Douchebags, Aisle Two

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

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

But still, isn't some propriety in order?

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

Oh god, seriously?

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

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

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

Sick Day TV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Weekly Numbers, Hawkeye Style

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

Semi-Weekly Numbahs Style:

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

Except...

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

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

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

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

Speaking of Pirates...

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

Moving right along..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, wait.

Okay, so I'll probably post again tomorrow.

Non-Smoking Kitty

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

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

And smoking helps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So it's making me feel a bit guilty.

~puff puff puff~

Just not that guilty...

What?

Fu Attempts Chicanery; Fails

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

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

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

First, the background.

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

What? I'm only human, after all.

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

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

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

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

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

Without telling the guy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2003 Love Puppy.

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

Only problem?

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

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

This goes on for a couple weeks.

We had plans this past Sunday, which I cancelled.

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

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

It was TUESDAY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Move It or Lose It

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

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

In a pink Barbie Power Wheels.

Seriously.

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

I am temporarily good humored.

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

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

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

No.

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

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

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

WTF!!!???

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

Now, I get them for two reasons:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Weekly Numbers, Idol Edition

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

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

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

3: Number of minutes ago it started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(They are red gingham! So cute.)

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Dear Virginia DMV:

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

God Bless Red Sox Season

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

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

Nice Try, Mickey D

Sorry, McDonald's.

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

Please.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grammies are cool like that.

Kurt Vonnegut, 1922 - 2007

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

Ow! No really, OW!!!

I have these shoes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Weekly Numbers, Easter Edition

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sorry! Oh, Except I'm Not

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hurrah for Jesus, and also Candy

First Off, It's a Rooster

I just saw this commercial during "American Idol" (I can't even talk about it, consider me officially OFF the Sanjaya bandwagon...not that I was ever really all the way on, but I might have been being drug behind it because my shirt got caught in a door or something...), and it disturbed the crap out of me.



Maybe I *DO* wanna be a french fry.

This is like the Chips Ahoy commercial where the cookies are all excited about getting eaten.

(Well, wouldn't you be?)

Feelin' Hot Hot Hot

So, my St. Patrick's Day acrobatics on ice left me with a throbbing lower back that practically has me sleeping flat on my back on the floor with my knees hugged to my chest just be comfortable (or, as I like to call it, "taking 6 Advil PM and sleeping however I damn well please).

After a week of this, I decided that maybe it was time to haul my ass back to yoga.

Not just any yoga, mind you, Bikram yoga. As in, "won't it be fun, on top of the agonizing contortions we're already forcing you into, if we jacked the heat in the room up to--seriously--108 degrees so you feel like you're not only going to tip over, but also die, then possibly puke and poop in your pants?"

Speaking of pooping in pants, upon leaving this 90 minute torture session, my shorts were so thoroughly sweat soaked that they flopped about uncomfortably on my butt and thighs, bringing horrific flashbacks to pissing my pants in the 4th grade becuase freaking Mrs. Webster woudln't let me go to the bathroom until class was over, and my poor little 8 year old bladder just couldn't take it.

*shudder*

But yeah, the yoga. The thing about it, is that I'm actually surprisingly flexible. ("That's what he said!") (Man, I really wish "The Office" would come back.) But when you're doing this shit in 108 degree heat, you tend to feel, basically, like you're going to spew chunks all over the cute little hard-bodied 100-pound girl in front of you, who is offending your fat rolls with her freaking bikini.

(Seriously, a lot of girls wear bathing suits to this class becuase the sweat pours off you in buckets, which would have explained the shockingly high number of men in my class, if I hadn't ascertained that they were in fact mostly gay.)

Luckily, I managed to keep my chunks in my belly, and I only had to sit out one set to do it.

I've never before done a workout that has made me wish for my own death for more than an hour, but then make me anxious to return as soon as I can scrape up another 12 bucks. I guess for me, Bikram yoga is like that asshole guy that verbally and mentally abuses you, and makes you feel like utter poo, but then sends you flowers the next day or something and sends you running back to his arms.

Okay, shitty metaphor. But seriously! I can't wait to go back.

American Eye Dolls...Yum

"American Idol" keeps getting worse and worse.

There's like two good singers on the show, but there are two of the most prettiest beautifulest gorgeousest boys! I pray that neither of them is voted off any time soon.

I'm even climbing aboard the Sanjaya train and strapping myself in. He's too bizarrely, horrendously awful not to just love at this point. Mainly becuase he knows damn well that he's terrible, and it's like he's laughing at us.

I'm kind of starting to love it.

But seriously, Chris Richardson and Blake. Blaaaaaaaaake. He beat boxes! Chriiiiis...He looks like Justin!

Mmmm.

What Fu will dream about tonight:

Me Flunk English? That's Unpossible!

You know, maybe I expect too much. I know not all the world shares my particular obsession with the proper placement of commas and apostrophes and such.

(By the way, I'll thank you not to find any of the myriad grammatical errors in this very blog and email me about what a hypocrite I am...I enjoy my own hypocrisy, thankyouverymuch.)

And I know that certain rules of grammar, in particular those of commas and apostrophes, can be rather hard to grasp, especially if you're a particularly retarded advertising executive for an adult escort company.

Or, for that matter, a copy editor for a major online news publication.

Otherwise I wouldn't have seen this in a banner ad today:

Now, I'm not actually sure what the proper plural form of the word "ho" is, frankly. I'm going to go out on a limb and say "hoes," as in, "I got hoes in different area codes."

(Which, I'll also point out, doesn't even fucking rhyme, so don't ask me how it became a saying.)

Hoes looks all wrong, but I can't say "hos" looks much better, eh? Dang, I'm really lost here.

But then I went back to the same page and saw the offending banner ad again. And it was at this point I realized that I was complaining all for nothing, and felt like an even bigger weirdo dork than usual:

Becuase it is now obvious that the letter "W" is obscured, and that my zeal for finding and ridiculing grammatical errors overtook my critical thinking ability. After all, it does seem unlikely that a newspaper would be asking its readers whether there were hoes searching for them.

As the Sports Guy might say, the answer, as always: I'm an idiot.

(But seriously, don't ever let me catch any of you trying to use a damn apostrophe to form a plural. I will break my freaking designer heel off in your ass--and then I'll be even more pissed, becuase you'll have made me break my shoe.)

Shut Up, CATS

I've tried, after evaluating it in my own mind and consulting with others. I've tried really hard to NOT be cat-blogging lady.

Becuase the only thing worse than someone who won't ever shut up about their kids is someone who won't ever shut up about their cats. At least kids are like, important in life. Cats are just something single women acquire to feel 1/10th less lonesome in the dark and lonesome nights, right? Right.

And I am far too young, far too cool, and frankly far too awesome to allow myself to be that lady that sits at home at night blogging about her cats.

But I guess that's not really true now, is it? They are making me crazy. I understand now why spinsters get them in lieu of getting to have babies. Becuase they wake me up every single goddamn morning at 5 in the goddamn morning.

Fu? IS NOT A MORNING PERSON.

They've even proven too tough for all the Advil PM I had to take after hurting my back on St. Patrick's Day.

They purposefully rattle my goddamn jewelery around on my dresser. They scratch, and I'm serious here, I timed it, they scratch in their litter box for 12 minutes straight.

The litterbox is in the bathroom, but they scratch in it with such fury that it WAKES ME OUT OF A SOUND SLEEP IN MY BEDROOM.

And when they hear me stir? They come running into the room, looking at me all expectantly. So I know it's on fucking purpose.

And alls I'm saying is, I'm gonna snap.

Furthermore, why does anyone even agree to be on "The Bachelor" anymore? Do they not realize that a) America generally thinks you're a crazed whore, and b) aside from one exception out of dozens of crazy bitches, no one ever actually ends up married? And they actually had to give that chick her own show so she could end up married.

I assume it's about wanting to be famous, but being famous for being a crazy bitch on TV isn't really all that cool, is it?

Maybe that's why I'm sane.

Of course, I did just write a big old rant about my cats, so maybe not. But cat ladies very rarely end up on "The Bachelor."