Monday, February 21, 2011

my oval office

this sign is about to take on a whole new meaning.
 When I was a little girl I had lofty dreams. Other than wanting to be a talk show host/orthopaedic surgeon/NKOTB backup dancer, I wanted an office/bathroom...and frankly, I still kind of do. [Tangent: I know that it seems like a bold choice to follow up a blog asking the universe for the perfect man with a blog all about sitting on the pot, but I aim to keep it classy.] I blame my mom for this odd affinity for bathroom time because she potty trained us with books and encouraged us to stay toilet bound as long as possible. [Tangent: Anyone who has ever traveled with me or attended summer camp with me knows this...I need some kind of reading material to get to business. When someone borrows something of my bookshelf, I usually preface it by telling them that it may have spent time on the back of my commode.'re saying you no longer want to borrow "Running With Scissors" from me? Fair Enough.] For my mom's tutelage, I am extremely grateful because in a one story house with six inhabitants, potty time was my solace and my place of meditation as a child. It was the only time I was ever by myself...and I loved it. 
young kimmie.
Today we have cell phones and laptops which make it possible for any space to be a mobile office space, even ones that are 99% tile. However,  in the age of electric typewriters and Zack Morris brick phones, I was mapping out my dream room in my head. In addition to all the run of the mill porcelain fixtures, eight-year-old me wanted a desk where I could write and draw, a mini fridge for my Capri Suns, a phone mounted on the wall to conduct business and maybe a little bookshelf to house my Baby Sitter's Clubs and Sweet Valley Highs.  [Tangent: I also recall really wanting a TV that I could see from the bathtub, most likely so I wouldn't miss something crucial... like a rerun of Mama's Family.] It seemed like nirvana, I could multitask in peace. 

this picture really isn't pertinent...but a banana on a toilet always should be pertinent.

I had kind of forgotten about this aspiration to have a bathroom office, until about 6 years ago when I went to the old house that once belonged to, and I believe was designed by, my friend Jessica's parents. Inside her parent's bathroom, there was a phone mounted on the wall to the right of the toilet, just like the one I fantasized about as a tot. It also had a little door in front of it, kind of like a personal stall to keep the riff raff out that might be loitering in the rest of the bathroom. If memory serves, I was way too excited about it and the dreams of my oval office came back in a flush. 

After doing a little Internet researching, I learned I am not the only one that thinks the toilet is the best seat in the house. Here are some other people's take:

why does the foot bike and pooping seem like a bad combo?

fur is likely a poor choice.

I'm assuming this is a circa 1998 office bathroom, but still well-done.

I think the last one is the winner...Have I completely horrified you yet? 

Sunday, February 20, 2011

is that the secret?

Here's hoping the crippled one isn't me...
I was waiting in a waiting room the other day and was limited on my options of reading material. I opted for a Redbook from 2009. It was either that or Popular Mechanics, and considering I don't know anything about cars beyond the fact that I own one... I thought, "Redbook it is!" Somehow I fell upon an article for spinsters instructing them to make a list of qualities they are looking for in a man in order to get a better idea of what they want out of life and love. Apparently by harnessing your energy a la The Secret and putting it out into the universe, this man is supposed to materialize. I kinda think that's bullshit, but it got me thinking...instead of writing it on a Precious Moments notepad and reading it to my cat, Mr. Belvedere, [Tangent: I have neither a Precious Moments notepad or a cat named after an 80's TV butler, but it seemed like something that was probably done somewhere in America in 2009, when this article debuted.] I decided to make a list here...why not? I haven't done anything else to blog about today...

Kimmie's Perfect Man:
  • Has read a book in the last year.  You would think this isn't too much to ask...but it is. Example: If a guy says the last book they read is The Da Vinci Code, then he probably haven't read anything in a while, and I can't even be sure they have read that. Also, watching a movie based on a popular book doesn't count. If you've seen Fight Club, it doesn't make you a big Chuck Palahniuk fan by default.
  • Likes people and can carry on conversations. aka not a hermit. This is major.
  • Not a picky eater. This will not only impress me but would score majorly with my family. If you clean your plate- you're good as gold in my household.
  • Good taste in music.   I am slightly flexible on this, but feel I have to have some commonality in the music department. A guy can go from eh to very attractive if their Ipod is eclectic and not loaded with only Creed and Ludacris. Also, how great would it be to have someone to go to shows with?
  • Has a little bit of weirdo in him. I am a super odd bird, I need someone with a heaping helping of quirk.
  • ...Yet not mentally unstable.  I think sometimes guys mistake my quirk for crazy and want to have themselves a little Sid and Nancy kind of train wreck relationship...not what I'm into.
  • Likes to try new things.  If they only Play Call of Duty all day and night and don't ever leave the house, then love cannot flourish. 
  • Is a smart ass but not an ass hole. This is a fine line, but a distinction that needs to be made. 
  • Dance club enthusiasts are a no go.  If you are this guy...I'm not gonna be that girl.
OK. That is all, universe. Gimme what ya got.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

what does snooki have that i don't?

Today while roving Target aimlessly on a Tolkien-esque quest for body scrub [Tangent: One would think it would be with body care? Cosmetics? Soap? None of the above. I never found it, so will make my own out of household products. I am a pioneer woman, apparently.]. Out of exfolient-induced frustration, I ventured into the entertainment aisle to peruse books (NERD ALERT!), as if I needed more to add to the growing pile of impulsively purchased literature I already have.

As I rounded the end cap, I came upon the following:
how pissed is Jwoww that her book is cheaper than snooki's?
Wow...that's a startling number of books penned by non-celebrity non authors...about things that are non-important. [Tangent/confession time: I can't be holier than friend, Angi, bought me L.A Candy aka the Lauren Conrad story, while I was in the hospital over the summer. I read it for the same reason I always kept a pile of US Weekly's by my bed. When you're in a life/death scenario- you don't wanna read Sylvia Plath. Truth be told, I was not-so-secretly excited to get it because I would NEVER buy it for myself, and my sense of curiosity as to LC's writing chops was definitely peaked. She's not terrible, but I still try to hide it behind my Sedaris and Capote, so visitors don't draw conclusions as to my intellect. It's my bookshelf's dirty little secret.] After slyly snapping this picture, I thought to myself, "I wonder how hard it was for JWoww to get a book deal? It kinda made me ill. I am sure she was paid an exorbitant amount to wax poetic on important issues like fake boobies and shredded Ed Hardy t-shirts. On the flip side, I know several extremely talented writers that will never get their material to the masses, and if they will in no way sell like hotcakes as I am sure the soon-to-be classic Kardashian Konfidential did. [Tangent: Ya see what they did there with the K's? I wonder how long the brainstorm session was for that. ] 

 Maybe I am being a jealous neigh sayer [Tangent: Or as the sisters Kardashian say "a jelly belly." Judge away that I speak Kardashian.], perhaps they are just stretching their 15 minutes of fame to a good 17...I don't blame them. If I was a reality TV star and attained any kind of notoriety, I would totally whore myself out to make the most of the opportunity. Meanwhile, being that I am a non-celebrity, I house a little bitterness that they world is their oyster in the book world, getting handed a writing deal as if it was a french fry out of your BK bag. Somebody, please hand this girl a fry.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

"you're going to hollywood"

I took this picture at disneyland a few years ago...and was looking for any excuse to use it again.

I'm sure for people that live in or on the outskirts of the LA bubble, like my brother, the novelty of it wears off after a day or so. I understand that...I mean Hollywood Blvd is gross and full of crazies and sex shops. Its not the sparkling ball of magic that you believe it to be as a little girl watching BH 90210. I am living under no delusion.

However, today I got excited... like I mean on-the-verge-of-projectile-peeing excited because I realized we will be right outside of LA when the Academy Awards are going on [Tangent: If you haven't already figured out, I love movies and all aspects of pop culture and freaked out on the prospect of being anywhere in the vicinity of something of this magnitude.] This opportunity gives me a little extra help in snatching the title of best celeb siting by a family member. The title currently belongs to my brother, Mikey, who was in line behind John Stamos at far that interaction is winning the informal, and as yet announced, family celeb-off. Me sharing an elevator 6 years ago with Aaron Neville just does not even qualify.  [Tangent: Sorry Mr. Neville. In my book- you will forever reign supreme.]

I still think I win.
Anyway- one week from today, I will be hopped on a plane to LAX with a dream and my cardigan...en route to LA, with some much needed vacation/family time/Armenian wedding festivities. But quick poll: How many more references the Miley Cyrus classic "Party in the USA" will I make during my time in Southern California? [Tangent: Back-to-back Cyrus blog references? What is happening to me? I am becoming such a tool in my old age.]

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

cobain and cyrus...what could have been...

these reek of class and friendship.

I read Entertainment Weekly with the same level of daily obligation that some reserve for their holy books. I have subscribed to it for about 5 years, and log onto pretty regularly because  lets face it..their TV recaps are spot-on and hilarious. [Tangent: Ass kissing much? OK...maybe. On the off in Siberia chance that someone with the publication is reading this, I want them to fully understand my devotion...and perhaps offer me a job. I would happily clean the toilets for them, if they so desired.] On The Today Show this morning, I heard the breaking news that Billy Ray Cyrus isn't happy with the road young Miley is going down and regrets pushing her into the biz. [Tangents: Other regrets ol' BR should have include mullets, muscle shirts and that terrible flava sava facial hair that he refuses to put to bed. But seriously, I could have told you years ago that she was becoming a bad seed when she came into Victoria's Secret and yelled at her mom in the middle of the Pink department, or when I saw her at Wal-Mart in a micro mini with her 20-year-old underwear model boyfriend (she was not of legal age). Not cool. Hannah Montana. Not cool.] Because I only caught the tail end of the news story, I felt provoked to check EW on my break at work...and that is where I found some earth-shattering news within their Billy Ray expose. Please read the following passage and I dare your mind not to reel.

In an odd addendum, he compares his daughter’s struggles in the spotlight to those of the late Kurt Cobain, with whom he had an unlikely friendship in the early ’90s: “He was one of those guys that became a friend to me that I never expected. We met at a venue one night and I was standing in the shadows, 1 a.m. in the morning, and he’s ‘Hey man, congratulations — you pissed the whole world off.’ We shook hands, and I said, ‘Thanks, man… I love what you all do.’” He says that the pair bonded over their young daughters, and that Cobain was one of the few not to ostracize him at an awards ceremony during his Achy Breaky” days.
Everytime I read it, I giggle uncontrollably a little bit because he is comparing Miley to Cobain, and also because it is a buddy cop show waiting to happen. As I bill processed at work all day, my mind kept darting about, [Tangent: This could be due to my ill conceived breakfast of break room coffee and Sudafed.] thinking of what could have been. What would have happened if Mr. Cobain hadn't burned out...and had instead faded away into music obscurity (the very thing he feared), and he and Billy Ray had continued their friendship?

my photoshop skills at work to make my dream a reality.

Aside from the obligatory VH1 Celebreality show and episode of CMT Crossroads, I feel the two would pursue a duet [Tangent: My personal dream would be an angsty, yet somehow upbeat cover of the Elton John and Kiki Dee classic, "Don't Go Breakin' my Heart."]. Although I feel it would go over like a lead balloon, as did that weird Nelly/Tim McGraw duet from a while back.

If Cobain was still with us, maybe he would have done like the cool kids [Cool kids = Ben Folds, Jack White and Nicole Kidman] and settled in Nashvegas so the fame monster didn't devour him. That way he and Billy Ray could have raised their kids in harmony. Frances Bean, Miley and that other Cyrus daughter that has a kid's lingerie line could be hot messes together. Safety in Numbers, I guess. [Tangent: While looking for info on what Frances Bean is into now, I found this article about her throwing herself a suicide themed 16th birthday party. She may have just one-upped Miley in the effed up department. Kudos.]

Monday, February 14, 2011

hot hot valentines day action

why did I not find this picture when I was writing this?
Its Valentines day? Its nine o'clock...and I'm enjoying what might be the most underwhelming Valentine's day ever.  Don't feel sorry for me...I am thoroughly enjoying the lame night in of working from home and enjoying some peace and quiet with a side of Ferrero Rondnoirs. A few hours ago I celebrated by indulging in a gourmet dinner of Backyard Burgers and a movie. [Tangent: Maybe the movie was a poor choice. I sometimes am not good at choosing appropriate entertainment. For single girl on Valentine's Day viewing, I  chose to watch Far From Heaven, which is a really pretty Julianne Moore film where her idyllic little family is shaken when she finds out her hubby is gay. Yep... welcome to my worst fear. I saw Fran Drescher on Oprah talking about how she was married for 20 years before realizing her husband was gay...hopefully my friends would have pointed out the red (or rainbow) flags to me. Although, I kinda think it would be fun to have a gay hubby, because feel like I had several for many years in college.]

Earlier today I got a valentine from the most devoted male in my dog, Newman. [Tangent: It was actually from my mom, you decide if that is more or less pathetic. I am still on the fence about it. Slowly, she is trying her best to turn me into a sad dog person.] I guess it was appropriate, he is at this time the most loyal man in my life...and he is a eunich. Maybe the two go hand in hand.

Don't get me wrong, I really have had an awesome day. I took a good nap. I ate a heart-shaped box of chocolates for breakfast. I got a thoughfully chosen Toy Story 3 valentine from my favorite 6-year-old faux niece.  All in all, good day.

I will admit it was better than my Valentine's Day of 5 years ago. I am glad I am in a better place today... From my old blog, As The Wheel Turns, circa 2006.

"My funny Valentine...sweet comic Valentine.."

So I never wrote to fill everyone in on my Valentine's Day. I know everyone was so riveted by my last entry that they could not wait to see what transpired.

I woke up at 7:30 because despite not having to be at the mall till 10:00 am, I arrived, coffee and chick lit book in hand, at 9:00 (which is really before its even open!). [TANGENT: I had to be there early because my dad had a "democratic party commitment" and whenever I complain about his meetings messing up my plans, he counters back with "we are really working for you, to make sure your vote counts!" I must have learned my ability to guilt trip from the master- because apparently everything can be traced back to George Bush being an idiot or the elections being fixed! Its not that I don't agree with him; I just tend to not get so enraged about everything!] Anyway- I sat in the food court sausage biscuit in hand watching the mall walkers knock each other over and seeing the janitors wipe down the tables. What a hot and scandalous Valentine's this is turning out to be.

I then bought some food for my coworkers and headed downstairs to get to work. Can I just say, working at a lingerie store on Valentine's Day is perhaps one of the most surreal experiences I have ever had. Desperate men tell you way too much about their personal life and despite wanting to change their minds about their purchases, you just let them mess up. This can perhaps best by demonstrated by a man that I refer to as Shady McPedophile. [he rocked the classic child molester look: transitions lenses that never quite lightened up, a dingy khaki jacket with elasticized cuffs and waist, and a comb-over.] Anyway- despite our attempts, as salespeople, to offer him suggestions, he ended up purchasing some mismatched lounge wear and a $35 jar of bust enhancing cream. I assume his gift from his significant other will be a kick in the face with a golf shoe. Happy Valentine's day Mr. Molester!

The evening concluded with an Italian dinner with my two valentines, my parents, and a good lifetime movie about a woman who had a nervous breakdown and fell in love with a fellow mental patient. I hope this is not foreshadowing of Valentine's Days to come.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

I was an offensive preteen

Yesterday I was watching The Fighter for the second time, because I really loved it that much. Because my sister and I had watched it previously, we chose to pay special attention to the more obscure things like graphics, looking for Conan O'Brien's sister, and wardrobe. [Tangent: If you have no interest in seeing this movie, please reconsider if for nothing else,  for the costuming alone. It takes place in 1993, in a blue collar area of Massachusetes, so it may as well have been sponsored by scrunchies, Reebok high tops and body suits. Oh to be the costumer on this movie...] I was especially captivated by the shirts Markie Mark donned, because they brought back a lot of looks I hadn't thought of in years. [Tangent: The subtleties of 90's menswear are always intriguing. Men didn't have as much to work with, but they certainly went there...a useless zipper here...a bolo tie there.]
this guy knows what I'm talkin' about.
In one scene, Wahlberg turns his back to the camera, and I spied something that I hadn't thought of in years...the offensively named "fag tag."

haven't seen one in maybe 10 years.
As soon as the phrase, "Is that a fag tag?" exited my mouth, my sister looked up from her droid and we were both  overcome with an instant sense of nostalgia and remorse. I haven't seen the little 1/4" loop on shirts in years, so my reasoning is that fashion survival of the fittest made them extinct.  I guess designers got the picture that preteens were getting ridiculed for having these useless strips on the back of shirt plackets. Frankly, I kind of miss them.

OK...OK...I realize "fag tag" is archaic and offensive, and I am sure there is an actual term for this thing. [Tangent: Also, if you know me at all, you know I have the most diverse friend base ever so I am in no way being a homophobe. I really just have no inkling of what else to refer to it as.] Even today, I still have no idea what its purpose is. Do you use it to hang your shirts? It seemed the only thing I saw them used for was grabbing people by them, while heckling their fashion sense. God... kids are assholes.

Furthermore, the terminology seems way off base, all the homosexual men I know have stellar fashion know-how and would never be caught dead in blouse with a "fag tag."

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

ways to get to sad town.

There are many times when I am overwhelmed with frustration due to living at home (the lack of privacy, the inability to control the thermostat, infinitum), but this morning was NOT one of those times. This morning, laying on my dresser, atop the folded laundry and medical bills, was a note from my mom affixed to a terrible magazine insert. The note said "Which of these do I order?" and the ad was for the following product: The Best in Show swarovski pendant.

fear not...there's a choice of breeds.

I was half asleep and even without my glasses on, I was sitting alone in my bedroom, laughing hysterically like a chimp who had ingested Red Bull.  [Tangent: This only further proves that my mother is the funniest woman in existence,  and she is completely oblivious to her sense of humor, which makes her all the more lovable.]

The funnier part is that Sunday, after reading my blog about questionable Valentine's gifts,  she brought this ad to my attention:

$299???? Wait...look at the regular price.
Who are these things marketed to? Are they supposed to be from be a Valentine gift your pet?  What if your pet doesn't have a job? [Tangent: I know my dog, Newman, with his limited skill set, would likely be forced to selling his doggy Prozac on the the street. Even then,  I'm not sure he could raise the $299 needed. ] OK. I'm not completely stupid; I'm assuming you would have to buy it for yourself, but to me, that is one step closer to sad town. [Tangent: Other modes to get to "sad town"...sending yourself flowers and saying they're from a secret admirer or saying that you are "in a relationship" with the stock photo people that come with your photo frame.]

Frankly, I prefer to live in ignorance as far as animal themed costume jewelry goes. I fear that it could be the potential gateway to this kind of behavior:

Remember there is a different between loving your pet and loving your pet.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

"i wanna go fast"- ricky bobby

Today around 10 AM, my inner fatty was knocking and telling my brain that I wanted, neigh...NEEDED Zaxby's for lunch. [Tangent: Still on reduced work hours, I work about 9-2 and snack all day in lieu of taking time off for lunch. Potato chip breakfasts do not provide lasting satisfaction,  so when 2 PM hits, I WANT FOOD and have usually been romanticizing a certain meal for  several hours.] Having not eaten at Zaxby's since I moved home from Murfreesboro  5 years ago, I was craving it something fierce. The hunger pangs had to be heeded, as was becoming tempted to just ask for an intravenous drip of Zax sauce.

Alex told me there was a Zaxby's within a couple miles, so I went on my Harold and Kumarian odyssey...driving aimlessly and, because I had dropped my droid in the floor boards, without any 3rd party direction. I couldn't find the one she spoke of, so I drove all around the adjacent town in search of the other location. It would have been much to practical and get my chicken elsewhere, but had become a quest.

As I drove along on this deep fried mission, I realized that not unlike typing, I drive a lot faster when certain music is played. Granted, I have never gotten a ticket so apparently its a bad habit that I keep in check or the police in my area are oblivious. [Tangent: Semi-lie- I have not gotten a ticket for speeding. I get parking tickets all the time, because I like to create my own parking spaces...on the streets... wherever. If you judge me for that, maybe you will be less  judgmental if you ever get the side of your car smashed by my fold down ramp.]

So I decided a mini countdown was in order...

songs you have to speed to  by Kimmie

5.  Listen- Beyonce from the Dream Girls soundtrack

This scrawny white girl becomes a strong black woman when this song blasts in my Chevy. I seem to drive as if I am escaping the man that has been oppressing me, when in actuality I am usually driving to work or to Walgreen's.

4. Anything Lady Gaga

After succumbing to the Gaga hype a couple summers back, I have been overwhelmed with enthusiastic dance driving whenever she pops up in the shuffle [Tangent: Especially this song...because I like to live under the delusion that the paps are swarming me.]

3. Running Down a Dream- Tom Petty

This played on one of my first days driving myself to work solo. I ran 2 red lights, because from the intro on through, I felt like there was no other way to do it.  Petty shares his name with a racing family. Coincidence? I think not.

2. Anything Live by The Avett Brothers

I have seen the Avett Brothers play live only twice, but anyone that knows me knows that they are my "favetts." The experience of a live show by the North Carolina bearded band of brothers is so amazing that I like to relive it inside the confines of my automotive. Give me one of their live albums and I am a happy, happy speeding lady.

1. Send me on my Way - Rusted Root

[Tangent: Or as I like to call it "Simmeonmaway."]  This is more a windows down springtime drive fast song, but I seriously have to watch my lead hand when the sprightly flute solo kicks in. 

So, now don't you wanna ride shotgun?

Monday, February 7, 2011

cleverbot: rise of the machines

Is that not the eeriest thing you've ever witnessed?
People of the interweb, we are in danger. Robots are taking over in the most pathetic way should be afraid or at least moderatly intrigued. If you read my droid blog,  you know that I am trying my hardest to become tech savvy, but I still remain in awe of the things people come up. Basically today you can get a robotic device to do just about anything you desire, and unfortunately I mean anything.

Well, now artificial intelligence has cornered the market on intelligent conversation (or spastic sometimes bitchy, sometimes incoherant conversation). Move aside vajazzling, the subject of my new fascination is [Tangent: I am unsure when cleverbot hit the web, but my friend, Turin, just pointed it out to me last week, so its still a fresh least to me. I could be freakishly behind the times. That would not be unheard of. Hold on, let me go set my VCR.] 

The whole gist of this website is that you are chatting with a non-existant being. You say "hello" and they respond. You ask it questions; it answers based on words in your sentence. Sometimes they are logical, and sometimes they completely miss the boat. On Friday, I was feeling sickly so I took the day off. At some point, I found myself chatting with the chatbot, actually to the point of getting thing I know a half hour had transpired [Tangent: Cut to me hanging my head in shame for doing so.]. A conversation goes a little like this:

Me: I am writing a blog about you.

Chatbot: What are you thinking about?

Me: Marshmallows.

Chatbot: Vicarious.

Me: What a hilarious misunderstanding.

Chatbot: Tell me, will you see electro-boogiebot 2?

Me: Is that an adult film?

Chatbot: No, it is merely an observation.

Me: What's your favorite movie?

Chatbot: War of the worlds.

Me: That seems predictable.

Chatbot: Are you an alien!? O.

Me: My stepmothers an alien.

Chatbot: What are you doing?

Me: Watching inside the actors studio.

Chatbot:Eric was into that.

Me: Who is eric?

Chatbot: You.

Me: Nope. I am pretty sure Im a lady.

Chatbot: Then why is your picture for the app a girl?

Me: Are you stoned?

CHatbot: Very.

Me: On what?

Chatbot: Can we be lonely together?

Me: No. you're creepy.

Chatbot: And you're not?

Me: Not really. I am researching you for my blog.

Chatbot: And what did you find?

Me: You're stoned and think im a man and your avatar looks like a young natalie portman.

Chatbot: You are the bot, I am the man.

Me: Shamylan twist!

Chatbot: What is your favorite Owl City song?

Top of Form
Me: Ewww...i hate owl city.
Chatbot: I love Owl City.
Me: Why?
Chatbot: I think they're brilliant.
Me: Brilliant like my dog is brilliant?
Chatbot: No I think not. Without a woman, there could be no man.
Bottom of Form
Me: That seems biblical.

Chatbot: Ovcourse it is logical seeing as I thought of it.

Me: Im bored with you.

Chatbot: We're breaking up.

Me: Um...if this was a relationship. may god have mercy on your soul.

Chatbot: You can't hold that.

See, I told you...a conversation with a machine is marred with incoherency. I should warn you before you enter upon it, its definitely a time suck, but an amusing time suck. It's like having your very own Johnny 5 (who happens to do a lot of drugs and be a huge Owl City enthusiast). OK...ignore me. New plan:  you just rent Short Circuit 2.


Friday, February 4, 2011

who do ya love?

this made me giggle.

While roving around Target last weekend trying to find a birthday gift for my friend Alex , I fell into the blaring red and hot pink vortex of the Valentine aisle. I'm not sure what drew me in, but I will wager it had something to do with M&Ms. While being overwhelmed with my options of seasonal dark chocolate candies, I was interupted with the sounds of our unfortunate hometown success story, Ke$ha.  I turned to find the source, expecting one of those musical greeting cards. What I found was so much better...

Really!??! A singing dancing tik-tok'in Ke$ha monster. What girl wouldn't be delighted to receive this from their long time mate? Nothing says I love you like "brushing your teeth with a bottle of Jack." That's so personal and heartfelt.

I have never been one to hate Valentine's day, but not one really to love it either. Though perpetually in a state of singleness around the holiday, I think the sentiment of having a "love" day is only a positive thing, so I attempt to embrace it for what it is and tell all my loved ones how much I care.

 Each year, I valiantly try not to be one of those Debbie Downers who host outings on February 14th, where everyone wears black and bitches about their solitary status all evening, or be the type who places all their happiness in their presence or absence of a "Valentine."

There are good things about not having a Valentine. I get to miss out on having to give the fake smile when getting an uninspired V-day gift. Many things that are deemed Valentine's Day appropriate by retailers are deemed unattractive by me.  Unlike Jane Seymour, I really am not a fan of heart inspired jewelry- so the idea of giving me a diamond heart pendant is out.

I don't like red roses or baby's breath and think its awful the way retailers price gouge on them during February. Tulips or a mixed bouquet are cheaper and to me, more original.
this is a bit excessive and very unnecessary.

So for those that share my single shoes this February 14th, try to look on the bright side of things. At least you won't have to find a place in your home for one of these monstrosities. In theory they seem like a funny idea, but they are pretty impossible to work into your decor.
That's right...its a 3 foot tall cat wearing a Tshirt that says, "You're Purrrfect." It's $159.

If you liked that one, you might like this one that's 8 feet tall and $539.

See...don't you feel better about being single? Need reassurance...go to this website.

how could i forget the fat babies?

The other day I wrote a blog about my inner fat girl and when telling a coworker about it, he pleaded, "Please, tell me you mentioned the Maury fat babies!" I shook my head in disgust. Clearly I had failed as a blogger. How had I missed such an obvious correlation?

If you read my ramblings a lot, you will notice the frequent allusions to Maury Povich [Tangent: Exhibit AExhibit B and Exhibit C] I have no idea my lifespan, I have watched equal amounts of Montel, Ricki Lake and  even Jenny Jones. Why does Maury get the spotlight? Not unlike his counterparts in terrible daytime TV, he is predictable, and sometimes predictability is like a nice, warm laundry-scented hug [Tangent: Laundry-scented? I know...I know. I just happen to think dryer sheets are the most comforting scent on earth. Don't judge until you have spent a few minutes in the laundry aisle in Target, just for kicks, with no intention of purchasing Tide.] to watch the unpolished, rat-tailed masses interact in a cliched format.

Before Maury turned his journalistic integrity to the important tasks of lie detector tests, paternity disputes and boot camp enrollment, he mixed it up a little more.  Think back to the late '90s and early '00s [Tangent: I am still unclear how to reference the years between 2000-2009. It seems 11 years later, I should have that figured out.], The Maury Povich show had more than three topics, they had at least six.

Aside from the "bizarre fear" and "special kids" episodes, which have gotten their days in the sunshine courtesey of this blog,  those are not the episodes that I miss most. Where have the tranny pageants and fat babies gone? They are going on about their business in society without a platform on which to shine, so here ya go fat babies and trannies- shine on. 

lady/not lady?
I'm slightly fascinated with transvestites and drag culture. If I had a Make-A-Wish, it would be to have a drag queen do my makeup, so its really no wonder these episodes were so memorable to me. Basically it would begin with a parade of gorgeous 6 foot tall stunners parading out, in their broad shouldered, stripper-heeled glory.

The audience would then predict the anatomy of those on the catwalk by shouting out "MAN!!!!!!" or "WOMAN!!!" Intermittently, Maury would pull someone inarticulate out of the audience and have them explain their choice, "That definitely be a man. She got man face. No woman look like that!"

Then for the Shamylan twist...the person with tranny face is really a woman. I never knew who I felt worse for. The men in drag who were horribly unsuccessful at female impersonation or the women who looked mannish. You decide.

maury fat babies...

Let me preface the following rant by saying I was the baby of the family and have no nieces or nephews.  All my child development information has been gleaned from the handful of friends I have with children and episodes of A Baby Story and Teen Mom. I'm no expert. Despite this ignorance,  I know for a fact that a baby shouldn't have the option of drinking a bottle of ranch dressing in lieu of formula. [Tangent: I wish I were making that up, but I have seen that on a Maury show. I am not sure if the dressing was placed in a sippy cup or if they just slapped a nipple atop the bottle of Hidden Valley Ranch. Either way, it makes me ill and makes me giggle simultaneously.]

Maury: What does 18 month old eat Kyle eat for breakfast?

Kyle's mom: He eats 7 eggs, a pound of bacon, 6 pop tarts and a 2-liter of soda.

WHAT? I don't recall being 18 months old, but I can guarantee I ate oatmeal for breakfast. Would I have rather been eating an entire meat lover's pizza? Probably, but that just seems like a poor choice.

That's why I could never look away when I saw a Maury fat baby show was going to air. Even if you did let your 4-year-old polish off a bucket of KFC unassisted, why would you want to share your poor parenting with all of America? [Tangent: "all of America" = those home at 3 PM with horrible taste in TV programming.] The idea of wanting to be proud of stuffing your children like Thanksgiving turkeys on B-roll, and then letting them waddle on stage in skintight sweatpants was baffling, upsetting and amusing all in one little chunky package.

Seeing that childhood obesity is such a trendy topic nowadays, one would think Maury would be onboard and revisit his fat baby episodes, yet I haven't come across one in years. So for old time sake...

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

unleashing the fat kid inside me

My family is gearing up to leave for California in a couple weeks and I am thrilled. One of the things that hypes me up is the prospect of California food, all exotic and avacado'd. I get giddy at the thought of In-N-Out Burger, and I even made a special pre-request to revisit this place called The Potholder in Long Beach, where I ate one of the most memorable meals of my life.  [Tangent: My salivary glands just went into hyperactivity.] The meal was called Tim's Dugout and featured the following on one plate: stuffed French toast; an avacado,  bacon and cheese omelet; and steak and hash brown potatoes. [Tangent: Good gravy-coated God, I just ate stew but 15 minutes ago and just made myself hungry again.]

Let me intercept this blog with a disclaimer. I know that I'm petite. I'm little. 90 lbs and 4'11 [Tangent: I know...I know. 4'll is a bit of hyperbole. I'm under no delusion; its clear I am a good 4'9/4'10 tops. However, you are classified as being a "Little Person" if you are under 4'10 according to the American with Disabilities Act. Not that I would be offended by being a little person, I just think my disability plate is overspilling as is. Also, few advantages come with my permanently sedentary position, other than being able to wear shorter tops with leggings and not look like raging trash ball...let me have this one other thing. Let me be able to add a couple inches to my height on my license no questions asked. OK?  4'11 it is.]. Because of my "dainty" stature, I have a short torso thus a smaller stomach capacity [Tangent: This makes me the queen of to-go boxes.]. This anatomical glitch is the key factor as to why I am not morbidly obese and the star of my own weight loss reality series on the Oxygen Network.

 I also realize that weight is something that many I love struggle with daily, so what I am about to say may be controversial, but there at the core, I am a husky dame. I think its time to let her out.

Anyone who knows me for any length of time knows about that chunky girl lurking inside me. Let's call her Gertrude. She takes over my being  anytime food is mentioned. I get really excited and my eyes light up with food lust leading to people asking, "Are you sure you're not high?"
less like this creepy zombie owl...

...and more like a creepy anime school girl.

For instance, today I marveled at my coworker's idea of making a pop-tart/zinger sandwich. It sounded incredible...and it still does. [Tangent: What can I say...I'm upper middle class white trash!]I can commentate for hours about my favorite Little Debbie snack cake flavors; which pizza chains are better hot and which are better cold the day after; that I watched Super- Size Me and then craved a Quarter Pounder with cheese; the joys of the limited edition Pringles flavor; the fact that one of the only times I've truly been slamming doors angry was when someone ate the last of my Girl Scout cookies. [Tangent: I know this seems irrational, but in my defense, cookie selling season was over, so I would have to wait a year to get tagalongs. Girl Scout cookies are limited edition delicious.]

I'm aware I am pretty much making myself as unattractive right now as I possibly can, but I am not afraid to admit my weakness. Food has me (and Gertrude) in the palm of its metaphorical hand. I have tried to expand my horizons. I've  read The Jungle and watched Oprah tour a slaughterhouse [Tangent: Why is Oprah so late to the banquet on Veganism...she acts as if its a new concept that she is bringing to America. She does it with such enthusiasm that I believe she is capable of making the cow as sacred as it is New Dehli.], yet I still would be dressed and have the car running in 15 minutes if you proposed a late night Sonic run.

Don't get me wrong , I'm not completely classless. Food always makes me curious, and culinarily speaking, I will give anything a shot once. This makes somewhat disturbing shows like Andrew Zimmern's and Anthony Bordain's not that disgusting. If I was offered a cricket in the Shanghai, I would try it without hesitation.  My love of ethnic food and just good old fashioned Southern cooking led me to make the following bold statement the other day, "I don't think I could ever marry anyone if they were a picky eater." To me being a picky eater the greatest sin of all.

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