Wednesday, October 19, 2005
puppy dignity
Poor little Herve.
First he has his manhood surgically removed before he even gets to enjoy it, and now he has to walk around with a big cone around his head. And worse yet, his very bad owner makes him wear a luggage tag as a dog ID because she can't find where they sell the real ones.
It's a good thing dogs don't have a sense of dignity, because Herve wouldn't have a shred left. Actually, from the looks he's been giving me lately, I think he actually is saying, "What in God's name did I ever do to you to deserve this?" It doesn't help that he keeps running into things cause of the cone and I laugh hysterically at him. He must really hate me.
First he has his manhood surgically removed before he even gets to enjoy it, and now he has to walk around with a big cone around his head. And worse yet, his very bad owner makes him wear a luggage tag as a dog ID because she can't find where they sell the real ones.
It's a good thing dogs don't have a sense of dignity, because Herve wouldn't have a shred left. Actually, from the looks he's been giving me lately, I think he actually is saying, "What in God's name did I ever do to you to deserve this?" It doesn't help that he keeps running into things cause of the cone and I laugh hysterically at him. He must really hate me.
everything about this picture cracks me up...especially his little "puppy member"
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
jabba-the-girl
People have been discussing weight gain and weight loss a lot lately. And by people I mean me. And by discuss, I mean whine and complain.
Don't get me wrong, I know I'm not Sally Struthers obese. I'm not even Star-Jones-post-stomach-stapling fat. But I AM definitely not the same weight I was when I started college. I thought I'd lose most of the college weight once I graduated and decreased my daily Mickey's Ice and Pokey Stick consumption. However, what I didn't realize is that 40 ounces of malt liquor exist outside of Penn State. In fact, liquor is everywhere in California, so I can pick up a few at all kinds of convenient locations, like when I'm depositing a check at the local bank.
Really, its not the alcohol so much as the food. Sure, I gave up the Pokey Sticks and Cold Stone Creamery, but I exchanged it for burritos, In-n-Out, IHOP and Trader Joe cookies. I can't help it. I love food. I love cooking it, ordering it, going out for it, stealing it off of other people's plates, eating it and then leaving without paying the check, etc. Even as a child, food was a passion. Actually, scratch-n-sniff stickers and scented crayons proved to be hazardous for me; I went to the emergency room for "accidental" ingestion of a foreign object more times than I can remember....
But honestly, I can't blame the food. It doesn't force me to eat it. It's really about my lack of will power. If I want food, then I eat it. The problem is, a lot of times I want food, even if I'm not hungry. TV commercials are the worst, I end up craving whatever I see on the TV.
When this happens, my long-suffering boyfriend often tries to talk me down from the "food ledge".
"Honey, you don't even like fruit leather!"
"Sweetie, last time you ate that, you went into a coma for three days, remember?"
"Tai, that's not even edible. That's the 2005 starting defense for the Cincinnati Bengals."
I don't know what to do. I've heard hypnosis works, but I am definitely not putting myself in the clutches of a hypnotist. God knows what they would do to me. I know personally, if I were a hypnotist, I'd make the person pull down his pants anytime someone said the word, "inappropriate". So who KNOWS what a professional hypnotist is capable of.
I could get my jaw wired shut, but knowing me, I'd snap and start shoving Oreos into the tiny cracks between my teeth till I made an airtight seal with cookie crumbs and I'd suffocate within a matter of minutes. Seconds, if they were Double Stuf. (You may point out that I could use my nostrils to breath, but I have a feeling in that state of mind, I'd shove Oreos up there too.)
So what to do? I go to the gym pretty often, but you all know how I feel about that place. Besides, I usually end up eating a whole pie after I workout, just to get over the trauma I endure. (Like most recently, when I was forced to witness a 60-year old woman with the body of a 95-year old kiwi walk naked out of the shower. My. eyes.)
I could stop watching television to avoid the commercials, but then I'd have to read more, and I am determined to keep my reading level firmly at Grade 7.
Oh who am I kidding? I am on a one-way train to Kirstie-Alley-ville. Why fight it? Maybe I can even become one of those competitive eaters like Kobayashi. Or become one of the "before" models in an ab-machine commercial. Yes!
Mmmm, tv commercial. Now I'm hungry.
Don't get me wrong, I know I'm not Sally Struthers obese. I'm not even Star-Jones-post-stomach-stapling fat. But I AM definitely not the same weight I was when I started college. I thought I'd lose most of the college weight once I graduated and decreased my daily Mickey's Ice and Pokey Stick consumption. However, what I didn't realize is that 40 ounces of malt liquor exist outside of Penn State. In fact, liquor is everywhere in California, so I can pick up a few at all kinds of convenient locations, like when I'm depositing a check at the local bank.
Really, its not the alcohol so much as the food. Sure, I gave up the Pokey Sticks and Cold Stone Creamery, but I exchanged it for burritos, In-n-Out, IHOP and Trader Joe cookies. I can't help it. I love food. I love cooking it, ordering it, going out for it, stealing it off of other people's plates, eating it and then leaving without paying the check, etc. Even as a child, food was a passion. Actually, scratch-n-sniff stickers and scented crayons proved to be hazardous for me; I went to the emergency room for "accidental" ingestion of a foreign object more times than I can remember....
But honestly, I can't blame the food. It doesn't force me to eat it. It's really about my lack of will power. If I want food, then I eat it. The problem is, a lot of times I want food, even if I'm not hungry. TV commercials are the worst, I end up craving whatever I see on the TV.
When this happens, my long-suffering boyfriend often tries to talk me down from the "food ledge".
"Honey, you don't even like fruit leather!"
"Sweetie, last time you ate that, you went into a coma for three days, remember?"
"Tai, that's not even edible. That's the 2005 starting defense for the Cincinnati Bengals."
I don't know what to do. I've heard hypnosis works, but I am definitely not putting myself in the clutches of a hypnotist. God knows what they would do to me. I know personally, if I were a hypnotist, I'd make the person pull down his pants anytime someone said the word, "inappropriate". So who KNOWS what a professional hypnotist is capable of.
I could get my jaw wired shut, but knowing me, I'd snap and start shoving Oreos into the tiny cracks between my teeth till I made an airtight seal with cookie crumbs and I'd suffocate within a matter of minutes. Seconds, if they were Double Stuf. (You may point out that I could use my nostrils to breath, but I have a feeling in that state of mind, I'd shove Oreos up there too.)
So what to do? I go to the gym pretty often, but you all know how I feel about that place. Besides, I usually end up eating a whole pie after I workout, just to get over the trauma I endure. (Like most recently, when I was forced to witness a 60-year old woman with the body of a 95-year old kiwi walk naked out of the shower. My. eyes.)
I could stop watching television to avoid the commercials, but then I'd have to read more, and I am determined to keep my reading level firmly at Grade 7.
Oh who am I kidding? I am on a one-way train to Kirstie-Alley-ville. Why fight it? Maybe I can even become one of those competitive eaters like Kobayashi. Or become one of the "before" models in an ab-machine commercial. Yes!
Mmmm, tv commercial. Now I'm hungry.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
tales from the gym
So, I've tried to resolve to go to the gym every day of the week. This was born out of college weight-gain, my upcoming wedding, and a strong appetite for self-abuse. The only problem is, I HATE going to the gym.
Don't get me wrong, I like to work out. I enjoy running and walking and even the other weird activities that can only be born out of a gym...like endlessly climbing stairs, pedaling a bike in place, or rowing an imaginary boat to nowhere. It's the environment of the gym that I loathe. I don't like the people. I don't like the music. I don't like the smell. I don't like the grimey, used equipment that reeks of sweaty beef jerky. I hate how all the TV's are tuned to the worst shows, like "All-American Bass Fishing Olympic semi-finals" or a food-dehydrator infomercial. And the worst part is, I actually WATCH these shows and become interested in them. I'll stay on the treadmill for longer than I planned, just because I have to see if Billy Bob can beat his unbroken record of catching a bass fish in under 5 hours.
Probably worse than the bad television are the ridiculous outfits that people wear to the gym, like coordinating spandex unitards with matching socks. What the hell?! Since when did I have to look like Step Aerobics Barbie before I drench myself in sweat? At my gym, girls wear hoop earrings and makeup. They carry their purses around with them. The guys wear shirts that are literally two pieces of string and about 2 inches of fabric...just enough to cover their abs, but not their nipples. GOD FORBID they cover those things up. The guys have pecs the size of small infants, but their legs are about as thick as my wrist. The girls do 400 repetitions with 3lb weights and spend the rest of their time discussing the carb counts in beer. Guys do 1 rep with 300lbs weights then sit on the bench and gasp and sweat for 20 minutes.
Every time I go, it's like watching a documentary on bizarre human behavior. People walk into the gym locker rooms as intelligent, discerning individuals... but when they come out, they have the gym look: the glazed over eyes, the scowling face and the brain washed mind that says it's acceptable to wear head-to-toe pink lycra or run on the treadmill while curling 20's.
Today was no different. The girl next to me on the stairmachine has it set so high that she is literally hanging onto the rails so she doesn't fall off. Maybe you burn a lot of calories clinging to a piece of cardio equipment, but I always thought actually moving your legs or arms was a better idea. And then of course, there's that greasy guy next me on the treadmill, who insists on talking, even though I have my headphones on and I'm running so fast I can't complete sentences. I hate when I'm hit on at the gym. I know some girls might find this flattering, and perhaps in some cases it can be. But there is a big difference between a nice guy who is genuinely interested in you and Mr. Robo-erection, the guy that thinks it's acceptable to hit on any person in any environment, including burn victims in a trauma ward. Here are a few sure-fire signs to discern between a nice guy that likes you and a creepy guy that likes anything warm and flesh-colored:
Sign #1. He hits on you even when you're grotesquely unattractive
Sign #2. He hits on every female within his line of vision and even objects that may look vaguely female, like a lamp with a coat draped over it.
Sign #3. He talks to you even if you are desperately trying to avoid eye contact with him.
In my case, all the warning signs were there. I was at the gym at 6:30AM, with no makeup, red-faced and dripping in 32 oz of my own sweat. mmm. I basically looked like a newly born albino baby, or even, a mexican hairless rat that had been fished out of a pool. I'm not exaggerating. The guy opens up with a brilliant "Wow, you're going to break that machine!" (Great...I'm assuming he means that as a compliment, but any idiot knows you never even INSINUATE that any object a girl is standing, sitting or leaning on will break. The girl will assume you mean she weighs the same as a Volkswagen Beetle, and that you are an asshole).
The guy follows up his first bomb with the ever-popular, "So, do you go to Penn State?"
Do I go to Penn State? But, how could you tell?! Could it have been from the "PENN STATE" written in tall letters across the butt of my shorts !? Noo! And what are the odds, my meatheaded friend, that I could be in a gym in San Diego on a Tuesday in October and still simultaneously be attending PSU?
I told the guy that I didn't actually go to PSU, but that I had stolen the shorts off a Tri-delt during a bar fight. He looked very confused and a little scared and my icy cold heart convulsed with pity.
"No, hahha, not really...I did in fact go to Penn State, as my shorts have pointed out."
The guy looks relieved and launches into another great question, "So, did you have to get up early to come here?" At this point my fist clenches in rage, but I am able to contort my hand into a friendly pointing gesture and stab gaily at the clock in front of us.
"Its 6:32AM...the sun isn't even up yet."
"Yeah. I know!"
"So...it's safe to assume...given that I'm here now, and it's very early..."
"Yeah it is!"
"Yes, yes it is...so clearly, I had to wake up even earlier to get here."
"Yeah, that sucks."
"I'm going to tear out your throat with my bare hands."
"What?"
"Nothing!"
I put my headphones back on as a subtle, friendly gesture that this guy repulsed me and I wanted him to stop talking. He of course, continued to chat with me and all I could do was occasionally nod and pretend to be enthralled with the Good Morning America.
"Sorry, I really can't keep talking...Al Roker is about to show his recipe for spicey fish stew. I really need to see this."
Don't get me wrong, I like to work out. I enjoy running and walking and even the other weird activities that can only be born out of a gym...like endlessly climbing stairs, pedaling a bike in place, or rowing an imaginary boat to nowhere. It's the environment of the gym that I loathe. I don't like the people. I don't like the music. I don't like the smell. I don't like the grimey, used equipment that reeks of sweaty beef jerky. I hate how all the TV's are tuned to the worst shows, like "All-American Bass Fishing Olympic semi-finals" or a food-dehydrator infomercial. And the worst part is, I actually WATCH these shows and become interested in them. I'll stay on the treadmill for longer than I planned, just because I have to see if Billy Bob can beat his unbroken record of catching a bass fish in under 5 hours.
Probably worse than the bad television are the ridiculous outfits that people wear to the gym, like coordinating spandex unitards with matching socks. What the hell?! Since when did I have to look like Step Aerobics Barbie before I drench myself in sweat? At my gym, girls wear hoop earrings and makeup. They carry their purses around with them. The guys wear shirts that are literally two pieces of string and about 2 inches of fabric...just enough to cover their abs, but not their nipples. GOD FORBID they cover those things up. The guys have pecs the size of small infants, but their legs are about as thick as my wrist. The girls do 400 repetitions with 3lb weights and spend the rest of their time discussing the carb counts in beer. Guys do 1 rep with 300lbs weights then sit on the bench and gasp and sweat for 20 minutes.
Every time I go, it's like watching a documentary on bizarre human behavior. People walk into the gym locker rooms as intelligent, discerning individuals... but when they come out, they have the gym look: the glazed over eyes, the scowling face and the brain washed mind that says it's acceptable to wear head-to-toe pink lycra or run on the treadmill while curling 20's.
Today was no different. The girl next to me on the stairmachine has it set so high that she is literally hanging onto the rails so she doesn't fall off. Maybe you burn a lot of calories clinging to a piece of cardio equipment, but I always thought actually moving your legs or arms was a better idea. And then of course, there's that greasy guy next me on the treadmill, who insists on talking, even though I have my headphones on and I'm running so fast I can't complete sentences. I hate when I'm hit on at the gym. I know some girls might find this flattering, and perhaps in some cases it can be. But there is a big difference between a nice guy who is genuinely interested in you and Mr. Robo-erection, the guy that thinks it's acceptable to hit on any person in any environment, including burn victims in a trauma ward. Here are a few sure-fire signs to discern between a nice guy that likes you and a creepy guy that likes anything warm and flesh-colored:
Sign #1. He hits on you even when you're grotesquely unattractive
Sign #2. He hits on every female within his line of vision and even objects that may look vaguely female, like a lamp with a coat draped over it.
Sign #3. He talks to you even if you are desperately trying to avoid eye contact with him.
In my case, all the warning signs were there. I was at the gym at 6:30AM, with no makeup, red-faced and dripping in 32 oz of my own sweat. mmm. I basically looked like a newly born albino baby, or even, a mexican hairless rat that had been fished out of a pool. I'm not exaggerating. The guy opens up with a brilliant "Wow, you're going to break that machine!" (Great...I'm assuming he means that as a compliment, but any idiot knows you never even INSINUATE that any object a girl is standing, sitting or leaning on will break. The girl will assume you mean she weighs the same as a Volkswagen Beetle, and that you are an asshole).
The guy follows up his first bomb with the ever-popular, "So, do you go to Penn State?"
Do I go to Penn State? But, how could you tell?! Could it have been from the "PENN STATE" written in tall letters across the butt of my shorts !? Noo! And what are the odds, my meatheaded friend, that I could be in a gym in San Diego on a Tuesday in October and still simultaneously be attending PSU?
I told the guy that I didn't actually go to PSU, but that I had stolen the shorts off a Tri-delt during a bar fight. He looked very confused and a little scared and my icy cold heart convulsed with pity.
"No, hahha, not really...I did in fact go to Penn State, as my shorts have pointed out."
The guy looks relieved and launches into another great question, "So, did you have to get up early to come here?" At this point my fist clenches in rage, but I am able to contort my hand into a friendly pointing gesture and stab gaily at the clock in front of us.
"Its 6:32AM...the sun isn't even up yet."
"Yeah. I know!"
"So...it's safe to assume...given that I'm here now, and it's very early..."
"Yeah it is!"
"Yes, yes it is...so clearly, I had to wake up even earlier to get here."
"Yeah, that sucks."
"I'm going to tear out your throat with my bare hands."
"What?"
"Nothing!"
I put my headphones back on as a subtle, friendly gesture that this guy repulsed me and I wanted him to stop talking. He of course, continued to chat with me and all I could do was occasionally nod and pretend to be enthralled with the Good Morning America.
"Sorry, I really can't keep talking...Al Roker is about to show his recipe for spicey fish stew. I really need to see this."
Friday, October 14, 2005
....a rope of sand
Don't ask me about the post title. It came at the request of a deranged fan. I don't understand you little people, but I wouldn't have my fame and fortune and secret volcano lair if it weren't for you...so I have to give you what you want.
So, the other day I was watching some stupid television show on ABC or whatever and I realized, wow, these shows are so freaking bad I could be writing their material. (Seriously, I could cough up something onto a piece of paper and send it in and America would find it funnier than these shows. Although, to be fair, I should tell you that I also have a rare disease that causes all of my coughs and sneezes to come out as knock-knock jokes.)
I'm pretty confident I could bang out my very own brand-new sitcom, send it in tomorrow, and it would be snapped up by one of these white-bread networks in a matter of seconds. I'd be filthy rich!! Here's a sample of witty dialogue from the pilot:
Man: Hello my sassy, back-talking no-nonsense wife. You are looking extremely hot today, which makes it all the more inexplicable that you're married to a fat slob like me.
Woman: Hi, my fat, hairy and borderline illiterate husband! You know it's funny, I should find you utterly repulsive, yet for some reason I'm sexually attracted to you. Like, right now.
Man: I know, that is weird. You know what else is odd? How can we afford to live in this large and attractively decorated house when I'm a welder and you have no formal education?
Woman: Hahaha! Or how about the fact that you're cracking open your 3rd beer and you've only been home 10 minutes? Isn't it hilarious that I'm able to see past your profound alcoholism morbid obesity...and love you for the retarded bigot that you are?
Wiley old coot of a grandma hobbles in
Grandma: Add this to the crazy list...I've escaped from my nursing home and moved in with you, and instead of thanking you, all I produce is scathing critiscm and bizarre anecdotal advice. Yet you still haven't smothered me in my sleep!!
Man: Yet!
Entire family laughs
Jailbait sexpot daughter bounces in
Girl: Hi, stupid family!! I'm a total slut!
Woman: I'm not concerned with the fact that you are clearly having unprotected sex in your room and probably stealing money and pills from your father and I...or that you're breasts are far too large for a 14 year old...but I AM mad that you got a temporary tattoo at the mall!! I thought I raised you better!!
Girl: I hate you!! You just don't understand me!!!
Daughter runs out of the room, crying. Dad sneaks look at her ass as she leaves.
Smart-mouthed pervert son saunters in.
Boy: I'm only twelve but even I can tell her boobs are fake!
Canned laughter
Boy: By the way, last week I conned Dad out of $5,000 which my friends and I used to build a sex-robot in the basement. Just thought I'd illustrate yet again that I'm only in 5th grade, yet I'm the smartest one in this family.
Man: But I thought that was a science project!
Boy: Oh, Dad, you drunk!
Everyone laughs.
Obnoxious neighbor pokes head through window
Obnoxious neighbor: Where are my hedgeclippers?
Man: Oh Stanley, don't you have a dead wife to mourn?
Obnoxious neighbor: Hahaha! No, Bob, I soothe the pain and loneliness of being widowed by engaging in acts of voyeurism and stalking the people closest to me. By the way, Sally, I didn't know you liked thong underwear!
Woman: Oh Stanley! You wacky neighbor, you!
More canned laughter
Obnoxious neighbor: Seriously, where the fuck are my hedgeclippers?
More canned laughter
Cut to commercial
Cut it! Can it! Bag it! Send it to Hollywood!! You can look for me at the next Emmy Awards. I just need a title. I'm thinking, "Yes Dear, According to a Fat Man is Still Standing with Family Matters"
So, the other day I was watching some stupid television show on ABC or whatever and I realized, wow, these shows are so freaking bad I could be writing their material. (Seriously, I could cough up something onto a piece of paper and send it in and America would find it funnier than these shows. Although, to be fair, I should tell you that I also have a rare disease that causes all of my coughs and sneezes to come out as knock-knock jokes.)
I'm pretty confident I could bang out my very own brand-new sitcom, send it in tomorrow, and it would be snapped up by one of these white-bread networks in a matter of seconds. I'd be filthy rich!! Here's a sample of witty dialogue from the pilot:
Man: Hello my sassy, back-talking no-nonsense wife. You are looking extremely hot today, which makes it all the more inexplicable that you're married to a fat slob like me.
Woman: Hi, my fat, hairy and borderline illiterate husband! You know it's funny, I should find you utterly repulsive, yet for some reason I'm sexually attracted to you. Like, right now.
Man: I know, that is weird. You know what else is odd? How can we afford to live in this large and attractively decorated house when I'm a welder and you have no formal education?
Woman: Hahaha! Or how about the fact that you're cracking open your 3rd beer and you've only been home 10 minutes? Isn't it hilarious that I'm able to see past your profound alcoholism morbid obesity...and love you for the retarded bigot that you are?
Wiley old coot of a grandma hobbles in
Grandma: Add this to the crazy list...I've escaped from my nursing home and moved in with you, and instead of thanking you, all I produce is scathing critiscm and bizarre anecdotal advice. Yet you still haven't smothered me in my sleep!!
Man: Yet!
Entire family laughs
Jailbait sexpot daughter bounces in
Girl: Hi, stupid family!! I'm a total slut!
Woman: I'm not concerned with the fact that you are clearly having unprotected sex in your room and probably stealing money and pills from your father and I...or that you're breasts are far too large for a 14 year old...but I AM mad that you got a temporary tattoo at the mall!! I thought I raised you better!!
Girl: I hate you!! You just don't understand me!!!
Daughter runs out of the room, crying. Dad sneaks look at her ass as she leaves.
Smart-mouthed pervert son saunters in.
Boy: I'm only twelve but even I can tell her boobs are fake!
Canned laughter
Boy: By the way, last week I conned Dad out of $5,000 which my friends and I used to build a sex-robot in the basement. Just thought I'd illustrate yet again that I'm only in 5th grade, yet I'm the smartest one in this family.
Man: But I thought that was a science project!
Boy: Oh, Dad, you drunk!
Everyone laughs.
Obnoxious neighbor pokes head through window
Obnoxious neighbor: Where are my hedgeclippers?
Man: Oh Stanley, don't you have a dead wife to mourn?
Obnoxious neighbor: Hahaha! No, Bob, I soothe the pain and loneliness of being widowed by engaging in acts of voyeurism and stalking the people closest to me. By the way, Sally, I didn't know you liked thong underwear!
Woman: Oh Stanley! You wacky neighbor, you!
More canned laughter
Obnoxious neighbor: Seriously, where the fuck are my hedgeclippers?
More canned laughter
Cut to commercial
Cut it! Can it! Bag it! Send it to Hollywood!! You can look for me at the next Emmy Awards. I just need a title. I'm thinking, "Yes Dear, According to a Fat Man is Still Standing with Family Matters"
Friday, October 07, 2005
mmm a tasty slice of yellow mustard pie
Lots of people approach me on the streets and say, "Hey, attractive and hip-looking stranger, I want to be like you. Tell me what kinds of things are you interested in, so that I may leech some of your coolness for myself." And I, being of the generous nature, regale them with long descriptions of my taste in food, clothing and expensive foreign manservants. These people listen in rapt silence, and when I'm done, they usually burst into uncontrollable laughter. Bastards.
But of course, I have the last laugh when I KEY their cars as an act of revenge. No wait, they still have the last laugh. In my rage lust, I usually end up keying my name and current mailing address into the side of their Ford Fiesta. About once a week I get a knock on my door and it's an irate keyed-car victim on my doorstep, wielding a mace. No, not the pepper spray, but the actual pointy medieval weapon. You may say to yourself, "Hey, why don't you just start asking who's at the door before you open it?" Well I TRY, but these people always have extremely convincing stories:
*Doorbell rings*
Me (from behind the door): Who is it?
Mace-wielding stranger: You don't know me.
Me: Are you going to attack me with a medieval weapon if I open this door?
Mace-wielding stranger: No.
Me: That sounds believable! Come on in!
...You can imagine the rest. Anyway, to save myself some pain, I decided to describe my interests from the safety of my own heavily padlocked home.
What I'm listening to:
Last time I counted, I have roughly 200 CDs. My CDs are essentially more valuable than my entire net worth. I guess that's good? Anyway, lately I've been listening to:
Pete Yorn - Day I Forgot
Blackalicious - The Craft
Nirvana - In Utero
Travis - The Invisible Band
The New Pornographers - Electric Version
OkGo - Oh, No
Death Cab for Cutie - We have the Facts and We're voting Yes (it's hard to listen to them when I know they're featured prominently on the OC, but I still try)
And what day would be complete without the sounds of Herve, my puppy, dry heaving up a piece of foam from the lining of a hockey mask we have inexplicably lying around the apartment. I am not making this up.
What I'm reading:
A Million Little Pieces - James Frey
Freakonomics - Steven D Levitt
Bad Habits - Dave Barry
Falls the Shadow - Susan K Penman
I Just Killed A Hooker, Now What Do I Do? - Christian Slater
Teach Yourself to Knit - Some old lady
(I bought this book...but did not buy yarn. It makes for extremely boring reading).
Learn About Famous Painters - back of my Ralph's brand frosted mini wheats box, surprisingly informative
What I'm watching:
Crash
Harold and Maude
Hostage
Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy
Lost (I simultaneously love and HATE this show. JUST STICK WITH ONE PLOTLINE FOR MORE THAN 30 FUCKING MINUTES!!! MY BRAIN IS CHAFING!!)
Any version of CSI, even the god-awful one with Dave Caruso. They make science look SEXY!
Sabrina the Teenage Witch (Don't ask me why, but I love this show.)
Arrested Development
My Name is Earl
(I'd just like to point out the cruel irony that the two aforementioned TV shows are HILARIOUS, and well-written and well-ACTED, and yet will probably be CANCELLED...while shows like "According to Jim" are entering their fucking 6th season)
What I'm thinking:
God, I want Arby's right now. But its 9:54AM. Besides, I just had some scrambled eggs. I wonder what Josh Homme is doing right now. I wish I could play the drums. I should probably be doing some real work right now. I wonder if we can stop for Arby's on the way up to the campsite. Should I make some coffee? I think I just figured out what the meaning of my life is!...wait, no, I still just want Arby's. Where did this bruise come from?
..yeah I know, scary. But there you go, a little "slice o life" from me to you. I suggest you use my taste in music, TV and stream-of-consciousness thinking to mold and shape your own life. Because lets face it, if you're reading this, you really need help.**
** JUST KIDDING! PLEASE DON'T STOP READING! I NEED ATTENTION!!!!
But of course, I have the last laugh when I KEY their cars as an act of revenge. No wait, they still have the last laugh. In my rage lust, I usually end up keying my name and current mailing address into the side of their Ford Fiesta. About once a week I get a knock on my door and it's an irate keyed-car victim on my doorstep, wielding a mace. No, not the pepper spray, but the actual pointy medieval weapon. You may say to yourself, "Hey, why don't you just start asking who's at the door before you open it?" Well I TRY, but these people always have extremely convincing stories:
*Doorbell rings*
Me (from behind the door): Who is it?
Mace-wielding stranger: You don't know me.
Me: Are you going to attack me with a medieval weapon if I open this door?
Mace-wielding stranger: No.
Me: That sounds believable! Come on in!
...You can imagine the rest. Anyway, to save myself some pain, I decided to describe my interests from the safety of my own heavily padlocked home.
What I'm listening to:
Last time I counted, I have roughly 200 CDs. My CDs are essentially more valuable than my entire net worth. I guess that's good? Anyway, lately I've been listening to:
Pete Yorn - Day I Forgot
Blackalicious - The Craft
Nirvana - In Utero
Travis - The Invisible Band
The New Pornographers - Electric Version
OkGo - Oh, No
Death Cab for Cutie - We have the Facts and We're voting Yes (it's hard to listen to them when I know they're featured prominently on the OC, but I still try)
And what day would be complete without the sounds of Herve, my puppy, dry heaving up a piece of foam from the lining of a hockey mask we have inexplicably lying around the apartment. I am not making this up.
What I'm reading:
A Million Little Pieces - James Frey
Freakonomics - Steven D Levitt
Bad Habits - Dave Barry
Falls the Shadow - Susan K Penman
I Just Killed A Hooker, Now What Do I Do? - Christian Slater
Teach Yourself to Knit - Some old lady
(I bought this book...but did not buy yarn. It makes for extremely boring reading).
Learn About Famous Painters - back of my Ralph's brand frosted mini wheats box, surprisingly informative
What I'm watching:
Crash
Harold and Maude
Hostage
Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy
Lost (I simultaneously love and HATE this show. JUST STICK WITH ONE PLOTLINE FOR MORE THAN 30 FUCKING MINUTES!!! MY BRAIN IS CHAFING!!)
Any version of CSI, even the god-awful one with Dave Caruso. They make science look SEXY!
Sabrina the Teenage Witch (Don't ask me why, but I love this show.)
Arrested Development
My Name is Earl
(I'd just like to point out the cruel irony that the two aforementioned TV shows are HILARIOUS, and well-written and well-ACTED, and yet will probably be CANCELLED...while shows like "According to Jim" are entering their fucking 6th season)
What I'm thinking:
God, I want Arby's right now. But its 9:54AM. Besides, I just had some scrambled eggs. I wonder what Josh Homme is doing right now. I wish I could play the drums. I should probably be doing some real work right now. I wonder if we can stop for Arby's on the way up to the campsite. Should I make some coffee? I think I just figured out what the meaning of my life is!...wait, no, I still just want Arby's. Where did this bruise come from?
..yeah I know, scary. But there you go, a little "slice o life" from me to you. I suggest you use my taste in music, TV and stream-of-consciousness thinking to mold and shape your own life. Because lets face it, if you're reading this, you really need help.**
** JUST KIDDING! PLEASE DON'T STOP READING! I NEED ATTENTION!!!!
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
make up the breakdown
I work from home and this means I don't have to maintain the same dress code or personal hygiene that most other people consider "normal". And lately, showering has been a hurdle for me. So you can imagine how frequently I put on makeup. The problem is, if I stop putting it on, I will forget how I do it. I was never one of those mini-Mary Kay girls, you know, the ones that could curl their eyelashes at 14 months. Makeup has always required a lot of practice for me; I'm just not very good at putting it on or pulling it off.
In addition to that, I also have the manual dexterity of a gimpy manatee...I'm lucky if I can put on some mascara without gouging out my eye.
And it’s not just that I don't know how to actually APPLY the damn stuff. I also have a face that’s well...challenging. Lots of bumps and valleys and nooks and crannies. I also have a naturally "rosy" complexion, which is a nice way of saying I look like a clown...a clown with severe rosacea. My red face only gets worse when I'm drinking. And inevitably a conversation about my face will begin:
Drunken douchebag: Haha! Oh my god, your face is SO red! Are you blushing?
ME: No, we've been over this a million times. I just have a really red compl-
Drunken douchebag: Hahahahaa, you're BLUSHING! You are EMBARRASSED! Why are you blushing, silly? Do you have a cruuuush?
ME: No, I do not have a crush. The doctors say--
Drunken douchebag: You have a crush!! You like to blush!
ME: Stop it.
Drunk douchebag: You and some dude sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I- *CLANK*
ME: Did everyone see that? I smashed him in the face with this frying pan because he wouldn't shut up about my face. And I'll do it again!! Let that be a lesson to ALL OF YOU!
The other guests nod their heads and cower in fear
...oook, so maybe the conversation doesn't always lead to deadly assault with cookware, but you get my point. It's traumatic, having this kind of complexion. To remedy the situation, I bought this special, expensive green foundation. Yes, I know. I didn't misspell. It's bright frickin green. Allegedly, green is supposed to balance out the red in your face. At least that's what make-up experts say. And by experts saying, I mean what I think I read on the side of a bus as it hurtled past me at 65 miles per hour.
Apparently this kind of "opposite color" theory is for all kinds of areas. You're also supposed to put on "yellow" concealer to balance out the "blue" of your under eye circles. Purple tints will balance out a "yellow, sallow complexion". I am not making this stuff up. It’s so obvious. Slap the opposite color on and your gross facial imperfections will disappear!! I really think the whole thing is a big joke cooked up by make up executives, for the purpose of ridiculing me, lowly and incompetent cosmetic user. I can just picture them now, sitting in their impenetrable Fortress of Lip Gloss and coming up with their latest marketing scheme. Pretty soon they'll be telling people like me to just go out and buy big bottles of finger paint and smear them all over my face. And I will. Just to keep that drunk douchebag from making fun of my red face.
Anyway, I got off on a bit of a tangent there, but even if theoretically this green stuff does balance out my complexion, even after applying, I still end up with a red face. The bottle instructs me to spread the goo on my face with a "light touch" and "blend, blend, blend" until it disappears. Now, I'm the kind of person that can melt microwave-safe tupperware or electrocute myself on battery powered devices, so the concept of "light touch" is lost on me. After about 5 minutes of ramming my fingers into my face, my cheeks look redder than when they started. I've even managed to give myself a little brush burn!! Then out of nowhere that drunk douchebag shows up in my bathroom and starts laughing at me. By the time I'm done bludgeoning him with my hair dryer, my face is beet red and I'm drenched in sweat. What a waste of time!!
I just won't ever be able to grasp this whole make up and grooming thing. This is probably why I have trouble making girl friends, because I don't know the finer points of lip liner or bronzer. Or maybe it's because unlike most girls, who are talking about the latest episode of sex and the city, I'm trying to remember all the words to the Transformers theme song. Out loud.
In addition to that, I also have the manual dexterity of a gimpy manatee...I'm lucky if I can put on some mascara without gouging out my eye.
And it’s not just that I don't know how to actually APPLY the damn stuff. I also have a face that’s well...challenging. Lots of bumps and valleys and nooks and crannies. I also have a naturally "rosy" complexion, which is a nice way of saying I look like a clown...a clown with severe rosacea. My red face only gets worse when I'm drinking. And inevitably a conversation about my face will begin:
Drunken douchebag: Haha! Oh my god, your face is SO red! Are you blushing?
ME: No, we've been over this a million times. I just have a really red compl-
Drunken douchebag: Hahahahaa, you're BLUSHING! You are EMBARRASSED! Why are you blushing, silly? Do you have a cruuuush?
ME: No, I do not have a crush. The doctors say--
Drunken douchebag: You have a crush!! You like to blush!
ME: Stop it.
Drunk douchebag: You and some dude sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I- *CLANK*
ME: Did everyone see that? I smashed him in the face with this frying pan because he wouldn't shut up about my face. And I'll do it again!! Let that be a lesson to ALL OF YOU!
The other guests nod their heads and cower in fear
...oook, so maybe the conversation doesn't always lead to deadly assault with cookware, but you get my point. It's traumatic, having this kind of complexion. To remedy the situation, I bought this special, expensive green foundation. Yes, I know. I didn't misspell. It's bright frickin green. Allegedly, green is supposed to balance out the red in your face. At least that's what make-up experts say. And by experts saying, I mean what I think I read on the side of a bus as it hurtled past me at 65 miles per hour.
Apparently this kind of "opposite color" theory is for all kinds of areas. You're also supposed to put on "yellow" concealer to balance out the "blue" of your under eye circles. Purple tints will balance out a "yellow, sallow complexion". I am not making this stuff up. It’s so obvious. Slap the opposite color on and your gross facial imperfections will disappear!! I really think the whole thing is a big joke cooked up by make up executives, for the purpose of ridiculing me, lowly and incompetent cosmetic user. I can just picture them now, sitting in their impenetrable Fortress of Lip Gloss and coming up with their latest marketing scheme. Pretty soon they'll be telling people like me to just go out and buy big bottles of finger paint and smear them all over my face. And I will. Just to keep that drunk douchebag from making fun of my red face.
Anyway, I got off on a bit of a tangent there, but even if theoretically this green stuff does balance out my complexion, even after applying, I still end up with a red face. The bottle instructs me to spread the goo on my face with a "light touch" and "blend, blend, blend" until it disappears. Now, I'm the kind of person that can melt microwave-safe tupperware or electrocute myself on battery powered devices, so the concept of "light touch" is lost on me. After about 5 minutes of ramming my fingers into my face, my cheeks look redder than when they started. I've even managed to give myself a little brush burn!! Then out of nowhere that drunk douchebag shows up in my bathroom and starts laughing at me. By the time I'm done bludgeoning him with my hair dryer, my face is beet red and I'm drenched in sweat. What a waste of time!!
I just won't ever be able to grasp this whole make up and grooming thing. This is probably why I have trouble making girl friends, because I don't know the finer points of lip liner or bronzer. Or maybe it's because unlike most girls, who are talking about the latest episode of sex and the city, I'm trying to remember all the words to the Transformers theme song. Out loud.
