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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I owe it all to TV.

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

You're Obviously Not a Golfer...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, Fu. Lisa Loeb?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyhow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh to heck with you guys.

Well, That Sucked

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FuManchShoe of the Year

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

So I'm not insanely extravagant. Usually.

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

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

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

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

...ew. No really, ew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Facefirst Facing Fu

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

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

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

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

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

Good: Baked Tostito Scoops and salsa!

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

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

Wicked Sobah

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Douchebags, Aisle Two

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.")