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:
November 27, 2007
November 6, 2007
Viva Brazil
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.
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.
October 28, 2007
Well This is Some Bullshit
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!?
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!?
October 23, 2007
Cruise Ship Lollipop
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
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
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!
October 5, 2007
Ahoy Ahoy!
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.
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.
September 20, 2007
Not a Real Post
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.
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.
September 16, 2007
Bleh-mmys
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.
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.
September 13, 2007
So? THEN What?
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.
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.
September 12, 2007
Wow
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
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.
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.
September 11, 2007
I Should Get Me One of These
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...
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...
September 8, 2007
The FuManchShoes 100th Post Semi-Spectacular Excellence Post for Being Excellent
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.
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.....
Speaking of Tom Brady, are we ready for some football?!? Mmmmm.....
August 20, 2007
Blame Canada (eh?)
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.
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
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?
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
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....)
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....)
August 13, 2007
It's Three, Three, Three Posts in One (Day)!
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....
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....
August 12, 2007
Oh, Real World.
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
"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.)
"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.
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.
August 5, 2007
Please, a Little Respect; for I am Fu, Queen of Having No Game
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.
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.
August 2, 2007
Real Problems
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!!!
"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!!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
