Thursday, May 29, 2008

I Caught ADHD

I got the skivvies I’m currently wearing at a Halloween party. I just remembered this. Some dude was dressed up as a Gynecologist and he had panties stuffed into all the pockets of his lab coat. At the end of the night he came up to me and was all “Want these?” (holding a wad of black lace in front of my face). “They’re brand new and they look like your size.” So I looked at the tag and saw that they were indeed both brand new and my size. And I took them home, washed them (because ew) and 2 years later am still wearing them. Isn’t that a nice story? I like it when garments have a history. And if you’re honest with yourself, I think you do too.

Memorial Day Weekend was mayhem. I’m not going into it. I am going into the fact that you cannot catch a goddman taxi in this town past 2:00 AM. I’m starting a fucking cab service and making a mint. A mint, I tell you. Drunk bitches can ride on the back of my scooter. Bitches ride bitch. We all know this. When we were in
New York on a Saturday night we couldn’t get a fucking cab either. And then it was only 11:00 PM. What’s going ON with the world? There are three things that should be readily available for whenever, and I do mean whenever, you need them…cabs, sex and eye drops. I’m hoping Obama can fix this when he becomes the President. He will, you know…because I’m backing him, and I have influence over all the beasties of the land. Not sure how that’s helpful, but I feel a fantastic movie plot coming on.

I can’t believe Sydney Pollack died. I just saw him in Michael Clayton and he looked fine! No pallor of death at all! I have no hope for my 70s. They seem like they’re going to be tumultuous years full of uncertainty as to whether or not I’m even going to wake up in the morning. And I better wake up. I’ll have giant hats that'll need sporting.

Speaking of Weezer, I just saw their new video yesterday (Pork and Beans or something) and I almost couldn’t sit through it due to the skeez ‘stache Rivers is sporting. I used to think he was geek hot too. These ‘staches are an infection and I will come up with the cure even if it means I have to purchase a flame thrower.
I have to go buy meat. Latas.

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Photographers Are Douches

And I mean it too.

But first let me just say that I'm writing this evening's tidbit of joy on my new Dave. No, I'm not sitting on my roommate; Dave is what Ikea has labeled its darling little adjustable laptop desk in black that I just put together with two, count them TWO allen wrenches and a bit of love. And now I won't end up with a giant lump on my back once I reach my geriatric golden years from leaning over my coffee table trying to entertain you yahoos.

About a long time ago the ol' coworkers and I did another one of our Team Building exercises involving testing the new Happy Hour at ClarkLewis...a local hoity toity restaurant resting in the Warehouse District. It kind of blew. But we had fun. Anyway, some dude was taking pictures of us and then came up and asked if it was ok after the fact since it was for the local paper (a little one) and we were all "whatevs" because we'd been drinking.

We all forgot about it.

And then I saw this today. Do it, follow the hyperlink. I'll wait.

The article isn't important, mainly because I didn't even read it. But the picture. Let's focus on that shall we?
Marie has an irrational hatred of having her face on the internets so she's been blacked out by me and a little something I like to call the "paint" program. Everyone else I don't know what their preferences are but they're published in a newspaper so they can't be that sensitive. I'd now like to direct your attention to the blond chick in the front with what looks like HER FINGER UP HER FUCKING NOSE. That would be me.

To set the record straight, I was wiping my nose. It was really itchy. When I get allergies that's what they involve...and itchy nose and eyes. And that's what was going on there. That photographer took SEVERAL pictures of our group and THIS is the one he chose. Because he is a DOUCHE BAG. It literally looks like my index finger is jammed so far up my nasal cavity that it's completely disappeared. Unfair!

The media is the source of all the world's ills and this photograph is the scientific proof. Irrefutable evidence. Thank Hearst no one reads that damn paper.

Thursday, May 22, 2008


I don't have anything to write about. I haven't been watching the news. I listen to the radio in the mornings, but it all turns into mental jelly by the second meeting of the day. I haven't read anything that I would recommend. I've been paying very little attention to world events. I've been paying even less attention to local events. I literally turned in my ballot at the last possible second out of sheer laziness. I haven't seen a good show in a while (though hoping to go to Beirut this weekend...the band, not the city), the last movie I saw was Be Kind, Rewind, which isn't even worth reviewing. I've been extraordinarily self-involved, drinking and carousing and filling my time with mindless entertainment. Boys. Booze. Work. Quotes from Willow. Food. Blogs about myself. Shit like that.

Speaking of shit like that...

They (those nameless assholes) say that men reach their sexual peak at 19. And women at 30. Based on that totally insupportable statistic, I maintain that it is natural and right for a woman of 28 to be single and completely obsessed with her own satisfaction. Men get that whole "oat sowing" period until their 30s. Beyond that (based on the above), they're practically useless to us women for anything but loosening pickle jar lids. Or donating for procreational purposes. THEN they get into their 40s or later, whatever, and they get to have a mid-life crisis and fuck around with a skinny bitch 20 years their junior. Unless they are extraordinarily rich and named Elizabeth Taylor, women have no such option. I'm here to say that I believe this to be bullshit. And maybe this is just classic female rationalization for treating another human being like a toy. So what if it is. At least we feel guilty about it. Sort of. Enough to over-analyze in a blog post after a couple blueberry vodka tonics. On a Thursday.

But seriously...try to follow along this train of thought here, I promise it will lead to a point. Women's bodies are constructed in such a way that giving birth is easiest to do and recover from during the younger years, the same time men are at their sexual peak. And yet, our bodies begin to reject the idea (and fact) of pregnancy once we pass our 30s...when sex should be at it's best for us. Once we're finally inspired to have as much of it as possible. How fucked up is that? Which milestone birthday of Fate's did we forget to be punished with such a reality?

In a perfect world, men and women would be perfectly synced in this regard. Both genders' peaks would be at approximately the same age. And at that time, an internal switch would flip, and *poof*, procreation is possible (and OPTIONAL). And that age would be around 30. Maybe 32. I don't know what difference the two years would make, but 30 sounded too round. Think about how much more willing we women would be to furnish the Earth if such a world existed. Unless I'm the only woman who thinks this way. But I really don't think I am. I want my cake and I want to eat it too...only I want the cake to be a brownie...but I want to be able to try partners on for size without having to decide right away if they're going to be the one who provides me with midge-sized versions of myself for the next several years. I want the option to wait until I'm fucking READY to "settle down". I hate that term but it fits. Mean have that option. Women start panicking at just about this age. Even me.

Ok, maybe I never got to a concrete point, but it's late and I'm tired and if I read this thing I'll never post it. So I'm just going to post it and go to bed and maybe tomorrow my work day will be slow enough that I'll have something light and airy to write about before anyone sees this.

Peace out, bitches.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

I Missed You Too. Really.**

I should probably talk about the election seeing how it's today and all...but instead...

I'm going to talk about how I saw The New Kids on the Block last week and you didn't.

Suck on that.

New York was awesome...except for the fact that we got swindled. I'll talk more about that later when there are visuals.

**update with visual**

But we saw movie stars. And Marie hit Kenneth from 30 Rock with a door while I sat watching Conan like a CHUMP (she had to pee so they let her out). We got pissed thanks to some hot Irish bartenders. Saw congealed garbage sculpture at the Whitney. Finished the last 100 yards of the NYC Aids Walk by accident. Caught a kite festival in Brooklyn. Drank boxed wine in our suite at the Hotel Chelsea. Ran into Matthew Modine. Twice. Gave directions to tourists. People watched at both a tattoo festival and the Waldorf Astoria in the same night. Squealed at some ginormous dinosaur bones. Went to H&M (don't have one in Oregon yet. I KNOW). Got text messages from people I don't remember giving my number to. And spent an hour at an airport bar sipping $8.50 margaritas and filling in my ballot. A team effort.

A fucking fantastic weekend. I'll show you pictures if you want to see them.

If you don't, well then I won't show them to you.

And I hate you.

I can't write anymore because I have to go catch up on all your shit WHILE trying to cook pasta. And it's wheat pasta so I always fuck it up because it takes longer or some shit. Makes me want to do away with wheat all together. It's a foul grain.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Rite of Passage # 36

All my adult life, I’ve done all my traveling with a backpack. Like here: This is probably why I can crack my back in the most relievingly awful sounding ways. Having just returned from three weeks of carrying cans and bottles of beer around Eastern Europe (yes, I know I’m an idiot) I decided to take a stand and buy a suitcase with wheels. So yesterday, a friend and I took a late afternoon “need to see daylight” break and went to find what turned out to be a sea of luggage in cRoss Dress for Less. I immediately began hyperventilating. They were organized by color. COLOR. And there were about 70 different sizes and all sorts of shapes and textures and brands. BRANDS. But my friend is an organized person and so the process of elimination went thus:
No black. Kansas had a black suitcase and I almost killed HIM in my impatience waiting for it to show up on the conveyer belt after the trip to the Homeland. Everybody and their goddamn grandmother has black.

No red. Despite the fact that I LOVE red and am drawn to it like a married stiff to a bordello…so is every other woman. It’s almost as prevalent as black.

No floral prints or anything that appears upholstered. I didn’t like it when Mary Poppins rocked it. I don’t like it now.

No backpacks with wheels. That’s just fucking LAZY. And there's no room for shoes.

Nothing big enough to fit my whole body in. I don’t want any accidental slave smuggling going on in my luggage. What…this shit happens. Watch TV, you’ll learn things.

No animal prints – this should be self explanatory, but I found myself walking toward an orange tiger print. Then I slapped myself back into good sense. It left a mark.

This left me with fluorescent pink and green hearts on a black background OR black and white polka dots. Guess what I chose. I’ll give you a hint – this blog is covered in them.

I’ll give you another hint because you’re obviously all quite thick – there’s a picture of the bag below. So now I have luggage. It only took an hour of opening and wheeling and examining and debating and extending and unextending and zipping and unzipping to change my life forever. I’m all grows up. See you punks in 4 days.

Thursday, May 08, 2008

You Ask Me ONE More Time...

Everybody’s pushing me to vote. Don’t fucking rush me! I do my voting like I do my taxes…at the last possible second. I thrive under pressure.

may “decide” the democratic candidate. I may decide it by pushing over one of those Hillary Clinton sign holding crazies standing in the bike lane on the Burnside bridge. Up until now I’ve just been narrowing my eyes at them as I pass. I doubt this has much of an effect as I’ve also been wearing sunglasses. But I like to think they can feel the steely gaze. But we have something like 200 super delegates, so “they say” that by the time we have our primary…if Obamyomama wins Oregon, whatever unimportant states that are left won’t have enough super delegates to make a difference. That makes us awesome. And not to be fucked with. If only for the fact that we have killer beavers here that can devour your face in two seconds flat if you look at them funnilly. Saw it happen once. Still have nightmares.

But enough about politics. This shit bores me.

It doesn’t actually, but I like to wear nonchalance like an accessory.

The Waif, ty and the Face move out this weekend. I’ll miss them. I’m sure they won’t miss my cramped little place but it’s been fun having them here. Quality time with the Face is always appreciated…especially since I taught him the In Living Color Men on Film snap and he’s freakishly adorable when he does it. But now that they’re leaving, I’ll be missing out on these kinds of little precious moments brought to you by the letter W, the number 8 and my sister feeding the Face olives:

My god, Beckett…you’re just an olive whore, aren’t you ?
Laura, you just called your son a whore.
Well he IS!

Precious fucking moments.

And in case you don't know the snap I am referring to because you're either too young or living in a box in the middle of the Gobi:

Tuesday, May 06, 2008

Why Do You Want To Live With Me?

Well I was going to write about what a pain in the ass the roommate search has been…but in light of the tragedy in Myanmar formerly known as Burma, it seems trite. 20,000 people lose their lives in a horrible natural disaster (though there’s nothing natural about the way people live in Third World countries)…and I was gonna be all up in arms about the 20-odd freaks trying to convince me to live with them.

Ok, well, I’m still probably going to talk about it. I can only be appropriate for so long before my heart goes numb.

Let me just start out with this: people on Craigslist are crazy. It’s a wonder I’ve ever found a place to live or a roommate who would have me with all the nut cases they go through. And you can imagine how well I do in interviews.

Anyway, I found a roommate, and hopefully he’s cool and doesn’t save his toenails in a box for decades at a time like some people. You know who you are. Sick.

But back to the freaks…one of the dudes I said “thanks but no thanks” to - because he a. didn’t have a job and b. had an Anthrax beard - actually called me up on Saturday night and ASKED ME OUT. Is it me or is that an inappropriate use of my phone number? No, it's not just me. It IS inappropriate. It’s not like he rolled up to me in a bar and said “I’d like to go out with you some time. Can I have your number?” and I went, “Sure, you seem like a fine, upstanding young fellow with an Anthrax beard. I’ll give you my number so that you may call me up and ask me out properly.” That didn’t happen. I gave him my number so that he could look at a room for rent. So he is abusing the phone number. Gross misuse!

And before any of you ill informed people ask…this is an Anthrax beard:

That’s all I have time for. I have a job, you know.