November 28, 2006

No, I Do Not Want Balls For Christmas

Okay mates, someone explain to me about kissing balls. You've all seen my post from a couple days ago with the pic I snapped at the Home Depot (while wreath shopping with my mother, thankyouverymuch) advertising "Kissing Balls" for the low, low price of 24.99!!!

Well, it seems my day spa has joined in on the holiday fun. They are of course, much fancier about it. The picture sucks and the word balls is obscured by holiday bric-a-brac, but you'll note that not only are their balls ripe for kissing, they are Victorian balls, oooh! And You also can't see it, but the blurb beneath it reads, "Yes they are magnificent, and yes, they are for sale. These are a great gift for you or for a friend."



"For me?"
"Yes, I hope you like it!"
"Oh my goodness, Balls!! Just what I always wanted!"

So please, anyone with intelligence to offer on what in holy hell kissing balls are, please leave a comment.

My dad and I watched the new show "My Boys" tonight. I liked it, but found the constant droning sports-metaphor voiceover VERY irritating after about 2 minutes. The show works just fine without the damn voiceover. We GET it, she likes sports.

Watching the show led to an enlightening conversation about modern dating, with my DAD of all people, who hasn't dated in 40 years and thinks all people you meet online surely must be murderers.

"As opposed to drooling idiot drunks you meet in bars that are just going to slip a roofie in your drink and drag you out to the parking lot? Is it more acceptable to be murdered by a guy you meet in a bar, or online?"
"Shut up."

This led to me going off on an hysterical rant about how much I can't stand dating, because you're supposed to do that thing where you don't let the guy know how much you like them, and how ridiculous I think it is and how it means I will end up alone becuase I am never ever capable of this performance. If I like someone, it sort of shines through. And if I try to act like I don't, well, it shines through anyway. I think every guy I have ever crushed on has been painfully aware of it. (Painful for me, anyway.)

Dating advice from Pops:

"What you need to understand is, men are primal. We are hunters. Would it be any fun for me to go hunting if the deer just popped out of the woods and said, 'Hey here I am, go ahead and shoot me!'? No, no it wouldn't. Men like to go off into the woods, and maaaaaybe catch a glimpse of the deer, and then the deer runs away, and then they have to follow it, and then they see it again, and they take a shot at it! But they miss, so they have to follow it some more. That's why hunting is fun."

"Dad, you went hunting every year for like 20 years, and all you ever did was sit around in a log cabin and get hammered with all the other idiot males in this family. THAT's why hunting is fun. You never even GOT a deer."

"It's a metaphor!"

"Well it's STUPID. I think if the whole purpose of hunting is to get a deer, then you should be tickled pink if a deer said 'Hey go ahead and shoot me!'"

"The whole point of hunting is NOT to kill the deer. Once you kill the deer, your fun is OVER, get it?"

"Shut up."

Generally, my father and I only have conversations that end in the phrase "Shut up."

But we say it with a great deal of love.

Note to self: Do not discuss dating with 55 year old father ever again.

Note to readers: If even one of you leaves a comment on this post entitled "your dad is totally accurate, dude" I will literally kill myself. Do you want that on your conscience?

There will be no comments, unless they relate to balls.

Thanks,
The management

November 24, 2006

My Parents Are Grosser Than Your Parents

"Will you STOP spitting in the trash can???"

"Where am I supposed to spit??"

"You could try not spitting at all, or at least the sink."

"That would be disgusting."

"Well what if I need to get something out of the trash and I touch your spit?"

"There is no way my spit is more disgusting than your breath. What did you EAT?"

Yep, these are my parents.

(Days until I move: 7)

Sold!


November 23, 2006

The Weekly Numbers, Thanksgiving Edition

Ah, the Weekly Numbers. It's like I said, they force me to write. Good thing, too, because I have been circling my computer all morning in the same manner that I circle my gym bag when I am feeling particularly lazy.

"Yeah, it's there, yeah, I know I ought to....oh look, something shiny, better go check that out!"

Number of Pies Baked By Yours Truly Last night: 3, but only if you count the huge-ass bowl of bread-pudding as a pie. Okay, I'll amend it, "Number of desserts baked by yours truly." The Great Dessert Debate is the same in my family each year, with my dad protesting the amount of desserts we make and my mother insisting they are necessary:

"We don't need 2 pumpkin pies."
"There will be 5 of us!"
"Yeah, 5 people, with 2 pumpkin pies, bread pudding, tapioca pudding--which, yeah, EW, butter pie, pecan pie and maybe even baked apples. There are officially enough desserts for everyone to have their own individual pie, after all the other food."
"People LIKE pumpkin pie, they're going to want a lot of it."
"People LIKE to not perforate their stomachs too, you know..."
"Shut up."
"YOU shut up!"
"Get me a beer."

And so on.

Number of Gym Visits: Since the last weekly numbers...I have been to the gym 5 times. I know you are all duly impressed, but...

Number of Times Veered Off Healthy-Eating Plan: 15,184

Hence...

Pounds Shed Since NH Return: Sticking at 7. Oh well, at least I did not go up, that would have been far more traumatizing. But who knows what will happen after...

Calories Consumed so Far for Thanksgiving: 315,154,017

(And we haven't even EATEN yet...damn pumpkin bread.)

Number of Dunkin' Donuts Iced Coffees consumed: Okay, this is embarassing. Eight. Once again, Sarah Runs on Dunkin'.

By the way, did any of you see John Goodman on Studio 60 last week? Another blogger, who I'd link to but I don't remember where I read it, speculated that Dunkin' Donuts has been paying him for those voiceover commercials in bear claws, and I can't say I disagree. I'd better watch out, becuase after the past couple days of this holiday week...

Number of pounds less than John Goodman I weigh: Approximately 3.

Number of (fucking) $75 fake (fucking) nails that have come (fucking) off since I had them applied: 2 These are supposed to be the GOOD ones, that's why they cost $75!!! Honestly.

Jack&Diets consumed: 10, all at a birthday party that was sadly open bar on Saturday night. Open "Buffet of Fred Foods Which Sarah Is Unable To Avoid When Shitfaced" too. Oy.

Moving right along.

Estimated "Dinner to POPU" time tonight (POPU is "Passed Out, Pants Undone"): 20 minutes, tops.

I love Thanksgiving. Except for the parade, GOD, there is nothing more painful to me than a parade.

Number of times I tried to change the channel from the parade this morning: 7

"Don't change that!"
"I hate the parade!"
"How can you hate the parade?"
"Um, I'm not 7?"
"Don't get smart!"
"Want me to get stupider? Pass the mimosas, no problem."
"Brat. Don't change that!!!!"
"Damnnit!"

And finally, the thing I am most thankful for:

Number of Days Before the Return of Jack Bauer: 52 <-- Here's hoping it passes quickly!


HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

November 20, 2006

What Happens Here Stays In Really Expensive Apartments

Good news: I found an apartment.

Bad news: It will cost me 300 million dollars, my first born (you know, that phantom baby I'm going to have with my super wealthy and good looking phantom boyfriend who, despite being so wealthy and good looking, won't let me move into his phantom mansion with him and solve all my problems--even phantom boyfriends are commitment-phobes, it figures), and year's supply of lobster as a tip to the manager for getting me the apartment with the view.


Good news: I no longer have to have exchanges like this--


Dad: You need to clean your bathroom before your mother gets home.
Sarah: It IS clean.
Dad: There's a towel on the floor.
Sarah: Wow, yeah, the singular towel slips off the space age slippery "hook" that is on the back of that door--for no apparent reason apparently, since the general definition of a "hook" implies that you can "hang" things from it, and I've never seen anything last on that "hook" for longer than your average pee.
Dad: Well maybe you should hang your towels elsewhere and stop making messes.
Sarah: Well....maybe you should shut up.
Dad: I'll shut up when you clean your bathroom.
Sarah: IT IS CLEAN. And I am 27 years old.
Dad: Is that one year for every towel you've left on the floor since you got here?


And so on.


Bad news: I can look forward to not having the towel on the floor problem in my new apartment, becuase I will have to sell all my linens to make rent.


Seriously Manch, what's up? Half the reason I wanted to move home was that I had the apartments up here filed under "So Inexpensive You Almost Feel Guilty For Living In Them." Now you're pulling this "Every Damn Bit As Expensive as Washington DC"?


WTF, mate? I thought we were buds. Look how well I've done since I moved back. I go to the gym, I curl my hair and put on makeup every day, I am good at my new job, I drink 89% less!


89%!!! Do you know what that's done to my social life? I'll tell you what it's done.


Sarah: Hi, I'm home. Man am I tired from the gym!
Dad: Hey! It's celebrity Jeopardy night! And I made pork!


vs.


Sarah: (430pm) Who's going to Mackey's tonight?
All of Sarah's Friends: Us!!!! Yay!


Sigh.


I guess the 89% figure is for the best though, seeing as how I'll only be able to drink at the diviest of bars now, and only on ladies' night, and only if I performed sexual favors for the bartender first.


So maybe moving out at this juncture won't be the best idea ever. But it will at least be a moderately good one. It will be, at the very least, a better idea than the network pimping William Shatner's new gameshow by repeatedly calling it "Shat-tastic!" and "Shat-tagious!"


Let me just say that if something is "Shat-tagious!" with an exclamation point I'm probably going to want to avoid it. Unless I've eaten too much over the weekend and am worried about reporting to Weight Watchers or something. Which...hmmm...what channel is that show on again?


November 15, 2006

If Good Looks Were An Hour, You Know You Could've Been a Minute...

You know what I don't get?

TV is what I don't get. I freaking LOVE television. I spend way too much time watching it. A fact which I occasionally feel guilty about, just not tonight becuase before I came home to watch tv I did 90 minutes of cardio at the gym. That's right, bitches, 30 minutes on the bike, 30 minutes on the elliptical and 30 minutes on the treadmill.

(This is also my justification for taking the elevator both up AND down at work, even though my office is only on the third floor. Fuck that, I say, I sweat my ass off at the gym to make my thighs burn, I don't need to haul it up three flights of stairs in four-inch heels just to prove that I am not a lazy ass. A point I always feel the need to proclaim whenever I walk into the building with a peppy co-worker that goes for the stairs. "Oh, I'm soooo on the elevator today, these shoes are killing me, haha!" Why do I feel the need to make the excuse? It's probably the Fat Girl Guilt. Fat Girl Guilt has got to be worse than Catholic guilt. Catholic guilt won't make you refrain from ordering a cookie with your sandwich even though you really want one and totally have the points for it just becuase you're worried the cute guy behind the counter will be all "You reeeeally need that cookie, fatty? Hmmm?" I need help, clearly.)

Anyway.

I never understand why the character I would generally deem the least attractive on any given program always has to be the one that all the guys fall madly in love with a drool over.

Exhibit A: Meredith Grey. Please don't misunderstand, she's pretty, I guess. I mean, she's not ugly, and she's rail-thin and a lot of guys dig that. But every guy that walks into that hospital practically slips in the puddle of his own drool upon seeing her, when Izzie is standing right there, all blonde and bodacious and with the unbelievable ta-ta's, as opposed to Mer's little raisins. Not to mention that girlfriend waved bye-bye to thirty practially a decade ago. Not that older women can't be hot. But Izzie is like 26 or 27 tops. Who is the average male gonna make the beeline for?

I know, I know, it's not called "Izzie's Anatomy." But maybe if your main character is supposed to be such a goddamned man-magnet, you cast the hotter actress in that role. Just saying.

Other examples: Kelly Taylor on 90210. Again, pretty girl, if you like that "I look like I just sucked on a lemon and goddamn am I sanctimonious" look. Brenda and of course Valerie were 501531 times hotter than Kelly, and yet every guy on that show absolutely obsessed about her. I just don't get it.

Joey Potter on "Dawson's Creek." Don't even get me started. She was adorable during the seasons when NO ONE was in love with her, then they went to college and she stopped using moisturizer and dunked the bottom half of her hair in some sort of corrosive agent that frizzed it out and turned it orange, and suddenly Kate Hudson's smoking hot older brother is all "Oh Joey, I loooove you" along with every other guy that wandered into frame.

Made. No. Sense.

Marissa Cooper, not as hot as Summer, looks old and haggy even though she is like 20 in real life. At least now she's dead.

That's all I can think of for now, at least I've covered the ones that annoy me the most. I'm sure there are dozens of other examples.

Ugh, now I have to try and go to bed even though I'm staying home alone. I absolutely hate staying home alone. This is like the house from Halloween, I swear to god.

Chronic Masticator

My office is quiet.

Too quiet....

I like it, generally, because it means I get my work done without a constant drone of copies being made, tv news, the guy who sat in the cube next to me at my last job babbling on about some such nonsense to no one in particular, phones ringing off their hooks, folks doing it in the supply room, coworkers braying about food in the conference room, people walking up behind me in the cube and saying "knock knock" (which, yeah...don't do that), and various other noises and brouhahas that contributed to my every day in my last office.

Here, I can procrastinate in peace.

The problem, however, is that I am...how shall I put this? A loud-ass bitch. I talk loud, I walk loud, I type loud, I think loud even, and I'm not even sure how that's possible. And also? I guess I chew about as daintily as a yak working over some particularly gristly cud.

I've only discovered this since I started working in a cavernously echoey tomb, of course.

This office has 20 foot high ceilings, hardwood floors (upon which my high-high heels go clippity-CLOMP every time I have to pee, which, seeing as how I consume approximately three liters of water daily, is pretty much always), and treMENdous acoustics.

And while I do enjoy my own private office (hip-hip...hooRAY! Hip-hip! Hoo-RAY!!!!!), the walls only go up a standard 10 feet or so. Which actually makes for a very pretty office indeed, but also allows for the guy sitting at the other end of the hall from me to hear that guttural, alarmingly hog-like noise the back of my throat makes when I eat my fat-free pudding.

I'm really starting to get a complex about this.

(This is the point where you're asking yourself, "isn't this blog supposed to be about shoes and beer and wine and stuff?)

Oh, all right.

Pretty Shoe That Sarah Wants of the Day:

Very niiiice, make sexytime?

Christian Louboutin Tassel Slingbacks. It's like the shoe has a TAIL! A pretty, pretty tail!

Clippity Clomp!

November 14, 2006

Pink Does More Than You Think (Like Make Me Sick)

So yeah, this blog looks Pepto-y. And watching Gilmore Girls tonight made me all nauseated (it's nauseated people, not nauseous, got it?). And then I saw that Pepto Bismol commercial that makes me question my own humanity, becuase I'd really like to find the ad agency that came up with it and throw everyone on that account team into a wood chipper.

Pepto Bismol people: So, what do you got?

Account Team: Well, we've got a line of people doing a macarena-like dance, clutching their tummies to show that they got a rumbly, and then clutching their ASSES to show that they're about to spray diarrhea everywhere!

PB people: I love it!

The result, which may turn out to be a terrific advertisement...for TIVO, so I can fast forward through it.

The Weekly Numbers

Occasionally on my MySpace blog I would post a little rundown of numbers on mundane things. I always enjoyed this, so I've decided to make it the first official feature of Fu Manch Shoes.

Each week I will force myself to post a set of numbers on just about anything that occurs to me. This way, I will force myself to write at least once per week, even if it's just a bunch of shite about how many iced coffees I've consumed in the previous seven days. I know this makes you extremely excited, as there isn't much more exciting than reading a Bridget Jones style rundown of a girl's caloric intake.

But never fear, I'm rather clever when motivated (which, if you equate my cleverness motivation to my "going to the gym" motivation, is somewhere in the vicinity of "next to never," which hopefully won't make you too pessimistic on the forthcoming quality of this blog), so I hope to make the Weekly Numbers an entertaining feature if at all possible. That, and I figure they are as good a thing as any for the first posting here.

Without further ah-doo:

Number of times Sarah had to punch in the code to the garage door opener before the (fucking) thing finally (fucking) opened: 6, due to the difficulty of doing, oh, anything these days due to super-expensive, super-unneccessary, super-taking-food-out-of-the-mouths-of-Sally-Struthers'-children fake nails (see also: computer keyboards, atm machines, blackberry, cell phone, bags of marshmallows, feminine hygeine products, Lean Cuisine boxes, remote controls). But oh well, because, pretty!

Pwetty!

(You knew it was coming eventually and you're surprised I didn't lead with it; also if you think it won't be in the Numbers every week, well, you'd be wrong) Number of Dunkin Iced coffees consumed by Sarah this past week: I think about 5. Sarah runs on Dunkin'.

Yummy!

Gym visits: 4

Jack and Cokes: 8, all on Saturday night at McG's with Kelly, which coicidentally leads us to the next number,

Poorly sung karaoke renditions of "Don't Stop Believin'": 1 (Kelly held the microphone about 4 feet from her face while serving as my "backup singer," thanks for that babe.)

New pairs of shoes purchased: 2, if you count the frakkin adorable ankle boots my mommy bought me for Christmas but then rudely announced that I could not wear until AFTER Christmas. But they are cute nooooooow!!!!!! ~pouts~ I also picked up my very first pair of stripper shoes from a line by none other than Jessica "He's Dating Miss Maxim 2006 And I've Got Pudgy Geeks Denying Our Relationship" Simpson. They are stripper in the sense that they have plasticky platforms (leopard print, rowr!) and heels, and AWESOME in the sense of, well, their awesomeness. This picture does them zero justice.

Rowr!

Guys with mullets and questionable facial hair that attempted to pick me up with stories of their 15 year old son getting them stoned on their 30th birthdays (yeah, I did the math too): 1, but dang if he didn't do a helluva rendition of "Copa Cabana" a little while later.

And finally, number of pounds shed since returning to the Granite State:

Ta-daaaa!

Inser your town "Ta daaaaaaaaaa!" here.

Now if you'll excuse me, "Gilmore Girls" is on. I have to go into the living room and confuse the hell out of my father by yelling out things like "No! NO! Christopher is a JACKHOLE!" at the television.