A Warning

If the cafeteria here on campus has decided to stop selling goldfish crackers on a lark, then they should at least have emailed me, their most LOYAL BUYER.

If they have done so as related to an unwarranted vendetta by a certain salad-dressing scrooge, well then I say this: if you charge me $7 for a shitty salad with nary a drop of dressing, I will continue to steal fistfuls of plastic cutlery.

Take heed.

Not My Gumdrop Buttons!

All day yesterday I was fiending for gingerbread. I mean that literally. I woke up at 5:30 am (I know, I hate my life too) smacking my morning breathed lips and thinking of the spicy, ethereal goodness. I didnt think about it for the next hour and a half on account of the fact that I was trying not to throw up my lungs on a treadmill, but rest assured, the craving returned on the sweaty drive home.

I made it through the day looking at gingerbread recipes on various websites and trying not to touch myself (they frown on that here at work).

When I finally made it out of the office, I sped to the Trader Joes (Mecca) baked goods aisle. And Internet, it is a miracle I didnt tear into that package with my teeth right there in the store. I made it all the way to my car where I tore into it with my keys. Which I think is slightly more dignified.

The Most Dangerous Game

Yesterday I spent a solid hour and a half at the post office.

Entering the building with a pile of gifts under my arm and a bag of save the dates in my sweaty little palm, I was nevertheless the picture of chrismassy-weddingy cheer. I managed to keep this facade through my first round in line, but when I entered into the second go round (on account of being ONE MOTHERFUCKING STAMP short) my grin had melted off my smug little face.

I had left work an hour early and come into the establishment with three goals in mind:

-send out G's Christmas packages so that I can make up for forgetting his birthday with awesome please-dont-hate-me gifts
-send out the 121 (that number would come to haunt me) save-the-date cards that had taken up residence on my coffee table.
-get a new passport because the crap for brains government employees had decided that I was born in Belgium when I renewed last year.

The first two goals were met easily enough, albeit shaving off a decade of my life and half of my heel (dont wear uncomfortable shoes to stand in line). But the third, oh the third. I think maybe the abominable snowman works the passport office. Because he is NEVER there. Also he is the one that decided I was born in Belgium last year, and I hear snowmen are retarded.

I have gone to the post office twice previously, and each time been told that he is not working on the day I have come in (different days respectively). Yesterday I was told that he had left early. When I had the gumption to ask if he would be around at 4ish today, I was told that maybe, but it was really luck of the draw. Because who works til five on a Tuesday?

What the abominable passport man doesnt know is that I am stubborn as hell. And. I . Will. Never. Give. Up. The lady at the ID office learned that earlier this year, when she tested how many times I would assault her voicemail (infinite number). And now passport guy will see my wrath.

Good luck old man. Its Christmas Break and I got aaaall day.

Embracing the Inevitable

It is now December 8th and I am elbow deep in forced yule tide cheer.

In addition to the 47 holiday parties that I have managed to cram into my file-o-fax, my personal to do list screams things like "office Christmas baking!", "silver shoes!", and "stop eating holiday leftovers because your fiance wont love a heifer!".

Its as if I don't have a job I should be doing, or an ass that isn't in sore need of some lunges. I justify each lapse in self control with "its the holidays! Everyone is doing it!" (which I hear is what crack heads say too). Because its all I can do to not log into the food network again to look at what kinds of deliciously buttery morsels that Paula Dean has created for the destruction of dieters everywhere. No wonder there is the post-Christmas depression. There is no more excuses for half assed decision making.

And I don't know what it is about this time of year, but its all mixed up with this sense of urgency isn't it? Like, the presents cant be bought early enough, and what do you mean you haven't sent your cards already? But next week is Halloween already!
I woke up in a cold sweat this morning realizing that I have not bought G's brothers anything yet. Because it isn't like I don't have until freaking Dec 25th. And everyone knows last minute presents bought as impulse buys are the best anyway. Handle of jack? Happy Holidays!


If it weren't for the Christmas remix by Wings, I might just polish off that last powdery cookie I got in my mailbox this morning. Just kidding. I already ate it.

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.

http://view.break.com/527579 - Watch more free videos

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.