Fu Manch Shoes

Au Revoir, Nouveau Shire

2008-10-28T00:07:00.002-04:00

And so, this is my last night in Manch Vegas.

Therefore, this is the last entry in FuManchShoes...can hardly have a Manch blog while living elsewhere, can I?

But never fear, I'll post the link as soon as I get my new home up and running, and you can count on me to continue to provide remarkably sporadic updates on my miserable love life, and my ever-increasing frosting consumption.

Until then....

Supermarket Sweep

2008-10-21T20:41:00.002-04:00

I am absolutely shallow enough to believe that the quality of man I attract says something about me. Everyone knows that eights end up with eights, and fours with fours. And so on.

I'm probably about a 5 at the moment, but the self esteem reading has been hovering closer to a 2 for the better part of a year, and I think a combination of those factors has allowed me to become quite a hot ticket with the "total loser" element. It is quite an alarming wake up call to realize that the guy who may or may not be mentally impaired keeps hitting on me at the supermarket.

I go to this market near the office a couple times a week to buy sushi for lunch when I'm feeling healthy and 3 or 4 boxes of Oreo Cakesters and a gallon of Hi-C when I'm not.

Regardless, a couple weeks ago this dude was stocking shelves and as I walked past turned to me and said "Wow you look really nice today."

I was tempted to point out that he must think that "nice" means "bloated and zitty," but chose to just say "uh, thanks?" and keep moving. I was wearing a dress and stuff. If he'd been scoping me out for a while he must have been thrown off that I wasn't wearing my usual work outfit of jeans, flip flops, a dumpy sweater, and pungent despair.

Then on Tuesday this week, I saw him again as I was pulling into a parking spot. He was collecting the shopping carts and waved at me enthusiastically, as though we were friends. Bemused, I threw a "WTF" smile and a little wave back at him--big mistake. This emboldened him enough to come up and say hello the second I got out of the car.

"Hi!"
"Hi..."
"..."
"Uh, see ya."

Look, I'm all for guys saying hello when they think a girl is pretty or something. Hey, you never know right? So I know I'm not coming off very well here, and it's not like I'm a frigging beauty queen. Like I said, I'm a 5 on a good day. But this guy? Me and my coworker debated for a few minutes straight about whether or not he was possibly "special." He looked a little like Ron Howard's creepy looking brother.

Which, really, no offense to Ron Howard's brother or anything, but I wouldn't date him either. Oh! Maybe it was closer to the molester guy from "Little Children" who also was Kelly Leak from "Bad News Bears" all grown up, which is wrong on a hundred levels, mostly because that movie ends with him cutting off his own horn and Moe from "Beautiful Girls" rushing him to the hospital.

So yeah, not the best ego boost, that one.

Then there's the Jesus Lover I dated earlier this year, who is now dating a young woman who may or may not be mentally impaired. She's obviously not, but she basically looks...off. Like maybe a little inbred or something. I generally think of my appearance these days as approximately 148 miles of bad road, and I still think I'm about 537 times better looking than this chick.

So does this mean that Jesus Lover Loves Ugly Women?

AND DOES THAT MEAN I'M UGLY?

Between this and the shopping cart guy, it's looking like my drought is going to extend far into 2009.

Probably for the best.

Dear ManchVegas - Eat a Bag of Dicks

2008-10-15T12:51:00.001-04:00

Editor's Note: I need to update, so I am posting this, which I wrote in August but never published because I wanted to edit it. Then I never edited it.

So it's old, but still possibly entertaining...More later!

Yesterday (August 15th-ish) evening:

534pm: Fu leaves work, in a rush because she has to run a quick errand and go home to change before heading down to Boston for a dinner.

550pm: Fu gets off her usual exit, furrows brow at odd traffic backup.

601pm: Fu has moved 2 feet in 11 minutes, getting annoyed, starts to feel familiar signs of frustration building, which Fu does not deal with well (blood pumping harder, tight throat, mild rage)

609pm: Fu finally realizes that the traffic backup is because the bridge leading to her street has been shut down. An accident maybe? Odd.

615pm: After pulling a u-turn and going one exit down the highway to find an alternate route, Fu encounters still more traffic, still more road blocks. What the heck is going on here? She finally makes her way through towards a roundabout route to her street and encounters her third roadblock. This one is manned by a cop, and at 622pm, 32 minutes after she should have arrived home, she asks him:

Fu: What's all this road block action about?
Cop: It's the race.
Fu: The huh?
Cop: The 5k. It's been in the papers.
Fu: Well I need to get to Fu Road.
Cop: Sure, just try the bridge.
Fu: The bridge is shut down.
Cop: Hmm. Well you need to move along.
Fu: But I need to get HOME.
Cop: Well, where do you live?
FU: FU ROAD.
Cop: The bridge is closed.

OHMYFUCKINGGOD.

632pm: After driving around and trying three more ways to get home and encountering only roadblocks, a single tear of rage works its way down Fu's face. She encounters another cop:

Fu: (tears) I need to get home!
Cop: (no sympathy) WHere do you live?
Fu: Fu road.
Cop: Oh. Well you need to wait until the race is over. That road is blocked.
Fu: So I can't go HOME? I LIVE THERE.
Cop: Well, the road is blocked. But don't worry it's only a 5k and it just started!
Fu: What if I had medication I had to take at a SPECIFIC TIME?
Cop: DO you?
Fu: Yes. Yes I do. Its my rage-control meds. (In reality: "No. Hmph. But I COULD.")
Cop: Don't worry the race will be over soon.
Fu: Yeah. Like your MOM.
Cop: What?
Fu: Nothing.

651pm a full hour after she should have been home, Fu finds another cop.

Fu: WTF, dude.
Cop: Can I help you?
Fu: Yeah. I need to get to my HOUSE. ON FU ROAD.
Cop: Oh, it's closed.
Fu: Ok, yes. It's closed. Why did I not know this would be happening so I could plan accordingly and take my anti-homicidal rage medication with me? Because now youv'e just put everyone in my eyesight at risk. Seriously.
Cop: It's been in the papers for weeks.
Fu: You didn't think, oh, maybe a flyer for my apartment community might have helped? What if I didn't speak English well? What if I subscribed to the NY Times instead of the crap assed Union Leader?
Cop: The race will be over soon.
Fu: Yeah, and hopefully this squirrel over here instructing me to kill kill kill will hold off until then.

Also? Eat a bag of dicks. I was 90 minutes late to my dinner.

OMFGERRRRRMS!!!! Nooo!

2008-08-26T21:26:00.003-04:00

Okay, I'm sorry, but what the fuck.

Why am I the only person (girl, in particular) in America who is not afraid of germs? Maybe it's because I don't really get sick all that often, so I'm not particularly paranoid about it, but it seems to me that far too much energy in America is devoted to rampant germ fear mongering.

I was at a concert last week, and my friend chose to desperately hold in her pee and avoid having any more beers in order to avoid the porto-johns. Look, porto-johns are gross. No one likes using them. The thought of the big trough of foulness just a couple feet below where I am peeing is hardly pleasant, but for goodness sake, stop being such a priss and hold your damn breath. You're not going to die.

What's most hilarious to me are all my girlfriends who are the biggest germophobes have shown zero qualms in the past about sticking their tongues down strangers' throats after one too many jager bombs--Newsflash ladies: You're going to catch way, way more diseases from that guy's tongue than you will from sitting down on the damn toilet seat in the bathroom:

SO QUIT PEEING ON IT.

This is my number one thing. You can tell me I'm disgusting, and who knows, maybe I am. But unless it's a truly questionable bathroom (such as, for example, those aforementioned porto-johns), I just freaking sit down. I don't know about you, but when I sit down to pee, I'm not rubbing my vadge all over the toilet seat. Instead, two small portions of the backs of my thighs nowhere near my orifices touch the seat.

I am also not pissing all over it like a disgusting dog in an effort to merely hover over it, protecting my pristine ass cheeks from exposure to...what exactly?

Studies have shown that there are about a thousand other surfaces in most public restrooms that are more vile and germ-covered than the toilet seat. Like the door handle, and the soap dispensers (irony!) and, oh yeah, the floor.

I just wish people would relax about germs. It seems so silly to me. We come into contact with a lot of disgusting shit every day if you think about it. Money, door handles, pets, keyboards (oh yes, your keyboard at work is probably full of more bacteria than the toilet seat), etc....

So chill out! Do what I do! Keep clean, wash your hands, use the Purell if that tickles your fancy, and just relax. For all you know you're going to get a piano dropped on your head tomorrow anyway, and I'll bet then you'll wish you'd drank an extra beer at that Journey concert.

All I know is that I have a couple big time germophobe friends and I get sick about 10 times less than they do. Probably because I allow myself to come into contact with more germs, and I build an immunity. We could all learn a thing or two from Westley, don't you know. You'll never build up a good immunity to iocaine powder if you avoid it altogether, you know what I mean?

The Rejection Scheme

2008-07-29T22:11:00.006-04:00

You know what I figured out lately? I put up with an awful lot of bullcrap from men who aren't even necessarily worth it. Actually, shit, no man is worth putting up with bullcrap. I keep forgetting.

The basic formula is as follows (not to be confused with my dating formula, wherein I ignore all these things willingly and get SUPER DUPER EXCITED every time I meet a guy).

I meet a guy, convince myself he's not totally douchetastic (even though he usually is) and then basically allow him to act like a shit to me while making excuses about it. 9 times out of 10, the guy isn't even my boyfriend when he's being the douche, that's the extra pathetic twist.

So, how to break this pattern? Celibacy and lesbianism are no solutions. One, I mean really, I like dick. Two, right now I got 99 problems and a bitch ain't one, and I'm not really looking to change that. Who needs 100 problems, including a bitch, right?

I'm starting by rejecting someone. This guy I met last weekend really likes me, constantly sending flirty texts, telling me of my hotness (snort! riiight) etc.

But I am not really into him. He's nice, sure. But there's no pop or whathaveyou, and he lives a couple hours away. So he's out. I'm going to fully reject him. And, drunk on power, I'm also going to reject the next three guys that are interested.

Now, based on my current appearance and general poor attitude and recent tendency to dress like a hobo, it's highly possible I won't find three guys who are interested for like, three decades.

Which might solve the problem, really. But wait, I did say I wasn't into the celibacy angle. Hmm..Okay, three guys, including the guy I am currently rejecting.

So I figure, two more victims, and I might have enough gumption to finally find someone worth my fucking time.

And in the meantime, I have to return this text I got from that guy who dumped me on IM and then hit on other girls in front of me like a night after we totally had sex, BECAUSE I AM A PATHETIC LOSER.

The Pursuit of Misery

2008-07-08T12:44:00.003-04:00

Ok, so I keep getting comments about how I'm a Debbie Downer, Negative Nelly, Sad Sack Sally, whathaveyou lately, and how all I do is complain about my life, and blah blah blah, do I need to worry about you, blah blah blah.

Yes. Yes, this is true. And I am sorry about it...I think I am just going through a phase.

I mean, I know it's not fun to be around someone who is constantly moaning about everything in their life that sucks. And I know I am whinging on a lot, and engaging in quite a bit of a self-indulgent pity party bonanza the last few weeks....I do feel bad if I am bumming anyone out and making you worry, there's really no need to, it's just a rough patch, so chillax!

(I hate the word "chillax," it sounds like they made a fro-yo version of the special yogurt that makes you shit.)

(Oooh, I should copyright that shit right there, that's a million dollar idea. "Feeling bound up? You need to Chillax!" (TM) )

What's the point in faking, right? I don't really subscribe to the whole "put on a happy face" thing. If I am miserable, I'm, well, miserable. It happens to most humans at times, and I think some nice venting and maybe, yes, a bit of self pity can be helpful.

If it drags on for weeks, ok, maybe it starts to get old (and I know I'm reaching that point). If it drags on for months, ok, maybe it'll be rubber room time for old Fu. Like, don't let this go on through the end of summer or anything. Are straightjackets slimming? Hmm...

But I really don't think it's going to get to that point.

I just am feeling adrift as of late. Writing out that top ten list was extremely cathartic for me, because it really did bring my murky issues into specific relief, most specifically number seven:

7) While generally content with current job, fully recognizing that will need to move on eventually, but having ZERO clue what to do next or where to do it.

I have no clue where I'm heading, and it's causing minor to serious panic. All that other stuff that's wrong (gut, pathetic dating life, lots of consumer debt related to tendency to shop for joy) is generally fixable.

And the career and direction stuff is fixable too....but the answer to that one isn't as obvious as "get on a treadmill, join eHarmony, cut up credit cards and stop using shoes as baby replacers, especially since you generally wear fucking flip flops when you leave the house these days."

So anyhow, to those who have expressed concern and annoyance at my emotional state, don't worry. And here's a list to make you feel better:

Top Ten Things That Are Not Miserable About Fu's Life at the Moment:

10) Currently in possession of dream car that I've been lusting over for about 4 years.

9) Terrific family, even if my sister is starting to resemble one of those Hollywood ladies that you complain about being too skinny when really you are just jealous and wish that you could slice cheese on your collarbones.

8) In these trying economic times, while I do have too much debt, I also am fairly comfortably middle class. I'm not struggling to make ends meet and if I could just stop drinking (ha!!!) I'd have loads of disposable income.

7) I have an outline and a couple rough pages of ideas for the book I am starting, which will likely take years and years and years to complete, knowing my penchant for procrastinating, but at least it's an idea.

6) Excellent friends, so excellent I am constantly being told I need to move across the country to be closer to them or told I need to stay put so as to not leave them. Also, they make awesome karaoke partners, as my friend Kelly and I have started to make a career out of our Wilson Phillips renditions (I play Carnie, natch).

5) Well, ok, despite my recent adoption of a dreadfully dour and pessimistic attitude, I'm still pretty much awesome, and potentially the coolest person you know.

4) I am running out of ideas here, so I'll say that hey, at least I live in America, where I will not be beaten to death for dishonoring my family by getting raped, and am still in full possession of my clitoris. While I have some serious issues with the way things are going here lately, I am still very, very, VERY grateful to have been born here. I need my clitoris people, it's all I've got going for me these days!

3) It's summer, which means I am tan, especially right now after spending full days at both the beach and the pool this weekend.

2) Oh yeah, my apartment complex has a pool! That's a reason for happiness right there.

1) My life, in general, is happy and fulfilled and I have been very lucky. I've experienced tragedy, but minimally in comparison to others. I've never lost a close family member, I've never been a victim of a crime worse than pickpocketing (though if I ever catch THAT bastard, he'd better watch out), I go on nice vacations (Nashville in 2 months, Mexico in 5, woot!), I have cute kitties, I am generally good looking despite recent resemblance to Jabba the Hut, I do have about 100 pair of adorable shoes and other cute clothes and accessories, and all and all my life has been good.

Which is why I don't mind wallowing a bit lately. Yes, I'm fairly miserable, but yes, I know that it's GOT to be temporary. And if it isn't, well, I guess my book will veer more towards Sylvia Plath than its current David Sedaris direction.

(Ha, as if I could write as well as either of them, but you get my point.)

Anyway, I must get back to work, but for god's sake quit worrying about me.

How Do I Stop Being a Psycho?

2008-07-01T16:43:00.001-04:00

Ok, so naturally, as with all things where I'm a total psycho and can't help but be, I have this guy situation.

Over a month ago, I liked this boy. A lot. Because, as we know, I get way too excited when I meet boys and turn into Tommy Boy in a sales pitch, it ended up with me getting burned.

We went out a couple times, I knew he was seeing someone but he made it seem like more of a casual fling, "I barely see her...it's more of a casual hookup thing right now...we never talk", but then she went and became his girlfriend and our constant flirtation was suddenly all "ohhh well I thought we were just friends, yeah that time we fooled around was just drunkenness even though it happened sober as well along with lots of power-cuddling, what, friends don't do that?"

And even though my brain is capable of logic, and I know he actually treated me shitty, I haven't been able to stop being friends with him. The question is: can I get over this if I am still friends with him? Probably not. But why am I incapable of excising these cretins from my life? I did the same thing with Mr. Jesus, who came crawling back begging for friendship after DUMPING ME ON IM.

So ladies, how do you get over it? I try deleting him from my phone but he still texts on occasion and still IMs on occasion (though with nowhere near the all-day-every-day (no seriously, all.day.every.day) fervor of pre-girlfriend). We are still "online friends" on the social networking site we both frequent. He still messages me there too, and I feel like it would be petty and immature to "de-friend" him.

I'll grant him the "credit" that at least he talks to me 99% less than he did before. He probably realizes that at the very least, our "misunderstanding" was a result of the fact that we talked to each other approximately 300 times more than we talked to anyone else in our lives.

Sometimes, I really wish that mind-erasing thing people use to get over people from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless mind was real. It would make my life so much easier!

Write Me a Story, Bitch

2008-06-25T21:39:00.008-04:00

So sayeth my friend James on my MySpace page, and I tend to listen to complaints about the lack of updates to this blog when they include profanity. Just a little hint for the future.

I haven't had anything particularly amusing to say lately. I keep this blog to be entertaining, but considering I've felt 100% "meh" for approximately, oh, a year now, that is the reason the blog doesn't get updates. I read through old posts on this and other blogs I've kept and I used to be downright jubilant and, if I may say, hilarious. I'm not feeling that anymore.

Top Ten Reasons Why Fu's Life Sucks Balls and She Doesn't Feel Like Writing About it (aka Pity, Party of One):

10) Despite having been on a diet since 2002 that was initially successful, has only grown to be the size of Jabba the Hut's fatter sister in recent months, and is usually about as sweaty.

9) Despite being two years out of her most recent serious relationship, her only other "relationship" not with a bottle of alcohol has been with a born again 22 year old college student Christian guy who dumped her twice and could never afford to even buy her drinks or take her to a movie.

8) Number 9 may be a result of Manch dating pool, which is, shall we say, "shallow," but even more so for those women who resemble Jabba the Hut.

7) While generally content with current job, fully recognizing that will need to move on eventually, but having ZERO clue what to do next or where to do it.

6) Friends all getting boyfriends, social life consisting of cats.

5) Roommate who looks like a younger, hotter, thinner Tea Leoni and gets a new boyfriend once a week as though she were picking up a pack of cigs at the corner store. "Say, can I get you a boyfriend while I'm out? I have so many extras, you can just take one!"

4) Roommate-induced decrease in the amount of rent paid per month has done nothing to affect size of monthly credit card bills. Must lay off the kitty litter with the odor-absorbing diamonds. Oh, and the shoes.

3) The other day while at lunch, left the top down on the new convertible and came out to a torrential downpour.

2) Have reached an age, finally, wherein my favorite bar in Manch is no longer acceptable for me to frequent. Find myself complaining loudly about the loud music and "all the kids." Am two years, max, away from being the mean old spinster cat lady telling all the neighborhood kids to get off my lawn.

1) Oh, wait, would need a lawn for that. And to buy a house would need either money, or a husband with money. So nevermind, I guess. Maybe I'll tell them to get away from my mobile home?

I am, however, cheered by my friend Sara's check written in a drunken stupor to her babysitter, whose last name she couldn't remember. So she fudged it. This is kind of hilarious, perhaps only to me and the people who were there that night to witness her drunkenness. Also, 80 bucks? Jesus, I should be babysitting on the side, I'll have a house in no time. (Click image to read my comments)

Soy Joy, Oh Boy

2008-04-30T21:28:00.003-04:00

I've been eating soy-based cheese alternative.

That's what it says on the package. "Alternative." Is this fake cheese from Seattle? Was it the original drummer in Nirvana? Was the song really "Smells like Fake Cheese"? (Ew.)

So yes, I haven't eaten any meat (save a hangover-induced lean cuisine chicken flatbread sandwich on Sunday, and a shrimp stir fry earlier this week) in over two weeks.

At one point I'd lost seven pounds from this goddamn sonofabitch diet, but it changes on a daily basis as I go up 4, down 3, up 2, down 5, etc etc until I want to shoot myself in the freaking face...or maybe just chop off a limb. That'd have to be good fro 20 lb, right? Right????

This is what I don't get. I gained so much weight by eating like a disgusting pig and never going to the gym. I've been a freaking saint on both counts for more than 2 weeks, and I can hardly lose 4 pounds? I still weight 15 pounds more than I did a year ago, and only THEN will I be back to where I started, which is actually 25 pounds more than where I was a year before that.

And the most hilarious part about that, is that at that point, 40 whole pounds lighter than I am now, I was miserable because THAT was 40 whole pounds more than I was at my lightest.

See how this math can get depressing?

But anyhow, there is a silver lining.

I feel fantastic, I like the diet, and eating healthy does please me. I don't eat anything that isn't fairly all-natural, wholesome, high-fiber, etcetera. And the exercise is doing some good at least, because my clothes feel looser. Although really, I'm tired of hearing all this bullshit about "inches". What, I'm going lose like 10 inches off my waistline all without losing more than 5 pounds? GIVE ME A BREAK.

Oh whoops, that part was supposed to be silver lining.

In other news, I've got a roommate for the first time in four years and it's definitely weird.

Let me ask you guys something: are the mysteries of the modern shower curtain really so hard to fathom? I mean, really.

I'm no neat freak by any stretch, but when people do the following it makes me NUTS:

1) Leave the shower curtain open after shower. Yes, can I please have sopping wet linen all smooshed together in the corner? I'm just dying to grow some nice crusty mildew.

2) Pull the curtain into the shower along with the liner. This one is an especially annoying bullshit thing to do. The liner is waterproof. it's designed to get wet. The curtain is made of fabric, it can get stained, or moldy, or just plain gross. WHY DO PEOPLE DO THIS????

I think the culprit is her freaking boyfriend, who, oh yes, has been flat-out living with us. Three out of the last four weeks. Seriously.

She told me when she applied that he comes to stay for like a week at a time, maaaybe a week and a half. Right.

So after he leaves this time I'm going to have to tell her that he has to limit his visits or pay rent. Because damn. And I know he is the shower culprit, damnit.

But really otherwise it's good. She is nice, she keeps to herself, and she knows the bf always being probably bugs me, because when he is here they are almost always in her room, so I never have to duke it out for TV control.

But srsly, me and my fake cheese are getting tired of not losing any weight.

FAKE CHEESE, people!

Well, Clearly This Won't Last

2008-04-16T21:55:00.004-04:00

So I've just completed Day 3 of a nine-day detox, also known as Phase 1 of the "Fat Smash Diet."

My friend talked me into it after doing it herself and losing 30 pounds pretty rapidly, and probably also becuase she was sick of listening to me complain about needing to start a diet but never actually starting one, and using every excuse in the book to justify this diet and exercise avoidance.

"I have a cast on my hand! I couldn't possibly eat anything but ice cream."

"I just got dumped! That requires looooads of ice cream. And booze. Sweet, delicious booze."

"Dude. It's like, Wednesday. Clearly, hamburgers are in order."

It is the same diet they do on "Celebrity Fit Club," which prompted this exchange:

"Is this the guy that screams at them and calls them fat and is mean!?!?"
"No, that's the trainer guy. This is the doctor guy. He still calls them fat but he's like, nice about it."

Anyway, I'm exhausted, because I've been exercising lately (omg!) and am surviving on next to no food yet somehow am not that hungry.

Today for example:

1/2 Cup PLAIN (as in, Quaker freakin Oats, not prepackaged flavored) oatmeal made with skim milk and mixed with strawberries and a little splenda
Minneola (like an orange, but juicier, and with a nipple)

1 cup brown rice
6 oz fat free plain yogurt mixed with raspberries
Medium sweet potato
Grapes

I'd say that adds up to, like, maybe 1,000 calories, depending on how many grapes I ate. 1,200 tops. But I wouldn't really know because the plan does not call for calorie counting, it just calls for not eating bullshit.

So it's interesting, and the fact that alcohol and coffee and diet coke is forbidden, along with every single liquid in the world except for water, means I will likely not last.

BUT, we'll see.

Now I have to go to bed, because did I mention I'm exhausted?

Bzzzz...

2008-04-09T15:10:00.004-04:00

Okay, so, to recover from yesterday's ill-conceived rant about how hard it is to be a fattie in a world made for skinnies (or, at least, skinnies and in-betweenies) (Heh, "weenies"), I shall now discuss a completely different and slightly salacious topic: how everything is a vibrator these days.

I noticed a post on Jezebel (my favoritest site ever except maybe for TWoP, oh and Go Fug Yourself, oh and Cute with Chris...nevermind, but it's awesome) a few weeks back discussing this and thought to myself "I've been saying that for a year now!"

But seriously, I currently own three regular household items that vibrate, and are not vibrators. Although come to think of it, my actual vibrator isn't supposed to be one either. (The Hitachi Magic Wand--they pretty much only sell it in sex shops and online adult toy sites, but it comes in this crazy 70's style box labeling it as a muscle massager and showing placid women holding it up to their necks and shoulders).

1) My toothbrush. I think it's an Oral B (hehe) but I can't really remember. All I know is that I'm pretty sure it vibrates more in my hand than it does on my gums, and I really don't think my teeth get any cleaner.

2) My razor. Now this one is just ridic. We KNOW that this is just an excuse for Gillette to laugh all the way to the bank while we pony up 20 bucks for a freaking razor, right? You want to know the best shave I ever got? It was with a fucking pink Daisy disposable with a moisture strip. I was on vaca and forgot my razor, so bought disposables in the hotel, and that damned moisture strip did such a good job that I hardly even needed separate moisturizer after. Seriously. And yet? I own this ridiculous vibrating razor that dries out my legs like they were Bea Arthur's vadge. I really don't get myself sometimes.

3) My face wash. A couple weeks ago I was peeing in Tilton's Tanger Outlets and saw this big poster indicating I could receive a free Dove tote (which is actually wicked cute) and tons of free Dove samples if I spent $150 or more. Well wouldn't you know it? I'd just dropped that same amount on my new Coach bag! In the tote was this. A full-on, straight-up vibrator. You attach facewash pads to it. It's the craziest sensation ever, and vibrates so strongly it felt like it was knocking my teeth loose. There are DEFINITELY women getting off with this thing in the shower or something.

Since things that vibrate seems to be all the craze right now, I think they should just go ahead and make everything a vibrator. Why not?

Feeling a little hot and heavy in the kitchen while watching that angry chef guy, or the naked one or something? No problem, just whip out your vibrating ice cream scoop (also good for a post-coital snack).

Bored at work? Vibrating computer mouse, at your service.

Sick of your workout at the gym? Well you know something dirty can be made out of those wacky machines that make you feel like you're at the gyno.

I'm telling you, it's a vibrating world out there.

In other news, I got a new license today. My old license was basically like the Cosmo Girl meets Glamour Shots image of Fu, probably helped by the fact that I was like a kagillion pounds lighter when it was taken.

My new one is basically the double-chinned Down's Syndrome version of Fu. I'm really glad of two things:

1) The only people who will ever see it are the Middle Eastern guys down at the Cumby where I buy beer (and I'm pretty sure they want to marry me so maybe it will help in that situation), bouncers, cops, and TSA officials.

2) That I got a matching wallet for my new purse, and it does not have a license window. Huzzah!

So sad they confiscated my old one though. There will never be another photo taken of me in which I look better, even if I did get back down to that fighting 2004 weight. Sigh.

Oh for the love of...

2008-04-08T13:28:00.003-04:00

I was having a lovely day, then I had to go and read this bullshit.

To spare you from having to read it, it's basically this: It should be okay to discriminate against and hate fat people. Because they CHOOSE to "stuff their pieholes with Big Macs" (yeah, right here? Never had a Big Mac in my life.) and therefore like, totally deserve it.

Sigh.

It's not even the article that's making my head explode, although it really is just the biggest load of shit I've ever read, and I can't even believe that it made the front damn page of the Huffington Post (the guy throws around all sorts of crazy generalizations without a single scientific fact to back any of them up). It's the comments.

What's hilarious to me about reading any article having to do with weight/obesity/fitness/whatever, is that every single person who comments on it is immediately a goddamn EXPERT on exactly what's going on in someone else's body--or in their kitchen, bedroom, gym membership, whatever.

Just look at the comments, "most fat people," "the VAST majority of fat people," "maybe 5% of fat people"....everyone throwing around stats willy nilly and using them to justify acting hateful towards a specific group. Because if you CHOOSE something, you like, totally DESERVE to be hated and discriminated against.

Yes. Because all fatties? We WANT to look this way. We want to be actually mooed at from moving cars when we go out to jog (and yes, this has happened to me--my favorite thing is that the same people bitching that fatties should "get off your butt and exercise" are probably the same ones who enjoy making fun of those who do. It's a damned if you do, damned if you don't situation, "Get off your butt and exercise! Just not in front of me, or I will publicly shame you for trying to be healthier, because you deserve it, now stop being fat at me!"). We sit at home at night with...now what is that fat-hating people always accuse us of?...oh yes, "piles of Twinkies" and "tubs of ice cream" chortling to ourselves about how GREAT it's going to be to be made fun of and laughed at and marginalized.

What gets to me most about articles like this is what I call the "Virginia clause," where the guy wrote the famous article "Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus," because the little girl said in her letter that her dad claimed, "If it's in the Post, it must be so."

As soon as people who enjoy feeling morally superior to fatties see anything backing up their hatred in any sort of legitimate news source, they use it as an excuse to be hateful. Just LOOK at the comments on that article!

There are people saying that because no one comes out of a concentration camp fat, that it is proof that fat isn't genetic.

Okay. (deep breath) People in the concentration camps were FUCKING STARVING, YOU RAGING DICKWAD.

As in, they were denied almost any food at all. Oh, clearly, this is the solution. Let's throw all the fatties in a work camp (another brilliant commenter idea), starve them all half to death and expect them to live on that diet for the rest of their lives.

GREAT IDEA.

Oh, then there was this charming exchange in response to someone rightly pointing out that no one would ever encourage actively hating any other group of people, blacks for example:

"No one is suggesting we lynch fat people."

"Of course not, the rope would break."

LOVELY. And Ridley is claiming there's no such thing as weight discrimination? Suuuure. Then there's the guy who actively admits that if he had to choose between hiring two equally qualified candidates for a job, he'd choose a thin person over a fattie, because OBVIOUSLY if a person is large it means they have no self-discipline and would be more likely to miss days due to all their "health problems" (and yeah, right here, normal cholesterol, normal blood pressure, normal everything, totally healthy). I kind of hope that guy hires a perfectly thin cokehead or heroin addict as karma for his complete idiocy.

Are there plenty of fat people who eat out-of-control and are sedentary and unhealthy? Yep. Definitely. I've known plenty. But are there also fat people who exercise regularly, make good food choices, but still are not societally acceptable weights? Yep, I've been one of them. And are there also thin people who eat like pigs and never exercise? Yep, I've known plenty of them and so have you.

Why is it that people go on and on and on and on and ON about how "simple" the calories in/calories out math is, but never take the "heavy eating thin person" into consideration? Why is a fast metabolism easy to accept, but a slow one isn't? Is it because the person with the fast metabolism has a body that society doesn't direct us to hate?

My sister and I grew up eating the same shit, playing outside for the same amount of time, taking the same swimming lessons and skiing lessons and playing on the same soccer teams. She was skinny as a rail, and I was always a chunk. Same with my dad (skinny) and his brother (chunk). Actually, I beat the crap out of her at swimming, I was the one bringing home ribbons and medals, all while being (gasp!) fatter than her skinny ass.

But regardless of any of this crap about the science (which is INSANELY complex..go buy a biology book and try to comprehend the vastness of information that's out there on the human metabolism and how different it can be from person to person), regardless of anything: why is it okay to actively hate on someone?

Do we really think "if I just hate them and shame them and humiliate them and denigrate them enough, THAT will make them skinny?"

Please! I don't care if you are the laziest, fattest human on the planet who really DOES stuff your "piehole" with, um, pie, or Big Macs or donuts....You still deserve to be treated with the same respect that anyone else does. No one "deserves" to be hated.

Except maybe like, child molesters or something. Oh! Especially FAT child molesters.

Taking a Bible Beating

2008-03-25T20:40:00.010-04:00

Oh, for Christ's sake.

Where did I leave off? Oh yeah, he'd dumped me. Well, that lasted all of three seconds, because I'm the shit, I mean, come on. Would you be able to stay away? So he came back, admitted his mistake, and everything was relatively peachy for the last 6 or 7 weeks.

I say "relatively," because things can't really be that peachy when I'm not getting laid, let's be serious. But we still did, um, "other stuff," and it was okay, actually. I thought I liked him enough that his Jesus-loving wasn't going to be a big deal. We spent pretty much all our free time together, talked on the IM every day (this will be important soon), sang karaoke duets, he met my parents, we played Trivial Pursuit and Scene It and Cribbage (how many boys like Cribbage as much as me??? It was a match!) and basically were a fairly normal couple for a while there.

Then he had to go to fucking church.

He hadn't been in a while. I was actually glad for him, since I know how much he loves the Jesus.

I was glad until he came over that night to tell me that he prayed at church all afternoon, and while he was not breaking up with me (remember that later too), he did need to tell me that he could never make out with me or fool around with me, or even sleep in a bed next to me ever ever ever again. Because apparently Jesus wouldn't like it or something.

I'm not trying to dis Christians. Many friends of mine are seriously devoted Christians, and I have even been friends with a guy who felt just like the Boy did--no physical contact, not even kissing. The thing was, that guy sought out women who felt the same as did. Dated girls he met through church or Bible study. This guy has known what I'm about from the very beginning of our relationship.

Not to mention, we'd been doing PLENTY of physical contact before this. He was pulling a complete 180 in the middle of our relationship. You can't just follow the Bible "sometimes," and then have it cause a massive rift in your romantic involvement. I mean, come on.

And yet? I didn't dump him. I told him I wanted to think about what to do, and we have hung out a couple times since then.

Then today, he fucking IM'S ME, as in, sends me a fucking Instant Message (with my notes in bold):

well I have been thinking a long hard time about this and this is what I thought. I understood that my decision was going to be a shock to you, but I didn't think that you would respond in the way you did and have (Which I think means he thought I would dump him right away and spare him the trouble). I have tried to explain my feelings and all you keep telling me is how you don't think you can handle the situation. Well I have thought about it and I can't handle the situation either. I think you are a very fun nice girl (Oh, how nice), but we are far too different in our morals (SLUT!), political views (LIBERAL!), and belief systems. I need to be with someone who can share my feelings and beliefs and you need to be with someone who can do the same. We are just to different and I know I am taking the coward way out by typing you this (YOU THINK, DOUCHE??) but I am afraid I will not be able to in person (Because I am awesome and he doesn't really want to end it, but he thinks he has to because of God or something). Good luck with everything and I hope that you find what you are looking for. I am very thankful for everything you have done for me (I can't even tell you how nice I was to this guy, because it's too pathetic now) and the kindness you have shown me. God Bless and take care.

So look. Everything he says there is true. We ARE too different. And I was ultimately going to end our relationship too. But I was trying to slowly ease into it, because I enjoy spending time with him very much, and I thought we could just transition to friends.

But y'all? Ain't no goddamn (yeah that's right, goddamn) way I can be friends with someone who ends our relationship in a freaking instant message, and then immediately signs offline (or, more likely, just blocks me) without giving me even .0005 seconds to read it and respond.

So I did the only rational thing:

1) Called him up and left a voicemail bitching him out for being such a pussy.
2) Sent him a text informing him he is not actually 22, but 12, because only 12 year olds dump people on IM.
3) Sent him a much calmer email after I was calm (well, calmer) explaining just what I have in this post. That I wanted to be his friend, that he has disrespected me completely in a way that I didn't even think he was capable.

I'm officially a psycho--and the worst part is that I had no intention of contacting him again after all that, because he didn't respond and I do have some self-respect left.

But he has one of my favorite movies.

Do I let it go? I really want that movie, it's a Matt Damon movie! A girl can use a little Matt Damon after taking such a beating emotionally.

I think I have to let it go, because even if he gave it back to me, he'd probably like, mail it to me or something so he wouldn't have to see me, and that would be even more pathetic than everything else that's already happened.

Remember the resolution? I had said I was giving up boys for three monhts. Well, three months have almost gone by since then and I have been with The Jesus Boy for almost that long.

So now I'm renewing it as a Spring Resolution. Three months. If you so much as hear a peep from me about a damn boy anytime between now and July, I give you full license to just come on over and shoot me in the head.

I leave you with my favorite Tenacious D song about "doing it" (hehe), which is dirty and raunchy and features both Jesus and Satan! I find it quite appropriate:

Worst. Day. Evah.

2008-02-06T13:01:00.000-05:00

1) The new guy dumped me last night, and I reacted very, very poorly. Highly, highly embarassing in retrospect. I know, deep down, that it's probably the right thing to do because let's face it, I am too old to not be looking for someone with real long-term potential. And this guy was SUPER sweet, very cute (srsly, I never should have gotten him in the first place, it was ridic how cute I think he is), and very interesting....but not like, marriage material.

2) I also went and had an x-ray last night. The doc said I was all good, then calls me up today and says he missed a fracture in my lower little finger. I have to go back there in about an hour to get fitted for a typing-inhibiting brace/splint thingie.

3) I actually let myself get a bit weepy over the guy situation last night, and as a result today my eyes are hard little pits sunken into my head. I'm a wreck, and also have gotten absolutely fuck-all done at work.

And so? I am packing it in. I am going to the doctor for my stupid hand thing, and then taking the rest of the day off for mental health.

Siiiigh.

Mardi Graaaaaaaaaaaaah (and other stuff)

2008-02-05T11:19:00.000-05:00

I was in New Orleans for two days and three nights for Mardi Gras (yes, Mardi Gras is early this year, I'm very tired of explaining to people that Easter comes early sometimes, and that Mardi Gras is planned around Lent or whatever, because I'm insanely not religious so I can't explain it properly anyway, but I do know that Fat Tuesday is today, which means Lent starts tomorrow, which means Mardi Gras started last week, okay?).

Things I managed to avoid:

Puking on the street
Getting puke/excrement sludge on the cuffs of my jeans, something we were actually warned about on the plane on the way there (ew)
Making out with anyone ugly (or making out with anyone at all, come to think of it)
Getting groped/raped/molested or in other ways sexually harassed (ok this is only 95% true)

Things I did not manage to avoid:

Getting my boob grabbed by this old guy, but it was kind of my fault so I let it go, I was flirting with him because he bought me and my friends like 100 drinks and a $700 dinner at a fancy restaurant. Yes, I am a whore for swordfish.
Spraining (I think) my hand when some d-bag chucked a huge bag full o' beads at me off his float. You could argue he was trying to be nice by giving me so many beads, but he WHIPPED this thing, it bent two of my fingers all the way back, If he'd hit me in the face I'd have almost definitely lost some teeth. Fucker.
Learning the glory of taking really nice wine from a fancy restaurant out into the streets in a freaking "to go" cup. Ah, New Orleans.

All in all, a good time. I'd go back, but might be too old after this, because after only two full days my liver feels like it's about to explode. I imagine it's plotting its escape plan now, soon I will be in excruciating pain as it attempts to burrow out through my colon or something (ew).

I am not in a healthy enough mental state to discuss the SuperBowl yet. But basically? The Pats choked hard. I think this choke might even be worse than the 04 Yankees dropping four straight to the Sox after getting them on the ropes three games to none, but it probably just feels that way right now because my pain is still so fresh.

Okay, so I will give the Obligatory Romance Update.

I managed to NOT blow it on date three (inconceivable!) and have successfully continued seeing He of the New Year's Resolution Ruination (if you recall, I declared I was giving up dating for three months as my resolution). Though we haven't gotten to hang out much due to my insane travel schedule and his schooling schedule, I believe we are now at 6 dates, 100% more than my usual Tommy Boy Pretty Pet Freakout Blow It All point.

This is almost unprecedented. I can't even count The Ex, because he was (for whatever reason, though I attribute it to my thin-ness at the time of our meeting) so totally enamored of me in the early days it would have been near impossible to drive him away.

So, yeah, I'll keep you updated.

Speaking of thin-ness, I'm like....SO not. I've been getting really caught up in the Fat Acceptance movement lately, not actually doing anything to participate but getting thoroughly obsessed with reading blogs from some really freaking smart bitches who write about how, you know, fat people are actually people. (Who knew!? All this time I figured I was an alien from the planet Lardassonia, where Twinkies grow on trees--there HAS to be an explanation for Banana Twinkies, right?) (Mmmm, banana twinkies.)

Only problem--the point of those blogs is that they promote health at every size. Meaning, you can be fat and still healthy, and exercise, and all that great stuff.

Why is this a problem? Because while I am coming to terms with the fact that I will never ever ever evah be "thin," I'm also not so healthy lately. I drink like a sailor and eat shitty things, and haven't seen the inside of my gym in three months. D'oh.

So I think it's time to get back on that. I'm not going to re-join Weight Watchers for the 100th time, but I am going to at least try to embrace that "health" aspect of Health at Every Size.

Soooo, that's it I guess. I'll be back with Obligatory Romance Updates as they become available.

Resolution, Schmesolution

2008-01-24T10:58:00.000-05:00

It's so typical. The moment I boldly declare that I am swearing off men for my new year's resolution, I meet one.

Literally. I made the decision, and met one the NEXT DAY.

How is that even possible? Sigh. It's like the universe was waiting for me to give up entirely before dumping a cute guy who shares my love of karaoke into my lap.

I won't bother with details, since everyone who reads this blog has likely already heard all about the hows and whats surrounding the first couple dates, but here we have come to the dreaded third date.

The third date for me, is generally when things go to crap. Basically, I tend to get myself completely worked up when I start seeing someone. This overanalytic excited insanity is no doubt due to my overall lack of dating experience. I've got plenty of experience hooking guys in bars, but highly limited amounts of dating them for reals like. So I tend to lose it.

Ever seen Tommy Boy? I'll modify one of my favorite quotes from that film to explain:

"Let me tell you why I suck at dating. Let's say I meet a guy, let's say he's even remotely interested in dating me. Well then I get all excited! I'm like Jojo the Idiot Circus Girl with a pretty new pet! Now the pet is my possible relationship. Hello there pretty little pet, I love you! And then I stroke it, and I pet it, and I massage it. Hehe I love it, I love my little naughty pet! You're naughty! And then I take my naughty pet and I go GRAAAGHGHGHGGHGHG! (bash bash) Oooooaaaauuugh! I killed it! I KILLED MY PET! And that's when I blow it."

(For hearty laughs and a better understanding for those who haven't seen the film--and really, what's wrong with you that you haven't? It's in my top five!--click here.)

So.

I meet up with him tonight for dreaded date #3. I'll fill you in on my next post with the details of how I'm going to blow it.

Good times!

Son of a Bee Sting, She's Back! And She Voted for WHO?

2008-01-09T21:13:00.000-05:00

Good lord people. Fine. FINE. I have been under an unrelenting barrage of whiny bitching ever since I stopped blogging regularly, and I am proving once again why I should never procreate: whiny bitching always works on me.

Fuuuuuuuuuuu, damnit! Update your damn blog!

Me: Oooh, okaaaay.

Mooooom, damnit! Buy me some beers!

Me: But you're only 8!

MOOOOOOm!!!!

Me: Okay fine. But get me some too. And some ciggies.

Anyway.

You'll be pleased to know I've been up to absolutely fuck all since my last update. Exciting! I think Britney's release of her last marble into the Hollywood night air might be the most thilling thing to happen to me lately. But I don't even have that much to report about that, because my last four Us Weeklies are sitting untouched on my kitchen counter. It's weird, I am busy, but probably not too busy to read Hollywood gossip. I just kind of don't give a shit anymore. Weird, huh?

That's not all.

Part One: Politics and Shit

After registering as an Independent, I voted (gag) Democrat in the New Hampshire Primary. I'm not going to say who, though I can imagine you all can figure it out pretty easily just based on which Democrat takes the most shit for not being Demmy enough. And not having enough cock and balls.

Oh, be nice, Kucinich MUST have a cock, you've seen his wife, yes?

So yeah. I did. Sue me. I kind of (gag) like her. And it's not because I felt sorry for her, though I do find the news media in general and Chris Matthews (gag) in particular rather odious, particularly watching him almost give himself a stroke over Hillary's NH victory and then say on TV this morning that the only reason she's even in the Senate is because her husband cheated on her.

Oh, obviously. Clearly. Ass.

Matthews is living proof that it's not just Republicans who are crazy-assed misogynists banging their "balls equal goooood, titties equal baaaaad" drums all over TV.

(I wonder what the misogynists think of Ted Kennedy? He's got balls and titties.)

The biggest problem is that I am crazy about Obama too. I just know that I voted (gag) for Bush twice in part because I found (emphasis on the past tense) him to be such a charming personality. Obama is MR. Personality. He wakes up in the morning and takes a big Personality Dump before railing his hot Personality Wife and having a Personality Hash Browns covered in Eloquent Ketchup for breakfast for chrissake. He jacks off and his sperm sit in the Kleenex in the trash on the damn campaign bus all "What? Even we have more personality than Romney."

But...what else? I don't know. I just think I despise pretty much all the Republicans except Rudy, and I'm starting to despise him too. (Wait...you witness 9/11? Get out!)

Part Two: Where I've Also Given Up Boys

I hate New Year's resolutions. Probably because I usually resolve to finally be a little better about keeping healthy and working out and getting skinny and shit and it never. ever. happens. So fuck it. But this year I made a couple, the biggest being I am giving up boys for at least three months. The Canadian and I decided to just be friends. I hooked up with a male acquaintance of mine a few times over the holidays but that was underwhelming, generally speaking. I'm tired of being "on the prowl," so I am sort of just saying "eff it."

No boys, no sex, no making out drunkenly in the corner of the bar, no going back to guys I've already hooked up with because they won't add to my "list." Nothing. For three months. It's been 9 days.....(shakes). What? No, my hand's not shaking. That's just because I need a cigarette.

What?

TV!!! Noooooooo!

Pretty much, TV is done. I just watched the last episode of Gossip Girl, which every one of you should be watching, damnit, because it's probably the best thing I've ever seen on TV. I want a Blair Waldorf of my very own. Sniffle.

Now sure, we've got American Idol. But I don't watch American Idol during the auditions rounds, because I'm the person who has to turn the volume down or change the channel whenever anyone is making an ass of themselves. It's why I can't watch Tyra Banks' talk show. So I can't watch the auditions which means I have nothing at all to watch until this damn strike is over. "Lost" hardly counts because that's only one show, and eight episodes will fly by like nothing. Sigh.

What am I supposed to do? Read a book?

Other Obligatory Updates:

The holidays--meh. Kind of the usual. I drank a ton, ate my weight in sugar and lard, gained approximately ten pounds to go along with the 15 I gained before that (sigh).

BUT--I did get a Wii. My love for the Wii is insane. I've played every single day. I humiliate the computer in straight sets every time I play tennis and I boxed against Jesus and totally owned his ass. My right elbow always kind of throbs, I wonder if I get carpal tunnel from too much Wii if I could still stay home from work? Hmmm...

I also wonder if I can tell my doctor the next time they inevitably bitch at me about my weight that my Wii fitness age is 27! That's a year younger than I am now. Hmph. In your face Dr. "Your Cholesterol is approaching the high side."

What else?

Work is good...I was contemplating moving to Boston but now probably will be sticking round Manch Vegas for a while longer. And getting a roommate. Partially to save money and partially so I'll have someone for my second Wii controller, because the cats aren't really getting into it. Or growing thumbs at the rate which I'd like.

That's about it y'all. I'm sure I'll have another update before spring, but god knows this small taste will have you all pissing and moaning at me like you've all got your damn collective periods, so it will likely be sooner than later.

Peace.

Happy (?) Holidays!

2007-11-27T22:04:00.000-05:00

So I owe you a post, I'm aware.

But your fearless blogger has been downright down in the dumps lately people, can't deny it. Not about stupid boys (although they continue to be stupid), or anything really in particular. Just in general.

However, tonight was the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. I missed it, and yet I realized that I set it to record on my DVR a few days ago. Lucky me for thinking ahead, because people? I LOVE THE CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS SPECIAL.

Love it. Can't help it. I'm a loser. But I LOVE IT. Especially the part where Linus explains the story of Christmas for a downtrodden Charlie Brown. I'm not religious, but I do love the Christmas Story from the Bible...just something nice about peace on Earth and goodwill towards men and all that. Just not goodwill towards stupid boys, of course (hehe).

Tonight I discovered something almost better than the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. What's that, you ask? What could possible come close? This of course:

Viva Brazil

2007-11-06T23:31:00.000-05:00

I'm watching a "Sex and the City" rerun.

Carrie gets an accidental Brazilian wax.

She's horrified, and complains to her friends about being totally "bald" down there.

This episode was in 2000, have times really changed that much in 7 years? I mean, the other women are horrified by this, and Samantha has to explain to the ladies that it's "called a Brazilian."

I, frankly, honestly, grossly....have never been a into the "BP." My friend Casey always used to call it that. "Bald pussy."

And I am pretty much the ONLY one of my friends who keeps any hair on her shit.

Everyone else actually thinks I'm kind of a weirdo for it. The fact is, I can't afford waxing. It's expensive, somewhat painful, but mostly expensive.

I've shaved it all off before, and yeah, it's cool...you feel hot and sexy and all that, and maybe the sex is hotter because of it. But goddamnit, it hurts. I gotta sensitive vag, okay? If I shave it all off, I get a charming array of bright red itchy bumps. And I've tried all the right stuff, the super-sharp new razors, the lotions, the potions, the whole nine yards. I get da bumps.

I suppose I'd prefer, I guess, to keep it bald because that's what all the other girls do and I figure that's what guys expect. And you don't want to disappoint them. I mean shit, they're probably already disappointed enough just to be hooking up with me. Don't want them to go home thinking "sheesh, she was a fatty AND had a hairy beaver? Fail!"

But which is worse, looking like you have a raging case of oozing VD all over your cootch, or having no hair?

What's the solution here people?

Look, I'm not anti-BP. I get it, it's what's "in." But I'm tired of everyone being all "ew" when I admit that I don't got all 10-year old girl down there.

And if it makes me a pariah, then someone please for the love of god tell me how to keep it bald without wax.

I've got Nair in the bathroom that I haven't used yet. The smell grosses me out, and it specifically says not to use it "vaginally" (ew).

So what's a girl to do?

I'm kinda grateful for this SATC episode, because I suppose if Carrie Bradshaw likes some hair on her vajayjay then it's good enough for me. We have the same taste in shoes too, after all.

Goddamnit.

Well This is Some Bullshit

2007-10-28T23:01:00.000-04:00

You know what sucks? My timing. Always, always sucks.

I was out on the town in Boston last night at John Harvard's in Cambridge, where a conference I attended this weekend was sponsoring an open bar. Had a GREAT time and many free shots and drinks, and watched the Red Sox kick some Rockies ass. Why couldn't THAT have been Game 4?

They're six outs away from shutting the door on the World Series, and what am I doing?

Sitting on my ass in my pajamas. Because I've been working/on-the-run all weekend and am fracking exhausted. I don't even have any friends over. I just texted a friend saying maybe I should go get some champagne and bring it over for the last two innings just in case they win, and she was for it, but I'm tired...and I don't really feel like it. This is so embarassing.

Three years ago the Sox pulled off the most amazing comeback in baseball history, vanquishing the evil NY Yankees in seven. Where was I for game seven? The cursebreaker? The most important game in the history of the Red Sox?

With my ex-boyfriend and our dog. Pacing around his living room and having three heart attacks. I was not out at a bar, like Murphy's perhaps, a very boston-themed bar (this was in Virginia) RIGHT DOWN THE ROAD FROM HIS HOUSE where there would have been plenty of Sox fans. I don't know why we didn't go....I don't remember. But we didn't.

Game four of that year's World Series, when we won? Was I out at a bar then? No. I was sitting on my booty AGAIN, bc I was moving out of my apartment the next day, so I was packing. And had like 2 friends over to have pizza and beers and watch.

I am one of the biggest Sox/Pats fan I know, and yet every time either team wins a championship I can't get my shit together to get out and watch. I was IN BOSTON earlier today! I could have STAYED and talked one of my Bostonian friends into putting me up, and we could have GONE OUT and watched in BOSTON and I could have had that awesome experience where your home team wins a game in a fun sports bar with everyone freaking out and hugging strangers!

I suck!

So, it has been decided from on high, heard now: should the Sox lose tonight (highly unlikely but the Rockies do have two innings to remember they used to be good) I will be going OUT tomorrow night to watch game 5.

Should they win, I will raise a beer cheer to the home team and play a celebratory "Tessie" for the cats, who have no idea why I'll be jumping up and down and shit.

BUT...

....I will also raise my right hand (right after I put down the frosty cold one) and swear on a stack of Us Weeklys that I WILL be out somewhere FUN when the Pats hit the playoffs this year, up to and including any Superbowl action. Because in 2002 I was at my friend's house for a low-key night, and I don't even remember where I was in 2004, and in 2005 I was at a friend's party. That was fun, but it was also in Virginia. I need to get off my sports fan ass and do something seriously awesome for the next New England championship.

Like, seriously. Because right now I'm actually DEPRESSED that the Red Sox are winning the World Fucking Series tonight. How messed up is that!?

Cruise Ship Lollipop

2007-10-23T21:09:00.000-04:00

So now that it’s been a healthy 10 days since I returned from my cruise, and now that my tan has faded from a “goldenly awesomely brown” to “the color of poop when you have one of those weird ones that’s kind of pale instead of normal”, I feel it’s time for a little cruise re-cap, eh?

(My sister likes to claim I have a fecal fixation disorder, but she’s the one that wrote on the walls of my nursery in poo after she broke into my diaper bin when she was two, and she’s the one who called me into the bathroom when I was around 3 to check out her poop and then picked it up.)

(Sorry sister, but you’ve told the story about me drawing the picture of the horse with the poop coming out of its butt for the last time, it’s payback!)

(And don’t you dare deny picking up your poop, I vividly remember this, it’s actually one of my earliest childhood memories, sadly.)

So the cruise! Great times were had by all, there was, believe it or not, utterly no drama. 8 girls trapped on a boat together for 7 days and no one had it out! There may have been a bit of bickering now and then, but not anything major. No one went flying off the end of the ship into the shark-infested waters below. Truly an October miracle.

The best day was probably in the Bahamas, where we rented a private cabana with its own stretch of beach, and a waiter running up and down the beach every half hour bringing us new buckets of beer. We sat in the water all day, which was as warm as bathwater, and got totally tanked, if a bit pruny.

Also fun from that day was my very special sunburn. It wasn’t too intense, it was just oddly patterned. I love that spray on sunscreen, but then it drips down your back and chest, and if you’re not vigilant (or sober) enough to rub it in well, you end up with funky white “drip marks” all down yourself. It’s almost awesome, like those people who put stickers on their skin to make little white tattoos when they tan. (My sister also once did this, with a playboy bunny sticker. Ha!) (I’m just throwing her under the bus today, eh?)

Other highlights:

Almost getting into a fistfight with a dude who was being a lunatic at my friend. He felt she did not spend enough time talking to him after buying her a drink. Guys, seriously: if you buy us a drink, you don’t get to expect ANYTHING out of it. Yes, there’s the expectation of a little friendly chat to size each other up, see if anything’s there, but if a girl decides she’s not into you after a couple minutes, you can’t expect her to sit there and listen to you talk about your iguana farm. Sorry. So yeah, he starts ranting and raving about how she’s “just like every other bitch” or some shit, and oh yeah Fu was NOT having that bullcrap. So I gots up in his bidness, and he called me a “rude bitch,” it was awesome.

Winning a karaoke contest , the reward of which was maybe not even a reward at all. If I said the words “dressing up like Britney and performing a song and routine with a group of backup dancers in front of the whole boat and accompanied by the ship’s orchestra, WITHOUT a monitor with all the words on it,” would that be something you’d be interested in? And no, I will not be posting the photos. Just picture Britney, then picture Britney if she ATE one of her backup dancers and was twice her normal size.

Mojitos at nine in the morning. WOOOT!

Posing with parrots and not getting pooped on (there I go with poop again!).

Suspicious shots at Senor Frogs in San Juan. They were cheap, and tasted, really, like water. I think the bartender actually just put water in two shot glasses and handed them over. Is this possible?

So, yeah. Good times. No hookups, no interest in hookups, just in sun and drinks and sun and fun. Drinks! I didn’t even drink that much! I was wildly toasted only twice the whole week, and here I expected it to be a near-constant alcoholism-fest. Yet I still managed to spend like 600 dollars. Is this possible? Sheesh.

Other updates:

I’ve got something brewing I can’t really talk about yet, will hopefully have updates soon though. (Wow, quite an illuminating update.)

Mr. Canada is still happening (I know, right? It’s been three MONTHS), but there are no updates. I have a feeling I might just be ending up with a pen pal, to be honest. A pen pal who writes dirty emails. Heh.

But who knows. He says he’s still interested in visiting me, and he’s pretty adamant about how much he likes me...He’s allegedly going to let me know “by the end of this week” what weekend works best for him. So naturally I will update on that, but I’m not holding my breath. If there’s no resolution by then, I think I’m going to have to downgrade him to “Mr. Canadian Friend Who Occasionally Writes Dirty Emails.”

Ummmm, what else?

It’s hot as BALLS out right now, and I don’t like it.

I went to a farm this weekend with my whole family to watch a medieval device fling a pumpkin 2,000 feet. I’m not even joking. I was the only adult there, outside of my other family members, not toting a small shrieking child of some kind or holding hands with some husband-type figure. It was highly depressing, yet also a relief. I’m starting to realize I might not want to procreate. Kids annoy the everloving shit out of me.

Oh yeah, and maybe you’ve heard of this thing called the Red Sox GOING TO THE WORLD SERIES!?!?!?

HOLY SHIT!

So yeah. Um, and that’s about that.

This entry was not funny or even all that interesting. What can I say, I live to disappoint!

Ahoy Ahoy!

2007-10-05T20:23:00.000-04:00

Yes, I know. Okay? I KNOW.

Here's the thing: If I were a gynecologist, and also a man (or, I suppose, a lesbian), the last thing I'd want to do after a long day spent elbows deep in vajayjays would be to head home and get in one voluntarily. I really don't understand how male gynos do it...Obviously, sex and pelvic exams..NOT the same thing. But when you're prodding at various kitty cats all day, some of which are in a state of...um, distress....are you really going to want to stick your face in another one at the end of the day?

I suppose a better example would be how you knew that friend in high school or whatever that spent the summer working at the ice cream shop, and you were all jealous and "Mmm, free ice cream!" and she was just like "Yeah if I even SEE another scoop of fricking pistaschio I'm gonna pistaschi-hurl."

That's what's up with me.

Part of my job, as I've said before, involves blogging.

And then I get home and I write for my other personal blog (sometimes, though my co-blogger would probably say not nearly enough) (and don't get in a snit, that one is also technically work related...as in, I don't use the word "vajayjay" on it). And then there's a bunch of TV on...and the Red Sox are in the playoffs...and the litter box needs changing...and there are ants in the cats' food...and then I have three Facebook messages to reply to...and wah wah wah.

So I'm sorry, I know I'm like, the awesomest and stuff, but you're going to have to deal with only a few FuUpdates a month. I did 8 in August, 7 in September, if I can bang out a few in October I'll be continuing to set that pace. It's the best I can do! Sniff.

Anyway. Tomorrow (!!!) at 4 a.m. (!!!!!!!!!!!!) I leave for a 7-day Carribean cruise. I'm beside myself. I've even already packed. Normally I'd start at around 340 or so, and just dump the contents of my dresser and hamper into my Jimmy Hoffa suitcase (big enough to hide a body!) and hit the road. But this time I packed last night AND all the stuff I'm bringing is clean. Okay except for the shirt I wore in Boston Saturday night, but it's not like it smells. And I only wore it for a few hours. What? Shut up!

Speaking of vajayjays....One thing I haven't done but wanted to was get a bikini wax. I've never had one, and the cruise seems as good a reason as any. I know this makes me a weirdo amongst women, because apparently at some point in our evolution you all got together without me and decided to save off all your pubes all the time, but I don't go bald in that arena. How do you all do that? Don't get me wrong, I maintain the fairway. Not like this is a "Where the wild things are" situation or anything. But if I take too much off the top my special area starts to resemble all the "before" pictures in the Proactiv ads, know what I mean? So it's like, I can either have some shrubbery, or I can have a nasty case of vaj Rosacea. Which would YOU pick!!?

But. I hear that doesn't necessarily happen when you wax. So I'm sad I didn't get the chance. What is the point of this story? I have no idea. I should go. After all, I need to be awake in 6 hours and it's only 830. Christ!!

Man, fricking vacations. Every time I go anywhere I have to have the "common sense" talk with the FuManchDad, and he's so ridiculous.

Me: Hello?
Dad: Listen, you'd better be safe on this cruise.
Me: Does that mean I can't act out the Titanic scene after 4 margaritas?
Dad: Yeah, don't do that.
Me: What about buying questionable weed off an island man with equally questionable hygiene?
Dad: Questionable as in potentially fake, or questionable as in laced?
Me: Laced.
Dad: In that case, no.
Me: Great, now I won't have any fun.
Dad: You can always read. In your stateroom. With your cash in your underwear so no one will steal it.
Me: I didn't have time to get that wax, so there's really no room in my underwear.
Dad: Now that's just over the line.
Me: What?!?

I promise I'll update when I get back. Maybe. Ahem.

Not a Real Post

2007-09-20T12:50:00.000-04:00

So I owe you guys a post, fine. Fine.

But, psst, this isn't going to be that interesting, it's just a rant. And has nothing to do with boys, Canadian or otherwise.

(I'm actually settling down quite nicely in that department though, and find myself 24% less psychotic than I was last week, which is a lovely development.) (He is still talking non-stop about visiting me, but instead of going all Boil-a-Bunny on him about "when, when, when!?!" I am merely ignoring it and just being like "I guess we'll just see aboot that when it actually happens, eh?") (Very proud of this development.) (Okay, onto the "real" post.)

I just have a quick thought:

Does this happen to anyone else? :

This year, I have been to the movies a woefully inadequate number of times. I think maybe three or four. I used to go to the movies once a week at least, no seriously. I LOVE MOVIES.

So this year has sucked for me for movies. None of my NH friends ever wants to go, or when they do want to go I have plans, or they have plans when I want to go, and I haven't managed to get to the theater to go alone enough because, again, plans, always plans (when did I get so goddamn busy, and why do I still feel so lonesome all the time?)....and anyway.

But whenever this happens, whenever I have this lag where I don't get to the theater, I think, "well I will just buy them or rent them or whatever when they come out."

And then after months pass and the movies are long gone from the theaters, I'll find myself in a video store with absolutely nothing to rent, or I'll just buy a three-in-one DVD crap set from Target of like, "Wimbledon" (seen it twice), "The Wedding Date" (constantly on HBO, seen it, and Debra Messing's scary protruding sternum, more times than I'm willing to admit), and fucking "The Perfect Man," a travesty of Hillary-Duff-Before-She-Got-So-Skinny proportions.

What is my problem?

Movies I Still Haven't Seen But Will Probably Forget About By the Time They Come On DVD:

All the stupid "threequels" (Shrek 3, Ocean's 13, Spiderman 3, Pirates of the Caribbean 3)

The Bourne Ultimatum (mmmm, Matt Damon, mmmm)

Superbad

300

Transformers

3:10 to Yuma (Okay so this one I still have plenty of time for, I'm just reminding myself)

Live Free or Die Hard

Fantastic Four

I could honestly go on and on. And yet 6 months from now when I'm finally signing up for Netflix or something I won't remember this. Hence? This blog post for reference.

Now I must get back to work.

Bleh-mmys

2007-09-16T20:10:00.000-04:00

I was going to live-blog the Emmys.

But then my birthday party happened, and I was way too hungover all day today to do anything but remain where I've been since noon. Curled up under a blanket. I did order pizza though. Way to ruin my diet that I've been on for like 6 days.

(Buffalo wings too!)

(Good lord.)

Oh, and also on tonight?? Red Sox vs Yankees. And Pats vs Chargers. Jesus. Too much good TV all in one time slot. But I can't make fun of fashion and the Gayness of Ryan Seacrest while watching sports.

One note: Jeremy Piven just won, and looks like he rolled out of his bed (which he was probably sharing with three Brazilian hookers and a pound of coke) about 10 minutes ago. Take a shave, Piven, it's the EMMYS.

So? THEN What?

2007-09-13T22:59:00.000-04:00

I'm a big fan of "He's Just Not that Into You" (HJNTIY). It's incredibly sensible, if a bit harsh on the dudes at times (I mean really, they're NEVER too busy to call? What if they get hit by a bus or something?). Regardless, I like the principle: if a guy's into you, it's obvious. If he's not? It's still obvious, you just have to read the signs right.

But honestly? It depresses me. Because according to this book, no guy is *ever* into me. No, seriously! So fine, it's easy to see when guys don't like me, but what exactly are we supposed to DO with that info? Aside from feel like ass?

You see my point.

Take the Canadian guy. He likes me, but probably not enough to put in the money and effort of starting something up long distance. And I don't even blame him, it would actually be really hard. But my knowing this based on my HJNTIY Evidence doesn't make me feel better about it.

It blows, because now I have to cut off contact with him.

I mean, because that's the test, right? That's what it says in the book. Suspect the object of your affection is just not that into you? Stop calling, and stop emailing. And see what happens. If he IS into you, he's going to call and see what's up, or at least email. And if not? You'll probably never hear from him again. See also: Paul Giamatti.

But the book doesn't have a chapter on how not to feel depressed afterwards. I hate nothing more than that "back to the drawing board" type feeling. Argh.

Oh well, you bitches have listened to me bitch about my love life long enough.

"Bitching about my love life" is the new "bitching about my weight!" It's good times all around.

Wow

2007-09-12T22:20:00.000-04:00

This might be the greatest thing I've ever seen. It took me a minute to figure out this was a guy. Love his eye makeup!

Dear Britney

2007-09-12T21:53:00.000-04:00

You sucked the other night. You should really wear better clothes, and practice your routines while WEARING those 5 inch boots. Oh, and if it were me making a "comeback," I'd have insisted on a bigger, badder production, wtf was up with the 10 dancers and teensy tiny stage? Sheesh. Also, next time start with a nice medley of your older, awesomer work. That being said:

YOU'RE NOT FUCKING FAT.

Jesus CHRIST what is wrong with the world. I'd reckon there are millions of girls besides myself who'd probably sacrifice a couple of digits to have this body. So give it a fucking REST, people. This is why little girls grow up with thighs smaller around than my goddamn wrists.

I Should Get Me One of These

2007-09-11T23:32:00.000-04:00

According to Jezebel, Harrod's of London hired a cobra to "guard" a pair of $120,000 sandals.

Someone explain why these shoes are so sweet in the first place, but I can't help but admire the slickness of this move--plus, that cobra? Actually kinda cute. I should get my own shoe snake.

"G'head, come and tryyyy to steal this shoe! I dare ya," he seems to say...

The FuManchShoes 100th Post Semi-Spectacular Excellence Post for Being Excellent

2007-09-08T13:09:00.001-04:00

Alternative title for this post - Dump what out, exactly? (I'll explain later)

Ah, the 100th entry. For my 100th entry on my very first blog in the stone ages of 2001, I did a cheesy 80s sitcom retrospective, where I took a contrived "event of significance" (buying my first car) as an excuse to reflect, just without the awesome "blurry screen of implied flashback."

Instead, how about we just give some updates on my current life, eh? Considering, as my friend Sara bitches to me constantly, I haven't updated since "August 20th! August, 20, Fu...wtf!"

We'll work backwards from right now, I like that gimmick.

Right now: Eating chicken soup and taking in "Desperado" on TNT, which isn't as good when so heavily edited, but still holds up. Is there anything Steve Buscemi makes an appearance in that *isn't* awesome? Sidebar: Just saw a commercial for the "Vagisil Home Screening Kit," which featured a woman talking about her burning cooch and wondering how she could possibly know whether she had an infection. Ummmm....Why would anyone with a burning cooch go out and buy some home swabbing kit to see if they had a yeasty? I mean, good god woman! It's called a gyno. Look into it. Can you imagine being the store clerk that has to check that one out at the register. I'd probably pop a blood vessel trying not to laugh. Me = Mature.

Last night: Out on the town in Manch Vegas as usual, managed to spend seventy effing dollars, which explains why we ended up walking home. It's only a mile, but I defy you to undertake such a crusade. In high heels. With skeevy Manch types asking you "where's the party?" and honking at you from their drunkenly careening automobiles. Then there's the creepy dudes hanging out on the porch, who asked us to "dump 'em out." "Umm, dump what out?" "Your titties, what did you think!?" Ooooh, dear.

Tuesday Night: My biiiirthday, my b-b-b-b-b-irrrrthday! Man, 28 years on the planet. You'd think I'd have more to show for it than a pile of wicked nice shoes and potential liver damage.

Last Weekend: In DC, where I dared to ask the question, "can a person who was up until 5 in the morning the previous night make it through a dainty bridal shower tea party with zero alcohol and live to tell about it?" The answer, sadly, a resounding "Oh, hell no." Have you ever had massive detox shakes while attempting to tell a story about the bride and groom for every peanut M&M in your hand? Yeah. Good times!

August: Busy month of birthday parties, road trips, beach outings, nights on the town, way, waaay, waaaaay too much alcohol, and jsut general shenanigans and good times.

SO, yeah. That's about it.

Oh, you probably need the Obligatory Update on My Love Life.

ManchGuy: He looked a little like Paul Giamatti, he was nice enough, but definitely gave off "just not that into me" red flags left and right. So I cut him loose, and he didn't put up much of a fight about it. Eat it, Paul Giamatti.

Oh, Canada: The Canadian Guy. Well....god only knows. He is allegedly coming to visit in October. We still email back and forth with a frenzy generally reserved for more physical activities. You know, like ping pong. Or beer pong, for that matter. Regardless, to put on my "dorky chick hat" for a couple seconds, "I rilly rilly rilly rilly rilly rilly like him." But I guess we're just still on "wait and see" status. And don't even get me started on how terrified I am that he's going to get off the plane, take one look at my fat ass and be like "Um, wow, how much did I drink the night met again? Oh, man." and then just leave. The paranoia fatties subject ourselves to is surreal. It's not like he doesn't have access to two dozen different photos of me on Facebook and stuff, and it's not like he's Tom Brady himself, and yet, I sit here and stew about it.

Speaking of Tom Brady, are we ready for some football?!? Mmmmm.....

Blame Canada (eh?)

2007-08-20T20:52:00.000-04:00

So, yeah, not sure what to do about Canada, then (eh?).

I, FuManchLonesomeShoes, find myself kind of swimming in guy issues at the moment. Because on one level I've got a cool guy that seems pretty into me here. Probably best to just see what happens there, yes? Sure. And that is indeed what I'm doing, I'm not a complete idiot.

Well, I did say not complete idiot. Which means I am, at the very least, a partial idiot.

Which is why I've been emailing several times a day, all day long, with a Canadian guy I made out with in Montreal more than two weeks ago.

Sigh.

(pounds head on desk)

He's adorable, he makes me laugh, he cares about his job, he cares about his mom, he has a CAT (very key), he likes to drink but isn't a lush, he cleans a lot, is kind of dorky in a good way, and did I mention that totally cute makes me laugh thing again?

Oh and then there's the other little thing: he wants to come visit as soon as he gets a chance.

(pounds head on desk)

Scenario One: I continue seeing Guy #1, eventually Canada wants to visit, what if me and Guy #1 are like, involved by that point? Do I dump him or make some story up for why I need to not be available to him for the weekend? (pounds head)

Scenario Two: I keep things as casual as possible with Guy #1, and tell him the truth when Canada comes to visit. This seems most sane, but really I don't know how to do that. It seems wrong, and if I were Guy #1 I'd definitely be like "WTF, mate?" if I were seeing a chick I was into and she all of a sudden had some hump from Canada staying in her bed for a weekend. I mean, come on.

Scenario Three: Don't a say a fucking thing to either one of them about the other and figure it out when the time comes.

I think I'm going with three. After all, just because I talk to him every day doesn't mean I need to...what? Be faithful? to Canada. I mean, he's ten hours away from me, it's hardly going to work out.

On the other hand, if I had to choose one or the other right now, I'd rather keep emailing with Canada every day than continue dating the guy WHO ACTUALLY LIVES HERE.

I clearly have issues.

So I Guess Every Monday I'll Just Post a Bunch of Times or Something

2007-08-20T20:34:00.000-04:00

Today, I was drug-dialed.

So the guy I was bitching about last week has turned out decent. We went out Friday, it was fun, blah blah blah.

What? You want more an explanation than blah blah blah?

Okay, hm.

1) It had been so long I didn't remember what he looked like. Luckily, he looked fine. He's not like, kill yourself hot or anything, but can I just say thank god? That's so much pressure. That super-tall super-unbelievably-cute lawyer I dated last summer didn't do anything but stress me out, because I kept waiting for him to stop and be like "Wait, is this 'The King of Queens' in reverse or something? Why am I dating you again?"

2) We went out, watched the Red Sox game, ate, drank blueberry beer, talked. He paid, he opened doors, all very gentlemanly and such.

3) It's possible the wheels came off when I suggested we go to the karaoke bar after the game.

4) No, it's possible the wheels came off when we did our second shot and I finished off my seventh (eighth?) beer. Getting plastered on a date (a first date! Oy vey.) is probably not considered ladylike. But hey, he kept buying them, what was I supposed to do? Ummmm, yeah.

5) It's definitely likely the wheels actually came off when I warbled out some of the worst karaoke I've ever done. I was nervous, leave me alone. But you know how they say you shouldn't go all the way on the first date? It should really be, you shouldn't sing in public on the first date. This is way more mortifying than any of the macking I doled out later.

So yeah. We hung out at my place for a while after, he called the next day, and then called again today. But we don't have plans to go out again because when he called me today he was on Vicodin.

Oral surgery, apparently. He sounded kind of...well...kind of retarded. Or like he'd been hit over the head. Punch drunk! He talked like Rocky, like all slow and garbled.

"I's jush wann say...I's jush say....um.."
"Really, you've just had your wisdom teeth out, you can call me when you feel better, dum dum."
"No, Ish furgets to call youse yeshterday, so I jush wann call joo tooday."
"Okay, well thank you, but do you want to call me when you're not on drugs?"
"Yesh....yesh."

Yikes. I'm not sure if it was cute or weird, but I'll settle on cute.

So that's that. We'll see what happens. I'm not convinced this is going anywhere, but there's no harm in doing some dating, eh?

Which brings me to the next issue...notice the way I said "eh?" just then?

Poor Superintendent Ephardt

2007-08-20T20:24:00.000-04:00

Donna Martin graduates! Donna Martin....maybe shouldn't have gotten shitfaced and barfed at senior prom.

This episode kills me as an adult because I have a big problem with how the West Beverly school board just rolls over for the supremely douchey Brandon Walsh and his supremely douchetastic pompadour.

And the way he mouths off to the superintendent and acts like the whole undertaking wasn't entirely the fault of the UNDERAGED high school kids who freaking guzzled champagne before their prom like idiots, instead of afterwards like you're supposed to.

Is it just me? Sure I knew of a few girls doing lines in the ladies' room the night of my senior prom, but I was way more interested in dancing with my smoking hot date (seriously, he was cute) and getting my picture taken than drinking at the prom.

Instead, we packed about 400 beers into the back of my friend Tim's station wagon and drove to Maine afterwards for a weekend of boozing as hard as we wanted to in peace.

(Come to think of it, prom night might have been the only time in my life I've ever booted n' rallied....I had to chug like three full beers in a row due to an unprecedented horrendous performance at speed quarters. So I walked calmly outside, barfed up a lung, then proceeded calmly back inside to drink some more. Oh, how I long to get my 17-year old liver back sometimes....)

It's Three, Three, Three Posts in One (Day)!

2007-08-13T00:25:00.000-04:00

I couldn't shuffle off to beddy bye bye without giving an update on NewGuy:

Um, no update. He didn't call me back after letting me go to field a call from his mummy.

I don't really care, because he had said he was going out tonight when he called. So if he calls me back tomorrow I won't mind. But oh well. That's the update.

Read below if you have no idea what I'm on about.

Um, not the one just below, the one before that.

Because did I mention that this is my third post tonight? This should tide you over, you damn vultures. Oh, and my tits are still hot.

As in, temperature. Because I burned the shite out of them today.

Ew, I just had a gross mental image of boobs spurting poo out their nipples. Now you probably have it, sorry about that. And guys, don't let that image come to mind the next time you're licking a nipple. Oh, except now it totally will. Sorry about that. What can I say? Sorry!

Okay, I had a complaint a while back that my most consistent typo is on the word "because." I actually just misspelled it again. I type really fast, I've been pretty damn great at it ever since ninth grade typing class (A+, bitches!).

Yet for some reason, when I'm typing so fast, I fuck up the word because every time. And yes, I just did it again, and not on purpose. So if you see a post with just the word "because" typed over and over and over? That's why.

Now I will type it ten times without correcting any typos, let's see if I get it right even once:

Becasue because becasue because because becasue becuase beacuase because becasue.

Wow. Only four out of ten. I'm like the Eric Gagne of typing the word because. Must go practice....

Oh, Real World.

2007-08-12T23:36:00.000-04:00

I think every generation has a different benchmark they measure themselves by when it comes to knowing you might actually be a "grown up."

Some might say it's when you start paying your own bills. I've been doing that for a few years though, and still tend to feel like a ten-year old most of the time, based on my proclivity for fart jokes and eating ice cream straight from the carton.

Or maybe it's when you have your first grown-up relationship; but nah, because, speaking of farts, my ex and I used to have actual fart contests (note: he always won, that guy's ass was like a nuclear weapon).

Your first real, big, grown-up, non-cosigned-by-the-parents purchase (house, car, etc)? Well, I actually haven't gotten to that one yet. So far my biggest non-cosigned purchase has been my furniture. It's nice furniture and all, and it was pretty expensive for my budget (especially at the time I bought it), but it hardly counts as much as say, a brand new car. Or a condo.

So I'm creating my own benchmark: I am too fucking old to watch The Real World. I don't understand how real grown-ups can watch this show and not want to:

a) Pray for the future of humanity
b) Wonder if I was that big an asshole when I was twenty (even though even at twenty I didn't have big giant fake tits and a perfect flat stomach and a cute-little ass that both hung out of my bathing suit and made me feel superior to the world all at the same time--a Wonder Ass!)
c) Cut a bitch

The latest batch just started. Gripe one: Why set it in Sydney but not cast any actual people from Australia? They might actually be interesting. Instead, it's just obnoxious American jackholes. What I hate about The Real World is that even the "nice" ones are jerks.

Example: Parisa. She seems cool, and there's no doubt her little in-house rival Kellyanne is a beast from hell. And I totally felt for her when one of the beetches was trashing some poor immigrant woman for not being able to speak English well--because Parisa's family is made up of immigrants from Iran.

But? She is dealing with them all the wrong way. You can't deal with slutasswhorebitches (tm my college friend Jen) by trying to play their game (ie; being a bitch). You deal with them by staying calm and letting everyone see that they don't have a skinny ass leg to stand on.

Why am I analyzing it this much?

There's this scene in "Shallow Hal," one of the more underappreciated movies in the Farrelly brothers repetoire, in which Jack Black is wondering why Gwyneth Paltrow is so funny and awesome and has such a great personality--you know, since she's so hot (since he doesn't know that she's actually 300-pounds).

His friend calls it "Ugly Duckling Syndrome," that she was ugly as a kid and dind't get hot until she grew up, so she was forced to grow a personality to get by.

This is a sick generalization, of course, and no, I'm not saying that an incredibly attractive girl can't also be funny and awesome (I'm friends with plenty of girls meeting that description).

But when I see chicks like the complete bitchfaces that populate shows like the Real World? It starts to get a little merit. When you get everything you want based solely on the pert nature of your overly tanned ass cheeks, you don't have to worry about things like, oh, being a decent human being. You can be the biggest AssBeast on the planet, and you'll still have people wanting to hang out with you, because it's human nature to be drawn to the beautiful among us--the externally as well as the internally (I assume--how else can we account for Meatloaf having had actual wives?).

And no one is denying these Real World bitches are beautiful. In that generic hot chick way (there are probably 148,000 other skanks that look just like Kellyanne and have the same exact poor attitude as she does--they probably just picked the one most likely to pick on immigrants to add a little something extra).

And I don't automatically rule a girl out of the FuFriendWorthy lotto just because she's hot shit. After all, those of us who are hot shit have to stick together (even those of us who are hot shit with, um, fat rolls).

But if there is one thing that makes me morph into a cartoon angry bull with steam coming out of my nostrils, it's when "Hot Chicks" justify their heinously bitchy actions (which normal people have had the gall to call them out for) by claiming that people are "just jealous."

This makes the veins in my neck pop out to Barry Bonds proportions and just reinforces every bad stereotype about Pretty Girls. It makes me pissed off on behalf of my friends who look every bit as good as Kellyanne in a bikini but who are also smart and interesting and wonderful people to those around them.

"But but but editing!"

Whatever. Whatever. Editing can make someone look like a bigger bitch than they may really be, and that very well may have happened here. But it can't make people say some of the shit that comes out their mouths.

WHY AM I WATCHING THIS SHOW!?

Hate!

(This all being said, I really kind of love Shavon, the girl with the breast implants the size of my head. She is hilarious. And the guy with the insanely thick Southern accent who is the second coming of Country Jon, except the exact opposite in every way except the accent (ie, he's the shiznit). And his name is Cuthoffer or some shit. No really, that's his name.)

Okay, okay, OKAAAAAy

2007-08-12T19:11:00.000-04:00

"You realize how long it's been since you updated your blog, right?"

"Dudes, I've been busy."

"Yeah, but...."

"No seriously. Work has been insane, I've had plans all up the wahoo, my kitchen flooded, and my cats may or may not be trying to kill me in my sleep, so I've also been pretty tired lately."

"Yeah but...."

"All RIGHT already."

So here I am.

In my last post, I bitched mightily about my lack of romantic game. I'm altering my opinion slightly, because while my personality could probably use an overhaul in some respects and I definitely (no, definitely) need to get back into at least halfway decent shape (a major hindrance, no matter what all my favorite "body positivity" blogs say--it is just plain harder for the rotund of us, no matter how high our Awesomeness Quotient may be. If I had a hot ass to combine with my insanely high AQ, I'd be beating men off with a stick.), I've decided the problem really is that men are completely insane.

(Heh, "beating men off.")

I don't get you mofos, even a little, so my new strategy is complete surrender.

The guy I met that hadn't called as of last Sunday (4 days after meeting) still hadn't called as of this weekend, so I'd obviously officially written him off. Then he calls my ass up at 1015 on Saturday night, a full nine days (Obligatory Bueller principal Rooney joke here: nine times!) after our initial meeting.

I was out, of course, why he called me at 1015 on a weekend night is beyond me, he was either

a) afraid of my wrath and counting on voicemail, or
b) drunk.

Anyhow, voicemail went something like "Soooo sorry, do you remember me? Soooo sorry, my phone broke! Soooo sorry. Had fun with you, call me back. (Soooo sorry.)"

So, because a sucker is born every minute and I haven't been on a date in four months, I decided to just call him back tonight. Which I did. I got voicemail naturally, so now I'm stuck waiting around for him to call again after I'd already written him off and gotten over it the first time. It's like he called me back just to sentence me to another few days of being "Hmm, wonder if that's him" every time my phone rings. So, since it's been almost an hour and a half since I called, that's my new limit. 90 minutes. If he doesn't call in the next ten, I'm officially done again.

(Oh and never even mind that about 3 minutes after I called him, I got a call, from another "Unknown number" number, which ended being Unemployed Guy--calling me to ask me out for tonight, after no conact for the last few weeks. W. T. F.)

***12 Minutes Later***

So, score one for New Guy, because he got it in under the deadline with six minutes to spare. We chatted, but he asked if he could call me back when he got an incoming from his mom. Losing a call-waiting standoff to a mom is okay, but I wish I had a better update--since I know my romantic trials and tribulations are like, so totally fascinating to you all.

In other news, I spent yesterday in the sun at the beach (if you expand that definition to include "at the bar...at the beach"), and today laying by my pool with my mom, foolishly believing her when she pointed out how good my tan was that it would protect me from burnage.

My cleavage only needs some nice drawn butter and a little lemon, and it'd be a tasty dish! My shoulders can be for dessert, like Baked Alaska or some other en flambe craziness.

Me = Retard.

More later, I think.

Please, a Little Respect; for I am Fu, Queen of Having No Game

2007-08-05T23:12:00.000-04:00

A male friend of mine was complaining the other night that he has "no game" with the ladies, all because he couldn't close on some girl that I found a bit "meh" anyway, but that's beside the point.

I find this laughable, noting correctly that he dates plenty of girls, and has had a few long-term relationships, was even engaged once, etc. His argument was that all those relationships ended. But he's still wrong, because not being able to keep a girlfriend isn't "no game," it's just bad luck. Or bad B.O.

"No game" is 30-year old guys living in their parents' basements, "Star Wars" fans, online porn enthusiasts, people who are about to turn 28 with only one long-term relationship under their belt...Oh wait, that's me (um, just the last bit, not the other stuff...although I did fall asleep on the couch the other night and wake up at 3 in the morning to a program called "Guilty Temptations" or something, it appears that HBO is trying to steal Cinemax's share of the soft-core porn market...not that I sat and watched it for 15 minutes before getting up and going to bed, ahem) (and honestly, what's with soft-core porn? I hope it's not about the "actresses" thinking it makes them less of a cheap ho..."No no no, Dad, it only looked like he was railing me from behind in the hot tub, really!" I say, if you're going to be a porno actress, at least get yourself laid in the process...)

But it's true: Fu? No game. None! Even when I have game I have no game.

Exhibit A: The guy from a few months ago. He was unemployed, a chain smoker, had a rather pronounced drinking problem, resorted to selling his personal belongings for beer money, and many other qualities that caused my friend Colleen to say "Um, no. No." And yet? He's the one that dumped me. Pathetic! I didn't get it, because he did seem quite sweet on me at first. He even asked if he could come with me to my friend's wedding ten states away because the prospect of me being away for a weekend bummed him out so much. And yet? He stopped sleeping with me after a couple weeks, and stopped calling me altogether after I made it clear that continuing to date someone and be all snuggly and affectionate and kissy while refusing to come inside at the end of the evening ever makes a girl a bit insecure, and makes her friends think you have some sort of hideous dick fungus you're hiding.

Exhibit B: met a guy at the bar the other night; he claims to remember meeting me at a party three months ago, seems really excited to run into me again, asks for my number, and says "I will definitely be calling you." in a way that was almost creepy in its determination.

So I guess I was not even concerned about whether I'd hear from him, because he was the one who was so interested in me and not vice versa; normally I'm the more aggressive one in these situations (an excellent potential reason for my lack of game--but I can't help that I'm a loudmouth who says whatever's on my mind--it's part of my charm!).

Anyhow, I might still hear from him of course, I'm just hauling out the eye-roll tonight because it's been three days, and the industry standard is two, three tops. And I don't even really care, because I didn't even talk to him for that long; I'm not moping around, just more like, "We define 'definitely' differently where I'm from, pal." (Say that five times fast!)

Possible Reasons for Fu's Lack of Game (despite the fact that she totally made out with an ADORABLE Canadian guy in Montreal last night; wooooot! Too bad he lives in effing Toronto):

1) Gut -- this is a roadblock, but I'm not sure if I give it more power than I should. I see chicks twice my size walking around hand in hand with men that aren't exactly mutants, so I know it can be done...maybe it's just that the boys I like aren't such progressive thinkers about whether their woman can have a muffin top. But don't I make up for that with my rack, and willingness to wear cleavagecentric shirts?

2) Loudmouth -- this one makes more sense. I am an obnoxious bitch, I dominate conversations without even meaning to, and I'm always right, especially about the Red Sox. I'm also pretty funny, and tend to make fun of people heavily, right to their faces. Some guys don't necessarily enjoy being called a douchebag within five minutes of meeting a chick, I guess.

3) Guy Syndrome - I tend to act dude-ish, no matter how high the pile of boxes on my shoe-wall climbs. I drink to excess, talk nonstop about the Pats and Red Sox, belch profusely (usually while doing the excessive drinking), and loudly question the sexuality of any male friend displaying pussylike tendencies. Maybe they're afraid if they like me it'll make them gay or something.

Hm. That's really all I can come up with at this point. And that list isn't even long, and yet still..no game! It's seems preposterous that anyone wouldn't be clamoring to take me to play fucking mini-golf or some shit, because I'm probably about 100 times more awesome than the last person they went mini-golfing with.

Oh, okay then, there's another thing for the list:

4) Too convinced of own awesomeness.

Must sleep now. I exerted myself in Montreal last night to the extent that my voice is off somewhere doing bong hits with my New Orleans voice (note to self: when you go places where people speak French, you end up sounding like Bea Arthur the next morning), spent all day crammed into the backseat of a car like I was a seven-foot dude at Fenway, my bed is beckoning. Just have to punt the cats off of it.

Real Problems

2007-08-02T19:35:00.000-04:00

I have two addictions this summer: blogging, and 90210 reruns on SoapNet.

"Blogging?" you say. Well, yeah...I've been cheating.

Basically, I've got a LOT going on in the blogosphere for work lately, and the idea of coming home and blogging more just drains me.

Plus, when I get home I've got two episodes of 90210 waiting on my DVR. The only problem is that we've reached the end of Season 2...which means I'm going to get a face full of "Dyan and Kelly: Soulmates" bullshit. It's starting already, with Kelly sniffing her little chipmunk bitch nose at Dylan and plotting to steal him away.

I get really, incredibly, insanely angry when I watch these episodes, it's truly a problem. And don't even get me started on the "Donna as a french fashion model" storyline. It's a 15-year old tv show, and I find myself yelling things at the screen like, "Oh sure, YOU could be a model, with your fried out bushy hair and hideous horse face! Whatever!!!"

I clearly need medication.

I don't have much else to say, also. I mean, I'm boring as shit. I haven't met a single guy all summer, I've managed to gain ten pounds despite trying repeatedly to stay on a diet, and...hm. Yeah, that's it. Woooot!!!

Customer Disservice

2007-07-23T17:10:00.000-04:00

The universe of customer service is clearly out to get me, that's the only explanation. In the past week alone:

My flight home from New Orleans was canceled for no apparent reason, leaving me stranded for many tearful hours in Philadelphia, forcing me to eat a half pound of melty mints. Okay, I probably could have avoided that last part, but can you realistically tell me a single way to pass time in an airport that doesn't involve drinking or eating? I was also reading, but eating half a pound of melty mints helps to distract a person from the discomfort of airport "seating."

I discovered my new Macy's charge card actually had two separate accounts attached to it, due to its having a Visa logo, and that because I'd only made one payment (hello, it's ONE card) the other account that I did not know existed was now overdue. I talked first to a heavily accented Indian woman about this issue, and after reading her my account number and having it incorrectly read back to me for the fourth time (honestly, look, I don't really have a position on outsourcing one way or another...it's a dicey issue, but for the love of god; ENGLISH. You may not like it, but that's what we speak here in dumb old AMERICA, so if you INSIST on sending our jobs out to India, at least hire someone who can SPEAK IT. GOD.), I politely asked her if I could just try again with someone else. I even threw out the "we must have a bad connection" bone, rather than bitching at her.

She transferred me, however, to Rita. Or, as I refer to her, "&*%$##-ing Rita."

Rita was also heavily accented, but in a clipped, "Bitchy Southern Woman" way, the type that would have looked on quite disapprovingly at the shenanigans of the girls in "Shag."

Rita talked to me like I was an idiot, wouldn't let me finish a sentence without cutting me off to contradict what I was saying in the most condescending voice possible, refused to walk me through the website to show me how to make these two separate payments for the SAME GODDAMN CREDIT CARD I apparently have to make every month, and HUNG UP ON ME when I informed her I wished to speak to a supervisor.

I'd even done that in as polite a tone as possible, throwing her the "I'm sure we're just both having bad days, but I need to speak to someone else that might be able to better assist me" bone. BITCH. HUNG. UP.

The next day, I had to go to the doctor for my annual "we're just going to put this doohickey here and you're supposed to just relax and stuff" visit.

"Your appointment was yesterday."
"Um, nooo it wasn't."
"Well that's what we have in here."
"Well I actually specifically requested any day but that one when I called, because that's a day I have a major report due each week at work. So I never would have agreed to an appointment on that day."
"Well, I guess we're going to have to try and fit you in *sigh* but I can't make any promises."
"Well, I guess you're going to have to, because I left work to come down here and it has to be this week so I can renew my birth control prescription before it runs out."
"Well, we'll see."

So I sat there for over an hour, watching countless other young women, including a (quelle scandal!) pregnant girl who looked no older than 15, be shuffled in and out, getting their bits examined without delay. Fucking hell. What about my bits?

They did eventually get er done, but never did apologize.

THEN, I ended up being informed that the UPS guy delivered my Harry Potter book on Saturday, and left it "at the front door." There is no way this happened, as I was actually at home at the time they claimed they delivered it.

The next day, I swung past Dunkin for an iced coffee, was informed they were out of sweet n' low and "running kind of low on donuts."

Dunkin. Donuts. "Running kind of low on donuts."

This has not been a good week for FuService.

Jambalaya!

2007-07-18T21:05:00.000-04:00

First, I so need to go on The World Series of Pop Culture. I'm recruiting a team right now, and will take whoever comes up with the best team name. I'd prefer a 90210 reference, but am willing to consider anything.

I was going to go with "8 Year Olds, Dude," but I'm afraid people will get the wrong idea.

I'm just pissed as hell that my sister, of all people, had a pub trivia team a few years back with what I'd most like to have gone with, "Lumberg Fucked Her." But I guess that's really too dirty for VH1 anyway.

So, what do you got, people?

As for my trip to New Orleans: FUN. The following happened, not necessarily in this order.

1) I innocently put my hand down on a branch to steady myself on a path leading down to a river (toobing is fun!), and wondered, when I pulled it away, why I was suddenly wearing a glove. FIRE ANTS!!!!!! I managed to only get bit four times, but let's just say I considered peeing on myself to ease the pain. I ended up peeing in my tube later on anyway, laughing so hard at the 18th beaver dam or whatever that we ended up ensnared in, but didn't manage to get my hand under there fast enough.

2) Shortly after arriving home from the toobing, was viciously attacked by a wasp. WTF, mates.

3) My sister got so drunk that she ended up refusing to tell our "designated" (as in, she was the least drunk) driver how to get home. She somehow blamed the entire debacle on me, which is, let's face it, entirely possible after 11 shots. Even if they were mostly chick shots.

4) Jambalaya at the Gumbo Shop = best Jambalya I've ever had. Granted, the only other jambalaya I'd had came in a pouch.

5) The Gumbo Shop also serves a frozen drink that, no lie, tastes precisely like Peppermint Stick ice cream............oh, sorry, I just peed a little. (It obviously don't take much.)

6) A rousing game of "I Never" at my brother-in-law's birthday party in which I learned things about my sister that, let's just face it, I cannot unlearn.

7) I cried in front of various gate agents in the Philadelphia airport.

8) Lost voice...gained seven pounds. I'm thinking my seven pound voice now resides in my ass.

All in all? Good times. Didn't meet any boys, but boys are dumb anyway. And it's kind of hard to fool around when your hand is swelled up with fire ant welts.

I'm on Day 3 of my latest attempt at detox. I expect to last until Saturday. At least I'm realistic this time...

The Weekly Numbers, Trebek Style

2007-07-11T14:35:00.001-04:00

Ah the Weekly Numbers. That's why I enjoy running features. When my lazy ass has absolutely dick-all to say, I can always just fire off a few "Weekly" numbers for you. There's actually a mishmash of crap to discuss from recent weeks, so the Numbers also provide a good medium to barf out all the potpourri ("Your mother's a whore, Trebek!") in my overloaded keppy.

Onto the numbers...

1: Number nights I got to stay in my beloved D.C. for a business trip a couple weeks back, and, incidentally, number of people who gave me "poor" feedback on the presentation I conducted while on said trip. How dare they. Don't they know I hardly worked at all on it and didn't practice that much?

Approx 13: Number of drinks I had in me before getting on board my flight home, after an after-work happy hour and a two-hour airport delay (that I of course spent in the handy bar right next to my gate). How is it that people are always getting thrown off planes for being intoxicated? I mean, unless you're on the side of the road in the middle of the night trying to recite the alphabet between the letters "L" and "T," it's really not that hard to disguise utter smashedness. Just keep your mouth shut (unless you're sticking gum in it).

2: Number of guys I met at the airport bar during said delay.

1: Number of guys I met at the airport bar during said delay that were actually on my flight, AND asked for my phone number (look at Fu, picking up dudes in an airport!).

1:30: Time in the MORNING the Airport Guy called me (SIX days after our Airport Meet-Cute), drunk and surrounded by hooting friends, wanting to know "what I was doing." I'm sure the response he was hoping for was not "What am I DOING? It's 130 in the morning, DICKSLAP!" but rather, "Well pretty soon I'm gonna be doing YOU, Airport Guy! Purrrrr!"

243: Approximate number of bottles of booze on the counter at my fourth of July party, I think we made it through about 156 of them.

3: Attempts it took before I figured out how to work my dad's grill. (I may be leaving out the fact that I had to call him up in Phoenix and ask him to tell me how to work the grill, for fear that after my first two attempts I might actually vaporize the deck, the house and the surrounding property and be left standing in the middle of it with soot all over my face and my hair standing on end, like when Wile E. Coyote's Acme bomb goes very, very wrong.)

3: Attempts it took before I actually figured out how to cook a hamburger on said grill. (I may be leaving out that after the first two burgers incinerated and fell apart in gooey chunks respectively, I had to call up Dad again to ask advice on proper burger cookage.)

1: Number of blind dates my parents' best friends have offered to set me up on with their neighbor, who may or may not be an ex-con.

0.0002: number of seconds after hearing this offer that I began to feel reeeeeeally pathetic.

2: Number of planes it's going to take me to get to New Orleans for my brother-in-law's birthday party-slash-girls' weekend with my sister and many friends tonight.

141483:1 : Odds of me actually getting on second leg of journey, as am flying standby and may end up curled up in an airport all night. You ever wonder why homeless people don't just go live at the airport, like that Tom Hanks movie? No one ever hassles people sleeping on the ground in an airport, they just assume they are stranded. Not like staying in an airport is awesome, but at least it's warm in the winter and stuff. Plus they could probably score a lot of those little mini liquor bottles, and pretend they are giants!

5: Time in the morning it was on Sunday when a friend and I rolled back into her apartment in Boston after partying all night on Saturday.

4? Approximate number of times I barfed after the lethal combination of "Many (delicious blueberry) Beers," "Many Shots," "334 Cigarettes," "Tragic Loss at Wii Bowling," and "2 Cupfuls of Turpentine Red Wine at 4 a.m." This is only a guess, as I hardly remember it, I remember only the horrendous splitting headache I woke up with on her futon at 7 a.m. after curling up there in a pathetic heap with no blanket or pillow.

28: My age in years, in about two months. Now go back and read the previous paragraph again. Now come back and slap me upside my stupid head for continuing to act so foolishly. Then make me repeat: "Just because my friend is 22 does NOT mean I am too" 50 times. Then slap me in the head again. Then hit me with a shovel to remind me how I felt that morning and why I should never, ever, ever, do that again.

25: Number of minutes until I leave work. I'd better wrap things up....

Am I Too Young for Nostalgia?

2007-07-07T12:36:00.000-04:00

There is literally nothing on TV this summer.

But SoapNet is in the middle of first season re-runs of 90210. It's like sixth grade all over again!

Except...wow. First off, in the sixth grade, I really don't recall wearing some of the daisy-covered crap currently burning my retinas (though I guess I can admit to an actual plaid blazer with shoulder pads that I lusted after in the Gap...luckily my mother refused to shell out the fifty bucks; she recognized the hideousness thank the lord).

But what's bothering me the most isn't the clothes (all the girls wear mom jeans that give them huglely massive gunts--they can't weigh more than 120 or 125 each (which yeah, was actually pretty fat compared to today's 98-pound weaklings), but those damn things make them look freaking porky! No wonder boot-cut low-rises came in, sheesh), or the ridiculous storylines (Brenda meeting beatnik types at a coffee house and doing "stand-up comedy" in which she complains that housesitting is hard?), or even Steve Sanders' fro-mullet.

What's bothering me is that the object of my undying preteen lust, one Dylan McKay...well. Hm. I actually had a poster of this man that I kissed goodnight on a nightly basis in my room. And while real-life Luke Perry was only about 25 when the show started, younger than I am now...well the receding hairline (sideburns don't hide that, chief) and massive forehead wrinkles?

Why was everyone all over Steve Sanders and Andrea Zuckerman for being the token oldies?

Fu and TeeVee, Sittin' in a Tree...

2007-06-26T11:05:00.000-04:00

You know how I always say "TV is good for you?"

It's allegedly tongue in cheek, no matter how much I argue that my weekly intake of hotness that is Franco on "Rescue Me" is vital to my health and well being. (No really, hotness on that show, and not just Franco. Is every man just hotter in a firefighter uniform? Even Denis Leary is hot on this show, and I never once found the man even remotely attractive, except for his onscreen flirtation with the Hotness of Renee Russo Before She Got Weird-Looking in "The Thomas Crown affair," and his accent, which I can never quite pinpoint as precisely Boston but is still hot. But I don't like how everyone always interviews him on those Red Sox World Series DVDs. Is it too much to ask for a little Damon/Affleck action? Sheesh, Ben is only out there at every damn important homegame. Remember when he had a movie career? Where was I?)

But really, I can't believe it took me almost 28 years to realize the glory that is the Sleep Timer.

I've never been a morning person. Getting out of bed, for this chick, is basically the worst possible thing to happen in my usual day. Which explains some of my epic snoozefests of the past, including one beauty from when I first moved into my own apartment (no one to judge me!) and slept one Friday night from two in the morning until three in the afternoon the next day. Without even getting up to pee. I really don't know how I accomplished this, and I really don't think I'll ever duplicate it. I'm so old now that the next time I sleep for that long, I might not wake up at all.

So, I'm the girl who sleeps through her alarm and is late for work several times a year, reigning Queen of the Snooze Button (for what it's worth, also reigning Queen of Showing Up to Work with Wet Hair Due to Lack of Time to Dry it Due to Oversleeping; Queen of Showing Up to Work with Dirty Hair Due to Lack of Time to Even Shower Due to Oversleeping; Queen of Using a Sick Day for No Reason Other Than Just.Can't.Get.Out.Of.BED.; and Queen of All Things Awesome--just cuz).

I've always just thought I was a night person. I never get sleepy at night, I always end up reading until the wee hours, or getting trapped into a movie that started at 11, etc. etc. etc.

That is, until about just over a week ago, when my entire life changed forever. The Sleep Timer!

I decided to watch "Army Wives" in bed last Sunday night. I was about 20 minutes in when I shut my eyes and didn't open them again until the alarm blared to life at 730 the next morning. Whuzzuh? How now? Hrmph? I didn't even NEED to press snooze. (I know! That's apparently what happens when you fall asleep at 10:20 and sleep straight through the night.)

The next night I figured, "Well, let's watch that 'Law and Order Special Victims Unit' episode in bed, and maybe set the timer whooziewhatsit so it shuts off...just in case you fall asleep again."

I think I only experienced about 10 minutes of the Hotness of Detective Eliot Stabler before I was snoozing heavy.

WTF, mates? How did I not know before that watching TV in bed puts people to sleep? I've never felt more rested in my life! In fact, for the last four business days straight (and Sunday, although that was later in the morning) I've pulled my rested old booty out of bed at SIX-FIFTEEN to hit up the gym for an hour before work (I know!!!). Just because I'm falling asleep so fast and early that I don't need to sleep until 730 anymore. Holy shit!

And I owe it all to TV.

Oh, TV! Sniff, just when I thought you couldn't find another way to enrich my life aside from all those "Roseanne" marathons on Nickleodeon.

The Daily Ewwws

2007-06-21T10:01:00.000-04:00

I put too much water in my oatmeal this morning. And the only thing worse than watery oatmeal is a sandy apple, which I'm pretty sure the apple in my lunch bag will be too. And since I make my morning oatmeal after I get to work, I can't just start over with a new packet. Damnit.

I'm bummed about my apple. Apples are everywhere in New Hampshire. There are a dozen different kinds in the grocery store, and I've tried them all. I find Braeburns and Pink Ladies to be the best in terms of crispness and sweetness, and I love a Granny Smith now and then--they are NEVER sandy. But for some reason at the grocery store Sunday I got sucked in by the Macs. Macs are everyone's favorite apple; thin skin, bright white meat, crisp, sweet, tangy. But guess what? They only taste that perfect for about a day. And it's usually the day they spend on the truck on their WAY to the damn grocery store.

You're much better off buying Macs either straight off the tree during picking season or at a roadside stand. Otherwise, avoid them. I'm already dreading lunch, and forcing down my sandy apple to at least get the nutrients and check off one of my "fruits and vegetables" boxes on my stupid daily food intake journal that I apparently need to do for the rest of my BLOODY LIFE if I don't want to end up in a documentary on TLC, wailing about how it's all my bad genes.

Seriously though, I'd love to discover the science of catching fruit while it's ripe. I've currently got two completely hard (hehe) mangos sitting on my kitchen counter which will no doubt have gone squishy and rotten by the time I get home tonight. Eddie Izzard does a riff that kills me about how pears are hard as rocks...until you turn your back or leave the room, then they all go, "Okay, rot now! Rot now!" Fruit is the devil, man. Can't be trusted.

I can't believe I just spent a entry on apple selection advice and the science of fruit ripening. Remember when I used to write about threesomes?

Speaking of foodstuffs, how disgusting does this sound? I don't believe I've ever in my life consumed a cucumber and thought to myself, "You know what would be awesome? Cucumber-flavored cola. Yeah, man."

This only reinforces my continued vigilance to all things Diet Coke. When they add weird shit to their sodas, it at least manages to sound good. Like you haven't tried Black Cherry Vanilla Diet Coke? Come on, now.

Other possible Disgusting Cola Flavors:

Peppercorn Ranch Diet Coke

Ruby Red & Tobasco Sprite

Cilantro Baby Puke Mr. Pibb

I could go on and on. But really Pepsi...ew.

You're Obviously Not a Golfer...

2007-06-19T14:59:00.000-04:00

I actually have a good excuse for being so slack lately: my computer is infected with a whooziewhatsit, and I've been afraid to turn it on until I get it fixed. The last time I turned it on the screen went red (aaaaah!), and while everything still seemed to function and I didn't seem to have lost any files or anything, I'm basically terrified to use it until I can take it to someone to get all my anti-whooziewhatsits software in line and clean out whatever the frack is in there.

And while I can always use my work laptop to update from home, the last thing I want to do after working, gymming, cleaning, getting something to eat, blah blah blah, is haul out my laptop case and hook everything up and, laaaaazy Fu. Laaazy. Get it?

My sick laptop was always just there, always on, always already connected. Alls I had to do was pick it up. Maybe that's how the whooziewhatsit snuck on in there, eh?

Anyhow, I hate updating from work, but I figure it can't hurt to take a few minutes from my lunch break to unload the random points and thoughts from the last couple weeks:

1) The Wittle Guy! A few years back, early on in my DC days, when I was *mumble mumble ahem* pounds lighter on my feet than I am now (but still by no means teensy), I dated a guy my roommate and I dubbed "Wee Man." And this was before I even knew about the Wee Man of "Jackass" fame. There was just no other way to describe him. He was itty bitty in every way, a delicate little flower of a guy. We went out for a couple months, but I eventually grew frustrated with both his diminutive stature (I was at my thinnest at this time, yet felt like the Queen Mary whenever we went out) and his blatant homosexuality (two months, never made it past first base. And this is ME we're talking about!).

Anyhow, this is all by way of saying, I met another Wee Man a couple weeks back, and was tickled pink and amused that he seemed to basically LOVE me. This was the whole gamut. He followed me around the bar, offered to get me drinks, plopped down at my table to chat the instant my friends got up to pee...It was truly baffling. I'm not trying to be all "Boohooo, me so fat" here, but I swear I looked twice this guy's size. He was really cute and all but...no. Nooooooo. I felt kinda bad rejecting him, I mean how many guys have been that all about me lately? But really....no. I kept wanting to pat him on the head and put him in my pocket. That's not the basis of a good relationship. Unless you're like, into relationships with giants or something.

2) My Adoring Public. Most of you don't know this, but I've actually been blogging since the days of Flintstones computers made of brick, where your keyboard was hooked up to a talking prehistoric bird that used its beak as a chisel to engrave blog posts into the side of the cave. Okay, since 2001. But still, that's 42 dog years people. I don't link to my old blogs from here, for a number of reasons including but not limited to to: bad writing, embarassing anecdotes from a misspent youth, baaad writing, many posts with inside references to people you are unfamiliar with (~waves to said people~), and really bad writing. If you're dying to read about 21-year old Fu and her misadventures with the opposite sex, weight loss, boozing, and...wait a second. That sounds a lot like 27-year old Fu too (if you replace "weight loss" with "talking about wanting to acheive weight loss while secretly eating Edy's directly from carton"). I've not grown a lick in 6 years? Wtf. Oh well. If you are indeed interested, I will evaluate access to the Fu archives on a case by case basis. Just email me.

But anyway. At Strange Brew Friday night? I was RECOGNIZED! By a lovely young lady who was probably in fracking high school when she used to read me, but whose compliments I'll take just the same. I was RECOGNIZED!!!! Now, I always used to say I would never want to be famous, because people coming up to you all the time must be a huge pain in the general rectal area, but you know what? Nope, not a bit. I SO WANT TO BE FAMOUS NOW! That was great.

3) The Golf Dork. Friday night, before my night was made by My Adoring Fan, Kelly was accosted by a guy rocking Don Johnson's look in "Tin Cup," right down to the overgrown shaggy hair and the ill-advised visor. (Note to men: You can't wear visors if your hair has grown out longer than an inch or two. Just trust me. You look ridiculous.) He also had a pair of ten-dollar mall kiosk sunglasses on one of those foam rubber necklace things.

Golf Dork: Hey there, you have a beautiful smile.
Kelly: Okay, yeah, thanks.
Golf Dork: I couldn't help but notice you sitting here all alone..
Kelly: ~motions to Fu, CLEARLY SITTING RIGHT THERE ACROSS FROM HER~ Well I'm here with my FRIEND.
Fu: ~loudly~ HELLO THERE! NICE TO MEET YOU!
Golf Dork: Oh, sorry, I didn't see you there.

Come ON. I am many things, but I don't think I've ever been invisible, or been in possession of a special Harry Potter Invisibility Cloak (although hoooo baby, the things I'd do with one....also, only 32 more days until the 7th book arrives on my doorstep! EEEE!). And it's not like I'm one of these 85 pound chicks I've been seeing at the Brew lately, who disappear when they turn sideways. Give me a break, GOLF GUY. Speaking of which...

Golf Dork: So, do you golf?
Fu (he was talking to Kelly again, but I couldn't resist): No, but I'll bet YOU do.

Before you think I'm just a bitch, the guy went on to invite Kelly to help him cheat on his girlfriend, becuase "all she does is cut hair." Hm? Men, I swear. Or rather, Manch Vegas men. There were also a group of guys there with an approximately 4-foot tall bong-like structure filled with beer. How did they even get that in the bar? When did Strange Brew start allowing this? Fascinating.

4) Hampton. There really isn't another New England experience quite like Hampton Beach. I love it, I can't help it. I can't imagine going to Rye or one of the other "classy" beaches. What fun would that be? Hampton is like me: It's loud, obnoxious, trashy, often horrifying, drunken, and riddled with cigarette butts. Well, maybe I'm not riddled with butts, but my lungs probably are. Plus, I never feel fat when I hit the beach there, becuase there is inevitably at least five or six ten-year olds that outweigh me by half. Ah, white trash.

Not to mention: The deck at The Sea Ketch, an establishment I really couldn't live without. I've spent some of the finer afternoons of my life guzzling pina coladas on the deck at the Ketch. Mmm, sun and booze, mmmm.

Anyhow, back to the grind. If my computer stops spinning like a top and spewing pea soup at me every time I turn it on, I might start blogging more...

Oh, Fu. Lisa Loeb?

2007-06-13T11:18:00.000-04:00

Inspriation from Nate this morning, who posted a semi-embarassing iPod playlist. It included Billy Joel's "She's Got a Way," snerk!

He wondered where that even came from, I'm thinking he downloaded it for a romantic mix CD or something. I imagine most guys with smurfy songs on their iPods justify their existence by the need to keep their bitches happy. And considering Nate dated my sister for what must've been three veeeery long years, I can see him as the type of guy who would go to such lengths.

(Heheh, what? She's my big sister, I'm supposed to make smart remarks at her expense!)

(Seriously though, to paraphrase my hilariously disturbed dad, he would have done less time if he'd shot her.)

(As for the rest of his list, the only questionable track I found on it was Evanessence. Hate! I just spend enough time in karaoke bars (yeah, yeah) to know that Evanessence has inspired far too many tone deaf drunken bitches to pierce my eardrums with their insipid, off-key caterwauling. Karaoke rule #1, when a singer has a distinctive, hard to mimic voice with a big range, don't even bother trying. Faith Hill = Easy. Evanessence chick = Haaard. Thus concludes today's lesson.)

(This all from the girl who thought, just Friday night, that because people seemed to really dig her rendition of Sweet Child O' Mine that she ought to give "I'm the Only One" a go. Note to self: Cannot, no really, CANNOT sing like Melissa Etheridge. Not even close, not even a little. File Etheridge under Evanessence: Do not attempt.)

Anyhow.

The whole point here is that Embarassing iPod Tracks makes an excellent filler blog post when you have nothing else of any significance to say. So here's my list, in no particular order:

Bye Bye Bye (NSYNC) - Yes. I have an NSYNC song on my iPod. I don't even have an excuse. I just like that song. I know, yes, it's true. Guess what? I've also got "It's gonna be me." This is all only marginally justifiable as "early Justin Timberlake classics" from before he got legitimately well-respected in the "biz."

Heat of the Moment (Asia) - "I mean, seriously, Asia? You framed an Asia poster? How hard did the people at the frame store laugh when you brought this in? Know how I know you're gay? Becuase you like Asia."

One Week (Barenaked Ladies) - This is one of only three BNL songs on my entire iPod. The Barenaked Ladies have many, many good songs. "One Week" is NOT one of them. I have no excuse.

Jesus Take the Wheel (Carrie Underwood) - Again, no defense. My love of La Underwood knows no bounds.

Sugar High (Renee Zellweger) - You know that scene in "Empire Records" when the guy from "Cold Case" is able to avoid going to jail for stealing several thousand dollars from his employer by throwing an illegal all night kegger at his employer's record store, and a band plays on the roof of the store without a permit and Renee Zellweger, when she was still cute and somewhat chubbed (pre-"Skeletor Suckin' on a Lemon" days), got up and sang the song with the band and she found self confidence that didn't come through banging cheesy Hasselhoff types in the accounting room OF HER EMPLOYER (without getting fired)? I have that song on my iPod. Yeah, that's right.

Africa (Toto) - What does this song MEAN? All I know is that I love it. But what does it MEAN??? Sample lyric: "The wild dogs cry out in the night, As they grow restless longing for some solitary company, I know that I must do whats right, Sure as kilimanjaro rises like olympus above the serengeti." HUH?

Do You Sleep? (Lisa Loeb) - I don't even have "Stay" on here, which would at least make sense. I mean, it was a pretty big hit during my formative years. Speaking of that one, do you watch "Reality Bites" through totally different eyes now? When I saw the movie for the first time at 15, it made total sense that Winona would pick the self-involved pseudo-intellectual pretentious philosophy-spewing shaggy-haired non-committal unemployed hottie, who had banged her and then told all their friends about it, over sweet but uptight Ben Stiller. Now that I'm 27 I'm like, "At least Ben Stiller had a JOB!" Maybe it's becuase the last guy I dated was unemployed.

In the Zone (Britney Spears) - That's right. I've got the ENTIRE ALBUM on my iPod. If you download no other track from this album, get "The Hook-up." I dare you not to shake your booty to this song. Britney actually had a lot of good songs on this album, I stand by it, it keeps me going at the gym!

Oh to heck with you guys.

Well, That Sucked

2007-06-10T22:31:00.000-04:00

Honestly, I can kind of get the decision to end The Sopranos the way they did.

Why bother trying to come up with something that will please everyone when you can just say "what the fuck" and do something that will please no one?

Okay, I'm sure that some people, actually, will say that it was genius to do it that way, but those people are exactly the people Chase was afraid of. Any other way and they would have all bitched it wasn't good enough.

But! The point is that there are more people who wanted to see....I don't know something.

Everyone is still an asshole, right down to the Soprano children. Douchebags both, especially Meadow, probably the most vile female character on the show, including Livia and including Janice.

No accountability, at all, not even a little. No comeuppance for the people that wanted that, no whacking, no indictment. Even the FBI were acting like assholes in this episode.

So if the message of the show is that everyone's a huge shallow pointless asshole or a murderer? Well..okay. Well done.

I'm also (just for my own personal enjoyment, even if it wouldn't have had any narrative point) really sad that AJ and his stupid fucking high school girlfriend didn't blow up in his car.

On another note, I'm watching "John from Cincinnati" now...and I'm intrigued so far. I hope I don't like it too much, the last thing I need is another show.

FuManchShoe of the Year

2007-06-10T15:05:00.000-04:00

I'm being serious. I'm not a rich girl. I'm very comfortably middle class. I own waaaay too many pairs of shoes, but at least they are all 100 dollars or less. Now that I think about it, I think the most expensive pair in my collection at the moment clocked in at $85.

So I'm not insanely extravagant. Usually.

But really? My mother, who currently foots a significant portion of my monthly student loan bills and thinks I spend too much on shoes already, is the only thing preventing me from spending (nay, charging, which is even worse) $610 frivolous dollars (actually more like $850, which is what they're going for on eBay since they are no longer available for order, like fucking hell, thanks for putting a shoe as the "hot shoe for summer" in this week's Us Weekly only for me to go online fully intending to just say "what the hell" and buy them, and then finding out I can't get them, Christian Louboutin. A-hole.) on these, my currently most-coveted shoe ever.

And shut up about their impracticality, because...pretty!!!!!! Sparkly!!!!

I think I'm going to faint. Damn you, Louboutin.

I'd Normally Make "Rock Hard" Joke Here, but...

2007-06-08T11:02:00.001-04:00

...ew. No really, ew.

Snapped this with my camera phone a while ago and forgot about it. But I had to freeze frame my TV (God bless DVRs, right?) to make sure my eyes weren't playing tricks on me. I was watching the "Lost" finale with a friend, when a Cialis commercial came on. Cialis commercials always kill me, for a couple reasons:

1) The couple in the commercials is always old. I know that old people do it too, just look at Jack Nicholson, but it's still funny to think about.

2) There is ALWAYS side by side outdoor bathtubs involved. What do you suppose the logistics are of getting a bathtub outside? This strikes me as a plumbing problems. Second, what if the guy gets it up while in the outside bathtub? Does he get up out of his tub and join his wife in hers? What if someone sees? There's no shower curtain. You see my problem. Third, I think doing it in an outside bathtub would...suck. Especially for oldies. Someone is bound to break a hip.

But while this particular commercial was airing, well...wow.

"Is that a dick?"
"What?"
"Did you see that? There was a dick-shaped rock formation in front of the side by side bathtubs."
"Oh, there was not!"
"No, seriously, look!"
(rewind, freeze frame)
"Oh my god! That's a dick! EW!"

Like, for real Cialis. Or maybe it's just been so long since I've actually seen one that I'm hallucinating.

Facefirst Facing Fu

2007-06-04T20:38:00.000-04:00

Good: Fu's strep throat has cleared up, she feels better.

Good: She's still been tired the last couple days, so she's been doing her yoga tape in lieu of going to the gym.

Good: She's enjoying the yoga tape enough that she actually hauled her ass out of bed a half hour earlier this morning to do it before work (I know!!!)

Bad: She did this on only four hours sleep, as she is apparently incapable of buying a book and taking a few days to read it (unless of course that book is the Ben Franklin biography she has owned for a loooong time now and is only about three quarters of the way through), and she stayed up until 3 in the morning finishing fricking Jemima J, a relatively crap-ass chick lit book involving a girl losing 100 pounds in like, six months, and not having any excess skin or anything to deal with, and instead just being a little size-2 type who gets mistook for movie stars. Please!!!!!!!!

Very Bad: A porcine feline plopping down under Fu's downward-facing dog and roly-polying around, cutely. Then, when Fu is supposed to be concentrating on sticking her leg straight up behind her in the same position, said kitty choosing to start licking her ankle. Cue faceplant!

Good: Baked Tostito Scoops and salsa!

Very, Very, Very Bad: Matthew Perry on a third season episode of "Friends" on TBS right now, weighing about 83 pounds and sporting the most pubetastic goatee I've ever seen. I loved his "on crack" season, but my god man. Incidentally, this was indeed the best season of the show, before it turned into the gay-ass "Friends in Love."

Indescribably Awesome: The Las Vegas Real World reunion show. As in, all seven of them, back living in that fricking hotel again and bitch-slapping eachother. Update: Steven is balding, Frank has gone retarded (or maybe he always was retarded?), and Trishelle is still a huge ho that looks a little bit like a duck.

Wicked Sobah

2007-06-03T00:58:00.000-04:00

Let's just say that Lindsay Lohan's Memorial Day weekend paled in comparison to mine.

Okay, that's probably not true even a little, considering I don't do drugs. But I did indeed party hearty, as my pops might say, four nights in a row, and stumble my way into dawn's early light not once, but twice. I drank until welcoming the dawn on Saturday night, then again on Sunday.

Prrrrrobably not a good idea, as I spent Monday aching, moaning, coughing, sweating and shivering. I figured it was just a raging hangover and a bad case of the DT's, but it turns out it was raging strep throat and a bad case of a fricking high fever.

I spent this whole week rather incapacitated. I was useless at work, spent every moment not engaged in work fast asleep on my couch, rousing only to take occasional peeks at the Red Sox Scores.

Speaking of them, I freaking had to turn down free Sox tickets this week. That's how much I couldn't suck it up.

I am on day three of the old penecillin now, and feeling much better. But I had to leave a freaking birthday party tonight because I was yawning and dreaming wistfully of the Big Red Couch. Not to mention I wasn't drinking becuase I'm now convinced that my immune system needs at least 2 weeks to recover from my Lohansian Memorial Day.

I am old. And lame. And remarkably happy to be in my jammies right now. I was even annoyed by how smoky my beloved Strange Brew was tonight....even though my last appearance there I was getting change from the bartender for the cig machine and working my way through three-quarters of the damn pack.

"Why did I never notice before how cold it is in here?"
"Becuase you're sober!"

"God, it's so f'n smoky in here. It's making my eyes sting...and it stinks! Why does this normally not bother me?"
"Becuase you're SOBER."

"How come I don't feel dizzy or nauseated, or attracted to that ugly guy slumped over near the juke box?"

Okay, I made up that last one. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go to bed. This is the latest I've been awake all week, and I'm starting to nod off. This is so sad.

I apologize for my lameness. I promise to try and party next weekend so I have something interesting to say. In the meantime, could you keep it down?!? I'm trying to SLEEP.

Douchebags, Aisle Two

2007-05-31T15:40:00.000-04:00

I'm not one to not snicker at a particularly absurd douche commercial.

In fact, I'm not even one to not snicker at the product itself. How is this stuff even still around? All they ever taught us in 7th grade health class was how use of this crap was a one way ticket to Yeastville, Population: You.

But still, isn't some propriety in order?

A few days ago at the grocery store, I was walking past the pharmacy section, where all your various lotions, potions, elixirs and douche-oriented items can be found. And I see two popped collary jackass types snickering to eachother and pointing to various items on the shelves in one aisle.

Oh god, seriously?

I mean, who laughs at douche in the middle of a supermarket?

And I'm not talking about 14-year old morons either, these morons had to be at least drinking age. At least. In fact, I can't even believe I didn't just walk right up to them, calmly take a big old box of Summer's Eve off the shelf and put it in my basket. Just to see what they would've said. Heheh.

(On another note, I'm up to "Mr. and Mrs. Smith" in my Sick Day Movie Marathon; and how can anyone be on Jennifer Aniston's side after watching this? I mean, I like Jen and all, and her and Brad sure were a cutesy couple. But weren't you always, in the meeeean parts of your mind, wondering what the heck he was doing with her for so long? I mean, he always could've done better. She was practially his age for crying out loud. Actually, now that Angelina's taken her Save the World crusade to annoyingly anorexic heights, he can probably do better than her now too. Maybe see a little Scarlett action. Just sayin'...But dang, Angie is hot in this movie. The dominatrix scene? Come on!!!)

Sick Day TV

2007-05-31T09:59:00.000-04:00

I hate staying home from work sick. No, really! Hate it.

Which is why I hauled my ass to work on Tuesday and Wednesday, attempting to ignore the fact that my glands were swelled up like cantaloupes and I spent most of the day alternating between "moaning" and "snapping back awake after nodding off despite having slept 14 hours the previous night."

I finally realized I needed a doctor when I checked out my throat in the bathroom mirror at work yesterday and it looked vaguely like the strawberries that've been in my fridge way too long: bright red, and covered in fuzzy white patches.

So it turns out I've got the strep, and was forced to stay home today. I'm working, but I'm doing so on the couch, basking in the glow of daytime television.

So far today I've done mostly movies, although I did start out with a couple episodes of "Spin City," including one shocking pre-9/11 one in which the guy who was Cameron in "Ferris Bueller" takes a meeting with the firefighter's union and makes fun of them, including the line, "I always wanted to be a fireman too...when I was nine."

Can you imagine that shit flying in post-9/11 days? Holy moly.

I also caught the 1998 remake of the "The Parent Trap," which never fails to amuse. I can't figure out if it's the eternal hotness of Dennis Quaid or the eternal craptasticness of Lindsay Lohan's "British" accent. Or maybe it's the plot, in which we're asked to believe that divorcees would be so utterly self-absorbed that they'd figure the best solution to their hatred of one another is to each take one of their twin daughters and then pretend as if the other didn't exist.

I mean, if this shit happened in real life, don't you think the twins in question, once they figured things out, might need a little therapy to deal with their abandonment issues? Instead all we get is Lindsay Lohan playing two separate versions of nose-wrinkling, "yeah you really shouldn't have done that, but it's all good, hee hee!"

It could be my antibiotics talking, but it's really pissing me off.

Actually, this whole post is making me sleepy, but it actually doesn't really take much these days. I haven't slept this much since I had mono. Man, I wish this was mono. I lost 20 pounds in three weeks with that one. I'd totally do that again, even with the whole "wishing I were dead" thing.

The Weekly Numbers, Hawkeye Style

2007-05-23T12:29:00.000-04:00

I was doing really well there for a while. But since I once read research indicating that something like 148% of all blog posts begin with the words "sorry I haven't posted in a while," I'm going to avoid that particular bit of dreck and just get right into the What Fu Has Been Up To in the Last 20 Days.

Semi-Weekly Numbahs Style:

Dates with potential new (old) FuMan, who I don't even really like all that much but who was cute and hey, a sister is hard-up: 7 (I know! We should practically be picking out china patterns.)

Except...

Number of Sexual Encounters with Potential New (Old) FuMan): Unless you count kissing, zero. ZERO. So the first three times we went out, fireworks, then the next few...nothing?

The FuManchCrew (see how I am coming up with the clever nicknames? If by "clever" you mean "absurd and contrived.") has come up with several definitive theories as to why there has been no below the belt action since date number three:

1) He is not attracted anymore, but enjoys my company well enough and knows that I am usually willing to swill beers with his alcoholic ass on a school night when no one else will.
2) Dick Fungus

Honestly? I'm not sure which would be worse. But either way, he's out. Maybe we'll still be friends. He wants to catch "Pirates of the Carribean" this weekend (do you say CARRI-bean or cah-RIB-bean?).

Speaking of Pirates...

Number of Fu-gasms during last night's Daughtry performance on "Idol": 349. Holy crap, I am still such a sucker for that ungrateful bald bastard. HOTT!!!! Although really, he was wearing enough eyeliner to give even Jack Sparrow conjunctivitis. If the show were on Disney-owned ABC I would have thought it was cross-promotion.

Moving right along..

Number of trips to Iowa (or, as we drunkenly called it while sitting in the Cedar Rapids Chili's: I! O! Waaaaaah!!!): One. And oh yes, that's the great, flat, Hawkeye State pictured, as photographed by me out my airplane window with my camera phone--and before I had flight attendant permission to turn it on! Que scandlo!

On a scale of 1-10, how out of place Fu felt traipsing through the small Iowa airport among the cornfed, freshly scrubbed locals and other visitors, while wearing the magenta sundress I'd picked out for the rehearsal dinner, a hot-pink head scarf thing, giant dangly turquoise earrings, giant white sunglasses and a massive hangover from the previous night's festivities with FuMan: 1,486

I mean for god's sake, between my ensemble, my hangover, my bright blonde hair and my fake-n-bake tan I must've looked like a Fat Paris Hilton. Truly embarassing.

Number of feet away from my bag I walked while waiting for the hotel shuttle, and number of minutes I waited to be accosted by security: 50 (approx) and 15.

Iowa must have a threat level of like...whatever's lowest. There was also a woman who parked her car (!!!!) in the loading area to walk in and help her visitor with bags. She'd be booted and then anally probed in a back room at Reagan if she tried that shit in DC. You can't even pull that off in Manch. I tried it once, and was greeted with a barking mad po-po and a 100 dollar ticket (that I am not sure I ever paid, to be honest with you), and informed that the only reason he wasn't "taking me in" and having my car towed was that it was Christmas. No lie! So Iowa, I salute you and your lax airport security regulations.

Of our group of four attending the wedding, Number who vomited: Three. Quite a showing!

Might have had something to do with the fact that we went to the Chili's next door to our hotel at noon, drank until it was time to leave for the wedding at 530, then drank from the time the ceremony ended (6 or so) until passing out (two-thirty or so) after the obligatory after-party. That's 13 and a half hours of booze, folks. Everything from margaritas to Irish coffees to Jack&Cokes to the Dreaded Red Bull and Vodka. If we managed to sneak some shots in there as well, I think I may have returned to Manch Vegas an actual corpose, instead of merely corpsesque.

Speaking of which, our airport shuttle left at 830 a.m. Good times. I seriously contemplated asking the gate agent whether the severity of my hangover qualified me for pre-boarding.

Number of gas station purchased, ridiculously AWESOME cowboy hats I picked up while stopping for more beer (they also, along with the low threat-level airport, sell beer in Iowa gas stations after midnight, who knew!? I'm moving there next week) on the way back to the hotel post-reception: One.

Number of gas-station purchased, ridiculously AWESOME cowboy hats I forgot in my hotel room in my vomitous hungover fog the next morning: one.

Number of times I've bitched mightily about this to the point where my friends are ready to actually fly to Iowa and take a cab to the same gas station to buy me another one and then fly back just to shut me the hell up since I returned: 3,872

So there you have it. I will make an honest effort to blog more, but don't you know how busy I am? What with all the social commitments and boyfriends and non-cat-related activities?

Oh, wait.

Okay, so I'll probably post again tomorrow.

Non-Smoking Kitty

2007-05-03T20:25:00.000-04:00

I admit it freely, after my initial excellent start to 2007, I've fallen gloriously off the wagon and been smoking waaay too much lately.

It sucks, but honestly? I really do, what with bathing suit season rapidly approaching, need to do something about that *cough*40*cough* pounds that mentioned in the entry I wrote five minutes ago.

And smoking helps.

I know it's not gooood that it helps. I mean shit, freaking meth or cocaine would help even better, but you don't see me becoming DruggieManchShoes, do you?

But smoking is a lovely, legal way to cut back on the snackage.

Only problem is that if I break my steadfast "no smoking in the apartment" rule, my kitty Butters? Freaks out.

This is a shelter kitty, so I think maybe she had a bad bad owner in a previous live. She's got no tail, and the shelter couldn't tell me how that happened. So now that she's hauling ass out of the room like she's on fire (pun intended) every time I light up? I've developed some theories.

Theory Numero Uno: Bad Bad Previous Owner Burned her tail with cigarettes. It went up in flames. (Okay, sorry, but that sounds kind of funny.) She was so badly damaged they had to hack the thing off.

Well okay, so that's my only theory. Her fully tailed sister, my other (significantly less busted-looking) kitty Chloe, doesn't have any problems with my light-ups.

So it's making me feel a bit guilty.

~puff puff puff~

Just not that guilty...

What?

Fu Attempts Chicanery; Fails

2007-05-03T19:47:00.000-04:00

So...apparently I do not make a very good cad.

I've been pseudo-dating an ex of mine.

I ran into him at a bar a few weeks ago.

First, the background.

I dated this guy for a while waaaay back in 2003. He was okay, a very nice guy but....was odd. He was neighbors with my favorite couple at the time, my dear friend and her then-boyfriend (now hubby). He was WAY into me, and since my self esteem at the time (at the time? Okay always) landed somehwere in the "eh" range, I was receptive to him and all his advances. Plus, he was six-foot-five with a rocking body, and great in bed.

What? I'm only human, after all.

Now, 2003 was a "bad" year for me. Bad is in quotes because socially? It was freaking GREAT year for me. I was the thinnest I've ever been, ridiculously cute, single, young (23), living in a super-fun house with my buddy Mikey and a couple others, partying non-stop, hooking up, having fun, etc. etc. etc.

But technically, in the grand scheme of things, it was pretty bad becuase I did not have a steady job the whole year. I filled out, seriously, five (FIVE!) W-2 forms for the year 2003. I was adrift.

So, I was seeing this guy on and off all that summer. Late that September, I got fired from my silly job as a receptionist at a dentist's office (I know!), and didn't have the first clue what to do (I was apparently "not friendly enough" to all the surly customers who didn't understand why their three root canals were not fully covered by insurance. Not friendly enough? Moi? Look people, fact of life: dental insurance SUCKS. The usual yearly max is $1000, which if you get two cleanings and maybe a filling or two is fine. But if you need even one root canal? Caps cost $900. That's your whole benefit. Any more than that and you're stuck thinking the nice dentist that gave you the balloon is going to send some balloon-yeilding thugs to your door who will start breaking thumbs. That's just the way it is. But apparently, it's not very "friendly.") I decided to move.

My friend had recently moved to my college home, Washington DC. And she said, "Damnit Fu, why are you wasting your political science degree as a dental receptionist in freaking New Hampshire? Move to Washington!!!"

She was insanely right, so I packed up and moved, severance check in hand, less than a week later.

Without telling the guy.

Look, I know it makes me an asshole...But he was just way more into me than I was to him, and he was so sweet, and I didn't want to deal with the conversation.

And so it went that on my third night in Washington, he called.

"Fu! It's So-and-so."
"Oh...hi."
"I was about to get something to eat, should I come by and pick you up??"
"Well...I can't."
"Oh, okay."
"I'm in DC."
"Oh! How long are you there for?"
"Well...forever."
"Oh. You mean like, you moved?"
"Um...yes."
"Oh. Okay. Well maybe I can come visit you sometime?"
"Suuuuuure...um...I'll call you!"

Never talked to the guy again. Saw him briefly when I was forced to fly home a couple weeks later to spend a few days at my parents' house--I had run out of friends' couches to crash on and my parents figured that spending 100 dollars to fly me home for a few days while I waited to hear back from job interviews was cheaper than floating me the several-million dollars a hotel would have required. It was, well, awkward.

Then I really never talked to him again, fell in love with a great guy in the DC-area, had visions of marriage and babies, got a great job and was basically a happy dappy little DC-chickie for the following three years.

Last year, I had suffered a painful breakup with the guy, seen my job go in a direction I was unsatisfied with, and was experiencing a "general malaise" that alcohol didn't seem to make better, no matter how much of it I drank (or how many ensuing pounds I gained...*cough*40*cough).

So I fled back to NH for a great job opportunity.

And her I am in Fabulous Manch Vegas, and who do I run into?

2003 Love Puppy.

He is deliiiighted to see Fu, and is oblivious to not only the fact that I dumped him in a pretty brutal way, but also to the *cough*40*cough pounds. It's the mother-lode!

Only problem?

I'm still insanely not that into him. I don't know what it is! He's still tall and fit, and funny and friendly...there's just no *there* there.

But I date him anyway (read: He honestly is some of the best I've ever had in, um, that department).

This goes on for a couple weeks.

We had plans this past Sunday, which I cancelled.

I call him Tuesday to make it up, feeling guilty that he sounded so sad that I had bailed. We chat for a while.

"So, maybe we should get together again and do something."
"Ummmm..."
"So..."
"Well........."
"Well, we don't have to..."
"No no..um, maybe next week?"

It was TUESDAY.

"Um..okay!"
"Okay. So, I'll call you?"
"Okay..."

I did not get to Manch Vegas by way of the turnip truck people.

I have no doubt in my mind that I will not be hearing from Love Puppy 2003 again, ever. My guess is that he picked up on the fact that I was just using him as a Love Toy/Self Esteem Booster, and decided that my big ole ass just wasn't worth the hassle.

Plus, some teensy-tiny chickie was all over his shit at the bar the other night, and while he totally blew her off I saw her ENTER HER NUMBER IN HIS PHONE before he blew her off. So I'm betting he's discovered thinner pastures.

I've been dumped by someone I wasn't even all that interested in.

THIS, my friends, is a new level of pathetic.

Rock bottom....a hundred feet of crap...then Fu. Oy.

(The worst part is that the fucker was starting to grow on me. I mean, so tall!!! Shoulders like concrete! Who cares that he doesn't have furniture!)

Move It or Lose It

2007-05-02T21:18:00.000-04:00

This evening, after hitting the gym and stopping in on the grocery store, I was rushing home to catch me some "Top Model" (shut up!), and got stuck in traffic.

Behind an approximately 3-year old little girl, complete with blonde pigtails.

In a pink Barbie Power Wheels.

Seriously.

She was tooling along on the STREET while her presumed mom (nanny?) calmly walked a few feet away (on the goddamned sidewalk where they all belong), pushing a big-assed 18-wheeler of a stroller with two more little tykes (beasts?).

I am temporarily good humored.

We get to a stop sign, and Little Miss Slowshine comes to an obligatory halt. I, feeling my annoyance building and fearing a lawsuit, stop about 20 feet behind her.

She turns around and waves at me all cutely while her mom (nanny?) smiled approvingly.

You may be thinking this is a case of Fu's lil old Grinch heart growing again and breaking the heart size-o-meter thing again. I may be thinking, "Aw, how cute!"

No.

"Move it bitch! Get your pink-assed minature Jeep the hell off the road before I take my blue-assed big-girl Jeep right OVER your shit!"

I say this all while waving back and laughing and with all the windows up, of course. Becuase, again, lawsuit.

So Little Miss Slowshine finally gets the rock out the way and I get my fricking Lean Cuisines into the freezer before they melt. But seriously, seirously, this is why I think it was the nanny. Becuase WHAT mom, even a Manch-Mom, would let their little blonde sweetie-pie drive their 2 mpg Power Wheels in the fucking street????

WTF!!!???

Speaking of Lean Cuisines, you ever notice how men don't eat them?

Now, I get them for two reasons:

1) Low cal lunch. Women can't be the only ones interested in cutting calories. I myself have been at it for the last five years or so, around the time I figured out how much it sucks to be a fattie (with varying, yo-yoing, ridiculously back-and-forth levels of success; but hey that's the way it shakes for those of us of a certain carriage).

2) Um, for a lady of a certain carriage? Fu, she cannot cook. Noooo no no. Cannot cook. Tonight, I got some pre-prepared (and actually pretty low fat!) veggie egg rolls from the supermarket. I burned them. In the microwave. Yes.

Now, in my experience, most men I know aren't really masters in the kitchen either. They also can be far lazier than chicks when it comes to things like slaving over a hot stove.

So why no men in the Lean Cuisine aisle? Do you just get the fattening stuff for your convenience food, like the Hungry Man meals and the Mama Celeste pizzas? I'd respect you if that's the case, but what about the fat guys?

(Oh wait, I forgot. Guys lose weight in their f'n sleep without even trying. Fuckers.)

Oh, and again on the Power Wheels chickie-poo. I think half my bitterness was ALWAYS wanting a Power Wheels Barbie Jeep growing up.

Yes. I am 27, and was jealous of a 3-year old. Shut up.

The Weekly Numbers, Idol Edition

2007-04-25T22:20:00.000-04:00

Ah, The Numbers. At least I didn't wait another four months before hauling them out again. So this is really almost good, even if they've yet to re-achieve "weekly" status.

And really, aren't you just glad I'm blogging again? It's been like, a week! And what better way to come back than to live-blog "Idol Gives Back," Weekly Numbahs style?

118: Number of times I've rolled my eyes since this 13-hankie sobfest started.

3: Number of minutes ago it started.

4: Number of times I've teared up. (Damn you, Idol.)

15,000: Times I managed to yell out, "Fuck right off and take your damn Match.com commercials with you, Dr. Phil." during his 30-second segment. That's 500 times a second, y'all.

1: Small squirts of laughter-induced pee that escaped during Jack Black's rendition of "Kiss from a Rose."

10,000: Number of goosebumps that erupted from the first note of Carrie Underwood's African-Children-Themed version of "I'll Stand By You." (Yes, I know. But I'm already a complete sucker for The Underwood--as in, I honestly CRY when I hear "Don't Forget to Remember Me" (no really, I KNOW)--but I am an even bigger sucker for The Pretenders, and a still BIGGER sucker for that particular song, which has been putting Seacrest-sized lumps in my throat since 1995.

10,000: Number of close-ups of tears rolling down sad, sad, African children's faces during said song.

7,348: Approximate number of Chicken McNuggets the lead singer of Rascall Flatts ate before tonight's show, from the looks of things. Coincidentally, also the number of grams of mousse in his Idiot Hair. You're like, 35, Tubby. Maybe time to lose the Jonathan Lipnicki 'do.

123: Honest approximation of the number of times I said the words, "No really guys, I need to move back here." while in D.C. this weekend (hey, it's a commercial break!).

3: Number of words I could understand from the "Save the Redneck Mountain Children" segment. Those kids sound like Cletus' kids from the Simpsons.

1: Number of tickets to Hell I just booked. I'll bring the beer!

3: Number of years the "Stayin' Alive" video appeared to last....Oh, Gwyneth. Charity is wonderful, but isn't this just a little beneath you? Can't you just adopt 300 kids or something like Angelina? You don't see HER shaking her ass to the Bee Gees on American fucking Idol.

0: Number of jokes I can make about the "People Dying in Africa while Ryan and Simon Watch" segment. Jesus Christ. And oh my god people. Josh Groban and little African kids and I swear to GOD, the same violinist who made me cry from "Titanic" doing the "You Raise me Up" song.

1,000,000: Official count of sadly falling tears from THIS chick right now. What? There are little African children singing with fucking Josh Groban. I am not made of STONE!!! Fu has a freaking HEART people! Sometimes! I'm like the Grinch right now with that little teensy heart breaking the Heart Magnifyer Thingie. Tears!!!! TEARS!!!

0: Number of people I think are getting the boot tonight. THAT is going to be the shocking results. How can they kick someone off on charity night? They said "most shocking result in our history," right? That would've been Melinda, and we know she's safe already. So that's that, no one goes home.

20: Number of dollars I obviously am going to have to donate in order to not feel like an asshole. It ought to be 50, but I went shoe-shopping this weekend.

(They are red gingham! So cute.)

24: Approximate number of pounds Kelly Clarkson has gained since the last time I saw her on television. I feel you, sister. And I like your hair extensions a lot. But tell the director not to shoot you from behind next time. I love a girl who isn't disgustingly thin (looking at you, Underwood), and you've got a great bod. But? You've also got back fat. Hey, I totally know how you feel! That's why no one shoots me from behind either. (Heheh, "from behind," heheh...I'm 12.)

14,817,955: Number of ways the Celine Dion and "Elvis" duet was just....so very wrong. The King would be rolling in his grave if he weren't banging Asian hookers in a South Pacific hut somewhere right now.

14,817,961: Number of new ways it's wrong once the top six join them on the stage and sing along with Ghost Elvis. Now he IS rolling in his grave, becuase if he weren't dead before, he IS now.

9: Aside from the number of times Annie Lennox just made me say "holy god, she is SO good," it is also the number of minutes left in the show. Where's Bono???

Ha!!! No one goes home, Fu was totally right. It wasn't that hard a guess, frankly. But I still feel awesome.

2: Number of Idols going home next week. I didn't call that one!

So Bono shows up to promote his big "One" campaign. But doesn't sing? Jeez, Bono.

Dear Virginia DMV:

2007-04-25T20:15:00.000-04:00

Please tell me the owner of this vehicle. I don't care if they are handicapped, whoever came up with this license plate is someone I need to spend the rest of my life with. Because seriously.

God Bless Red Sox Season

2007-04-17T19:06:00.000-04:00

Classic. Courtesy of Kevin. I'd link him, but he no longer blogs. Booo, Kevin!

But seriously. The incident is funny enough on its own, but with Remy and Orsillo cackling like hyenas throughout the whole thing, it just ascends to a new level.

Nice Try, Mickey D

2007-04-12T23:15:00.000-04:00

Sorry, McDonald's.

Your commercial for the new iced coffee you're pimping--invented by Paul Newman, oooooh--may be cute, with the intern drinking it all before it gets to the guy he delivers it to, but honestly.

Please.

You really can't compete guys. This is New Hampshire. You can't swing a dead cat (not that I've killed mine for waking me up at 4 a.m. again or anything) (errrr...) without hitting at least three Dunkin Donuts chains. And unless you're adding crack to your iced coffee (and I actually think Dunks already has the patent on that, so again, nice try) I really don't think you're going to put much of a dent in their market.

I can think of no less than seven, seirously, between my apartment and my parents' house, depending on which way I go. But no matter which way I go? I drive down a road that has two within 300 yards of eachother. Seriously. There's even one that has drive-thrus on both sides.

I think the reason I always shunned Starbucks while living in D.C. was becuase I just don't believe in ordering coffee from anywhere but inside the cool leather comfort of my damn car. You just won't find me tapping my stillettos in a fricking line when I could be seated comfortably behind the wheel with Howard Stern on in the background.

That reminds me. The lady who gives me my iced coffee in the mornings is elderly. She really, actually, believe it or not, looks just like my Grammie.

So imagine my horror the other morning when I pressed down on my window to collect my coffee...and realized a second two late that Howard had a couple of porn stars riding his orgasm machine. And they were doing a rather good job of it. Loudly.

Grammie pretended she didn't hear, even though she had to have.

Grammies are cool like that.

Kurt Vonnegut, 1922 - 2007

2007-04-12T20:02:00.000-04:00

A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved. ~Kurt Vonnegut

Ow! No really, OW!!!

2007-04-11T20:47:00.000-04:00

I have these shoes.

Okay, well I have many, many, many shoes.

But I have these particular shoes. They're cute. They're grey, with brown leather trim, they're cut super low on the foot so they show a little toe cleavage (wait, is that gross?), they're slingbacks, they've got sturdy heels of a reasonable height...they ought to be comfortable. I've got heels twice as high that fit like bunny slippers.

And yet, each time I wear them they hurt just a little bit worse than that last time.

Pain. Painful. They are somewhere on the pain scale between Jennifer Lopez' nightgown-slash-death shroud that she wore on "American Idol" tonight and Jennifer Lopez' "singing" on "American Idol" tonight.

So the only way to walk in them is to sort of jut my hips forward, and sit back on my heels as though I'm carrying a load in my pants, or am Ed Grimley. I should really walk like Ed Grimley all the time. It's like, everyone thought he was just a dweeb, but really he was just a man who led with his crotch. Shouldn't we all?

But seriously, these shoes. I'm so torn. I don't want to ditch them, I would never abandon any of my babies. I have a pair of fricking size 9 gold pumps from Target that are waaaay too big for me, but I just stuff a little TP in them bitches and strut my shit.

A girl's not gonna give up on her shoes just because they lived a previous life as a damn bear trap (though she'd prefer it if they'd lived their previous life as a bear claw, at least those are soft and mooshy--not to mention delicious).

(Actually that's kind of appropriate. Becuase I left a number off of yesterday's Weekly Numbers. "Number of pounds less than a North American giant Grizzly Bear I weigh currently: Approximately six.")

The Weekly Numbers, Easter Edition

2007-04-10T22:43:00.000-04:00

Good god! Didn't I invent the weekly numbers to be...weekly?

It's been months! Which, I suppose, ought to be the first official number of this, the reinstatement of the Weekly Numbahs.

4: Number of months since the last Weekly Numbers. For shame, Fu, for shame....

8: Current number of episodes of "The Wonder Years" stored on my DVR. But come on! I found out it was coming out in syndication, I figure I will record all the episodes from the very first one, figure out how to burn them on DVD's, sell them on Ebay and make a fortune! It's gold, GOLD I tell you! They won't ever come out on DVD, apparently, because the music rights are so hard and expensive to obtain. I'm not sure, but I feel like it's Michael Jackson's fault.

3: Number of times I've watched the pilot of "The Wonder Years" since I first recorded it last week. Man, this show was probably my all-time favorite show growing up. It was so much better than freaking "Full House" or "Growing Pains" or any of that other shite. Too bad Kevin Arnold grew up to be so dorky looking, but his involvement in both this and "The Princess Bride" cements him in my official "Fu Will Always Love Forever" group.

(Oh my god, though, seriously, this show is so f'n good. The one that was on tonight was when Kevin broke up with Becky Slater--who was so badass, by the way, so much better than that prissbag Winnie Cooper--and she punches him in the face. Then he has a "Star Trek" dream sequence with him as Kirk, Paul as Spock, and Becky and Winnie dressed up as go-go pussycat Fem-Bot alien life forms that attack them. It was SO good.)

6: Approximate number of inches taller Winnie Cooper was than Kevin Arnold in these first season episodes.

About 20: Number of cigarettes smoked in the first three months of the year...which is actually pretty good when you consider that about 18 of them were smoked all in one bad weekend.

About 20,000: Number of cigarettes smoked over Easter weekend. Man, oh, man. On the Stairmaster tonight it felt like my lungs were going to leap up into the back of my throat and start seeping out through my ears.)

2.5: Number of days in a row I went without feeding my cats this weekend. I was distracted! One of them could use it, too. They're fine. Shut up!

48: Number of hours it took between me meeting a really cute guy that told my friend Alicia he liked me, and him being all over one of my best friends instead. Good times!

1: Pounds of chocolate consumed in the last two days since the no-candy Lent period ended.

18: Minutes until I give up candy again, for at least another two weeks. It's clearly just necessary.

12: Number of times I voted for "American Idol" tonight. I know, I know.

8: Days until I get to go to D.C. for the weekend!

134,487: Number of cigarettes I will probably smoke, with or without the damn smoking ban.

5-10: Inches of snow expected Thursday night. (Seriously? SERIOUSLY???)

21: Confirmed Jack Bauer kills on the season. Can you even imagine actually being Jack Bauer? "Jack, what'd you do yesterday?" "I killed 21 people, including my own brother and former colleague, in about the first 18 hours I was awake...and god knows how many after that. What did YOU do?"

0: Number of things I have left to say....

Will try to make the next set of numbers more interesting...when they come out. Next quarter.

Sorry! Oh, Except I'm Not

2007-04-10T22:01:00.000-04:00

Walking to the gym this evening, as I approached the door I could see someone else coming around the corner towards the door...out of the corner of my eye.

They seemed a good distance away so I just kept right on a-walkin', letting the door slam shut behind me.

Moments later the door opened behind me and some dude shouted, "Hey thanks, I appreciate it."

I turned to discover it was a dude balancing a big tray of coffees, who'd (gasp!) had to open the fricking door on his own.

I told him I was sorry, in a way that clearly telegraphed exactly how un-sorry I was.

Like...I'm sorry (heh), but I never got the whole "stand there like a tool holding the door open for the person behind you when that person is several steps away from you" thing.

Someone walking right behind me? Sure. I'll hold the door open. It's only polite.

But someone walking far enough behind me that I have to stand there awkwardly holding the stupid door for like five full seconds? Sorry, Holmes, you're on your own. Maybe it's rude, but I attribute it to the fact that whenever someone does that to me I feel the need to scurry so they don't have to stand there all day waiting for my strolling ass.

And I tend to wear heels a bit on the tippity-top side of things...I prefer to stroll.

Now, in this particular case...well all right, I'm the asshole. But I barely saw the guy out of the corner of my eyes, I was in a hurry, and I didn't see he was carrying something precarious. I swear!

That didnt' mean he had to make a snide little remark. Give me a break, pal.

In fact, pretty much all the "forced politeness" rules of society drive me bonkers.

You know what else I hate to do? Hold the elevator.

This one killed me when I worked in D.C. I worked in a busy downtown office. There were six elevators. I think I waited for one to get upstairs like...maybe once. And I worked there three years. And I prefer to ride the elevator alone. Sue me.

Sometimes I'd be in an already crowded elevator, and people would just keep holding it and holding it, and holding it, and HOLDING it for every late motherfucker scooting their slow asses across the damn lobby.

I never did, but I always wanted to just say, "Goddamnit there are FIVE OTHER ELEVATORS."

I used to think it was just city living that made me so high strung. Now I think I'm just a bitch.

Hurrah for Jesus, and also Candy

2007-04-08T11:29:00.000-04:00

First Off, It's a Rooster

2007-03-28T21:39:00.000-04:00

I just saw this commercial during "American Idol" (I can't even talk about it, consider me officially OFF the Sanjaya bandwagon...not that I was ever really all the way on, but I might have been being drug behind it because my shirt got caught in a door or something...), and it disturbed the crap out of me.

Maybe I *DO* wanna be a french fry.

This is like the Chips Ahoy commercial where the cookies are all excited about getting eaten.

(Well, wouldn't you be?)

Feelin' Hot Hot Hot

2007-03-28T21:05:00.000-04:00

So, my St. Patrick's Day acrobatics on ice left me with a throbbing lower back that practically has me sleeping flat on my back on the floor with my knees hugged to my chest just be comfortable (or, as I like to call it, "taking 6 Advil PM and sleeping however I damn well please).

After a week of this, I decided that maybe it was time to haul my ass back to yoga.

Not just any yoga, mind you, Bikram yoga. As in, "won't it be fun, on top of the agonizing contortions we're already forcing you into, if we jacked the heat in the room up to--seriously--108 degrees so you feel like you're not only going to tip over, but also die, then possibly puke and poop in your pants?"

Speaking of pooping in pants, upon leaving this 90 minute torture session, my shorts were so thoroughly sweat soaked that they flopped about uncomfortably on my butt and thighs, bringing horrific flashbacks to pissing my pants in the 4th grade becuase freaking Mrs. Webster woudln't let me go to the bathroom until class was over, and my poor little 8 year old bladder just couldn't take it.

*shudder*

But yeah, the yoga. The thing about it, is that I'm actually surprisingly flexible. ("That's what he said!") (Man, I really wish "The Office" would come back.) But when you're doing this shit in 108 degree heat, you tend to feel, basically, like you're going to spew chunks all over the cute little hard-bodied 100-pound girl in front of you, who is offending your fat rolls with her freaking bikini.

(Seriously, a lot of girls wear bathing suits to this class becuase the sweat pours off you in buckets, which would have explained the shockingly high number of men in my class, if I hadn't ascertained that they were in fact mostly gay.)

Luckily, I managed to keep my chunks in my belly, and I only had to sit out one set to do it.

I've never before done a workout that has made me wish for my own death for more than an hour, but then make me anxious to return as soon as I can scrape up another 12 bucks. I guess for me, Bikram yoga is like that asshole guy that verbally and mentally abuses you, and makes you feel like utter poo, but then sends you flowers the next day or something and sends you running back to his arms.

Okay, shitty metaphor. But seriously! I can't wait to go back.

American Eye Dolls...Yum

2007-03-27T21:38:00.000-04:00

"American Idol" keeps getting worse and worse.

There's like two good singers on the show, but there are two of the most prettiest beautifulest gorgeousest boys! I pray that neither of them is voted off any time soon.

I'm even climbing aboard the Sanjaya train and strapping myself in. He's too bizarrely, horrendously awful not to just love at this point. Mainly becuase he knows damn well that he's terrible, and it's like he's laughing at us.

I'm kind of starting to love it.

But seriously, Chris Richardson and Blake. Blaaaaaaaaake. He beat boxes! Chriiiiis...He looks like Justin!

Mmmm.

What Fu will dream about tonight:

Me Flunk English? That's Unpossible!

2007-03-27T19:46:00.000-04:00

You know, maybe I expect too much. I know not all the world shares my particular obsession with the proper placement of commas and apostrophes and such.

(By the way, I'll thank you not to find any of the myriad grammatical errors in this very blog and email me about what a hypocrite I am...I enjoy my own hypocrisy, thankyouverymuch.)

And I know that certain rules of grammar, in particular those of commas and apostrophes, can be rather hard to grasp, especially if you're a particularly retarded advertising executive for an adult escort company.

Or, for that matter, a copy editor for a major online news publication.

Otherwise I wouldn't have seen this in a banner ad today:

Now, I'm not actually sure what the proper plural form of the word "ho" is, frankly. I'm going to go out on a limb and say "hoes," as in, "I got hoes in different area codes."

(Which, I'll also point out, doesn't even fucking rhyme, so don't ask me how it became a saying.)

Hoes looks all wrong, but I can't say "hos" looks much better, eh? Dang, I'm really lost here.

But then I went back to the same page and saw the offending banner ad again. And it was at this point I realized that I was complaining all for nothing, and felt like an even bigger weirdo dork than usual:

Becuase it is now obvious that the letter "W" is obscured, and that my zeal for finding and ridiculing grammatical errors overtook my critical thinking ability. After all, it does seem unlikely that a newspaper would be asking its readers whether there were hoes searching for them.

As the Sports Guy might say, the answer, as always: I'm an idiot.

(But seriously, don't ever let me catch any of you trying to use a damn apostrophe to form a plural. I will break my freaking designer heel off in your ass--and then I'll be even more pissed, becuase you'll have made me break my shoe.)

Shut Up, CATS

2007-03-22T21:24:00.000-04:00

I've tried, after evaluating it in my own mind and consulting with others. I've tried really hard to NOT be cat-blogging lady.

Becuase the only thing worse than someone who won't ever shut up about their kids is someone who won't ever shut up about their cats. At least kids are like, important in life. Cats are just something single women acquire to feel 1/10th less lonesome in the dark and lonesome nights, right? Right.

And I am far too young, far too cool, and frankly far too awesome to allow myself to be that lady that sits at home at night blogging about her cats.

But I guess that's not really true now, is it? They are making me crazy. I understand now why spinsters get them in lieu of getting to have babies. Becuase they wake me up every single goddamn morning at 5 in the goddamn morning.

Fu? IS NOT A MORNING PERSON.

They've even proven too tough for all the Advil PM I had to take after hurting my back on St. Patrick's Day.

They purposefully rattle my goddamn jewelery around on my dresser. They scratch, and I'm serious here, I timed it, they scratch in their litter box for 12 minutes straight.

The litterbox is in the bathroom, but they scratch in it with such fury that it WAKES ME OUT OF A SOUND SLEEP IN MY BEDROOM.

And when they hear me stir? They come running into the room, looking at me all expectantly. So I know it's on fucking purpose.

And alls I'm saying is, I'm gonna snap.

Furthermore, why does anyone even agree to be on "The Bachelor" anymore? Do they not realize that a) America generally thinks you're a crazed whore, and b) aside from one exception out of dozens of crazy bitches, no one ever actually ends up married? And they actually had to give that chick her own show so she could end up married.

I assume it's about wanting to be famous, but being famous for being a crazy bitch on TV isn't really all that cool, is it?

Maybe that's why I'm sane.

Of course, I did just write a big old rant about my cats, so maybe not. But cat ladies very rarely end up on "The Bachelor."

Has Anyone Ever Told You....

2007-03-20T20:32:00.000-04:00

As I mentioned last week, a guy last Saturday wouldn't shut up about how much I look like Izzie from "Grey's Anatomy." And on St. Patrick's Day, the following Saturday, another guy wouldn't shut up about how I look just like Drew Barrymore.

Of course, it's entirely possible he was only trying to get in my pants (ahem).

I do not tell these stories to be all "hey aren't I the shiznit?" (Although I'm not going to lie and say it doesn't stroke my ego to hear it...)

I tell these stories to ask this simple question: if this is true, then why do I only seem to attract the sketchiest men in Manch Vegas? I mean, if Drew herself were out meeting dudes down at Margarita's (or would she be a Strange Brew girl?), something tells me she'd do better than me.

Maybe once my work at the gym pays off, it won't just be over-the-hill-potentially-married-guys and sketchy-skeevy-man-whore-seeming guys. (Or maybe eff the gym, and I just need to move somewheres a little more sophisticamated.)

= ???

Move It or Lose It, HAPPY People

2007-03-20T19:57:00.000-04:00

Here's the thing.

Like most single women my age (27), I would someday like to settle down and have kids and get married and stuff.

Preferably the latter before the former, come to think of it, my dad's heart isn't in the greatest shape.

But sometimes I wonder if it's just societal pressure, in all honesty. I tend to consider having a boyfriend really just a sexual convenience (although granted, it's also nice to have someone and all that...as long as they have their own place to live and don't cut their toenails in your bed) (and obviously, it was different with some guys, so don't go freaking out, Brian).

I don't ever want to have another roommate, and isn't a husband rather roommatesque? It's someone who is all up in your shit and making messes and taking gross dumps in your bathroom. I already have cats for that.

As much as I bitch about being single, I honestly do enjoy taking care of myself, and, wow, really don't have any room in my closet for anyone else's clothes. I'm already out of shoe room, my most recently purchased shoes are now occupying boxes on the floor outside the closet.

Then there's the child factor.

I kind of....um...I kind of despise them. I'm not mean to them or anything, and I don't envision being one of those cranky old spinster bitches that keeps their toys if they land on my freaking yard, but they make just about any situation 148% more annoying.

Airplanes. Waiting rooms. Restaurants. Weddings. Shopping.

I honestly see few reasons why a kid should ever be present in a grocery store with their parents.

If you're a single mom or dad, okay. If your spouse is out of town, or working late, okay.

But I was accosted by those giant-ass "race car shopping cart" bullshit things in like four different aisles at the grocery store tonight, and noted that several of them were manned by both freaking parents.

Someone explain to me why this is necessary. If I ever do get married and punch out a few of these little beasts myself, Husband (Victim) will sit home with the kids while I do the shopping, or vice versa.

Becuase shrieking chidren in a race car shopping cart blocking all the singletons from their single serving Easy Mac?

Annoying.

(And also, WTF is up with couples shopping together anyway? Honestly. I don't recall ever having shopped as a couple, unless we were like, on our way home and realized there was no toilet paper or ice cream or some other essential. Stop depressing all the single people in the damn grocery store.)

The Best Part is, You Always Win

2007-03-19T23:50:00.000-04:00

I took 2 Advil PM forty-five minutes ago, and am only just now beginning to feel drowsy.

Before you accuse me of being a pill-popping weirdo, know that the taking of the pills (while awesome and all but guaranteeing that the Evil Kitties will not be waking me as usual at 515 am with their combo attack of "litter box scritchitchy scratch loud loud LOUD" mixed with "dresser top jewelery-heave! Ho! On the floor! Rattle rattle!") is actually medically warranted this fine evening.

Why, you ask?

Becuase St. Patrick's Day happened, that's why. And apparently being 27 means your body is not really all that amenable anymore to "428 Drinks + Icy sidewalks = Falling directly on one's huge ass, which does nothing to cushion the fall like you'd think." If I were 22, none of this would be happening.

Yesterday, not only did my whole body hurt from my monstrous hangover, it hurt from my one woman performance of "Fat Chick On Ice." I've done...something to my back, which appears to also be affecting both legs, both wrists, both shoulders and every tendon and muscle in my neck.

(The good news is, I slammed a shot of Jameson in front of tablefull of men, who were very impressed when I didn't even flinch or gag or make a face or reach for my beer to chase it...the bad news is, I slammed a shot of Jameson after a cherry bomb, Jager bomb, and several suspicious drinks called, and I'm serious, "Liquid Panty Removers." I don't even know how I brought myself to even order one, considering I find the word "panties" to be one of the grossest words in the English language, right up there with "crampons.")

Anyhow, I'm officially babbling incoherently, so I guess that means it's time to hit the hay (or fall face first into the hay in an over the counter narcotics-induced haze).

It Doesn't Count as Drinking Alone if There are Cats Present

2007-03-16T21:58:00.000-04:00

Caption on this photo: Oh, Matt Dillon, you scamp!

Alternate caption: Oh, Drunk Eye, why are you all squinty when the other eye is so bright eyed? No fair!

So, not only am I drinking alone in my pj's on a Friday night and watching bad chick flicks (although really...is "Beautiful Girls" a chick flick? I'm really not so sure.. I mean, it's a movie about bonds between a bunch of commitment-phobic men, right? I think it's a movie for one and all, and that's what I'm sticking to.

Becuase I'm on glass number 4 of champers and am thinking of cracking beer number 4. I like to even things out, you see.

This photo is FAR more egregious on the drunk eye, as my diagrams will show you. And while I took the first photo with my crap ass cameraphone (I have no idea where the actual camera is, this is disconcerting) to show my enjoyment of said bad chick flicks, this one was taken with a straight face so you can all witness the bizarre things that happen to my poor nearsighted left eye when I've had more than two drinks. It's fascinating, truly:

And I hope you appreciate my willingness to put photos of my drunken, pj-clad, non-makeup wearing face.

If you're reading this entry it's becuase I've yet to sober up and delete it. Whooooo....

Honestly though, I'm not sure I want to watch "Sliding Doors" at this point. I have too hard a time believing the pooooooor Gwyneth Paltrow is unlucky in love. I'm thinking of the old standby, "When Harry Met Sally," but that might just make me depressed. Hmmm....

I'm sure I'll figure it out, and be sure to let you all know. Maybe "The Sweetest Thing?" But I feel like I watch that all the time. Maybe instead I should go deal with the fact that it looks like i have a mustache in this picture.

I don't have a mustache! Ask anyone!

Snowbound Nor'easter 2007 Special Event: Sarah Gets Drunk

2007-03-16T19:00:00.000-04:00

So all of Manch Vegas is at a standstill, it's snowing like it's the freaking march of the penguins out there, I can't go anywhere, no one's going anywhere, and it's looking like a Friday night of pajamas and girl movies.

So, to spice things up I've decided to get shitfaced.

I stopped by the Rite Aid to get supplies and I've got it all planned out. My only regret is that I didn't get cigarettes, because alone in the dark would be as good a time to cheat as any. But I guess it's for the best, bad enough that I got frozen pizza for later (wasn't I just ranting about how healthy I've been eating?).

So, I've got a little White Trash Loser Snowstorm Bonanza going on here tonight, including the following:

1) Bottle of cheap-ass Rite Aid champers
2) 12 pack of Bud Light in cans (ew) that my parents left here (they like to have supplies here becuase they know I don't keep beer in the house, certainly not canned beer. I love them).
3) Purple pajama pants and a hot pink tank top
4) Two words: Chex Mix
5) Chick flicks

I'm one can of beer and a few handfuls of Chex mix into the night, and already having the best time. Who needs good weather and bars and, like, friends and stuff? I got all I need right here.

I've even staged a mini-Cameron Crowe-athon so far, as I just finished the last 20 minutes of "Say Anything" and am 15 minutes into "Singles."

(I love "Singles," it's so deliciously dated....so very 1992. They even have the old Preview Guide on the TV, and seriously old school Nick-at-Nite with "My Three Sons." I was only in 7th grade when it came out, but I swear to god I had one of the outfits that Keira Sedgwick sports in this film; the high-waisted faded tapered-leg jeans with a faded yellow flannel from the Gap...tucked in. Like grunge your mother would approve of. And this was when Bridget Fonda was working regularly and so beautiful in that "you could have been friends with her in college" kind of way. Actually I think I was friends with her in college.)

But I just watched it last weekend, so I'm switching to another Matt Dillon classic, "Beautiful Girls." A trulyl embarassing picture for all involved, particularly one young Natalie Portman.

One of my faves.

I'll check back in later, before I put in "Sliding Doors."

(Awwww, yeeeeeeah.)

You're Dead to Me

2007-03-16T00:02:00.000-04:00

Some guy on Saturday night told me I looked just like Izzie from "Grey's Anatomy."

This is the second guy in just a few months to say this to me, something I find both delightful (I mean, she IS hot) and puzzling (I mean, I'M not), but have always taken as a great compliment.

Now, I'm going to say "oh thanks, I look like a vile ho that would loudly and obnoxiously complain about my best friend's wife despite his desperate pleas to tell me to suck on it? And then would actually sleep with him when he has one little fight with said wife? THANKS!"

After that, I'll throw a drink in the guy's face (just becuase that always seems like it would be fun to do, and I'm terrific at misdirecting my anger...just ask my books, who get chucked violently across the room whenever I fight with my mother or have difficulty getting an electronic device to work properly) (okay replace "books" in that last sentence with "cats," and you'll be slightly more accurate) and storm off indignantly.

Becuase I'm pissed.

Becuase my favorite fricking TV show has been officially ruined.

Maybe I'm just continuing my post from earlier tonight, and being indignant on behalf of fatties.

Becuase Callie was the awesomest thing about this show. She was bad-ass, smart, good at her job, fucked hot guys (except stupid puppy dog George...but take it from someone shaped not unlike Callie--the hot guys will do it to you, but you always fall in love with the puppy dogs...I have on numerous occasions), was considered to be sexy, no one ever even brought up that she probably weighs twice what Meredith does.

But now they had her go off, rightfully, on her idiotic husband and what does he do? Runs off to evil vile bitch Izzie--who has been acting like a jackhole about his wife to his face for ages, hating her for NO reason-- and gets drunk and laughs at how "insecure" his chunkified wife is, and then they FUCK.

I honestly can't even watch next week.

(Except of course I totally will.)

(I am so ashamed.)

(Not about watching next week, but about the fact that I've been trying to get to sleep for the last half hour but couldn't becuase I was seriously that fired up.)

(About a tv show. Good lord.)

Did you mean: "I heart hotties"?

2007-03-15T20:25:00.000-04:00

(The title of this entry: I usually find my images by Googling, and was hoping there'd be something funny when I Googled "I heart fatties." Google apparently wanted to make sure I was serious.)

Big mistake tonight. Big. Huge.

I bought a bathroom scale.

I've never been an advocate of at-home-weighing for those trying to shed poundage. It's just too goddamn tempting to weigh yourself every three minutes. And weighing yourself every three minutes is really not conducive to actually making the number go down.

For the men out there wondering what the hell I'm talking about, just read this. I guarantee you that the reason this made the best-of list on Craigslist was that every single woman who read it was like, "OMG! That is SO me."

We're obsessed. OBSESSED. I've had the thing in the house for literally 30 minutes, and I've already weighed myself 5 times, no lie.

Once with all my clothes and shoes on. Once in a tank top and undies (down 5 pounds, wow my clothes are heavy). Once after peeing (down half a pound). Once holding my fat cat (up 13 pounds). And once holding my svelte cat (up 9 pounds...I'm surprised that Pork Chop only weighs 4 pounds more...but I guess that's actually almost 50% more than the thin one...If someone weighed 50% more than me, they'd be....yikes). (Wow, Pork Chop needs a diet.)

So you get the idea. I'm thinking the over/under on how many more times I'll weigh myself before going to bed has to be about 7.

This is going to turn out to be a big mistake.

On a related note, you know what pisses me off? This. Which is very disappointing, because I normally love Wonkette's Metro section, it keeps me in touch with D.C. (although at least they helpfully point out how misogynistic the entry is).

The post is funny, no doubt, but in that really mean way that makes a person uncomfortable, like hearing a racist joke. I could deal with it, laugh, say "some guys are such pricks" and move on, but then he had to go and link to an older entry, and that's when I just started feeling sorry for him, becuase god, outside of the age of 15, who is still this big a prick?

"But Fu! You were complaining about "lazy bastards" at the gym in January yourself, not two months ago!"

I know. I know. I'm a damn hypocrite. The difference, is that my problem was with ALL the lazy bastards who never work out and make it miserable and crowded at the gym for those of us who do, once the new year starts.

Not just the fat ones. Becuase not every jerk who decides "this is the year I get in shape!" on January 1st is actually...fat. And not every person who works out regularly (such as myself) and eats healthfully (such as myself) gets to be thin.

Thems the breaks, I don't waste my time complaining about them (okay, sure I do, sometimes). I just get my booty to the gym and say things like "can I have the fat-free dressing, and can I have it on the side?"

Seriously, my biggest pet peeve about carrying extra weight is that I probably eat less and work out more than your average thin person. Alicia, my best friend from high school, is a size two on a fat day (since she's usually a zero), and the girl can eat like a bastard. And she hardly ever exercises.

But the hateful people assume that everyone who isn't a size two or zero is just "lazy" or, as the Misogynistic Blogger thinks, "owned by food." Sure, some are. But not all.

Anyway, the point isn't just about the Assholish Yet Funny Blogger. (Who, after reading a bunch of his entries, is most certainly both of those things....the entries are funny, but exactly in that way that makes you feel guilty for laughing....it's like he's still the meanest jock in high school who busts on all the nerds. It's funny, but you feel bad. Only now that guy is acting the exact same way, but he's an adult, so it's actually just really, really, sad. Like the way I feel when I read another Wonkette gem, the excerpts from Late Night Shots.)

The point is that I learn nothing, becuase as pissed off as I get about the assholishness of others, it sure as heckfire don't stop me from being a grade-A asshole myself, pretty much 96.2% of the time.

But oh well. At least I don't make fun of the fatties.

(Unless they're like, REALLY fat. I mean, I'm only "a bit" fat, I am a fricking Olsen twin compared to like, that chick in Mexico that died and stuff.)

(See what I mean?)

Iowalcoholic

2007-03-08T20:12:00.000-05:00

So I booked tickets to the Hawkeye state today for one of my favorite couple's wedding.

I'll be rendevous-ing in the airport to share a ride to the hotel with two other pals, and since I'm landing an hour or so before them I'm already thinking about whether or not the airport in Cedar Rapids has a bar.

I'm also wondering what the bar in the hotel is like, and whether there are other bars in the vicinity.

I mentioned on IM to a friend today that I was thinking about calling the hotel to find out, and we had the following exchange.

Them: Are you serious?
Me: Well...yes.
Them: The wedding isn't for more than two months.
Me: So?
Them: And your'e already wondering where you're going to get drunk?
Me: What's your point?
Them: You're seriously going to call the hotel and say 'I'm going to a wedding there in two months, can you fill me in on the alcohol situation?'
Me: ....
Them: I think you have problems.
Me: So I shouldn't look up the airport to find out about the bar situation either?
Them: ....

But come on now! I'm excited for this wedding. All of my favorite DC people will be there, and I already bought the cutest shoes ever. Nevermind that, as is my usual move at weddings, the shoes will end up under the table as I drunkenly slosh around barfefoot.

Hmmm, maybe I do have problems.

(Shoe problems, that is, as those were the fifth pair purchased in only a week...but so cuuuuuute!)

Man. I have been busting my ass at the gym this week, chugging green tea, still not eating candy or ice cream (my two favorite things) (besides smoking, which I'm ALSO STILL NOT DOING) (can you tell how bad it's starting to get to me? Why wasn't I informed that it takes two months for withdrawal to set in?), and if I don't start getting some results soon I'm goinig to snap.

Snap. For real. Like, I'm contemplating whether or not it's possible to simultaneously eat a Snickers and a gallon of birthday cake ice cream while smoking three packs of cigs and drinking a pina colada.

(That sounds so good!)

No Thong You

2007-03-07T19:46:00.000-05:00

My latest favorite blogger, “Good at Drinking, Bad at Life” (see how much we have in common?), complains occasionally why more women don’t wear boy-short style panties.

As a celebrator of all things boy short, allow me to offer a possible explanation (aside from the panty-line argument, which is also totally valid depending on your outfit): boy shorts are made for fatties.

Now before y’all jump down my throat, allow me to ‘splain: this is not to say that thin women would never wear boy shorts (and look damn sexy in them) or vice versa, but I think in general the division in undergarment preference is between women without much booty and women with a big ol’ butt they want to cover up.

Or maybe it’s just me.

When I was a bit thinner, I wore plenty of thongs…although granted mainly those halfsies thongs that had more than just a little string connecting the back to the front. String underwear is not a good look for me, I end up looking like a pork roast.

Furthermore, I don’t really get why g-string wearers don’t just go commando. That three centimeter triangle of fabric covering your gremlin isn’t really doing much, you know? My assumption is that they just secretly like the way the string sticks out at the top of their ass when they bend over.

Sluts.

(No, I’m not jealous.)

(Shut up.)

But with the right sexy matching boy short/bra combo, a girl can look hot and not worry about her butt showing too much, or that the guy is going to try and season her love handles and stick them in the oven.

There’s also the comfort factor. Even when I wore thongs on a daily basis I was always remarkably aware that there was a piece of fabric parked between my ass cheeks. You get used to it, but it’s always there. When I get back down to my fighting weight I think I’ll probably only break out the thong when a severe panty line situation is on the horizon.

Consider me officially in the boy short camp.

In other news, I'm dying for a fucking cigarette.

Since giving them up at New Year's, I've cracked and cheated only twice, once on a night I was so drunk I ended up glued to the bathroom floor with alcohol poisoning, and once when I was in DC with all my goddamn chimney friends (you try staying strong through that).

Other than that, I haven't really thought much about them.

But ever since ditching sweets for lent, it's all I think about....I have actual fantasies about sitting in my favorite spot back at Mackey's (where you can't even smoke anymore, the travesty), dragging luxuriously on a nice Marlboro light and knocking back Rickeys with my partners in crime.

Mmmmmmmm......

(Must. Not...Fold!!)

It's My Wine in a Box!

2007-03-04T21:58:00.000-05:00

I keep seeing these commercials for Fish Eye "wine casks," which can hold 4 bottles of wine at once and last for weeks and weeks!

The commercials make it out like this is quite fancy, but I just think about all the good times I've had with the illustrious Box o' Wine!

Ah, the box o' wine. Five liters of fun in a sack, wrapped in a box with a spigot. You can get drunk like, three nights in a row for about $9.99! Now that's a deal. Aching, skull-splitting, back-breaking hangovers aside, the only better time you can have with a box involves Justin Timberlake's junk.

So as it turns out, it appears that eliminating high-sugar foods from one's diet can yeild positive results. After giving up candy and ice cream for Lent, despite my utter lack of Catholicism, I dropped six pounds in a week. Seriously. And the only thing I did differently was not eat ice cream and candy. Six pounds in a week! I was astounded. I didn't even cut out all sugars, I still have my low-cal cookies and fat-free pudding and all that.

Apparently, I used to eat quite a bit of candy. Who knew?

In other news, I'm a huge loser.

I have only a few friends, several of them are in what the kids are calling "romantic relationships with members of the opposite sex," and the others are on the 28-day program (I fell off that wagon last week, I suck ass) and are avoiding bars like the plague. So I've had pretty much jack-all to do lately.

Friday, I was all excited to hang out with my bestest buds. My fucking parents. No lie, I hang out with them more than anyone else.

We had dinner Friday night, discussed the Oscars, and they said they hadn't seen my favorite movie of 2006, The Departed.

Me: Oh! Well let's go rent it then, we can watch it after dinner.
Them: awkward silence
Me: What?
Them: We sort of have plans to go out tonight.
Me: Oh.
Them: If you're not going out tomorrow night either, maybe we can do it then!
Me: (slits wrists)

Good times!

America Loves Tits (and Crappy Singing, Apparently)

2007-03-01T22:01:00.000-05:00

God, I love American Idol.

My favorite part is that every year, some truly craptastic singers get put through, and I swear to god it's all rigged so that people like me will get all up in arms about it.

Controversey is just as good PR as anything else, after all.

But I'm actually tickled pink that Antonella is sticking around. She's hot, she has nudie pictures all over the Internet, and she couldn't find the proper key if it was hidden in some guy's crotch.

Basically, she's a delight for the sarcastic assholes of America, frantically typing texts back and forth throughout the show like I was last night.

"OMG, she sux so bad"
"I know, how did she even get on this show?"
"Is this supposed to b Celine? It's like...GASO-line instead!"
"Yeah, gas like my farts."

See? It's just too much fun to give up right now. Not that I didn't like Leslie and all, she was quite cute.

She just had too much talent, and not enough pictures of her boobies on the Internets.

Lay 'Em Down and Smack 'Em Yak 'Em!

2007-02-28T17:35:00.000-05:00

Whenever I work from home, I remember what awesome TV I miss all day long when I'm at work.

Like today's Comedy Central showing of Airplane!, maybe the best movie spoof ever made. This is how movie spoofs are supposed to be. Take note, Wayan's brothers.

My favorite thing about this movie is how well it nails the little things, like how every time someone dramatically throws off their hat/coat/whatever, someone throws it back at them a couple of seconds later. I'm sorry, that's just funny.

This one also has sentimental value, becuase me and my best friends in high school used to rent the movie at every sleepover* and watch the disco scene over and over and over and over. Watching it now, I don't even get what we thought was so amazing about it...it's certainly not the strongest sequence in the movie (I think that honor has to go to the jive talkers). Not that it's not hilarious.

Ah, nostalgia!

* Note: I am NOT aging myself here, I am only 27! I have no idea how we ever discovered this movie, but we definitely watched it about 1487 times during my 15th year...

The Oscah Blog, Part IV

2007-02-26T00:18:00.000-05:00

(Click here, here, and here to read parts 1-3 of the Oscah blog, or just scroll down to the bottom and read your way up! If you have 300 years.)

1031: Oooh, Keith Urban! Earlier Ellen created this special “Oscar holder” she invented. I wonder if she also invented a special Oscar for Keith that has a screw-off top. Hehe. Because, like, he is an alcoholic.

1033: Ellen claims to have a crush on George Clooney. This means supporting actress! But what’s with lesbians pretending to have crushes on handsome movie stars?

1035: Predictably, Jennifer Hudson wins. I’m too glad she took off that ridiculous bolero to say anything else. Do you think she’ll cry, and thank God? (snicker)

(mmm, snickers….Dang, I am on Day 5 of the No Candy plan, which is more impressive than you might think considering it’s me.)

1052: zzzzzzzzzzzzzz

1101: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

1110: ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

1115: Who would have thought that the interpretive dance troupe’s shadow puppets would have been the best thing about this year’s Oscars? We haven’t even had any inappropriately outrageous acceptance speeches. You know you’re in trouble when you miss Roberto Begnini.

1120: Jennifer Hudson borrows Patricia Fields’ Jessica Rabbit gown for a musical number. I love her figure…but the dress doesn’t do much for it. And her boobs are about to come right out of it.

1123: Oooooooooh, burn! If I recall correctly, Beyonce sang the song “Listen” as a solo in the movie. Now it’s a duet with Hudson? Or rather, a belt-off. They’re both kind of over-singing it, kind of like the vocal version of the walk-off from “Zoolander”. If Beyonce pulls her thong out, that would be awesome.

1129: Melissa Etheridge's tuxedo is not good either. I love a sharp pantsuit on a woman, but dang. You’re rich enough to have it tailored, right Meliss?

1129: Forget I said that, I loooveee youuuuuu! I’m still working up the courage to karaoke “I’m the Only one”! I’ve got to be better than the chick I heard at McGarvey’s a couple weeks ago, I will tell you that much.

1134: I am seriously—seriously—considering going to bed if this drags on much longer. This is starting to get insufferable. And where’s the goddamn death montage? I’m sorry, but I was playing video game bowling with a Wii at 330 in the morning last night and I’m fucking tired.

1135: I’m so tired I can’t even get excited about a montage. ~sad face~ I do wonder how many times “say hello to my little friend” has made it into montages. Honestly.

1140: Oh, my, GOD. We’re still on boring awards like editing? Oh my god. I really might have to go to bed. This is unprecedented. Then again, I’m up over 2500 words at this point and 7 pages in Word. No wonder I’m tired, dang.

1142: Very cute, portly older lady wins for editing “The Departed.” Everyone seems really happy about it. So, yay? Yay!

1143: Pleeeeease let Jodie Foster be presenting something good, and not like, “Best Performance by a Lesbian Pretending to be Straight.” (What? Perez isn’t the only one who can think so!)

1144: Oh, yay, the death reel! Whoohoo. I’m rejuvenated. Love Love LOVE how people clap for the people they like best no matter how much show-runners tell them it’s disrespectful to do so. I’d like to think that if I ever made it into a death reel, I’d get some good claps. (Applause that is, NOT venereal disease.)

1151: Philip Seymore Hoffman was definitely just doing drugs and/or fucking in the men’s room. His hair is a mess sticking out in every direction, and he can barely stand and focus long enough to read the nominees for best actress. They should have just skipped calling him out and just called Helen Mirren up.

1154: You know, with 5 nods and no wins, Kate Winslet is really starting to rack up a bit of a losing streak for being only 31, eh?

1155: Why. WHY more interpretive dance and talk from Chris (fucking) Connolly when it’s 1155 p(fucking)m? WHY?

1157: You know what just occurred to me? This fricking thing started at 830. WHY? So ABC can have a pre-show red carpet bullshit thing. WHY can’t they just do that at 730 and start the show at 8? Everyone knows the Oscars are close to 4 hours long. Why make movie fans cranky at work on a Monday, when Mondays are certainly stressful enough without sleep loss. Am I being punished for being an awards show junkie?

1200: Oooooh, Reese Witherspoon’s dress is amazing. Navy so dark it looks black, or black with shades of blue? Beautiful. Just get Forrest Whitaker up there already. And he better not drone on. According to his clip, he’s winning this award based on the amount of actual sweating he did.

1203: It’s kind of boring there weren’t more surprises in the acting categories but the one with Alan Arkin. Oh well. (God, Whitaker is definitely droning on. God. This show will end sometime Friday afternoon. Zzzzz)

1206: Because I am so cranky, I just know that Scorsese is going to get shafted. Again. AGAIN.

1207: Oh, thank god. Thank GOD. Yeah, and we’re on page 8. Love you Marty, really do, despite your Uncle Junior glasses. But if you babble on I will take my own life.

1209: Oh, Jesus. He is holding a stack of index cards. Jesus.

1212: Diane Keaton looks remarkably chic, but holy crap she is on some drugs. She’s shouting. I am too tired for this Diane.

1213: Yep, definitely drugs. She shrieks out loud when “The Departed” takes it. let me just say, after my previous rant on this subject, that I did see “Babel,” as well as “The Queen,” and “Little Miss Sunshine.” I didn’t see “Iwo Jima,” but of the other four, I really do think “The Departed” deserves it. I am pleased.

And I am also exhausted. If any of you actually read this whole thing, I salute you. Now, I am off to bed.

The Oscah Blog, Part III

2007-02-25T22:17:00.000-05:00

(Click here for part one of the Oscah blog, and here for part two. Or, just scroll down, lazy ass.)

(Oh, and I did not proof or edit any of these, so the writing may suck and I may lazily repeat the same jokes or phrases repeatedly. It's haaahd to write a 4 hour live blog, so hopefully the three of you who read will cut me some slack.)

830: Showtime! I sort of am in love with this montage of nominees against a white background, talking about their nominations (even the nobody sound effects guys, who discuss being nominated 19 times with no wins…take that O’Toole!). But Martin Scorsese looks like Uncle Junior, freaks me out a little…

836: Ellen’s wearing…a maroon velvet suit? Is this an Eddie Murphy reference or something? Didn’t he wear some hideous red suit or something? Purple? Wow, it’s bloody awful. I really hope it’s a joke, really.

838: I think Ellen just called Penelope Cruz Mexican. Now she’s going to get cut after the show. Hopefully, it will ruin the hideous suit. “Soy de Espana, puta!!!”

842: Huzzah! An audience cut to Jennifer Hudson shows that she lost the hideous coat. I knew she was a FuManchShoes reader.

846: I’m so glad I bought a People magazine to read during the boring awards. See you in a couple hours!

852: Will Ferrell and his giant afro, Jack Black and John C. Reilly sing a weird production number that is pretty funny, especially when Jack Black threatens to beat down octogenarian Peter O’Toole with his Nickleodeon award. All this to introduce the Makeup nominees. Weird! But…Will Ferrel. So it is automatically awesome.

857: Boy, this People magazine review of “The Astronaut Farmer” is pretty fascinating! Oh, and “Pan’s Labrynth wins for makeup. My dad calls, “What is Pan’s Lab?” WHY, when they send two people up to accept an award, can they not just decide in advance who gets to talk? Flip a coin. I know it sucks to not be able to thank your mom for inspiring you to edit for sound and shit, but you’re just going to get played off the stage anyway.

859: Future it-couple drug addicts and Us Weekly regulars (circa 2018) Abigail Breslin and Jaden Smith (as in Will Smith’s kid) present animated short. Ugly Canadian woman wins, Smith flubs one of his lines to the delight of his dad.

905: Wow, Jaden struggles reading the winner of the live-action short! Are the Smiths one of those “we let them decide if they want to go to school” families, like the Osbournes?

906: Live-action short winner babbles through his speech like the MicroMachines guy. Good job dude! Holy crap, he fit a 3 minute speech into 45 seconds, I swear! I think he probably practiced that at home. It was eloquent too. I’m speechless here.

907: Crusty old Clint introduces clips from his Iwo Jima movie and is. zzzzzzzzzzzzz

911: Oh, sorry, just woke up. I hope I didn’t miss much. Ellen just corrected herself on Penelope Cruz’s nationality. Good for you Ellen, no knifing tonight!

921: Finally, a good award! I predict Eddie Murphy, but I secretly want Alan Arkin. Annoyingly, they seem to have cut short the clips. They have time for the “Sound Effects Choir” but not to give each actor a decent-sized clip?

922: Surprise! Alan Arkin wins, and I’m taking full responsibility. If he does not thank me, I’m going to be insulted. (Jesus, his speech sucks ass. He’s an actor, he can’t memorize that shit? And maybe think of a way to make it interesting? He does cry though, I like that.) I wonder if this means there will be a surprise for Jennifer Hudson too…we all know Beyonce would like it.

925: Okay. OKAY. Interpretive dance troupe? Seriously? How about, instead, we have a nice montage? WTF, mates. Their penguin shadow puppets are pretty good though.

933: Man, I know this is liberal propaganda, but I just love Melissa Etheridge. If I could sing like her, I’d never leave the house. Or something. You know what I mean. Everyone looks appropriately serious and “Yes, I took a private jet here, but the environment is like, soooooo important” after she’s done.

935: Ew, Leo. Why appear with the former Veep who shall remain nameless? Because he’s the only one with puffier eyes than you?

942: Jack…Nicholson? With a shiny bald shaved head? Was that him, though?

945: I take back what I said about Cameron’s dress. Now, it sort of looks like the napkins at a fancy restaurant. You know how they are all folded up in fancy shapes, and they get magically refolded while you are in the bathroom? I always wonder if they are afraid of like, finding the napkin full of boogers or chewed up food when they go to refold it for you.

945: Ben Affleck alert! I love how they introduced him as an “Academy Award winning screenwriter.” I guess, “the star of Reindeer Games” doesn’t really have the same zing.

946: An hour and forty five minutes in and we finally get a montage! And it’s a montage about writing! Oh, love love love! (I know, I’m a geek, but if I didn’t love writing you wouldn’t be reading this remarkably entertaining blog.)

952: Yay, a “Departed” win! William Monahan wins for “The Departed.” Let’s just say if “Borat” had won I wouldn’t have been upset, but this pleases me also.

1004: Anne Hathaway and the English chick from that movie are visibly disappointed that the haggy Jessica Rabbit did not win for “The Devil Wears Prada.” I am not disappointed, because a totally insane, terrified, Frenchwoman in an odd tuxedo who likes like a white Prince wins instead. Although I would have liked to make fun of the other lady again too.

1005: Tom Cruise! If there is no Nicole Kidman audience shot I’ll be pissed.

(pissed)

1006: Zzzzzzz, the Humanitarian award. In the past, this award went to Oprah. Now it’s being given to someone who I’ve never heard of. I just hope it results in a good montage.

1007: Oh, okay, fine, this chick seems worthy and stuff. I just hope it doesn’t take too long.

1011: Psssst, Gwyneth! ~whispers~ I can see your bra!

1012: What number of diet root beers is too many? Because I’ve had four. And I’d like another. I know I ought to drink water instead, but…roooooot beeeeer. How am I hooked on something that doesn’t even have caffeine or calories? Fascinating.

1014: Okay, I am starting to get really tired. I’m going to lay down and come back the next time they present an award I care about….stay tuned for Part Four!!!

The Oscah Blog, Part Deux

2007-02-25T19:39:00.000-05:00

(Please click here for the Oscah Blog, Part One..)

730: J-Lo looks pre-go in her pretty, kind of Grecian gown. But her husband continues to have the callow complexion of a cross between an AIDS patient and the cartoon guy from "Corpse Bride."

739: Oh my lord, Kate Winslet, can I be you? Please? Gorgeous. GORGEOUS.

750: All right, so I can’t really harp on Streep. I mean, my goodness, she’s Streep for chrissake. But she appears to be wearing a housedress of some kind, mixed with some sort of tribal necklaces/mardi gras beads. It’s a very…odd look. Great, now I’m going to get struck by lightning.

751: Now I’m really going to get struck by lightning. But: sorry, Abigail Breslin. Your dress is F-U-G. It looks like a dress that maybe would have come with Easter Barbie, if there were an Easter Barbie. There’s really not a whole lot a 10-year old can do about looking chic, I mean 10-year olds are supposed to look like Easter Barbie. But this is the Oscars. Would a little Dior have killed her, just for one night? Hm.

,mmkllll ß Brought to you by Chloe the cat, still not grasping the concept of “computer not cat” plan for my lap tonight.

800: Kind of fun little montage with characters from the nominated movies. But it’s always, always funnier when Billy Crystal does it. I think “Academy Awards Host” should be the only thing Billy Crystal ever does, actually. I know I’m in the minority on that, but hey, I can’t help it. I like those goofy little songs he sings.

803: Leo talks about conflict diamonds like his 12 year old model girlfriend doesn’t bathe in them nightly.

804: Naomi Watts….I don’t know. It reminds me of something Carol Seaver would have worn on the prom episode of “Growing Pains.” Nicole Kidman, in gorgeous red, is so tall and thin that she looks like a paper cut. A really, really, really pretty paper cut.

812: I am unsurprised to learn that Vogue’s Andre Leon Talley styled Jennifer Hudson’s look. That man is a big fan of the “obnoxiously unnecessary coat.”

813: “Devil Wears Prada” (and “Sex and the City”) costumer Patricia Fields, is wearing red sequins that do nothing to disguise her ginormous gunt, and with her hideously scarlet dyed hair, she looks like a haggy, washed-up, boob-sagging Jessica Rabbit. Sad! I’ll never look at “Who Framed Roger Rabbit” the same again.

817: Apologies for the lack of originality here, but…Penelope Cruz really looks like a feather duster. That’s not a creative way to describe her dress, which is stunning from the waist up. But really, I have a feather duster in my linen closet, that really is what it looks like.

819: Oooh, Eddie Murphy non-baby-mama Tracy Edmonds really should have pulled her Spanx up higher. There’s a definitive line at her waist, and her dress is, wow, well, there really may have been a Bedazzler involved.

822: Mmm, Ryan Gosling. Bad tux, hot guy. I need new underwear for the first time tonight. Good times!

825: Five minutes to showtime, I’m giddy. Need to pee, I’ll try to post Part Three, with the meat of the actual show, all in one big bit, probably around three hundred oclock tonight. Enjoy the show!

The Oscah Blog, Part Uno

2007-02-25T19:24:00.000-05:00

Okay, I give, I give. I shall do an Oscars blog. I was inspired by the red carpet coverage on E!. More specifically, by the horror of Jennifer Hudson’s ill-advised golden tinfoil bolero jacket.

Oh, Jennifer. You’re the darling of the awards show circuit. You looked fierce at the Golden Globe awards. I liked your performance in “Dreamgirls,” and I think you’ll win the Oscar tonight. But why, why, whyyyyy did you add that tinfoil thing to your lovely chocolate gown? You look like you just finished a marathon.

(Sidebar: I never got that aspect of marathon running. I know it has some shit to do with body heat or evaporization, or whathaveyou. But it’s like, if I ever ran a marathon, I don’t think the little tinfoil blanket is really going to help me feel any better about all my toenails falling off and the pee running down my legs, and the cardiac arrest and stuff.)

So, I’m settling in with several cans of Diet A&W Root Beer, some Easy Mac, and a very disgruntled cat who doesn’t understand that “laptop computer” means “computer on my lap, INSTEAD of a cat.”

652: Looks like Cameron Diaz has packed on the old Breakup 15. Nice dress though.

655: In response to Rachel Weiszcghzlnzzzz’s Vera Wang gown (which is lovely, by the way), Seacrest says “Wow there’s a lot of wang here.” To make up for it, he turns to the camera as Jessica Biel makes his way towards him to say, “wow, there’s just hottie after hottie out here, wow.” Just keep sayin’ it, Seacrest.

658: Speaking of repressed homosexuality, here comes John Travolta and his lovely beard. Kelly Preston, wearing some sort of shiny animal print monstrosity. Her hair looks nice though, and she looks not a day over 30, so good for her.

659: Seacrest pumps Travolta (heh) for information about dressing in drag for “Hairspray.” Travolta looks pissy about it. Hey Zucko, maybe if you don’t want people to think you’re Gay-o, you shouldn’t do a role last made popular by one Harvey Fierstein. Just sayin’.

704: Seacrest plays a hilariously heartfelt “good luck” message from Simon Cowell for Jennifer Hudson. Do you think he’s angling for a “thank-you” in her acceptance speech?

707: Flipping to the Barbara Walters special in time for her to ask Ellen Degeneres if she’d be dancing. Degeneres looks like she just asked her if she would wear a dress, all annoyed by the question. Um, again, maybe if you don’t want people to think you dance everywhere you go, you shouldn’t do damn American Express commercials where you….dance everywhere you go.

710: I really miss Pretty Leo. Not that Grown-Up Pinched-Looking Leo isn’t still a dish, and not that I wouldn’t totally do it with him (although, at this point, I’d totally do it with like, a bookshelf).

Okay, taking a break from the Seacrest, because he’s making my brain hurt, and he just pulled down his pants to show what brand his underwear is…in front of Helen Mirren. So yeah, it’s hard to type while blind.

(Also, I’m hungry. Time for Easy Mac.)

Stay Tuned...

2007-02-25T16:35:00.000-05:00

Boy howdy, do I love Oscar night.

I may or may not keep a running diary tonight...depends on my motivation level.

I was actually out until 4 in the morning last night, a highly unusual move on my part these days, but it was indeed fun.

Yesterday, I bought four pairs of shoes for 90 dollars from the Nine West outlet. I am such an unbelievable sucker for the buy one get one half off deal. But they're all so darn pretty!

Then it occured to me that three of them are suede, and it's the dead of winter. I'm wicked smaht. But, again, pretty!!!!! Slingbacks and platforms and spikes and kitten heels, eggplant suede and charcoal tweed...aaaaah. Who needs sex, honestly?

Last night, on day seven of 28 Days, I folded like a cheap suit. Since I did not get drunk, I do not consider it a total failure. And I only drank beer. Oh, and a shot, whoops. Oh well.

In all honesty, how is a person supposed to give up smoking, drinking and candy all at the same time? Impossible! I did not smoke last night, at least...siiiigh.

Anyway, this is just a space filler in between the depressing post previous and the no doubt awesome Oscars wrap-up later.

Everybody Must Get Laid (unless you are me)

2007-02-23T19:07:00.000-05:00

This is a major overshare, and for that I apologize.

But I'm currently in the biggest cold streak of my sexual career, and it's really starting to bug. Today marks the 125th day since I got any, and that is pretty much the absolute longest its been in the entirety of my life.

Well except for the mumble-mumble years I spent as a virgin, which so obviously doesn't count.

Now. I'm no spring chicken. If I were still 22 I'd just head out to a bar and grab the first warm body I could find. But as a lady (snerk) of 27, I am not really feeling the need to do that.

Yet.

It's kind of like how I never had the good sense to be afraid of living alone, until recently, when I've been on an "I'm definitely going to get murdered" riff and have been doing things like buying pepper spray for my nightstand and putting a big 2x4 in the track of my balcony door and checking every closet and behind the shower curtain before I go to bed. I guess I'm not putting enough faith in the cats as a security system....

A person who does these things isn't likely to be taking some stranger home from the bar all willy-nilly. But. Um, yeah. Talk to me at Day 250, I may have to sing a different tune.

Or maybe...get a new boyfriend? A hooker? A male Real Doll? A mail-order husband from Kazakhstan? Hm.

Come Fly With(out) Me

2007-02-20T20:07:00.000-05:00

Am I the only one who understands how completely insane it is to ride on an airplane?

Why is everyone else always acting so damn normal, like they aren't potentially minutes away from a tummy-churning plummet several thousand feet out of the air ending in a horrific fiery death?

If I'm not sedated with a nice cocktail of wine and Advil PM, flying could pretty much count as cardio for me, considering my heart doesn't stop pounding the whole time. And yet I sit there on the plane next to all these people who are just hanging out, having conversations, reading books, not clutching the armrest with a Vulcan Grip of Death (or whatever) and gasping like it's their last every time there's even a teensy bump.

I guess it does occur to me that I do all sorts of stuff that other people think is just as terribly abnormal as strapping themselves into a flying metal death tube several miles above earth.

Like when I mentioned to my friends at brunch on Sunday about how I ate an entire box of Life cereal in one day last week. They looked at me like I'd just told them I'd eaten an entire box of toenails.

(You know what though? If eating an entire box of Life cereal is as horrifying to them as flying is to me, perhaps I ought to rethink my position on it.)

(Nope, it's still delicious.)

I never made it to Mardi Gras, as flying standby in a blizzard isn't really conducive to such things. I did, however, make some excellent friends waiting in line for flight re-bookings for two point two hours.

Regardless of the lack of Mardi Gras, the official Fu Manch Shoes 28 Days of Virtual Rehab officially began at 12 pm on Sunday (before which I had the obligatory last glass of champagne with brunch, of course) and I'm on Day 3. So far, I haven't been shaking in a corner cranking butts and scratching at the invisible bugs on my skin...but the night is young.

Not to mention that tomorrow I've agreed with my friend Kelly to give up candy for lent. Despite my whole "not believing in Christ" thing.

CANDY! Talk about scratching myself and cranking butts.

And that's forty days. I mean, good god!

Although perhaps being cut off from my nougat I.V. cold turkey might be good for the alarmingly yoooge size of my ass lately.

(I may have to cheat on the no smoking pledge at some point here. Most people eat candy to combat smoking cravings.)

(Mmmm, I smoked this weekend, sooooo goooood....)

That's What Friends are For?

2007-02-16T10:28:00.000-05:00

"Someone smells like FEET."

"Yeah. It's me."

"DUDE."

"I've been wearing these tights since 5 this morning biatch, and, uh, I wore them to work yesterday. I didn't know I didn't have any other tights or hose in my house that were run-free to wear on the plane! Leave me be!"

"You are disgusting. You're making me gag."

"Thanks, dude."

"I have Febreeze, you cannot come back into the room until you spray yourself down with it."

"I've been in an AIRPORT for like 16 hours! This is discrimination!"

She was even more appalled when I went to put the tights on again this morning, but what was I gonna do?

"If I don't wear these my legs will freeze off, I know it's gross, but I will burn them as soon as I get to New Orleans!"

"Don't do it. I'll puke if you do it."

"You're supposed to look NICE when you fly on an employee buddy pass, and this is the only nice outfit I brought, and I have no other hose. I was not expecting to get stuck overnight here, cut me some slack!"

"You're supposed to LOOK nice, how are you supposed to SMELL???"

As it turned out, I didn't make the flight, and I'm in DC for the weekend. The offending tights are wadded up in the bottom of my luggage, and I am now nicely showered and wearing very clean socks.

But you got to love a friend that will tell you when you smell exactly like you'd spent the preceding 36 hours in air travel hell on Earth.

So now there will most definitely be no live-blogging from Mardi Gras, becuase I'm pretty far away from New Orleans. Which sucks, but at least I get to spend the weekend with my peeps in DC.

As long as I promise them to remain clean and odor-free while here.

(I don't normally stink, I swear!)

The First Annual Feast of Bitterness

2007-02-14T17:10:00.000-05:00

I have two Valentine's Day dates tonight. Too bad they're a couple of chicks instead of Tom Brady, but I guess he seems to think that Gisele is better looking than me or something. Whatever.

It will be a grand time though. We have champagne, we have candy, we have all my "Sex and the City" dvds, and--most importantly--we have the baked ziti.

Let the First Annual Feast of Bitterness begin! Think of it as a Valentine's Day Festivus. After the feast, before the dvds, we will pass around the Unofficial Man-Beating Baton (okay, probably just the remote) and speak of all the bastards that have done us wrong in the previous year.

Then we will view "Sex and the City" and discuss how we do not understand why Carrie always had a boyfriend when she dressed like a homeless person and was constantly squealing like a rutting hog, and how in the early seasons it is inexplicable that Miranda was laid as much as she was when she appeared to be raiding the closet of one Paula Pound(somekids)stone to assemble her wardrobe.

This year will also feature a special prayer for another blizzard next Valentine's Day, since it tickled us pink that chicks were denied getting their "I've got a boyfriend and youuuu dooooon't" bouquets at offices across the land.

(And trust me, I'm a big-time veteran of the "I've got a boyfriend and youuuu doooon't" bouquet. There isn't a girl in America that doesn't take pleasure than getting called to the front desk to retrieve their bouquet and have everyone commenting, "Oh those are lovely" every time they come round your desk. And there isn't a boyfriendless girl in America that doesn't want to punch these bitches. It's like the feeling you get when you're walking through first class on your way to coach. Just admit it, and we can all move on.)

Bitching about men and trashing other women over with, we will be cleansed and able to welcome February 15th with open arms. Aaaah.

I'd like to say I'll be live-blogging from Mardi Gras this weekend....but, well...I am lazy. I do promise to post photos though!

I wish I'd have had time to make my own YouTube video of this song, but this little kid will have to do:

Snow? Ohmigosh, Run for Your LIfe!

2007-02-13T23:15:00.000-05:00

You know, I haven't spent a winter in New Hampshire in several years. But...this IS still New Hampshire, right?

As in, right next to Maine? As in, right under Canada??

Why the ruckus over this storm? I've been watching the local news, and the entire first 17 minutes of this 30 minute broadcast were ALL about the snow.

There are presidential candidates up here. There's a damn war on. And, um, hello! Have we already forgotten about Anna Nicole??

Oh, they just spent a whopping 2 minutes on other news, now they are back on the storm. Thank goodness, becuase otherwise we might forget that it's supposed to snow.

Like 10-12 inches of snow is a good-sized storm, sure. But do we really need the coverage they are describing for tomorrow? Special early edition of the morning show. Reporter blogs! Minute-by-minute updates of accumulations! Reporters on location at frantic grocery stores! Lookout!

Am I think only one who understands that snow is rather portable? People stock up on supplies like it's a damn concrete storm. Snow all over your car? Brush it off, shovel it away. Now, if concrete falls on your car, that would require a jackhammer. That's something to actually worry about.

Anyhow, I'd better go to bed, I'll need to be well-rested for this apparent apocalypse that's coming. Good lord.

G' (Valentine's) Day Mates

2007-02-13T00:00:00.000-05:00

I keep hearing this radio commercial urging guys to take their sweethearts to the Outback Steakhouse for Valentine's Day dinner.

If I actually had a boyfriend, and he actually took me to the Outback for Valentine's Day, I'm really not sure what I'd do.

Part of me would be insulted he'd dare take me to a cheesey-ass chain steakhouse for the Big Romantic (fake) Holiday.

But part of me would be like, "Well...Bloomin' Onion. Okay."

Nothing says I love you like a bowling-ball sized onion dunked in batter and deep-fried, you know?"

But I'm also not really like other girls.

Which is probably why I'm single. All the girls with the good sense to throw a hissy over and Outback Valentine's Day probably won't be home eating Easy Mac with bacon bits and talking to their cats on the dreaded night.

Speaking of the cats, I'm violently resisting the urge to mention them more than once weekly in this space, because it's pathetic, and I can't be cat lady.

(Seriously though, Butters is getting really fat. I've only had them a month, and she is now the size of like, two Bloomin' Onions. Great, now I'm picturing her all fried and edible, so I clearly must go, as am losing mind.)

It Takes Two...To Pull Me Away from the TV

2007-02-06T22:31:00.000-05:00

I've been a fan of Sarah Bunting's (aka "Sars" for those non TWoP readers among us) writing for ages, but I don't recall the last time I ever came so close to snapping my neck nodding along with one of her posts until today.

The nodding started last week, when she listed out a bunch of classic books and movies she has always meant to read/watch but never got around to. I currently have a post-it full of book titles I need to take down to Barnes and Noble, which I've been meaning to read for, oh, three hundred and eighty-seven YEARS. It's stuck to my desk right next to the unpaid doctor's bill I keep meaning to sort out from October of 2005, where they are trying to claim that I was diagnosed with chest pain or something when it was only a damn physical. Every day I think, "I will call about that again today and see about getting it cleared up."

And every day I leave work going "D'oh!"

So you can imagine how far through that list of books I've gotten.

But there's better things to do, don't you see? Like my 85th viewing of the Farrelly brothers crapfest otherwise known as "Fever Pitch."

Which is the point Sars made, today, as I chuckled and giggled myself into several damn coughing fits (oh did I mention that I'm pretty sure I have the flu? Good times!):

"Why? Why? I could read Dante! I could catch up on vintage sitcoms! I could tutor a child or have tea with a friend! But no: I've got my feet up on the coffee table, sharing a bowl of kettle corn with an overweight feline and watching Stakeout -- again! Actual astronauts do not know as much about airlock technology from the 1980s as I do, because I have seen SpaceCamp more times than Americans have gone to the actual moon!"

I bolted from work at exactly five today, more excited for my couch than I've ever been in my life. And found (fucking) "Fever Pitch" waiting for me on HBO.

This movie is about as good as I feel right now (read: as in, NOT GOOD AT ALL).

But you know what? I watched it anyway. For the 85th time. I can't turn it off. I'm powerless against it. Why? Becuase they play Dropkick Murphy's at the end and show real footage of the final out and the victory parade, which makes me fire up the waterworks and get all giddy and happy and flashbacky to when it actually happened.

(*tear)

Ever see "The Long Kiss Goodnight?" This is seriously (seriously) in my top five. I would normally never admit this. But I'm sorry, Geena Davis straps on FIGURE SKATES and chases the bad guys across a frozen lake and SHOOTS THEM WITH A MACHINE GUN while performing a CARTWHEEL. On ICE SKATES.

It's so good. And Samuel L. Jackson is there. And Geena snaps the neck of...a deer. Yeah, I don't know. It's just so good. I've seen it like, 24 times.

So Sars? I feel ya. And don't even get me started on the Olsen twins/Kirstie Alley/Steve Guttenberg trifecta also known as "It Takes Two." Can't. Not. Watch. Mary-Kate Olsen driving a hansom cab. Seriously. Can't resist. I mean, come on.

In other news, I think I'm checking myself into rehab.

Well, Virtual Imaginary Rehab anyway.

Next week, I go to Mardi Gras. When I return, I am going to sentence myself to 28 days sobriety.

(Ah! "28 Days!" Sandra Bullock goes to rehab and meets quirky characters! Steve Buscemi as a drug counselor! Viggo Mortensen as a drug-addled baseball player! It's gold!!)

I know those of you who know me in real life are probably laughing hysterically. But really, I think it's necessary.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go fish my lung out of the kitchen sink and try to stuff it back in after my latest coughing fit.

I promise to blog about it often and will totally cop to it if I cheat...wish me luck! (Oh, did I mention that the 28th day is St. Patrick's Day? Yeah.)

Oh, Theo

2007-01-31T23:05:00.000-05:00

Theo, Theo, Theo.

Did what we had mean nothing to you?

I suppose you'd say it didn't, what with you not even knowing me and all. But I think I loved you enough for both of us.

And then you go and pull something like this.

~weeps~

You know, despite some of your boneheaded maneuvers lately (I mean, come on, how much did you pay for JD-fucking-Drew again?), you were my third favorite of all my sports-related fantasy boyfriends.

And you had to up and throw it aaaalll away. Let's just say that marrying some ho is infinitely more upsetting than the Drew deal. I shan't be getting over this one!

(Until you get divorced and stuff. Hehehe.)

Casting Directors are Stoopider than Boys

2007-01-29T21:56:00.000-05:00

I love me some "24." One of the best shows on television, without question.

But what special brand of crack does their casting director smoke, and where can I get some?

James Cromwell and Paul McCrane.

Two actors I enjoy, particularly Cromwell, whose turn as the farmer in Babe pretty much assured him a place in my heart for life (I know he must be honored).

And McCrane's Dr. Romano on "ER" was one of the last good things about that show before it officially entered "Law&Order" territory (somewhere around the 243rd season).

But they are currently portraying the father and brother of one Jack Bauer, and it's so distracting in its absurdity that it's really going to bother me.

Point one: I appreciate that they found an actor with the same height issues as poor Keifer (Keifer's actually taller than McCrane, who must be about 4'11") to play his brother, but McCrane's balding, shiny pate and weasely composition leads me to question how he could ever in a million years be related to the rugged, swaggering, torturing, action hero Jack. Let alone be his brother.

Point two: Cromwell? Is 6'7". He's about three heads taller than each of his alleged "sons" on the show. Are we going to meet Mrs. Bauer, or is she busy helping Santa gear up for Christmas?

I mean, come on. Was Donald Sutherland really not available? And maybe bring in Emilio Estevez to play the evil brother. Would have been so hard?

That's Becuase You're a F***ing Broad, Sweetheart

2007-01-28T20:26:00.000-05:00

First off, have you all seen last week's TV Guide cover? It has been sitting on my coffee table for a week, but I'm just now noticing how retarded Ryan Seacrest looks. I'm sort of wondering who he pissed off at TV Guide that they would post a cover featuring a photo where he more thoroughly resembles Corky from "Life Goes On" than anyone I would ever let do me. I'd rather do Paula if we're basing it strictly on this cover photo. Plus, his teeth look like Chiclets. It's truly fascinating.

(Remember that "Punky Brewster" episode where she wants to join the club that calls themselves The Chiclets, except when she gets in they dump out this huge pile of like, Mike&Ikes and say they are drugs and tell her she has to do them in order to be cool? What a classic episode. That might have been the one Nancy Reagan was on. Man, I am old.)

(That special Punky episode is eclipsed only by the Johnny Dakota episode of "Saved by the Bell" with the "there's no hope with dope" PSA at the end. Remember when TV tried to be responsible? If "Saved" was still on they'd have Kelly blowing Mr. Belding after cheerleading practice and snorting lines off Screech's ass and then doing a threesome with Lisa and Jessie. Honestly.)

Last night I was waiting for a drink at the bar when the guy standing next to me had a gross overreaction to a lime in his Jack & Coke. I sort of snickered at him, and pointed out that lime in Jack and Coke is actually not all that bad (although it is better in a Captain and Coke, I will admit). He glared at me, sneered, and then spat out, "That's becuase you're a fucking broad, sweetheart. Have a nice night."

Let's just say I was pretty sure he didn't really want me to have a nice night.

You know something, I've been back in New Hampshire for 3 months now, and I haven't had a single conversation with a guy at a bar, let alone been on a date or even just drunkenly made out.

Highly, highly disturbing. I've not had a drought like this in a relatively long time, actually. Hell, I used to even weigh about 50 pounds more than I do now and I still got a lot more ass.

Have I gone hideous in my old age? That guy, who--for the record--I was not even attempting to pick up--I couldn't even tell you what he looked like--basically telling me to fuck off was the most exciting thing to happen in ages.

Highly disturbing.

United 93

2007-01-27T00:22:00.000-05:00

I stayed in tonight. Cleaned my apartment for three hours (seriously! I don't even have that much square footage going on in here, don't even ask me how that worked, but there it is), changed kitty litter, took the out the trash, dusted, vacuumed, prepared laundry to bring to parents' house tomorrow, brushed the cats, made a half-hearted attempt to clip Butters' claws becuase she can hardly walk without getting stuck to the capet, but quickly gave up.

It was an extremely mundane evening, but I enjoyed it.

Then I got United 93 on my On Demand, as there was precious little on television.

First of all, this film is excellent. Excellent. But I struggled over whether or not to write about it or recommend it (although obviously I am, and I do).

I don't know if it's becuase it's "too soon," becuase I don't think it is. September 11 is my generation's Pearl Harbor, and I think five years is enough of a mourning period to have gone by to start examining it artistically ( although please, God, 40 years from now do NOT let the disembodied preserved head of Jerry Bruckheimer make a movie starring Violet Affleck as a plucky flight attendant or some shit. Please. I'll probably still be alive then, but that would probably kill me, or at least make me violently ill, as I am sure the atrocity that was the Ben Affleck "epic" (epice piece of crap) Pearl Harbor made the WWII vets still alive to see it).

But...it's just so raw, this film, and it made me realize how raw I still am about 9/11. Nothing directly happened to me that day, aside from as an American. All my friends in Washington and New York were safe. I didn't lose any family members, but I felt it--the shock, the grief, the rage, the horror--so strongly then, just as I did tonight watching this movie.

I wept through half the film, and flashed back to sitting in my parents' bedroom that morning, after my mom called me from work and woke me up to tell me to turn on the tv. I remember as though it were yesterday, kneeling on the floor, clutching the phone to my chest and watching the second plane hit and thinking about my father, who was due to fly from Boston to Los Angeles that morning. As it turns out, the flight my father was booked on was set to leave Boston an hour or so after all flights were grounded, so he never even made it all the way into the airport before being turned right back around.

His travel agent had offered him a seat on and earlier flight, United 175, which was the plane I watched explode in a fireball on live television. Dad didn't want to get up so early. If my father were a morning person, he would be dead at the hands of fucking terrorist coward bastards right now, and I would have watched it happen on live TV, and watched it again tonight, as the film used real news footage of that flight's fateful end.

So that is what's raw about this film, at least for me. It felt real, like it was happening all over again. It plays out in real-time, almost in documentary-style, particularly the scenes set in air traffic control towers. We are not given background stories or personal information or even much dialogue--apart from frantic, whispered games of "telephone" as the passengers who are surreptitously using cell and airphones to call loved ones relay information about the other hijacked planes--from the heroic passengers and crew on board.

One by one, helpless air traffic controllers lose radio contact with the blips on their screens and then watch them blink off radar. Confusion reigns, orders are shouted, misinformation speeds through the various levels of command. I learned afterwards that many of the people in these scenes were played by the actual air traffic controllers involved, and they all did an excellent job of portraying the overwhleming panic and dread taking hold that morning as they realized that each of the 4,200 planes in the air had suddenly become potential deadly weapons.

A running theme early in the movie is the disbelief from each new person that hears the news of the hijackings. "Shit, another one?" "Did he say planes as in plural?" It reminds you just how unbelievable these events were. If, God forbid, anything resembling 9/11 would ever happen again, we know now there would be no disbelief, only steely acceptance. You're only innocent once.

As the national FAA director (playing himself, and damn impressively) makes the call to ground all U.S. air traffic and stop all international flights from crossing our borders, an underling questions the decision, pointing out how much money it will cost, as though still not understanding the full gravity of what is happening. The director points to the TV screens showing footage of the WTC and Pentagon in flames and aptly points out, "We are at war with someone. I want those planes on the ground." And I believe that is exactly how it played out in real life.

Which is why, despite the fact we will never know for sure (although the families of all 40 victims on board flight 93 cooperated fully with filmmakers, providing every detail they could muster, including tearful phone messages) what exactly happened on that plane, I believe it could have happened exactly as portrayed. And it breaks my heart. That they desperately tried, until the last possible second, to survive, knowing they probably wouldn't, but knowing that if they didn't do something the plane they were on was going to fly into another building...I am just amazed, amazed at how some people were able to at least make an effort in a situation that would have no doubt paralyzed me with shock and grief and fear. Several passengers are portrayed making phone calls, leaving messages of love.

So, everyone must see this film, despite the fact that it will be difficult, and will probably make you cry, and might make you lose some sleep (I know I'm about to have some trouble in that department). It contains zero politics, zero hint at any of the bullshit that has gone on in the country in the last few years, it merely presents the events of that horrific day and implores you not to forget.

I know I never will.

Thanks Perez

2007-01-24T21:52:00.000-05:00

Via Perez Hilton, this video is too cute, and the band--Bo Pepper--reminds me of The Ditty Bops, with their cute lyrics and bouncy-sounding lead singer.

Dearly "Departed"

2007-01-23T21:19:00.000-05:00

The Oscar winners won't even be announced for another few weeks, and I'm already depressed about them.

The question plaguing me is as follows: when did "pretentious and in love with its own importance" become more award-worthy than "well-made, well-cast, obscenely entertaining, well-acted, and did I mention OBSCENELY ENTERTAINING??"

My prediction: Babel will beat out The Departed for Best Picture. And its director will probably beat out living legend Martin Scorcese, who is one session in the tanning bed away from becoming the Dan Marino of filmmaking: undeniable Hall of Famer, can't close on the Big One.

The Departed can only be described as superb entertainment. It isn't a heavy-handed "message" movie. It's just damn good. (I suppose it's possible that the giant bottle of Captain Morgan that Jeff and I snuck in to the theater to mix with our Diet Coke had something to do with it, but I really don't think so.) This was some finely crafted, unbelievably acted, beautifully made, downright sumptious storytelling, people, and was supremely entertaining...but the Academy stopped awarding "supremely entertaining" over "important" pretty much after the Shakespeare in Love beating out Saving Private Ryan debacle. And that's just not fair, espcially to a director like Scorsese, who pretty much only knows how to do "supremely entertaining." Good for us, bad for his Oscar chances.

This same shit happened to old Marty in 2004, when Clint Eastwood's well-made but depressing as hell Million Dollar Baby (which dared to ask the question, "Can you tell how good a movie is based on how many people went home and stuck their heads in the oven afterwards?") beat out Scorcese's lavish, gorgeous and compelling The Aviator. (I would have even been able to overlook Gwen Stefani's involvement with the latter if it had managed a win in this category.)

Come to think of it, it probably won't be the Babel guy beating Scorcese out for Best Director, but rather Clint--again. The Academy never misses an opportunity to suck that guy's cock, even though he never misses an opportunity to stick one in and break it off for movie goers--Mystic River anyone? Wait, was that one depressing becuase of the story, or becuase of Laura Linney's "Boston" accent?

Then there was last year's travesty--even though it didn't involve Martin Scorcese. Brokeback Mountain was on HBO on Saturday, so I watched it again while dusting (I have way too much wood furniture in my living room these days, it takes me forever to dust, and don't even get me started on cat hair, I've only had the fuckers for 10 days but could build a whole new cat twice the size of both of them put together out of all the hair I've wiped off my coffee table).

This movie was the very definition of superb entertainment. It was moving, realistic, sexy, beautiful, amazingly-acted and directed, sad without being depressing; it had a good message without beating you senselessly over the head with it, the main conflict was complex and compelling; I could honestly go on all day. Plus, hot guys! DOING IT! Jake and Heath!

DOING IT!!!!

Crash, on the other hand, which inevitably rode its own wave of self-congratulatory "look at us, We've Got an Important Social Message" bullcrap straight into the Best Picture award (and a Best Supporting Actor nomination for Matt Dillon, who basically did the same asshole riff he played in There's Something About Mary, but playing him straight instead of goofy. What a stretch.) last year, causing an absolute riot among anyone who knows anything about good movies.

I hated Crash. I don't need some obnoxious movie blaring in my ear about how much we all have to learn about our own prejiduces.

Just like I don't need Babel to tell me whatever bullcrap message it's no doubt selling.

Heh Heh...I guess this is where I mention that the theaters up here are finally showing it, and I won't be seeing it until Friday night.

If come Friday it is necessary for me to come back here, hat in hand, and eat myself a heaping helping of my own words? Will do.

Something tells me I won't be though.