Um. When did it become Monday? Because I just got comfortable with it being the weekend.
This week involves such things as:
PREPARING FOR THE UPCOMING BACHELORETTE WEEKEND IN NORTH CAROLINA
Oh? Do you need more information to adequately understand my stress levels? Because that would involve a lot of screaming and garment rending that I just don't think I can properly describe over my blog. Let's just say that I have a paper bag at ready should anything go awry and I feel the need to hyperventilate. That and tequila, which I feel Rod should know he's allowed to pour in copious amounts in case I start speaking in tongues come Thursday when we meet up at the airport. We have a lay over in Vegas which will only work in his favor as I expect the first leg of the trip I'll be speaking in ALL CAPS ABOUT HOW MUCH I NEED THIS TIME ON THE BEACH. For the rest of you, that means that anything I post up until Tuesday of next week might have a shade of incoherency about it which you ought to just meet with shades of sympathy or perhaps gifts of alcohol. Or just kick me in the shins. That usually brings me back to reality.
Either way! Good times! I'm spending the early part of this week looking for Polaroid film and my sanity which I think fell behind the couch this weekend while I was watching St. Elmo's Fire for the first time on Saturday. Can you believe I made it to 33 without ever having seen this cinematic masterpiece? To give you some perspective, I just saw Dirty Dancing for the first time last year and now every time we're in a remote situation I keep waiting for a hot blond in a leotard and skirt to waltz in and hit me up for an abortion. Because that's what happens, right? Sweet Moses...what were these 80's film makers aiming for? I either have Demi Moore shoving Rob Lowe aside in some ill-advised narcissistic moment or Jennifer Gray making up for her nose by rubbing crotches with Patrick Swayze (God rest his soul). Regardless, everyone is self centered and obnoxious and I left both movies with a feeling that I would never get those hour back in my life. AND IF ROB LOWE IS OFFERING HIMSELF TO YOU, YOU NEVER SAY NO.
Ok. Off to bed. Speaking of ill-advised, I might feel that way about this post in the morning. There may or may NOT have been some glasses of wine involved. Either way, welcome to a new week.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Because I like my legs...
Dear Powers That Be In the Fashion World,
I get it. You clearly hate women. Otherwise, why would LEGGINGS STILL BE IN VOGUE AFTER SEVERAL SEASONS? Will they not die? Will the damned hipsters stop flocking to American Apparel and buying them in bulk? PLEASE?
I was a child of the 80's. I remember wearing (nay - ROCKING) The Leggings ancestors, The Stirrup, with a bright-assed draw string top. Usually from, say, the Limited. After a while, the stirrup was dropped in favor of lace, zippers and other accouterments...and I find that these hideous things are back. And they are shiny, and sometimes liquidy, ripped up and being touted as the only thing you'll need to get through fall and winter. Really? Do they come with a liposuction coupon, because I fail to see the allure unless you have Gisele Bunchen's legs, and last time I checked, you couldn't purchase those on the Internet.
I respectfully decline to participate in said trend. Why would I put on something by choice that is just going to make me hate my thighs? They are nice thighs. They get my from point A to B and don't need to be shoved into something that is akin to sausage casing. I just refuse to insult them thusly.
So suck it. Especially that designer that came out with a pair of leggings in Gold Lamé and then went on to describe them as neutral. They go with everything! Pardon me, sir, but are you retarded?
I get it. You clearly hate women. Otherwise, why would LEGGINGS STILL BE IN VOGUE AFTER SEVERAL SEASONS? Will they not die? Will the damned hipsters stop flocking to American Apparel and buying them in bulk? PLEASE?
I was a child of the 80's. I remember wearing (nay - ROCKING) The Leggings ancestors, The Stirrup, with a bright-assed draw string top. Usually from, say, the Limited. After a while, the stirrup was dropped in favor of lace, zippers and other accouterments...and I find that these hideous things are back. And they are shiny, and sometimes liquidy, ripped up and being touted as the only thing you'll need to get through fall and winter. Really? Do they come with a liposuction coupon, because I fail to see the allure unless you have Gisele Bunchen's legs, and last time I checked, you couldn't purchase those on the Internet.
I respectfully decline to participate in said trend. Why would I put on something by choice that is just going to make me hate my thighs? They are nice thighs. They get my from point A to B and don't need to be shoved into something that is akin to sausage casing. I just refuse to insult them thusly.
So suck it. Especially that designer that came out with a pair of leggings in Gold Lamé and then went on to describe them as neutral. They go with everything! Pardon me, sir, but are you retarded?
Sticking to my straight legged trousers,
J
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
There's something about men in skinny jeans with ill advised facial hair that I just can't get behind
So my phone has been out of commission since yesterday. I was late to Zumba! and left the house without a water bottle which is IMPERATIVE since I sweat enough that once, after class, I was at the market and the check out guy asked, "Oh, did you just go swimming? And what smells?" I scrounged around in my car and unearthed a water bottle from ought nine that didn't have any suspicious floaties in it. So! Score!
I arrived at the studio and grabbed my bag as I ran towards the entrance. Something felt queer, and I looked down to notice that my entire left side was wet and that there was liquid leaking out of the bottom of my purse. The water bottle. The lid had come undone and the contents were now giving my wallet, iPhone, iPod and some assorted lip glosses a free swim. They looked like they were having a good time down there, floating around in the pool of my bag. They just needed mai tais and a beach ball and it would have been a party. I tried to play it cool, but actually was having one of those fucking huge internal crisis' since this isn't the first time I've done something like this which resulted in my frying out several (phone, iPod, camera) pieces of electronica and having to endure endless conversations with creepy IT people who immediately run you through the reboot/unplug/restart gamut when you've already done that three times BECAUSE YES YOU HAVE AN ELEMENTARY GRASP OF ELECTRONICS AND I DON'T THINK THAT HOLDING DOWN THE START BUTTON FOR A LITTLE WHILE LONGER IS GOING TO SOLVE THE PROBLEM OF MY HAVING ACCIDENTALLY DROPPED MY ENTIRE PURSE INTO THE TOILET.*
I squatted down on the stoop of the dance studio, removed all of the soaked contents and poured about 24oz of water into a nearby bush. The iPhone protested as she had been enjoying a vigorous back-stroke and immediately went to a black screen to show her displeasure. Whore. I dried everything off as best as I could, meaning I wiped it all against the dry seat of my pants, and went into class. My heart really wasn't in it as I spent most of the hour thinking about the sanctimonious boobs over at the Genius Bar who would cluck-cluck at me for allowing such a silly thing to happen and then demand my firstborn in exchange for a new phone. My hip swivel suffered. My teacher came over after to compliment me on not giving in to heart failure during class and when he saw me bent over my pile of sopping wet things and coo'ing to my phone to please stay alive he said, "Oh! You should NOT have gotten that wet! That's bad!" I think I yelled something like, "AAAARRRGGGHBLAH!" And then I kicked him in the back.
I came home and spent a long while in prayer and mental bribery (I will stop yelling "DOUCHEBAG!" whenever I see a hipster fly by on a fixie if you'll make my phone work!) while shooting warm air from the dryer into what I imagined to be the business end of my phone hoping that the moisture would evaporate and bring the innards back to life. Instead, I got a limp response - a quick flash of light which I interpreted as something akin to "Meh," and then the screen would resume its plunge into the inky maw of death. What ensued then was a lot of crying and screaming from me. Then I think I blacked out. Hard to say.
This morning I woke up and ran to my phone which I had tucked in with baby kittens and angels. It lay there blankly, mocking me with its blankness, all blank. I plugged it gingerly into iTunes. Your phone it in distress! Let's restore its factory settings and see if we can't save it, shall we? Oh please oh please oh please.
So I restored it.
Your phone is in distress! Let's restore its factory settings and see if we can't save it, shall we?
Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. This happened four more times until I finally gave up and drove to work, feeling utterly cut off from the world. I actually had to WALK UP TO THE FRONT OF THE STUDIO TO CHECK MY EMAIL BETWEEN CLIENTS. I nearly sprained an ankle. I wondered how fast the payment turnaround was for selling a kidney so that I could afford a new phone. I felt ill.
I crept back to my phone as soon as work was done, thinking that perhaps in my absence it had sprung to life and would be engaging in a lively game of bridge with my computer, but still nothing. I plugged it into iTunes again. One last shot before heading to the Apple store and! BEHOLD! IT CAME TO LIFE! RESTORED! LIKE MAGIC! There was much rejoicing. I kissed the dog. (She still won't come near me.) BUT! I can once again check Facebook while I'm in the bathroom!
Down side being that I have to stop making fun of hipsters. Almost not worth the trade. Douchebags.
*AFTER it had been flushed, thankfully.
I arrived at the studio and grabbed my bag as I ran towards the entrance. Something felt queer, and I looked down to notice that my entire left side was wet and that there was liquid leaking out of the bottom of my purse. The water bottle. The lid had come undone and the contents were now giving my wallet, iPhone, iPod and some assorted lip glosses a free swim. They looked like they were having a good time down there, floating around in the pool of my bag. They just needed mai tais and a beach ball and it would have been a party. I tried to play it cool, but actually was having one of those fucking huge internal crisis' since this isn't the first time I've done something like this which resulted in my frying out several (phone, iPod, camera) pieces of electronica and having to endure endless conversations with creepy IT people who immediately run you through the reboot/unplug/restart gamut when you've already done that three times BECAUSE YES YOU HAVE AN ELEMENTARY GRASP OF ELECTRONICS AND I DON'T THINK THAT HOLDING DOWN THE START BUTTON FOR A LITTLE WHILE LONGER IS GOING TO SOLVE THE PROBLEM OF MY HAVING ACCIDENTALLY DROPPED MY ENTIRE PURSE INTO THE TOILET.*
I squatted down on the stoop of the dance studio, removed all of the soaked contents and poured about 24oz of water into a nearby bush. The iPhone protested as she had been enjoying a vigorous back-stroke and immediately went to a black screen to show her displeasure. Whore. I dried everything off as best as I could, meaning I wiped it all against the dry seat of my pants, and went into class. My heart really wasn't in it as I spent most of the hour thinking about the sanctimonious boobs over at the Genius Bar who would cluck-cluck at me for allowing such a silly thing to happen and then demand my firstborn in exchange for a new phone. My hip swivel suffered. My teacher came over after to compliment me on not giving in to heart failure during class and when he saw me bent over my pile of sopping wet things and coo'ing to my phone to please stay alive he said, "Oh! You should NOT have gotten that wet! That's bad!" I think I yelled something like, "AAAARRRGGGHBLAH!" And then I kicked him in the back.
I came home and spent a long while in prayer and mental bribery (I will stop yelling "DOUCHEBAG!" whenever I see a hipster fly by on a fixie if you'll make my phone work!) while shooting warm air from the dryer into what I imagined to be the business end of my phone hoping that the moisture would evaporate and bring the innards back to life. Instead, I got a limp response - a quick flash of light which I interpreted as something akin to "Meh," and then the screen would resume its plunge into the inky maw of death. What ensued then was a lot of crying and screaming from me. Then I think I blacked out. Hard to say.
This morning I woke up and ran to my phone which I had tucked in with baby kittens and angels. It lay there blankly, mocking me with its blankness, all blank. I plugged it gingerly into iTunes. Your phone it in distress! Let's restore its factory settings and see if we can't save it, shall we? Oh please oh please oh please.
So I restored it.
Your phone is in distress! Let's restore its factory settings and see if we can't save it, shall we?
Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. This happened four more times until I finally gave up and drove to work, feeling utterly cut off from the world. I actually had to WALK UP TO THE FRONT OF THE STUDIO TO CHECK MY EMAIL BETWEEN CLIENTS. I nearly sprained an ankle. I wondered how fast the payment turnaround was for selling a kidney so that I could afford a new phone. I felt ill.
I crept back to my phone as soon as work was done, thinking that perhaps in my absence it had sprung to life and would be engaging in a lively game of bridge with my computer, but still nothing. I plugged it into iTunes again. One last shot before heading to the Apple store and! BEHOLD! IT CAME TO LIFE! RESTORED! LIKE MAGIC! There was much rejoicing. I kissed the dog. (She still won't come near me.) BUT! I can once again check Facebook while I'm in the bathroom!
Down side being that I have to stop making fun of hipsters. Almost not worth the trade. Douchebags.
*AFTER it had been flushed, thankfully.
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