Sunday, December 19, 2010

JLo I'm Not

I made the mistake of asking my husband who he thought the hottest ladies in Hollywood were.

"Hmm...." he mused. We were sitting in a coffee shop downtown, he was reading Keith Richards' Life, and I was perusing US Weekly, my favorite gossip magazine. I eagerly leaned forward, excited for his answer.

He sipped his organic coffee delicately, like the effeminate yuppie he was. "I really like Kim Kardashian- she's really stunning- great curves. And Salma Hayek- she is gorgeous, as is Penelope Cruz. And Eva Mendes- I LOVE her. Wow....she is also so hot...." he trailed off and stared out the window, his eyes glazed over with lust.


"What?!?" I choked, in horror.

On a good day, I look like Macaulay Culkin. On a bad one, I resemble Gollum from Lord Of The Rings. My skin is so pale I could be the daughter of two pieces of chalk. My eyes are a colorless gray, my body, a stick- a curve-less, unisex, stick.

"You like dark-haired, curvy chicks with tans?!" I sputtered. "Latinas....and- and Kim Kardashian is Armenian! Jesus, honey-" my voice lowered to a harsh whisper. "I look like a fucking ten-year-old boy and you want JLO?!?!"
"You're cute, honey," he assured me, patting me on the hand. Then he frowned. "Are you getting sick?"
"I'm not sick," I snapped. "I'm pale. We've been over this before. I can't believe you are attracted to people who look exactly opposite of me."
"Well..." he looked for words. "Don't you think those girls are really hot?"
"Of course I do," I replied exasperated. "I'm jealous of their dark glossy hair, big brown eyes, golden skin, and big tits- you think I LIKE dumping half a bottle of sunscreen on my clear-ass skin everyday?!? Under florescent lights I look blue- I'm Smurfette, for crying out loud."
"Now honey, there's no need to get upset- what did you expect me to say?" my husband asked, gently, like I had a mental disability.
"I don't know, Dakota Fanning?" I asked, hopefully.
My husband cringed. "She's- creepy looking. Like an alien."
"She could be my fucking twin." I stated, pouting.
"Maybe you just need to get a little more sun," my husband suggested helpfully.
"Vampires get more sun than I do," I answered, irritated.

That evening, I decided to become a dark-haired siren. I was going to do a full-blown makeover- genetics be damned!

I started with my hair. I marched into my favorite salon and had them dump inky-black dye into it.
"So a lot of this dye is going to fade over time," my colorist stated, snapping her gum. "'Cause you have really pale, thin hair- and I just don't know if this color is going to hold."
"Gee, thanks," I said, sarcastically.
An hour later I came out of the salon looking like a Russian bride- a dead Russian bride. The dark color magnified my pale skin and, if I'm honest- I looked like I was wearing a wig.
"You look weird," my husband stated, confused. "Are you trying to look like Suri Cruise?"

The next day I decided to tackle my second goal- dark skin. I decided to avoid the tanning bed, as my fear of looking like a leather-skinned Florida retiree won out against my desire to look like a Latina- and went for the fake bronzer instead.
"What in the hell is all over the sheets?" My husband asked, horrified.
"Um...." I was orange and smelled like a chemical factory, but at least I wasn't pale. And while I could have passed for Snookie from MTV's Jersey Shore, I couldn't help but feel a little more like JLo.

My final step involved brown contacts, but then my boss thought I was high because my pupils 'looked dilated', and I had to take them out. My attempt at curves involved two falsies that looked like chicken cutlets- I tucked them into my bra and went out with my friends.
"Have you put on weight?" Bree asked me, confused.
I stuck out my chest, showing off. "I've put on weight here."
"Oh my god, honey- those look SO fake." Bree rolled her eyes. "Like, really? Did you shove rolled socks in your training bra?"
"You're just jealous," I sniffed.
"You're right, I am," she said, sarcastically. "I just had to get it off my chest."
"Very funny."

"We need to talk," my husband said, that evening. I was sitting next to him on the couch, my hair dark, my skin tan, my eyes brown, my breasts large.
"I'm really entertained by your makeover, honey- I really am." He paused. "But honestly?" He held my hands. "Really, honey, it's YOU I love. Not the totally hot Latina women. Just YOU."

As I looked into his eyes, I wasn't buying his bullshit for a second, but I went with it, mostly because keeping my roots dark was both expensive and exhausting, and my bronzer was ruining the sheets. "So you DO think that Macaulay Culkin is attractive?" I asked, sweetly.
"YES," he replied, nodding furiously. He would have agreed to anything to get me out of the Suri Cruise hair. "He is unbelievably hot. And so is Dakota Fanning, and Gollum," he finished.
"Good," I said, satisfied.

Time to stock up on some more sunscreen.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Birthday Girl

I love my birthday.

A lot of people hate birthdays, but for me, it's the one day out of the year I can lord a small but significance amount of power over my friends and family- and get away with it. I'm sure it's how Paris Hilton feels every day of her life.

I usually start two weeks before my birthday by requesting my girlfriends take me out to an overpriced restaurant. I always tell them we'll 'keep it small this year', and then proceed to invite about twenty extra people (my friend's niece, the guy in the mail room at work, etc.) to the list. After my friends end up scrambling to negotiate with the restaurant to add additional people to the reservation, I usually 'change my mind' and request another venue.

"But we had to move heaven and earth to get twenty-six people on the 8:45pm reservation Saturday night," my friend Bree complained over the phone to me. "I don't know why you don't want to eat there anymore- I even got us seated up front by the window."
"I just think the lighting washes me out at that restaurant," I sighed into the phone, staring at my cuticles. "I mean, it's my birthday. Shouldn't my guests be able to view me in soft candlelight? I don't think that's asking too much."
Bree sighed. "I'll figure out another place."

A few days before my big night out, I like to complain that I have 'nothing to wear' for the birthday dinner, and then my friends all rush to calm me.
"You have that adorable red silk dress," Holly cooed to me over drinks at our favorite happy hour place. "You are SO gorgeous in it."
"So you want me to look like a fat fucking whore on my birthday?" I accused, bitterly, and slammed the rest of my wine. "Because that's what I look like in that dress. A fat fucking whore. It's like you don't care about my birthday at all." I managed to tear up a little bit.
" no, no, honey!" Holly quickly tried to back pedal. "Really, you look great in that dress- but- well, did you want to borrow my new BCBG dress? You know, the one with the sequins? I haven't worn it yet, but it's your birthday and all..." I could tell she didn't really want to lend it to me, but I had her painted into a corner.
"Well, if you insist," I sniffed, pouting.

On the night of my birthday, my friends picked me up and drove me to the restaurant, fawning over my cute hair and wardrobe and basically tiptoeing around me like I was a minefield really to blow. I was seated at the head of the table like a Russian Czar and then proceeded to complain about everything, mostly because I was enjoying the negative attention I was receiving from my friends as they breathlessly assured me how great everything was.

"What is this wine?! Grape juice mixed with iodine? It tastes like shit," I complained dramatically, spitting some of it back up in my glass.
"No, it's great wine, the best, the most expensive- we spared no expense." Bree talked quickly. "We spared NO expense," she repeated.
"Well, okay, but the waiter hates me," I whined, sticking my bottom lip out. "I can tell."
"No, the waiter LOVES you," Holly interjected. "When you told him he's moving slower than a resident at an assisted care facility, I think he thought it was cute," she said, lying. "Here, open this gift I got you!" She was trying to distract me with a shiny pink package.
"Thanks," I said, sadly, like an abandoned orphan, and opened it to reveal a spa gift card for a facial at a fancy salon. "Oh...." I frowned.
"Well, a facial- I guess you think I need one with all the wrinkles I'm going to be getting in my old age," I said, a tear sliding down my cheek. "It is hard enough turning 34 without you rubbing it in my face- no pun intended." I dramatically put my head into my hands.
"No no no, you look so young," Bree said, with Holly nodding furiously next to her. "Like a college girl- no, like a HIGH SCHOOL girl, NO- you look like a pre-pubescent 6th grader," she continued, emphatically.
I sniffed through my tears. "Really? A 6th grader?" I felt a little better.
"Yeah, like, I'm surprised they didn't bring crayons and a coloring book over for you when they sat us all down." Bree didn't even flinch as she was feeding me these lines.

When the check finally came and everybody took out 2nd mortgages on their homes to pay for it (probably because I had ordered both the steak AND the lobster), I clinked a fork to my glass, and stood up.
"Speech!" The guy from the mail room at my work shouted from the end of the table.

I cleared my throat.

"First of all, I'd like to thank you all for coming out tonight to celebrate my birthday," I said, as I looked out on a sea a faces staring back at me. My girlfriends, who had organized the event, looked tired but relieved that the night was finally ending.

I continued. "I'm sure there's a lot of people in this restaurant wondering what a beautiful girl like me is doing at a table full of degenerate misfits, and I have to be honest- it's partly because there's nothing good on television on Saturday nights, and partly because some of my other, more attractive friends are busy tonight." I paused and sipped my wine, watching the smiles on my friends faces grow tighter. "But really, I am glad each of you are in my life. I mean, sure- do I know hobos with brighter futures than half the people at this table? Maybe. Do dogs have better tables manners than most of you? Yes." I paused again, and dramatically looked off into the distance. "But that's not what's important. What's important is that we're all together- celebrating my birthday on this cold December night. And while youth fades- friends are forever." I raised my glass as my guests awkwardly did the same, their eyes shooting daggers at me.
"To me!" I shouted, gaily.

Later that evening when my friends dropped me off in front of my place and peeled away, the tires of their car squealing on the asphalt, I sighed as another birthday slipped by.

Can't wait until next year!

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Time & Time Again

"Welcome to Time Management," the instructor said, a large stack of folders clutched to her chest. She beamed at us, proudly standing in front of the conference room in her salmon-colored suit. "I'm Sherry Baker, and this is the day you finally take control of your life!"

Ugh. Kill me now. I sat at a round circular table, surrounded by a few other corporate douche bags and prayed for a quick death. My boss had signed me up for a time management seminar- when I protested, he mentioned something about me missing deadlines, showing up late to work, and constantly reeking of vodka.
"I don't reek of vodka," I said, insulted, unable to defend the missing deadlines and showing up late to work part. "That's probably just my mouthwash you're smelling."
My boss snorted. "There's a handle of cranberry vodka in your desk drawer," he said dryly. "I'm assuming it's not there to clean wounds."

God, he's such an asshole. I stomped back to my desk to pout. I fantasized about quitting and starting my OWN company. A company where I didn't have a boss telling me I was an incompetent drunk. Then I realized that I WAS an incompetent drunk and didn't actually have any real desire, motivation, or capital to start a business. And then I didn't really care about attending a time management seminar, because I had already downed a glass of cranberry vodka over ice at that point and was feeling really good.

My cherry attitude quickly changed the next day when Sherry Baker started droning on and on about staying organized and scheduled, and I knew I was screwed. The class was two days, which meant I was in for 48 hours of incarceration, and Ms. Baker was my warden.

"First we're going to to understand who you are," she chirped, passing out thick packets. "Please fill out the questionnaire."
I'm right-handed, but I wrote my name at the top of the packet with my left hand, making it look like a small child's penmanship. I chuckled to myself, because I'm incredibly immature like that, and then opened it to the first page.

I wrote 'what work?' and then went to the next question.

I don't have any. That's why I'm here.

Thank them.

Typically, I tell my boss that every project he gives me will take me a 'lifetime' to complete. This gives me plenty of opportunity to take three hour lunches.

What the fuck?

I didn't know the answer to the last question, so I snuck a peek at my neighbor's packet. She glared at me and covered her answers with her forearm.

"You need to fill out your own questionnaire," Sherry said cheerfully, staring at me. I felt like a 5th grader again, minus the juice boxes and dodge ball.

After lunch, we sat in a circle on the floor and our instructor held up a large red ball.
"We're going to share words that EMPOWER each of us," she said. "When you catch the ball, say a word that gives you POSITIVE ENERGY." She tossed the ball up in the air, and the guy next to me caught it. "Um..." He seemed confused. ""
"Great!" Sherry Baker cheered. "Yes, if you have kids, they are a POSITIVE INFLUENCE ON YOUR LIFE ENERGY!"
I had no idea what life energy had to do with time management, but hell, it got me out of work for couple days, so I went with it and clapped with the rest of the group. When the ball flew up again, another women reached out for it. "My dogs give me lots of positive energy," she said, eagerly. "And my scrapbooking. I LOVE to scrapbook."
"YEAH!" Sherry pumped her fist like a Jersey Shore cast member. "Yeah!"
When the ball flew up again, I caught it. My mind blanked for a second, and then I said, "Sherry Baker gives ME life energy!" I was kissing her ass, hoping she'd send word back to my boss that I was a model student.
"YOU KNOW IT!" Sherry shouted, waving her arms. I was surprised her head didn't explode.

On the second day we talked about stress and how it affects our schedules. Sherry had us all share how we deal with stress.
"Well, I...." I glanced around the room. A lot of people had mentioned really lame shit for dealing with stress- things like exercise, spending time with their family, and prayer. I didn't believe their bullshit for a second.
"I really enjoy drinking," I said, truthfully. Sherry nodded encouragingly, so I kept going. "And sometimes I'll take, like, two or three Midol, you know for PMS? But I won't really have PMS- I just like the way Midol makes me feel- like I'm flying across space on a unicorn's back, you know?" Sherry kept nodding. "And then after the Midol, I'll have one glass of wine- okay maybe three- and then I really like to blast Gwen Stefani or Madonna or Lady Gaga-" I couldn't stop, my confession spilling out of my body like diarrhea. Sherry had stopped nodding and my coworkers were staring at me blankly, but I couldn't stop. "And then I'll get in this old terry cloth robe I've had for over a decade-it has bloodstains all over it-and I'll post a couple obscene comments on my ex-boyfriend's Facebook page, and then wax my bikini line. Eventually I'll blackout from either the Midol or the wine or the bikini wax pain- and I'll come to like four hours later and feel much, much better, you know?" Satisfied, I stopped and sipped my water.
"Um- thanks....for sharing," Sherry said, awkwardly, her enthusiasm gone.

"How was it?" My boss asked the next day, peering into my cube.
"Great," I said, cheerfully. "I learned a TON."
"So you'll start turning your work in on time?" He asked, hopefully.
"No," I answered. "Sherry wants me to lower my stress, so I'm going to actually work less." I popped a Midol in my mouth and swallowed it down with some water as I watched him walk away, disappointed.

He should take up scrapbooking.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

The Flu

When I was 28 years old, I was unemployed and lived at my parent's house due to lack of funds and job offers. They were out of town for weeks on end, leaving my cousin and I (who was also staying with us) on our own. I did nothing but sleep in and drink beer for those three months, and in the middle of it all, I got sick.

Really, really sick.

It started with a fever- I remember waking up one morning feeling like an overcooked Hot Pocket. The chills started in next, followed by coughing, a sinus infection, watery eyes, and occasional vomiting. It's probably how Lindsay Lohan feels every morning after a night of partying and substance abuse.

I crawled down the hall and into the kitchen, my pajamas soaked through with sweat, my hair matted, my mouth covered in foam. I struggled to stand, my hands shaking as I held a cup under the faucet for a drink of water.
"You look like shit," my cousin said, walking into the kitchen. He was on his way to his internship and rummaged in the pantry for some cereal before work. "What's your deal?" He asked.
"Flu," I wheezed, my legs buckling underneath me. I clutched the counter for stability.
"Are you sure it's not something else?" My cousin asked, pouring milk into his cereal bowl.
"It's not a STD," I said, quickly.
My cousin paused. "I just meant like food poisoning or something," he said, confused.

When he left, I realized I had no health insurance and would have to treat this with over-the-counter medicine. I opened my parent's medicine cabinet and found ginkgo biloba, a bag of dried seaweed, and a colon cleansing kit. Damn hippies! I was sick, not headed to a meditation retreat. Jesus, who's dick was I going to have to suck for an Advil?

I spent the day taking cold showers to get my temperature down, taking small sips of Drano in lieu of cold medicine, and making erratic phone calls to my sister through my fever-induced hallucinations.
"Hello?" My sister said on the other end of the phone.
"Sissy?" I slurred from the floor of the bathroom. With one hand I was clutching my cell phone and the other was holding the side of the toilet. The porcelain felt cool against my hot skin. "Is that you?"
"Of course it's me, you called me," she barked, impatient. "How's the job search going?"
"Not so good," I whispered meekly from my spot on the bathroom floor. "Listen....if I die, I want you to have all my money. Go buy yourself something nice."
"Wow, thanks, sis, but I'm not sure what I could purchase with $2.38," my sister responded sarcastically.
"So...rude...." I croaked, watching the tiles on the floor spin in unison. And now- were the tiles dancing? In little top hats?
"I've got to go," my sister said, interrupting the dancing floor tiles and hanging up on me.

The low point of that day came when I stumbled to the fridge in my house, desperate to rid myself of the waves of heat my body was sending off. I was in nothing but my underwear and a sports bra, and in a moment of insanity, tore the freezer door open and grabbed all the frozen vegetable bags out of it. Taking a large roll of duct tape, I attached the frozen bags to my arms and legs, permanently taping the frozen food to my body. Once done, I stumbled into the living room and passed out. It was hours later when I awoke, my cousin shaking me awake.
My eyes fluttered. "Jesus? Is that you?" I moaned.
"Um..." my cousin stared at me blankly. Six bags of melted frozen vegetable bags were taped to various parts of my limbs, my sports bra sweated through and my hair tangled with dirt and dust from the floor. "Is that- are those a bag of carrots duct taped to your thighs?" He asked in horror. "What- what HAPPENED?"

"So....sick......" I whispered, the smell of warmed vegetable melody strong against my bare stomach.

Days later I was finally able to get out of bed, my fever down. I was grateful I had finally recovered from the flu, and now, I needed to get back to my life.

And stock the freezer back up with frozen vegetables.

Sunday, October 31, 2010

Intoxicated Travel

My husband and I returned from our vacation in London yesterday. I would love to tell you all about it- the sights, the food, the history- except I don't remember anything.

I was drunk the entire time.

London has pubs. Lots and lots of pubs. See, over here in Denver all we have are bars. Bars containing a few beers, some plastic tables, and a television in the corner blaring some game. But pubs in London? It's a whole different story.

"There are different types of beer in London," my husband informed me, flipping through our London guidebook. "They have lagers, and bitters, and stouts." His eyes gleamed in anticipation.
"What's the difference between them?" I asked. We were sitting on the plane in coach, and I was struggling with opening the plastic bag wrapped around the pillow and blanket provided to us.
"It's based on their-" my husband stopped short, noticing that I had managed to get my head caught inside the plastic bag and was suffocating inside it. "Dear god, honey!" He freed me from the bag frantically as I gasped for air. "What-how...?" He read the warning label on the side of the plastic: TO AVOID DANGER OF SUFFOCATION, KEEP THIS PLASTIC BAG AWAY FROM BABIES AND CHILDREN.
I coughed and sucked down more air. "You just saved my life," I wheezed to him.
"Um...." I could see the confusion on my husband's face, as he silently registered that he needed to keep plastic bags out of my hands. "I guess I should get electric outlet covers for the house as well," he mumbled, dryly.
"Good idea," I said, thinking about the week before, when I tried to shove a metal fork in one of them, just to see what would happen.

We landed in London and checked into our hotel, excited to see the big sights- Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, the Clock Tower, Big Ben! Touring down the streets of London, though, we suddenly stopped.
"Look, a pub," I pointed.
"I guess we could stop in for a quick pint," my husband said eagerly.
Four hours and five pints later, I was telling the bartender my life story and hubby was discussing Deerhunter's latest album with a group of guys from Clerkenwell.
"You mean you almost suffocated inside a plastic bag?" The bartender asked me, amused. "Isn't that how babies die?"
"I know, right?" I rolled my eyes, like it was the bag's fault. Suddenly serious, I reached out and clutched his hand. "Oh, and thank you for letting us borrow David and Victoria," I said, referring to the Beckham's move to Los Angeles. "We are taking VERY good care of them."
"Um- thanks, mate," he said, shaking his head and laughing. I really appreciated his good humor.

This happened again and again. "Look, a pub," was said by either my husband or I at least 8-10 times a day, followed by a pint (or two). Which means London started to get real fuzzy.

"Excuse me....sir- where's the Rosetta Stone?" I slurred to one of the security guards in the British Museum, trying to remember how many drinks I had downed that afternoon.
"It's on the Ground Floor, to the left," he informed me.
"Oh, thanks- so it's just a stone's throw away," I joked, unable to resist the pun.
He raised an eyebrow as my husband dragged me away. "You need to read your information guide,” he said. “That guy probably gets asked that question a thousand times a day.”
“But I’m listening to music right now,” I protested, gesturing to the headphones around my ears.
“That’s your audio guide, sweetie,” he replied. “Not a CD player. You type in the number for each of the displays and it will tell you about the object.”
“Right.” I thought it was weird that Lady Gaga was giving me an informational talk on the Sutton Hoo Treasure, but I just assumed she was just being avant garde or something.

At the Tower of London, famous for imprisoning and executing traitors back in the day, I ended up falling asleep (read: passing out) on the lawn. I came to when I felt my husband shaking me awake.
"Oh god, I know exactly how Anne Boleyn felt," I moaned.
"Honey, she was beheaded. Aren't you being a little dramatic?"
"Please. An axe to the neck about sums up the amount of pain I'm in. At that last pub, the Lamb & Goat? Was I singing, 'Lagers and Bitters and Stouts, oh my' to the tune of that similar song in The Wizard Of Oz?"
My husband squinted in thought. "I think the pub was called Goat & Lamb- and yes, you were singing that. I think at one point you even tapped your shoes together like Dorthy."
"We're not in Kansas anymore," I said, my head pounding.

We went to see the Crown Jewels, but I felt nauseous on the moving walkway staring at them, the gem's colors swirling together behind the bullet proof glass.
"That diamond is 105 carats," my husband informed me, pointing to the Crown of Queen Elizabeth.
"Imagine how many pints that could buy," I mused.

A few hours later, I was vomiting into the Thames River and my husband mentioned that he was concerned with the amount of time we were spending in pubs.
"But I don't wanna stop drinking in pubs," I whined, coughing up the last bit of bile. "I love the pubs here. Every time I walk into one...." I searched for the words. "It feels like Britain is giving me a hug. The pubs are warm, welcoming, sparkly and happy. And we're only here for like a week," I finished.
"I know," he agreed, and handed me one of our travel wet wipes to clean myself off. "We'll just have to keep going, I guess." He opened the guidebook. "Want to figure out what to see next- in a pub?" He looked a little sheepish.
"Hell yes, I do," I replied.


Monday, October 11, 2010

The Oldest Resident

When I was in my mid-twenties, I moved to my younger sister's college town. I had recently graduated from another school myself, and had talked her into letting me stay at her place while I looked for a job.

My sister lived in the dorms.

She was a RA- a Resident Assistant. You know, the slightly older college student who decides to babysit 28 freshmen girls in exchange for free room, board, and sanity? Well, as part of the contract she also got her own room- and I got a free bed. For the students, it was a campus, for me, it was a homeless shelter. Pass the soup and head full of lice.

Some might think that a 24-year-old living in a college dorm with her younger sister and a herd of freshman girls is pathetic. But those are people who have things like dignity, self-respect, and class. Luckily for me, I posses none of those qualities and was quite comfortable with the arrangement.

I admit it was odd in the beginning. I would wrap myself in my terrycloth robe, gather my toiletries up in my plastic hot pink shower caddy, and shuffle to the bathroom.
"So, your sister is the RA?" One girl asked me, as we were simultaneously brushing our teeth in front of the bathroom mirrors.
"Yeah, my apartment is getting painted," I lied, spitting into the sink. "So I'm crashing at her place for a while."
"You DO realize her 'place' is a dorm room," the 17-year-old questioned me, wise beyond her years.
"I know, right?" I mock rolled my eyes, like I was annoyed, and then changed the subject. "Ugh, did you eat the fried chicken last night in the cafeteria? SOOOO gross."
"Oh my god, SO gross," she agreed, flossing her teeth. "You going to Matt's kegger tonight? 3rd floor."
"I will SO be there," I said, excited to be included.

"I can't believe I slept with him," Madison moaned, sitting on the floor of her dorm room. I was behind her, on the bunk bed, braiding her hair and chewing gum.
"Well, we were totally wasted," I giggled, enjoying her company and the feel of her soft hair between my fingers. "I cannot believe Dakota made us do those shots," I continued, glancing at Madison's roommate, who was on her computer writing a paper.
"Oh my god, YOU are the one that started prank calling Madison's ex-boyfriend," Dakota protested from her desk, still hungover. "And now I can't even think straight, and I have to finish this assignment."
"TELL me about it," I said, twisting a hair tie around Madison's braid. "My boss wants, like, two or three deliverable, integrated solutions for this major account to leverage our overhead so we can avoid outsourcing," I moaned, referring to my corporate job.
"Oh my god, SO annoying," Dakota said, as Madison nodded in agreement.
"Oh my god, I KNOW," I complained, and cracked my gum. "Hey, wanna watch 40 Days and 40 Nights?" I asked. "Josh Hartnett is SUCH a hottie- and I've got some leftover pizza in the fridge."
"Totally in," Dakota said, as Madison nodded once more in agreement.

"You are getting out of control," my sister complained, as we were settling into our twin beds in her dorm room, the mattresses on the beds about as thick as a Kotex Maxipad.
"It's not my fault Taylor got us all drunk and made us streak through the front lobby," I protested. "Plus, I have a HUGE crush on Josh- you know, from room 406? He was there and is SO hot- I wanted to hang out with him."
"I'm going to have to write you up again if you're not careful," my sister warned, referring to the previous weekend, when she caught Brianna and I taking bong hits in the shower stalls. "I mean, what, you're a college kid now? What's next, you're going to get a butterfly tattooed on your lower back?"
"," I said quickly, silently reminding myself to cancel my Saturday appointment with Devil's Ink.

My sister kept trying to bait me into tattling on my new friends.

"Does Rachel have a bunch of candles in her room?" My sister asked suspiciously, eyeing me. "You know that's a fire hazard." We were in the university library- she was researching something for a paper she had to write and I was sniffing her highlighters, trying to get high.
"What? No...." I fibbed. Rachel and I had lit enough candles in her room that night to send Smoky the Bear himself over to our room for a well-deserved beating. But Rachel and I were trying to create a sexy atmosphere so we could make out- because word on the street is that you're supposed to 'experiment' in college. And really, when you're that drunk, does it matter what gender is groping you?
"You already went to college," my sister hissed. "Like, two years ago."
"You don't need to be rude," I complained.
"You have fine lines, for fuck sakes," she answered.
"Now I'm hurt," I pouted.

The semester ended, and eventually I had to say goodbye to all my dorm friends and the college lifestyle I had (once again) enjoyed so immensely.
"Now you're going to have to be an adult, find your own place, and pay rent," my sister said, as we packed and loaded up my posters, lava lamp, and twin sheet set into my car.
"I'm actually spending the summer at Dakota's beach house," I replied, slamming trunk of my car shut. "Her parents are letting us crash there- we're going to get lifeguard jobs and work on our tans for the next three months."
"There's no hope for you, is there," my sister said. It wasn't a question, it was a statement.

I almost said something snarky back, but you know what? I didn't want to get written up again.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

I'll Never Be CEO

Once a year, my boss takes our entire company out to a baseball game.

Our main office is in Denver, Colorado, and our second office is in Salt Lake City, Utah. Which means half my coworkers are Mormon.

Baseball + Mormons = Me In A Coma.

You think baseball is boring? Try having a conversation with a Mormon. I know inanimate objects with more personality. Mormons can't talk about anything fun (read: sex, drugs, alcohol). Mormons can only converse about three things: kids, church, and the weather. Which means I have more in common with serial killers than I do with Mormons.

So there I was, trapped watching a baseball game with a pack of Mormons. It was more torturous than waterboarding, and my boss was Dick Cheney.
"Isn't this great?" My boss asked excitedly, like an asshole. I wanted to hit him.

The game started with the national anthem, and the Mormons stood up excitedly, their hands over their hearts. Mormons love America. They also love being white, giving birth, khaki pants, and lemonade. They don't drink alcohol, so at the baseball game they were all drinking tons and tons of lemonade.
"You likey the game?" I slurred to the Mormon sitting next to me. I was on my fifth beer (can you blame me?) and desperately trying to entertain myself. I had a baseball game in front of me (yawn) and a Mormon to my right. I imagined it was how a gay man felt in between two women: not interested in either.

"This is fun," said the Mormon, sipping his lemonade. He looked like Howdy Doodie, the puppet. And I was pretty sure the only one handling his strings was God.
"So, you've only had sex with like, one person, right?" I mumbled, noting the ring on his left hand.
"Um..." Howdy squirmed uncomfortably.
"Isn't that like going to a buffet and only eating the dinner rolls?" I continued. "I mean, there's like, prime rib, and salad, and all those yummy desserts...." I raised my eyebrows suggestively.
I heard my boss bark my name behind me, and as I turned to look at him he glared at me. I raised my beer in greeting.
"So," I said, returning to my conversation with the Mormon. "You don't want a beer? It's REAL good." I knocked back the rest of mine. "Why don't you make yourself useful and get mommy another?" I asked, shaking my empty cup in front of him.
As Howdy raced off, my boss approached me. "You really need to tone it down," he said sternly.
"Is this about me pressing my tits against the glass on the elevator?" I asked. "Because only like half the office saw that."
My boss flinched. "We really need to not completely offend the Salt Lake group," he grumbled.
"You're the one who invited them out here," I snapped. "Me making jokes about being somebody's fifth wife is just my way of coping."
"Oh, God," my boss groaned.
"You invited him too? Fuck, I am screwed," I said.

I tried to be nice to them. Like, I let Howdy hold my hair back when I ended up vomiting into a nacho platter, and I told Lisa, the 23-year-old with four kids that her body seemed to bounce back nicely after delivering her litter. All in all, I thought the evening went well.

"The Salt Lake City group left this morning," my boss told me the next day. I was hungover and his voice hurt my ears.

"Looks like my prayers have been answered," I replied, before running to the bathroom to puke again.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

Retail Lies

I'm one of those people that thinks you can 'buy' yourself into a talent, a hobby, or sport. That if I purchase something, that makes up for things like actual interest in said hobby or any real skill.

When I was 18, I decided I was going to become a rock climber. So I went to some lame-ass sporting goods store where the men inside it all reek of BO and the women don't wear makeup- I guess because they're 'outdoorsy'. (Um, it's called concealer, honey- and you need it.)
"Can I help you?" The sales lady, in some horrid wind pants that made her look like the Goodyear Blimp, approached me.
"I need rock climbing gear. Because...I'm going to be a rock climber."
$350 bucks later I was walking out of the store with shoes tiny enough for an infant, a harness, and rope. I was ready to rock climb or participate in some serious S&M.

The shoes I ended up losing, the rope I used to tie down boxes on the top of my car when I moved, and the harness I ended up giving to a girlfriend who had a hyperactive four year old boy. She'd put the kid in the harness, attach a long rope to the end of it, and watch him chase leaves in the backyard for hours like a dog.
"He's SO much easier to deal with now," she told me, as we stood at the window inside her house and watched her son gnaw on a piece of wood in the backyard.
"Is that a water bowl out there?" I asked.

Once I had a dream that I was Darius Rucker, the lead singer of Hootie and the Blowfish. The next day I told my dad that I thought this was a sign that I should play the guitar.
"That's pretty weird, sweetie," my dad said.
"That I dreamed I was a black man?"
"No..." Dad paused. "That you would want a guitar," he answered. "I wasn't aware that you had any musical interest whatsoever."
I knew he was referring to the year in 5th grade when I talked my parents into buying me a saxophone, played it for 30 seconds, and then ended up getting my forearm stuck inside the bell of the horn.
"Dad- I MUST have a guitar," I pleaded. "Please?"
A month later, after my dad purchased it, I ended up trading the guitar for a bag of weed and a pair of sheepskin seat covers. Naturally, my dad was right.

I was going to be a 'fashion designer' at one point and purchased a sewing machine. I made my sister a dress that looked like I had sewn together two twin sheets and then cut a hole in the top- which I did.
"Oh, wow, this is..." My sister stood in the middle of the living room, her twin sheet dress belted at the waist, confused as all hell. "This is interesting...."
"Isn't it great?!" I asked, lying. In reality she looked like a patient in a mental institution. "You should wear it out tonight!"

My basement is littered with all my fake interests- a punching bag when I was going to be a kick-boxer, skies from when I was a skier, and tons of painting supplies when I decided I was going to paint. I think the only time I used them is when a couple of my friends got drunk at my house, passed out, and I ended up painting pictures of dicks on their faces. Picasso I'm not.

If I truly want to be honest with myself- I really don't have any talent or interest in anything. The only thing I truly know how to do, and do well- is be funny.

And, luckily for me, funny is free.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Be Our Guest

My husband and I live in a one bedroom condo in downtown Denver with a single parking space. Our second car, a 1992 Subaru, sits in the street.

This car looks like it has been through Armageddon. It's 18 years old, has chipped gold paint, massive dents, ripped upholstery, and rust damage. The car has no hubcaps, locks, or seat belts. My husband walks to work and I drive the first car, so we hardly ever use it- only on the occasional weekend. We named the car 'Piggy' because it's in such bad shape and is trashed. But we keep her because she's been paid off for more then a decade and really, has become a member of the family.

"I think a vagabond is living in Piggy," my husband announced one day after coming home from work and slamming the front door behind him.
"Come again?" I was sitting on the couch, perusing US Weekly (Spencer and Heidi divorced!) and drinking a glass (bottle) of white wine.
"I found some empty bottles of Jack Daniel's in the front seat of the car," he replied.
"Those are mine."
My husband adjusted his glasses and continued. "I also found an old sleeping bag, some men's shirts, and a pair of shoes."
"Oh wow," I said, intrigued. "A homeless person moved into our car?!? We're landlords!"

My mind raced as I thought of all the possibilities. Like, could we charge rent? Is our new tenant going to put a bag of ice in the glove compartment and call it a refrigerator? If we had to use the car, could he sit in the backseat and wrap his arms around the driver, thus saving us the expense of having to replace the seat belts?

"A vagabond is living in my car!" I excitedly announced the next day at work. I loved saying the word 'vagabond'. It was 100 times more sophisticated than 'homeless person', 'hobo', or 'crack head'.
"Oh..." my coworker Stephanie, cooed in awe. "Are you going to call the police?"
Of course I wasn't going to call the police. First of all, Piggy doesn't even have locks on her, so it's not really 'breaking and entering'. And secondly, having a hobo live in my car is.....fucking awesome. I would be the talk of the town for weeks!

I left bottled water and sandwiches in Piggy for my tenant, eager to make his stay more comfortable. We made sure to never drive or move the car, as we would be taking his personal belongings with us. I just kept hoping I would run into him, but never did- we just found traces of his existence. A few paperback novels would show up in the backseat, a pile of peanuts would appear on the dashboard, and at one point our car battery died when he left the lights on in the car.
"I had to jump Piggy because our vagabond left the dome light on," my husband grumbled one day.
"He is so absentminded, our vagabond," I said, fondly. "I hope he enjoys that organic raspberry cheesecake I left in the trunk for him."

Eventually, to my dismay, our vagabond moved out. I was horrified when I stopped by his place, opened the car door, and found his clothes and shoes gone.
"He moved out!" I sobbed to my husband that evening.
"What! Our front seats fully recline!" My husband shouted indignantly. "Did he find a fancier vehicle to squat in?"
"Our neighbors have a 2002 Outback," I pointed out. "Maybe he moved into theirs."
"I really didn't take him for a snob," my husband said, insulated.

I really do miss our tenant, and would love to invite him over to our car for some coffee sometime. I just wish I could find the license plate he lives at. Sigh.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Lawn Care

When my sister and I were in elementary school, my dad decided that he was done dealing with the lawn.

Now for my parents,'dealing' with the lawn meant mowing it three times a year and praying for rainfall so they didn't have to drag the hose out from the garage. Our yard was dry in some parts, overgrown in others. At one point my little sister fell asleep in a patch of grass about two feet high, and we had to call the police because we thought she was abducted. Four hours later she stumbled sleepy-eyed into the house, and Dad goes, "Damn, I should really cut that grass."

There was also the issue with the animal graveyard. Half the lawn was covered in graves from our long dead friends, like Stephen King's Pet Cemetery. The tombstones were laid out side by side, the names of our former animals listed on them- Goldie, Muffin, Felicia, Pinky- god, did we always name our pets after prostitutes? It was like looking at a porn star lineup.

My parents claimed that they were going to just cover the entire yard in bark and forget about it, and two weeks later the trucks came in and dropped enough bark in our backyard to fill about eighteen dumpsters. It covered everything- the pet cemetery, the grass, the half-dead bushes. Our backyard was basically bark with a fence around it.

We had the red bark, so when it rained, the color would leak into the front of the house, staining the entire sidewalk with what resembled blood. It was like something out of The Shining. The bark was real soft, too- my sister and I could jump in it, play in it, roll around in it- honestly, it was like living in a gerbil cage. My parents would leave bottles of water and pellets of food next to the bark so that we wouldn't come into the house. For anything.
"Just cover your poo up with the bark," my mom said, after explaining to us to just shit in the bark and than cover it up with- more bark. There was so much bark that you could hide anything in it- excrement, toys, dead bodies, whatever.

I don't think the neighbors liked it very much, but really- would you want to look at a pile of pencil shavings everyday on your way to work? I didn't blame them, really. I mean, can you image if somebody had accidentally thrown a cigarette butt on my parent's lawn? The entire neighborhood would have gone up like it had been firebombed. Our house had more kindling than the Boy Scouts.

My parents still live in that house and the bark is still there- a little weathered, yes- but still there. Along with the carcass of my dead cat, Felicia, of course.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Lights Out

A few days ago we had a power outage in our building, and my husband and I were without electricity for about 24 hours.

It was complete mayhem.

About 20 seconds before we lost our electricity, I had every light in the condo on, was running the blender to make a banana-mango smoothie, heating up my flatiron, listening to the radio, and cruising the Internet for topless pictures of Taylor Lautner.

And, suddenly- there was silence. And dark.

"Honey?" I said into the blackness. "Where are you?! Dear god- I think- I think we lost power! I can't see you!"
"I'm sitting six inches from you at the kitchen table," he said, munching on a bowl of cereal. "We're in a 600 square foot condo and it's like, one o'clock in the afternoon. You're hardly blind, sweetie."
"Oh my god!" I screeched. "We're going to DIE!"
"It'll turn back on in about 30 seconds," my husband said.

But he was wrong. 2 hours later, we were still without electricity, and I was hysterical.
"My hair- it's frizzing out! The flatiron doesn't work! I can't get onto my favorite Hollywood gossip website- and how are we going to eat?!" I had a point there. The food in the non-working fridge was going rotten.
"I guess we'll just have to eat whatever is in the pantry," my husband said.
"God! It's a fucking Apocalypse!!" I screamed, and fell to my knees. "Why, god, why us?! Why now!?"

That night, I had to wash the dishes, by hand.
"What is this, Little House on the fucking Prairie?!" I sobbed, my perfectly-manicured hands immersed in hot suds. "How did people live like this?"
"We'll be fine," my husband assured me, while he scraped down a piece of wood with a pocket knife.
"Are you whittling?"
"Sure am. I'm carving out a little wooden creature. I think it's going to be a mouse- should look nice on the mantle."
"What is happening to us?!" I screeched, the water in the sink scorching my soft hands.

That evening, as I worked on my needlepoint by candlelight and gently swayed back and forth in my rocking chair, I couldn't help but admire the simplicity of the lifestyle they had back in the day. I sighed contently. "Remember, Pa, when we used to be slaves to our cell phones, computers, and the information age?"
"You mean this morning?" Pa asked from his desk, dipping his feather into its inkwell. He was writing poetry now, and I was extremely proud of him. "It is nicer," he mused, leaning back in his chair and running his fingers through his suspenders. "I'm enjoying this power outage." He glanced over at me. "And you made the best darn Cornmeal Mush and Bean Porridge tonight that I ever did have the pleasure of eatin', Ma," he said to me with a wink.
"Oh, Pa." I blushed up to my ears. He just might get a look at my petticoats tonight!

The next morning, as I was frying potato cakes over the fireplace and Pa was oiling up his boots, the lights flickered, and then came on. We looked as each other in astonishment.
"The's back on," Pa said, astonished.

Darn it. Guess I'm going to have to wait to finish that needlepoint pillow until the next Apocalypse.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Time for Dinner

I was hanging out with my friend, who I'll call Jen, (because that's her name) and she was talking about her days in college. She mentioned a friend in her sorority who used to be bulimic, and then Jen mused, "but hey- what girl hasn't had an eating disorder at one point in her life?"

I thought- so true, Jen- so true.

Eating disorders and women go together like peanut butter and jelly- thrown up, of course. I've seen it all- anorexia, bulimia, laxative abuse, over-exercising, crash diets, pill popping-and even....cotton balls.

"I'm going to leave you here for about 30 minutes while the color sets," my hairdresser said to me at my favorite salon. I was settled under a hair dryer, flipping through a magazine and getting my roots touched up.
"My friend is coming over with lunch," my hairdresser continued, as a girl walked into the salon with a brown paper bag. "Oh, there she is now!"
My confusion turned to horror as my hairdresser and her friend pulled cotton balls and some apple juice out of the lunch sack, dipped the cotton balls into the juice, and then swallowed them whole.
She glanced over at me watching them, my jaw on the floor, and said- "Oh, the cotton balls- they expand in your stomach and you don't get hungry. I've lost like, ten pounds doing this."
A million thoughts raced through my head- if you have cotton balls for lunch, can you shit a quilt? And what's for dinner? Q-tips?
My jaw re-attached itself to my face and, thinking about her ten-pound loss, I asked- "can I have one?"

My one girlfriend in college was a full-blown bulimic, and even though her teeth started turning yellow from the stomach acid exposure- I couldn't help but admire her 115 lb. frame.
"She's reeks like puke," my other friend whispered to me.
"I know- but she looks great," I replied, envious.

A couple of times I've attempted to have an eating disorder and failed- like when I try to go without eating for a day to 'drop a pound or two', and then around 10pm that night I'm face-down in a frozen pizza, too hungry to wait and properly cook it in the oven.
"That's disgusting," my husband said, watching me gum the ice off a piece of pepperoni.
"I'm fucking STARVING!" I scream, my eyes rolled into the back of my head, crouched on the floor of our kitchen, hovered over the frozen pizza like a panther after a fresh kill. "Leave me ALONE!"

I could sit here and blame the media, supermodels, and society for our eating disorders- but really, I think women majorly bond over our fight with food, and maybe, a little bit- secretly enjoy it. We bitch with each other over spinning classes and our cabbage diet- and connect with each other in a way men cannot.

Pass the cotton balls- I've got a pool party to attend this weekend.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Dress Up

When I was single I dressed for boys. I wore tight jeans that made my ass look like you could bounce a quarter off of it, low-cut (yet classy) tops, and high heels. I had the long blond hair and 'natural looking' makeup- because boys don't like caked-on clown paint, they want you to look pretty and approachable. This was my 'look' for about fifteen years.

At the age of 31, I got married. And then I stopped dressing for men and started dressing for my own personal entertainment.

Vintage house dress from 1952? Love it. Cowboy boots with a tuxedo jacket? Done. Cut a hole in the top of a trash bag and belt it? Why the fuck not?

My husband doesn't care, because the fool is in love with me and really, I could get away with murder around him. I literally asked him once, "Would you hate me if I murdered someone?"
"I'm sure you'd have a good reason for doing it, honey," he said absentmindedly while pursing the newspaper.

That is so sweet.

I met my girlfriend out for drinks in a black leotard, knee-high black boots, and a dog collar. I looked like an extra from Van Helsing.
"WHAT in the hell are you wearing?!" She demanded, glancing around the bar, probably praying no one was staring. "What, you're in a fucking biker gang now? Roll in here on a Harley?"
"You're just jealous," I said, adjusting the rolled whip on my hip.

I went to a party last weekend in a pair of Lycra hot pants, flip-flops with little cherries on them, and bright red lipstick.
"Oh look, Katy Perry is here, everybody," my sister said sarcastically, and handed me a beer. "Seriously, sis- you are 33 goddamn years old. I think you need to chill on the Lycra."
"That's what my mother-in-law said this morning at brunch," I replied, squirming in my pants. It was hot, and I was starting to sweat in my Lycra. "I'm pretty sure she is a little worried about me- being married to her son and all."
"No shit....hey- did you kiss a girl- and like it?"
"Very funny."

I wonder if I just enjoy receiving negative attention, or am I simply bored? My husband and I went to a nice restaurant last night and I was in striped bib overalls.
"I feel like I'm on a date with Thomas the Tank Engine," he mused across the table, sipping his red wine. "Seriously, honey, I love you- but when is this whole costume phase going to end?"

He should just be grateful I haven't murdered anybody.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Get A Clue

My memory has been really, really, bad lately. I don't know if it's my late-night drinking, or my daily Xanax-popping ritual- but I can't remember a goddamn thing. So my life has become the board game, Clue- I gather all the evidence to figure what happened the day before. I've become the Nancy Drew of my own life.


Answer: Professor Plum, in the library, with the candlestick!

Ok, so....last night....I stared at the red gooey sludge on my tile floor. I remember scooping up watermelon....but why is so MUCH of it on the ground?! I frown, and open the fridge- I remember coming home, getting into my lounge wear (read: sweatpants and a dirty sports bra from 2002). I remember- WAIT! There! In the recycling bin! An empty bottle of Everclear! Ha! I have solved the mystery!

Me, in the kitchen, with a bottle of Everclear, making melon balls! And then I ate, like, a dozen of them!


Answer: Miss Scarlett, in the conservatory, with the revolver!

Um....I glance around my desk at work....everything seems fine....I turned in my last report on time....yesterday, I came into work, grabbed some coffee, filed some papers....WAIT! I glance up- the screen saver on my computer! It's- it's a picture of two men making love to one women! I had downloaded porn at work- and then- uploaded one of the pictures as my screen saver?! Eureka! Mystery solved!

Me, in my office, with porn! I'm going to get fired!


Answer: Colonel Mustard, in the ballroom, with the lead pipe!

Oh god....$400? Who would do that? I pondered this question, sipping white white in my living room, lounging on the couch. Sheepskins....sheepskins....hmm.....I remember- using my credit card, I remember- shopping online- WAIT A FUCKING MINUTE! I sat up and looked down at the couch. Holy shit, I'm sitting on the sheepskin throws now! They're perfectly draped across the furniture- just like the picture in my interior design magazine!

Me, drunken online shopping, with a Visa!

Phew. Well, looks like I have figured out most of this week's mysteries. And now, about that Colonel Mustard- what a hottie! Me and Colonel Mustard, in the den, with massage oils.....

Monday, July 5, 2010

Me & Cuz

When I was 28, a series of life events lead me to move back in with my parents for the summer. I had left a boyfriend, quit a job, traveled around Europe for a bit, and, upon returning- found myself with no money to call my own. It was, by coincidence, the same summer my cousin also moved in with my parents- he was 24 at the time and had a summer job in Colorado, miles away from his college in Missouri. My cousin and I waved at my parent's RV pulling out of the driveway as they set off for four months of touring, leaving the two of us alone in the house.

That was the summer I dated my cousin.

Not literally, of course. That's gross. But we were both broke and single, with no real friends- and really, we only had each other to hang out with.

"What should we do for lunch?" My cousin asked this around noon on a Tuesday, the two of us in our swimsuits, relaxed on lounge chairs, downing a six-pack of beer in the backyard. My days were spent looking for work (read: sleeping in, watching TV, drinking) and my cousin was putting in roughly 15-20 hours a week at his job. We had more time on our hands than an inmate convicted to life in prison.

"I dunno," I slurred, adjusting the straps on my bikini. "Sandwich?" I rolled over. "Could you rub sunscreen on my back?"
"Sure Cuz," he said. "I really like your bikini, by the way."

At night, we would order pizza with my parents' credit card and watch movies on cable.
"STOP tickling me!" I giggled hysterically as my cousin dug his thumbs into my armpits while we were in our pajamas on the couch watching Out Cold.
"I'm gonna get you!" He said, wiggling his fingers at me while I threw popcorn at him flirtatiously.
"Oh my god, you are the worst," I laughed, flipping my hair. I couldn't help but wonder if he thought I was cute in my silk boxers.

Our lives became intertwined. I picked up his shirts from dry cleaning, he drove me to pick up my car from the shop, and we argued, like a couple.
"I thought you were going to take out the trash," I complained, sipping on a Diet Coke.
"Baby, you know I would if I could," he said, neither of us noticing that he just called me 'Baby'. "But I've got to run. Look, I'll make it up to you, I promise. Okay?"
"Fine." I pouted, but just a little, because I knew he'd bring me home one of my favorite fruit smoothies after work.

It officially became weird when I took him to a wedding as my date, and on the way home I joked, "Cuz, when we danced together, were you pretending I was your girlfriend?"
"Um...." He adjusted the rear view mirror. "No...." he said, sheepishly.

Eventually, I got a job and moved out, and he went back to Missouri. It was like a breakup. I missed his smile, his laugh, and conversations about our Grandma. I started dating men who weren't related to me, which was probably a healthy thing.

"Thank god you're not living with our cousin anymore," my sister said. "You guys were together ALL THE TIME- it was getting weird."
"I know," I said. "But he always gave me the BEST shoulder massages."

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Jury Duty

I received a Jury Summons in the mail and the first thing I thought was, Me? They want ME to decide the fate of someone on trial? Me, who gets then/than mixed up? Me, who considers Lindsay Lohan 'misunderstood'? Me, who spent over 45 minutes last night rolling the towels in her bathroom and placing them in a wicker basket to create a 'spa-like experience'?

I was honored, and really, Jury Duty has lots of benefits:

Get out of work for a day!
Sit around and flip through fashion magazines!
Pretend I'm Tom Cruise in The Firm!

Reality set in as, bored, I was shuffled from room to room and was asked a ton of questions. Crap like, "Have you ever been sexually assaulted?" (I wish.) Do you know the person on trial today? (Depends- were they at Flow Nightclub last night? Because if they were, they saw me both flash my tits on the dance floor and vomit on a bar stool.) "What do you do for a living?" (Suck corporate dick- why do you ask?)

The kicker was that I kept making it through the next round. I couldn't help but wonder why- I mean, I smelled like a candy factory (read: Sugar-Vanilla Body Spray), was wearing a hot-pink Juicy Couture jumpsuit, and was reading Paris Hilton's Confessions of a Heiress. I couldn't have appeared any dumber if I tried.

On the final round they actually reviewed the trial, and while part of me really tried to pay attention, I ended up day-dreaming about being on trial myself.

Prosecutor: "Living Shallow Living Well, did you spend over 22 hours last weekend downloading clips of The Vampire Diaries from season one on You Tube- in nothing but your underwear and a blue halter top from 1998?"
Me (behind the witness stand, looking quite attractive in a navy pencil skirt and cream-colored blouse): "I actually think that halter top was more of a turquoise."


Prosecutor: "Living Shallow Living Well, did you drink three glass of pinot noir and then order over $400 worth of sheepskin throws online to give your 600 sq. foot condo a more 'cozy, cabin-like' feel?"
Me: "Those things were $400? Fuck!"


Prosecutor: "Living Shallow Living Well, did you cry when you found out that Kim Kardashian and Reggie Bush broke up?"
Me: *sob*


The judge slammed her gravel down and I jumped out of my daydream. Luckily, I was not selected for the final jury, and was excused. I hurried home to a hot bath and glass of wine.

And you know- those rolled towels in the wicker basket? It really DOES look like a spa in here!

Monday, June 21, 2010

The Hooligans

I live in a 30-unit condo unit in downtown Denver. I like living downtown because it gives me major bragging rights. At work, I say things like, "The suburbs?! Oh, I could NEVER live in the suburbs. There's just no culture. My god, aren't you bored?!"

The co-worker I am speaking to, usually a white middle-aged man (probably works in either Data or Finance)with thinning hair and pleated khaki pants (dear god, does he not know that flat-front khakis are like, 100% more slimming?!?) just stares at me. He doesn't mind the fact that I am blatantly insulting his home, because he's staring at my (relatively younger compared to his wife's) tits.

So I go on. "I just really love the grit of living downtown, you know? The people are so much more interesting. I mean, ugh, the suburbs?" I popped my gum and flipped my hair, enjoying the fact that he probably thinks I'm 27 and not 33-(bitches, I use a ton of sunscreen, okay? Don't hate on me).

Well, I got my comeuppance the following night when three hooligans moved in next door. There's one girl and two guys- kind of weird, because it's a one-bedroom condo. Do they all sleep together? Is it a girl/guy couple and the second guy sleeps on the couch, or are the boys together and the girl is on the couch? And their clothes- the guys are in Ed Hardy knock-offs, looking like a mix between Vanilla Ice and Kevin Federline. The girl has more tattoos than Mike Tyson and looks like J-Woww from MTV's Jersey Shore.

"I'm scared," I whispered to my husband, peering through the curtain, watching J-Woww out on the porch scream at somebody on the phone while her two male roommates smoked and stared off into space. It was like watching a really disturbing episode of My Two Dads.

"They're just kids," my husband said, his legs primly crossed, reading the paper and sipping organic coffee. Seriously, look up "effeminate heterosexual" in the dictionary and you'll find a picture of him. "Plus, I thought you were really into the 'grit' of living downtown."

"Well, right, but..." What was I supposed to say?! That I was actually repulsed by sketchy-looking 19-year-olds in baggy pants? That I associated tattoos with prison inmates? That when I see people smoking, I automatically think 'throat cancer'? That maybe, deep down inside, I am actually a judgmental conservative housewife with no real grit, no real exposure to anybody other then college-educated corporate pricks? Was I a snob?!?

"I'm going to go introduce myself," I said, snapping the curtains open dramatically. "I will NOT judge a book by its cover." I flung open the door and walked out to the porch. I talked with them, and all three of them were, naturally- extremely nice. They offered me both a cigarette and beer, and as I sat there, drinking and (awkwardly) pretending to smoke, I thought- wow- I was wrong. I was really, really, wrong.

Now I need to go fish my jewelry back out of the flour canister.

Monday, June 14, 2010


I just finished reading It by Stephen King, his very popular 1985 horror novel. The book is definitely scary- it's based around Pennywise, an evil, murderous clown that lives in the sewers of a tiny town in Maine. He lures young children into the gutters, where he rips the limbs off their bodies, feeds on their intestines, and then tosses their bones. While the book was horrific, all I could think of when I finished it was- Pennywise reminds me of my ex-boyfriend.

Seriously. The resemblance is uncanny.

1. Pennywise Lures Children To Their Death With Promises of Candy And Balloons.

Totally. My ex would do this all the time. He would tell me things would be different if we got back together, that he loved me, that we'd stop bickering and arguing and end up in a happy place- a place where we lived under a circus tent that smelled like cotton candy. But then- when you took a bright red balloon from Pennywise/My Ex- you realized that your arm was going to get ripped off, or that you still fought over his mom's control issues.

2. Pennywise Lives In The Sewer.

Sewer? I wish my ex lived in a sewer- his place was far, far worse. Dirty twin bed, roommate with questionable hygiene, no toilet paper in the bathroom- god, his apartment made a homeless shelter look like a four-star hotel.

3. Pennywise Gives People Nightmares.

Oh, god- how many times have I lain awake at night going, Why did he tell me he sees a future with me someday? When is 'someday'? Next week? Next year? And what was that about him not wanting kids....? Like, he really doesn't want kids, or he's just trying to confuse me? Would he be cool with getting a dog?

4. Pennywise's Face Is A Rotting Corpse Behind His Clown Mask.

Actually, I think this is just Pennywise- although sometimes my ex did have bad breath.

5. The Only Way To Kill Pennywise Is To Recognize Your Own Internal Fear And Fight Him With It.

While it's always scary dumping someone you know isn't right for you and becoming single again, in the end you know you made the right choice. Also, like Pennywise, my ex had a really bad haircut that the shallow side of me just couldn't deal with.

I think that every woman in America should read Stephen King's It as a reference on what types of guys you should avoid. And let's be honest- each of us have been on a date with somebody who resembles a murderous clown- it's when they invite me back to their sewer for a night cap that I know to politely decline.

Sunday, June 6, 2010

Dating Scene Amnesia

I didn't meet my husband until I was in my thirties, which means my twenties were comprised of dating- lots and lots of dating. I remember the hardest part wasn't meeting men- it was keeping track of them all. When you're single, your life is comprised of two things: getting drunk and hooking up. Which means things get confusing sometimes.

One of my friend's phones rang the other day.
"Oh, god, Mick is calling me," she moaned, staring at the cell phone screen.
"Who's Mick?" I asked.
"Um..." her brow furrows. "I think it's that guy I hooked up with at that bar last night- I don't think I liked him."
"You mean Mike?" I questioned. "And we weren't at a bar last night. We were at a house party."
"His name is Mike? Oh, god- what did I drink last night?!"
I took the cell phone from her and scrolled down her list of guys she meet while drunk and exchanged phone numbers with- Joosn, aadammmm, Rrn, and Mick where all in there. Somebody shouldn't text while drinking.
"I have a date with Max tonight," she said.
"Matt- his name is Matt," I replied.

I have another friend who was making out in her bedroom with a new guy, and he noticed a used condom on her floor. He froze mid-kiss.
"Um....whose is that?"
"Hmm...?" She looked over to where he was pointing at. "Oh- that isn't yours?"
"No." Stony silence.
Apparently, used condoms are like snowflakes- no two are alike. My friend quickly back-pedaled.
"One of my girlfriends- she- spent the night over here- because her place is getting painted- and brought home a guy- I was passed out on the couch- 'cause I was drunk- from- drinking- and-"
"Okay." Apparently he had shrugged and returned to the making out, which means he either didn't care or actually bought it.

I have another girlfriend who is dating three men- all named Brian. So it's Brian Red Shirt (because that's what he was wearing on their first date), Brian With The Weird Friend (because his friend is really, really, odd) and Brian Bad Idea (because he's an asshole).
"Ugh. Brian Red Shirt wants to go out tonight, but I made plans with Brian Bad Idea," my friend complained over the phone to me.
"I thought you were breaking up with Brian Bad Idea," I replied. "Plus, you know my favorite is Brian With The Weird Friend- he's super cute."
"I know, but he has that weird friend," she countered.

My idea? We need some type of website tracking system- like:

Greg Greggory
Met At:
Megan's Birthday Party (80s theme)
His Info:
Computer Programmer, kind of looks like Kevin Spacey, tall-ish, did a really funny impersonation of his mom, has a roommate (yuck).
You two met for drinks four days after Megan's party and he wasn't quite as funny as you remember but did tell you he liked your shirt and paid for the drinks so maybe he gets one more date before pulling the ripcord?

This would solve a bunch of confusion issues and end awkward used-condom encounters. And I could get that guy, the graphic designer with the blondish hair that my friend is dating- to create the website.....damn, what is his name?

Friday, May 28, 2010

Vending Machine Addict

My husband and I are vacationing in Tokyo this week, so writing out this blog means I`m spending roughly 100 yen for just 30 minutes on the hostel computer. 100 yen is something like, $100.00 US dollars and is not something we budgeted for, but I thought, the blog- I must write on the blog.

(100 Yen could also amount to more like one dollar, but either way- you`re welcome.)

Tokyo is everything one could hope for- a loud, stunning, awesome city full of culture and excitement. The food is amazing, the people are wonderful, the sights are spectacular. But the one thing that really stands out to me- are the vending machines.

Japan has something like 2 million vending machines, and they sell everything in them-drinks mostly, but also food, toys, underwear- you name it, you can get it in a vending machine- and they are addicting.

`Look, another vending machine!` I shout excitedly, pointing.
`Hmm...?` My husband was ignoring me and staring at a gaggle of extremely hot Japanese women coming up from the subway, their hair glossy, their legs gleaming under short shirts, high heels clicking against the concrete like a beautiful herd of supermodels. I was guzzling down some type of mango juice I had just purchased from a previous vending machine and looked like hell. Jet-lagged and sweating, sunscreen pouring into my eyes, my jeans sticking to the insides of my legs, shirt stained with deodorant marks and mango juice. My running shoes, which I had chosen to wear for comfort and durability, now looked like a bag of dirty marshmallows I had duct-taped to my feet. I will be genuinely shocked if my husband ever has sex with me again.

`VENDING- machine....right there.` I pointed again. We were lost somewhere between Ryogoku Kokugikan and Asakusa, which is as confusing as it sounds, and I was getting both exhausted and irritable- an ideal formula for an international vacation meltdown.

`I`m going to have a boner for the next week straight,` my husband sighs, looking wistfully at the retreating pack of gorgeous women. He finally looks down at me clutching at his shirt, over-heated and foaming at the mouth. `Haven`t you had like, ten vending machine drinks today?`
`One more, and that`s it,` I said, like a true addict. I would probably go through at least six to seven more. He handed me a pile of coins and I ran to the glittering, brightly lit machine for my fix.

The lowest point came yesterday, when I managed to get my forearm caught in a vending machine door.
`Help....` I grunted, my arm caught in between a cold milk chocolate and the Plexiglas. I withered on the concrete in pain.
`Oh god, they`re going to deport us.` My husband managed to wrestle my arm free of the beast, and finally victorious, I clutched the chocolate milk in my sweaty, blood-soaked hand. `You are DONE with the vending machines,` he said, mad now. `DONE.`

I agreed, sucking down the delicious ice-cold drink with a flourish. I was done.

Until our next trip to Tokyo, of course.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Scent of a Woman

Ugh, I shouldn't write about this, because it really doesn't put me in the best light- but I hate to shower.

I realize that saying you hate to shower is about as repulsive as it gets. And mind you, I didn't say I DON'T shower- I just said I hate it. Like I hate hiking (boring) or working late (yuck) or social conservatives (bigots).

For most people, showering is probably a fun, happy, ordeal full of bubbles and warm water and relaxation. For me, it's a torture chamber of awkward shaving, soap in my eyes, and creepy prune hands. Am I watching Saw II?

Getting me to shower is a three step process.

1. Husband says, "When's the last time you showered?"
2. I say, "Last night." (A lie.)
3. Husband says, "I think you should shower."

Ugh, the PROCESS. Shampoo, conditioner, apply shave gel, shaving, soap, weird loofah brush- jeez, Alcoholics Anonymous has less steps. And unlike AA, I don't always come out clean.

"Did you use soap on your armpits?" My husband asks, accusingly.
"Um...yes?" (Another lie.)
"Get back in there."

A couple weeks ago I was using Febreze Air Freshener on my couch cushions, and for good measure, I sprayed myself down as well. The label on the bottle said "eliminates odors and freshens fabric, carpet, and air", and I figured, well, I'm wearing fabric, breathing air, and the carpet? Well, that's just a really obvious obscene joke I'm not going to even bother with.

"You smell so good!" My friend Kristin greeted me with a big hug and a compliment, and I thought, wow- Febreze does work. Eat my dust, Soap! (No pun intended.)

The downside of replacing showering with Febrezeing is, well- it's really weird, and also- people start to catch on.

"You smell like a wet dog trapped in a Glade factory," my sister said, which was pretty rude. It was also the truth. I broke down and took a shower that night, after 5 days and 4 nights of Febrezeing my rotting, putrid, dirty body down. Finally clean, I wrapped a towel around myself and stepped outside of the bathroom.

"Did you use soap on your armpits?" My husband asks- again.


Sunday, May 9, 2010

There's a Pill for That

I just LOVE abusing prescription drugs.

I realize some people might not find that very cool, but those are the people that aren't rolling Prozac. Because if you're on Prozac, EVERYTHING is cool.

Mind you, nothing is actually wrong with me- nothing obvious, anyway. I abuse prescription drugs because it's the incredibly hip thing to do. Everybody and their mom in Hollywood does it- like when the hot young starlet pulls a bottle Ritalin out of her Gucci clutch and passes it around at da' club- so sexy.

Coke is too 80's, alcohol is too 90's, pot isn't elegant- but prescription drugs? That's what It Girls take- right before they go on stage/act in an indie film/make love to a rock star/shop.

The key to getting your hands on the stuff is to A) Lie, and B) Have Multiple Doctors. The rest is easy.

Me: "I'm depressed."
Doctor #1: "You're depressed?"
(Of course I'm not depressed. I am way, way, too shallow to actually feel any real human emotion- clearly Doctor #1 doesn't know me at all. Depression to me when I find a skirt I like at Nordstrom and they don't have my size.)
Me: "Yes. I am VERY depressed."
(Read- Prozac makes me lose weight, and I really, really, want Kate Bosworth's emaciated body- you know Kate Bosworth, right? She looks like ET, in that scene where the government catches him, and he's all white in that coffin incubator? THAT'S the weight I want to be at.)

Me: "I'm having panic attacks- I think I need Xanax."
Doctor #2: "You're having panic attacks?"
(Yes, I'm having panic attacks. When I don't have Xanax, I panic. Cue laughter.)
Me: "HUGE panic attacks."
(Read- Popping a Xanax is like downing a six-pack of beer- without the calories!)

Me: "I can't concentrate."
Doctor #3: "You can't concentrate?"
(I can concentrate, but only on stuff like gossip magazines, episodes of The Real Housewives of New York, gorgeous jeweled sandals, and devising a plan to make Christian Bale fall in love with me. I can't concentrate on stuff like my job, paying bills, nurturing healthy relationships with my husband/family/friends, or living in reality.)
Me: "Nope. Can't concen- what did you say again?"
(Read- Adderall is a psychostimulant that makes me sharp as a tack- with it, I can shop for 12 hours straight- without stopping. Thanks for calling, Visa, but no, my credit card wasn't stolen.)

I told my coworker how awesome Ambien is as a sleep aid, and she goes, "I would NEVER get on anything like that- I would be afraid I'd get addicted."

Oh, okay, so this evening you enjoy a boring night's sleep, and meanwhile, in MY dreams I'll be flying across space on a unicorn's back. Apparently, some people are too good for prescription drug abuse. What, you want a gold medal? And by the way, getting addicted IS the whole point- duh.

Eventually I'll have to stop, and get my highs naturally- through really lame shit like eating right, exercising, and maintaining healthy relationships.

Until then, I'll just find a pill for that.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

RIP Irish/Cop Jokes

I just love beating a joke to death.

I am the Grim Reaper of jokes, puns, sarcasm, and wit. An idea, a situation arises and my mind just goes and goes and goes and I can't stop. It's totally OCD- I should get some medication for that.

My friend, I'll call her Angus, (because really, Angus is the Jennifer of 1923) told us that her new boyfriend is a police officer...and, he's from Ireland. It was like being handed a Christmas gift.

Let the rain begin!

Me: "I guess if you're being arrested by an Irish're not so lucky after all!"

Angus: "HA HA HA!!"

Me: "Is that a gun in your pocket-literally-....or are you just happy as a leprechaun to see me?"

Angus: "HA HA HA!!"

Me: "Be careful where you're shooting that thing (comparing his gun to his cock)- unless it's at me!"

Angus: "HA HA HA!!"

Me: "Four leaf clover? More like four leaf HOLSTER!"

Angus: "HA...?....does that rhyme?"

Me: "What does an Irish Cop find at the end of a rainbow? A pot full of donuts?"

Angus: "Um, that's not really funny."

Me: "So you're saying no to gun control, but yes to PUN control?"

Angus: "Okay, please stop."

I could fill an entire page full of Irish/Cop jokes, but really, I want you all to keep reading my blog, so I'll end the torture.


Okay one more- How do you get out of a speeding ticket with an Irish Cop? By using your lucky charms, of course!

HA HA HA!!!!

Friday, April 23, 2010


I really do not like playing Scrabble.

It makes me look dumb. And while I'm not saying I'm that smart, I really don't need people to know that:

A.) I can't spell.
B.) Trying to put together words from a random collection of wooden squares is not only impossible, but also really, really boring.
C.) Isn't Housewives of Orange County on? Shouldn't we be watching that instead of playing Scrabble?

Once I made the mistake of playing this nightmare of a game with my husband's parents. His mom put down something like 'BACCALAUREATE' and I responded by putting down 'HEN' on the board. They officially think I'm an idiot.

Me, my mom, and my sister were all playing Scrabble last night, and I found myself with these letters: U, L, A, M, S. So I took the U and placed it sideways on the board, spelling out CLAMS.

"I'm not sure you can do that," my sister said, frowning, and then pulled out the rules on the back of the Scrabble box.

"You are SO creative, honey," my mom said, patting my hand. "That should definitely count."

My sister shrugged, mostly because she really didn't care either way, and marked me down for 28 points (double letter score!). Honestly, my family is probably the least competitive one on earth- 99% of our games end up in a 'tie'.

I followed that by adding a S onto ROBOT, creating ROBOTS and getting like, 50 points for the whole word. Again, I'm not sure if any of this is legal, but we were all drinking wine and past caring. I capped the game off by adding a sideways V, combined with another sideways U with O and D and added it to my earlier word.


"Clams are less than Cod," I stated.

"That makes absolutely no goddamn sense, and I'm pretty sure you can't use a sideways V to create a greater than/less than math symbol in Scrabble," my sister said.

"Clams are less than what?" Mom asked.

"I think clams cost less money than cod," I replied.

My sister snorted. "Clams cost MORE money, because the shells are heavy."

I shrugged and flipped the wooden V letter.


"That's better," my sister said, and put me down for 72 points.

"I just love clams," my mom said, taking another sip of her wine. "They are delicious soaked in butter and garlic."

Did I just mention above that I hate Scrabble? Scratch that. I love Scrabble- but only if I'm playing with my mom and my sister.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Above It

I was at work yesterday, in the break room, chatting about Jennifer Lopez.

"So, her kids, Max and Emme- they look JUST LIKE Marc Anthony. It's like he had sex with himself and gave birth to the kids- like, shot the kids out of his own body, you know?" I sucked down a big swallow of Perrier (because it makes me feel sexy and French) and continued. My audience was four coworkers, all thoughtfully chewing their sandwiches and listening. "You can just tell she is genuinely happy with Marc- I don't know WHAT that thing was with Ben (Affleck), but her and Marc just make sense- I can tell they work- don't ask me how, I just know." I was nodding as I was talking, like J Lo was a personal friend of mine and not some worldwide super star.

One of my coworkers, Samantha, snorted. "Oh, who cares about Jennifer Lopez? I've got other things to worry about."

I smiled thinly.

I think one of my biggest pet peeves is people who think they are 'above' pop culture. I call them the AboveIts- their mantra? Reality television is trash, gossip magazines are garbage, Hollywood blogs for people who have no life. I'll mention how great it is that Angelina and Brad donated something like $10 million dollars to Haiti and they'll roll their eyes and go, "ah, actors." Um, excuse me? Have you donated $10 dollars to Haiti? Probably not.

And Samantha, who has 'other things' to worry about? She's referring to her golden retriever, who keeps puking all over her carpet. I told her not to get a dog, but did she listen to me? No. She's just jealous of J Lo's buttery caramel highlights. I know this because I got her drunk after work on day, and she literally said, "I just love J Lo's buttery caramel highlights."

So I didn't say anything to Samantha, because yeah, she'd probably rather be a gorgeous, rich, and famous superstar as opposed to a computer specialist with a weak-stomached dog. So if taking a knock on J Lo makes her feel better, so be it.

But if she goes after my girl Lady Gaga, we're going to have problems.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Dear Mom.....

My girlfriends and I spent last weekend in California drinking wine and eating too much food. Friends + wine = much hilarity. I feel bad for guys sometimes, because they don't get drunk on white pinot grigio and then compare bra sizes, like we do. They don't know what they're missing.

The subject of our mothers came up, as it always does when you get six girls together who love to bitch and moan. The relationship between mothers and daughters is part psycho, part love, part hate. That's just how it is- mothers know how to annoy and torture their daughters, and in return those daughters know how to rebel and horrify their mothers. It's really quite poetic.

One of my friends mentioned that she would love to write just a really simple, honest letter to her mom instead of the usual 'I'm fine' phone call. My friend then said, "Dear Mom.....last Tuesday, I ate two Lean Cuisine's, drank four beers, and then masturbated during an entire Law & Order episode."

We laughed for about two minutes and then took turns sharing our own Dear Mom letters.

"Dear Mom.....remember that time I slept over at Kimberly's house in 11Th grade? I was actually losing my virginity in the back of a Ford Taurus."

"Dear Mom.....I have been drunk every Christmas morning since 1994."

"Dear Mom....when I go out to the bars, I typically seek out men that will be a detriment to both my physical and mental health."

"Dear Mom....mock neck turtlenecks will never be 'elegant', as you so fondly describe them."

Now, we wouldn't ever waste our time and actually write these letters to our moms, as they would just roll their eyes and toss the letter in the trash, mumbling about their daughters 'acting out' again.

Plus, I'm busy eating a Lean Cuisine and watching Law & Order.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Branson, Missouri- Your Next Vacation Spot

Has anybody else seen the commercials for Branson, Missouri?

Known as the "Live Music Show Capital of the World," Branson, Missouri, is truly a one-of-a-kind family vacation destination- AND an incredible value!
Branson has more than 50 live performance theaters, three pristine lakes, 12 championship golf courses, an international award-winning theme park, AND dozens of attractions and museums!
Branson has a Historic Downtown district, great shopping, a full range of dining options, AND a host of hotels, motels, resorts, RV parks, campgrounds, and meeting conference facilities!
Visit Branson- no passport needed!

Oh, GOD.

First of all, I have never heard of Branson. I've heard of Missouri- that's one of the mid-west states, right? But Branson?! They want me to vacation in Branson?!?

First of all, describing your vacation destination as a place that has "an award-winning theme park" and "a host of RV parks" is not appealing. Not. Appealing. Think about it- does Paris ever have to point out that they have plenty of "conference facilities"?! Of course Paris doesn't have to do that. Because Paris is cool.

I really don't want to be rude to Branson. I'm sure the people there are very nice. But fuck, if I have a choice between Branson and oh say, Barcelona- I'm going to Barcelona. Adios, Branson.

Is it the hot new budget-friendly spot? I couldn't help that notice Branson is advertising itself as an 'incredible value'. Funny, because the package on the 3-pack of tampons I just bought at Costco also described themselves as an 'incredible value'. I guess Branson, like my tampons, absorbs unfertilized human waste.

(Did I just write that? God, I'm good.)

Branson mentions that you can visit this amazing place, "no passport required". Right, because god forbid any American actually spends $60 for a passport and expands his/her horizons experiencing another culture. Why discover Tokyo when you could go to a titty show in Branson, followed by an all-you-can-eat buffet? Branson it is!

I was being a little facetious before when I mentioned that I wasn't familiar with Missouri- I was actually born in Hannibal, Missouri- birth place of Mark Twain. I wonder if Mr. Twain ever went to Branson?

I hear they have some great amusement parks there.

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

The Grocery Store

I hate cooking. And I'm not trying to be the obvious, 'I can't cook' type, like I'm Jessica Simpson, ha ha ha, what's a can opener?!? No, I mean I fucking HATE cooking. H-A-T-E it. If I am on my own, it's tuna straight out of the can, with Jack Daniels on the rocks. I am not kidding- I had this exact thing for dinner last night.

Which brings us to my husband, who is fucking Jamie Oliver on crack. He just LOVES cooking. Toasted fennel seeds on a salad? Done. Banana bread made from scratch? In the oven. Beef roast marinated in white wine sauce? Child's play.

So we made the agreement that I would grocery shop and he would cook. He gave me this list:

Eggplants (aubergines)- 2 small, 1.5 lbs.
Fresh Basil
Farfalle, or medium-sized pasta
Marjoram (1/2 teaspoon)
Chicken broth (1 can)
Pine Nuts (1 cup)

"You'll do great, honey," he said, clutching me in a tight embrace, like a parent sending his child off to college.
"What are you making?" I asked, the list clutched in my sweaty palm.
"Farfalle with roasted pork and eggplant."
Christ. If he had said, 'I'm solving a differential equation', I would have been just as confused. I struggled into my coat and left for the grocery store.

For the record, I am not a fan of the grocery store, mostly because it is like a mall but instead of cute clothes you get really boring shit like garbage bags and milk. Yawn.

I started in produce, because the first two items on my list were eggplant (aubergines? WTF?) and basil. He had written two eggplants on the list, but I grabbed one big one and called it good. Basil is basically lettuce, so I grabbed a head of the iceberg kind and moved on.

Farfalle, or medium-sized pasta? Um, it's called spaghetti, honey. Apparently I married some type of preppy food snob without realizing it. I grabbed three boxes of spaghetti, because it's always good to have some extra in the cupboards in case you want to make butter noodles (butter + noodles = DELICIOUS).

1/2 teaspoon of Marjoram? What, I speak Greek now or something? What is marjoram? Sounds like something I could just ignore....Kim Kardashian and Reggie Bush broke up?!?! My grocery cart came to a screeching halt in front of the magazine stand. I thought he was going to propose after winning the Super Bowl?! I added the gossip mag to cart, devastated over Kim and Reggie's demise.

Chicken broth and pine nuts? God, I was bored- would this list never end? What, I'm my husband's personal shopper now? I added a six-pack of chocolate pudding to my cart, some Maybelline blush in apricot pink, and an ice scraper. Because if you live in Colorado, every car should have like two of these in the trunk.

At the checkout counter, the cashier asked me if I would like to donate a dollar to some school program. I said yes, because I'm real generous like that. I also threw a pack of gum onto the mix.

My husband was not happy when I got home. He frantically rummaged through the grocery bags. "Where's my pine nuts? Iceberg lettuce is NOTHING like basil." I gave him one of my, 'I did the best I could' looks, and he gave me a hug. He thought it was sweet I tried. Then he grabbed the car keys and went back to the grocery store.

Relieved, I collapsed on the couch with my gossip mag. I bet Kim Kardasian never has to shop for basil.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Homeless = Hot

I saw an incredibly good-looking homeless man yesterday.

I was at an intersection, stopped at a red light, probably on my way to the mall/an organic bakery/pedicure when I spotted him. My jaw hit the floorboards of my 1995 Subaru.

He was, in a word, stunning. His tattered jeans were slouched around his waist, a tiny bit of hip bone setting off the flat, ripped contours of his stomach. His dirty t-shirt magnified his arms, ripped with muscle. His face was a perfect mix of Johnny Depp and Gerard Butler- weathered yet soulful, deep with a hit of child-like youthfulness. His dark hair was tousled and dirty from lack of washing, but dirty in a good way, you know? He looked like the lead singer of some hipster rock band, or an actor in an indie flick, or some type of heroin-addicted model.

Just fucking gorgeous.

I wanted to take him home, bathe him, feed him, and make him mine, but I'm married, so that was out. I quickly ran down the list of single girlfriends I knew. Jannie was into edgy, dark guys- they would be perfect together. She could easily overlook the homeless thing. His cardboard sign even said, "Will work for beer." Ha Ha Ha! He was even funny! What a catch!

I desperately rooted through my purse for my card to give to this gorgeous man, and then the light turned green. Fuck! I stalled for a moment and panicked, until the car behind me honked and I was forced to drive on, my beautiful man lost to me forever.

Depressed, I drove on, knowing I would never see my true love again. Until I passed through that intersection again, of course.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Me, Nick, & Joe

If I found a genie lamp and was granted just one wish, anything I wanted in the entire world- I would request a three-way with Nick Jonas and Joe Jonas.

Wouldn't that be awesome?! Me, taking the virginity of two out of the four Jonas brothers?! (Yes, there is a fourth Jonas brother, he's like ten and a bit of a porker.) I could be like, "I fucked half the Jonas brothers." People would want to be my friend just because I would be the Girl Who Had A Three-Way With The Jonas Brothers.
I can imagine me in a job interview: "So, what can you tell us about yourself?"
"Well, I had a three-way with Nick and Joe Jonas."
"Oh my...god....oh wow, you are HIRED!"

Now, I wouldn't include Kevin Jonas in this little gang bang because, if I'm honest, he's the least cute of them. No, I just want Nick and Joe, naked in my bed for about 45 minutes. That's all I would need.

There are a few reasons this would be my genie wish- first of all, they annoy me. They annoy me because they are running around with those purity rings on their left hand, saving themselves for marriage, and their songs are too cutsy. They don't drink, they don't snort coke, they don't DO ANYTHING. You know how when you see a juicy, fresh, wholesome crap apple on the sidewalk, fallen from the tree, you just want to step on it? Because that sound, that CRUNCH, is so satisfying, and so is the feeling of the crab apple buckling under your foot? THAT is why I want to have a three-way with the Jonas brothers.

I know that after the three-way, they would be both hungover (because we would have done rum shots out of each others' belly buttons)and probably feel extremely weird (because I made them kiss each other at one point.) But a couple weeks after this repulsive incident, they would feel raw and honest and REAL. Like they had lived- and that is what I'm after.

Some of you might have asked the genie for oh, say, a million dollars, as opposed to a three-way with the Jonas brothers. But I'll just tape the whole event and then blackmail them with it- so I'll get my three-way AND a ton of cash. As Marie Anntoniette said, I'll have my cake and eat it too.

Assuming your cake is a three-way with the Jonas brothers.