Archive for June, 2007
I don’t like the term “wiggle room.” It implies some sort of…wiggling, which in such an abstract context can sound sort of pervy, right? Or like there’s some sort of giant room full of wiggling things, like dogs and worms and piles of Jello, although come to think of it, that sounds kind of appealing. A Jello room! Yummy! They’ve used the term more times than I can even count during the NBA Draft this evening, which is why it’s on my mind. Wiggle room! (Also: Ray Allen!)
Moving on. Since you’re all likely getting your asses in gear for some delightful July 4 holiday plans, I must ask: am I the only person who just has WEDNESDAY off? How incredibly useless is that, I ask you? Oh, I just have a random Wednesday off. Great! GREAT. How festive. I don’t know what I’ll do with my free Wednesday when nothing is open and it’s hot as blazing hell, thank you, rigid nature of Independence Day, THANK YOU.
I’m procrastinating with ridiculous observations of nothing, because I have to tell you: I asked a girl out today, and it was extremely dramatic and ridiculous, and somehow, I managed to make it as dorky as possible, and I’m shocked, frankly, just FLOORED that this woman still talks to me. I met her at work–we work in completely different departments–and the office move put us in close proximity, and the thing is I like her very much and would like to see her outside of work. So I asked her to lunch or “go out sometime” or something like that (smooth!), which was SO HARD, and so…fraught with drama and involved an e-mail (AN E-MAIL) where I think actually told her that I really like her (I think I said that honestly. I think I said “I really like you!” like some kind of dumbass) and then basically asked her out, like this is a dating situation or something, Jesus.
It sounded like a come-on, really it did, but the thing is, she said yes, and we chatted again, and it turned out fine, but in retrospect, what else could she say after I propositioned her like that? WHAT COULD SHE SAY? “I realize you really like me, however I do not like you. I caught you picking your nose earlier, and your hair is the wrong shade for your skintone. Thanks, though!”
Making friends in adulthood is almost worse than junior high. Seriously. And I am so incredibly unnatural at it.
But, um, I think we’re having lunch or going out or something next week. I will probably fart or take my shirt off or something equally fetching. What makes this worse is that I actually got myself so worked up about the whole ridiculousness of asking out another person, much less a girl, that I sent a copy of the e-mail to my friend Erica, asking, “Is this dorky? Would you go out with me if you were her?” (She said she would, but then again, I feel certain there was a time several years ago when I made the same announcement to Erica, that gee, I liked her a whole lot. But she did go out with me nonetheless.)
I have this strange compulsion that when I like people, I have to tell them. I do this to bloggers, friends, family, co-workers. It’s awful. I say it so simply and stupidly, “I like you a lot!” as though their personality is a sweater or something that they can say, wow, thanks, I got it at Marshall’s, can you believe it? $5.99! I do the same thing if I think someone is pretty. One day, out of the blue, I will dorkily announce, “You’re pretty!” And then they will run off and tell their friends that the mentally challenged girl in the corner has a crush on them, and oh my God, get her away from me. GET HER AWAY FROM ME.
Speaking of Erica, she e-mailed me yesterday to see if I was around so that she could call me, and honestly, I was figuring it was something critical, like her pregnancy, or baby names or something, you know, important. No no. We made small talk for a few minutes, when she finally confessed that look, really, she wants to talk about Poop on a Plane–no no, I’m sorry, I think she said the Pile High Club. She actually said that: “My big news is this Pile High stuff, and I’ve been dying to talk to you about it.”
It was one of the greatest phone calls I’ve ever received, not only because she called me solely to talk about poop on a plane (love), but because um, have you seen this? HAVE YOU SEEN THIS? I mean, my God. The honest truth is that for me, as Erica so eloquently put it, poop never ceases to be funny. I mean, look, I realize that I wouldn’t want to be on a plane with feces floating down the aisles (FECES IN THE AISLES! BROKEN TOILETS!), but the fact that they were told to control “what comes out the other end”? Horribly hilarious. I feel for them, I really do, and man, I hope they sue the pants off of the airline, but poop! on! a! plane! I can’t stop thinking about it! I am five-years-old. I know. I’ve always been this way, and chances are, I always will be. Poop! On a plane!
Anyway. In further dorkitude, I am a hypocrite. Surprise! Remember that whole impassioned boob talk I gave one of my co-workers, and then followed it up by exposing my boob? And then the whole lack of fashion sense yesterday? I made a last-minute shirt change today, and completely forgot to change bras, and at around 11 a.m., I realized my bra was fully sticking out of my shirt in its entirety.
I hope you have a great holiday weekend. I’m going to try to pretend to be marginally cool, in every sense of the word. Wish me luck.
June 28th, 2007
So, a few things. First of all, I’m done losing weight, I think. I think I’m good where I am–I really don’t want and/or need to be any thinner, and since I’ve started running again, the rest of whatever is ailing me will work itself out. Am I giving up on watching what I eat? Hell to the no, but at this point, I’m not willing to kill myself for a shape that isn’t sustainable without a whole lot of torture and habits that border on the unhealthy. So I’m mostly sticking with a diet that is loosely based on Weight Watchers, and I’m not canceling it, because tracking what I eat in their little point system makes me happy, and I don’t know why.
That being said, I weigh 140 lbs., which is not a small amount in most people’s eyes, and I’m good with that–I’m 5’7”. It’s a healthy weight, and I say that because for me, that’s “skinny.” I don’t have a small frame, though I’m not horse-like or anything, I’m just not teeny-tiny and/or particularly delicate. I have hips, and they’re sticking around, and I like it like that. I hate that skinny is supposed to mean 125 lbs or less. Hate. Because for many people, that would be downright dangerous. Also, I am wearing clothes that are anywhere from a 6 to a 10, and I’m okay with that, too. Mostly, I’m an 8, which is what, a 10 in normal sizes, before vanity sizing took over the universe? I’m perfectly happy as an 8.
Incidentally, if you recall that I lost 25 lbs., that means I weighed roughly 165 lbs. at my heaviest, which is A WHOLE FREAKING LOT and is actually WHALE-LIKE on my medium-ish frame. I still don’t know how that happened, or how I let it happen, but honestly, never again, unless I’m carrying another PERSON in there. I regret, actually, not taking “before” pictures, because Jesus, I was busting out of all of my clothes, now that I think about it.
Clothes. This means, by the way, that I’ve had to–or should–buy a few things, because some things are falling off of me. Even more terrifying, however, is that some things still fit me, which means that oh my holy GOD, I should not have been wearing them 25 lbs heavier. No wonder I couldn’t keep my zippers up. The necessary shopping also points out a fact of my life: I have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to fashion, and that’s not an exaggeration. I mean, I HAVE NO IDEA. My idea of “put together” is wearing a belt with my Threadless t-shirt and jeans, thankyouverymuch. I keep it simple, and by simple, I mean, I wear khaki, black and white in astonishing abundance, in clean lines. The only updates I really make are to cuts and silhouettes, and even those are done when absolutely necessary, i.e., when I realize that I’m wearing pants that were made well before the low-rise revolution and are actually impinging on my ability to move my arms.
(Okay, it’s not THAT bad. I don’t think. I mean, my pants are at least in a cut from this decade. I’m not sure…I mean, I look basically okay most days, just not particularly spiffy and/or cutting edge. I hope. My point is, I don’t go running out because trapeze skirts are suddenly in, because I’m totally good with the A-lines I have.)
Let’s look at yesterday’s flutter-sleeve incident as evidence, which is still drawing guffaws, as I was greeted this evening with more court jester jokes and further dissection of my mock-hairy armpits. Fashion risks are clearly not my forte, and I can’t even begin to tell you the first thing about how to wear a shoe that is not a) simple; and b) black or maybe brown, if I’m feeling really frisky. Preferably, the shoe is either of the fashion-sneaker variety (Pumas! Vans! Airwalks!) or Reefs. Oh Reef, how I love thee! This lack of shoe knowledge is despite my friends’ best efforts at assistance, including a complete red shoe TUTORIAL by my friend Amy.
It’s worth noting that today I bought my riskiest pair of shoes ever, and they are–wait for it–black patent leather ballet slippers. And despite their blackness, I have no idea what to wear with them. Zero.
I’m not sure how I feel about this, honestly. On the one hand, I think that I could really use some sort of assistance, because it would be nice to wear something other than Threadless Ts, jeans, and skirts–casual skirts, that is, the kind that go swimmingly with t-shirts. (Because I do not wear shorts, you see. No no. No shorts. Ever. Ahem.) On the other hand, I mostly don’t care, and that’s the sad truth. I mean, I care in the sense that I want to look nice, and despite my tendencies towards simplicity, I usually do, or at least I CAN if I have to. And I wear make-up every day and blow-dry my hair. Oh and I wear earrings, which is–well, that’s risky, isn’t it? EARRINGS. Someone give me a cookie.
The thing is, I can’t decide if this lack of concern is a by-product of my life, or if I’ve built my life around being casual, or both. I work in a super-casual environment where no one flinches if I wear Reefs, and I’m turned off by environments that are particularly formal. I rarely go anywhere that requires anything fancier than a skirt and maybe some (very simple) heels, and that is AT MY FANCIEST EVER OH MY GOD. I am a homebody in the truest sense. I like getting take-out and reading and watching movies. I like hanging with friends in super-casual places, and I hate anything too fussy, and the last thing on earth I feel like doing is messing with what I’m wearing–it’s just not a priority for me. And honestly, no matter how much money I’ve made in my life, I have never made spending money on clothes any sort of…well, priority is the word, yet again.
What I’m mixed about is this: I hate that to some, this implies that I have no self-respect and/or don’t care about taking care of myself. Not true! I eat right, and I exercise, and I get pedicures and God knows, I get waxed, and I wear make-up and I do all that other stuff. I care. But when it comes to what I’m wearing, it’s just not that important to me, because I don’t put myself in situations where anything more than casual is really necessary. And while I love What Not to Wear, it really gets me when Stacy and Clinton cheer people for spending $500 on a pair of shoes, because IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN in my house. Ever. Never ever. Where would I WEAR $500 shoes? To the local Argentinian steakhouse, which has fabulous food, but also gleefully accepts my Reefs? My life just isn’t set up in a way that $500 shoes make any kind of sense, and I like it like that.
On the other hand (what are we on our third? Fourth? FIFTH, hand?), sometimes I think seriously dude, I need to grow up. I cannot realistically wear Threadless Ts for the rest of my life, I just can’t. I will not be 31 forever. And it would be NICE to know what to do with a pair of shoes that aren’t Reefs. It would. I’m not saying I’d do it every day, but it would save me from a lot of panic.
As usual, I’ve no idea where I’m going with this. Also, not that I’m assuming anyone will ask, but I’m hesitant to post a picture of what I look like now, because a) I don’t have any; b) I hate having my picture taken; c) I am weird about posting pictures, not because I care that you all see–I’m not particularly self-conscious about what I look like, nor do I resemble a troll, I mean, I’ve done it recently–it’s just that I always feel supremely uncomfortable posting pictures of myself, like I’m fishing or something, so I just don’t do it. It’s just one of those weird things that I’m wonky about. What’s odd is that I like seeing pictures of other people, but I feel like the world’s biggest dork when doing it myself, so I don’t, and I don’t think I’m ever going to be one of those people who does it with any regularity.
However, I maintain that the Flickr self-portrait phenomenon makes me feel like I’m sitting in a room full of naked people who are masturbating and I’m fully clothed, and I just want to DIE as fast as possible.
See? Told you. No idea where I’m going with any of this.
June 26th, 2007
I wore a shirt with what I am guessing was flutter sleeves (is that a term?) today, and wow, it did not go well. I kept getting a glimpse of my … sleeves … out of the corner of my eye, and thinking that a) I must have looked like Melanie Griffith in “Working Girl” because holy hell, they gave me some SHOULDER; or b) Star Wars. All I could think of was Star Wars and that weird outfit that Obi-Wan Kenobi wore, or even better, did anyone besides me see National Lampoon’s European Vacation? And further, does anyone remember the outfit Rusty bought in Italy? I’m guessing not, but there were shoulder pads, and yea, it was hideous.
Anyway, really, it wasn’t a very good choice, and when I got home, Adam confirmed by looking at me for 2.2 seconds and wildly exclaiming, “Wow, um, are you a court jester?”
This was followed up with such gems as, “Seriously, dude, did I see you this morning? WHY DIDN’T I STOP THIS? I COULD HAVE SAVED YOU!”
And my favorite: “Have you, um, SEEN your armpits, oh my God?”
Because yeah. My underarms were completely and totally covered in little black balls that rubbed off, and suffice it to say they were ape-like. I’m still picking them out and flicking them across the room, which is by far one of the more attractive hobbies I’ve ever had, if you ask me–no, no, ask Adam.
In other news, my office moved two miles up the road and in the unpacking, a box full of my (now unused, thank you Moon Cup!) tampons ended up in someone else’s office, and further, a colleague and I were discussing female bathroom etiquette in the bathroom–including the merits and demerits of toilet seat covers–while we were both actually using the bathroom, which doesn’t much bother me, except when we came out, two of our male colleagues were looking rather pasty and, when pressed, politely informed us that um, actually, every single word (And…and…NOISE?) that comes out of the ladies room is actually amplified throughout the whole front of the office.
This means that moving forward I’ll be driving to the Applebee’s up the road to pee and do whatever else it is that I need to do, despite their insistence that okay, maybe not all the NOISES, just the voices. (This last bit of information was only offered after I looked panicked beyond all holy belief, so I am suspicious at best–not that I think they want to listen to me pee, but because I was positively PANICKED, but logically, I think they’re right. Just voices. JUST VOICES. *rocks back and forth*) Seriously, though, who designed such acoustics? Why are all bathrooms designed with such echo-ey walls and tiles? Bathrooms should be sound-proof, and it amazes me how few of them are. There should be fans! Carpeted walls! White noise machines! Random flushing noises that happen for the hell of it so that no one actually knows what you’re doing in there! JESUS.
Well, upon further reflection, maybe not carpeted walls. Because in every office I’ve ever worked, for reasons entirely unknown, the office is victimized at least once by someone who refuses to conduct their unsavory business while seated, resulting in some sort of wild explosion that defies any sort of logic, and thank God for tile in cases like that. Also, in college, our bathroom was carpeted, and it was just so upsetting, because those fibers acted like little TRAPS for whatever pee molecules hurtled through the air every day. And–AND–you know what mystifies me? Those toilet carpets that fit around the outside of the toilet on the bottom that you can buy in Target. Well, and carpeted toilet seats in general. Oh oh–and those padded toilet seats, because they always seem to trap things they shouldn’t, too.
I never intended to end up here. Sorry. But all of this is entirely irrelevant, because the beast, the beast is COMPLETELY GONE, as in, she’s at home where she belongs. And when they said they’d pick her up in an hour, they just had to get some dinner, we said, “OH NO, we will COME TO YOU. WE INSIST.” And then we deposited her in her little crate at home and rubbed our hands together with glee, because the house is OURS again! OURS! OOOOOUUUUUURRRRS.
*Poi Dog Pondering. My friend Andy gave this to me on a mix CD about 10 years ago. Andy still takes a hit off of a bong every night before he goes to bed, and for some reason this cracks me up, because I just can’t IMAGINE, and yet I know countless people who do it! For real! And I know that the fact that this surprises me makes me incredibly naive, but can you imagine having a bong in your house? And going through the miserable process of buying weed? Because I can’t, seriously, I just can’t. (Also, Andy is not his real name. Just in case, I don’t know…something.)
June 25th, 2007
She leaves tomorrow. My in-laws’ dog, that is. And I can’t wait.
I feel so guilty about this. I love dogs! Love! In fact, most of the time, I’d rather be with dogs than people (present company excluded). And it’s not her fault–she’s scared, and her people have abandoned her! It’s not my in-laws’ fault, either, for they would have no way of knowing she would react this way to being away from home. And she’s a sweet dog; she means well.
But the barking. Oh my God, the barking. The barking that makes it impossible for us to say anything to our new neighbors, who are hammering hammering HAMMERING non-stop at all hours of the day, because God knows, we are the House of High-Pitched Bark and Squeals. And the peeing, which can be prompted by anything from one of us getting an ice cube to some imperceptible shift in the air’s molecules. Mostly, however, the peeing is brought on by seeing her own reflection in the glass doors, because who is that strange dog? WHO IS THAT DOG OH MY GOD I HAVE TO PEE?
We’re down–and I wish I was kidding–more than half a gallon of Nature’s Miracle. Also, Alert Reader Leane brought up a good point: why is it that I will gleefully (well, not gleefully, I guess) pick up my own dog’s pee and poop, but another dog’s bodily fluids make me want to kill myself, very slowly, maybe with my neighbor’s hammer? It’s not like I birthed Sunny, and yet I am impervious to her deposits. I’ve managed multiple assplosions, and wiped them up with nary a complaint, but this dog so much as drools and I’m choking back chunks.
But it doesn’t matter, as she’s heading out tomorrow, back to the people who love her; back to people who can handle her elephantine poop without praying for death. And we will, once again, return to normalcy, and return to a life where we don’t have to cancel all of our plans because oh my God, the dog is pooping again, break out the shovel. Praise Jesus.
Entirely separately, I picked up my orthotics from the podiatrist last week, which rounds out the collection of ridiculous paraphernalia I got after I tore my tendon, which already includes some sort of foot fetishist-type bondage-looking night splint contraption. I’m cleared to run again, hooray!, but when the nurse gave me the orthotics, she informed me that I am supposed to wear them in sneakers every day, all day, for the rest of my life. Sneakers. Repeat: I’m not supposed to wear anything but sneakers, every day, for the rest of my life. I don’t know, I’m not a shoe person, but sneakers? Seriously? Come on. And when I mentioned that this seemed a bit … Draconian … the attitude emanated from her like a fart after eating too many cruciferous vegetables. So, um, sneakers it is. Except no: it won’t be. It will not be, it cannot be, I just can’t. Does she know how hot it is out there? My feet need freedom, for God’s sake. They need to feel the breeze.
Incidentally, I’ve started running again, and I didn’t realize how much I missed it. Also, if you’ve never run and always wanted to, but the very idea of running conjures images of death by exercise and also harsh wheezing, I cannot recommend Cool Running’s Couch to 5K Program enough. I’ve done it too many times to count at this point, and each time, it eases me back into a reasonable running program with as little pain as possible.
Finally, because honestly, we couldn’t leave the house because of Guest Dog and her Neverending Bladder and Exercise Demands, I watched a lot of television this weekend…a lot. This included the ill-advised Starter Wife, which I advise you to avoid at all costs, and is something I totally should have known to avoid, given that I um, read the book, which is one of the worst things I’ve ever done, and I can’t believe that Gigi Levangie Grazer has any sort of career outside of her husband’s shadow. Four whole hours I’ll never get back. Four hours!
Also, I recently started reading Margaret Atwood’s Cat’s Eye, which has been in my book queue for months and months, but kept getting pushed to the side by other books. I have to ask: is it worth it? Because I’m not as into it at this point as I feel that I should be (150 or so pages in). I loved The Blind Assassin and The Handmaid’s Tale, but I did not so much love Alias Grace. Nay, I hated Alias Grace. Which side of the spectrum does it sit, does anyone know?
I hope you had a great weekend. Happy Monday!
*Snow Patrol. I might have used it before, I honestly can’t remember. Sorry, if so!
June 24th, 2007
Hi! So basically, I am humbled and embarrassed, because you all, once again, showed me up with your kindness and hilarity, and I’m even embarrassed to write this part, because again, I don’t know, I’m humbled. And embarrassed. And that’s kind of all I know how to say at the moment, because it’s true. Except that dude, where have you all been? I’m so happy to see you!
Also, in our unexpected series on Underthings and Their Terrifying Perils, there was some sort of cosmic comeuppance today when I hit a snarky streak, and started bitching to a co-worker about workplace dress codes (in general, not ours). My particular gripe was that dress codes are ridiculous, because they don’t address the fact that female employees–particularly in sales roles, at least at my previous companies–are never held to proper standards, because their boobs! Their boobs are on display! And everyone just smiles and nods at the boobs, because boobs sell, and why not rest them on the table as part of the negotiation discussion, especially if they get people to buy more? I hate inappropriate use of boobs, especially when I’m not allowed to wear flip flops. Nipples are okay, but Reefs aren’t? This seems wrong somehow.
(Also again, seriously, my company doesn’t have a dress code, so this isn’t a current issue, God forbid)
I made this point, forcefully and repeatedly, asking with a disdainful tone: which are less appropriate, boobs or flip flops? I was getting all up in his grill with waving fingers of misguided feminism, and how women who bare their breasts in any workplace that doesn’t expressly call for their appearance are really screwing things up for the rest of us. And then I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror.
Oh hi, bra! And boob! It’s nice to see you, all partially exposed and all, especially during a conversation about the evils of boob-baring women in the workplace. Also, the black bean shell covering my right canine was particularly fetching, giving the illusion of a missing tooth. A toothless raving feminist with bad hair, an ancient tank top and an exposed boob. Awesome.
By the way, last night was the AFI Top 100 Movies … and it’s time for me to admit that I didn’t like Citizen Kane. I’ve never liked it, despite seeing it HUNDREDS OF FLIPPING TIMES, and Jesus, thank you, I get it, it’s the best movie ever made. Except, it isn’t, because it just doesn’t resonate with me. Like Lolita, it’s one of those things I can appreciate, but don’t really dig, and it didn’t help that The Godfather didn’t usurp it, because seriously, y’all, it’s The Godfather!
Speaking of pop culture, um, remember the dream come true? The Nielsen dream? Like my friend Erica warned, we have yet to receive a package. I might never become a Nielsen family, and the dream is close to being shattered, just ripped to shreds. This is particularly unfair, given my strong feelings about Top Chef: Miami, which includes Tre (love!), Hung (love!), and Joey (hate!), and Padma Lakshmi, who seems to be growing some sort of personality as she breaks away from Rushdie, not to mention my ever-growing excitement at the new Paula Abdul reality show, because seriously, the woman looks in the mirror and tells her hairdresser that she’s a warrior, which conjures all sorts of hilarious images, mostly involving Paula in gladiator wear at Caesar’s Palace, like Jeremy Piven in a very old Ellen episode that no one likely remembers but me.
And finally, a glimpse into our weekend:
Yet further evidence that Adam and I can be dumbasses–partaking in dumbassery, if you will. She’s my in-laws’ eight-month-old Portuguese water dog, and we’re dogsitting her for the weekend–oh, we insisted, despite their obvious reluctance and repeated pleas of “Are you SURE?”–and her hobbies include barking, wailing, digging, chewing on furniture, torturing Sunny, and most of all, peeing. Yes, peeing is her favorite hobby, and she pees every chance she gets–ten times, at last count, all over our carpet, even five seconds after she comes back from a walk where–you guessed it–SHE PEED OUTSIDE. In fact, she’s probably peeing right now! Oh look! SHE’S PEEING. HOW CHARMING. Further, she’s FORTY POUNDS, compared to Sunny’s fifteen, and she has an um, I don’t know, ANUS TO MATCH? Adam called me at work today, and without saying hello, simply announced, “Her poop. It’s like ELEPHANT POOP, OH MY GOD IT’S HUGE.” And it is! IT IS.
Truthfully, I feel sorry for her, as the peeing is because she’s scared and thinks she’s been abandoned, for crying out loud. But that does not make me enjoy the peeing, or the Nature’s Miracle, which I bought an entire gallon of this afternoon, and have already whipped through about half, oh holy piss.
Sunny’s all set with the whole situation, and in fact, would like the peeing beast to get the hell out, thank you very much.
I hope you all have a great weekend, free of a strange animal’s urine.
June 21st, 2007
Not to belabor the point, but I learned that boyshorts really aren’t shorts, they’re more like thong hybrids, and the tanga is just one of those things that makes no sense at all. To clarify, just in case anyone was as confused as I was. And look! A panty primer! (Seriously, I found it very helpful, and I think what I was asking about is the “thongboy,” which sounds vaguely dirty.) (Also, why can’t it be an underpants primer? And further, Leane doesn’t like underpants OR underwear, so I ask: what do you call them? I wish we were in the UK and called them knickers. That’s my preference. Not that you asked.)
Oddly, this is the perfect segue, for while I waiting for my coffee at Starbucks this morning, an older woman was sitting with her back facing me, and her pants–clearly not fitting her properly– had slid down a little … as in, I could see her whole ass. Her whole, unadorned, naked ass just resting on the Starbucks seat. So the question is this: what would you do? Would you–could you–walk away, leaving her entirely nude ass exposed to the elements, not to mention picking up unknown bacteria, and um, leaving some of her own behind, I’m sure? Or would you say something?
There’s no denying that there are pros and cons of each, not the least of which is the mean-spirited bit of humor knowing that other people were very likely catching this whole-assery as well, and my God, it was…well, it was kind of funny, although I don’t like to admit it, but when was the last time you saw someone with their pants down and absolutely no knowledge of it? And further, how does that happen? I understand that when you get older, your faculties become a little dull, but she seemed to be relatively well-dressed and highly functioning, and she was carrying on a conversation, for chrissake.
I said something. I had to. How could I live with myself? It’s worth nothing that had she been a man, I wouldn’t have said a word. Once, many years ago, I was having lunch at a Taco Bell when a man, who had clearly just come back from a run, sat at a nearby booth and (oh my God) one of his testicles escaped the protective confines of his running shorts, and I said nothing because … well, I mean, it could have been an invitation for all I knew, plus I don’t understand the pain of a rogue nutsac (sack? Experts seem divided). But this was a woman–granted, an older woman of my grandmother’s generation–and we’ve all been the victim of baring something accidentally, be it a boob or a pair of underpants. (Granted, not a whole ass, but still.)
I don’t think she agreed. First of all, she was nearly deaf, and when I tried to whisper that perhaps her pants were slipping a bit in the back and she might want to take a peek, she yelled “WHAT? WHAT?” in response, which required me to speak up, and finally she yelled at me, “SO YOU ARE SAYING MY SKIN IS SHOWING BACK THERE?” This, of course, made the entire restaurant turn to stare, and at that point I just left, whole ass and all, because her perfunctory pull-up did absolutely nothing to stave the flow of crack, but no one can say I didn’t try my best, because I did, I really did.
All of this happened, by the way, before 9 a.m., and the rest of the day continued along uneventfully, except did I forget to tell you guys that I’ve been back to Bath & Body Works three more times? For nothing good, NOTHING GOOD AT ALL, except what is now an embarrassing collection of lotions that I don’t really use? It’s a strange sort of compulsion that I am unable to stop.
And finally, I wanted to say thank you, because Andrea is right: you guys are hilarious, and I’m very grateful for my smallish, tight-knittish readership and commenters (and if you’re reading, and not commenting, why? I mean, I understand, because I am a sucky commenter too, it’s just that I want to know who you are so that I can say hi!). You are honestly the highlight of my morning reading almost every day–not just your comments, but your blogs, because I read them all, I really do. That being said, if you don’t want to or just generally don’t comment, that’s okay too. I appreciate that you’re here with me anyway.
Not to go all…meta (HATE) on you, but it really irks me when writers of any kind (bloggers, media, whatever) demonstrate a regular level of superior disdain for their readers, because no matter how cruddy assvice and crappy e-mails can feel, for every shitbox of a reader, there are oodles of nice ones, and why, just why, insult the nice ones? And further, in the case of a paid job, and that totally includes blogging in some cases, aren’t those readers–even the crappy ones–the reason that you get a paycheck? I’m will admit, it happens to me so infrequently (at least here, because no lie, you’re the nicest group of people I’ve ever encountered) that I can’t entirely judge, but it mystifies me nonetheless.
*Cocteau Twins. I’ve been on a four-month kick and listening to them constantly.
June 19th, 2007
Yes, yes, I KNOW it’s inappropriate to apologize for not blogging, and really, I don’t think I’m important enough that anyone cared too deeply, but JESUS CHRIST, what a week, and I’m sorry if I freaked anyone out. (And by “anyone” I really only mean the two people who e-mailed me with the subject, “Are you alive?”)
I am alive, but barely hanging on, I tell you, after one of the most insane weeks of my life, and although I’d like nothing more in this entire world than to go to sleep, if I don’t put this up, I’m afraid I’ll fall out of habit and never blog again. Or something. As if. Anyway, now that most of the torture is over, I am left with nothing but absolute misery and anxiety, wondering if I did something wrong, screwed something up, ruined my life. And the worst thing is that I did screw something up because I was nervous, but never mind! We have moved on!
What I mostly want to know is this: why do you sweat when you’re overtired? What’s with the sweating? Am I feverish? Sickly? No, I’m just pooped. And 90 degree weather aside, I’m sitting in cucumber-like air conditioning and sweating buckets through my clothes for no other reason than pure exhaustion.
Yesterday, upon leaving a Father’s Day brunch with my in-laws, I overheard Adam’s mother telling him that I looked “sexy,” which both amused and horrified us, because while yes, yes, that’s very sweet, I could tell by the look on his face that her pointing it out was about as appealing as if my dad leaned in conspiratorially and whispered in my ear that Adam was hot, followed by a lick of his finger and that gross sizzling sound. I’m pretty sure it had the opposite effect she was hoping for. Also, I can pull most of my pants off without undoing the zipper now, and that’s something, let me tell you. It’s an especially nice trick if you aren’t trying to pull your pants off, and when you get up after working on a long project, you bare your Hanes Her Ways to the crowd.
Speaking of underwear, remember when I mentioned Steve underpants? Yeah. Melanie ** subtly pointed out that they could be St. Eve, which they totally are. Which makes me a dope, albeit a dope who is INTENSELY disappointed that some dude named Steve isn’t making eponymous underwear for women. I mean, why WOULDN’T he, and further, why haven’t men across America created their own branded underwear? They could be on the asses of women all over the world! The bragging rights!
Further, the St(.)eve underwear in question are a new type that I am entirely unfamiliar with, and need to discuss. What’s with this new, um, hybrid type of underwear I’ve purchased? This not-quite-a-thong-not-quite-a-bikini-type underwear that fits in the front and…hugs the back in a thong-like way without actually being um, thong-like (sans floss, but with some inner … inner … inner-buttal something going on)? Where have I been? And do people LIKE this kind of underwear? Because if I’m doing it right, and God, I will die if I am doing it wrong and just bought the wrong size, I think I do, because as far as the aesthetic qualities of thongs go, I am NOT A FAN, because Jesus, nothing makes your backside look larger, oh my God. It’s like wearing high-waisted pants with no pockets. Not that I wear thongs sans pants to work or anything, but wow, wouldn’t that be a picture, and I might add it to my List of Things I Would Do if I Won the Lottery and Want to Freak People Out Because I Am Rich. Then again, I’m not really all that into panty lines either. I’m just saying, but more importantly, why am I saying this? Why? I have some sort of wild compulsion to share completely inappropriate things ALL THE TIME.
And while we’re on the topic of underthings, I finally bought new bras, thanks in part to your recommendations, and though I’m loathe to admit this, I found myself in Victoria’s Secret, because the Macy’s girl was all but feeling me up and breathing down my neck without actually coming up with a realistic bra size, and I was desperate to wear a black shirt again, because somewhere, in a giant black hole of suck, my black bras are having a party that involves tequila and someone else’s boobs. Also, they were having a sale, and their bras were cheap AND, just to tack more on to this caveat, one of my best real-life friends (go kiss her belly, because she’s awesome) recommended the Secret Embrace which is precisely what I ended up with, and I have to say, Erica was right. I still hate Adriana Lima and Victoria’s Secret, I just made an exception out of loyalty and desperation, or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. But I’m quite happy with the two I bought. Next up: Gap’s wireless push-up bra, thanks to Whoorl.
Also, y’all, go get fitted again. Despite a 25-lb. weight loss, I was horrified to discover that I am actually a size bigger than I thought, which means I must have been busting out of those suckers, and not in a good way. I’m thinking it was more in a way that involved backfat (BACON!).
I’m also thinking that given the lack of sleep around these parts, that this made about as much sense as…Christ, I can’t even think of an analogy. I’m going to go sweat through some new clothes instead, and throw back some vodka. Happy Tuesday! I missed you!
*Update: Oops! It was Melissa! I told you I was overtired! Melissa, Melanie, Steve, BillyBob. Apparently they’re all the same when you’re tuckered. Sorry, Melissa!)
June 18th, 2007
The day began with what can only be described as an assplosion, and not from my own ass, or Adam’s ass, but from–you guessed it–Sunny’s ass after a debaucherous night with a Muttz-RRR-ella bone which I can’t in good conscience recommend to anyone. There was early-morning whimpering, a bit of wailing and then…the assplosion, which lasted almost an hour, and was almost human-like in its horrid foulness, and made for an awesome morning fumbling around in the dark.
Oh, the heartbreak of puppy assplosion is one that I imagine is only matched by infant assplosion, because they’re so helpless in their intestinal agony and then there is the cleaning up, and the inevitable whimper and re-mess and oh GOD, it was awful and all dark and stinky-like at 4:30 in the morning. What was more distressing, however, was that I ran into one of my neighbors who was on his way to the gym. God. Is it just me, or is 4:30 a.m. THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, and no one should be up and about unless they are feeding and/or wiping something, much less throwing a towel over their shoulder and walking to the gym and scaring the shit out of poopy braless neighbors in their pajamas.
Incidentally, I find it both interesting and dismaying that Adam never wakes up for these early-morning assplosions. While he kindly and strategically attempts to pin it on some sort of mother’s intuition, canine edition, if I had to guess, it’s more to do with the fact that he wears multiple-decibel-blocking earplugs and sleeps like the dead.
The assplosion was appropriately followed by a peesplosion later, when I went to clean the cat’s litter box and didn’t even get past the emptying phase when the little darling decided to pee a) all over the floor, followed by; b) in the empty litter box. Both meant that I was forced to deal with unfettered cat piss without the protective wicking abilities of Feline Pine.
Pee and poop, my friends. PEE AND POOP. It’s no way to start the day. That being said, what’s perhaps more distressing is that in order to console myself, I found myself in Ross searching for bras, after your recommendations ages ago, which I’ve still done nothing about, and walked out with a ton of new underwear, some of which is from some mysterious brand called “Steve.” I feel fairly confident that there is a Steve who’s exceedingly proud of the fact that he is the Steve who will be on my ass tomorrow, after the hot-water wash and sterilization, oh my God.
It goes without saying that I didn’t get any bras, but I did mysteriously find myself in Bath & Body Works AGAIN, and walked out with Sparkling Peach and Fresh Pineapple, and I don’t even think I like them, it’s like a COMPULSION that cannot be stopped, the semi-annual sale. Last time I did this, I left with Tropical Passionfruit, which smells like covered-up farts.
Clearly nothing exciting is happening here, otherwise I would have more other than pineapple body lotion and Steve-branded underpants. And poop. But I am grateful for such quiet lulls, because they oh-so-rarely last too long.
And most important of all: Big Love has returned.
June 11th, 2007
HerpWatch 2007 continues here on Day Six, and I’m mostly all set with having a cold sore. What was once a minor nuisance has become another member of our family and it’s already started to ask if it can have the car keys to go to the mall for some new pants and lip gloss.
I thought it was interesting, by the way, that so many of you considered bikini waxer to be a worse job than a podiatrist, surprisingly, I disagree. Yes, yes of COURSE it’s not my dream to rip hundreds of hairs from strangers’ nethers, but I get why people are insanely passionate about hair removal, because I’m the same way. I hate body hair of any sort, and am extremely vigilant about the removal of any hair on my body below the neck–well, except for the tops of my arms, but believe me, if it was at all convenient and/or socially acceptable to get rid of that hair, I would oh, I would–and I get why other people are into helping others achieve the same level of babybutt smoothness all over. I mean, bikini waxers do so much more than bikini lines – they do legs! Eyebrows! Armpits! All areas that should be hair-free under all circumstances. Well, I mean, eyebrows can have some hair of course, but of the neat and clean variety, rather than Malcom MacDowell in “A Clockwork Orange.”
I think I’ve mentioned this before, but I hate hair of any sort – it’s one of those things that skeeves me out in ways I can’t properly articulate, and I realize it makes me a little weird and maybe just a twinge obsessive compulsive. Yes, yes, it’s anti-feminist to some, but honestly, I don’t care, because I cannot help myself. This is going to sound crazy, but it’s part of the reason I have my hair very short (well, that and the fact that I look like I’m wearing a wig with any hair longer than ear-length), because finding large tumbleweeds of human hair around my house freaks me out, and I definitely don’t have the intestinal fortitude to mess with it. It should be noted that this aversion does not extend to pet hair, which doesn’t bother me in the slightest.
So, although it’s not for me, I get why people are strangely drawn to help other people become hairless, especially if they feel even a little bit about it the way I do. My theory is bolstered by one of the first bikini waxers I’d ever been to – an enthusiastic overplucked chicken named Vicki – who was so passionate about hair removal that I was practically cheering along with her as she yanked my heart right out of my girly bits. She would rip a chunk out then show me what she’d removed, excitedly crowing about all that we’d accomplished together (no kidding), and despite the fact that I could barely see from the pain, I was entirely with her. And really, I’m thankful that someone wants to do it, because I would be lost without them, just LOST, I tell you.
Also, it goes without saying that 1970s-style…nethers…frighten me and dismay me to no end.
Moving on! We saw Knocked Up this weekend, and though I was skeptical at first (though emboldened by -R-‘s brief-but-glowing review), it was absolutely divine. Kid you not, I haven’t laughed that hard at a movie in years, and though I generally avoid movie theaters, for I am addicted to the at-home convenience of my own snacks, toilet and unlimited ability to pause, I am half-tempted to go see it again. In truth, however, I found it to be one of the raunchier movies I’ve seen in a long time, confirmed by the fact that three old women two rows in front of us walked out in disgust after a beautifully-delivered line featuring the term “protein shake.”
In addition, I read Rebecca Eckler’s “Knocked Up…” a while ago, and find her comparisons to the movie and claims of plagiarism…well, I don’t buy it. The jokes and similarities she finds are a stretch to claim as her own and, as others have noted, she’d have to sue 99% of North American women and their husbands for daring to have a similar pregnancy. And further, nearly every “joke” she claims is her own, I’ve seen in other movies and books well before her novel came out, so the whole thing is really hard to swallow for me. Not that anyone asked.
And finally, because if I didn’t know, I wish someone would have told me: It’s the semi-annual sale at Bath & Body Works, and though I find most of their products and scents to be cheap and a little tacky, I also find them strangely addictive. It’s worth noting that I collect mostly high-end perfume, which is an annoying and expensive little habit I usually keep to myself, though I’ve had it for years. However, I find something about little plastic bottles of cheap lotion so utterly compelling that my bathroom looks like a halfway house for recovering lotions and shower gels. I picked up two bottles of Strawberry Lemonade-scented lotion and gel just because I could, despite the fact that I enjoy neither the scent of strawberries, nor lemonade. In fact, both make me a little nauseated. But…it was $4!
June 10th, 2007
I’m confused by podiatrists, as I imagine most people are. Nay, actually, I am grossed out by podiatrists, and find the profession as a whole to be entirely creepy. Out of all the doctors I go to, my podiatrist is definitely the skeeviest and the least…well, polished might be a good way to say it. And the nurses. Oh, the nurses. I asked the woman wrapping my foot this morning if she liked what she did, and she responded, “Well, I don’t have a foot fetish like everyone else here, if that’s what you’re asking.”
That’s not what I was asking, but it’s totally what I always thought, and with that kind of evidence, it’s unlikely that it was simply confirmation bias. I mean, if he had wanted to go into medicine for the most money with the least amount of stress, there’s dentistry. Just wanted to help people? Pick your field! General practice! Cardiology! Geriatrics! The possibilities are endless!
It’s just that it’s – well, it’s feet, which doubtless attracts a certain type of enthusiast, yes? And before you bring up the creepy gyno concept, I’ve said this before, but I’m not squicked out by male gynecologists, as my experience has been largely positive, and quite frankly, I see how that could be fascinating and challenging. There are babies involved a lot of the time. And even though I’m not a medical type of person, the female plumbing is pretty nifty, gross anatomy aside (a pun!), what with all the nuances and strange activities and odd goings-on, and I should stop talking about this, because really, I don’t want to describe it any more than is necessary, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want me to either (and if you do, I do not want to know).
My ob-gyn is a dude, and the last time I was there, he was more than a little excited that I could be ovulating at any moment (“Like any second now! Right now you could be ovulating! You could get pregnant tonight!”) as he laid his hand reverently on my midsection and um, bowed his head a little before he started laughing, which is a little…well, it’s weird, and the more I talk about it, the more uncomfortable I get, so let’s forget I brought this up again, mmkay? But still, it’s neat-o stuff, that whole pelvic area with its doo-dads and whatnots, I stand by that at least.
Conversely, there’s nothing fascinating about feet unless you have a specific thing for feet, which is upsetting on a lot of levels, not the least of which is that feet are the least sexual or even sensual or even ATTRACTIVE part of the body, at least to me. While I like shoes okay (I’ve kind of come around a little, maybe. Or at least I’ve started to wear something other than Reefs), it’s not like I ever think of sexing up my feet, and I’ve got to admit, anytime anyone refers to a shoe as “sexy,” part of me is completely perplexed, because while shoes can be attractive and well-constructed (wow, um, that sounds hot, doesn’t it? I might as well have said “sturdy,” which is H O T T), I can’t move past the part where they go on my feet, which are unattractive and completely un-sexy. (My friend Amy, who is a shoe person, is thisclose to ripping my face off, but since she lives in Texas, I’ll risk it.)
That’s right, I said it. Feet aren’t sexy, and I feel like I have the freedom to say that because I like feet just fine; I’m not one of those people who are grossed out by feet. Hell, I think feet are even cute at times, especially hobbit feet (furry!) and God knows, we should appreciate them for their function. Feet are where it’s at, man, when it comes to transportation. And as a person who’s had one foot rendered largely unusable for a while, I’m urging you all to go love on your feet, maybe with some new nail polish or some nice massage lotion, but definitely without any sexual implications, please. Or at least, don’t report those implications back to the group.
But that’s where my love for the feet ends, and I sense that podiatrists, their love runs deeper, maybe along the lines of some sort of high-heel fetish with an orthotic twist, which reminds me of a strange vague memory I have of getting stuck on a channel while Julian Sands had an intimate sexual relationship with a red high-heeled shoe– I think and/or hope that it was at least on someone’s foot– and I can’t believe I’m admitting that. (But, um, does that ring a bell with anyone else? I remember being oddly riveted and entirely confused, because God, what an acting challenge THAT must have been. “You are intimately involved with the shoe. THRUST the shoe. But God, try not to poke yourself!”)
At this point, I really have no idea where I’m going with this, except I’ll leave you with a recent quote from the stellar podiatric nurse as she took my health information:
“I’m writing down that your foot pain is exasperated by frequent use – that means it gets worse as you exercise.”
Outstanding, I tell you. Also, um, if anyone who reads this is a podiatrist and wants to weigh in, I welcome explanations, and I sure as hell know it would make me feel better, because I just grossed myself right the hell out of here. Julian Sands put me over the edge (Um, Boxing Helena anyone? OH MY GOD, Julian! High-heel thrusting and acrotomophilia!)
Wednesday! It’s almost Wednesday! Enjoy that Wednesday to the fullest!
*Cocteau Twins. Of course Elizabeth Fraser comes through in my hour of need.
June 5th, 2007