Friday, June 30, 2006
I didn't kick anyone on the plane, I just had to deal with the proud ugly parents of an ugly toddler who was so special that she could stand in the aisles whilst her Dad whistled this tune to her 3 separate times that must make her dance or something "cute". So, I had to be the one to piss on his 6 a.m. Whistle Parade and glare back a few times to let him know without saying anything (effective technique), that I don't care how "well" you whistle, pal, whistling is always annoying, it's never cute, and it is something that only your kid and your wife should be punished with so stop showing off. WHISTLING IS FOR THE BIRDS, BEEEEEEYATCH.
The weather is beautiful here, a nice cool breeze off the water with no visible bits of poo or flying rats to choke on or ruin the view of the harbor. Just seagulls, which to some are considered flying garbage cans which squirt visible poo, but it's a change of pace from the regular rat race for me. Tonight I'll escape even farther north to Vermont. Take off.
PS Keep cool, brothers and sisters. Eat a peach. Just had one and they're gorgeous, stand-over-the -sink quality. Mmmm.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Oh, I love Chaka!
I don't remember her boobies being bigger than her hair, but there you go. What I do remember is reading something years ago that it takes 10 hours for her hair to dry.
Back in the day, anyway, when it was huge. Huger than her boobs. And stuff.
Chaka takes me back to the day, right back there to the 80s:
I FEEL FOR YOU! CAUSE I THINK I LOVE YOU...
Bill likes himself a little soft serve once in awhile. Looks like he got plain vanilla, good man, good man, Bill. I'm not a big fan of the swirl myself, I feel it dilutes the intensity of both the vanilla and the chocolate if you get the swirl.
Miss you Bill, miss you still.
whooooosh whooooooosh whoooooooosh whooooooooosh whooooooooooosh beware the transcriptionist she might see hear you whoooooooooosh whoooooooooooosh whooooooooooosh whoooooooooosh
- The summer of 1988 I spent in Innsbruck, Austria via the University of New Orleans Summer-a-Broad program: True
- My roommate on that trip became one of my best friends: True
- 1988 was not a good year for me fashion-wise and I was a what you'd call "dumpy": True
- My best friend Shari looked like shit too so I don't feel too bad: True
- I was the only Yankee on the trip and people said shit like "THE SOUTH'LL Ryyyyyyzz AGINNN and they weren't kidding: True
- A fellow kid in the program, a weird kid named Robert asked me to go to the Jethro Tull Concert in some ancient outdoor abbey, 2.0 hours outside of Innsbruck, and I said "Ok.":True
- We drank a bottle of Jagermeister on the bus, and I had never had it before: True
- I have vague memories of the opening band before I spent the rest of the concert slumped over and sitting on a park bench, snot is running down my nose style and hearing them play Aqualung: "Sitting on a park bench, snot is running down his nose": True
- I had just converted dollars to schillings that day and brought $500 US dollars worth of said schillings with me to the concert that night because I am a fucking stupid fuck face, and it either fell out of my top pocket while I was barfing behind the Port-O-Potty or I was rolled whilst I was barfing behind the Port-O-Potty, so therefore didn't spend a dime the rest of the trip and told my folks I got "shortchanged" at the bank: True
- Robert insisted he "walk" me back to my room and tried to smooch me even though I was pushing him out the door, sobering up at that point, and had vomit down the front of my shirt: True
- A few days later Robert came by our room and while he was fixing the window for us he sneezed and a booger came flying out of his nose in a long string hit one cheek and then whacked him on the other cheek and we grossed out but didn't say anything to him and just tried to pretend it didn't happen but everyone really knows what happened: True
- I never saw Robert again: True
- I never had Jagermeister again: False
- I didn't have Jagermeister for ten more years: True
- I never got sick on Jagermeister again: False
- I fear Jagermeister: True
- The taste of Jagermeister really does bum me out and make me remember the Summer -a- Broad program in a yucky cough syrupy way: True
- I'm pretty much done with Jagermeister and will only have it if people badger me into it like Robert did in 1988 but only this time add Red Bull and me talking about the horrible time I had it in 1988: True
- I can't say I've had a JagerBomb in at least 6 months: True
- I'm really not an alcoholic, I just hang out with the kids because I look like one: %$#@&!!
- I knew that Ian Anderson, lead singer of Jethro Tull was gay in 1988: False
- Ian Anderson, lead singer of Jethro Tull knew he was gay in 1988: True
- I was completely surprised when I learned a few years ago that Ian Anderson, the lead singer of Jethro Tull was gay: False
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
There aren't even any bunnies in it!
Who wants to spend 0 beans and sit through 30 seconds of a highly-rated Superman flick WITH bunnies?
You do, you ADD mess!
I just Netflixed Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf? starring none other than ElizabethTaylor and her on-again off-again partner in wine (and hubby), Richard Burton. The movie is based on Edward Albee's play of the same name, and let me tell you something, it should come with a warning label that says: "Pour yourself a drink, this is going to be one fucked up evening."
Liz and Richard are on fire! Their relationship in real life as we all know was one stormy tumultuous passion feast-ival, so I guess it's no surprise that they electrify the screen together. She plays a blousier and uglier Liz than she was in real life at the time, a college president's daughter who believes she married beneath herself, and Richard plays her husband, a professor, not the head, of the History Department. Add booze. They fuckin' hate each other. Add booze. Lizzie is FANTASTICALLY unlikeable and constantly riding him for being a failure and he barks back with equal intensity like a sad miserable sack. Add booze. The dialogue is so rapid fire and loaded, you could rewind each line over and over again and still miss something. Boooooze. But talk about tense! Talk about resentment! Talk about booze! Oh my.
Anyway, the funniest thing about the flick is that a week before I saw it, I caught Creepshow on t.v. The one where Ted Danson is buried neck deep in the sand by Leslie Nielsen as the tide comes in because Ted is screwing his wife? Anyway, there's another vignette in Creepshow called "The Crate" which concerns this crate locked away in a college lab basement and this a janitor finds it and calls on this professor he knows to check it out who happens to hate his wife in addition to everyone else who hates his wife. After a little plotting and planning, he decides to send this nag of a hag of a wife down there to check some shit out because she's such a nosy bitchy busybody? And the end of the story? The monster eats her. Yay! After watching Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf I see that they obviously based "The Crate" on it and I just happened to see the shit backwards.
If you haven't seen it or read the play, do so. But pour yourself a drink first, and be prepared to cringe. A lot. And probably say "Aaaaaawwwwwkwaaaaarrrrrrrd!" out loud a few times between sips.
When I was in Junior High School, I stole blue mascara from CVS. A couple two, three times.
With friends, of course. Stealing alone indicates a problem.
Isn't it a right of passage?
Oh, like you didn't. Please. Don't look at me like that you jerk, I didn't have to confess. Statute of limitations and all.
When it's warm enough for sandals, it's too warm for boots*.
*If you ride a motocycle, are a cowboy, or are the Gorton's Fisherman, you are exempt from this rule.
Whenever I think of the Pizza Hut Salad Bar, I think of one thing, and one thing only:
Green peas mixed in with the chocolate pudding.
Bleeeecchhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhkkkkkkkppppppprrrrrrr. (I just got a chill).
Why is the pea container next to the chocolate pudding container?
Why the fuck is there chocolate pudding in the salad bar in the first place?
Why am I thinking about Pizza Hut Salad Bar in the first place?
I'm going to lunch.
Q: How do you respond to an online personal message from someone whose picture you don’t like?
A: If you’ve established an e-mail connection before seeing the other person’s photo, which then reveals a mullet or other disturbing feature, you must suffer the consequences of jumping the gun.* Set up a very brief coffee date and hope that the person doesn’t photograph well.
* Bullshit you do
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
- deposit check
- buy stamps
- call insurance company
- get married
- have a baby
- do laundry and pack
- buy cat food
- have another baby because only children can be weird
- talk to the super about leaking pipe under kitchen sink
- don't forget about spinach in fridge and tomatoes before I go on vacation
Yesterday I saved a life.
But today, today, people, I saved someone's breath.
This new temp on the block asked me where all the Jolly Ranchers went because a few weeks ago we had a Sam's Club-sized box in the office, but that box is long gone. Lucky for her, I am a hoarder and before it was gone grabbed a big handful of them and put them in my desk drawer.
Luckier still for this lady that I don't like Jolly Ranchers.
Though I gave most of them away, I did spy a lone red fellow, possibly Cherry, hiding in a little compartment designed for paperclips, and then did I connect this Jolly Rancher to it's soon-to-be Jolly Eater, who just had herself some tuna casserole and was desperately not wanting not to taste that anymore.
I make things happen around here. One Jolly Rancher at a time.
He was married to Morticia Addams on the original t.v. series. They got divorced and then he married Candy and had Tori, who let's face it, has a funny face. But I'm not going to say much more than that, she just lost her Dad and all.
Oh, yes, Aaron Spelling created Fantasy Island! Which scared the shit out of me when I was a kid. FANTASY ISLAND! Has anyone seen that show recently? How scary is it?
Not that scary!
So these people come to the island to fulfill their fantasies and sometimes those fantasies were misguided, and Mr. Roark and Tattoo would teach them a scary lesson using magic somehow about not to be greedy and then it would get dark and then lightning would strike or a snake would get thrown in there somewhere, and I'd think to myself, "Holy shit! Get off the island! Get off the island!!Mr. Roark is making his mean face!" By the end of the episode everything would be all hunky dory, the sun is shining and Ricardo Montalban (Mr. Roark) and Tattoo are back to all smiles.
Years later Tattoo (Herve Villechaize) would go on to off himself in somebody else's back yard, but I'm totally off topic now, which was Aaron Spelling: a genius may he rest in peace.
Fantasy Island: not a show for kids.
The bright side: I considered punching not one person.
I did, however visualize kicking. It's less personal than punching, and there's less mess. Not kicking in the head, or in the abdomen, but a swift blow to the victim's knees, perhaps a side kick. A swift kick to jettison them over and out of my space.
There was a lot of kick visualizing this morning. It's my new thing.
All I've got to say is, two Abners in one story? What are the odds? How could the name Abner be so popular only to fall so far from grace?
Bring back Abner!
Who cares who invented baseball? It's here, it's queer, get used to it! Baseball rules! No offense, soccer! BOOOoooooyyyyyyyaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Monday, June 26, 2006
On June 26, 1870, Atlantic City unveiled the first section of it's famed Boardwalk to the visitors to the New Jersey Shore.
From Today In History:
"Early bathers wore bathing dresses of wool flannel with stockings, canvas shoes, and large straw hats. The more daring bloomer suits and stockings worn by these bathing beauties were not introduced until 1907. Censors roamed the beaches monitoring bathers' self-exposure and looking for offenders who showed more flesh than the local code allowed."
Narcs. Have 'em now, had 'em then. Sluts, have 'em now, had 'em then. Nothing changes, people.
No need to sugar coat the past.
They had to wear WOOL BATHINGSUITS FOR CRYIN' OUT LOUD!
Happy 136th Birthday To You, Atlantic City Boardwalk! I don't care what anybody says about you, I love you, Atlantic City. See you in August.
Happy Summer, people!
However, she fought the good fight and weathered the shitstorms today that would most certainly have plagued her tomorrow.
Or not. She's just trying to be positive.
But she must say, there was a terrible vibe today, and everyone felt it. Perhaps the rain outside affected the mood, but inside the offices, the cubes, the halls, it was dark, it was tense, it was unforgiving. And apparently, five other colleagues in the department shared this "I should have called in sick." thing, so that sort of made her glad that she hadn't called in sick, because then it would have really looked bad, and her being a temp and on the bottom of the totempole and whatnot, well, as conscientious about work as she happens to be, you all know the possible ending to that story. Hey, it happens.
And then it turned out --this is the God's honest truth-- that someone was really sick who hadn't called in sick, and this person in writhing pain came to her for assistance and had to be rushed to the hospital. Like seriously emergency-complications-from-his-surgery sick. That was quite sobering to say the least.
Did she learn something today?
Life can be annoying but also fragile. And tough. And mean.
What else did she learn?
She should have called in sick!
Is it tomorrow yet?
In his Tardis. (Tardis: The Doctor's time machine/phonebooth thingie)
I feel that perhaps that crush may have cemented my taste in men forevermore. It's not looks, but personality that counts, kids.
Big fro? Check.
Big schnoz? Check.
Bug eyes? Check.
Poo colored striped scarf? Check.
Funny and smart as heck and able to take me back in time? Check! Check! Check!
Can't say I can explain these, but whatevs. Just an Underoos-type marketer gettin' in on the craze, I suppose:
Even though they'd scare away even the most interested of paramours--if they came in my size--I'd wear wear a pair today. It's just how I roll. I'm stupid like that.
Sue: Hi, you got a question?
Caller: Yes, um, I know there are things that make your penis longer but is there a way to make it fatter?
Sue: You don't want it longer, you want it fatter.
Sue: Well, there is a procedure where collagen can be injected into the penis, but it's lumpy and bumpy and moves around and you end up with a lumpy bumpy penis which looks like no other. I don't recommend it. You don't want that.
Caller: Oh. Ok.
Sue: Is there a reason why you want your penis wider?
Caller: Um, because I think it needs to be fatter.
Sue: What are you comparing it to?
Caller: Um, movies and stuff I guess.
Sue: Well, listen, the average man doesn't look like what the guys have in the pornos, so you're setting yourself up for serious disappointment comparing yourself to that, eh? And just happy with what you have, eh? You don't want a lumpy bumpy penis.
Caller: Ok. Thanks.
Sue: Ok, thanks for calling. Bye, now.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
I was listening to This American Life this afternoon while attempting to clean my bathroom, which is no easy feat, not because it's an over-sized bathroom, but because I hate cleaning. Anyway, there was a writer on the show who writes for HBO's new series, Lucky Louie, and I can't remember her name. Probably because I was yelling at the paper towels for being on the floor, when I was high atop the tub, having already sprayed the windows and then had nothing to wipe them with.
However, I can remember the three jokes this woman told, because she was discussing how annoying it is when people say, "Oh, you're a comedy writer? Tell us a joke." Word, word. So good to hear others get as annoyed as I do with that garbage. Her favorite joke to tell in that situation is:
Q: What did the snail on the turtle's back say?
Because then people are left like, "What? I don't get it. That's not very funny." And she can be like, "Yeah, well serves you right for opening your piehole." Or whatever she said, because again, I was yelling at something, this time probably a smudge on the window which refused to be erased or perhaps it was yelling at dirt in general.
Her other two favorites are pedophilia jokes, which never seem to go down well with a crowd of people who don't know each other very well, but I gotta say, I don't know her, and I thought they were hilarious.
Q: What did the Jewish pedophile say to his victims?
A: "Take it easy on the candy, kids!"
A pedophile led two children into the middle of the woods on a dark and stormy night. The kids said, "We're scared!" and the pedophile replied, "Oh yeah? Well, how do you think I feel? I gotta walk outta here alone!"
I went grocery shopping today and stood by the freezer case for awhile and stared. It's friggin' hot here in Manhattan, and I knew I was not leaving without something cold and edible, something preferably on a stick.
There were ice cream sandwiches, fudgesicles, popsicles, and bags of little cups of ice cream each with a wooden stick wrapped in paper. We had the same sort of thing growing up in Massachusetts, ours were made by Hood, branded Hoodsies. Hoodsies I believe came in sundae varieties as well as everyone's favorite, a twist of chocolate and vanilla with a wooden "spoon" as an eating utensil.
Hoodsies were such a part of life 'round those parts, so superfluous, that the word made it into the local lexicon. When someone would blurt out something that someone else felt was a cry for praise, the someone else would shout, "What do you want, a Hoodsie?" Same meaning as the phrase, "What do you want, an award?"
Let's just say that there wasn't a day that went by at Swampscott Junior High School where "What do you want, a Hoodsie?" wasn't uttered at least 50,000 times. The phrase was not to be understood literally as no Hoodsie was ever actually being offered. The standard reply was, "Shut up!" I think. Or, "You're gay." Either of those.
Let's say you're rolling your eyes reading this and thinking, "Duh, I already know what a Hoodsie is."Well, congratulations to you.
What do you want, a Hoodsie?
Doggone it, Doodle's at it again. Last night it was so hot that I had the back door off the kitchen open, and Missy Pissy went out to hang out on the cool cement of the back hallway around 5 or 6 p.m. and from there went on a little jaunt. She didn't return until 9:15.
When she returned, she was not alone. She had a little mousie friend in her teeth, one that she dragged up from the outside 8 flights of stairs, one that she brought into the house to play with.
How nice for me!
I chased her, mouse in mouth, right into the bathroom and shoved my bathrobe under the door so Mr. Mousie wouldn't escape under the crack of the door and crawl over my face at night as I slept or whatevs. I gave them an hour or so to duke it out, and when I slowly opened the door, peeking with hope to see a bloodbath and a mouse put out of it's misery...
I instead found a meowing and frantic Doodle, and no fucking mouse.
She lost it!
In my house!
Someone is still upset and jumping at every little movement, skulking around, sniffing around, and desperate to find her little playmate.
I'm desperately hoping that she finds it too.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Dad was also very much The Gong Show when it was on t.v., and thus, so was I. One night this big fat broad with heavy makeup and funny things on her boobs did an semi-burlesque act either solo or not (I'm having a hard time remembering, the things on her boobs were quite distracting) and she got the gong just a few seconds in.
But not before singing a few bars of "Get out of here with your boom boom boom before I call the cops! Get out of here with your boom boom boom before I call the cops! Before I call the cops...before I call the cops...Get out of there with your boom boom boom before I call the cops!"
It was about that time that my mother ran in, shouting at my Dad to "Turn that shit off!" while my Dad and I were boom boom booming our asses off in the living room.
"Get out of here with your boom boom boom" is a special part of the Altman Family Collection Of Songs soon to be brought to you by Time Life Music in a 10 CD set, so stay tuned.
Since my full-time significant other happens to be feline, and we can't argue as articulately as two humans can, I found this blog called Mister Herman's Cat Games to be a brilliant way to get the frustration out. I was happy to see that games like "Tip the Cat" and "Mock the Cat" in there--these are Doodle's favorites. Errr, my favorites? It's a toss up.
I like the way Mr. Herman thinks, and he doesn't limit his expertise to cats. This twisted fuck's also got Mr. Herman's Recipes: Great tips on food and drink for those on a budget. Contributing mixologists offer up drink recipes like Leprachaun Piss, Buttnog, Sexy Bitch, and Used Tampon, while the victual recipes include Hairball Soup, Shit On a Shingle, Uncle Chandler's Cheapass Chunky Chili, and Supacheez. Bon appetit, boners!
It's hilarious, and it inspired his book with the same title which you can purchase at amazon.com.
My uncle who is a few years younger than my Dad has a few things to say about birth order, I'm sure. And like my Dad, I'm the oldest sibling. Since both of my parents worked, I had to babysit my sister a lot, and when she was a pain in the ass, sometimes I'd talk her into a game of "Name That Spice".
"Name That Spice" involved me blindfolding my sis and "letting" her taste everything in the kitchen cabinet, from honey to hot sauce.
5 year olds aren't too fond of hot sauce.
Friday, June 23, 2006
They removed the Charleston Chew bin from the point of sale area at the checkout counter!
My only guess is because sales were lacking?
BOO! BOO TO YOU, OFFICE CAFETERIA!
CHARLESTON CHEWS ARE UNDERRATED AND TOTALLY FANTASTIC!
Especially when frozen.
(the sound of violent holy war being waged in my mind)
Off the KKB for a second: I just have to say that McDonald's calling a singular sandwich a name which implies plural sandwiches is annoying enough for me to never eat one in my life. "I'd like a McGriddles, please." Jesus.
A receptionist just walked by and said "Hi, Sweetie!"
I didn't see who it was, and I ignored her, obviously.
She couldn't possibly be talking to me.
Turns out she was!
Ooops. Have I got her hoodwinked, or what?
newbluebaby brought up one of my favorite dead people, Paul Lynde. Paul's an Altman Family Favorite, actually. If he were still alive, and I well connected enough to know him, we'd be great friends. Why? Because he was a brilliant quick-tounged tell-it-like-it-is bitch. Oh, and he's gay. How fitting to honor him on the eve of Gay Pride Weekend. If I could throw a party and resurrect and invite my favorite dead peeps, he'd be on the list along with Oscar Wilde and Abraham Lincoln. You'd have no trouble finding us, we'd be the ones in the corner laughing our fucking asses off.
For those of you who don't know who Paul Lynde is, here you go. He was born in Mount Vernon, Ohio (Kenyon College kids know this) and more famously known for his role in Bewitched and his square on Hollywood Squares. Here's just one of a thousand zingers from his life on Hollywood Squares when it was good. You know, before it was shitty Whoopie Squares.
Peter Marshall: What did the Lone Ranger always leave behind when he left town?
Paul Lynde: A masked baby.
Here are more.
I'm here (theoretically).
I'm queer* (sympathetically).
Get used to it (really).
*I may not be gay in the "I am sexually aroused by my own sex" kind of way, but I'm definitely gay, queer, and at times, a fag, who is totally proud to be a hag of me fellow fags.
To the gays in my life: I'm proud of you and all the gaying you do! Keep on gayin' on!
You can all relax; I spared her.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
In addition to Chicago and Philly, Detroit is way up top on my list of cities to visit for it's architecture. Even if you don't know shit or give a shit about the Motor City, this little timeline of this old house (one of hundreds razed each year) just might peak your interest.
Old houses. The best.
I did read something funny, though. In 2004 I wrote to someone about a sign I spotted on the entrance to a building in Manhattan that read:
PLEASE STOP URINATING ON THIS DOOR. USE THE RESTROOM.
See, had I not kept every email I've ever written or received, that little NYC nugget would have been lost forever.
Nugget. Not a fan of this word.
John Denver thanked God he was a country boy and that somebody filled up his senses. He wanted country roads to take him home, back to the place where he belonged. His bags were packed and he was ready to go. Rocky mountain high, Colorado.
The he died in homemade paper airplane.
Life is mean.
When will people farting in the bathroom not be funny anymore?
I have a feeling it will never not be funny for me. In other words: always.
This is one reason why I am immature.
If you fart in the bathroom and nobody is there to hear it, did you really fart?
Which is code for I don't know what, because if Cathy were sitting here, she wouldn't have to ask "Is Cathy around?" but Cathy ISN'T friggin' sitting here.
So I pull my annoying, "I don't see her."
And THM goes "Oh, you don't see her?"
That's right, bitch. Don't ask a stupid question and you won't get a stupid answer.
All this so she could "give" Cathy some leftover pizza with a "If she doesn't want it, it's going in the garbage."
Aw, what a nice gift. I really should be nicer to THM. After all, it is the thought that counts.
I posted earlier today about enormous underpants, completely unaware (underwear) that I was wearing fairly visible underwear beneath my white skirt. You're thinking, "WTF! Anne, you rag on others for their fashion fumbles. How could you DO SUCH A THING?!?!"
And I say to you, "I KNOW!!!! I DON'T KNOW!!!"
It looked fine in the mirror this morning. What can I say. I guess I just don't really care anymore.
So here I am posting about enormous underwear, and my friend at work says, "Hey, Anne, are you wearing dark underwear?"
Ok, they're heather grey. Not heather grey like Used-To-Be-White-Now-They're-Dingy, but made on purpose that color. Anyhoodle, I borrowed a huge black over the ass sweater from a co-worker and marched myself to Rite Aid to get m'self some new and nude drawers. Everyone I saw on the way asked me, "You must be chilly. But it's 80 degrees out!"
Whatever, a-hole. I need new underpants but I can't tell you that.
My choices at the drugstore were limited. 2-Packs of either: Size 8 or Size 10.
I've scanned the pink pair of Size 8 for you, because I'm wearing the tan. The scan bed wasn't large enough to capture all of the fabric. There's not a scan bed in the world big enough.
You can't see my underwear under my skirt anymore in these babies, but I can pull them up to my bazookas, doubling as a bra if need be. So low is the thigh coverage, that even the strongest bully in the cafetorium wouldn't be able to give me a wedgie.
Ah, the benefits of granny panties.
- There's a "male" and "female" side of the bed. If you're at the foot of the bed facing the headboard, the "male" side of the bed is the right side, female on the left. (I sleep on the "incorrect" side of the bed, the male side, but I'm not married, so all is moot, mofo.
- The male side of the bed should be closest to the door.
- The bed should be flanked with two nightstands/end tables, not one.
If you're in violation of any of these things you're headed for divorce.
Sorry to break it to you that way.
Good luck with everything.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
And then that person behaves in a way that makes you say to yourself, "Oh. They're crazy. That's too bad. Oh, well. Next!"
A bearded lady.
There's this pretty girl at work whom I rode the elevator with this afternoon, and I had a chance to get a really good look at her and why she's so beautiful. Turns out it's everything save for the 5:00 shadow on her chinny chin chin, and this was about 1:30. Poor thing. It's black, and stubbly, and really friggin' unfortunate. They say you can't have it all, and I guess you really can't.
I know someone who lasered her bush off. It cost thousands and thousands of dollars.
2. Kathie Lee Gifford tried to return a Domain white painted child's bed she bought for her son Cody six weeks prior that she claimed he never slept in. But the boogers smeared on the back of the headboard told a different story.
Every booger tells a story, don't it?
Well, at least the soundtrack is good! Get that popcorn a poppin' and let's roll this shit! Enjoy.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Tonight I went to Shakespeare In the Park's performance of Macbeth at the Delacourt Theater in Central Park. Liev Schrieber was Macbeth and he was so good that I decided I'd bang him, despite how unimpressed I was with his chatting with his lady friend through a performance of some Neil LaBute Broadway show (the name escapes me), where I had the "fortune" of sitting directly behind him and equally chatty Dustin Hoffman and his wife. Anyway, it was a nice picnic--with real live picnic baskets--sponsored by my firm to entertain the summer associates and a few extra tickets came my way because I'm a likeable gal to certain folks at work, if you can believe that shit.
A retired partner came to the show, and apparently he retired from 30+ years in real estate law to study Feng Shui. He just wrote a book which I'll plug when I find his card. The point? Throw 9 things away everyday.
I just threw away nine things.
I'll name them here:
- empty burt's bees cosmetics bag
- avon bottle opener shaped like a wren
- crossword puzzle book on popular t.v. shows i'll never be bored enough to crack (sorry, sis)
- May Time magazine
- May Time Out NY magazine
- May J Crew catalogue
- Watering can
- Dell Computer Catalogue
- John Lennon and the Plastic Ono Band 45 A side: "Whatever Gets You Through The Night" B side: "Beef Jerky"
- Hotel Warwick ballpoint pen
- Retractable pencil with no eraser
Ok, #10 I removed from the trash 'cause I think i'll send it to someone whom I think might enjoy having it clutter up her life, but otherwise, I fulfilled the quota, so everyone can shut their pieholes tonight, thanks.
A live outdoor performance of Shakespeare will really learn you somethin'.
PS Nine more things take a trip out of my house tomorrow, so stay tuned! And of course, if you're interested in any of this crap, I mean stuff, please, do reveal yourselves.
HelloI moved to miami, 4 years ago from Ny NY, i thinking to move back in NY NY, i will be in NY NY Next Month.let me known if you interested,
[What do you say, guys? Not that my Italian is any better than his Engrish. Am I interested?]
And the answer is:
Not one person asked me if I needed help.
Not one person! And I needed help!
I still would have said no, probably, but to be asked would have been nice.
Stupid quiz, I know.
People are a-holes.
Do you guys remember these? The original satirical sticker with stale gum. Garbage Pail Kids ripped them off. I was obsessed with Wacky Packs when I was a kid. According to this article, they're making a comeback.
Wait. Was obsessed? Still obsessed!
Ten years ago when my friend Sharon still lived in Manhattan, we were watching t.v. and caught this show on modeling and it's unglamourous reality backstage. A memorable line that we still quote to this day happened when the camera panned over to this one particularly fair, frail, foreign one getting her makeup and hair done at the same time. She looked into the lens and said with the weak smile and enthusiasm of someone coming down off a 3 day coke binge:
"Zee llllife uff a mawdelll. Tahhhhhhhd [tired]."
To this day, it's not unusual for me or Sharon to suddenly break out with "Life of a model. Tired." in our best "can't pin it down" foreign accent, in the middle of conversation, conversation totally unrelated to modeling and how tiring it is, over and over and over again to the point of like a Tourette's type Rain Man kind of situation that is best not viewed by strangers.
But for as much we wanted to hate her because she's a gorgeous 18 year old who gets to sit around looking gorgeous all day making gorgeous cash instead of having to like, do stuff, we couldn't really. In her defense, she did look really tired.
Now I share her gorgeous pain, thanks to two of the most talented people I know. They are the coolest! I'm not going to drop their names just yet, but soon enough, i'll be dropping 'em like they're hot. Which they are. So it all makes sense. It's like the McDLT, y'see. Cool side cool, hot side hot.
You can lead the man to medication, but you can't make him take it.
RUN FOR COVER!!!! THERE'S THE HELICOPTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Black man in his mid-late 40's, slightly heavy set, big smile, hat and sunglasses, working in the Reggae/Rap tent, music a' boomin'.
An attractive but conservatively dressed black woman in her early 30's, with short hair and black framed sunglasses with green lenses, strolling through the center of the fair with a girlfriend and drinking lemonade.
Man shouts to woman: You look just like my ex wife!
Woman says over her shoulder: Fuck you.
Man shouts back: Well, you do!
Woman keeps walking over to a jewelry tent two stands down, but not without give a few more incredulous amused/disgusted/embarrassed glances the way of the man in the Reggae tent.
I laugh again. Still funny.
Dudes. What they won't say for a little look their way.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Shame on you, Macy's. Without the gays, you'd still be a Feed and Grain Store.
If you've never stood naked (save for underwear) in front of a woman with air-brush gun full of Quick Tan Juice, I recommend it. Since I haven't sunbathed for over ten years (I'm the dork at the beach with the 60 who argues "You can still get sun with SPF 60!") and not for health reasons, but because I'm completely vain about going wrinkly too soon. Anyway, I'm getting some neat-0 photographs taken of myself on Monday, and it was suggested that a little glow might help shine me up or slim me down or whatever the fuck it's supposed to do.
So I opted for the fake bake----the one that Hollywood whores abuse that makes them look orange on the red carpet--not the real ultraviolet sun simulation. It took about 20 minutes of me posing with arms up, arms to the side, yada, yada, yada whilst she sprayed this cool mist of tanning chemical on me. I didn't think it was making a difference until I looked under the waistband of my underwear: Ban de Soleil, everybody, it's a deep, dark and Tropicana tan. For me.
Apparently it gets darker during the next 6 hours. During which time I went to Sym's and tried on this amazing pale pink 100% silk full-length gown that I inadvertently stained with tanning juice on the inside lining near the cleavage that I then had the balls to ask for a discount on when I got to the register. The manager had the balls to give me a lousy $10 off (5%) and with a guilty conscience, I accepted. It was me afterall, but she didn't know that. I'd never accept 5% off on somebody else's tanning juice residue, but whatevs. I had to have it.
Ahh, spray on bronze. Just one of those things in this world that everyone should experience at least once before Iran and North Korea nuke us.
* I don't know who this broad is. But someone does, and they fuckin' love her, man, so don't rag on her poor choice of dress sans straps. Sure, she should have thrown that pink Pasminka over her shoulders, but nobody was there to coach her, ayite? Friends and family let her down.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Not to my knowledge, anyway. And even if I did, I can assure you, when the time comes that I decide to have a gin and tonic, 4 glasses of wine, 3 margaritas, and 4 shots of Jaegermeister, I do "drunk" much more gracefully. Where the fuck is her dignity? How is she going to barf if she's too preoccupied with screaming? Amateur.
I'll tell you how many times I watched this if you do. Please note, link does not contain actual puking.
- It was so white. I was like, pitch white.
- What are those sweatpants with the writing on the ass? Juicy koyt-shirr? (Couture: "koo-tour")
- It was like...the needle that broke the camel's back. You know?
Thankfully Mom, Dad, and I speak Whipcreamy, so we're able to communicate to some degree.
Someone Who Has Never Asked That Of Anyone Or Anything Before In Her Life Because She Is Well Adjusted Duh
But bigger and with a more In-Your-Face garage. I think the garage should be the first thing you see on a house. Very inviting. On the inside I want marble everything.
My Dream Car:
But bigger and with more In-Your-Face attitude and a horn that goes "Doo doo doo doo DOO Doo doo doo DOO DOO!"
My Dream Neighborhood:
But with more houses, closer together. No porches, lots of fences, and rules about being quiet and everyone having the same color garage and keeping the door shut because it's unsightly.
My Dream Good Time:
But with more high-end superstores and a Rainforest Cafe and an Outback.
Mmmm. Bloomin' onion.
Would I Rather Sit On the Sidewalk Drinking a 40 oz Out Of a Paper Bag Than Shop At H&M At Lunchtime?
I know what hell is like. The best part of the excursion was the fact that they were blaring Nick Lachey's "What's Left Of Me" on their sound system.
The good news is that I restrained myself from punching the 5 or 6 people I thought deserved a punching.
This is how I shop: Throw everything into my cart rapid fire without trying it on and get out of there as fast as I can so I can try it on at home and return it all the next day.
Efficient? Maybe not. But it does help prevent a few strangers from getting punched in the face.
What was the show with the news caster from the Mary Tyler Moore show -- Ted Knight? -- who did a show in the early 80s where he was a crotchedy cartoonist who lived upstairs and his daughters lived downstairs one blonde and one brunette or they lived downstairs and he lived upstairs? And now he's dead?
Oh, and he used to wear college sweatshirts all the time?
What's the name of that show?
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Yeah, well, you can calm down now.
Either Lotto is rigged, or I'm just not concentrating hard enough on picking the right numbers. I have GOT to get my shit together.
On a lighter note, the 50+ year old maintenance guy I danced with tonight at our annual company staff party at the Rainbow Room--whom I only really met briefly because he changed the flourescent bulbs in our office two weeks ago--said to me, "I didn't think you'd have this much energy."
I'm going to try not and read too much into that statement and just take it as a compliment. Now, does the fact that he was wearing a glowstick around his neck and the plastic 1980s Ray-Bans from the DJ prop box discredit him any? Because I was cutting a rug, ayite? This bitch can dance.
I might not be able to count on Lotto, but I can count on several awkward moments with Gerald from Maintenance from this day forward. So that's cool.
Even though I'd have a hard time keeping a straight face saying the name Lah-shayyyyy like it's all French like. 'Cause it's spelled Lay-cheeeee. Whatevs. I'm keeping my name (and taking his money) anyway. Or he can take Altman and take my money.
Bad tattoos and marriage to Jessica Simpson are forgiven.
Fooling around in the pool in Cabo with slut Vanessa Minnillo however is not. She's had Jeter, Nick. She can't have you too. Tell that bitch to pick a dick.
If you're afraid to talk Harry Potter books or movies around me for fear of "spoiling the ending", never fear.
I. Don't. Give. A. Shit.
The only part of the Harry Potter story that I find interesting is that a single mother wrote a book and now she's a gazillionnaire.
Not that this style necessarily looked any better on Crystal Gayle, this broad is no Crystal Gayle.
Here's a quiz:
Is your hair long enough to get stuck in your butt crack?
Is your hair long enough to hit the sidewalk?
Does your hair gross Anne out the very door of the cafeteria when she sees you in there?
If you answered yes to any of the questions, Get thee to some scissors, because your hair is too fuckin' long, it doesn't look good, it looks terrible, and it's grossing me out. Sure, society puts pressure on us ladies to have long hair, as it's supposedly the height of femininity or fertility or some other crock of shit, but this has gone too far.
Longer doesn't equal better. Unless you're part of The Long Hair Site, that is. Then you're all about it and finding a 3 1/2 foot long hair half in your mouth and half in your bowl of ice cream doesn't bother you.