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.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

A Lighter Shade of Pale

"Honey...are you sick?"

This was once asked to me by the mother of one of my boyfriends. We were sitting outside and I was in shorts, my chalky, white legs exposed for all the world to see.
I didn't want to embarrass my boyfriend's mom, but I couldn't lie, either. So I just said what I always say when somebody asks me if I'm sick.

"No, I'm just really pale."

She quickly stuttered an awkward apology, but I didn't mind. I mean, I AM pale.

You know how girls like to have fat friends so when they are compared side by side, they look thinner? Well, my friends like to stand next to me so they look like some kind of goddamn Malibu Barbie. Bitches!

If an albino and a piece of chalk had a daughter, it would be me. Under florescent lighting, I'm so white I'm blue. I have enough bronzer in my bathroom to fill a dumpster.

There are some advantages to being this pale- like, I use it as an excuse to get out of outdoor activities.
"Sorry, I really can't go on a hike/bike/run- you know, my skin." My dermatologist adores me- he calls me an 'alabaster miracle'- not kidding. It's flattering but a little weird. My husband says I remind him of a Nicole Kidman or Kate Blanchett (minus the looks, money or fame)- but I think that's a lie. (He's married to me, so he has to say stuff like that.)

Ideally, I would have been born in England in 1432. That's when being pale was the hip thing to do- it separated you from the super-tan farmers and made you look rich. People would powder their faces to look just like I look naturally. Damn you, 21st century!

There's really nothing I can do about it, except apply sunscreen every day of my waking life and smear on enough bronzer to make me look like I am a living, breathing human being as opposed to a walking corpse. Oh, and if you see me out and about? Please feel free to stand next to me- you'll look like Malibu Barbie.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Mom: Bearer of Gifts

I really, really, love my mom. She is super loving, supportive, and and wonderful person. I'm really, really, lucky to be her daughter.

Until she gives me a gift.

Now, I really don't want to come off as ungrateful, because she did give me the ultimate gift- life. And for that I am eternally grateful- but c'mon, Mom, a fucking Dream Catcher for my 21st birthday? Christ!

For Christmas, I'll get a variety of stress-reliving CDs, a family-size pack of dried fruit, and a forest-green mock turtleneck. My sister will unwrap some cinnamon-flavored incense, a pair of Isotoners, and a silver bolo tie. My dad will get about eight Cosby sweaters and sunscreen. It's like she went into a Costco or Sam's Club blindfolded.

When my husband joined the family, he got a lot of rocks. Like, literally, rocks. He's a geologist and actually
"Thanks, Mom!" He says enthusiastically, opening his third piece of granite while my sister is strangling herself with the bolo tie under the Christmas tree and Dad has disappeared under his mountain of argyle.
"No problem," Mom says, and gives him a big hug. I can see her smirking at me over his shoulder and then she says to me, "If you're lucky, honey, YOU might get rocks next year."
That's another one of her tricks. She loves to pit us against each other for these gifts. And somehow, it occasionally works.
"Why did Dad get a rope light and I didn't?" I whined, drunk on eggnog and Captain Morgan- a lethal combination. And by the way, rope light is just what you think it is- a rope of twinkle lights. It's pretty much the dumbest thing on earth.
"Well," Mom says settling down on the couch. "We don't always get what we want, do we?" My husband was stacking his rocks on top of each other, and my sister was officially passed out, the bolo tie now a noose around her neck.

The kicker out of all this is that Mom always gets great gifts- Coach purses, silk robes, European fragrances. She always thanks us, and then these items disappear into the back of her closet, never to see daylight again. I definitely know how the Indians felt when they got a case of liquor in exchange for the state of Kansas.

Maybe I need to switch it up- get Mom the same random shit she is distributing off on us. A toothpick holder in the shape of a wolf, a scarf the color of vomit, 3-pack of deodorant. You know, the basics.

Looks like me and Captain Morgan are going to need to make a Costco run.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Census 2010

I got home last night and my husband told me that the 2010 Census arrived. I excitedly ripped open the envelope and settled down at the kitchen table with a glass of wine and a pen. Maybe this is just me, but I think it's pretty exciting telling the government all about you. I mean, they need to know who you are so they know how to spend their money- if the government based their spending in Denver on me alone, you would be able to write blond highlights off on your taxes.

I carefully penned in my name and address, and then the complicated questions began.

Well, technically, my husband and I live in a condo, so this question doesn't really apply to us. So I wrote down 0.

Well, let's see...I hosted Book Club over at my house twice, and had a New Year's Eve party, my sister has been over about what, a dozen times? And then the sink backed up twice and the plumber came over- hm. I wrote down 65, because that seemed about right.

My husband owns it, so I put down the third option, because I am certainly not giving him rent. But I didn't want the government to think I was some kind of freeloader, so then I wrote, 'but trust me- I'm earning my keep- if you know what I mean'- and then I added a little winking smiley face.

Yeah, right. They just want to sell my phone number to some telemarketing firm trying to sell me insurance. Nice try, fuckers! (I left this blank.)

God, this was getting boring. Didn't they already ask me this? I wrote, 'Condo owned by my Overlord'- and left it at that.

Yes, please.

Who is this 'person' they keep talking about? And what, the government is harassing me about having a baby now? What, did my mom write this? I wrote, 'when and if my husband and I decide to have a baby- well, that's none of your goddamn business'.

Please, my husband and I couldn't BE any whiter. The other night we had a conversation about granite counter tops while eating a spring salad garnished with toasted fennel seeds.

Please refer to question #8, 'toasted fennel seeds'.

I almost wrote, 'sometimes when we fight my husband crashes at his mom's house', mostly because that's fucking hilarious. But the truth is, my husband is adorable and so I wrote, 'the only place my husband lives is in my warm embrace.' I thought the government would appreciate that, with all the sad stuff going on in the world and everything.

Finally finished, I added a couple of my unicorn stickers to the form and sprayed it with Beyonce's newest fragrance, Heat. It smells so good. Now, about that tax refund on my highlights....

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Pop Culture Collision

Christmas came early this year because yesterday, the latest issue of both US Weekly and InStyle showed up in my mailbox.

Usually I get InStyle on Fridays and US Weekly on Mondays, so this was a serious treat. I thought I was going to have a boring Saturday but, no- fate intervened and injected me with a shot of girly pop culture. Yes! Not only that, but I had stolen an issue of OK! Magazine from the gym on Friday, which I had yet to peruse. Awesome!

I eagerly grabbed the magazines and raced into the house, clutching them to my breast like they were small children.

I was quickly in the middle of US Weekly, (mostly because it only takes me 12 minutes to read the entire thing cover to cover and, damn, Kate Bosworth looks SPECTACULAR in that leather skirt), about to devour OK! when I got a text from one of my coworkers: Eclipse trailer released– have u seen it?

What! How did I miss this? I considered myself a bit of a connoisseur of Twilight gossip, and I missed the trailer release of Twilight’s 3rd installment, Eclipse?! Fuck! Dropping US Weekly, I raced to the computer, got on my favorite gossip site (and when I say ‘favorite’ I mean one of the dozen I stalk) and watched the trailer on As always, Robert Pattison looked like a gorgeous powdered donut and Taylor Lautner a well-built stunner that would make me commit statutory rape without a second thought. I would do jail time for just ten minutes with you, Taylor. JAIL TIME.

I had finished watching the trailer and was on to downloading Lady Gaga newest music video ‘Telephone’ (LOVE her!) when my own cell phone rang.

It was my sister- “There’s a Keeping Up with the Kardashians marathon on right now,” she said.

AAHH!! I love the Kardashian family, mostly because I think the mom on the show, Kris, is hilarious. I dropped the phone, leaving both my sister and Lady Gaga hanging, and raced to the television where I slipped on the InStyle that was on the floor and ate shit into the coffee table. As I was falling, I pictured the headline in the paper: DENVER WOMAN KILLED BY POP CULTURE.


Luckily, my super-squishy couch caught my fall. Panting, I up righted myself and reached for the remote, my attention now focused the Kardashian sisters. Phew, I’m glad I wasn’t hurt- I mean, I haven’t read InStyle’s article on spring’s must-have accessories.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Me & Petey

I think the most challenging part of my job is pretending to care. Every day, I have to go into work and be sociable, enthusiastic, and positive. I simply can’t go up to the president of the company and say, “we’re not preventing genocide in Darfur- chill the fuck out"- even though I think this on a regular basis. Luckily, I'm a phenomenal actress, and my coworkers think that I am a truly appreciative and wonderful employee. I should get an Oscar.

In meetings, I fantasize about living on an island with Orlando Bloom. I drink Pina Coladas all day (yes, this island has a bartender)and have a dolphin for a pet- his name is Petey. Petey lets me ride on his back while he chases waves, and I laugh hysterically when he kisses me on the cheek with his wet dolphin nose. Orlando chases me on the beach as I giggle and the sun beats down on my tan body, and then we fall asleep in the sand, not a care in the world. Then my boss usually asks what my week looks like, and I mumble something about a meeting with finance and a vendor who just "won’t send me the right invoice.” My coworkers all nod in understanding, and I know I’m safe, at least for this week.

I mean, I am a really, really good actress.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

The Gift Basket Prodigy

I have one of those jobs that entails a lot of spreadsheets and data. Yesterday I was complaining to my husband that I have 'a TON of other talents' and that I am 'wasting them' on my current job. I was saying this over my second glass of Chardonnay, and when I'm drinking white wine I get really, really, cocky.
"I just..." I sipped my wine. "I'm just so, so, not appreciated over there, you know?" I waved my hand, wishing I had a cigarette to gesture dramatically with, even though I don't smoke. "I mean, I am talented." I refilled my glass. "I have ideas," I said, forcefully.
"Like what?" My husband was on his 3rd beer and staring off into space.
"Like..." I paused. "Like I make really, really, amazing gift baskets."
"Hmm...." Matt said, and nodded politely.
"It's like, a gift," I said, "no pun intended."

I realize that making incredible gift baskets might not be considered a true 'talent' where most folks come from, but trust me- my gift baskets make people weep. Like, for a baby shower, I'll tuck pink & blue bottles and a trio of hand-knitted booties into a nest of diapers tucked into a cradle-shaped wicker basket. I will tightly wrap the whole thing in cellophane and finish off the top with ribbon embellished with lace- but I won't stop there. The basket will be completed when I spray it with lavender and attach an adorably soft bear to the top of the masterpiece. It's a fucking Picasso. And, like most artists, I knew I would be misunderstood. Which is why my husband seemed confused.

"Aren't there....lots of gift basket companies online....that already do that?"

I snorted. "There aren't gift basket companies with my touch," I complained. "Some people make gift baskets, but I make memories." I didn't think that made much sense, but it sounded good.

Pouting, I went into the kitchen to get my husband another beer- but not before wrapping it in cellophane, of course.