Friday, February 24, 2006

She was all "eek!" and I was all "don't hate me because you ain't me."

I just couldn't go to sleep tonight without telling you guys how good my boobs looked today. It was Day #1 in my new Victoria's Secret unpadded push-up demi-cup bra. My officemate is a sport so she didn't say anything when she looked up and noticed me smiling to myself as I cupped my already beautifully-cupped breasts while sitting at my desk.

The lady who caught me doing it in the bathroom in front of the mirror, however...she was more than a little freaked out. I'm fine with the glaring, but the scream struck me as a touch over the top. I mean, can't a gal fondle herself in public? Shees.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Can $0.99 salve a broken heart?...aka lookin out for what's left of Lachey

I just feel so darn bad for Nick Lachey--going through a painful break-up with Jessica Simpson (a woman I've always toooootally related to)--that I bought his latest single on iTunes. It's called "What's Left of Me" and I heard about it first from my weekly iTunes update email--the one that tried to give me some yuckiness called "Ooh La La" for free. I listened to 30 throaty disconcerting seconds of ooh's and la's and vehemently declined. That's right--they can't even give that song away it sucked so bad. Had Nick's newest li'l dee been the one for free and had he not been dealing with painful heartbreak--I'm the kind of sucker consumer that celebrity managers and publicists dream of--anyway, if Nick weren't so forlorn right now (poor guy!), I probably would have declined equally as vehemently. Put plainly: his song really sucks.

At least he can keep Tiffany company in my iTunes library.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

A li'l Valentine's conversation

SP: What are you doing here?

C: Move it, you’re in my way!

SP: Wow, I thought you’d be nicer. How can I be in YOUR way? YOU’RE the one crowding me! Do you have to be perched so close to my chair? I’m trying to work here!

C: [Rolls eyes. Sighs.] Mortals.

SP: Look, mister, I don’t who you’re calling “mortal.” I’ll have you know that may nickname since high school has been “Goddess.”

C: And who gave you that nickname?

SP: I hardly think that’s important, shees.

C: You gave it to yourself, didn’t you?

SP: I really can’t remember. Anyway, Goddess here would like you to go away, please. I’m busy.

C: Well, Goddess, I’m not going away. I’ve got a job to do, too, you know.

SP: And what’s that?

C: [Motions to arrow.] Ahem.

SP: What me? With whom? [Pauses, eyes narrow.] Wait a second, I saw Love Potion No. 9 and if you think I’m going to take that arrow—I know it was a potion in that movie, but what does Hollywood know, real…

C: That movie was about scientists making the potion. Mortal scientists.

SP: OOOOH, you’re soooo eternal. You’ve been aliiiiive for like 5,000 yeeeeeaaaars and will be for thousands mooore.

C: I’m actually older than the Earth. And no, no plans to die.

SP: Right. You’re actually about 5 minutes old. As long as I’ve been daydreaming here—don’t smirk! Anyway, if you think I’m going to take that arrow and just fall in love with the next person I see I’ve got to tell you that the next person I’ll see is the 38 year old at the next cubicle. The 38 year old who goes to medieval festivals, doesn’t cut his fingernails, and has a deep and abiding love for his pet rats. I’m fine right here, thanks.

C: So you’ll just choose?

SP: I’ll choose to be no closer to that dude than I have to be.

C: I can’t say that I blame you. He’s not on the docket for another 3 years anyway.

SP: Let me guess. Mail order?

C: Renaissance Festival.

SP: Right, right. With the big-busted wench in the beer garden no doubt. Grode.

C: It’s not always an easy job…

SP: And for me your job is going to be right now? Here at my desk?

C: If you’d zip it, yes.

SP: Well, thanks for the warning, guy! I would have worn my special jeans! The new ones that make me want to do myself!

C: That’s kinda not what it’s about, Goddess.

SP: Fine. But I’ve kinda been waiting a long time for this an…

C: No you haven’t.

SP: What do you mean, No I haven’t? I’m over 30.

C: You’re 31. Relax. That guy’s gonna be 41 before he meets the beer wench. Good call, by the way.

SP: Thanks. I’m like really good at reading other people.

C: Well, you’re flattered easily, that’s for sure.

SP: Thanks! [Pause.] Hey, wait a second! You said I haven’t been waiting a long time. I contest!

C: Of course you do. You always do.

SP: Huh?

C: You always think you want it and are ready for it, but really that’s just the internalization of the love-kooky hearts-and-flowers culture in which you live.

SP: Right, I dated women for 6 years because I internalized the “marriage is between one man and one woman” culture in which I live. [Thinks for a second.] And isn’t love-kooky hearts-and-flowers kind of your bread and butter? You might not want to knock it, pal.

C: Don’t get me started on the pain it is to be misunderstood.

SP: Surely you must have gotten over it by now, lo these many millennia.

C: It only chafes sometimes. And don’t call me Shirley.

SP: [Smiling approvingly.] Well let’s abandon the I-always-contest ship, too, then and get with the me-falling-in-love part.

C: Right-o. Wait--what's with the frown?

SP: Nothing. I mean, I know you’re a professional and all, so please don’t be offended or think that I doubt your abilities, but do you have good taste? Do you know what I like in a mate?

C: I don’t call the shots here, you do.

SP: Okay! I like tall, athletic, supersmart, superfunny, superhandsome, supercaring, superunderstanding, superbrave…

C: That’s, uh, super and all, but it’s not really what I see.

SP: So you see who it is and I have to guess what you see and when I get it right it works?

C: No.

SP: What then, mysteryo?

C: He may be super in one or two ways but certainly not in every single way possible.

SP: Fair enough.

C: So, try again.

SP: I thought this wasn’t a guessing game!

C: I think you know the answer. Let’s have it.

SP: [Pauses.] I guess just someone who loves me.

C: [Smiling, raises arrow, takes aim.] Bull’s eye.

Friday, February 10, 2006

I look so hot in my new jeans that I want to do myself.

Due to a recent spate of weight loss (“spate” is the wrong word because it has been a steady healthy flow of weight loss. I thought at first it was the “break up diet” and, at first, it partially was due to the end of a relationship. The real reason, though, I have figured out since is that the end of that relationship also meant the end of round-the-clock $1.75 pupusas. Sans pupusa, Starpower is sans lovin’ ass. But she’s also sans jeans that fit.), so—to complete the sentence I began roughly seven sentences ago—I needed me some fitting drawers. Like all purchases of any magnitude, I did it on the fly. Unplanned, spur of the moment, and, in this case, a semi-desperate attempt to get out of the heinousness that has been plaguing my commute home all week. Stupid diverted traffic from stupid construction in this city I wouldn’t dream of saying a bad thing about, ever.

The store is strategically located right on the corner of a major intersection on my drive home. It has parking in front and, on this occasion, an empty space calling my name. It would have been hard to hear it calling my name over the din of cars idling and their loud beats and/or talk radio spilling into the air, but this call was different—like on a different frequency—like angels whispering in my ear, “Come. Shop.” When the light (fiiiiinally) turned green, I found myself steering the car to the right and into the parking lot instead of continuing straight home. Who am I to argue against angels?

I park and enter, passing the snowboard section, the skateboard section, the skate video section, the mountain bike section, the impressive-collection-of-Vans section, a 12 year old skater on the ramp-in-the-middle-of-the-store section (not to be confused with the caged-in half-pipe in the parking lot with several other 12 year olds). At last, I arrive at the lady’s section (it’s totally not the pre-teen girls’ section, shut up!). I lament the lack of actual shoes and abundance of $15 flip flops. I move on to the baby tees and then come across a sweater that is so cute I still feel tempted go back and get it. It’s blue with buttons along one shoulder and on the front it has like an iron-on flower in red and salmon pink and if there’s one thing I love, it’s red and pink together. And if there’s one thing I REALLY love it’s the ashy shade of blue of the sweater itself. The problem? Next to the super cute flower design is a giant fancy Rip Curl logo and some other doodly things. The design in itself isn’t a problem—but that I’m 31 and consider wearing a sweater with said design might be. I mean, it’s cute and all and I’m cute and all but that may be a little too much cute for a woman my age (ugh) to pull off. Or maybe it’s cute and I’m not cute so much as just really sexy and womanly and the sweater’s cuteness may try to undermine the sexy that is ME and, of course, fail miserably (because, come on, nice try). So, with a heavy heart, I returned the sweater to the rack. (Though if you have daughters or nieces who are Degrassi age, let me know—I’ll point you to this great little gift item.)

The jeans. At this point, I ‘m a little gun shy. But, behold: flarier-than-boot-cuts and super-low-rise galores! Complete with wide inseams sewn with red and yellow thread. And thick belt loops. And the perfect shade of dark-but-worn blue. I try them on. If it had eyeballs, my ass would have wept. But I have eyes. Four of them. And they were all really, really happy.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

F*** the sh** y'all!

First they beat us in manners and now they beat us in rock n' roll. Welcome to the best video ever. Those Canadians know how to do it!

Watch this at work at top volume.

Monday, February 06, 2006

Getting lucky

I walked to the beach before work this morning and noticed a ladybug on the sweater I was holding. I picked the ladybug up and let it fly away and looked down to notice two more ladybugs on my skirt…and another one on my shirt. And another one struggling in the sand. Then several others also struggling in the sand. I picked up the couple I could reach and put them on my skirt with the others to take them over to the grass on my way back, puzzled at why so many ladybugs would be hanging out so far away from solid ground. The sand was clearly not a medium they were adept at walking on and we (the ladybugs and I) were pretty close to the tide on a big dune.

Had they been cartoony singing bluebirds perched on me it would have been so Cinderella, but they were actual silent ladybugs and I was barefoot on the sand and the waves were blue and white and lazy and quiet and a tern was poking around the edge of the surf and no people were around.

After a time, I walked over the crest of the dune, down the other side across the sand and over to the dirt path. One by one, I removed my little passengers. One chose the ground and the others flew away.

Back to me

Occasionally, when I lean over to twist the bath faucets on to take a shower, I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. When this happens, I am struck by how toned my lat muscles are. They’re really quite spectacular. I'm awesome.

Saturday, February 04, 2006

Coretta and Betty

We lost two great women this week. It is humbling and inspiring to think of their accomplishments and to consider the undeniable truth that so much virtue and fight can be contained within single human beings. It fills you with pride in being a woman, fills you with gratitude for how these women--these single human beings--improved our world, and fills you with hope that other single human beings can make such an impact--maybe in our time.

It also leaves you with an emptiness, a sadness that they are gone. Thank you, women. Rest.

We'll do our best to take it from here.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

My shameful oil addiction

After hearing our fearless, principled, and revolutionary leader’s comments in the State of the Union address, I must hang my head in shame. I mean, how could I? I am such a bad citizen; here I am living in this city whose design was predicated upon the idea that every single person would have their own car, this city with a laughable public transportation system…and I have the gall to drive my car to work everyday. Why do I do it?

I loves me some oil, people.

But I’m not alone in this. Our president is right. We are a NATION ADDICTED TO OIL. And the poor Bush family has spent decade upon decade trying to feed our nasty habit, trying to keep us happy. They’ve befriended the bin Ladens, they’ve sent us to fight in the Gulf War, they’ve made up stories about WMD (well, maybe this last one’s more about avenging “Daddy”); but you name it, they’ve done it. Whether they’ve been in office or not, they’ve done it. For us. All to feed the monkey on our collective oil-junkie back. Until last night.

Our fool no more, this Bush has had the completely! brand! new! idea! of developing an alternative to our dope. You can imagine how I felt to hear our totally not hypocritical leader discuss the use of alternative fuels made from renewable resources. I was pissed! I’m sorry, but where’s the magic in that? I, like all Americans, am a little less romanced by the idea of operating a vehicle on the power of things that nature can produce time and time again. It hardly has the intrigue, the drama, the excitement of depleting something completely and forever. I mean, Hey, my Prius drives on wood chips! just sounds lame. Not nearly as cool as Hey, my Escalade drives on oil. Yep, OIL!

I want my oil. I am red-blooded American, damn it, and I deserve it. Nothing else will do. I just can’t get enough of the stuff. I’ve tried to kick the habit but every time I do, I find I don’t have the fuel to get to my job to pay my taxes to fund the government to fund the war to fund Haliburton. So, with oil-withdrawal shaky hands, I have to write a personal check to Dick Cheney directly instead and walk (blech) to the mailbox and send it in the mail. What a waste.