Once More with Feeling.

Spanish Fly Girls

While the rest of you did what ever it is you do on Wednesdays, Stella and I had ourselves a little "Oh, You Just Got SERVED, BITCH" Spanish-style.

After reading my 6 Weird Things About Me Meme that I was a Spanish addict of the worst kind: one with a limited vocabulary, Stella saw the opportunity for a little War of Words, Gringa style.

Both with only 2 years of high school Spanish, we were more or less even experience-wise(though I would remember halfway into this that she has just returned from a week-long trip to Mexico where I AM SURE THAT IS WHERE SHE CLIPPED SOME OF HER MORE ADVANCED VOCABULARY. But hey, at LEAST I KNOW HOW TO CONJUGATE. Well, for the most part.

It was touched off with an offhand comment in the Meme, "Pienso tu madre es muy mucho el guapo", I think your mother is very much the ladies man.

Stella responded:

yo pienso tu spanglish es muy bueno. y mi madre es no guapo. ella tiene mucho bonita estupida. tu padre es un nino de los fuerte pollos. como te gusta me ahora, beyotch!

I get all of this. "I think your Spanish is very good. And my mother is not the ladies man. She is very pretty stupid [note to Stella: see, this is why commas are a beautiful thing. Heh.] "Your father is the boy of strong chickens. How do you like me now, beyotch!"

I respond part English/Part Spanish:

My father may be the son of strong chickens, but I don't care how pretty she is, at least my mother is not very much the ladies man...like yours is.  o tan leí en las paredes del bano.

"Or so I read on the walls of the bathroom."

Stella suggests we have a "Gringa-Off".

I advise her that I'm not exactly shaking in my boots, so sure. I make a reference to a movie quote to no one in particular. "Vaya con huevos" ("Go with eggs"), a line from Nobody's Fool.

Stella writes:

cuando tengo mi huevos...tu (will) neccescitas ayuda....yo (will) patear* tu extremo*.  traiga es. hermana!

I read this as, "when I have my eggs, you will need help...I will to kick (too lazy to conjagate, S?) you extremely. Bring it, sister!

Apparently "extremo" is "butt".  We both cop to looking up "to kick" and she "butt".

I respond:

No estoy diciendo eso usted "wannabe gangta-fab", pero estoy diciendo que es eso veo eso sus dientes are capped con Legos amarillo.

I am not saying that you are "wannabe gangsta-fab", but what I am saying is that I see that your teeth are capped with yellow Legos.  By your own hands.

(basically calling her a wannabe rapper but too poor for real bling. Win-win)

Stella responds:

yo no quiero tu leggos amarillos. mi dientes son muy blanco, gracias.

necessita un nuevo zapatos. por que tu pies eres muy feo, y tu madre chupa tetas. tetas mas grande. yo no say. pero no llores, por que ella te gusta tetas y ella quieres bailamos con abuelitas gordas. que pasa?

Okay, this is where the wheels  start to fall off: part in vocab comprehension (me), part busted verbage (her).

I get that she says, "I do not want your yellow Legos. My teeth are very white, thanks. You need a (sic) new shoes. for you feet are very ugly."

but then..." and your mom [something] boobs. very big boobs. yo no say (still no idea? think she means "yo no se") but do not cry*  for she like boobs and she we danced with fat* grandmas*. what's up?"

I know my mom and "fat grandmothers" are being insulted. Later I'd learn what she is saying is that my mom likes to "suck boobs"  but "I don't know. but don't cry  because she likes boobs and to dance with fat grandmas."

Charming.

I respond:

no requiero nuevo zapatos por no tengo pies. usted habla acerca de mi madre's "tatas" y mi grande bailamos abuelitas, pero haga halbamos su padre's pezón* numero tres?

tambien, su pelo es muy bonita, pero digame esto, pueda ese color encontrado en la nature?

"I do not need new shoes for I have no feet. You talk about my mother's boobs and my dancing, fat grandmothers, but do we speak about your father's nipple #3?

Also, your hair is very pretty, but tell me this, can that color be found in nature?"

Stella responds:

(pee-ez) no 'pies' tonta. tu sabes? tu tienes diez pies. que pasa mi padres pezons? no tres. dos solamente. mi pello es mnaturel moreno. shhh no afectar*

jen. decirme. que estas hacer con todo ellos tetas. todo ellos tetas en la camisa?

Stella now thinks I am confused, because she thinks I'm thinking "pies" as in "baked good" and not "feet".

Her "translation":

Not 'pies' stupid (actually "tonta" is ""silly" but I'm not gonna split hairs here). You know? You have 10 of them... What is this about my father's nipples? He doesn't have 3. He has 2 only.

My hair is naturally dark, but don't tell anyone.

Jen. Tell me. What ya gonna do with all them breasts, all them breasts inside that shirt?"

I had no idea what "moreno" meant, so I looked it up and the dictionary said "colored person". Um, yeah it did. So, of course I did't think she is trying to tell me she is black or has "colored person's hair", but maybe was trying to say "person who colors [her hair]" and not "person of color". I also have no idea she is giving me the lyrics to The Black Eyed Peas song, "My Humps", so now I am wondering what is with all the boobie talk? Mine, my mom's? Huh? And no idea what "affectar" means... Not to alter/change?

I respond:

pardoneme S, pero tengo dies *dedos*, dos pies, ...DIEZ PIES?! AY CARUMBA, chiquita. Pero es verdad; tengo mis dos pies y tambien mucho bonita zapatos para mi bontito pies/dedos, differente de usted.

una pregunta para tu: que es su obsesion con de mi madre's "tetas"? mi madre's tetas este siempre debajo ella camisa. porque, es su mama's no? interestante, muy, muy interestante. explica mucho.

Excuse me, S, but I have ten TOES, two feet, ...TEN FEET?? Holy Moly, chick. But it is true, I have my two feet and also many pretty shoes for my pretty feet/toes, different from you.

A question for you: what is your obsession with my mother's "tatas". My mother's boobs are always under her shirt (you started asking "todo ellos tetas en la camisa? which in  my mind, "all her boobs in her shirt?") Why, your mother's aren't? (basically insinuating her mom flashes) Interesting.  Very, very interesting.  Explains a lot.

Stella responds:

hablando a tu tetas. no tu madres tetas. otravez. 'que esTAS hacer con..' TU!!! TU TETAS! sabes el cancion de Black Eyed Frijoles? Moniculos*?

soy una estupida gringa...me dios! DEDOS!! AHHH SI!! Muchas gracias.

Her translation:

"I was talking about your boobies. Not your mother's boobies. Again. YOU! YOUR BOOBIES! Do you know the song by Black Eyed Peas? Humps?

I am a stupid gringa. Oh my goodness. Toes IS DEDOS. Ah yes. Thank you very much."

Now this comes together a little.  I not a big BEP fan, so I'm glad she mentions this as I was beginning to think, "wow, she really likes to talk boob."

I respond:

que es "y tu madre chupa tetas" entonces? que de mis tetas? te gusta? gracias! (ha)

ah, el B.E.Ps ...si, ellos conozco pero no receurdo sus lyricas(?)de le topa (?) de mi cabeza! AHORA comprendo...

pienso tan pardoneme por mis palabras de su padre y ello pezon numero tres!

does horas hasta fin del dia. p.s. "monicculos"? "humps"?

then what is "and your mothers sucks tits?" (you were saying you were asking about me) What of my tits? You like? thanks!   ah, the BEPs. yes, I know them but do not remember their lyics off the top of my head. NOW I understand. I think.

So excuse me for my words about your father and his third nipple.

Two hours until the end of the day.  My Humps?

Stella writes:

si si senorita. "humps". ok, pero quien tiene un pezon numero tres? quiens padre?mi padre? or tu padre? tu padre es el nino de los pollos fuertes y ello tiene un tres pezon? tu padre es ell nino de los pollos fuertes y ellos tiene un tres pezon?

the words of the third nipple??? yo quiero 'topa' haha....fantastico! y 'tu madre chupa tetas'. chupa....suck. pienso. teehee. explaino luego. uno hora y quince minutos que ir!

Yes, yes woman. 'Humps'. Ok. But, who has the third nipple? Who's daddy?

My daddy or your daddy? Your daddy is the son of the strong chickens AND he has a 3rd nipple? I love your 'topa' [my word for "top"] haha....fantastic! And (I quote to explain that) chupa means suck. I think. Giggles. I'll explain later. One hour and 15 minutes to go!

She has missed the point 8 years ago my dig about her father having a third nipple (or "nipple #3") was in response to her digging on my mom. Eventually I translate the original line in an attempt to clear this up, because this to her was what the BEP's quote was to me. A big fat "wuh?"

I write:

Yo compredo ahora re: "chupa tetas", qual no original conozco era un lyrica.

"topa", [my word for "top"] eh, "closa enougha". heh. usted aprende neuvo vocabulario en su trip a Mexico con Vern y Finance?

I undersand now re: "suck tatas", which I  originally did not know was a lyric. [actually, it's not, but whatever]  Did you learn new vocab on your trip to Mexico with Vern & finance?

un mas cosa*, te gusta Christina Aguiliera's "Ven Conmigo"? Hago, muy mucho. Canto "Es-CU-CHA-MAAAAAAY!" enalta voz* en my coche quando no persona es alli. yo soy brilliante.

One more thing, do you like Christina Aguiliera's "Come on Over"? I do, very much. I sing "LISTEN TO MEEEEEE" in a very loud voice in my car when no one is there. I am brilliant

Stella asks if I will send a video clip of that, "please". At this point, we're running out of gas, or rather, I have Stella on the ropes, begging for mercy.

Stella:

and si to vacabulario en Mexico. soy un marcosa. y tengo boca suave.

are we done?  es final?  im exhausted. haaaaaaaa.

I agree, because I can't think of a way to drop "hamburgesa" or "aeropuerto" into this conversation and I am pretty sure my brain is *this close* to exploding salsa.

AY!

So, in the spirit of Whose Line is it Anyway, feel free to award meaningless points for who won this.

Or not. Because I know I won. Totally.

Duh.

It's the afternoon. You're thristy. You head to the vending machine for a soda.  You put your dollar in. You stand there, waiting for it to drop.  And stand there a few moments more.  You start to become concerned they are out.

You then have the realization that the machine is not a mind reader and it might be helpful if you'd press a button and make a selection first.

Well, it's like I'm always sayin, 'better late than pregnant'*.

I think I just had one of them "blogiversaries" sometime at the end of March (though if you were to go by the "Catholic Calendar", my anniversary would be Good Friday (tomorrow) which makes this a day early).  I wish I could say for you nice people who read this that this space has gotten a lot more interesting or deep or funny since my first post, an ode to my rekindled romance with Mac and Cheese, but hey, you get what you pay for around here, people.

Things that I have learned since starting this blog last March:

• Spell check is a beautiful thing**. Maybe I could break down and use it sometime.
• Corollary to the above, cheating in Mrs. Merrow's 8th grade typing class (i.e. peeking at the keyboard) is one decision that has really come back to bite me in the ass.
• There are some wickedly funny, creative people out there who really need to move to my block so we can chill sometime.
• I think I am better at the "photo essay" in Flickr which, by the by, looks like no effort at all, but really is a BITCH.

Though the biggest thing I have learned since becoming a blogger a year ago:

• There is no cool way to drop "I have a blog" into conversation. None. And don't think I haven't tried either. It especially difficult when a person doesn't know what one is, as then the conversation definitely takes on a certain "derailing" quality. "So, it's like a journal? Online? Nerd." and you futilely protesting, "No, no, no - you don't get it. All the cool kids have one. Really!"   And even if you're able to get past the "you're a geek" bit and they start to buy what you're selling, "So, um, here's my website address if you want to check it sometime." Just typing that makes me feel dorkified. So the people who know me in real life and know of this, you either have a blog of your own (so that's a push in the dorkified arena) or I am comfortable enough around you where I don't think you're gonna give me the eye roll.  Or I'm just cooler than you. Whatever.

Anyway, Happy Blogiversary TO ME!______________________________________________________________________________________

I was going to write this post of the worst April Fool's joke ever played on me on April 1st. Well, it's now April 13th.  I guess you could say I forgot.

Some background that might be handy:

As a teenager, I was never comfortable singing in front of my peers. I thought singing was "geeky". See, us band geeks could look down our noses at the chorus geeks because, "hey, at least we are MUSICIANS!"  Unless a girl was really, really good, maybe I would give a pass, but even the good ones found a way to grate on my nerves often over-singing and often with that annoying vibrato making decent songs sound like they were being sung by a young, female goat.  Regardless of my position on singing, I was thrown into having to by having to go to church where, wouldn't you know, other high school kids would be. So maybe mumbling the lyrics to a U2 song in the car was alright by me, but rocking the church tunes  in front of these people wasn't particularly high on my list of things to do. I wasn't alone on this one though, and so I, like millions of other teens around the country who attended church with their folks, defaulted to mouthing the words to such hits like "Let There Be Peace on Earth" and "Yahweh I Know You Are Near" (and that's if I wasn't feeling particularly defiant and just stood there staring straight ahead doing nothing which always got me "The Look" from my mom). Sure, I was a geek who was in marching band and Jr. Classical League (Latin Club), but even *I* had my limits.

So, it got to be this thing about getting me to sing during church. To her credit, my mom found her choice weapon of "Mass" destruction against moody, would be too-cool-for-school teenagers: Manipulation of Mob Mentality.  On the car ride over, she advised my 2 sisters and brother, "we aren't stopping for donuts afterwards unless I can hear Jennifer sing." I have to admit, nicely played. So on that particular Sunday, I made sure that not only would I sing VERY loudly (for one song only) BUT! I would have the last laugh and as I would DEFIANTLY and in STICKING IT TO THE (Wuh)MAN fashion-  and sing it BADLY.  Yes, the ultimate in passive aggressive Fuck Yous as far as I was concerned. Unfortunately, this only got a laugh from the group, including Mom.  Foiled again.  But at least we got the donuts!

Enter: April 1, 1989. Me, 10th grade.

The phone rang that afternoon. First, let me state the phone in our house was never for me; it was always for the phone clowns, Kate and Em, who were always making the mad dash for it, short of beating each other to a bloody pulp on the way there to see who'd  get to answer it. So when the phone rang, true to Pavlovian form, the phone clowns' fast twitch muscles were summoned and started to make their sprint for their lifeline. That afternoon, however, my mother put the smack down on the 'clowns and but quick.

"I got it."

My mother talked to the person on the other end for a few seconds and then surprisingly handed the receiver off to me saying something about it being a woman from our church about Kate's Confirmation and wanting to talk to me privately.  My mom left me alone in the kitchen and retreated back to the family room with Kate, Em and Bri.

I answered the phone and the woman introduced  herself as the choir director from Sacred Heart and that for that year's confirmation class, they wanted the kids from last year's class to sing at the ceremony.  A touch more than a touch torn about signing  for this gig as it went against "everything I stood for" (I was an Anti-ChurchSinger) but 1) it was for Kate and, (sorry Kate) more importantly, 2) my high school crush of 4 years, Kevin Grant, would probably be saying yes to this call and in my mind was, "hey, another clutch opportunity to hang out with him outside of school!"  So I nonchalantly committed, sure, what the heck, and almost as an afterthought before we hung up, she requested, "just so I can get a feel for your voice, can you sing a few bars of something for me?"

I assumed this was to determine if I was an alto, soprano, etc.  Again, church lady was "testing my limits of cool" but back in the day I was a pretty obedient kid when it came to figures of authority and searched my brain for a song that wasn't U2, REM or what have you. Wholesome church music, if you will....so what did I have in my arsenal?

Which brings me to my song selection. In grammar school, the kids on my block but on a few legit plays to raise money for MS: Annie and Oklahoma! I had all those songs memorized. So I pulled from the archives the song that was easiest to sing and remember lyrically and began quietly to cover my embarrassment but loud enough for the lady to hear:

"The sun'll come out....tomorrow...betcha bottom dollah that tomor-ooooh...they'll be sun...."

Mind you, I'm 16. Old enough to drive. And I'm choosing "Tomorrow" as my song.

The woman said to me, "Thank you, Jennifer. That was lovely. I'll be in touch shortly with the rehearsal dates."

I hung up and walked back into the family room. My mom asked what was going on. "They want me to sing at Kate's Confirmation. Something about last year's class performing for this year's or something."

And that's when everyone busted out, rather dramatically I should add, my song and laughed their asses off.  I just stood their looking confused.  "Jen, ...(laugh, laugh,laugh) that was Mrs. Niese!" Mrs. Niese was our good friend and neighbor who I would babysit for and worked at her in-house daycare during the summers. Now I'm realizing I hadn't recognized her voice to boot.  This joke was just spiraling.  Someone I knew well had just heard me sing "Tomorrow" --and without trying to be ironic or jokey. Christ Al-freaking-mighty.

I believe my initial reaction before the blistering-hear-of-a thousand-suns rage set in was could be summed up succinctly: "je suis mortifié" ("I am mortified").  After the mortification that an April Fool's joke had just been had at my expense, I stammered, "I...YOU...I ...WHAT?!...I DON'T...I DON'T BELIEVE YOU GUYS!...I HATE YOU ALL! YOU GUYS ARE ALL ASSHOLES!" and ran upstairs to my room and slammed the door.

After a few minutes of chilling out, I came back down still in shock and disbelief that I had been gotten and intermittently laughing at the joke and calling them assholes, tried to get some details of the joke.  Yes, they had listened to every word,  Yes, they were surprised I hadn't recognized Cathy's voice, and Yes, yes, a thousand times YES! they were definitely, bonus-ly surprised they'd gotten "Tomorrow" out of me. 

I should have realized that the other room got a little too quiet for my family when I took the call. In real life, that would have never happened.

* from a belated birthday card from my father. nice.

** Typepad's spell check really, really sux. The few times I do use it, I am constantly challenging it with Merriam-Webster and am often proven right. (to wit: "proven" isn't in Typepad's dictionary)

Honey, I broke the DVD player

I think I broke the DVD player tonight.

By putting in a new DVD I got today; a dvd I thought might help me with mah moves. Mah "sexay moves". (oh, and work on my core - very important.)

(but really, does it look like I need help?)

The bad part (how you say "and then things got MUCH worse")

The DVD I purchased tonight? The Carmen Electra The Lap Dance and Hip Hop Dance videos.

(Go ahead. Laugh it up. I don't care. This was all Target had for hip hop dance vids. Not that I am defending my selection here.)

Of the two videos that make this 2-part series, it's the The Carmen Electra Lap Dance DVD that's jammed in the dvd player. It won't play, it won't eject. Nothing.  The player just reads "load" (-10 for taking the easy shot).  At this point I have 3 choices: 1) hope it miraculously fixes itself by tomorrow, 2) get a new dvd player, or 3) take the dvd player somewhere to get fixed and grab the dvd before tech guy sees it.

So, really, when you think about it, Carmen Electra broke the DVD player. Stupid bitch.

Good God, this is so par for my life.

(p.s. I fully expect to lose some friends over this little admission.)

(p.p.s. I blame the fact that Grey's was a repeat this Sunday.  Had it not, I would have watched that instead of trying a new workout.)

One Way or Another...

There are times that I feel that not only can Karma give one the smack down for their actions or their words, be they spoken or written, but can also actually infiltrate behind the enemy lines that is The Mind. Or what you could call ONES SNARKY, BITCHY THOUGHTS. Even if they're short lived.

Not that I have any at all. Ever.

Okay, except for the time last week when I was in Wendy's buying lunch. The "Ghetto Wendy's" as I call it, as the clientele is just a tad more, uh, "interesting" that the others around town.

The woman in front of me was paying for her lunch with a c-note, and I had a thought pop up like, "who buys a $5 meal with a hundred dollar bill? That is so ...".   Well, do I really need to finish my asshole, snarky thoughts here? You get the picture. Yes, I am an asshole.  What else is new. (seriously though, why not breakdown and ask for some twenties? I'm just sayin'.)

Though I did catch myself before I got much beyond the word "so" and gave myself a little lecture all, "Jennifer, that is not nice and that is wrong for many reasons and just because...".  Yeah, your garden variety Why Can't We All Get Along speech.

But alas, it was too little, too late.

As I placed my order in my Ann Taylor best, reached into my wallet to grab my dough, saw the contents and I had to ask,

"So you guys take credit cards, right?"

Drunk Dialing with Jen

Friday night after work, I meet up with my girls, Suz & Jess for drinks. It's what you'd expect: drink and talk, drink and talk, Jen with significant verbal incontinence and getting up to pee every 8 minutes, and ending with Jess calling Jer to pick us up (he is so. damn. good. to us.).

On the ride over to Suz's place, and still remarkably in "won't shut the fuck up" mode, I offer we hang out at my apartment and get into this Ron Burgundy bit, "We'll drink scotch! Scotch, scotchy scotch, scotch*. Going down, in my belly..." and fortunately for me, Jeremiah knew where I was cribbin this from, and subsequently Suz and Jess got the distinct privilege of getting to listen to us in stereo singing the praises of scotch.

Suz was all, "I gotta get up early" and we decided to head over to Jess & Jer's instead of my place. I called Mike to meet up with us. Maybe we could play Parcheesi. You never know with Jess & Jer.

(10:40 p.m.)

"Hey, wanna come over and hang out at Jess and Jeremiah's?"

"No, I'm sleeping."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"Soooo you don't wanna come over and hang out with us?"

"Yeah.."

"You're sleeping? Really?"

"Yes, I have to get up early. I'm golfing tomorrow morning and gotta be out the door by 6:30."

"Oh. Okay. Sorry. Bye."

(still not content to leave the boy alone, I call again)

(10:51 p.m.)

"Hi, we're going to the grocery store cuz they said they need to get stuff. Jess is arguing that we should go to the 7-11 but Jer just driving us to the grocery store. Sure you don't want to come over?"

"Yeah"

"You sleeping?"

"Yeah"

"Uh oh, crap, I just got this thing on speaker phone and I don't know how to turn it off! hold on...no. Shit. I'll fix it tomorrow. Mike, I gotta go."

Once at the grocery store, I announce to the couple Mike is a no go and my memory is fuzzy but I may have squealed like a 12 year old girl, "SLEEPOVER!" Once in the grocery store, I am meandering not sure what we're looking for and eventually spy some Pringles and grab them. I lose Jess to the candy aisle and after misdialing Mike by 1 number twice (11:07 and 11:07 respectively) call him again at 11:08.

"I'm in a grocery store getting stuff..."

"Uh huh."

(Mike says "And this was my PERSONAL FAVORITE, LINE OF THE NIGHT.")

"So, ... you want anything?"

It's no, "so...what are ya wearing?" but it'll have to do.

*I don't drink scotch, just so you know. not that there's anything wrong with that.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation - By Jen L.

Okay, so I lied.  This is  not about my summer vacation but in fact about my weekend. More or less. Totally 5 finger discounting on Jess R's idea, but in my defense, not like she invented weekends or anything. God.

Friday night: Went to South Kitchen with some friends and had the much anticipated espresso martini which this place totally rocks at making. As a result, I then had a fewish more. Later in the evening, my attitude became less than pleasant and felt the need to end the night rather abruptly.

Lesson learned: 1 espresso martini good. 4 espresso martinis, not so good. (Good thing I am writing this down.)

Saturday:  Clearly still drunk, I decided to go outside for some fresh air/exercise because it was actually pretty nice out for once.  Continuing in my wild and crazy mode, I did the unthinkable and wore actually shorts to do this.  It was then I realized that since last Tuesday's game, that I'd become a case study for Case of the Uglies or otherwise known in certain medical cirlces as "Getting Hit with the Ugly Stick".

But you say, "Jen, I seen pictures. You cute," and ya know, I might concede as much with a "sure, in a Melissa Gilbert-early Little House on the Prairie with her buck teeth and determined little chin kind of way." I guess I got that thing going on. But now?  Yeah, my cute overbite isn't gonna compensate for this.  And let me add, this is still early...I haven't even gotten to the season where they wear cleats.

"I feel pretty..." (it's a good thing I am not pale or anything. It totally blends)

"Oh so pretty!" (or that shorts and skirts and bare leg wearing weather is approaching. good thing we are going into the winter months.)

"Oh so pretty! And happy! And gay!" (and now it's turning a nice shade of green just in time for St. Patrick's Day! Amazing! Awesome! And people will tell me it brings out my eyes!)

They even look like mini shamrocks. Leave it to my bruises to play to the holiday theme.

(Oh, on the down low between just us girls? I was only wearing my polka dotted knickers and a towel on my head for that last shot. I know-- DRAMA!)

Oh, and the toe incident? I learned after about a week that I am actually more lazy than I am wimpy and finally took the plunge and found the nail clippers and did the best that I could without drawing blood or tears. It didn't hurt in case you were wondering.

I give you: fugly foot !(the red nail polish is a good indicator at where the line was. and I am linking this as bruises are one thing, my Picasso Toenail is another. You're welcome).

(Yeah, good thing flip-flop season isn't imminent. And personally, I hate open-toed shoes. So Fashion Backward, really).

(also, did I tell you when I showed my sister she said, "Oh my GOD. And that's gonna take a year to grow back, you know." Which, 1) bullshit, no it won't but 2) I just thought that was kind of a rude thing to say to a girl with a Picasso Toenail.)

(also, know that I COULD go for the ugly trifecta a post a picture of a awful, much commented on zit I have hanging out on my forehead, but that would just be showing off.)

Saturday night was watch a movie night and I'd bought Walk the Line (maybe you've heard of it?) and I must say I enjoyed it very much. However, I do feel a certain sense of civic duty to warn you nice people that after watching this flick, some of you will may find yourself talking Fake Tennessean.

To wit:

"Mike, ...Mike....say, "I don't love you."

"What? Huh? No. Why?"

"C'mon, say it..."

"No, why do you want me to say that?"

"Humor me."

[sigh]

"I don't love you"

"LAH'R!"

(and then I laughed way too much, which was politely pointed out to me as I said it over and over again.)

See, that is how people from Tennessee say "liar" and now tell me how can this NOT be my officially new favorite word? I am using it all the time now.

"Jen, wanna go to breakfast?"

"LAH'R"

"Ha. That's funny. No really, I was thinking Mul's maybe?"

"Yer a LAH'R."

Yeah, it never gets old.

Now I just waiting to pounce on the right time to use the "Bay-by, Bay-by, Bay-by, Bay-by"/slamming the door in the face sequence. That is totally gonna make my day.

Sunday:

My sister brought over her 2 cute kids (as seen below) and her Dyson vacuum. I won't lie to ya, it was almost too close to call as to who/which I loved more. Thankfully, Sarah stepped up her game and asked me for a sleepover because I am fun to have over (her words). That gave her (and by proxy, her bro) the edge. But seriously though, my carpets never looked better. This thing can suck. Yes, yes. I have Vacuum Envy.

And Sunday night ended with me weepy watching Grey's Anatomy. Yep, fuckers did it to me again.

So, there you have it. That was me. What was you? Did I miss anything good?

"She who steals my purse, steals trash. She who steals my bra, steals my only visable means of support."

The title of this post came from a photo I found in the Anna Maria College 1970-71 yearbook. Someone had made this sign for the laundry room as laundry theft  was no stranger to this all-women, Catholic college. I remember seeing this picture when I was in high school thinking it pretty clever and showing it to my mom. "Yeah, people would get their clothes taken from the machines all the time."  This act would have never even occurred to me but then, I was still in high school and the only people who would try to rip me off were related to me and also knew I would properly pound the shit out of them (hi Em!) if they tried as much. But anyway, it got me thinking about different types of solid support that people, much like a good bra, can give one another.

You can support someone by helping them prepare.

One afternoon, I was helping my sister Kate study for her nursing boards (her RN), reading off question after question out of her big ass nursing book. I could tell she was prepared for the exam and I think she  thought thought so too. Still, I could tell she was a little anxious about it.

Kate, you have this is in the bag.

You really think so?

Oh yeah. Hey, and when you pass we will have a big celebration! I'll even bake you a cake!

Really? And if I fail?

Well, then I will sing you a song to make you feel better.

[break in this story to mention that when we drove around in the car with our mother, we were not allowed to change her radio station. Therefore, by auditory osmosis I know the lyrics to a lot of craptastically cheesy easy listening music.]

"I gave it my be-eh-est, but I guess my BEST wasn't good enough. Cause here we are back where we were be-fooooore."*

I think it helped her pass too, because who wants to come home defeated by an exam and ALSO have to listen to me sing James Ingram? Sing James Ingram badly.  If that doesn't light a fire under someone's ass, I don't know what will. And she did pass.

You can be supportive in the choices others make, either real or hypothetical.

Not long ago, I was watching Dr. 90210 with my brother in-law.  It should be noted that I really like both my BIL's a lot, and not just because they're married to my sisters. But sometimes,... sometimes I am left stupefied by the stuff that escapes their lips, as was the case one afternoon while watching this show on plastic surgery with one of them.

"So, if you could, would you ever get implants?"

"No, never. Never, ever."

"Really?" (note his slightly incredulous tone)

"Uh, yeah...really."

Now I knew he wasn't trying to be mean spirited with his words, otherwise I wouldn't have given him the free pass on that one like I did.  However, I did inform my sister of the exchange and went on to add, "yeah, apparently he thinks I need them or that I would be stupid for passing up a free pair. "  After her eyes returned back into their sockets,  we surmised that it must be shocking to some men that not all women aspire to looking like Spamela Anderson.  That some of us, as crazy as this sounds, are happy with what we got, even if we are so the opposite end of the DD++ spectrum.

And sometimes, you can be supportive just by keeping your trap shut.

One evening last month, not long after my car accident, I was over a friend's house hanging out with her and her husband, watching TV and having a couple of beers. We were ribbing each other about God knows and at one point the husband said to my friend before he headed upstairs, "Yeah, have another...you know how you get." I kinda knew where he was going with that one but he turned to me and said, "you know, she gets...frisky."

Hee.

So of course I jumped in with the one story that I know that supported this (see, theme here?) and chimed in with, "Yeah, like the one time after a night out at some party, she stripped ... in the.... c..ar..."

Sometime during the course of my sentence, I felt lasers with the heat of a thousand suns boring down on me. When I looked over to my friend, I noticed that they were shooting directly from her eyes. Eyes that read: ABORT STORY. ABORT STORY.

I swore this happened with her husband but upon hearing, "If you hadn't just been in a car accident, I would totally be kicking your ass right now," it would seem I was mistaken.

I had gotten the right story but THE WRONG GUY.

Of course, this only piqued the husband's interest  now by about a billion-fold.

"What's this?" he laughed. Definitely not jealous or upset, he welcomed my story which apparently was throwing my friend under the bus but hard.

"Uhhh, ...nothing?  I ...I don't know. I was dead at the time. (to friend) Sorrrry, I really thought it was him in the car that night. Really."

(friend) "Shouldn't you be reading the book, How to Drive?"

Ahh, there's the cheap shot I was looking for. Insult my driving after a recent "brush with death", nice touch.  Now I could finish this one off.

"Hey friend, didn't he find your underwear in the driveway the next morning when he went to pick up the paper?"

"Shut up! Shut. UP. And it was my nylons! (to husband) This happened a loooooong time ago, way before you. I was, like 21 at the time."

And see, being the supportive friend that I am, I didn't even add, "And if by 21 you mean 24."

*My ability to tweak lyrics is nothing new. The real lyric is "I did my best" not "I gave it my best".

 

Who had 72 hours?

(Okay, this'll be quick because I am trying to be good at least for the first week of my new employ.)

So, who had 72 hours until I touched a co-worker's butt? A MALE co-worker (not that either scenario is particularly less awkward).

Granted this wasn't your true ass-grab but here was the deal:

Out at a dinner function last night, seated next to the other underwriter in my dept. (a guy my age).  I  need to get up to use the restroom, so he has to slide out of the booth to let me out. He's a pretty tall, big guy and the table is pinned pretty close to the seat, so as he's sliding out, I'm pulling myself along behind him. Due to the tight fit, he stumbles backwards. Onto my hand.

All I could say was, "I didn't do that on purpose, you know."

I'm sure it's just a matter of time for my meeting with HR.

It's 11 o'clock, do you know where your quadricep is?

By raise of hands here, who gets hurt, badly enough, on the field BEFORE their game?  You know, during what they call A WARM UP?

No? Just me then?

So pulling your quad fucking hurts, just so you know. Kills.  Ice is required. And I'm pissed. I wore the right underwear this week and everything.

Since the other team had the good sense/decency not to show up, we scrimmaged with the members of my team and 1 person from the other team who showed. Guess who got to play goalie cuz she couldn't run? Yeah, ever see a person afraid of the ball being shot at them play goalkeeper? To say that I "screamed like a little girl" would be an insult to little girls everywhere.  So, in order to maintain a shred of pride, I threatened everyone with bodily harm who came near me. And by "threaten" I mean "Please, don't drill it, I bruise easily!", "HELP! HELP ME... SOMEONE!!!" and "Please, ...PLEASE, BE NICE! I GIVE YOU RIDES!"   I also was nice enough to tipped in/scored 2 on my own goal. I'm skilled like that. (Yeah, you're welcome...Stephanie.)

In other news, I started the new job this week. 

Things that I like about the job not related to the job itself:

My phone had caller ID (Yessss!). This is beautiful.

They don't care if I come in at 9:05.

My office is located in FANUEIL HALL. The shopping! The food! The bars! Right outside my door!

Vending machine is closest to my area of the office.

These people are celebrating Fat Tuesday after hours.

Within 2 hours of being there, I got new soccer players for my team because my manager had mentioned to a girl that I manage/play on a team. Now I don't have to worry about buying an oxygen tank for now we have enough for subs!

Things I don't like:

My office is located in Fanueil Hall. Think any raise I got for this move just got wiped out (already had a visit with my friend, Ann Taylor).

My e-mail is on Lotus Notes (what are we, poor? is this a Third World company? Who doesn't use MS Outlook?  I miss my MS Outlook, people!!)

I can't get into Hotmail. The Hotmail is a BLOCKED site (not that I, uh, learned this the hard way or anything. I just heard that by the, um, ...vending machine).

I don't pass a coffee shop on the walk into work. I have to make a separate trip.

Pros still outnumbering the cons. Things are looking up. This is good.