So, Friday The Hubs was in such a good mood (and tired of me asking "do you like these lamps?") that he said, "Lulu, I am in such a good mood, I'd even go look at lamps." Well sheeeee-it. That's like saying, "Let's go jewelry shopping" in my book. So, I ate my dinner as fast as could be and headed to Home Goods with The Hubs in tow before she could change his mind.
Since i hit the local Home Goods that day, I decided to go to the one two towns over. We found a great lamp on clearance that The Hubs approved of and I knew the twin to it was back in Stamford because I saw it a mere two hours earlier. So, we bought the lamp and headed back to Stamford where we went straight to the lamp department. I looked all over but it was gone. In the two hours I wasn't even thinking about it, someone scooped it up. The same lamp I wanted. I hoped with every ounce of evil in me that that whoever bought it had the same idea and now they were headed to Norwalk to buy the twin which I had in my trunk.
With my plan foiled, I showed The Hubs a set of lamps I have been eyeing since I started looking at lamps weeks ago. To my surprise he actually liked them despite the fact the shades were red and we officially had NOTHING red left in the room. But, perhaps this was the splash of color we needed against an otherwise black and white canvas. So, The Hubs went to the car to get the lamp so we could return it and buy the new ones. When we got them home, we were shocked at how perfect they were.
Don't get me wrong, though, The price is still on them just in case I find something even more perfect. Now, I want to paint in there but when I mention that to The Hubs he looks like someone painted him ghost white.
On Sunday, we finally made it to Ikea to get my new desk. We attempted to go last week but got sidetracked by Pepe's clam pizza and Slurpee's after which we got big belly lazy and headed home. I figured since we were going to be a few minutes from New Haven anyway for a picnic we may as well save the gas and go then. After seeing the desk in person and measuring it to see if it would fit my monitor we decided to get it and made the long trek to furniture pick up. By then, my blood sugar was plummeting so I was rushing to get this over so I could find something to help me stop shaking. The bin where they said the boxes would be was empty but 3 shelves up I could see whole new shipment. I asked The Hubs if he would go find someone to help up and I went to go find a pretzel and a diet coke. I knew when I saw The Hubs walking towards me with an empty cart it was a bad sign. He said we would have to come back tomorrow because they restock only at night when the store closes.
Oh, helllllllllll no.
That is when The Hubs said I became manic but in my mind i was just reacting like . . . well . . . my mom. Just because someone says (rather loudly) that that is bullshit doesn't mean they're manic.
I went over to the service desk and pretended like I didn't just hear what was told to me. I asked (yes, nicely) if he could help me get it down. He said if it was more than 3 shelves up we had to wait until 8:15. I asked, "does the floor count as one." Sure, enough it did. I told the guy that I was from Stamford and not really feeling all that well. With gas being priced so high i didn't want to have to drive back to New Haven tomorrow. He paused for a second like he actually wanted to help me. He punched some stuff into the computer and waisted before smugly smiling at The Hubs, with a simple look that said it all, "Don't send a man to do a womyn's job." The service guy told me that the desk was completely out of stock in the black and white color we wanted and what we saw on the above shelf was a different piece all together. Normally, I would think he was lying but I went over there and compared the numbers myself. They didn't match. However, they had the desk I wanted in birch which was fine with me but suddenly, my Husband, whose PS3 name is RawStewage, put his two cents of decorating in vetoing the idea of a birch desk.
A desk he won't even be using.
A desk that I, out of my personal account, am paying for.
A desk I need to get for MY job.
In my low blood sugar state, he marched me back through IKEA (and you know how that f-ing store is set up. You have to go through the WHOLE store) back to the desks so he can see the birch desk. And the kicker was I knew he was more than likely thinking the birch was that super unfinished wood they have where you can see the knots. And I was right because as soon as we saw it, he was like, "Oh, I thought it was something else."
Then, we marched ALLLLL THE WAYYYYY BACK to the furniture pick up to get it. And it was the last one, bitches. So, we paid and packed up the car but not before Stew could write "IKEA SUCKS" all over a tape measure and leave it in their parking lot and I could angrily throw down an empty plastic bottle. Hooligans. That's some RawStewage for ya, bitches! Oh and I sang the IKEA sucks jingle loudly as I put back my cart. Manic. Ha!
Then, we deiced to stop in Fairfield for a Slurpee. Now, I have become a bit if a Slurpee junky lately. But, not the real sugary Slurpees. These are only sold at 7-11 and made with Crystal Light. Sugar free and only 5 calories an ounce. But, I do get a 40 oz one. Whoops.
Anyway, The Hubs and I always joke about how terrible it would be after going there (yes, because sometimes we drive all the way from Stamford) the machine was broken or they were out. How much that would suck and i would cry. We pulled into the lot and being Memorial Day weekend, there were tons of cars in the parking lot stocking up on snacks and drinks for the long car rides back to wherever. I parked next to this lady getting into her car happily Slurpee sipping. I had a REAL bad feeling. It was so bad and so intense I totally forgot to turn off my car before getting out and grabbing my purse. The Hubs must have had a bad feeling too because he rushed into the 7-11. I went back an turned off my car and grabbed my keys.
I walked in and saw Stew around the magazines he was pretty nervous. "The light is on" he said placing both of his hands on my arm in case I started flailing about. The light being on means two things. It's either broken or it's making more Slurpee. I just know it means you can't use it while the light is on. I asked one of the workers how long it takes to make more Slurpee. They guy said 10 minutes to half an hour. So, I paced the store waiting. I knew that lady had the last of my Slurpee. I should have chase her in my car. I bet she had my desk too. Evil twin.
Finally, the light went off and I filled up two 40 oz cups (I don't drink them all right away, I put them in small ramekin dishes and they turn into Italian ice in the freezer) and went in for a third cup when the machine just started spitting out flat red syrup, Ugh! So, I waited a bit longer before filling up the third cup. However, because they weren't as fizzy as a full term Slurpee when I froze them, they expanded out of the ramekins and got sticky red syrup everywhere in my freezer.
I hope my evil twin was just holidaying near me this weekend and goes away soon. I can't take much more of this.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Lights out
So, yeah, my bedroom is pretty dark without lamps. And of course, in the sake of not having them show up on my bill, I took the lamps back BEFORE I got replacements.
And now The Hubs won't talk to me because they were his FAVORITE lamps ever.
I've gone too far.
And now The Hubs won't talk to me because they were his FAVORITE lamps ever.
I've gone too far.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
It all started with . . .
I've been meaning to write this for a while.
So, I LOVE my new bed but it's ruining my marriage . . . . or saving it. I can't quite tell yet. Maybe as a result of what happened after the bed was delivered The Hubs has finally confirmed his fears that I am batshit crazy. Or, it cemented something in his head that instantly attracted him to me on our first date. That I am one quirky broad who likes very specific things and finds great entertainment in searching for the perfect things.
After the bed arrived, we decided we needed a new comforter. The down one I got many years ago on super cheap sale was starting to lose its fluff and was virtually lost inside the duvet cover. I found my old queen fluffy down alternative comforter in a closet and we decided we should use that. Of course, I made us spend a night under it to make sure a queen size comforter would do. I do a weird thing where i wind myself up in the comforter which in turn ends up robbing The Hubs of about three feet of comforter. After a night we thought it would do and now I had to get a queen size duvet cover. I misplaced my old one like a ginormous doofus.
Anyway, I spent some time looking online for ones I liked in stores I had coupons for. I had one requirement. It had to be 100% cotton and cotton percale is NOT cotton. The Hubs had one requirement (at least only one that he let on while I was in the preliminary stages of looking). It could not have a texture because he doesn't like to feel it on his face. But I'm the quirky one. Whatever ***pfffffttt****
I found one I liked in Macy's but it was $300 (F-U Martha Stewart) and I could not justify spending that on a duvet cover. If I ever got tired of it (which I often do) I would feel guilty changing it out for a $39.99 one I fell in love with at Home Goods. I also saw one I liked at Bed Bath and Beyond so I grabbed my coupons and off we went. After prying open the package as much as I could (they clip the zippers to the duvet bags) so I could feel, I approved of the softness. Meanwhile, the Hube went around touching all the other ones for softness. Then, I noticed that this one, the one I came to the store to buy, has a satin ribbon trim. I knew this feature would annoy me (and it was green, something I was NOT thrilled with) when I wound myself up in it. The thought of this satin ribbon jabbing me in the eye actually sent a shiver down my spine. I put it back and continued to look. I found another one I liked a lot but it had texture so I didn't even bother to show The Hubs.
Then, I saw one that I was drawn to for its simplicity. However, that was the same thing that also made me not too crazy about it. It was just plain white with a simple box of what looked like figure eights in a square in the center of the duvet. They had white with red/dark brown/silver or goldish neutral tann-ish. I was drawn to the red but nothing in my room was really red except for some knobs on a dresser. I liked the duvet but I wasn't sold on it and frankly, neither was The Hubs, but I think he was just really hedging to get out of B,B&B. I said I wanted to think about it and started making my way to the exit when I got sidetracked by the clearance aisle. I found these awesome red curtains. They were the same red in the duvet cover so I bought two panels and the duvet cover. With my coupon and the fact they were on clearance, they were $7.50. SCORE.
We came home and put the duvet cover on. I wasn't blown away. The curtains looked pretty garish but I thought it was because I had blue and white curtains there before that it was just taking me a while to get used to the shocking red. The following day I went to Home Goods and got funky red sheets and new lamps (which I kept the tags on just in case). My room looked like a Gothic porn set. Something was still off. I kept asking The Hubs, "what's off? Something is off." And all he would say is, "You're onto something but I don't know what." I don't think he was crazy about anything in there (except the lamps) but he was afraid to say anything else because that might result in another trip to the mall or Bed, Bath and Beyond.
Maybe it was the picture that hung over my bed. There was too much green in it and with the red it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas on the gothic porn set. I tried other pictures but none seemed to work. I returned to Home Goods the following day for the third time in three days. I picked up two wrought iron pieces to try and waited for The Hubs to come home so he could hold them up for me. I immediately decided on the second one much to my own chagrin because it weighed at least 40 lbs and would surely take down my wall and crush my skull while I slept. The following day i returned the other iron piece to Home Goods. I am sure by that point I made their bad list.
On Saturday, my dad came over with special screws to hang the iron thing over the bed so it would not kill us. My mom's face gave me an immediate read on what she liked (nothing) or didn't like (everything) about the bedroom. After my dad hung the iron work up and we pushed the bed back and made it for her she admitted it wasn't that bad. But, she agreed the curtains had to go. So, after my folks left The Hubs took the curtains down and I repacked them to take them back. Since I only got the duvet cover to match the curtains that meant the end of the duvet cover too. I labored over repacking that thing but wouldn't you know, B,B& B didn't even look at it.
I spent all day Sunday looking at over 3,000 duvet covers online. And out of 3,000 I liked 6 and then narrowed those down to 4. I finally ordered one but not after peppering the company with questions. Today the replacement curtains came and they've softened the place considerably. Once the new duvet cover comes I can get a firmer grasp on the lamps. And then maybe I'll take the price off.
So, I LOVE my new bed but it's ruining my marriage . . . . or saving it. I can't quite tell yet. Maybe as a result of what happened after the bed was delivered The Hubs has finally confirmed his fears that I am batshit crazy. Or, it cemented something in his head that instantly attracted him to me on our first date. That I am one quirky broad who likes very specific things and finds great entertainment in searching for the perfect things.
After the bed arrived, we decided we needed a new comforter. The down one I got many years ago on super cheap sale was starting to lose its fluff and was virtually lost inside the duvet cover. I found my old queen fluffy down alternative comforter in a closet and we decided we should use that. Of course, I made us spend a night under it to make sure a queen size comforter would do. I do a weird thing where i wind myself up in the comforter which in turn ends up robbing The Hubs of about three feet of comforter. After a night we thought it would do and now I had to get a queen size duvet cover. I misplaced my old one like a ginormous doofus.
Anyway, I spent some time looking online for ones I liked in stores I had coupons for. I had one requirement. It had to be 100% cotton and cotton percale is NOT cotton. The Hubs had one requirement (at least only one that he let on while I was in the preliminary stages of looking). It could not have a texture because he doesn't like to feel it on his face. But I'm the quirky one. Whatever ***pfffffttt****
I found one I liked in Macy's but it was $300 (F-U Martha Stewart) and I could not justify spending that on a duvet cover. If I ever got tired of it (which I often do) I would feel guilty changing it out for a $39.99 one I fell in love with at Home Goods. I also saw one I liked at Bed Bath and Beyond so I grabbed my coupons and off we went. After prying open the package as much as I could (they clip the zippers to the duvet bags) so I could feel, I approved of the softness. Meanwhile, the Hube went around touching all the other ones for softness. Then, I noticed that this one, the one I came to the store to buy, has a satin ribbon trim. I knew this feature would annoy me (and it was green, something I was NOT thrilled with) when I wound myself up in it. The thought of this satin ribbon jabbing me in the eye actually sent a shiver down my spine. I put it back and continued to look. I found another one I liked a lot but it had texture so I didn't even bother to show The Hubs.
Then, I saw one that I was drawn to for its simplicity. However, that was the same thing that also made me not too crazy about it. It was just plain white with a simple box of what looked like figure eights in a square in the center of the duvet. They had white with red/dark brown/silver or goldish neutral tann-ish. I was drawn to the red but nothing in my room was really red except for some knobs on a dresser. I liked the duvet but I wasn't sold on it and frankly, neither was The Hubs, but I think he was just really hedging to get out of B,B&B. I said I wanted to think about it and started making my way to the exit when I got sidetracked by the clearance aisle. I found these awesome red curtains. They were the same red in the duvet cover so I bought two panels and the duvet cover. With my coupon and the fact they were on clearance, they were $7.50. SCORE.
We came home and put the duvet cover on. I wasn't blown away. The curtains looked pretty garish but I thought it was because I had blue and white curtains there before that it was just taking me a while to get used to the shocking red. The following day I went to Home Goods and got funky red sheets and new lamps (which I kept the tags on just in case). My room looked like a Gothic porn set. Something was still off. I kept asking The Hubs, "what's off? Something is off." And all he would say is, "You're onto something but I don't know what." I don't think he was crazy about anything in there (except the lamps) but he was afraid to say anything else because that might result in another trip to the mall or Bed, Bath and Beyond.
Maybe it was the picture that hung over my bed. There was too much green in it and with the red it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas on the gothic porn set. I tried other pictures but none seemed to work. I returned to Home Goods the following day for the third time in three days. I picked up two wrought iron pieces to try and waited for The Hubs to come home so he could hold them up for me. I immediately decided on the second one much to my own chagrin because it weighed at least 40 lbs and would surely take down my wall and crush my skull while I slept. The following day i returned the other iron piece to Home Goods. I am sure by that point I made their bad list.
On Saturday, my dad came over with special screws to hang the iron thing over the bed so it would not kill us. My mom's face gave me an immediate read on what she liked (nothing) or didn't like (everything) about the bedroom. After my dad hung the iron work up and we pushed the bed back and made it for her she admitted it wasn't that bad. But, she agreed the curtains had to go. So, after my folks left The Hubs took the curtains down and I repacked them to take them back. Since I only got the duvet cover to match the curtains that meant the end of the duvet cover too. I labored over repacking that thing but wouldn't you know, B,B& B didn't even look at it.
I spent all day Sunday looking at over 3,000 duvet covers online. And out of 3,000 I liked 6 and then narrowed those down to 4. I finally ordered one but not after peppering the company with questions. Today the replacement curtains came and they've softened the place considerably. Once the new duvet cover comes I can get a firmer grasp on the lamps. And then maybe I'll take the price off.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
If you're on the highway to hell, you may as well sleep in a Heavenly Bed
So, it's here. My greatest reward in life. No, not my wonderful husband or a baby but my Heavenly bed. Oh yeah, bitches! I can't seem to walk past my room now without pitstopping on the bed for a quick rest. It's made getting anything done virtually impossible. However, the road to heaven was not an easy one.
After waiting 4 whole weeks (yes, I marked it on my calendar and watched the days tick by like I was in prison) I broke down and called Nordstrom's to find out when I could be expecting my bed. Afterall, I had to get ready for its arrive by cleaning the bedroom and moving some large cabinets out of the way and I wanted to leave us plenty of time to do that. Of course, I had to call Nordstrom's twice before I got any sort of an answer and "you still don't have your bed?" was not really the answer I wanted to hear. Turns out it was delivered to the delivery agent quite a few days ago and I should have already heard from them to schedule a delivery. I had not.
"Well, you will definitely be hearing from them today if you haven't already" said Tyesha.
After hanging up with her, I waited an hour and checked my messages at home. Nothing. In fact nothing until Thursday morning just as I was grabbing my keys to leave the house at 9 a.m. I stood by the calendar waiting to schedule a date with this guy thinking it would be within the next week since it was Thursday already.
"How about this afternoon?" They asked.
Um, excuse me? This afternoon, like in a couple of hours. Uh, no. I explained to the guy that I do work (contrary to being in my house at 9, whoops) and i had to do some stuff in order to get ready so pick another day.
"How about tomorrow (Friday) between 9 and 1."
So, Friday it was. I scheduled a last minute day off (which I HATE doing) and The Hubs and I worked from the time we both got home until 11 p.m. that night cleaning, vacuuming, moving furniture so the guys had easier access up the stairs. Friday morning, despite not having to go to work, I was up at 8 to strip the bed and shower before the guys got there. As you know, it was a rainy day. I started watching the clock.
By noon, something told me to call the delivery company. So, i did. And I was REALLY nice about it. I said, "I am sure you will be delayed because of the weather, can you just tell me how off schedule you are?"
"Oh," The Asshole began, "we won't be delivering your mattress today because of the rain. We don't want it to get ruined."
Trying to keep my cool I explained that I took the day off work and worked around them and their short ass notice. I also explained, I do not get paid for days off. And I also said, 'It's been raining since 7, couldn't you have called me earlier and told me you weren't delivering and I could have gone to work!?!?!?!?!"
"Sorry," The Asshole said, "We're going to try and get it to you on Saturday. We don't usually deliver on Saturdays, but we'll do it. I'll call you later tonight to schedule."
That was the tip off that they had NO INTENTION Of delivering it on Saturday because why wouldn't you reschedule with me WHILE I'M ON THE PHONE. I figured I would get nowhere with this guy so I hung up and called Nordstrom's. In fact, while I was on the phone with them a Bob's truck pulled in. Apparently, they could deliver in the rain. "Bob's is even delivering," I hissed.
A few minutes after my Nordstrom's rage, the delivery company called me back and scheduled a Saturday delivery between 8 - 10. I made them promise eight times that they were going to come. After the third time the guy was getting mad but he got off easy. If that fucker were in front of me, I would have made him pinky swear.
So, at 9:48 Saturday morning I got a call from a random cellphone asking me if i was expecting a delivery from Home Depot. When I said no, the caller on the end was about as confused as I was. The Hubs said I should have just said yes. Like that suggestion made any sense. A few minutes later (down to the wire, obviously) my doorbell rang and my mattress was delivered.
Sweet sweet sweet heavenly bed.
How it's arrival led to a full blown bedroom makeover is a blog for another day.
After waiting 4 whole weeks (yes, I marked it on my calendar and watched the days tick by like I was in prison) I broke down and called Nordstrom's to find out when I could be expecting my bed. Afterall, I had to get ready for its arrive by cleaning the bedroom and moving some large cabinets out of the way and I wanted to leave us plenty of time to do that. Of course, I had to call Nordstrom's twice before I got any sort of an answer and "you still don't have your bed?" was not really the answer I wanted to hear. Turns out it was delivered to the delivery agent quite a few days ago and I should have already heard from them to schedule a delivery. I had not.
"Well, you will definitely be hearing from them today if you haven't already" said Tyesha.
After hanging up with her, I waited an hour and checked my messages at home. Nothing. In fact nothing until Thursday morning just as I was grabbing my keys to leave the house at 9 a.m. I stood by the calendar waiting to schedule a date with this guy thinking it would be within the next week since it was Thursday already.
"How about this afternoon?" They asked.
Um, excuse me? This afternoon, like in a couple of hours. Uh, no. I explained to the guy that I do work (contrary to being in my house at 9, whoops) and i had to do some stuff in order to get ready so pick another day.
"How about tomorrow (Friday) between 9 and 1."
So, Friday it was. I scheduled a last minute day off (which I HATE doing) and The Hubs and I worked from the time we both got home until 11 p.m. that night cleaning, vacuuming, moving furniture so the guys had easier access up the stairs. Friday morning, despite not having to go to work, I was up at 8 to strip the bed and shower before the guys got there. As you know, it was a rainy day. I started watching the clock.
By noon, something told me to call the delivery company. So, i did. And I was REALLY nice about it. I said, "I am sure you will be delayed because of the weather, can you just tell me how off schedule you are?"
"Oh," The Asshole began, "we won't be delivering your mattress today because of the rain. We don't want it to get ruined."
Trying to keep my cool I explained that I took the day off work and worked around them and their short ass notice. I also explained, I do not get paid for days off. And I also said, 'It's been raining since 7, couldn't you have called me earlier and told me you weren't delivering and I could have gone to work!?!?!?!?!"
"Sorry," The Asshole said, "We're going to try and get it to you on Saturday. We don't usually deliver on Saturdays, but we'll do it. I'll call you later tonight to schedule."
That was the tip off that they had NO INTENTION Of delivering it on Saturday because why wouldn't you reschedule with me WHILE I'M ON THE PHONE. I figured I would get nowhere with this guy so I hung up and called Nordstrom's. In fact, while I was on the phone with them a Bob's truck pulled in. Apparently, they could deliver in the rain. "Bob's is even delivering," I hissed.
A few minutes after my Nordstrom's rage, the delivery company called me back and scheduled a Saturday delivery between 8 - 10. I made them promise eight times that they were going to come. After the third time the guy was getting mad but he got off easy. If that fucker were in front of me, I would have made him pinky swear.
So, at 9:48 Saturday morning I got a call from a random cellphone asking me if i was expecting a delivery from Home Depot. When I said no, the caller on the end was about as confused as I was. The Hubs said I should have just said yes. Like that suggestion made any sense. A few minutes later (down to the wire, obviously) my doorbell rang and my mattress was delivered.
Sweet sweet sweet heavenly bed.
How it's arrival led to a full blown bedroom makeover is a blog for another day.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Hitler was a bad influence
I've been called a lot of things in my life. My favorite being from a jilted lover who called me "Hitler" before he stalked off. My friend Julie and I always laugh because an ex called her a "facist dictator" after she told him it just wouldn't work. However, I have never, in my life, been called a bad influence.
Now, one might think being called Hitler would offend you more but when someone calls you something like Hitler, you kinda just shake your head and let out a dumbfounded "wha ...." Calling Hitler is like calling someone a stupid doody head. It only makes you want to say, "ummm..... okay, sure, whatever." But calling me . . . me . . . moi, a bad infleunce is off the hook.
So, who would say such a mean thing to me?
The Hubs.
And why would he say such a mean thing?
Because HE wanted to go outlet shopping and HE spent more money than me. And HE thinks that hanging out with me forces him to dress like Punky Brewster because HE came up to me after 30 minutes of being ON HIS OWN in a store excited about his find of plaid shorts with skulls and crossbones on them. And he also insisted on buy some Ed Hardy jeans with a dragon patch despite the fact I told him numerous times they weren't exactly my style but if he liked them, he should get them, Brett Michaels.
But, I'm a bad influence? Heck.
However, I do have to admit the plaid, skull and crossbones shorts are pretty f-ing awesome but definitely call for the right shirt. So, it's a good thing we used our Nordstrom's card a lot this weekend to insure we stay on our level 2 status so we can call the Fashion Emergency hotline and ask.
Now, one might think being called Hitler would offend you more but when someone calls you something like Hitler, you kinda just shake your head and let out a dumbfounded "wha ...." Calling Hitler is like calling someone a stupid doody head. It only makes you want to say, "ummm..... okay, sure, whatever." But calling me . . . me . . . moi, a bad infleunce is off the hook.
So, who would say such a mean thing to me?
The Hubs.
And why would he say such a mean thing?
Because HE wanted to go outlet shopping and HE spent more money than me. And HE thinks that hanging out with me forces him to dress like Punky Brewster because HE came up to me after 30 minutes of being ON HIS OWN in a store excited about his find of plaid shorts with skulls and crossbones on them. And he also insisted on buy some Ed Hardy jeans with a dragon patch despite the fact I told him numerous times they weren't exactly my style but if he liked them, he should get them, Brett Michaels.
But, I'm a bad influence? Heck.
However, I do have to admit the plaid, skull and crossbones shorts are pretty f-ing awesome but definitely call for the right shirt. So, it's a good thing we used our Nordstrom's card a lot this weekend to insure we stay on our level 2 status so we can call the Fashion Emergency hotline and ask.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Who goes camping in a cucumber storm?
So, last night I had another whacked dream and I'm working on trying to figure it out but there seems to be too much stuff going on in it. Maybe you can help. You being anyone who actually reads this. Or, you being Tracy who is the only other person I know who has dreams as batshit crazy and nonsensical and doomsday-ish as I do.
My dream.
I came home from work. Home was still my house but apparently my parents and my sister were still living at our old house. My sister and her family were living in the in-law apartment I used to live in while my folks had the upstairs. My sister still lived at their other house, but fro some reason they stayed in the old in-law apartment a few days a week because it was closer to my brother-in-law's job.
Anyway, my mom asked me to go over there and when I got there, she broke the news to me that my mom, dad, aunt, uncle, sister, bro-in-law and nephews were going camping and they wanted me to house-sit while they were gone. I was pissed because I really wanted to stay at my own house and it didn't even occur tome to get mad that i wasn't invited camping yet. Then, again, anyone who knows me knows my idea of roughing it is staying at a two star hotel.
My sister had a cat and a dog and she was rushing about packing and not showing me the important things like where she kept the pet food and who to call in case a pet sick or something. I'm in the kitchen trying to find this stuff out on my own when suddenly her stove (which BTW, is the most gorgeous copper stove I have ever seen) suddenly goes on. One burner starts shooting flames, then the other burner and then the whole inside of the oven is on and shooting flames. I start trying to turn the burners off but they were already off. I start screaming for my sister who pulls the plug on the oven and flicks a switch on the wall and the stove goes out. She says to me, "the cucumber storms must be coming." And I said, "oh, shit, not the cucumber storms. I want to be in my own house when the cucumber storms hit." As if i was all too familiar with the cucumber storms being a natural springtime occurrence. And as a side note. The cucumber storms have NOTHING to do with cucumbers. It was just a severe rain/thunder/lightning storm dubbed the cucumber storms which makes all the sense in the world to me in my dream.
Now, I start to get mad that I have to be away from my house during a cucumber storm while my entire family EXCEPT me goes camping. I'm about to lay into my mom about this when I see this tiny furry bird with a tail like a squirrel start hopping about the table in front of me. I start screaming like banshee ready to kill it when my sister starts screaming for me not to hurt it because it's their pet something (it had a funny name in the dream that I can't remember). Again, anyone who knows me knows I don't like birds and I don't like tiny things that walk on all fours whose nails I can hear clacking because it makes my hair stand on end. i start wigging out and screaming that I am really mad my whole family is going camping without me and leaving me to house-sit during a cucumber storm with all these animals like it's freaking Noah's Ark in a house that has a stove that spontaneously combusts. Do they understand that for the next few nights I won't get ANY sleep because I have to constantly check the stove to make sure it's not on fire and I don't burn alive.
I asked my mom how come I couldn't go camping and she said because I was just one person I would make it an uneven number of people. I reminded my mom that I am married now, a fact that seemed to escape both of us until that moment and speaking of, where was The Hubs during my dream? I thought that AFTER I got married all those weird dreams about marriage would stop but they haven't. I used to have all these dreams where I was either getting married or was married and I would NEVER see the groom or my husband or i would end up dying or getting trapped in the bathroom on my wedding day.
I went into the bathroom to sulk but was set off again when I saw the bathroom was FILTHY and the toilet was so high it came up to my shoulder. I had to pee so I bit the bullet and climbed up and sat down but it was hard to concentrate on peeing while trying not to lose my balance. And my ass was directly at window height so I am sure my aunt and uncle who were playing with the kids in the driveway could see my pasty white ass on the throne.
My parents walked back into the house where I was setting in the bedroom and crying. They were just about to say something to me (probably, "hey, don't forget to take in the mail") when The Hubs woke me up for work. I told him all about the dream and he agreed it was weird but told me that i stalled enough and had to get up now.
My dream.
I came home from work. Home was still my house but apparently my parents and my sister were still living at our old house. My sister and her family were living in the in-law apartment I used to live in while my folks had the upstairs. My sister still lived at their other house, but fro some reason they stayed in the old in-law apartment a few days a week because it was closer to my brother-in-law's job.
Anyway, my mom asked me to go over there and when I got there, she broke the news to me that my mom, dad, aunt, uncle, sister, bro-in-law and nephews were going camping and they wanted me to house-sit while they were gone. I was pissed because I really wanted to stay at my own house and it didn't even occur tome to get mad that i wasn't invited camping yet. Then, again, anyone who knows me knows my idea of roughing it is staying at a two star hotel.
My sister had a cat and a dog and she was rushing about packing and not showing me the important things like where she kept the pet food and who to call in case a pet sick or something. I'm in the kitchen trying to find this stuff out on my own when suddenly her stove (which BTW, is the most gorgeous copper stove I have ever seen) suddenly goes on. One burner starts shooting flames, then the other burner and then the whole inside of the oven is on and shooting flames. I start trying to turn the burners off but they were already off. I start screaming for my sister who pulls the plug on the oven and flicks a switch on the wall and the stove goes out. She says to me, "the cucumber storms must be coming." And I said, "oh, shit, not the cucumber storms. I want to be in my own house when the cucumber storms hit." As if i was all too familiar with the cucumber storms being a natural springtime occurrence. And as a side note. The cucumber storms have NOTHING to do with cucumbers. It was just a severe rain/thunder/lightning storm dubbed the cucumber storms which makes all the sense in the world to me in my dream.
Now, I start to get mad that I have to be away from my house during a cucumber storm while my entire family EXCEPT me goes camping. I'm about to lay into my mom about this when I see this tiny furry bird with a tail like a squirrel start hopping about the table in front of me. I start screaming like banshee ready to kill it when my sister starts screaming for me not to hurt it because it's their pet something (it had a funny name in the dream that I can't remember). Again, anyone who knows me knows I don't like birds and I don't like tiny things that walk on all fours whose nails I can hear clacking because it makes my hair stand on end. i start wigging out and screaming that I am really mad my whole family is going camping without me and leaving me to house-sit during a cucumber storm with all these animals like it's freaking Noah's Ark in a house that has a stove that spontaneously combusts. Do they understand that for the next few nights I won't get ANY sleep because I have to constantly check the stove to make sure it's not on fire and I don't burn alive.
I asked my mom how come I couldn't go camping and she said because I was just one person I would make it an uneven number of people. I reminded my mom that I am married now, a fact that seemed to escape both of us until that moment and speaking of, where was The Hubs during my dream? I thought that AFTER I got married all those weird dreams about marriage would stop but they haven't. I used to have all these dreams where I was either getting married or was married and I would NEVER see the groom or my husband or i would end up dying or getting trapped in the bathroom on my wedding day.
I went into the bathroom to sulk but was set off again when I saw the bathroom was FILTHY and the toilet was so high it came up to my shoulder. I had to pee so I bit the bullet and climbed up and sat down but it was hard to concentrate on peeing while trying not to lose my balance. And my ass was directly at window height so I am sure my aunt and uncle who were playing with the kids in the driveway could see my pasty white ass on the throne.
My parents walked back into the house where I was setting in the bedroom and crying. They were just about to say something to me (probably, "hey, don't forget to take in the mail") when The Hubs woke me up for work. I told him all about the dream and he agreed it was weird but told me that i stalled enough and had to get up now.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Red Box, Black eye
I have a low threshhold for Jackassery. It's even lower when a person's jackassery affects the lives of others. So, you can imagine what life is like for me to see lage amounts of jackassery every day. I spend most of my days balling my hands into fists mentally cold cocking jackassery committers. It's probably only a matter of time before The Hub's calming words cease working or he looses his grip on my shirt while I start flailing like a Springer guest.
Oh yes. Only a matter of time.
Some places I see jackassery more than others. I see tons of it on the road. But, now, in our constant quest to be cheap, I see it the most at Red Box locations.
For those not familair with the wonders of Red Box. They are housed in most Stop & Shops and you can rent a movie for $1. ONE DOLLAR. Genius. And if you forget to return by the 6 p.m. time the following day, it's just another buck so no biggie. However, failing to return it on time is not even an option to us true cheap asses. You are welcome to rent as many movies as you want at Red Box and as long as its in the machine, it can go home with you for ONE DOLLAR. GENIUS. And you can even rent it online, walk up to the box, swipe your card, grab your movie and go. Simple.
You'd think!
But the problem is, not everybody can work the Red Box. It's not even these poeple I get pissed off at. It's the people like the girl we saw on Friday night. The Hubs went to the Ghetto Red Box at at 9 where he reserved Walk Hard (because nobody in the ghetto wanted to watch that). When we got there, there was already a line of two people. I tooka quick cruise down the aisled to see if my crack sandwiches were on sale and I came back. It was still the same two people. I could have cruised again but I knew right then and there that I could do laps around that store before The Hubs even moved one spot in line.
Finally, the first person is finished and the next girl goes. She's going through EVERY movie, reading EVERY synopsis for minutes. The line has grown by two more people. She's standing there, one hip cocked scrutinizing like this is the hardest choice she's making. She gets a movie. She looks some more. The line grows another person. The girl in front of me rolls her eyes and says to me that they should have two (a good but fault plan as I will get into later). She reads some more. I let out a very big, loud sigh.
The line grows some more. Then, she takes out her cell phone and dials. I say out loud, "Oh, you have got to be kidding me, that is SO NOT cool!" It doesn't seem to phase her which irritates me even more. And we're in the ghetto so you can imagine what the line looks like. Most of them have little tolerance for little Greenwich girl on her pink Razr with her Louis Vitton bag dangling from her wrist.
The line grows (it's almost out the door) as Little Miss Douchebag reads the movies alphabetically. Again I said, "Ohhhhh no" and The Hubs shoots me a look to let me know he agrees but disapproves of my verbalization of the whole insane scene. She hangs up. Reads and agonizes some more. The line grows. Finally, she finishes but there's still one more person to go before us. Now, mind you, we did it all online. All we have to do is pick up. We'll be at the machine less than a minute. The girl in front of us is no speed racer but she's no Little Miss Douchebag so we eventually make it to the Red Box. We swipe, grab and go. The line is in amazement. They should see how efficiently we order food if they are so impressed by that.
I rage the whole way home and so does The Hubs. There is really no way to fix the Red Box Jackassery problem. Two machines, like the girl in front of us suggested would not work because each machine would have different movies based on who returned what at which machine.
The only way to really do it is to have a pick up/return slot on the side of the same machine so smart people who did it online didn't have to wait behind assholes who think this is Blockbuster.
Remind me to write a letter to Red Box about this idea. Otherwise, you'll be cruising the Police Blotter and totally see my name.
Oh yes. Only a matter of time.
Some places I see jackassery more than others. I see tons of it on the road. But, now, in our constant quest to be cheap, I see it the most at Red Box locations.
For those not familair with the wonders of Red Box. They are housed in most Stop & Shops and you can rent a movie for $1. ONE DOLLAR. Genius. And if you forget to return by the 6 p.m. time the following day, it's just another buck so no biggie. However, failing to return it on time is not even an option to us true cheap asses. You are welcome to rent as many movies as you want at Red Box and as long as its in the machine, it can go home with you for ONE DOLLAR. GENIUS. And you can even rent it online, walk up to the box, swipe your card, grab your movie and go. Simple.
You'd think!
But the problem is, not everybody can work the Red Box. It's not even these poeple I get pissed off at. It's the people like the girl we saw on Friday night. The Hubs went to the Ghetto Red Box at at 9 where he reserved Walk Hard (because nobody in the ghetto wanted to watch that). When we got there, there was already a line of two people. I tooka quick cruise down the aisled to see if my crack sandwiches were on sale and I came back. It was still the same two people. I could have cruised again but I knew right then and there that I could do laps around that store before The Hubs even moved one spot in line.
Finally, the first person is finished and the next girl goes. She's going through EVERY movie, reading EVERY synopsis for minutes. The line has grown by two more people. She's standing there, one hip cocked scrutinizing like this is the hardest choice she's making. She gets a movie. She looks some more. The line grows another person. The girl in front of me rolls her eyes and says to me that they should have two (a good but fault plan as I will get into later). She reads some more. I let out a very big, loud sigh.
The line grows some more. Then, she takes out her cell phone and dials. I say out loud, "Oh, you have got to be kidding me, that is SO NOT cool!" It doesn't seem to phase her which irritates me even more. And we're in the ghetto so you can imagine what the line looks like. Most of them have little tolerance for little Greenwich girl on her pink Razr with her Louis Vitton bag dangling from her wrist.
The line grows (it's almost out the door) as Little Miss Douchebag reads the movies alphabetically. Again I said, "Ohhhhh no" and The Hubs shoots me a look to let me know he agrees but disapproves of my verbalization of the whole insane scene. She hangs up. Reads and agonizes some more. The line grows. Finally, she finishes but there's still one more person to go before us. Now, mind you, we did it all online. All we have to do is pick up. We'll be at the machine less than a minute. The girl in front of us is no speed racer but she's no Little Miss Douchebag so we eventually make it to the Red Box. We swipe, grab and go. The line is in amazement. They should see how efficiently we order food if they are so impressed by that.
I rage the whole way home and so does The Hubs. There is really no way to fix the Red Box Jackassery problem. Two machines, like the girl in front of us suggested would not work because each machine would have different movies based on who returned what at which machine.
The only way to really do it is to have a pick up/return slot on the side of the same machine so smart people who did it online didn't have to wait behind assholes who think this is Blockbuster.
Remind me to write a letter to Red Box about this idea. Otherwise, you'll be cruising the Police Blotter and totally see my name.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
You gotta fight for your right to fight . . . . and you just lost it.
Something is going on in our house. It seems as though we need a new . . . . everything. It started with the mattress. Actually, it started with the sofa but considering I spend more time sleeping than I do sitting ass on my couch, it became a mattress. Now, after springing for the Heavenly Bed (which, by the way, I bound for the phone iwhen it rings in hopes it's Nordstrom's calling to tell me they were wrong about the 4 to 6 week delivery and my bed is coming right now), talks are resuming about the sofa.
I LOVE my livingroom set. I LOVE my set as much as I LOVED my entertainment center. And noticed I said loved as in a past tense. Someone (and it wasn't me) wanted a GIGANTIC TV because my "broad tv" with combo dvd/vcr player offended all his machismo senses. My beloved entertainment center would not accommodate anything bigger than 30 inches so I had to forsake my FAVORITE piece of furniture in the name of love. Of course, that meant the new one had to meet my aesthetic standards and we did pretty well all things considering.
But, my living room furniture is like sitting down on a big hug and it's cute and girly to boot. Behind me, in my office, sits the tan leather one The Hubs had in his condo hidden away holding all the clothes I will one day list on eBay. That sofa is in fine working condition but this time, it offends MY senses.
It's not really that my sofa is that bad. It's only 8 years old. The back frame behind one of the spots is a bit sunken in and that caused the back cushion to get all screwed up. This was made worse by The Hubs who would not fix it first before sitting, but, rather let it fold under him and sink down so he was leaning right up against the sunken in frame.
My living room set is a set for a reason. The couch is blue, the loveseat is a pinkish reddish and the big overstuffed chair is a pale yellow. He wanted to buy a new sofa, a leather one, thus mis-matching my beloved living room set. The loveseat and the chair are still in excellent condition because nobody ever sits on them. Something would have to go. And who throws out perfectly good pieces of furniture? Sure, i could try and sell the loveseat and chair on craig's list but what a pain in the ass. I can barely stand the assholes on eBay. Not to mention we'd spend at least $2000 on a new set.
So, I had a solution. I would get the back cushions restuffed. Maybe put in some firm foam and make them new again . . . or at least hold up another two years. The Hubs wanted to move his ugly leather couch downstairs but that plan was dead in the water upon the words leaving his mouth.
His argument: "You should be concerned with function than aaesthetics."
Well, if that were the case half of his friends wouldn't be ruling out 98% of the girls they meet because they're not supermodels. But, I guess that explains why he was smart enough to marry me.
To get the pillows restuffed would cost me about $100 and then I picked up a sofa saver to put under the back cushions to give that sunken in spot behind The Hubs more support. $114.99 for two more years of use versus $2,000 and a big headache seems logical to me. He was against putting anymore money into it but i could see the big picture. I had a plan and when I have a plan, do not fuck with me.
And only a few short moments he would lose the right to ever debate me again. I finally heard something that I have been telling people for years. We were talking about a couple we know who just told us they're pregnant. She's only 2 months and I know there is some sort of safety 3 month rule. But, I didn't want her to think that her husband told us and we didn't acknowledge it so I told The Hubs we should get a card to send them. He was apprehensive that it was still early and maybe we shouldn't and blah blah blah. Then he said it . . . .
"Well you always do what's right anyway."
Glad someone finally noticed.
I LOVE my livingroom set. I LOVE my set as much as I LOVED my entertainment center. And noticed I said loved as in a past tense. Someone (and it wasn't me) wanted a GIGANTIC TV because my "broad tv" with combo dvd/vcr player offended all his machismo senses. My beloved entertainment center would not accommodate anything bigger than 30 inches so I had to forsake my FAVORITE piece of furniture in the name of love. Of course, that meant the new one had to meet my aesthetic standards and we did pretty well all things considering.
But, my living room furniture is like sitting down on a big hug and it's cute and girly to boot. Behind me, in my office, sits the tan leather one The Hubs had in his condo hidden away holding all the clothes I will one day list on eBay. That sofa is in fine working condition but this time, it offends MY senses.
It's not really that my sofa is that bad. It's only 8 years old. The back frame behind one of the spots is a bit sunken in and that caused the back cushion to get all screwed up. This was made worse by The Hubs who would not fix it first before sitting, but, rather let it fold under him and sink down so he was leaning right up against the sunken in frame.
My living room set is a set for a reason. The couch is blue, the loveseat is a pinkish reddish and the big overstuffed chair is a pale yellow. He wanted to buy a new sofa, a leather one, thus mis-matching my beloved living room set. The loveseat and the chair are still in excellent condition because nobody ever sits on them. Something would have to go. And who throws out perfectly good pieces of furniture? Sure, i could try and sell the loveseat and chair on craig's list but what a pain in the ass. I can barely stand the assholes on eBay. Not to mention we'd spend at least $2000 on a new set.
So, I had a solution. I would get the back cushions restuffed. Maybe put in some firm foam and make them new again . . . or at least hold up another two years. The Hubs wanted to move his ugly leather couch downstairs but that plan was dead in the water upon the words leaving his mouth.
His argument: "You should be concerned with function than aaesthetics."
Well, if that were the case half of his friends wouldn't be ruling out 98% of the girls they meet because they're not supermodels. But, I guess that explains why he was smart enough to marry me.
To get the pillows restuffed would cost me about $100 and then I picked up a sofa saver to put under the back cushions to give that sunken in spot behind The Hubs more support. $114.99 for two more years of use versus $2,000 and a big headache seems logical to me. He was against putting anymore money into it but i could see the big picture. I had a plan and when I have a plan, do not fuck with me.
And only a few short moments he would lose the right to ever debate me again. I finally heard something that I have been telling people for years. We were talking about a couple we know who just told us they're pregnant. She's only 2 months and I know there is some sort of safety 3 month rule. But, I didn't want her to think that her husband told us and we didn't acknowledge it so I told The Hubs we should get a card to send them. He was apprehensive that it was still early and maybe we shouldn't and blah blah blah. Then he said it . . . .
"Well you always do what's right anyway."
Glad someone finally noticed.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
NKOTB(itches)
Yesterday, I pulled my car out of the garage of my very adult job, wearing my adult clothes, carrying my adult purse ready to go home to my adult life. I pushed the radio knob in waiting for whatever music to fill whatever station I left it on at 8:50 a.m. To my surprise, New Kids On The Block was coming out of my speakers. Whoa- whoa- whoa - whoa- hangin' tough. I looked up and into the mirror hoping to catch the decade in a laugh line. It was indeed 2008. I let a small smile pass across my lips and rolled down my window a bit. Suddenly, I was 16 years-old.
I'll admit something here and ONLY here. Well, okay, it's not really news to most of my friends but I was a HUGE NKOTB fan. HUGE. Like 10 times in concert huge. Like 267 (but still not the 293 of Duran Duran when I was eleven) pictures adorning my walls that i ripped out of magazines like Bop and Teen Beat that I always told the guy at the magazine shop I was buying "for my younger sister." NKOTB was my dirt dirty dirty secret and I was not alone. My bestfriend also joined me in this scandal and together we probably spent thousands scoring good seats to their shows and gas money to get there. We were among the few NKOTB fans that could actually drive to their concerts. An elite group and something one should not be proud of.
I liked Donnie Wahlberg. What could I say; I had a thing for bad boys. She was a huge Joey McIntyre fan which I found a bit worse because he just looked so young despite being a year older than us. Maybe she was onto something, he aged a helluva lot better than Donnie. However, she was a huge Richie Sambroa fan and have you seen how he's lookin' lately? Egotz!
So, here I was, 34 years-old, married, thinking about the whole baby thing. Sixteen years old was more than half my life ago. And all these memories started flooding back. All the ridiculousness of my teenage years. All the money spent. All the time spent. All the screaming and singing along to songs. All of it just the right stuff. Ahhh, you knew I was going to find some way to work that in. It is me we're talking about here.
I thought back to my funniest NKOTB experience. The concert where we ended up helping security collect gifts for the band from the fans who tried to approach the closer rows but got turned away. How all three of us held large black hefty bags that got fuller throughout the concert. And then, how we made off with them running back to the car with our loot to see what these crazy bitches were bestowing on our guys. It was kinda sad. The cards, the letters, the heartfelt poetry, the poorly constructed missives about how fans visited their hometowns. Requests for autographs, tons of gummi bears, Mets hats, Red Sox hats, pictures, stuffed animals. We divided the loot by the guy we liked. Kristen got all Joey's gifts, I got Donnie's and Jen got Jon's. All is fair in love and looting.
The story always makes me laugh.
But, then reality came crashing down. Why are they playing NKOTB? And why do I now think this is the shittiest music to ever hit airwaves. Some friends would say my musical tastes have not evolved that much. It is true, the New Kids on the Block are back together reuniting (torturing) us one last time so that people like me could play their CDs for their kids and hopefully breathe some life back into the NKOTB craze. No thanks. Once was enough guys. I mean, really, who is going to be your fan base now. Even your youngest fans are well into their 20s and hoped you had moved onto bigger and better things. Come on, Donnie, what about that booming movie career, the Sixth Sense and Saw II. You were about to grasp the brass ring like your brother. The once Marky Mark of the former Funky Bunch who once autographed a picture for me when he played Playland signing it, "Lisa, How's Greace" when i was unable to attend because I was in GreEce, has movie roles coming out of his ass. And here you are ready to break it down NKOTB style in 2008. Have some self respect, would ya? Fade into obscurity with some dignity, man. You'll more than likely never reach the level of stardom you had. Instead you're just making jokes of yourselves and forcing your wives to raise your kids while you're out on the road entertaining 10 year-olds and their moms.
Then before I could switch out of my rage-a-hol mode, they played the new NKOTB song and I bet it's going to shoot straight to number one in strip clubs everywhere. Suddenly, it all made sense.
Back to the Juno soundtrack.
I'll admit something here and ONLY here. Well, okay, it's not really news to most of my friends but I was a HUGE NKOTB fan. HUGE. Like 10 times in concert huge. Like 267 (but still not the 293 of Duran Duran when I was eleven) pictures adorning my walls that i ripped out of magazines like Bop and Teen Beat that I always told the guy at the magazine shop I was buying "for my younger sister." NKOTB was my dirt dirty dirty secret and I was not alone. My bestfriend also joined me in this scandal and together we probably spent thousands scoring good seats to their shows and gas money to get there. We were among the few NKOTB fans that could actually drive to their concerts. An elite group and something one should not be proud of.
I liked Donnie Wahlberg. What could I say; I had a thing for bad boys. She was a huge Joey McIntyre fan which I found a bit worse because he just looked so young despite being a year older than us. Maybe she was onto something, he aged a helluva lot better than Donnie. However, she was a huge Richie Sambroa fan and have you seen how he's lookin' lately? Egotz!
So, here I was, 34 years-old, married, thinking about the whole baby thing. Sixteen years old was more than half my life ago. And all these memories started flooding back. All the ridiculousness of my teenage years. All the money spent. All the time spent. All the screaming and singing along to songs. All of it just the right stuff. Ahhh, you knew I was going to find some way to work that in. It is me we're talking about here.
I thought back to my funniest NKOTB experience. The concert where we ended up helping security collect gifts for the band from the fans who tried to approach the closer rows but got turned away. How all three of us held large black hefty bags that got fuller throughout the concert. And then, how we made off with them running back to the car with our loot to see what these crazy bitches were bestowing on our guys. It was kinda sad. The cards, the letters, the heartfelt poetry, the poorly constructed missives about how fans visited their hometowns. Requests for autographs, tons of gummi bears, Mets hats, Red Sox hats, pictures, stuffed animals. We divided the loot by the guy we liked. Kristen got all Joey's gifts, I got Donnie's and Jen got Jon's. All is fair in love and looting.
The story always makes me laugh.
But, then reality came crashing down. Why are they playing NKOTB? And why do I now think this is the shittiest music to ever hit airwaves. Some friends would say my musical tastes have not evolved that much. It is true, the New Kids on the Block are back together reuniting (torturing) us one last time so that people like me could play their CDs for their kids and hopefully breathe some life back into the NKOTB craze. No thanks. Once was enough guys. I mean, really, who is going to be your fan base now. Even your youngest fans are well into their 20s and hoped you had moved onto bigger and better things. Come on, Donnie, what about that booming movie career, the Sixth Sense and Saw II. You were about to grasp the brass ring like your brother. The once Marky Mark of the former Funky Bunch who once autographed a picture for me when he played Playland signing it, "Lisa, How's Greace" when i was unable to attend because I was in GreEce, has movie roles coming out of his ass. And here you are ready to break it down NKOTB style in 2008. Have some self respect, would ya? Fade into obscurity with some dignity, man. You'll more than likely never reach the level of stardom you had. Instead you're just making jokes of yourselves and forcing your wives to raise your kids while you're out on the road entertaining 10 year-olds and their moms.
Then before I could switch out of my rage-a-hol mode, they played the new NKOTB song and I bet it's going to shoot straight to number one in strip clubs everywhere. Suddenly, it all made sense.
Back to the Juno soundtrack.
Monday, April 07, 2008
How the Heavenly Bed became a fashion emergency
When I used to travel for my other job, I would have the luxury of staying in whatever hotel my boss stayed in so he could keep me close like a master would keep his slave. The hotels were usually pretty nice. When we traveled to San Francisco I liked staying in the Westin St. Francis because I LOVE Westin beds. After my first stay, I learned the fluffy goodness I couldn't wait to crawl into at night were trademarked, the Heavenly Bed. And I have to say, I LOVED going to bed every night. Usually when I sleep at hotels, I dread a night's sleep on a lumpy mattress with scratchy sheets. I'd stay out of my room until everything closed and I was forced to sleep. At the Westin, I'd do everything I could to stay in my room.
When I met The Hubs, I had to go to San Fran for business and I stayed at The Westin again. I called him the first night to gloat about being able to eat a cheeseburger and sink into fluffy goodness. In fact, throughout our courtship I told him about the Heavenly Bed often. Every hotel we'd stay in where the bed was suitable he'd remark that that was the most comfortable bed he's ever slept in at a hotel. I'd quickly correct him and say, "you'll change your mind if you ever stayed at a Westin. That bed was okay but it's no Heavenly Bed."
It became a game that ended the day after our wedding when The Hubs pulled up to a Westin. The king size Heavenly Bed was too much for both of us to resist. We quickly dove on it (for a nap, get your minds out of the gutter). Needless to say, it was hard to get up. We spent as much time as we could in that bed, eating breakfast, watching TV, even laying there as we waited for each other to get ready. Who needed the rest of Boston, we had that bed. The Hubs became a convert vowing only to stay in Westin's for the rest of his life.
So, after another restless night's sleep on a 15 year-old mattress, The Hubs and I decided it was time to get a new one. I couldn't just let the opportunity to suggest a Heavenly Bed pass by. To my surprise The Hubs was down with the idea. The real ones are only available on the Westin website and at select department stores. Sleepy's sells the beds only found in the W Hotels and believe me, THERE IS A DIFFERENCE. In our area, the select department store was Nordstrom's. After calling to make sure they had a floor model for us to try we went there Saturday night.
Furniture, of any kind, must be new to Nordstrom's because the beds were set off in a remote corner and there were only two kinds of mattresses. The Hubs and I were a bit disappointed to see the Heavenly Bed was all trussed up. I read somewhere when testing out a mattress to lay on it for five minutes. How could I lay on this without removing the comforter and 6 billion pillows? We immediately got to work despite the dismay of the salesperson. Hey, if we're going to spend that much on a mattress and make a ten year commitment to it, we were going to try it.
I got comfortable which made The Hubs wary because we were, after all, in a department store so people were walking by. Again, ask me if i care? I laid there and laid there and laid there. It felt smaller than our queen at home but we're not sure if it was just an optical illusion because the store was huge. So, I carefully took off the sheets until I found the tag that had the measurements. We left, without the bed because we had to go home and measure our bed and decide between a queen or a king. A king would be great but that meant buying a new frame thus turning an already expensive bed into a super duper expensive bed.
Oh. And of course we set the bed up exactly how we found it because The Hubs made me. I don't even make my bed at home.
The following day, we returned. With the help of the salesperson, we stripped the bed of its comforter and again laid on it. I flailed about tossing and turning and changing positions like I do in the course of a night's sleep. a few minutes later we found ourselves at the register. Nordstrom's, being the only department store with this silly policy doesn't give you a discount on anything the day you open a credit account there. The bed was getting paid out of the joint anyway but we were hoping to get a discount for opening an account with them. Nothing. However, they have a $20 bonus certificate and a totally silly points system. After statting it out, The Hubs deemed it worth the $40 in bonus certs/points we'd get buying it on their card rather than putting it on his regular card and only getting $14.25 worth of points. Plus, I was eyeing the down duvet insert so we could use it towards that.
They offer so many kinds of cards. So many different tiers all of which elude the salespeople. It was up to us to read the brochure and pick the best card to nickel and dime them - the platinum card. After that, it's broken down into tiers depending on your annual spending. With the bed purchase, we were placed in their tier II. Suddenly, The Hubs let out a chuckle and pointed towards the "benefits" list of Tier II. Emergency Fashion hotline that tier II cardmembers could call and get emergency fashion help. How great is that? I mean who uses that? Seriously.
Then, I started thinking about all those times I had fashion questions. Like, afternoon weddings requiring less formal dress. Suddenly, I was overcome with the desire to be a Tier II member just to call these people every now and then with some silly question like 'is it okay to wear black stockings and white pumps?" Or "I want an outfit that says available but not slutty." This is fun. This hotline is genius. All i know is whoever was answering that hotline better have more knowledge than these salespeople because the results could be disastrous. I'm hard pressed to believe that it's someone's full time job to hang around a red phone waiting for the alarms to go off that there is a fashion emergency. I'm more apt to believe the same person guiding me on fashion advice is also who gets called if they're short a cashier or need someone to wrap.
By the time we left the store, I was giddy with delight. Not only would I be getting my very own Heavenly Bed but now I got to go home and make up fashion emergencies to stump people with.
When I met The Hubs, I had to go to San Fran for business and I stayed at The Westin again. I called him the first night to gloat about being able to eat a cheeseburger and sink into fluffy goodness. In fact, throughout our courtship I told him about the Heavenly Bed often. Every hotel we'd stay in where the bed was suitable he'd remark that that was the most comfortable bed he's ever slept in at a hotel. I'd quickly correct him and say, "you'll change your mind if you ever stayed at a Westin. That bed was okay but it's no Heavenly Bed."
It became a game that ended the day after our wedding when The Hubs pulled up to a Westin. The king size Heavenly Bed was too much for both of us to resist. We quickly dove on it (for a nap, get your minds out of the gutter). Needless to say, it was hard to get up. We spent as much time as we could in that bed, eating breakfast, watching TV, even laying there as we waited for each other to get ready. Who needed the rest of Boston, we had that bed. The Hubs became a convert vowing only to stay in Westin's for the rest of his life.
So, after another restless night's sleep on a 15 year-old mattress, The Hubs and I decided it was time to get a new one. I couldn't just let the opportunity to suggest a Heavenly Bed pass by. To my surprise The Hubs was down with the idea. The real ones are only available on the Westin website and at select department stores. Sleepy's sells the beds only found in the W Hotels and believe me, THERE IS A DIFFERENCE. In our area, the select department store was Nordstrom's. After calling to make sure they had a floor model for us to try we went there Saturday night.
Furniture, of any kind, must be new to Nordstrom's because the beds were set off in a remote corner and there were only two kinds of mattresses. The Hubs and I were a bit disappointed to see the Heavenly Bed was all trussed up. I read somewhere when testing out a mattress to lay on it for five minutes. How could I lay on this without removing the comforter and 6 billion pillows? We immediately got to work despite the dismay of the salesperson. Hey, if we're going to spend that much on a mattress and make a ten year commitment to it, we were going to try it.
I got comfortable which made The Hubs wary because we were, after all, in a department store so people were walking by. Again, ask me if i care? I laid there and laid there and laid there. It felt smaller than our queen at home but we're not sure if it was just an optical illusion because the store was huge. So, I carefully took off the sheets until I found the tag that had the measurements. We left, without the bed because we had to go home and measure our bed and decide between a queen or a king. A king would be great but that meant buying a new frame thus turning an already expensive bed into a super duper expensive bed.
Oh. And of course we set the bed up exactly how we found it because The Hubs made me. I don't even make my bed at home.
The following day, we returned. With the help of the salesperson, we stripped the bed of its comforter and again laid on it. I flailed about tossing and turning and changing positions like I do in the course of a night's sleep. a few minutes later we found ourselves at the register. Nordstrom's, being the only department store with this silly policy doesn't give you a discount on anything the day you open a credit account there. The bed was getting paid out of the joint anyway but we were hoping to get a discount for opening an account with them. Nothing. However, they have a $20 bonus certificate and a totally silly points system. After statting it out, The Hubs deemed it worth the $40 in bonus certs/points we'd get buying it on their card rather than putting it on his regular card and only getting $14.25 worth of points. Plus, I was eyeing the down duvet insert so we could use it towards that.
They offer so many kinds of cards. So many different tiers all of which elude the salespeople. It was up to us to read the brochure and pick the best card to nickel and dime them - the platinum card. After that, it's broken down into tiers depending on your annual spending. With the bed purchase, we were placed in their tier II. Suddenly, The Hubs let out a chuckle and pointed towards the "benefits" list of Tier II. Emergency Fashion hotline that tier II cardmembers could call and get emergency fashion help. How great is that? I mean who uses that? Seriously.
Then, I started thinking about all those times I had fashion questions. Like, afternoon weddings requiring less formal dress. Suddenly, I was overcome with the desire to be a Tier II member just to call these people every now and then with some silly question like 'is it okay to wear black stockings and white pumps?" Or "I want an outfit that says available but not slutty." This is fun. This hotline is genius. All i know is whoever was answering that hotline better have more knowledge than these salespeople because the results could be disastrous. I'm hard pressed to believe that it's someone's full time job to hang around a red phone waiting for the alarms to go off that there is a fashion emergency. I'm more apt to believe the same person guiding me on fashion advice is also who gets called if they're short a cashier or need someone to wrap.
By the time we left the store, I was giddy with delight. Not only would I be getting my very own Heavenly Bed but now I got to go home and make up fashion emergencies to stump people with.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
F-ing Deli Guy
That deli guy needs a good swift kick in the ass. Yes, I am talking about the same deli guy who addressed me as sir a couple of weeks ago.
Today, I was overcome with a craving for deli sliced ham. Honestly, I am not much of a deli ham fan. That weird iridescent color it gets creeps me out. And all these nail salons have tons of shades of pink that have the same effect. I always cringe when I see it and think "ham toes. I'll want to eat my feet." So, yeah, not a ham fan. But, today I NEEDED ham. But, I also needed some more cranberry juice and creamer so it wasn't a one item trip like when I must have baked Ritz crackers.
Anyway, The Hubs' biggest fan was working and he wrapped up his last customer in enough time to help me. I didn't want to order the ham right off the bat so I ordered some Swiss cheese. My least favorite cheese. But, just like the ham, I had to have it today. Then I went to order the ham when he said to me, "you look like you had a bad day."
Okay. See, I DID have a bad day. A really bad day. In fact, I texted The Hubs around 3 telling him to forget wings, I'd rather drink my calories for dinner. He texted me back to tell me his day sucked too. Great, can't I just have this ONE THING? Ironically enough, both our days had to do with computer issues. But, he broke one, whereas I wanted to just break one over someone's head. Someone please remind me when I get another job to pretend like I've never even seen a computer before. Be in awe of its powers and afraid of it like everyone around me. Ignorance is bliss. Or, at least pay me like an IT person if I am going to be doing the job.
But, telling someone they look like they had a bad day is mean. Especially when I was trying so hard to forget about my bad day. I'm not sure what tipped him off. Maybe it was the fact that I forgot the word "ham" when I went to order it and looked visibly overwhelmed by all the choices. Sad. When did I become my grandmother? On bad days apparently. I guess I can't get pissed at my mom anymore when I get in her car and she completely forgets how to get anywhere in town. A town she's lived in for 40 years. A town in which she drives around all day selling real estate in. But, suddenly she forgets the quickest way to downtown when I get in the car.
"Um, is it that obvious?" I asked Deli Dope.
"Yes," he said without hesitation.
Thanks. Don't mince words. For that, I will make you cut my cheese extra thick and put a layer of paper between slices.
I came home and told The Hubs his new friend said I looked like I had a bad day. He didn't think I should be that upset unless he said, "you look like you had a bad day, sir." Wise ass. No cheese for him.
Today, I was overcome with a craving for deli sliced ham. Honestly, I am not much of a deli ham fan. That weird iridescent color it gets creeps me out. And all these nail salons have tons of shades of pink that have the same effect. I always cringe when I see it and think "ham toes. I'll want to eat my feet." So, yeah, not a ham fan. But, today I NEEDED ham. But, I also needed some more cranberry juice and creamer so it wasn't a one item trip like when I must have baked Ritz crackers.
Anyway, The Hubs' biggest fan was working and he wrapped up his last customer in enough time to help me. I didn't want to order the ham right off the bat so I ordered some Swiss cheese. My least favorite cheese. But, just like the ham, I had to have it today. Then I went to order the ham when he said to me, "you look like you had a bad day."
Okay. See, I DID have a bad day. A really bad day. In fact, I texted The Hubs around 3 telling him to forget wings, I'd rather drink my calories for dinner. He texted me back to tell me his day sucked too. Great, can't I just have this ONE THING? Ironically enough, both our days had to do with computer issues. But, he broke one, whereas I wanted to just break one over someone's head. Someone please remind me when I get another job to pretend like I've never even seen a computer before. Be in awe of its powers and afraid of it like everyone around me. Ignorance is bliss. Or, at least pay me like an IT person if I am going to be doing the job.
But, telling someone they look like they had a bad day is mean. Especially when I was trying so hard to forget about my bad day. I'm not sure what tipped him off. Maybe it was the fact that I forgot the word "ham" when I went to order it and looked visibly overwhelmed by all the choices. Sad. When did I become my grandmother? On bad days apparently. I guess I can't get pissed at my mom anymore when I get in her car and she completely forgets how to get anywhere in town. A town she's lived in for 40 years. A town in which she drives around all day selling real estate in. But, suddenly she forgets the quickest way to downtown when I get in the car.
"Um, is it that obvious?" I asked Deli Dope.
"Yes," he said without hesitation.
Thanks. Don't mince words. For that, I will make you cut my cheese extra thick and put a layer of paper between slices.
I came home and told The Hubs his new friend said I looked like I had a bad day. He didn't think I should be that upset unless he said, "you look like you had a bad day, sir." Wise ass. No cheese for him.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Wrecking Balm, meet wrecking ball
Once a month, the greatest magazine to ever land in our mailbox arrives. The Clipper. Now, for those not familiar with The Clipper, I'll fill you in. The Clipper is a great magazine chock full of coupons to some local restaurants and businesses. Now, I could care less for the $25 off a gutter cleaning but you can bet I'll be running for the scissors when I see a $5 off coupon for my sushi joint, Ocha.
Sometimes The Clipper will have a random advertisement and that is just what I spotted Friday night as I went to town on The Clipper with my scissors planning out our meals for the month. The advertisement was a full page (no expense spared there) ad for Doc Wilson's Wrecking Balm, Tattoo Fade System. Apparently, this is a balm you apply at home (after researching it further it turns out it's a DIY microbrasion kit. YIKES!) to remove your tattoo at a fraction of the cost of laser treatments.
Now, I love my tattoos and I would never remove them despite how my butterfly runs into my asscrack now after losing all that weight and "Please Call Dr. Horder" is now officially half the size it was and reads PleaseCallDr.Horder. But, I was curious about how this could possibly be a safe thing to do at home. I can't even be trusted to use Nair after an application of it left me with a mustache of scabbed over third degree burns.
So, I read the ad.
And read it again.
And again.
And once more to make sure it officially made no fucking sense whatsoever.
Now, of course it makes perfect sense in the literal sense of the word. All the nouns and pronouns are where they should be. It just makes NO logical sense. And it was the ad's inability to make logical sense that compelled me to rip the ad out with a promise that I would send them a letter to tell them they offended my senses. MY SENSES. Someone with FIVE tattoos.
The Ad:
"I'm Tina: It all started when I walked down the aisle. The smirks; the giggles; the regret - the old tattoo from college sprawled across my back. Two years of my life getting ready for this very moment and all I felt was remorse. 'My day' ended up with a fight with my in-laws and then led to an ugly divorce soon after. I knew I should have removed the tattoo years ago, but I didn't know how . . ."
Then it launches into how Tina is going to get married a second time and thanks to Wrecking Balm she's not "making the same mistakes she made in the past."
Okay, other than the obvious (How could it possibly take you TWO YEARS to plan a wedding?) one has to ask themselves, "did this tattoo say something bad?" Like, seriously, unless "the man I am marrying is a fucking idiot and I hate his family" was sprawled across Tina's back, then her tattoo is not to blame for the fight with her in-laws and her marriage ending in an "ugly" divorce. And if you are that self-conscious of your tattoo on your back, why wouldn't you pick a dress that maybe hid it? Honestely, I think the divorce had more to do with the fact that Tina, sipping champagne in the picture and giving the camera bedroom eyes; looks more like she was capable of screwing the bestman in the broom closet at her reception than the fact she had a tattoo on her back. Seriously. Temptress Tina, who you kidding?
The ad made no sense. In fact, it made so little sense that the lack of it offended me. Stretching so unbelievably far as to NOT make logical cause and effect sense offended me. Why not take the approach of, "In college I was crazy and I got a tattoo on my calf. I was young and now I work on Wall Street and I'm afraid to wear skirts because everyone will see it." That's more plausible than the tattoo on your back leading to divorce.
"I'm going to call this 1 800 number and tell them how retarded this ad is," I told The Hubs.
And of course only someone as wonderful as the man I married (with no tattoos on my back) would entertain the lunacy he married and find me something better than some helpless operator to rage at. A couple of days later he emailed me the company's email address and I am going to give them a piece of my mind.
Sometimes The Clipper will have a random advertisement and that is just what I spotted Friday night as I went to town on The Clipper with my scissors planning out our meals for the month. The advertisement was a full page (no expense spared there) ad for Doc Wilson's Wrecking Balm, Tattoo Fade System. Apparently, this is a balm you apply at home (after researching it further it turns out it's a DIY microbrasion kit. YIKES!) to remove your tattoo at a fraction of the cost of laser treatments.
Now, I love my tattoos and I would never remove them despite how my butterfly runs into my asscrack now after losing all that weight and "Please Call Dr. Horder" is now officially half the size it was and reads PleaseCallDr.Horder. But, I was curious about how this could possibly be a safe thing to do at home. I can't even be trusted to use Nair after an application of it left me with a mustache of scabbed over third degree burns.
So, I read the ad.
And read it again.
And again.
And once more to make sure it officially made no fucking sense whatsoever.
Now, of course it makes perfect sense in the literal sense of the word. All the nouns and pronouns are where they should be. It just makes NO logical sense. And it was the ad's inability to make logical sense that compelled me to rip the ad out with a promise that I would send them a letter to tell them they offended my senses. MY SENSES. Someone with FIVE tattoos.
The Ad:
"I'm Tina: It all started when I walked down the aisle. The smirks; the giggles; the regret - the old tattoo from college sprawled across my back. Two years of my life getting ready for this very moment and all I felt was remorse. 'My day' ended up with a fight with my in-laws and then led to an ugly divorce soon after. I knew I should have removed the tattoo years ago, but I didn't know how . . ."
Then it launches into how Tina is going to get married a second time and thanks to Wrecking Balm she's not "making the same mistakes she made in the past."
Okay, other than the obvious (How could it possibly take you TWO YEARS to plan a wedding?) one has to ask themselves, "did this tattoo say something bad?" Like, seriously, unless "the man I am marrying is a fucking idiot and I hate his family" was sprawled across Tina's back, then her tattoo is not to blame for the fight with her in-laws and her marriage ending in an "ugly" divorce. And if you are that self-conscious of your tattoo on your back, why wouldn't you pick a dress that maybe hid it? Honestely, I think the divorce had more to do with the fact that Tina, sipping champagne in the picture and giving the camera bedroom eyes; looks more like she was capable of screwing the bestman in the broom closet at her reception than the fact she had a tattoo on her back. Seriously. Temptress Tina, who you kidding?
The ad made no sense. In fact, it made so little sense that the lack of it offended me. Stretching so unbelievably far as to NOT make logical cause and effect sense offended me. Why not take the approach of, "In college I was crazy and I got a tattoo on my calf. I was young and now I work on Wall Street and I'm afraid to wear skirts because everyone will see it." That's more plausible than the tattoo on your back leading to divorce.
"I'm going to call this 1 800 number and tell them how retarded this ad is," I told The Hubs.
And of course only someone as wonderful as the man I married (with no tattoos on my back) would entertain the lunacy he married and find me something better than some helpless operator to rage at. A couple of days later he emailed me the company's email address and I am going to give them a piece of my mind.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Peppermint Patty has PMS
So, Saturday I had to go to the grocery to get some eggs. I had the woolies for my wasabi deviled eggs (which btw, I still haven't made yet). Of course, while I was there I was overcome with some sort of shopping fever and was compelled to buy more food than we needed. This included a trip to the deli counter to get some cod cuts. I also had my once a year craving for liverwurst. Let's see, wasabi deviled eggs and liverwurst. If I didn't already know my period was 4 days late I might think I managed to become sperminated. But, I have already taken three pregnancy tests (all negative) because I've been itching to take some codeine for my back. So, ruling out pregnancy, I can say for certain that I'm just PMS eating . . . . hopefully.
The Hubs was with me sporting his new red and white Giants Superbowl jersey which completely managed to throw off the deli guy. It started with a simple "Can I help you?" and before I could even get out my request for a half pound of muenster he was all over The Hubs like white on rice. "Where'd you get that jersey?"
Now, I'll pause to explain. They sell this jersey at Bob's and Modell's. However, The Hubs, having the ability to squeeze a quarter until the eagle screams, got it from his friend who does merchandising. The jersey was actually imported from Hong Kong for about $30 less than the $75 they charge at Modell's. Whether or not it's a fake is up for debate although The Hubs will try and point out its authenticity to me constantly. Like I care. I carried around a fake Louis Vitton while my mom sold fake Rolexes to my field hockey coaches for most of high school. So, why The Hubs can't just say, for the sake of explaning, that he got it at Modelle's is beyond me.
Deli Guy, is so enthralled by The Hub's cheapness that he's just standing there with the brick of muenster slung over his shoulder. Hey pal, you wanna slice that or should I just get some bread and make a grilled cheese right here?
After a while, he slices it. All the while talking football with The Hubs while I eye the deli case wondering how long it's going to take me to get three packs of cold cuts. God, don't let my bologna order start a chat about March Madness. Honestly, I was drowning out the conversation. Most conversations regarding sports get absorbed into my brain like math equations.
Deli Guy hands me the muenster and says TO ME, "Anything else, sir?"
Okay. I know my hair was wet and my coat was bulky. But, I'd like to think despite that, someone can tell I am female.
"Um, a half pound of bologna." I try to catch The Hub's eyes so I can mouth "what the fuck? Sir?" But he's too busy chatting up his new friend.
Deli Guy hands me the bologna. "Anything else, sir?"
I'm starting to think he must just be so focused on The Hubs that I don't exist. I am just a female afterall. And I did almost shriek in horror when he first offered low salt bologna.
"Um, a half pound of liverwurst" I manage not to say the last part which was going to sound something like this, "FOR MY OVARIES WHICH ARE TELLING ME I MUST EAT THIS SHIT BECAUSE I AM A FEMALE AND AS A FEMALE I GET PMS."
"Here you go, sir. Have a nice day" as he hands me the packaged liverwurst.
I walk away staring at The Hubs in shock while telling him that from now on to just tell people he got the jersey at Modell's or Bob's than explain the Bong Kong connection. I'm still baffled.
We walk over to CVS and as the guy at the register is ringing me up he compliments The Hubs on his jersey and asks where he got it. Of course, forgetting what I just told him on the SHORT walk over, he launches into the story about his friend and merchandising and getting this from Hong Kong for a deal.
I was waiting for this guy to become so focused on The Hubs that he's the only one he sees in the room. I start to think he too might start showing signs of pulsating purple hearts rather than pupils. I'm waiting for the "here's your change, sir." But there would be no mistaking me this time. This time I had a basket full of Combos and EPT pregnancy tests. Mistake that, bitch.
The Hubs was with me sporting his new red and white Giants Superbowl jersey which completely managed to throw off the deli guy. It started with a simple "Can I help you?" and before I could even get out my request for a half pound of muenster he was all over The Hubs like white on rice. "Where'd you get that jersey?"
Now, I'll pause to explain. They sell this jersey at Bob's and Modell's. However, The Hubs, having the ability to squeeze a quarter until the eagle screams, got it from his friend who does merchandising. The jersey was actually imported from Hong Kong for about $30 less than the $75 they charge at Modell's. Whether or not it's a fake is up for debate although The Hubs will try and point out its authenticity to me constantly. Like I care. I carried around a fake Louis Vitton while my mom sold fake Rolexes to my field hockey coaches for most of high school. So, why The Hubs can't just say, for the sake of explaning, that he got it at Modelle's is beyond me.
Deli Guy, is so enthralled by The Hub's cheapness that he's just standing there with the brick of muenster slung over his shoulder. Hey pal, you wanna slice that or should I just get some bread and make a grilled cheese right here?
After a while, he slices it. All the while talking football with The Hubs while I eye the deli case wondering how long it's going to take me to get three packs of cold cuts. God, don't let my bologna order start a chat about March Madness. Honestly, I was drowning out the conversation. Most conversations regarding sports get absorbed into my brain like math equations.
Deli Guy hands me the muenster and says TO ME, "Anything else, sir?"
Okay. I know my hair was wet and my coat was bulky. But, I'd like to think despite that, someone can tell I am female.
"Um, a half pound of bologna." I try to catch The Hub's eyes so I can mouth "what the fuck? Sir?" But he's too busy chatting up his new friend.
Deli Guy hands me the bologna. "Anything else, sir?"
I'm starting to think he must just be so focused on The Hubs that I don't exist. I am just a female afterall. And I did almost shriek in horror when he first offered low salt bologna.
"Um, a half pound of liverwurst" I manage not to say the last part which was going to sound something like this, "FOR MY OVARIES WHICH ARE TELLING ME I MUST EAT THIS SHIT BECAUSE I AM A FEMALE AND AS A FEMALE I GET PMS."
"Here you go, sir. Have a nice day" as he hands me the packaged liverwurst.
I walk away staring at The Hubs in shock while telling him that from now on to just tell people he got the jersey at Modell's or Bob's than explain the Bong Kong connection. I'm still baffled.
We walk over to CVS and as the guy at the register is ringing me up he compliments The Hubs on his jersey and asks where he got it. Of course, forgetting what I just told him on the SHORT walk over, he launches into the story about his friend and merchandising and getting this from Hong Kong for a deal.
I was waiting for this guy to become so focused on The Hubs that he's the only one he sees in the room. I start to think he too might start showing signs of pulsating purple hearts rather than pupils. I'm waiting for the "here's your change, sir." But there would be no mistaking me this time. This time I had a basket full of Combos and EPT pregnancy tests. Mistake that, bitch.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Mess with the bull and you get the horns
So, after much agonizing (all of three seocnds) I decided that I could not let Quest Diagnostic Lab get away with further screw ups. I wrote one of my infamous letters. This was was 2 pages long SINGLE SPACED. I'm not sure what pushed me over the edge. It could have been the onslaught of bills from them or the fact that because my blood test results were shared with my primary care doctor she seems to think my health is in peril and now she is sending me to yet another specialist for more bloodwork. Now. I told her that there was a screw up with my blood but nobody seems to know what is accurate and what's not so yay. More blood work.
Anyway, in a fit of rage over the weekend I mailed my letter to EVERY email address I could find on the Quest we site as well as cutting and pasting it into the comments sections of a survey AND sending a hardcopy of the same letter to the headquarters in Bridgeport.
Tuesday I received a call from the Regional Director. Of course I wasn't at home to take it and got the message after 5. She left me her number and when I checked my email, I saw she responded to my email as well. I replied and told her I didn't have much else to add the story. I mean, hello, the letter was TWO pages. I am pretty sure I summed it all up. I called her the following day to just reiterate that.
She apologized profusely for my experience. And then she proceeded to tell me that I can just go to another drawing station the next time and there is a new online appointment maker so you don't have to wait.
Hey, great, but my issue is not with the wait. It's with your employees doing their jobs wrong and FUCKING UP BLOOD RESULTS. BLOOD RESULTS THAT END UP WITH A WRONG DIAGNOSIS.
There's a time to put a positive spin on something and there is a time to keep your mouth shut and just apologize profusely. This was a perfect time to do the latter.
Anyway, in a fit of rage over the weekend I mailed my letter to EVERY email address I could find on the Quest we site as well as cutting and pasting it into the comments sections of a survey AND sending a hardcopy of the same letter to the headquarters in Bridgeport.
Tuesday I received a call from the Regional Director. Of course I wasn't at home to take it and got the message after 5. She left me her number and when I checked my email, I saw she responded to my email as well. I replied and told her I didn't have much else to add the story. I mean, hello, the letter was TWO pages. I am pretty sure I summed it all up. I called her the following day to just reiterate that.
She apologized profusely for my experience. And then she proceeded to tell me that I can just go to another drawing station the next time and there is a new online appointment maker so you don't have to wait.
Hey, great, but my issue is not with the wait. It's with your employees doing their jobs wrong and FUCKING UP BLOOD RESULTS. BLOOD RESULTS THAT END UP WITH A WRONG DIAGNOSIS.
There's a time to put a positive spin on something and there is a time to keep your mouth shut and just apologize profusely. This was a perfect time to do the latter.
Friday, March 07, 2008
How is Stew Leonard's going to swing that?
So. Last night there was an impromptu moment of McLovin'. The first episode of it since having my IUD removed on Monday. Of course, because I have read way more books than I needed to, I was well aware that there was no LH surge happening in my uterus so there was a minimal risk of getting pregnant. But. Of course, when you're free wheelin' it, mistakes can happen and any time you have McLovin' there is a possibility you can get pregnant.
Afterwards, I drifted off to sleep with that nagging, "oh shit, what did we just do?" thought in my head. So. It was only inevitable that I had the following dream.
I was working in Norwalk and decided (like I usually do) to stop off at Stew Leonard's on my way home to pick up some stuffed salmon and other stuff I can only get there. Of course, I would HAVE to plow my way through the greedy and cheap crowd and dig into the basket of free cookie with both hands like usual. After walking the whole store putting stuff in my basket I stumbled upon a big table next to the cakes with a sign above it that said "Babies $6.99".
Yes. You read that right. Stew's was selling babies. But. They were all laying face down with these light brown very soft fuzzy pajamas on with hoods. You couldn't see their faces. They looked like those really soft plush teddy bears. They were all different sizes. There was one so small it could fit in my palm but it wasn't like a preemie. It was totally pudgy and healthy, just really small. There were rows of them. All dressed alike. All face down. Every other customer walked by without so much as a glance. It was just me and a table full of babies for sale. Dirt freaking cheap too. Like Stew's was growing them on a farm and another truckload would be coming soon.
$6.99, certainly not the International adoption rates of $40,000 and $20,000 that I have been researching. Hey, when you are as old as I am, you explore ALL your options.
The Baby Tag Sale was in full effect on the table. And they were good babies too. They were eerily still except one. It was the weirdest one. The only one face up and crying like there was no tomorrow. This one was average baby size but had the fully developed head and picked over face of a 47 year-old meth addict. It made me wonder if all the babies were like that and that is why they were all face down and only $6.99.
So. I did what any rational person would do. I passed by the baby table and moved onto the cakes.
Afterwards, I drifted off to sleep with that nagging, "oh shit, what did we just do?" thought in my head. So. It was only inevitable that I had the following dream.
I was working in Norwalk and decided (like I usually do) to stop off at Stew Leonard's on my way home to pick up some stuffed salmon and other stuff I can only get there. Of course, I would HAVE to plow my way through the greedy and cheap crowd and dig into the basket of free cookie with both hands like usual. After walking the whole store putting stuff in my basket I stumbled upon a big table next to the cakes with a sign above it that said "Babies $6.99".
Yes. You read that right. Stew's was selling babies. But. They were all laying face down with these light brown very soft fuzzy pajamas on with hoods. You couldn't see their faces. They looked like those really soft plush teddy bears. They were all different sizes. There was one so small it could fit in my palm but it wasn't like a preemie. It was totally pudgy and healthy, just really small. There were rows of them. All dressed alike. All face down. Every other customer walked by without so much as a glance. It was just me and a table full of babies for sale. Dirt freaking cheap too. Like Stew's was growing them on a farm and another truckload would be coming soon.
$6.99, certainly not the International adoption rates of $40,000 and $20,000 that I have been researching. Hey, when you are as old as I am, you explore ALL your options.
The Baby Tag Sale was in full effect on the table. And they were good babies too. They were eerily still except one. It was the weirdest one. The only one face up and crying like there was no tomorrow. This one was average baby size but had the fully developed head and picked over face of a 47 year-old meth addict. It made me wonder if all the babies were like that and that is why they were all face down and only $6.99.
So. I did what any rational person would do. I passed by the baby table and moved onto the cakes.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
I've been Jewish for a week now
No. I did not decide to cross over to Judaism.
I did not convert for my husband (who, by the way, is everything BUT Jewish).
Remember my 24 tubes of blood? Well. The results are in and now I am Jewish. Some people walk away from blood tests to find out nothing is wrong with them. Some may find out they have diabetes, are anemic or something else. I walked away from my blood test an Ashkenazi Jew. You can imagine what a blow this was because I have been under the impression for 34 years now that I was 100% Italian American despite the fact I spent high school with some moron kid who used to throw pennies at me and say, "pick them up, Jew girl." He's dead now which is too bad because I would look him up and ask him how he knew before me.
Now. Before you start thinking I actually believe that I am now of Jewish descent, I will say that it is MORE THAN LIKELY the fucking moron taking my blood that day fucked up somehow. Perhaps he should have taken me up my offer to help him write my name and birth date on all 24 tubes since he was complaining that he had to do that next. And he had no clue what a lot of the codes I was being tested for meant. So. Yeah, I'd say there is a better chance that he fucked up than I was robbed out of a bat mitzvah.
But. Let me just explain how all this came about. While I was waiting out a recess in court my cell rang. It was my prenatal doctor's office calling with the results. I was expecting her to tell me I was a little anemic and I had Factor V Liden. She told me I did not test positive for Factor V at all but I was Protein C deficient, Protein S deficient and I had Factor XI.
So. What does this all mean? Got me. How could I have spent the last 7 years thinking I had Factor V? Then again, how could I have spent the last 34 years thinking I was Italian? Seriously, what does it mean? Got me. All I know is her last words to me were "Well. You won't be the hardest case we've had but you'll certainly be the most interesting." Um. Thanks. I guess. You see, while all the protein C & S deficiencies are clotting factors, Factor XI is actually a form of Hemophilia. Shouldn't these cancel each other out?
She wants to send me for a redo. What did I tell you?
I went back down to my office and started researching this Factor XI. Turns out it is rare but occurrences of it are common among Ashkenazi Jews because they had a very high rate of inter-marriage. Well. I'm not Jewish but my grandparents were first cousins and since I get the Factor V gene from my dad and those are his parents, I pretty much had an answer for this mystery. It did not surprise me when a few days later I spoke to the nurse at my doctor's office and she asked if I was Jewish. A valid question, I guess, she could have thought my last name on my chart was my married name. I told her I was not but I explained the kissing cousins theory and she said it makes a bit more sense.
My sister is convinced that no matter what this test says someone in my family at some point slept with an Ashlenazi Jew. It's possible but who knows. I suppose I would never know for sure unless I sunk thousands of dollars and hours into charting my family tree. My mom is really confused. And Stew and I are kinda bummed that we could have had way more wedding fun by smashing glasses under our feet and having our friends hoist up us on chairs and dance us around the room. Oh well.
So. Now I wait on the results of the redo tests (yes, of course I went to a completely different lab where I had only slightly more confidence in the staff). Oh. And of course I called my primary care doctor who administered my tests for Factor V in 2001 and had her send the results to the prenatal doctor.
Until all the tests are back I'll hold off on my membership application to the Jewish Community Center but not my craving for corned beef on rye.
I did not convert for my husband (who, by the way, is everything BUT Jewish).
Remember my 24 tubes of blood? Well. The results are in and now I am Jewish. Some people walk away from blood tests to find out nothing is wrong with them. Some may find out they have diabetes, are anemic or something else. I walked away from my blood test an Ashkenazi Jew. You can imagine what a blow this was because I have been under the impression for 34 years now that I was 100% Italian American despite the fact I spent high school with some moron kid who used to throw pennies at me and say, "pick them up, Jew girl." He's dead now which is too bad because I would look him up and ask him how he knew before me.
Now. Before you start thinking I actually believe that I am now of Jewish descent, I will say that it is MORE THAN LIKELY the fucking moron taking my blood that day fucked up somehow. Perhaps he should have taken me up my offer to help him write my name and birth date on all 24 tubes since he was complaining that he had to do that next. And he had no clue what a lot of the codes I was being tested for meant. So. Yeah, I'd say there is a better chance that he fucked up than I was robbed out of a bat mitzvah.
But. Let me just explain how all this came about. While I was waiting out a recess in court my cell rang. It was my prenatal doctor's office calling with the results. I was expecting her to tell me I was a little anemic and I had Factor V Liden. She told me I did not test positive for Factor V at all but I was Protein C deficient, Protein S deficient and I had Factor XI.
So. What does this all mean? Got me. How could I have spent the last 7 years thinking I had Factor V? Then again, how could I have spent the last 34 years thinking I was Italian? Seriously, what does it mean? Got me. All I know is her last words to me were "Well. You won't be the hardest case we've had but you'll certainly be the most interesting." Um. Thanks. I guess. You see, while all the protein C & S deficiencies are clotting factors, Factor XI is actually a form of Hemophilia. Shouldn't these cancel each other out?
She wants to send me for a redo. What did I tell you?
I went back down to my office and started researching this Factor XI. Turns out it is rare but occurrences of it are common among Ashkenazi Jews because they had a very high rate of inter-marriage. Well. I'm not Jewish but my grandparents were first cousins and since I get the Factor V gene from my dad and those are his parents, I pretty much had an answer for this mystery. It did not surprise me when a few days later I spoke to the nurse at my doctor's office and she asked if I was Jewish. A valid question, I guess, she could have thought my last name on my chart was my married name. I told her I was not but I explained the kissing cousins theory and she said it makes a bit more sense.
My sister is convinced that no matter what this test says someone in my family at some point slept with an Ashlenazi Jew. It's possible but who knows. I suppose I would never know for sure unless I sunk thousands of dollars and hours into charting my family tree. My mom is really confused. And Stew and I are kinda bummed that we could have had way more wedding fun by smashing glasses under our feet and having our friends hoist up us on chairs and dance us around the room. Oh well.
So. Now I wait on the results of the redo tests (yes, of course I went to a completely different lab where I had only slightly more confidence in the staff). Oh. And of course I called my primary care doctor who administered my tests for Factor V in 2001 and had her send the results to the prenatal doctor.
Until all the tests are back I'll hold off on my membership application to the Jewish Community Center but not my craving for corned beef on rye.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
23 vials of blood
I had today off. A much needed day off. Yet, I found myself awake at 7:59 stinky, itchy, hungry, thirsty and in dire need of coffee. But. Before I could enjoy my morning coffee, a cheesey omellette and a shower I had one thing to do first.
Go for bloodwork I have been putting off since November. I was waiting for a day off because usually the lab is booked solid and the wait is hours in the a.m. I decided to spare myself some anxiety and do it on a day off. I also had to fast for 12 hours and considering one last morsel of food usually goes in my mouth around 10:30 it meant I had to wait until 10:30 to go. I decided to at least shower first because I smelled and my scalp was itchy after 2 days sans shampoo.
I got to Quest at 9:45. I figured I would have at least an hour's wait but judging by the packed parking lot it may be longer. I had to park down the street and walk which was harder than it sounds because it's like negative 2 with this wind and I was lacking the energy I usually get from stuff like food and coffee. I was surprised when I opened the door to the lab waiting room there was not a soul in sight. I was hoping to be eating in 15 minutes (and that included the ride home). Just my luck that two employees were working there today, Lazy & Stupid. Stupid was on a break and Lazy was on a personal call that wasn't ending any time soon. She told me to sign in which i thought was stupid since I was the only one there. I signed in and then stood at her window with my paperwork and insurance card. She ignored me. I finally sat down but not before rolling my eyes and sucking on my teeth.
Stupid came back from his break and changed into his lab coat. He took my paperwork and insurance card. Then, he sat me in a room and said he would be right back because he had to look up some codes. "This is a lot of blood work" he said. Apparently, he was unfamilar with some of the tests on one of my forms (I had two forms from two different doctors). After 15 minutes, he came back in and proceeded to pull tube after tube out and line them up on the counter.
21 tubes later, he was ready to start.
"Oh. Wait" Stupid said, "I want to make sure that's it . . . Oh."
23 tubes later my eyes widened.
"32 is the maximum I can take from a pregnant lady," Stupid said.
"Um, I'm not pregnant," I said, "I just lost 3 pounds. This is a skinny day."
I could see how Stupid might make the jump as some were prenatal tests. The operative word being PRE.
Around the 12th tube I thought my arm was going to fall off and I was starting to feel some discomfort when he changed tubes snapping each one in and out of place.
"My arm is starting to hurt a little," I said. Not whining or anything. Just stating a fact.
"Well. My arm hurts too," Stupid said, "I have to hold it like this and these gloves are uncomfortable."
Umm . . . Excuse me, but I am the one with a needle sticking out of my arm as you extract 23 tubes worth of my blood without paying me for it, might I add. And all I kept thinking was how Stupid was more than likely doing something wrong and I would end up back here.
I decided to make small talk to make the time go faster and think less about the pain. I said how I was surprised there was not a wait when I walked in. Stupid said most people come early because they are fasting.
"You didn't have to fast so you could come later," Stupid said.
"Actually, I am fasting," I said. Something you would have known if you saw there were glucose tests on there, STUPID!!!!
Finally Stupid was done. But not without taking one more tube "because it doesn't hurt to have extra in case I missed something."
24.
24 tubes of blood.
Stupid said I was now free to eat a big breakfast. I said all I wanted was a big coffee. Food would come later.
"Well. I'm late for break but that's okay." Stupid said.
Uh . . . Thanks. I'd hate for you to be late for a break when you just got back from one. WTF? Can you say anything right? Maybe if you knew what you were doing you could have saved 15 minutes looking up codes or asked Lazy. I bet she knew since she's Lazy and you're Stupid. I left shaking my head because I knew I would be back in about a week when my doctors realize Stupid missed something and my tests aren't complete. I am sure of it
Go for bloodwork I have been putting off since November. I was waiting for a day off because usually the lab is booked solid and the wait is hours in the a.m. I decided to spare myself some anxiety and do it on a day off. I also had to fast for 12 hours and considering one last morsel of food usually goes in my mouth around 10:30 it meant I had to wait until 10:30 to go. I decided to at least shower first because I smelled and my scalp was itchy after 2 days sans shampoo.
I got to Quest at 9:45. I figured I would have at least an hour's wait but judging by the packed parking lot it may be longer. I had to park down the street and walk which was harder than it sounds because it's like negative 2 with this wind and I was lacking the energy I usually get from stuff like food and coffee. I was surprised when I opened the door to the lab waiting room there was not a soul in sight. I was hoping to be eating in 15 minutes (and that included the ride home). Just my luck that two employees were working there today, Lazy & Stupid. Stupid was on a break and Lazy was on a personal call that wasn't ending any time soon. She told me to sign in which i thought was stupid since I was the only one there. I signed in and then stood at her window with my paperwork and insurance card. She ignored me. I finally sat down but not before rolling my eyes and sucking on my teeth.
Stupid came back from his break and changed into his lab coat. He took my paperwork and insurance card. Then, he sat me in a room and said he would be right back because he had to look up some codes. "This is a lot of blood work" he said. Apparently, he was unfamilar with some of the tests on one of my forms (I had two forms from two different doctors). After 15 minutes, he came back in and proceeded to pull tube after tube out and line them up on the counter.
21 tubes later, he was ready to start.
"Oh. Wait" Stupid said, "I want to make sure that's it . . . Oh."
23 tubes later my eyes widened.
"32 is the maximum I can take from a pregnant lady," Stupid said.
"Um, I'm not pregnant," I said, "I just lost 3 pounds. This is a skinny day."
I could see how Stupid might make the jump as some were prenatal tests. The operative word being PRE.
Around the 12th tube I thought my arm was going to fall off and I was starting to feel some discomfort when he changed tubes snapping each one in and out of place.
"My arm is starting to hurt a little," I said. Not whining or anything. Just stating a fact.
"Well. My arm hurts too," Stupid said, "I have to hold it like this and these gloves are uncomfortable."
Umm . . . Excuse me, but I am the one with a needle sticking out of my arm as you extract 23 tubes worth of my blood without paying me for it, might I add. And all I kept thinking was how Stupid was more than likely doing something wrong and I would end up back here.
I decided to make small talk to make the time go faster and think less about the pain. I said how I was surprised there was not a wait when I walked in. Stupid said most people come early because they are fasting.
"You didn't have to fast so you could come later," Stupid said.
"Actually, I am fasting," I said. Something you would have known if you saw there were glucose tests on there, STUPID!!!!
Finally Stupid was done. But not without taking one more tube "because it doesn't hurt to have extra in case I missed something."
24.
24 tubes of blood.
Stupid said I was now free to eat a big breakfast. I said all I wanted was a big coffee. Food would come later.
"Well. I'm late for break but that's okay." Stupid said.
Uh . . . Thanks. I'd hate for you to be late for a break when you just got back from one. WTF? Can you say anything right? Maybe if you knew what you were doing you could have saved 15 minutes looking up codes or asked Lazy. I bet she knew since she's Lazy and you're Stupid. I left shaking my head because I knew I would be back in about a week when my doctors realize Stupid missed something and my tests aren't complete. I am sure of it
Thursday, February 07, 2008
You don't sing me love songs
Two posts in a row. I can hardly believe. And if anyone were actually reading this thing, I bet they wouldn't believe it either.
Actually this post was supposed to be yesterday's pot but i saw that Adnan one kicking around in my drafts box and figured i should get that out before the (pill)Pop(ping) Princess went and got herself healed. But. alas, when I came home yesterday, my favorite site Perezhilton.com informed me that Brit was out of the psych word, back in the arms of her sketchy boyfriend and quickly up to her old antics. Oh well.
So. Now. We can resume our regularly scheduled post. The other night I had a strange dream. And it was not strange in content as it was the characters in it. In my dream Max Weinberg (yes of the E Street Band and the Max Weinberg 7) was a marshal in the court house. No reason for the career switch, just that he said he needed some change. Now. I wouldn't know Max if i fell over him. But. There he was in my dream. He wanted me to help him get back into music. Not only was I holding down my same everyday job in my dream but apparently I was also skilled in music management. He approached me one day explaining his story of having fallen on hard times, booze, drugs and now a marshal. He held out a soggy piece of loose leaf for me and told me he wanted me to type up this sheet of music. Now. I say there was music on the sheet but it was not notes, it was the beat spelled out like dun hum dee dee hum hum dew. I thought he wanted me to type the actual notes. But. Nope. he just wanted a transcription of the jibberish he had on the loose leaf. That is when I knew the old man was crazzzzzzzy. But. I wanted to help him. I mean how many times in a young girl's life (aside from Patti Scialfa) can you say you helped someone from the E Street Band out. So. I gave it my all thinking he was loony tunes the whole time. I was even thinking it as I shopped in macy's for Christmas decorations. Did i mention my dream was taking place in the summer time? Far be it from me not to enjoy a good presale. And I was really pissed off because my friend, the one who I'm afraid is going to get back with his own Britney Spears crazy ex girlfriend called to tell me he fell off the AA wagon and was drinking again. I wanted to help a friend but I was trying to help Max Weinberg. Hello! Max Weinberg, takes precedence over anyone else.
Needless to say waking up from this dream I was just as confused as I was while it was happening. I tried to relay it to the boy but he is half asleep as he's walking out the door so he could not grasp the greatness of it. His wife was helping Max Wienberg. You think that would get his attention. Nope. So. I started pouting until he started singing, "you don't bring me flowers" which he promplty cocked up. So, I had to show him how it's really done singing both the male and female parts while drinking coffee. Multi-talented, bitches!
Actually this post was supposed to be yesterday's pot but i saw that Adnan one kicking around in my drafts box and figured i should get that out before the (pill)Pop(ping) Princess went and got herself healed. But. alas, when I came home yesterday, my favorite site Perezhilton.com informed me that Brit was out of the psych word, back in the arms of her sketchy boyfriend and quickly up to her old antics. Oh well.
So. Now. We can resume our regularly scheduled post. The other night I had a strange dream. And it was not strange in content as it was the characters in it. In my dream Max Weinberg (yes of the E Street Band and the Max Weinberg 7) was a marshal in the court house. No reason for the career switch, just that he said he needed some change. Now. I wouldn't know Max if i fell over him. But. There he was in my dream. He wanted me to help him get back into music. Not only was I holding down my same everyday job in my dream but apparently I was also skilled in music management. He approached me one day explaining his story of having fallen on hard times, booze, drugs and now a marshal. He held out a soggy piece of loose leaf for me and told me he wanted me to type up this sheet of music. Now. I say there was music on the sheet but it was not notes, it was the beat spelled out like dun hum dee dee hum hum dew. I thought he wanted me to type the actual notes. But. Nope. he just wanted a transcription of the jibberish he had on the loose leaf. That is when I knew the old man was crazzzzzzzy. But. I wanted to help him. I mean how many times in a young girl's life (aside from Patti Scialfa) can you say you helped someone from the E Street Band out. So. I gave it my all thinking he was loony tunes the whole time. I was even thinking it as I shopped in macy's for Christmas decorations. Did i mention my dream was taking place in the summer time? Far be it from me not to enjoy a good presale. And I was really pissed off because my friend, the one who I'm afraid is going to get back with his own Britney Spears crazy ex girlfriend called to tell me he fell off the AA wagon and was drinking again. I wanted to help a friend but I was trying to help Max Weinberg. Hello! Max Weinberg, takes precedence over anyone else.
Needless to say waking up from this dream I was just as confused as I was while it was happening. I tried to relay it to the boy but he is half asleep as he's walking out the door so he could not grasp the greatness of it. His wife was helping Max Wienberg. You think that would get his attention. Nope. So. I started pouting until he started singing, "you don't bring me flowers" which he promplty cocked up. So, I had to show him how it's really done singing both the male and female parts while drinking coffee. Multi-talented, bitches!
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Adnan Gha(d)lib
So. Wait. let me get this straight. Brit Brit dates this Papparazzi cum famewhore Adnan Ghalib for a few weeks and he starts to show his face in every media outlet known to man whoring out his 15 minutes into 20 and making thousands to boot all off the fact he stuck his dick in a crazy girl and lived to tell about it. And despite this obvious exploitation, she's still with him. They're probably in cahoots together to pimp him out and get money so she can pay K-Fed's legal bills without having to dig into her own "Money for meth" piggybank.
Between you and me, Adnan doesn't bother me as much for cashing in on his 15 minutes as it does that he answers any interviewer's question like a Dr. Seuss book. Any intelligent interviewer might slap him on the back of his head and try to stop the skipping but instead they plug right along.
Interviewer: If Britney asked you to marry her, would you say yes?
Adnan: Would anyone say no?
Interviewer: Do you think Britney is crazy?
Adnan: I think she is smarter than you think.
We didn't ask about her IQ, Adnan. We asked about her mental stability, genius. Way to give an interview without giving any answers. Would you like some green eggs and ham with all that steaming pile of bullshit you're serving up. I bet you do. One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish.
Alas, I am glad that all this Brit-drama is coming to an end and her parents wised up that they should take control of her life like a 2 year-old chils and reign in the crazy. It was fune while it lasted but now it's getting old and sad. I'll miss that british accent she adopted. I mean, Madonna has been getting away with that shtick for years, I was rooting Brit could pull it off without looking batshit crazy. But. there were too many other factors working against her there.
Between you and me, Adnan doesn't bother me as much for cashing in on his 15 minutes as it does that he answers any interviewer's question like a Dr. Seuss book. Any intelligent interviewer might slap him on the back of his head and try to stop the skipping but instead they plug right along.
Interviewer: If Britney asked you to marry her, would you say yes?
Adnan: Would anyone say no?
Interviewer: Do you think Britney is crazy?
Adnan: I think she is smarter than you think.
We didn't ask about her IQ, Adnan. We asked about her mental stability, genius. Way to give an interview without giving any answers. Would you like some green eggs and ham with all that steaming pile of bullshit you're serving up. I bet you do. One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish.
Alas, I am glad that all this Brit-drama is coming to an end and her parents wised up that they should take control of her life like a 2 year-old chils and reign in the crazy. It was fune while it lasted but now it's getting old and sad. I'll miss that british accent she adopted. I mean, Madonna has been getting away with that shtick for years, I was rooting Brit could pull it off without looking batshit crazy. But. there were too many other factors working against her there.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Truly, madly, deeply . . . . . stupid.
It's no surprise. Despite my happy go lucky nature, I secretly dislike most people. However, I outwardly dislike people who seem to repeat their mistakes over and over and over again. It's okay to screw up once. Maybe even twice. But, if you do it constantly then I begin to think that you're the one with the problem not the other person.
Remember a while back, my story about my friend with the crazy ex who not only had a few screws loose but they seemingly fell out of her head while she walked like an open toolbox. And how I told you about his extreme hate of her and his promise that if he ever gets back together with her he should have his head check.
Well. I hope he made that doctor's appointment.
It had been a few days since I heard from him. I knew that meant something bad. How did I know that? My third fucking eye . . . . and zilch faith in humanity.
So. I wrote him an e-mail that said: "Don't think I don't know what you're doing."
To which he responded, "WTF?"
And I just replied, "Uh-huh. I thought so."
Which warranted a call asking me to explain. I said, "you are back with her. I know it. So. Just fess up to it now so i can call you a loser and terminate our friendship."
See. Right before Christmas he came out to dinner with us. It ended up being a huge "woe is me" fest from him. And every time the conversation dared to move off of his favorite subject - himself, he made sure to swing it right back. And when he wasn't dominating the conversation about his undying love for crazy; he was asking me if I was eating for two and grabbing at my thighs. Exactly! So glad you invited yourself. Geeze.
Anyway, he insisted that I read a lengthy e-mail exchange between him and crazy despite my pleadings that i did not care and did not want to read it. See. That should let most of you (who know I am a prying, meddling, busy bee) know just exactly how sick I am of hearing about crazy that I wasn't frothing at the mouth when he offered to let me read e-mails. I scanned them on his phone while waiting for my jalapeno poppers to arrive but i kept hitting buttons (mainly on purpose) and bringing it back to the home scree. Whoops! Did i do that?
What i read seemed to be the same old same old bs. She was blaming him for everything that went wrong in their relationship and how cruel was to her after all the while not even taking a nugget of responsibility for being crazy and having a drinking problem. And he even said it. Plain as day. "I could actually see myself back together with her if she only admitted that she had a problem." Stew and I both looked at him like he was batshit stupid. With one look we managed to say to each other, "don't say anything, let's just eat some wings."
So. It was no surprise when my friend called me from California where he was visiting over Christmas and said that he just had a two hour conversation with crazy and she admitted she had a problem.
Sigh.
Sometimes love is so blind because it can't see past its own erection.
Now. Any rational person who is less than inch removed from the situation could see that she finally realized what she had to do out of all her desperate pleas to get him back which included, but were not limited to:
- Showing up at his house unnannounced and crying and convulsing with siezures (as my friend put it)
- Showing up at his job unannounced and crying and convulsing with seizures
- Meeting him in parking lots to pick up her mail crying and convulsing with seizures
- Calling him while crying and convulsing with seizures
- Writing him emails berating him for being so mean and cruel to her while crying and convulsing with seizures
- Telling him she was getting back together with her ex-husband
- Texting him that his match profile seemed bitter and mean and she was worried about him.
It finally clicked with her that all she had to do was admit to having a drinking problem and she was back in regardless if she didn't want to get help or anything. So. She did it and he fell hook, line and sinker.
Yes. Okay. So that is how I really knew, did you think I seriously had a third eye?
So. When he called me that night to ask me what i meant by all my cryptic e-mails I decided not to beat around the bush. "are you back with crazy?" Of course in trying to mask the answer he went on to tell me that i didn't have much business calling people crazy. I enlightened him on good crazy (me) and bad call the police crazy (her). He said they were not fully back together but it was going in that direction. I asked if she was going to go to AA with him? No. Was she willing to get any help at all? I don't know. Did it cross your mind at all that the only reason she may have said this to you was to get back together with you and has no intention of trying to fix her problem? It did cross my mind but i am madly, deeply in love with her. I hung up madly deeply offended that he spent MONTHS crying and bitching to me and this is what he does.
Today was the first I have heard from him in weeks. Of course he wanted something which is what i asked him after I finally picked up after 4 ignored attempts. I had a bone to pick with him anyway because my dad told me he ignored him at the gym and NOBODY ignores my daddy! Of course I HAD to ask about crazy. he said he hasn't heard from her since they went to couples counseling last Tuesday.
Times like those I wish i had a mouth full of water so I could laugh and spray for dramatic effect.
Remember a while back, my story about my friend with the crazy ex who not only had a few screws loose but they seemingly fell out of her head while she walked like an open toolbox. And how I told you about his extreme hate of her and his promise that if he ever gets back together with her he should have his head check.
Well. I hope he made that doctor's appointment.
It had been a few days since I heard from him. I knew that meant something bad. How did I know that? My third fucking eye . . . . and zilch faith in humanity.
So. I wrote him an e-mail that said: "Don't think I don't know what you're doing."
To which he responded, "WTF?"
And I just replied, "Uh-huh. I thought so."
Which warranted a call asking me to explain. I said, "you are back with her. I know it. So. Just fess up to it now so i can call you a loser and terminate our friendship."
See. Right before Christmas he came out to dinner with us. It ended up being a huge "woe is me" fest from him. And every time the conversation dared to move off of his favorite subject - himself, he made sure to swing it right back. And when he wasn't dominating the conversation about his undying love for crazy; he was asking me if I was eating for two and grabbing at my thighs. Exactly! So glad you invited yourself. Geeze.
Anyway, he insisted that I read a lengthy e-mail exchange between him and crazy despite my pleadings that i did not care and did not want to read it. See. That should let most of you (who know I am a prying, meddling, busy bee) know just exactly how sick I am of hearing about crazy that I wasn't frothing at the mouth when he offered to let me read e-mails. I scanned them on his phone while waiting for my jalapeno poppers to arrive but i kept hitting buttons (mainly on purpose) and bringing it back to the home scree. Whoops! Did i do that?
What i read seemed to be the same old same old bs. She was blaming him for everything that went wrong in their relationship and how cruel was to her after all the while not even taking a nugget of responsibility for being crazy and having a drinking problem. And he even said it. Plain as day. "I could actually see myself back together with her if she only admitted that she had a problem." Stew and I both looked at him like he was batshit stupid. With one look we managed to say to each other, "don't say anything, let's just eat some wings."
So. It was no surprise when my friend called me from California where he was visiting over Christmas and said that he just had a two hour conversation with crazy and she admitted she had a problem.
Sigh.
Sometimes love is so blind because it can't see past its own erection.
Now. Any rational person who is less than inch removed from the situation could see that she finally realized what she had to do out of all her desperate pleas to get him back which included, but were not limited to:
- Showing up at his house unnannounced and crying and convulsing with siezures (as my friend put it)
- Showing up at his job unannounced and crying and convulsing with seizures
- Meeting him in parking lots to pick up her mail crying and convulsing with seizures
- Calling him while crying and convulsing with seizures
- Writing him emails berating him for being so mean and cruel to her while crying and convulsing with seizures
- Telling him she was getting back together with her ex-husband
- Texting him that his match profile seemed bitter and mean and she was worried about him.
It finally clicked with her that all she had to do was admit to having a drinking problem and she was back in regardless if she didn't want to get help or anything. So. She did it and he fell hook, line and sinker.
Yes. Okay. So that is how I really knew, did you think I seriously had a third eye?
So. When he called me that night to ask me what i meant by all my cryptic e-mails I decided not to beat around the bush. "are you back with crazy?" Of course in trying to mask the answer he went on to tell me that i didn't have much business calling people crazy. I enlightened him on good crazy (me) and bad call the police crazy (her). He said they were not fully back together but it was going in that direction. I asked if she was going to go to AA with him? No. Was she willing to get any help at all? I don't know. Did it cross your mind at all that the only reason she may have said this to you was to get back together with you and has no intention of trying to fix her problem? It did cross my mind but i am madly, deeply in love with her. I hung up madly deeply offended that he spent MONTHS crying and bitching to me and this is what he does.
Today was the first I have heard from him in weeks. Of course he wanted something which is what i asked him after I finally picked up after 4 ignored attempts. I had a bone to pick with him anyway because my dad told me he ignored him at the gym and NOBODY ignores my daddy! Of course I HAD to ask about crazy. he said he hasn't heard from her since they went to couples counseling last Tuesday.
Times like those I wish i had a mouth full of water so I could laugh and spray for dramatic effect.
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