...when trying on a blazer-type jacket you now always find yourself asking, "Okay, are the girls 'locked and loaded'?"
And I don't even have a big chest.
...when trying on a blazer-type jacket you now always find yourself asking, "Okay, are the girls 'locked and loaded'?"
And I don't even have a big chest.
Alright, I'm up on a DAMN SURFBOARD and can manage only
5 6 comments? Two of which are from Stella? (who, by the way, is getting extra credit for that)
[/sniff] Who ARE you people?
Sure the wave was only like a... footer, footer and a half-er but humor me; I was the "old chick" in these lessons.
(maybe should have I gone for doing some tricks? Perhaps a handstand or surfing while playing the ukulele on one foot while singing Hawaiian Rainbows or something? Or an artful photo of me biting it (because that I have actually, as that is how I "stopped")).
Anyway, while I'm comfortably in the Yippin Zone, other things that have bugged:
While in Hawaii, aka The Land of Awesomeness, I got to "hang out" with a lady who entered the elevator I was on as she was mid-teeth flossing and CONTINUED ABOUT HER FLOSSING BUSINESS ON THE ELEVATOR. Totally without embarrassment either, like, hey, this is what people do. They walk and floss. Floss and walk. Oh, and while TALKING with her friend. And you could hear the flick-flick of the floss going in and out of each tooth. I'm not even a germ-a-phobe but even I thought this was just too eck if not a touch (or 8 touches) too bizarre. So it was in that moment that I mentally awarded her a tie for Biggest Weirdo Encounter of 2007 (thus far - and the other half of the tie going to lady for crying on my feet). And I think this is saying something considering this means I'm giving Cat Scarf Lady a pass. Boy.
To the People Who Use Public Toilets: A word.
"How hard is this?"
Yesterday, I was in the nice Filene's Basement in Back Bay in Boston yesterday (hoity-toity section of Boston if you aren't familiar) and had to use the restroom. Alright, I know we all have at one time or another "seen some shit" (if you'll pardon the pun) - especially if the toilet is busted, or located in a dive bar, a gas station, etc., but when there is (quite a bit of) fecal matter ON the actual toilet seat, that is when I stand up and say, "Mother of Troy, What.The.Fuck?" I'm not even sure how the physics of that compute. Which vexes me so much so that of course this lent my stupid mind to drift to CONTEMPLATE the physics of this disgustingness. So thank you for that, Ms. Toilet Defiler.
The only thing I could think of was maybe someone was employing the Hovering Stance and things went terribly, terribly awry. Or maybe they had a child doing the business and things got ...tricky. Regardless, it is my contention (I'll make it my platform should I ever run for office) - You Mess It Up, YOU CLEAN IT UP. C'mon, at least TRY. I don't need your Hovering Stance pee on the lid forcing me to move onward or, if the situation forces the issue, clean it on your behalf (which incidentally for every row of 5 stalls, there is at least one with the Hovering Stance pee on it), and P.S. I CERTAINLY DO NOT NEED TO SEE YOUR POOP. In or ON the toilet.
Which brings be to bitch point #2a Flushing: Is this, like, really such a difficult skill to master? Or are people really just THAT lazy that they can't be inconvenienced to flush down their own excretions. I mean, come on.
Bitch point #2b: Oh, and here's a thought perhaps taking that extra second to make sure your ALL of your business went down the drain? I empathize that two flushes can be so labor in.....wait...no, ...no...actually, upon further reflection, it is really not so hard to do.
Flush, sometimes twice is what I'm saying.
Lastly, to The Self-Imposed VIP Entitled Assholes Who Walk Around Town:
Quit. walking. into. me.
Do you know these people of who I speak?
You're walking, you're walking, you're paying attention while you're walking because that is just good sense and you are on a course, a straight course, and the person walking in the opposite direction almost seems to go out of their way to walk almost right into you. If I were a guy I would suggest that these people are RIGHT UP IN MY JOCK. Sometimes it's calculated and they know that they're doing it and don't care, and other times these people are veering because they cannot be bothered to LIFT THEIR STUPID HEADS ('stupid heads'..heh, and I didn't even plan that) because they are so, so very important. Or these people have a pal, or 3 to walk straight across the sidewalk but hey, don't mind me! I'll just be WALKING IN THE STREET OR PRESSING MY BODY AGAINST THIS HERE WALL LIKE A SCENE STOLEN FROM CAGNEY AND LACEY OR SOMETHING. MAYBE I CAN STAND IN THIS GARBAGE CAN TO MAKE SOME ROOM FOR YOU ALL.
Except not, because being the passive aggressive bitch that I am capable of being, yeah, I'm not moving. Oh sure, I suppose I could, but then I am basically reducing my life the real life version of Lifetime Television for Women's movie "Stutter Steps: A True Woman's Tale of Danger, Deceit and Total Bullshit". (Hmmm, I wonder if they could get Jennifer Boob Hewitt to play me. And maybe give her a shiv. Yeah, that would be pretty boss.) Seriously, I feel like I'm playing a human game of Frogger.
Also, P.S. to the chick in my building this morning: could you just give me a minute, slow your stride a mere half pace, and let me get out of the rotating doors FIRST before you enter my spot. Seriously, I'm pretty quick, and I know I said 'give me a minute', but really I'll only be a HALF A SECOND there, SWEET CHEEKS.
Okay - the yipping is over. I hadn't done that in very long while. Just needed to get that off my chest.
Have a nice day.
(Seriously, if you walk into me, may God have mercy on your stupid-headed soul.)
ALOHA! Here I am in Waikiki! Does the bikini wax makes sense now?
OKay, wait for it...yeah.... glad you're caught up.
I am blogging on a per minute basis, so excuse me if this sucks.
I have seen some interesting things in the past 24 hours...including this woman while waiting for my luggage at Hawaii Int'l airport.
I don't...I don't even know what to say to this. A fake cat scarf...thing. How...I mean...to each their own, I suppose.
Anyway...first comments upon landing and walking thru Hawaii's airport.
Me: (catching pleasant waft of floral scents from abundance of leis) "Ooh, smells good in here."
Mike: "Yeah, I remember that from last time... all the flowers here...they're everywhere."
Me: (after a few steps further, smelling food - possiblly steak - and I am hungry) "Mmm, something smells good..."
Mike: (nodding over to the left, laughing) "Yeah, you mean the Burger King?"
24 hours of travel will mess with you I guess.
Forewarning for the mens: This is a somewhat detailed account of my waxing "down there". Not explicit, but enough where you might just want to skip over this. If you're curious as to the goings ons, might I request you cram your no doubt quality remarks* about my lady bidness, particularly if I have to look you in the eye sometime in the future. Thanks a bunch.
(*unless you intend to pay me a compliment for bravery, then yeah - by all means, comment away.)
As I mentioned yesterday, I was off to get my first ever bikini wax. Being somewhat of a drama jerk, I may have gone on a bit about my nervousness. Though c'mon, let's consider the key players here:
Your private haired bits.
Hot wax being ripped off your private haired bits.
Oh, and you're paying for this.
I ask you - whose brilliant plan was this?
Anyway, as you can see, I have I made it out alive. As I told my friend Suz, quoting the formidable Destiny's Child, "I'm a sur-VI-vah." Not only did I survive and make this, but you can barely tell that I'm walking funny (or to rip from Cheers, "or should I say, 'funnier'?"-Diane)
To start with, I guess I should mention that barring formal medical training (complete with degree(s)), I am not really comfortable with those persons sans medical training seeing my naked anatomy South of the Equator. That said, you can imagine how thrilled I was when I heard the words every uptight girl wants to hear, "And you can keep your underwear on."
Oh bless your heart, miss.
Since I was a first timer, and I really didn't know what to expect as far as pain, so I popped a few Advil beforehand, luckily was wearing a very comfy pair of cotton underwear and constructed an approach as respects to the... the, ... uuh... "design" to be as pragmatic and "least invasive" in tone. Or what I affectionately refer to as, "The Chicken Shit Special." (TM).
The C.S.S. (as I call it) simply put is this: Put on a bikini bottom, any hair outside of the bikini bottom gets their walking papers, everything else inside the bikini bottom gets to live to see another day. Like God intended.
So there I was, my bottom half wrapped in a towel, and in my underwear. The girl who had the distinct honor of being "my first time" asked me to yank my underwear upwards to the sides as to where I thought would be reasonable for what I was looking to achieve. And then she offered, "Yeah, you might want to go higher than that."
It's not called the Chicken Shit Special for nothing.
First, they waxed along the sides of my underwear. No big whoop. Next, the ripping of the wax off the side. And truly, this? Also no big whoop. I honestly thought to myself, "Really, that's it? That's all ya got?" Don't get me wrong, it's nothing to be looking forward to or anything, but it didn't hurt. More of a mild annoyance. But when she said, "okay, there's a little bleeding but that's normal" my eyes did bug some. I didn't look right away, but when I finally did, damn if I could find any blood.
Of course, there's the hair that is outside the bikini bottom line that is in closer proximity to the, uh, you know, "Promised Land". She was going to just leave it with just the sides being done until I meekly mentioned about that other part of the bikini body. "Um, sooooo....can you do...I mean, I guess I can pass being shy about this and ask you, I mean, seeing as you've just seen my crotch and all."
She was amenable to this. Thankfully, this didn't involve any weird posing other than shifting my knee out to make a #4 with my legs (and trust me, after the research I have done on this topic (seriously, I invite you to read the comments of that entry), depending on the extent of the hair removal, there are positions that would rival the Downward Dog. And it was the possibility of these weird positions that caused me to worry, "Oh God, what if I fart? What if I HAVE to fart? I would die. Oh my God, I would absolutely die.")
This waxing, while a little more sensitive due to locale, also didn't hurt.
It (surprisingly) also didn't even hurt when she said she was going to get the tweezers to grab a few stubborn ones. ("uh, did you just say 'tweezers'??")
What was not pleasant was a result of her asking, "So, do you want a little off the top? Heh, that sounded kinda weird." I had asked do most people do that. Oh, they do? Alright, sign me up.
Okay, THAT was the part that kind of hurt like a bitch. That part I could have done without.
A few other positive highlights of this whole event (that took less than 10 minutes by the way):
Not hearing, "Hey Bev, clear all my appointments for the rest of the night."
Not hearing, "Yeah, we're going to need a lot more wax."
Not hearing, "Oh....well that's...interesting."
Not hearing, "Seriously, a new pair of underpants might run ya, what,...6 bucks?"
Not hearing, "Did you just fart?" Because I didn't. Not even once.
Overall, I would say the event a success. I might go so far to say I was worked up over nothing. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure if I gone in for the, um,... "Telly Savalas" as many women do, I might be singing a different tune. But I didn't and the C.S.S. worked for me and it can work for you, too.
And maybe, just maybe, I do have some superior High Threshold to Pain genetics working for me. And maybe next time, I can afford to be a little more brave.
I have done it!
I have made an appointment, for 6:00 this very evening, for a waxing.
(oh yes, down *there*)
Being that I am a first timer I am pretty anxious and it's my selfish hope that of the few non-recessive genes that I have in my aresenal, "high threshold to pain" is one of them. Still, even with the hope of manageable pain, I am terrified. Let's be honest here though, given what I am about to submit my delicate bits to, I would say my terror is **completely justifiable**. (Teebs, please, this is NOT the time to play your your "oh, I'll give you pain, Miss I- never just went thru 48.5 hours of labor, you sorry, whiny little scud. Go thru that - THEN we'll talk." card. Yeah, not always about you.)
If for some reason, I do not come out on the other end ...er, side...er Christ, I mean, IF I DON'T MAKE IT, it was lovely knowing all of you.
However, if I do in fact make it out alive (with a bag a frozen peas? whu? too soon?) I will be sure to post my tale of woe.
(Yeah, I know, I know. Aint you a lucky bunch.)
...Okay, now where did I put that bottle of Advil?...
I try. I swear to God, I try. But some days, despite my best efforts, I still end up with a day like this:
Awaken with Whitney Houston's "I've Got Nothing" stuck in my craw, complete with dramatic phrasing. Inside my head sounding something like:
[forte] "I've got NOTHING!
[piano] If I don't - have- you-uuuuu."
Repeat approximately 2,500 (+/-) times, you have my moring and afternoon.
Because I have nothing better to do, I contemplate how that song got there.
Realize, Oh yeah, the day before I read somewhere where a girl had gotten the phone number of a semi-famous MTV reality-TV star and though she wasn't naming him, she had mentioned he was a son of a very famous athlete and stepson to a famous producer. I was pretty sure I knew who she was talking about, but to confirm my suspicions, I IMDB'ed Br*dy Jenner (from MTV's The Hills, a show I am inexplicably into) where I was proven correct.
However, as I read his bio, I noticed that his mom is Linda Thompson-something or other and that she is listed as an actress and also "soundtrack", whatever that gig is. Thinking this name looked familiar as a producer/creator for a few shows I used to watch back in the day (Designing Women being one), I clicked on her IMDB link to figure out this edge-of-your-seat "mystery". Going thru her profile, Linda Thompson-something or other is married to David Foster and shares an Oscar with him for Best Original Song for the song (wait for it) "I Have Nothing"- a song used in the Whitney Houston flick, The Bodyguard. Boy. I also learned thru my extensive research that the Designing Women creator is Linda Bloodsworth-Thomason. Am colored impressed with myself because, this show came out in 1986... when I was THIRTEEN. How or why I can recall something this random and insignificant to my daily life and not other fairly important things kind of frightens me.
Also goes without saying: I really, really need to get a life.
After a day of Whitney Houston's "I've Got Nothing" on repeat and realizing that I need to get a life, I headed off to the gym. The gym, much like this assine song being soundtracked into my brainwaves, was no fun at all. I had no energy, felt as though I had accomplished nothing and it was a complete waste of my time. This put me in a somewhat salty mood. No big whoop but my mood only fueled my next (dumbass) move.
Having left the gym, it was around 8:15, and at this time of day the bus schedules are pretty skewy with bigger gaps in time between buses (as opposed to running every 10-15 minutes or so like they do at rush hour), I got to the bus stop and realized it was probably going to be awhile and so, even though I was carrying a lot of crap, walked to the next stop thinking "hey, at least it's exercise." Finally get there and wait. And wait. And wait. And Oh DEAR LORD, WHERE IS THAT FUCKING BUS?!
Somewhere around 8:45 I see a bus. Not MY bus (the #7), but the #11 that also runs to South Boston. Thinking the #11 runs by or near my house, I figured I would just hop on that and walk the one block to my apartment rather than wait until God knows for the #7.
Less than a minute later as the bus is taking a sharp turn that it wasn't "supposed to", with a sinking feeling realize, "Oh shit,... this isn't the...ohhhh, I wanted the #9."
I am on THE WRONG BUS.
It's a great feeling to have, really. Apparently odd integers confuse me.
I get off the bus and walk to the stop that I know sees the #9 - a bus that will, in fact, drop me in front of my house...I think. I really can't be trusted at this point.
By now I am starving as it's past 9:00 p.m. But ooh, what's that smell? Is that The Teriyaki House?
I walk across the street and order some pork lo mein. Not a second after the lady hands me my change and as if on cue to emotionally hurt me, the #9 rolls by.
The Teriyaki House peeps have my name and tell me it'll be 15 minutes (which, seriously? for lo mein?). I wait. And wait. And... MOTHER OF GOD, WHERE THE HELL IS MY LO MEIN???
Patience is not my strong suit right now...but I am trying.
I will learn is was sitting on the counter. They never called me. It just sat there for what felt like an infinity (or what was possibly 20 minutes) before some girl noticed me loitering and asked, "Can I help you?". UH, yeah yah can. Can I have my damn lo mein, please? (or more accurately, "I ordered Lo Mein." "Jean?" "Yeah.")
Finally, with lo mein in hand, I get the #9 bus. SEETHING.
And I probably could have stayed in a pissy mood for the rest of my otherwise shot night had I not heard a 3 year-old little girl ask her mom, "Do you smell farts? I smell farts. Is someone farting?"
I believe that would be my lo mein.
Just about every other day I get a call from a sister who is a mother on the brink. Sometimes the brink is beyond frustrated, because those kids, you know, They JUST. WON'T. LISTEN; sometimes the brink is beyond a Depends undergarment because the kids just don't understand how comical their fake American Idol is; and sometimes the brink is beyond hysterics because "Oh my God, I just think I broke the kid and now my husband is going to kill me."
Today was that latter one.
The phone call's transcript:
Kate: I think I just broke Owen.
(Age 2 in 2 weeks. That is, if my sister can manage not to actually "break him".)
Me: What do you mean?
Okay, you know how Owen has been potting training? Well, lately his thing is he doesn't want to wear a diaper. So I had him on the pot for awhile and when he was done, I left the diaper off. He was walking around without any pants on.
After that, I headed back into the office, and he followed me in there. I'm at the computer working on a paper for school and my back is to him. You know D's closet is in the office? Well, Owen was going thru it and all of a sudden, I heard The Scream.
Oh no…what happened?
Owen…had taken two.wire.hangers and...
Put those hangers between his knees and…
Ohhh….don't say it….
Got himself with the hook part along his testes.
Uh, yeah… And now I have to go "investigate". Which means I have to go near the area…that just got…you know.
Oh Lord… that had to go well.
Yep, he's got a scrape along one. But he stopped screaming pretty quickly though because I gave him a lollipop.
[laughs] That's some lollipop.
He says to me, (thru calming down tears) "Ah-allll better…Ah-allll better."
Then he says to me, "Ow, Mama, ow. Ice. Ice."
[laughing] Oh my God, really?
So I gave him an ice pack?
And he put it on his knee.
Then, J (Kate's sister-in-law) calls me after all of this. And as I'm telling her, you can hear that she is trying not to laugh. I told her, "Go ahead, laugh." Then she asks me if it is okay if she can tell her husband (incidentally, the twin of Kate's husband) this. I told her okay. She said when she did, "oh, you should have seen the look on his face.' I told her, "Yeah, it's probably the same one I'm going to get from D."
Updated to add: Owen has declared the area "all better" and "all gone", however, he refuses to let anyone near the [ahem] area. I guess we will just have to take the man at his word.