who challenge me to a game. I double dog dare you, really.

Finally, a question: Ah So sauce. Do you know what it is? Was it available where you grew up/live, in your grocery stores? It’s the pink Chinese rib sauce, named in a strangely inappropriate Mickey Rooney/Breakfast at Tiffany’s kind of way. And I can’t find it anywhere, and it occurred to me that maybe it’s a New England-only thing.

Hope you had a great holiday weekend! Here’s to Tuesday!

*Duran Duran

13 comments May 28th, 2007

Where She Goes

Because dogs deserve to have good weekends too.


Yes that’s Adam, aka my puppy daddy, with Sunny at a dog-friendly beach.


The wind! Oh, the wind in my ears!


Wisely sticking to dogs of her own size.


Happy, but oh my God, in dire need of a bath. THE FILTH. THE FECES.


Why do you hate me? Why?

I hope your holiday weekend is as marvelous as ours has been so far.

*Moco

7 comments May 26th, 2007

Out of Line

Nothing screams GOOD MORNING! like a cat biting you on the ass shortly after you head into the bathroom for the first pee of the day. Three mornings in a row, that’s what he’s done, and because I’m goldfish-like in that I have absolutely no recollection from one morning to the next, I continue to let him follow me into the bathroom. And every day, I proceed to sit down and do my business with my eyes at half-mast, only to be jerked into full consciousness by the stinky-lipped teeth of a pissed-off cat who just wants his goddamn BREAKFAST ALREADY, oh my God, is that too much to ask? This leg-rubbing shit just ain’t cutting it anymore I guess, so he’s resorted to circling the back of the commode for access to my (still-ample) backside.


His only regret is that he didn’t get to toss any salads while he had the chance.

I neglected to mention that during Tuesday’s Day of Woe someone at the office stole two pounds of my newly-purchased cherries from the refrigerator and had themselves a delicious snack. Honestly, I have to think there’s a special place in hell for office food thieves – a place that involves nothing but half-eaten sandwiches with moldy crusts and partially-thawed Smart Ones with the cellophane all broken, rendering them all but un-microwavable. Further, I have to wonder what kind of person wants to eat someone else’s office food, because I think I’d rather lick up my own bile from the floor of a fetid bathroom, seriously. I mean, cherries I guess I understand (TWO POUNDS), but I remain utterly mystified by those who steal things like homemade sandwiches, leftovers and (oh my God) dairy products, and shockingly, they are a legion.

*gags uncontrollably*

I have a thing about dairy products, in that they cannot be shared, except under the most sterile of circumstances. I have a set of rules around the sharing of the dairy, which involves no carton lips touching any drinking surfaces, and CERTAINLY no spoons in the ice cream except for the one that you use to serve yourself, and if you even consider double-dipping, I will never eat ice cream again. Whenever anyone offers me a taste of their ice cream cone, it literally takes every ounce of restraint I can muster to choke out a polite “No, thank you” instead of smashing the cone between their eyes and running away. I don’t know, maybe it’s that milk IS some kind of mucus (thank you random health food store lady), which makes me feel…mucusy, and all I picture is mucus on mucus and oh my God, I’ve got to go throw up now, for I am grossing myself out, because dairy is really, really gross, yet oddly compelling. Mmmm…cream cheese.

Speaking of foul, a friend of mine had a perfect stranger tell her today that not only is it ridiculous that she’s been married to her husband for four years and doesn’t have any children, but that the stranger’s parents were fertility doctors, and in order to make the babies, my friend needs to douche with baking soda after sex to “get the sperm moving,” combined with appropriate hand-flitting gestures, like little fireworks. Or sperm cells, or something. I don’t know. The thing is, when was the last time anyone mentioned the word “douche” in any sort of remotely serious and/or helpful context? I mean, don’t get me wrong, douchbag is actually one of my favorite quasi-curse words (it’s so satisfying, and I don’t know why), but no one should be douching. No one. And certainly not with baking soda, sweet Jesus, I don’t care how zippy it makes sperm (or not. Because really). But who knew that the cure for infertility has been right there in all of our cabinets all along? Fuck Clomid! Who needs IVF? Arm & Hammer’s where it’s at, and it freshens your refrigerator, too!

And on that note, I hope you have a douche-free Memorial Day weekend full of wonder and delight and fast-moving sperm, if that’s what you want. For our part, we plan to take lots of pictures and do a whole lot of nothing, which is exactly how I like it.

*The Bravery

22 comments May 24th, 2007

Get On, Me

May 22, 2007: A day I think I’d rather pretend didn’t happen, and yet I cannot! It happened! And there has to be some sort of lesson in here, and I, for one, am hellbound and determined to figure out what it is. I’m pretty sure what it all means is that I have no business whining, and that I need to suck it up and stop taking life (and myself) so seriously. Yes, that’s it. Nevermind that I don’t ever take anything seriously anyway, but we’ll go with that.

For starters, I have what seems like my period again, and yet is only wild PMS mixed with other less than savory symptoms, which means, yes, it’s been less than three weeks since my last one. Menstruation and fertility is a neverending madcap adventure full of twists, turns and unexpected detours! Life is a…maxipad. Or a menstrual cup. Or something.

This excitement was followed by a surprisingly crushing work disappointment that was only eclipsed by my irritation at myself for being disappointed, which I totally didn’t expect nor want to be. But enough about that, because I can’t talk about it anyway. But suffice it to say that if these were the only two things that happened, it would have been merely a bad day. However, the events that unfolded pushed it into the realm of epic bad days.

The woman at Dollar General belched in my face when I tried to pay for my dish cloths, which were actually $3, because nothing in Dollar General is actually $1, except for day-old cookies. Dude, the clerk at Dollar General let out a ripping, stinky belch right in my face, just as I leaned over to catch the dish cloth that was slipping behind the counter, and just like that, we were nose to nose and she just…burped at me, like some kind of evil Klingon greeting. I was belched at, my friends. BELCHED.

But wait! There’s more! I got my haircut tonight, and somehow my hairdresser and I got into a discussion about weight loss and the resulting flab from some sort of wild loosening of fat or something. I mentioned that I definitely felt some things flapping around, and he actually said, “Oh yes, I see what you mean. Your arms?”

Okay, a) No, actually, I meant my ass; and b) my arms? There’s something wrong with my arms too? They’re FLAPPING? Do I have…bat wings?

I opted to end the day with a pizza and some wine, Weight Watchers be damned, because really, I can think of very few occasions where pizza and wine are more appropriate. Three people cut me in line at the pizza parlor, one of whom crushed down on my instep and elbowed me out of the way, saying, “Move it, lady, we’re picking up. Order there.” Never mind that I, too, was picking up, and was there first. And he called me lady. Am old dottering fart with bat wings.

That was not the end of the pizza disaster, because when I arrived in the parking lot, two women with no teeth were hunched around the back of a pick up smoking cigarettes, and refused to move to let me in my car, at least until they asked me what kind of pizza I had, and if they could come home with me to “snack on it” and maybe “snack on [my] sweet thighs, too!”

Seriously. And we haven’t even gotten to the Boston Celtics #5 draft pick, which sucked hairy balls, and need I remind anyone that they’ve never had a #1 draft pick – the closest they came was #2 Len Bias, who DIED, and then after that, there was the Great Tim Duncan Disaster, and now we’ve got shit, just SHIT, and as Adam put it, ten more years of bloody misery, that’s what.

However, there are good things, not the least of which is that today was so spectacularly bad that by the time the toothless women were ready to dip my thighs in Ah-So rib sauce, I couldn’t stop laughing, because honestly. Also! I got a good haircut, and because someone asked me what I look like, and I realized I deleted every photo from my archives one day when everything broke, here you go:


I can’t explain the face. Why am I gazing at you so conspiratorially? Do you want to make out behind the bleachers? Also totally worth noting that my self-portrait skills have not improved, even with the new camera, and since I don’t plan to practice, I don’t see much opportunity for advancement. And I’m still taking them in the bathroom.

Random interlude: I hate Jordin Sparks. Seriously, like, a whole lot.

Also, because dogs make everything better, and why not?


I dare you not to kiss this face. I DARE YOU.

Happy Wednesday!

*The Brother Kite. Also a song that makes everything better.

38 comments May 22nd, 2007

Don’t Tell Her

First, thanks for the bra recommendations. I love the Internet for things like this, because honestly, you get the best advice! A professional fitting! Gap! Ross (Dress for Less)! Incidentally, until I moved to Florida, I’d never *heard* of Ross, and I think I’ve set foot in it all of once, and I think it was to use the restroom. Ditto Stein Mart. Do y’all have Stein Mart? The whole “Once you go, you get it” tagline never rang true for me, because I most certainly didn’t get it, and was quite, quite certain that they were hiding a cache of beer steins somewhere in there, as indicated by the name, and what were shoes doing in a beer stein store? Why? I didn’t get it, despite going. Up yours, Stein Mart.

Enter non-sequitur: I love my job – really, I do. I rarely have the kind of day (save for Mike’s Day) where I need a stiff drink to calm down at the end of it, however, today was that day. The kind, trusting soul who gave me superuser access to our company website might want to rethink their judgment skills, because for a good hour and a half today, HOO BOY I SCREWED THINGS UP. Yes, yes, I fixed them, but there were some harrowing moments, and for those of you who didn’t know, WordPress isn’t how the rest of the Internet works. The real Internet is much, much harder.

Non-sequitur #2: I feel fairly certain that I’ve mentioned that I’m a marketer’s wet dream. I am a sucker for all things advertising – I see a commercial for Pizza Hut, and five minutes later, I’m commenting to Adam that gee, we haven’t been to Pizza Hut for a while, and we should go this weekend! I find myself repeating marketing information about beauty products (“It’s easy AND breezy, you see…”), and with the right campaign, I can be convinced to buy almost anything.

Enter FizzyFruit. It’s totally designed for kids, and yes, it’s the most gimmicky thing I’ve ever seen, but after reading an article about its totally fun effervescence and naturally carbonated zing (I was feeling the FIZZ: Fun, Inspiration, Zest and Zip!), I was totally on board, and bought some fizzy grapes for breakfast this morning, and really, um, how gross. Fizz does not make half-dead grapes fun OR inspirational, and yet again, I’m crushed by the repeated realization that marketing does not equal reality. Because I am five years old, and haven’t yet learned this lesson.

Non-sequitur #3: I’ve been mildly irked by Lori McKenna all day. I like her – really I do. Sort of. I’ve had Paper Wings & Halo for many years, after I happened to catch her in concert at what my lesbian friend referred to as “Screaming Lesbian Fest 2003,” despite the fact that there were very few lesbian performers and/or attendees. However, she was a lesbian, and she planned to scream, and I guess that’s all that really mattered.

Anyway, Lori was great, very down to earth, nice songs, lovely, whatever. Except, has anyone ever heard her speak? She sounds like me! Which is a dumb thing to say, given that this isn’t an audio blog, but I have a soft, small, unaccented voice, and really, the idea that I’d break out with some sort of nasally country drawl is just laughable, and I didn’t buy it coming from Lori, either. This has always nagged me a little, which is meaningless in any context, but I feel slightly better getting it out there.

Non-sequitur #4: Jesus, Heroes. That’s how you do a television finale. It was exciting, satisfying and somewhat unpredictable, but most importantly, it was thoroughly enjoyable, and I ended the episode with a great deal of enthusiasm for next season. And imagine that, you didn’t have to leave me embittered and angry, manipulated by some sort of wild unrequited love story. *glares in general direction of Grey’s Anatomy*

Happy Tuesday!

*Lori McKenna. I’ve had it in my head all day, hence the ramble.

4 comments May 21st, 2007

Film One

We’ve reached the time of year where I’m envious of anyone who lives above the Mason-Dixon line, as most of you are probably really looking forward to summer, with Memorial Day next weekend and all. I’m imagining you may live in a climate where you can step outside without a) your face melting off; b) getting eaten alive by any number of mosquitoes and/or fire ants; or c) cowering in fear of spontaneous lightning that could sizzle your undies off, leaving nothing but you exsiccated corpse, reminiscent of a dried-out cockroach carcass.

And I won’t even mention hurricane season because I just can’t, but oh, the season of terror is upon us, and by terror, I actually mean the weather is a terrorist of sorts, haunting us with what it might do, and while yes, it’s entirely possible that we could all be wiped out with a strong gust of wind, the likelihood is still very slim. (Or if it’s not, do me a favor and keep it to yourself and leave me to my light breezy illusions, hmmm?)

Anyway, it was Adam’s birthday this weekend, and to say he wanted it low-key is like saying that Kermit and Miss Piggy don’t belong together (they totally do, and Muppets Take Manhattan remains one of my favorite movies, and I know how wrong that sounds), and the biggest thrill we had all weekend was some wild Flex Points spending on some nachos and beer, because no one really knows how to party like we do. Nobody.

There was, however, some excitement on Friday when we finally bit the bullet and bought an SLR. I cannot tell you how happy this makes me, because my last camera was a Canon PowerShot that took one picture approximately every two to three minutes at its fastest. Not to mention the fact that the process of actually taking a photo involved pushing the button and then promptly falling asleep while the camera heavily debated the merits of actually taking a picture vs. crapping out entirely, and by the time it actually fired, the subject you were focusing on was on a plane heading for the Virgin Islands.

For those of you who care about such things, we went with a Nikon D40, the reasons for which are relatively simple: I liked the price and quality of the kit lens vs. the Canon Digital Rebel (emphasis on price), and I use a Nikon D70 for work which, while it’s way too much camera for me, made me comfortable enough with the Nikon. Ultimately, however, we cheated and asked Adam’s friends who founded this company and we figured, meh, they probably know what they’re talking about more than we do, so Nikon it is. And I love it, for the simplest of reasons, most of which are centered solely around the fact that when I push a button it actually takes a picture.


Dude, she’s running towards me. And she’s in focus. It’s a miracle!

Finally, and this is sort of pathetic, I need new bras. I realized today that I haven’t bought a new bra in (oh my God) at least two or three years, and honestly, I haven’t the foggiest idea where to start. I am not particularly…large… (34B, because I overshare and am unstoppable) so it’s not like I need a truckload of support, but my ever-shrinking form continues to take away from the bustline, so needing new bras was inevitable. Although, um, two years between bra purchases? Not so good.

The bra(s) I wear at the moment is a Victoria’s Secret Body By Victoria Ipex wireless thing, I think, and honestly, while I love it, I hate Victoria’s Secret and am largely against it on principle (up yours, Adriana Lima!). So, if you wouldn’t mind sharing, I’ll take your bra recommendations, please. I hate underwires, but if you must, I understand. And if you can’t be specific, I’m down with where you’ve had good luck buying decent bras in the sub-$40 range, preferably, unless they’re made of gold ingots that can be resold at a higher value and/or make me look like Adriana Lima herself.

Happy Monday!

*Modern English

25 comments May 20th, 2007

A Song to Pass the Time

First of all, I have to come clean about yesterday’s Mike’s Hard Lemonade episode: I was kind of an asshole about it, and in the cold, rational light of morning, I’m horrified, and I may never shop at my favorite supermarket again, which pains me, just PAINS ME, because I love to grocery shop. LOVE. I’m fascinated by the amount of products available! The sauces! Ethnic spices! Wide array of brined vegetables! I could spend an entire afternoon perusing the sandwich toppings alone!

But I digress. I’d had a long day – a really, really long day that started with getting stood up for an 8:30 a.m. meeting, and ended with a party I was covering; a party where I didn’t talk to anyone beyond professional inquiries, nor was I drinking, nor was I eating, as it’s the way I roll at these types of events, but for some reason, it made me very, very cranky this time. I was starving and thirsty and so flipping tired, and watching other people whoop it up made me wish I could throw a toddler-level tantrum and storm out of the room. You know that tiredness where you just want to whine because you can’t figure out what’s WRONG with you, because everything aches! Everything! And you are tired! And hungry! And uncomfortable, Mom!

(I’m not proud of this. I was a brat who should be shot.)

Ergo, when I arrived at the supermarket and took out an entire display of Mike’s Hard Cranberry Lemonade, I all but screeched at the first supermarket employee that I saw that while I was very, very sorry that I knocked over giant chunks of glass, I could not BELIEVE that someone would set up a glass display – GLASS! – so close to the door of the frozen foods, where it could be knocked over! Over! And worse, it was ALCOHOL. THERE WAS ALCOHOL IN GLASS RIGHT NEXT TO THE COOL WHIP. What would the children think? That the only way to enjoy dessert was with LIQUOR? WAY TO SEND A MESSAGE.

(Okay, I didn’t say that last bit about the children, but oh my God, I was thisclose.)

(Also, I apologized three more times, not only for knocking over the glass, but for acting like it was totally their fault. Am psycho and also unstable. And whiny.)

I know. I’m such a jerk. I’m sorry. I am sufficiently embarrassed, and I totally deserved to get pummeled with cloying heartburn-inducing beverages.

Anyway. More importantly, there was a water main break in our neighborhood tonight, which prevented us from eating at our usual haunt, and we ended up eating at a diner a few blocks up. Dude, it was karaoke night, and I really would have appreciated some sort of notice on that before we launched into our entrees. It happened so fast. One minute I was cheerfully surveying my chicken sandwich, and the next, a man in his late 60s wearing skintight jeans, a bowtie and a toupee was setting up a karaoke machine and before I even knew what hit me, a…karaoke enthusiast was warbling his way through Tears On My Pillow, and I felt a very acute pain in my heart (caaauuused by yooooou! YOOOOUUUUU!) when he lost track of the words and started making them up, and at one point he was having “tears in his parlor” and “pain in his…”

his…

his…

“STAA-RT, over…”

“over…”

*swaying awkwardly*

“Over…”

*long pause*

“MOOOOOOVES”

Honestly, the only thing worse than that moment was the Valentine’s Day dinner we spent while an enormous woman wearing flaming red spandex hulked over us as she wailed “My Guy,” pausing only to stick the microphone in diners’ faces, where they feebly offered, “my guuuyyy” in-between bites of pumpkin ravioli.

Seriously, y’all. Karaoke. In a strip mall diner.

Have a great weekend.

*Bright Eyes. I really loathe him and yet there it is. But who doesn’t want to knock Conor Oberst in the head?

7 comments May 17th, 2007

On a Day Like Today

First of all, American Idol is a mockery. For the record, I’ve been pro-Blake since day one, so don’t take this the wrong way, but Jordin Sparks is fake. She cries on cue, manipulates the audience and for crying out loud, she was busting her ass to get more camera time tonight, wheras Blake at least had the decency to step back and, I don’t know, LET MELINDA SING.

That being said, there will be a wide variety of dialing for dollars for Blake in the Jonniker household, and like Grey’s Anatomy, I think it might be time for me to cut the cord with American Idol next season, and if I so much as mention it, please drag my bare ass along a rusty pole on your way home from work.

Moving on! I’ve done a lot of navel-gazing about what I will and won’t do as a parent, and while the general consensus seems to be that you never really know until you’re faced with the situation, allow me to illustrate the one thing I can guarantee I will never, ever do.
I was chatting with one of my neighbors and his wife last night, along with their one-year old daughter – we’ll call her Teagan – and the subject of T’s sleep schedule came up, blah blah sleepycakes, that’s not the point. The point is that the conversation went something like this:

J: So, T’s sleeping through the night! That’s wonderful!

T’s dad, Dave: Oh yes, when we get ready for bed, she gets one round of booby na-nas, and then she passes out for the night!

J: …booby na-nas?

D: Oh yes, well, that’s what we call breastfeeding in our house. Booby na-nas! BOOBIES! She loves booby na-nas, don’t you T! Who’s ready for some booby na-nas! WHO IS READY FOR SOME BOOBY NA-NAS AND NIGH NIGHT?

J:

So there you have it. While I’m sure that everyone has one, I can guarantee that I will never refer to my personal pet name for breastfeeding on the street, and I certainly won’t toss it out in casual conversation like it’s no big deal to a near stranger, because booby na-nas? Seriously? There’s no reason for that. And coming from a dude, it’s just creepy. And the sing-song voice just topped it off like some kind of pervy-sounding frosting.

Booby na-nas. Honestly. *shakes head*

Other than that, I had a mildly crappy day full of back-to-back meetings, office moves and phones that just wouldn’t work, and all told, I worked for 13 hours. During one of those hours, I discovered that my new office-mate is a loud eater, and with each bite of chicken nuggets, I died a little inside. The sound of creamy chicken salad being stirred (THANKS A LOT ANDREA) was rampant, and I may never eat at work again.

Fittingly, the day ended with me taking out an entire Mike’s Hard Cranberry Lemonade display at the supermarket, when all I wanted was my sad little Lean Cuisine pizza for a 10 p.m. dinner, continental microwave-style. Three cases of Mike’s unloaded all over me, and sticky and gross, but very, very fragrant. And sexy.

*Keane

17 comments May 16th, 2007

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