The Pursuit of Misery

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.

Oh for the love of...

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.

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.

Jambalaya!

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...

Oh, Fu. Lisa Loeb?

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.

It's My Wine in a Box!

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!

This Entry is Super Gross (Just fair warning...)

(Seriously, you may not want to be friends with me anymore after reading this, but I've got to get it out there.)

Honestly, what is everyone's deal with the shower?

I am sick as a dog right now, and was recounting to my mother the amount of phlegm I hocked up in the shower this morning even after blowing my nose, and was complaining about how I am basically just giant ball of phlegm and how unfair it was, and she interrupted me and got all grossed out:

"Wait, you blew your nose in the shower?"
"Well, yeah. It's nice and steamy, loosens everything right up."
"That is DISGUSTING."
"Well, I just find it easier to, I don't know, expel things in a nice steamy environment!"
"I can't even talk to you."

Let me just say this. I get a stuffy nose all the freaking time. I dont' know what I'm allergic to, but it's got to be something, becuase you can count on "be" pronouncing "by" "embs" like this for the duration of the winter season, even when I'b not sick. And I've tried a variety of potions and elixirs for this ailment, and nothing works.

And the only thing that helps in the morning when I wake up with a brick for a head is getting in the shower and honking it all out. (Wow, I'm just really not going to have any friends...oh well!)

But if you're going to be gross, isn't the shower the place to do it? It's like peeing in the shower.

WHAT is the problem with peeing in the shower?

1) Urine is actually sterile, people. No germs. STERILE.
2) It goes straight down the drain.
3) It is then followed down the drain by soapy water.

So what's the problem? My ex-boyfriend was horrified and disgusted when I came out to him as an occasional shower pee-er (Come on, it's not like I'm addicting to the shower pee, it's just that if I forget to go beforehand I much prefer letting rip in the shower than having to sit my wet ass down on the toilet afterwards...the feeling of sitting on the toilet when you're freshly showered sickens me, it's the thought of all the germs that are probably on the toilet seat clinging onto my damp skin...~shudders~).

"You PEE in the SHOWER?"
"Well, yeah."
"THAT's DISGUSTING."
"Oh come on , it is not."
"That's where I go to get CLEAN? And I'm standing in your PEE?"
"Dude, I found half-eaten week-old chicken bones in your car the other day, and you're lecturing me on cleanliness?"
"At least I don't PEE in my car."
"Well, neither do I. Just in your shower."
"GAH!"

Seriously, the guy was one of the top three biggest slobs ever (after Pigpen, and me of course), and he gave me a hard time for peeing into a soapy drain.

I think the world is just divided into two groups: Those who don't think it's okay to pee or blow one's nose in the shower, and those who do.

And I think it's high time for the people in the former group to quit giving those of us in the latter group a hard time. After all, we know you don't always wash your hands after using the public restroom, and that's SO much worse.

That's Definitely Jessica's Stench

Things That Have Happened to Sarah Since December the 8th:

Spent a few days in Washington. Threw up in various locations around town, including but not limited to the street outside some girlfriends' house, the back porch of said girlfriends' house, and the handicapped stall (indeed) of a downtown bar.

While in Washington, also smashed (and I mean smashed) an entire large glass tumbler of Jack&Diet on the ground at a very nice bar during an ill-advised attempt to rock back on my 4-inch heels to give my throbbing tootsies a break. Note to self: Slipper drink glasses full of delicious alcohol will NOT actually prevent you from tumbling to the ground, so next time grab onto one of the 18 sturdy men that were about two inches away. If you end up taking them down with you, all the better. You do need a piece, after all.

Ate double my weight in Christmas chocolates, cookies, cakes, drinks, pork, beef, cheeseburgers (this weekend in New Orleans, for example, I ate a cheeseburger that used a croissant as a BUN...which, yeah, mmmm, but also, uh, gaining some holiday weight much, Sarah? Going for the record are we? Well done!), pumpkin bread, pumpkin pie, various breakfast pastries, and cheese. And various other things that will no doubt result in disastrousness when Kels and I head back into Weight Watchers tomorrow evening for the first time in (gulp) three weeks.

Made this incredibly wise decision: The night before I had to be at the airport at oh-six-hundred hours (that's six in the MORNING to lay people) (heheh, "lay" people) to head off to the Big Easy (named after me, of course) (wait...), I assembled some girlfriends and my buddy James at my house for an impromptu pre-Christmas bash. The girls and I consumed an entire bottle of chocolate vodka before James even arrived. James arrives, we kill a bottle of champagne. We go to Margarita's, consume a margarita. We go to Strange Brew for ladies night, where I proceed to spend approximately 13 thousand dollars, despite the fact that drinks are half price. This could explain why I did not remember who drove us home (some dude the other girls picked up, good job ladies), wound up beating James repeatedly at 4 in the morning with the stuffed elephant from my bed (whom he named "Harold" for some reason), and tossing up all 13 thousand of those dollars later on. It would also explain to the guy seated next to me on the plane--in first class, no less--why I reeked of booze, puke and toothpaste. And also why I stole his pillow. Sorry about that, First Class Dude.

(What's with me throwing up all the time? This was a major problem between the ages of 17 and 24, but I'd say I'd managed to get a handle on it in recent years, identifying the point in my binge drinking when it's maybe time to, you know, STOP binge drinking. But in the past six months or so I think I've hurled more than in the preceding 3 years. Highly disturbing.)

Saw the following movies: "Dreamgirls," which was overhyped but still tremendous, particularly the American Idol chick. "The Devil Wears Prada," which was sweet and light, but annoyed me becuase they had the character go from a "fat" size 6 to an "acceptable" size 4 and act all pleased with herself. I thought the point was that she was a "real" girl in this super-skinny high-fashion world. But oh well. Still very good, and Meryl Streep's performance is sublime. "Mission: Impossible 3," which was shockingly awesome. I thought I'd be distracted by my disdain for The Cruise (read: The Crazy) but I forgot about all that for the most part. My only quibble is that they cast a Katie Holmes lookalike as his wife. Come ON. And yeah, at one point I actually shrieked, alone in my living room, "Felicity! No!" I am so ashamed.

Spent Christmas Eve-Eve on Bourbon Street getting shitfaced....with my parents. Did a karaoke rendition of Redneck Woman in a bad mullet wig and a cowbow hat, which was in front of a huge crowd and with speakers blasting outside onto Bourbon street...and my parents were there. Caught beads from balcony dwellers and bought a drink called The Hand Grenade...with my PARENTS. What's funny is that my parents are really fun, and they sure know how to party. But that didn't stop it from being weird, especially when a guy asked my sister to flash for beads...IN FRONT OF MY DAD. I mean, that's just not right, y'all.

What WAS right was Christmas Eve morning at the Cafe Du Monde, scarfing beignets and chicory coffee and feeding hunks of the delicious fried dough to the scrabbly looking pigeons while an awesome guy with a trombone and a tamborine played Christmas tunes.

What was also quite right was when my brother-in-law accused my sister of having boobs the size of babies's heads. Which, I'm sorry, but I just can't get enough of that similie. I can't even look at her anymore. Good thing she lives pretty far away. Babies' heads! Okay, I have to move on, because I'm laughing hysterically again.

Had the following exchanges:

Sister: There's the Superdome.
Me: Didn't they tear that down?
Sister: Well no, becuase it's right there.
Me: No, I thought they had it condemned becuase it was full of poop.
Sister: Right there in front of you.
Me: Is it still full of poop?
Sister: I imagine not.

Dad: I think that's the mule I drove the last time I was here.
Me: You drove a mule?
Dad: Well I got to hold the reigns in the carriage.
Me: There are like 8 mules over there.
Dad: I recognize her stench.
Sister: Wasn't her name like a person? Not something like Bessie or Rosie, wasn't it like, Jessica?
Me: The Bessies and Rosies of the world aren't really happy about having mule-names, I think.
Dad: That's definitely Jessica's stench.

Me: I'm telling you, there is a building they tore down becuase it was too full of poop.
Sister: What is your poop obsession?
Me: It's not an obsession, I just know that it happened.
Dad: I really think they just cleaned the poop.
Me: Can you imagine doing that job?

Seriously almost bought the following on Bourbon Street: 1) A pink cowboy hat with feathers, which was $39.99 but I really did think about it. 2) A string of beads with black penises. 3) A t-shirt that read, "I got Bourbon-faced on Shit Street."

Actually bought the following: Matching feather boas for me and my mom. Awww.

Got awesome Christmas presents, had fun, flew first class to and from New Orleans, and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate. I could have accidentally ingested someone's kid in the last 3 weeks, seriously. If so I apologize. I'll buy you a new one, I promise.

Came home to discover my car battery died from the slow drainage of my satellite radio while I was away. Called AAA, who came and jumped it this morning and then instructed me to let it run for a good 30 minutes. I drove the 5 minutes to work and promptly forgot this instruction.

Guess whose car is dead again?

~raises hand~

I'm wicked smaht.

So that's about that. I'll probably have some more comprehensive thoughts on the Big Easy later on, but I wanted to update, I'm sure you've all been thoroughly depressed without me.

No, I Do Not Want Balls For Christmas

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

Dating advice from Pops:

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

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

"It's a metaphor!"

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

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

"Shut up."

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

But we say it with a great deal of love.

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

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

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

Thanks,
The management

My Parents Are Grosser Than Your Parents

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

"Where am I supposed to spit??"

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

"That would be disgusting."

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

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

Yep, these are my parents.

(Days until I move: 7)

The Weekly Numbers, Thanksgiving Edition

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

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

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

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

And so on.

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

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

Hence...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moving right along.

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

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

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

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

And finally, the thing I am most thankful for:

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

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

What Happens Here Stays In Really Expensive Apartments

Good news: I found an apartment.

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


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


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


And so on.


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


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


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


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


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


vs.


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


Sigh.


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


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


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