So I am a bit late in planning for the holiday of no labor this weekend, meaning in all likelihood there's already no vacancy at many of the vacay spots within driving distance of D.C. Metro.
Need something to impress everyone with at the watercooler on Tuesday, when Braggy McBraggerton is telling all about his weekend's naked drunk sky dive adventures (not that we want to picture that at all, thank you very much.)
Therefore, I am asking all of you out there in Internet Land, for suggestions for wherefore I should go and whatfor I should do. Someone's gotta have something better than, "caught up on my magazine reading on the apartment building's roofdeck."
Two days for planning, no time to waste. Post in comments.
It's been awhile since we've talked. And when I say awhile, I mean ever, but I really don't see how that takes away from the very important issue we have to talk about. And that issue, I hate to say, is your attitude lately. But before you feel attacked, and like I’m all up in your grille, please understand that I am speaking to you as someone who too has had to take it down a peg, and now I am here to share with you insights I have come up with, on my own, that I trust will completely change your life for the better--because it is really good advice.
I saw you on the ESPY Awards, and you were really good and all, but as I sat watching you, I realized to myself, here is someone who has done some really good stuff, and he knows it, but he seems to be a little too aware of it. And I think people who used to love you, and look up to you, are starting to think you're a little full of yourself. But don't worry, L, because I have SO been there. Believe it or not, all the hundreds, or like, thousands, of people who love and look up to me have thought the same thing. And what they don't realize, but what I totally get, is that it isn't "conceit" or "excessive self-love" or "a personality disorder" --it's just a strong self-awareness.
You have shown super-human strength and achieved the impossible six times in a row. Yeah, me too. And I, like you, also look at myself and my NUMEROUS accomplishments and I say "Wow, I'm really amazing and skilled and pretty." But what I have learned is that, while everyone else completely agrees with you and wants to be like you--or at least, like, touch you--they don't always want to hear it from you. I KNOW! And so I no longer state the obvious, but I let others just see it, and enjoy it, on their own. That way, when they come to me and say "Just…Wow..." I can just be like "Mmm-hmm, yeah, I know, right?" And I find satisfaction in not having to SAY it, and I can tell it makes them feel good too.
Will this change how you are inside? No. Should it? Hells no--hello? Why are we having this conversation? And I still look in the mirror and think "Yes, I am me..." but instead of my usual, perhaps somewhat selfish, reaction of "hello lover..." I now wake up in the morning and think about what a miracle it is for me to be alive, and me, and how I can share that miracle with the world. And that’s special I think.
Also, L, don’t be afraid to critique yourself. It is this inner reflection that makes us better people. For example, I too have tried on a bright yellow jersey, and I now have the strength to realize that it is NOT my color. There are so many colors in this world that better accentuate my skin tone, and INNER beauty, that I just think I should try them ALL on—and then, you know, share it with the world. (I also tried on the helmet, and, no.)
So, L, don’t change on my account—you are busy appearing on television specials and in movies, hosting awards shows and winning really long bike races, and I have… all the important and AMAZING stuff I do. But I don’t think that gives us an excuse to lose sight of what’s really important--Because I’ve tried to keep all of this up in here to myself, and I just don’t feel right doing it.
Anyway, good luck with all of your stuff. Call me! Same number.
I swung by Manolo this morning, catching up on about four weeks on snarky shoe commentary. I stopped reading Manolo regularly a while ago when he drifted into fashion television review because 1) I don't have cable and 2) I'm fat and ugly, and therefore fashion does not apply to me.
Apparently while I was out, the topic of white shoes was resurrected. I'm fascinated by the fact that this issue comes up for review EVERY GODDAMN YEAR as if it were a teacher's contract with the school system.
Manolo posted some salient, trendy thoughts on the issue, which if you really care about you can go read your own damn self. But what has brought the fear of God to me is the ancient pop culture flotsam he unearthed to illustrate a post.
Here. I'm new to this YouTube phenom, but hopefully you can watch it through this link.
Still with me? Okay, see that? Those are the formative media images of my childhood. Videos like this are basically what shaped my worldview at age 8. I haven't watched MTV for damn near 10 years and I didn't watch it much before then. But so far as I knew back then, adulthood meant wearing tight leather, emoting into a camera lens very close to your face, and playing lots of air guitar.
This -- THIS -- is why I am so screwed up. I have been fighting this cultural iconography for damn near 20 years. Here, watch it again.
This is so wrong on so many levels. A warehouse by the dock? Keyboards glued to walls? Some angry woman stomping through the set, while men with mustaches penned her in and lipsynched in her face? Who the hell wrote the script for this?
Y'all, the 1980's were hell. Pure and simple hell. That's why everyone was doing so much cocaine. They were trying desperately to numb the pain.
I believe it was Bailey, Yo with whom I was having a conversation about cheating on hair dressers. Honestly, anyone who goes to a regular hairdresser knows that they are like jealous boyfriends or girlfriends. And we've all done it--we've all had that "one night cut and style" with a hairdresser when we are out of town. So what? It was just a quick trim, it's not like she MEANS anything to me. But somehow, they always know. You go in, 4-six weeks after your sins, you sit in the chair as though you haven't been in a salon since you saw your hairdresser last, but she can always tell. "So, who's been cutting your hair?"
You immediately get defensive, "That's ridiculous, what do you mean? Like recently? Other than you? You know I would never trust anyone else with my hair. Stop QUESTIONING ME! Um...look at this magazine--can you believe that Ashlee Simpson, all looking like her sister and...stuff... Do you like the show 'Big Brother'"?
But she can sense what you have been up to, and she has a way of making you feel SO bad. Well, this weekend I found hairdressers are also like overly sensitive boyfriends and girlfriends--you know the ones--they get all offended if you don't absolutely LOVE everything they do for you? My husband is not like this, I assure you, but I have been involved with guys who are very much like this. I hate that. Well, this weekend I got my hair dyed a "serious girl" dark brown. Well, either serious girl or "dirty school girl ho" whatevs, but at first I wasn't sure about it. I said something to my hairdresser about possibly wanting to commit suicide rather than go outside with it, and she took it all personally. I got the whole "Well if you would just give it a chance...I worked really hard to pick out the perfect color for you." It was along the lines of "We never talk anymore...all you ever do is watch football" talk. Yikes! SO long story long, now I have come to find I do indeed like the hair, and I have to somehow make up for my heartless behavior to my hairdresser. After all, there are other heads of hair to color in the mall, and next thing I know, she may just not have time to schedule me in anymore....
While the ARP is busy throwing out everything that makes your lunchtime salad palatable, she's sending me emails with the subject line: 12 people (who have touched my life). Seriously? I really tried not to touch anything.
Hiding behind my new dark brown, serious girl hair the angry refrigerator pixie walked right by me, not noticing my true identity. But I certainly recognized her "dour visage" (can I get a hells yeah, Seamus, yo?)
I heard her in there, throwing away salad dressings and condiments left and right...and maybe even front to back! With a mere flick of her wirst they were gone. It was CRAZY!
Bailey yo, being the smart ass we all love and admire, pushed the envelop a few weeks ago when she, after having HER salad dressing thrown away--well actually it was Newman's Own, but that doesn't really tie into this story-- decided she would stretch the "date your items in the fridge" rule, and she wrote upon her new bottle of dressing something along the lines of "This salad dressing is from the future. Throwing it away will disrupt the space/time continuum." It was probably WAY more on than that, but I am paraphrasing. SO the question is, did this little jest save the salad dressing? Is the Sharpie truly mightier than the sword? Did it warm the heart of the Angry refrigerator pixie, thereby causing her to spare its precious shelf life? Only time will tell. Bailey, Yo, please report back in the notes section, or with a new post, and let us know how it turned out.
Aside from the resident Angry Christmas Elf (he knows what he did), Britney, yo has the best On Notice board, in my opinion. In particular, her harsh indictment of Ford for killing the tamale.
See, this all came about from a lunchtime discussion (where we were being too loud in the lunchroom) that no one sold fresh tamales any more. Even me and Oregano, yo, who are living large in the PG (PG=Pretty Great!) don't know where we can find a tamale vendor, cart or otherwise.
Veronica posited that Ford automobile manufacturers, in their rush to brand themselves as enviro-friendly bio-diesel, had hijacked the supply of corn husks, rendering the cooking and purveying of tamales impossible. Lacking any contradictory evidence, I'm forced to agree with her argument.
Hence, Ford killed the tamale.
If you know of a locale where proper husk-wrapped, cornmeal-ensconsed tamales are to be had, for the love of Mary, let us know. Otherwise, we'll be forced to start another blog, this one titled "Ford KNOWS that it killed the tamale."
Things I've Learned This Year (In no particular order)
1) Using the same drycleaner as someone and emotions are both signs of creepy instability that can only be labeled as "Weird..." (Not that I'm bitters, yo)
2) Conjunctivitis (or Pink eye) is the new clap
3) Pink eye is actually the new herpes
4) Slacking off and ruining everyone's lives is "sure fire" way to eventually find new opportunities and great wealth.
5) Even those without souls can be nice sometimes
6) No--they're still pure evil and suck
7) It's okay for male coworkers to point out that your toenail polish is chipping in elevators crowded with strangers
8) It's okay for other men you hardly know to tell you stories that make your ears bleed and cause you to wish for the sweet release of death.
9) Wikipedia is a GREAT way to learn about the history of our world, and then go change it. (Change the world or the Wiki entries? I think both apply here...Enough said)
10) Even the most obnoxious, strange, unpleasant and alarming people can be crazy popular--and they think you will find you have A LOT in common...
11) Mentos and Diet Coke can mean hours of zany, fizzy fun. That it or it could KILL you! Now I fear the fresh maker!
12) Spell check will suggest you replace "drycleaner" with "truculently". WTF?! It's like even Spell Check is taking his side. It heard the drycleaner story and now even IT is accusing me of being, not only weird, but truculent! SO mean.
The recent excessive heat weather emergency in the D.C. Metro area has created a stagnant layer of air over the city, which is now a soupy mess of smog and humidity. Lovely. So is that what's causing the recent outbreak of bloodshot eyes? Or could it be conjunctivitis that's spreading outward from Britney, yo's husband?
If we had a doctor friend, he or she could clear this issue up with us, either figuratively, or literally if we do, in fact, have a case of the pinks. Anyone out there have a home eye testing kit?
1. No WebMD or Googling allowed. And you better not even think of Asking Jeeves.* 2. Definitely no Google Images, either. 3. Only happy recovery stories from colleagues allowed. It's best to ask up front when someone launches into their tale if it's going to end badly. If so, tell the person, "fuck you muchly" and stomp away. 4. Drink. Drink heavily. You can always go to rehab once you're finished with chemo.
[* The absence of links is deliberate. Britney, yo wouldn't even allow me a quick glance.]
