Next Comes the Girdle.

So I really needed black slacks. And Internet, I can assure you, not in the "I need a fourth pair of black slacks, this time with more hem" kind of way, in the "my ass will fall off from cold if I don't start wearing pants and there are only so many ways you can spice up jeans" kind of way.

Now I'm usually a time wasting kind of shopper. I can easily spend the day perusing every store in the mall (and snickering at the kids in Hot Topic, because they don't get nearly enough of that from their peers in high school). But, this usual capitalistic time suck goes on the back burner when the weather drops abruptly from a shvitsy 88 degrees to a foreboding 66 and I feel a bit like the ill fated grass hopper that sang all summer.

So I'm on a mission. And since my small town is catered mostly to college girls exploring the wonders of pairing Ugg Boots with an Abercrombie denim belt/skirt, I decided to skip the inevitable hit to my self esteem and headed straight to the Ralph Lauren outlet.

And the beauty of outlet shopping is such that you feel like an expert deal finder and also a little like a tomb robber too. Because all the lovely clothes, that in another life were put on lovely shelves with potpourri or something, are now flung like fallen civil war soldiers. One is left to pick through them while remaining sensitive to their degradation, which does not lend itself to leisurely shopping. Instead its a smash and grab job, taking everything you think might squeeze over your ass and eyeing the other shoppers suspiciously lest they swoop in and steal your bargain.

So here I am, sharing a dressing room with an orgy of black pants and cursing any calorie I have ever had the good sense to ingest. Nothing is fitting well. And then it hits me. I am no longer in a place where the purpose of pants is to show a flirty scrap of sheer lace to entice the less fair of the sexes. Their primary function now is to keep my legs warm which is tragically less exciting. And I do feel ridiculous lamenting days past in which i would have liked something that sat half a foot below my navel (aka, a mere breath away from my naughty bits), but man, the other kind were way more fun.

And I hate to wax philosophical on a Wednesday afternoon, but is this all just an allegory for myself? I'm trading in the flirty and exciting for the sensible and respectable? And if so, how goddam depressing that I find my life comparable to a pair of discounted pants?

Spreading Joy.

Its not often that I give up the spotlight on this blog to showcase anything (other than myself of couse). But this my friends, is too good to pass up.

I would be no kind of friend at all if I did not brighten your lives (and expand your horizons) with the joy that is the douchbagiest voicemail ever.

Also I would like for you to note that both parties involved are hanging out in the Marina District of San Francisco. If any of you need a mental image of what that means, let me, as a native inform you. Because if I have not met this Dimitri, I have certainly met, and subsequently been hit on by his posse of douche.

Dimitri will be short. And a computer programmer of some sort. He will be deathly pale. Not in an Edward Cullen hot ass vampire kind of way, in the short computer programmer kind of way. He will be wearing a leather jacket that his mother bought him at Nordstrom Rack that he will layer with an Armani Exchange t-shirt that he got on clearance. And he will have the traces of what looks like stubble but you will realize if and when you get too close, that it is in fact the product of two months of painstaking mustache growing that he does at home while lifting 20 pound weights.

I think that makes this message all the more amazing.

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enjoy dear readers.

And they even still like me.

Last night I got painfully, annoyingly, only person in the room drunk. And let me tell you why...



So yesterday was the anniversary of my birth. Some might call that a "birthday" but really, I like the former phrasing because it makes me sound a little like Jesus. And anything I can do to be more like Jesus, count me in!

And I gotta tell ya, Im not usually a birthday person. Im not the girl that walks around for a month dropping casual hints as to what magical day might be coming up in November or leaving earmarked Tiffany catalogues around the house. Its just not my style. Also I have yet to have the catalogue thing work. Simon must not be a fan of overpriced jewelry. As much as I love being the center of attention (thus the unnatural affection for kareoke), I dont actually like the idea of anyone feeling obligated to make a fuss over me.

I started my birth-anniversary (see, dont you respect me a little more?) in three hours of traffic on my way home from my parents house. And turns out no one on the highway must have known that it was MY day because not one damn person pulled over in reverance.

When I got home, changed out of my driving pants (very similar in quality to eating pants) and rushed to work, I was greeted with a sign and prezzies from a friend, and a flood of facebook greetings, but other than that the day went pretty normally. Unlike everyone else in my department I did not get treats and a card, so I take that to mean that I dont have to invite any of them to my wedding. Which is a relief.

Anyway, later that night my friend H invited me over for a birthday drink before dinner. When I got to the house, (blissfully unaware of the fact that many pictures of me would be taken and that I should really take the time to look less like a discheveled urchin) I was greeted with a gang of good friends, decorations, dinner, party hats...the whole birthday shebang. Also champagne. There was a lot of champagne. After hugs and kisses and laughs all around, H made it her personal responsibility to make sure that my glass was never empty of something that neither smelled nor tasted too much like alcohol. Which, if you know me at all, is really where the trouble starts.

And its credence to how well my friends know me, because 5 drinks in the 80s tunes came on and someone handed me a spatula. My self control or my pride didnt have a chance. Fast forward to me belting out the worst possible rendition of Total Eclipse of the Heart and insisting to everyone intermittently that they were not nearly drunk enough and would they please chug that beer that was in front of them? No? Why? Dont I make debauchery look classy?

I passed out in a bed that I only remembered when the coffee maker started at 6am to be B's. He did not look thrilled to have a bedmate that was both a bed hog, and wreaked of champagne cocktails past. I believe this makes him too picky because I was rocking a pretty serious case of Alice Cooper eyes which I hear men find irresistable.

In passive aggressive retaliation he has posted some pictures that are not kind to my self esteem. Or anyones esteem of me for that matter.

Before I could have a real intervention with myself this morning, I was greeted with texts and phone calls reminding me that despite my inability to carry a tune, and my affinity for shoving my fingers in peoples face holes, I am still loved. Maybe because I only get one birthday a year.

Peevish.

So G and I have this little game. And I think it really says something about who we are as a couple, and why it is that we will someday be the wrinkled old bags waving our canes at trick or treaters and telling them to get off our porch.

We play "the Pet Peeve Game" in which we vocalize what we believe to be wrong with the world and all the assholes in it. Not a lot of guidelines involved (for two such rebels as we), the only rule being really that we don't announce what we hate about each other (that we save for the privacy of the bedroom). It's truly a cleansing process. Nothing appeals more to my passive aggressive nature than cackling to the man I love about the sins of humanity, and how much I hate crocs.

And I must emphasize how good we are at this game. The combination of our mean spirits and competitive natures lends itself to a scathing one-upmanship that has crafted many a mortal blow, if we ever had the guts to proclaim it to the outside world. Which we dont.

Where Im going with this is, since G is off defending our freedom and sticking it to Al Queda, he is not readily available to play with me (in any sense of the word). And it's been a crap-for-brains kind of week and I am bursting at the seams with animosity. So I'm going to use my blog for evil...

Pet Peeves (this week):
-people that say "girl", not in the context of a normal sentence, but like "guuurl".
-when the starbucks guy makes an executive decision and does not give you whipped cream on your hot chocolate. I know it has like 800 calories, give me the whip too. I can handle it.
-when people take/leave things on my desk without asking
-leggings worn as pants. I . Just. Dont. Understand.
-when people dont hold the door when you are right behind them
-when there is an enticing bowl of post halloween candy that you run up to only to discover that its all Three Muskateers and regular M7Ms. Sick.
-crocs (obviously.)

But its no fun only just announcing mine. Tell me yours! And if they are really good, I will like you as much as G.

Brief Update

I know I haven't blogged in about a century, and for that I apologize. But dont blame me, blame the ravenous hoards that crowd my office everyday. Remember all that cocky business this summer about not caring that I get payed like a burger flipper because I get to leave work at 4 and craft things and run around under a rainbow? Well, now that school is in Im here til around 9. Still getting payed like a burger flipper. But one who doesnt come home smelling as delicious.

Either way, nothing interesting was happening in my life as I am old and boring and have an intimate relationship with cable and the left cushion of my couch. But today, an event worthy of a post, if not a police report. Remember that condom bowl in my office? The freaking cute one I used to validate my existence and show the kids how hip I am?

Well Im not hip to thievery! Because today, when I walked into my office, I saw that my coffee table was unusually littered. And that was because someone has swiped my bowl! My bowl! My adorable condom bowl. Stolen. And to give an additional kick to the shins, the bastard dumped all the condoms out. Because not only is this sociopath a bowl-swiper, but they hate safe sex too.