Monday, November 27, 2006
My alarm clock was all, "Wake up! It's the late eighties! You've got a lot of work to do to get your bangs to their proper super-stiff height before first period!"
Sunday, November 26, 2006
I cannot take this literally, but I can say that four fucking days in Southern Indiana does leave me crawling out of my goddamned skin. I cannot leave town fast enough. I'm such an asshole, my plane doesn't leave until five, and AAAARRRRHHHGHGHGH!
I love my mom, I would love it if my sister lived in my same town, but constant, twenty-four seven family time is, I think, unnatural.
We spend a lot of time reliving childhood nightmares that you really just can't write about on your public, Internet forum without creating full-on adult-type nightmares, like hurting your mom's feelings. Jeeze, mom, I'M SORRY!
Some amusing bits:
- Conducting a vewing of Battlestar Galactica DVDs, Dad says, "I wonder how much it would cost to get one of those chips implanted in your head?
- Dad brings his dog to the airport to pick up my sister. (Not as bad as when he took the dog to my cousin's wedding, but, still.) The security guard says, "Is this a service dog?" Dad really hesitates before saying, "no." Then refuses to leave the dog in the car, instead waiting outside for my sister. Later, he declares that he may just train the dog to be a service dog! Then he can take the dog everywhere. My sister's stroke of level-headed brilliance: "You could. But you won't. That would involve discipline, and you're not willing to do that."
- My cousin stole my cell phone last night during an intense drunken catchphrase tournament and did some rampant evil text messaging. (Sorry, Susan.) I woke up this morning feeling more wine-logged than I have in months. Stupid alcoholic tendencies in the family.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Dear Anonymous Commenter:
I have this tool called "sitemeter," and it reveals you to be some person from Plano, Texas, who found this post by searching for "Smelly Stewardesses."
I'm not sure why my post has irked you so, but you're cracking me up right now.
Anyhow, I was doing laundry, roasting some chicken breasts for soup, and feeling virtuous. I went to take out the garbage, grabbed my newfangled garbage gate key, and walked out the door in my sweatpants and short sleeves. I grabbed the door handle, locked the knob, closed the door behind me, and realized -- I just locked myself out of my own motherfucking house.
It was as if I were watching the door close in slow motion -- watching my own hand reach to undo the mistake I just made -- and the awful click of the door mirroring the awful click my mind made as it registered the fact that I was now underdressed and completely locked out. In thirty degree, windy weather. Wearing pseudo-pajamas and a crazy green headband.
With the oven on.
I walked around to the front of the building, got one of my neighbors to let me into the lobby, and found my front door securely deadbolted.
I saw that a neighbor was hosting an open house, so I went over to seek warmth and a phone. I walked in to a sparsely-furnished, unnervingly similar place to my own, and begged the Eastern European realtor to use her phone. She let me, even though it was clearly dying.
I called my condo association, because I couldn't remember Susan's number (she has my spare) and, um, she was out of town, so, like, I was fucked.
While I waited for them to call me back, I took a look around. The place belongs to a big, lurking dude named Doru, who is from somewhere unidentified -- Romania or Russia or Poland -- a guy with a huge smile and few words.
The Eastern European realtor took some time to show around a couple, explaining, "the man who lives here, he is an artist, he has added many touches."
As it turns out, the touches were as follows:
- he had painted the wall above the granite fireplace a slate grey color, which was alright in and of itself. However, upon further inspection, I noticed that this particular "touch" included copious random halfmoon pockmarks in the wall, as if he had pounded the entire surface with a hammer.
- the opposite wall was painted in broad, diagonal stripes of the same slate grey and a cream color.
- the hallway and bedroom featured squares of crown molding superglued to the walls, spraypainted silver, with silver marker scribbles on the inside. Sometimes going out of the lines.
This particular touch deeply offended my sensibilites -- I felt bad for whomever has to pry those fuckers off the wall.
I also noted a musky, organic smell. While the place appeared clean, it smelled like dirty boy. You know, the smell of a teen boy's room, one where the floor is padded with dirty clothes, where the sheets haven't been changed since he forbade his mom to come in months ago. At first I thought the smell might have been me. However, when I asked the realtor, "Does Doru still live here?" She said -- "Oh, yes. I can smell it."
Very few people came in, so the realtor sat down at the kitchen table and started telling me the story of her life -- how she studied law in Romania, how she identified the civil rights the communists were violating by preventing her from leaving the country, how she made herself a target by refusing to be quiet. She told me how her husband had brainwashed and abused her, and how she gained freedom by divorcing him.
She said, "Are you single?"
I said, "Yes."
She said, "Me too."
An hour passed. I called the answering service again, who said my condo assocaition contact wasn't answering his phone.
Finally I called a locksmith.
When he came, a total of two hours in my pajamas smelling boy later, he was a cranky bitch.
I've never been so happy to get back inside.
My chicken was totally burned.
My momentum was shot. My laundry still isn't all done. . .
Monday, November 13, 2006
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
I know everyone is talking about this. And, I highly recommend you go check it out.
I mean, as a PR person, I have to say I truly appreciate the brilliance of the Jenny Craig public relations team. Well fucking done, bitches -- whoever was in charge of pep-talking Kirstie Alley into that bikini did a great job of distracting her while you pumped her diet coke with Xanax. She seemed quite relaxed and enthusiastic in her appearance on Oprah.
But Oprah, as someone who is mesmerizing the (female) American public with your brown-eyed judgemental stare, dispensing confident tough love interspersed with hokey spiritualism, I think you have a certain responsibility.
Oprah, I'm begging you, stop being such a fuckwad.
Case in point, the slideshow I linked to, above.
Allow me to reproduce it, below, with my own interpretation:
First, Kirstie Alley comes on to shill for Jenny Craig. I suspect she could lose another 8 pounds or so if she would remove her mascara, but Oprah kindly abstains from commenting on that.
Then, Kirstie comes out, aided only by a flowy wrap and, as I mentioned before, a nice Xanax mickey. Women in the audience are duly impressed at her show of confidence and inspired by her true weight loss story. They cheer.
Here's a nice shot of Kirstie, her celeb pals, and the ghost of L. Ron Hubbard going shopping.
Here Kirstie inspires women everywhere to lose some weight and FIND THEMSELVES.
All fine and good. Kirstie’s all about the positivity, Oprah’s all about “girlfriend! You’re great!” and the audience is all, “WOOOOT!”
But then, it gets a little fucked up. Here, we have a photograph of a very unhappy-looking person and her creepy, creepy dad.
According to the copy, this sensitive man said the following:
"Does it bother me when we're out in public that Jill's overweight? It does. I'll be honest," said Kirk, Jill's father. "I'm ashamed of her weight, but I love my daughter dearly."
See? She’s unhappy because she’s fat. Her dad really loves her and therefore IS ASHAMED TO BE SEEN WITH HER IN PUBLIC.
Is it just me, or does he bear a striking resemblance to John Mark Karr? Let’s see:
Hm. You be the judge.
Anyway, so, then we jump to the miraculous follow up. Guess what, everybody? Unhappy girl had radical surgery to transform her internal organs! Because she was physically unable to eat, she experienced a dramatic weight loss! Now that she is a socially-acceptable human being, she understand that her father’s behavior was not out of hateful, shallow self-loathing, it was out of LOVE! See? She was BAD. Now she is GOOD.
(I have to admit, she’s gorgeous. I think it’s the hair.)
Okay. So, right. Where were we?
Celebrity shilling, check. Unneccissary skin baring? Check. Justification of millions of women’s self hatred and reinforcement of the (false) assumption that if I could just be thinner (richer, sexier, hairier, insert –er here-er), daddy will love me? Check.
Here, Oprah visits the ultimate fat camp, Auschwitz.
Note her duly concerned, deeply moved, still judgmental stare:
Can you imagine a less appropriate segue?
I was going to put some riff here about the production staff meeting, blah, blah, but nothing I can say is scathing enough for this.
From there, Oprah gives a woman her dream house and moves on to some other forms of genocide.
At this point, the whole slideshow becomes anticlimactic.
Blah blah, Genocide, Blah blah, dream house, then a nice little segment about bras, as part of Oprah’s campaign to ensure American women are sporting the correct undergarments.
Finally, there’s this:
OMG! Bono! I have forgotten about genocide already, because they’re TOTALLY GOING SHOPPING AT THE GAP.
Because there’s this red thing, that Bono is part of, and you can buy things at the Gap.
And it’s charitable.
For something. Something probably to do with Bill Gates but who cares? This shit is cute.