Skype-othetically Speaking

For those of you not around for the daily business of the Scrap, you should know I have fallen deeply, passionately, uncontrollably in love. Not necessarily with the man I am about to marry (I kind of like him too), but with a pretty little piece of technological genius (No, its not a vibrator).

Skype. Skype makes my heart flutter. And for those of you who know me, this is a really big deal. Technology and I have never gotten along. Like feuding roommates we have a mutual disdain that leads us to passive aggressive behavior in which we fill each others shampoo with water and gossip behind one another's backs. My computer will delete things without telling me, and I in turn let Simon sit on its face and click control-alt-delete like seven times in a row.

But Skype, Skype is different.

Skype makes funny celebrating noises when I get an e-phone call, and just like that, a loved ones face appears on my screen. and I can talk, and dance and show them things. And have a chugging contest with Kerri. And show G my new chonees. I am like Harry Potter and Serius Black talking through the green fire. Only with no fear of getting walked in on by Professor Snape. And its easier than crouching in a fireplace. (Is the Harry Potter analogy going too far? Because I seem to be really attached to it.)

Also, Skype lets me take a picture of the screen, so I can save a hilarious moment of an e-call for posterity. Right now I am looking at one of Kerri doing the crazy christina dance. It makes my day better.

So, for those of you with a web cam, do yourself a favor. Go to Skype.com and download the program. And talk to me. You know you want to.

A Fan Letter

Dear Sir

Remember me? Im the girl on the treadmill next to yours. No not the blonde one in spandex. The other one. The sweaty one. The one that only has an hour at the gym in the morning and uses it to the fullest. The pizza calories dont burn themselves you know.

Remember how you wore sunglasses indoors at 6:30 a.m.? You really had me wondering for a while. "Could you be blind?" I wondered as a sweated to the oldies. No. But you probably should be. Because after a while I caught on to the game. And not because I'm a detective (I'm not), or a genius (I am) but because you cat called. At the gym. At 6:30. In the morning. On a treadmill.

I don't know if you realize, but just because you are walking on a treadmill, doesn't actually mean you are walking away from anything. I feel it is necessary to inform you that you are in fact walking in place. And I am pretty sure it is part of good catcalling etiquette to drive (or at the very least walk) away after you whistle. But you are, again, on a treadmill. In sunglasses. Harassing unassuming people that have better things to do.

But you weren't done, were you sir? You just kept marching along, craning your chubby neck at anything female that had the misfortune to walk by. And when I was done with my run you decided to turn your considerable charms my way. Whats that? You really were impressed by my run? (liar, I know I look like a wounded gazelle). Thanky! And yes, I am that flexible. No, Im not a dancer, and no. I am absolutely not interested.

But thanks. Oh, and sweet shades.

Love,
The Girl on the Treadmill Next to You

Simple Pleasures

I am in no way undermining the joys in life that are weddings, and children, and lifelong friendships, and cherished family moments.

But sometimes, happiness is having the really cute teenage employee at Bed Bath and Beyond flirt with you while you pick out hangers in your sweatpants.

Simple pleasures man. Im just saying.

On Visible Brush Strokes.

Adhering to a friend's demands, I am now revealing to the world what a hot mess I really am.

Growing up, I was always told that "I am painting a masterpiece, so hide the brush strokes." I was never to leave the house without brushed hair, mouthwash-ed teeth, and "natural" makeup (because green eyeshadow is for whores). The justification for taking all of this trouble was that "I was never sure who I would meet". And, true story, this advice still rings in my ears.

That is to say, it echoes somewhere deep in the recesses of my foggy brain as I haphazardly tie my dirt hair into a ponytail. and chew a piece of gum to hide the bagel breath. Because what I have learned in my adult life is that I am in fact painting a masterpiece. But it is much more like a Monet. Because from a polite distance I look perfectly groomed. It's only when you peer closer (or stare long enough) you see that I am in fact riddled with brush strokes. and bruises. and scrapped knees. and the occasional coffee stain (because although they have outlawed talking on the phone while driving, they have yet to tear my coffee out of my caffeine-greedy fingers.)

Because here is the crux of the matter: who has time for perfection? And isn't it a little comforting to know that I have better things to do than straighten my hair every morning? like sleep? As it stands, today I am less of a Monet, and more of say, a Jackson Pollock, where the only thing you see is the brush strokes. I am at work with skinless knees and shins (owing to my inability to stay vertical, and a story for another day), a weird bug bite on my arm, and serious under eye circles (they look a lot like those "before" pictures in infomercials that you are sure are doctored). All of which are a testament to a fantastic weekend. And I'm totally ok with that. I always liked modern art better anyway.

So on the off chance that I meet the president today, he should also know I forgot to put on deodorant.