Animal

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.

*R.E.M.

42 comments June 21st, 2007