Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
If you know my husband, you would probably describe him as easy going. This is probably true unless it's something that involves tradition. Tradition is a very seriously business and naming your child is a very, very serious activity. Many generations of his family have managed to name their children the same thing over and over again for centuries. Boring perhaps, but that's tradition. There are rules that must be followed.
To understand the painful hours I spent with him deciding on a name, I will provide you with a brief outline of the rules. I firmly believe that most people wouldn't be able to figure out a name for their hamster given all these restrictions, but I persevered.
Rule 1: The kid has to have a real name, not a shortened form of a name. Sounds reasonable right? Is Gretchen a real name? Not according to my husband. Gretchen is “little Greta” in German which is short for Margaret. So if I wanted to call my daughter Gretchen I would have to name her Margaret. No offense to all the Margarets out there, but no thanks - Peg, Peggy, Marge - all awful.
Husband also maintains that naming a child Gretchen is similar to naming a child Mikey (instead of Michael). I told him he was being dramatic, he told me I just didn't know what I was talking about.
Rule 2: It has to be something that sounds nice in English and German. This one I understand. He thinks Gretchen sounds offensive out of my mouth. Apparently if I had mastered the art of the German phlegm/choking noise, my pronunciation would be acceptable. I have not and therefore all names that I pronounce like crap are off the table. He also doesn’t like when Germans name their children things they can not pronounce – like Nathanial which usually comes out sounding like Na-san-yal since many of them can’t pronounce the English “th”.
He also steadfastly refuses to believe a name can be pronounced differently in different countries. I respond to a whole host of pronunciations of my name. I guess husband never noticed that I don’t pronounce his name the same way his mother does….shhhh, don’t tell him.
Rule 3: It has to be a name, it can’t be made up. Ok, in all fairness this is actually a German rule, not my husbands. In the good ‘ole USA you can name your kid whatever you want – Tree, Apple, River, Asshat…the sky is the limit. In Germany they have laws to protect their children. They've loosened up a little in recent years – they’ll accept names of other nationalities but you still can’t make up some shit and call it a name. So you won’t find any Versace’s or Shithead’s in Deutschland. You probably also wouldn’t find idiots like these people. Be sure to check out the link to the pictures at the bottom of the article. I can’t decide which I like better, the car decal or the skull.
Rule 4: It can’t be French. I have no explanation for this one. Apparently the PWT in Germany name their kids French names. I can only draw on my own distaste for stripper names as a close comparison. Destiny, Chastity, Candy, Angel, etc… Nothing like setting the bar very low early in your child’s life.
Rule 5: None of this new fangled name construction. This rule actually covers a host of sub-rules
5a. My maiden name is not a suitable middle name. Really any family name is unacceptable as a first or middle name. They are last names and that's it.
5b. You can’t give a girl a boy’s name, even if it’s a commonly accepted unisex name these days.
5c. Only traditional spellings are acceptable. You can’t swap out an “i” for a “y” or some other ridiculous nonsense.
Rule 6: It can’t be any kind of name that reminds him of someone he doesn’t like, a fictional character that has a distasteful/negative connotation or anything he considers “icky”. I liked the name Otto. He said that’s always the name of the fat kid in children’s stories that bullies all the other children. Then there was some discussion about how "Otto" always carries sandwiches in his pockets. I didn't understand but it's best not to argue.
Anyway, stay tuned for more details on little Destinee Duvet Cristal...
Friday, November 21, 2008
So I'm very bad at bringing books to the airport with me so I usually have to schlep over to the Hudson News and buy one before I go to my gate. Yes I know this is a total waste of money. Nine times out of ten it's some lousy book that I don't remember 10 minutes after I finish it, but the point is that it kept me occupied on the flight.
There are roughly 4 types of books in the airport book store:
1. The Self Help books - and you seriously need some if you're buying that shit in the airport.
2. The God books - this is all inclusive of "I hate God", "I found God", "God Loves You Too" and generally anything with the word Enlightenment in the title. These could also be written by someone famous or sort of famous like that creepy Osteen guy. (I suspect he's really an alien like the people on V - tell me that smile doesn't scream, "I'm really a reptile hiding in a rubber human suit.")
3. The Pseudo Business books - think...7 Habits of Highly Effective People only really, really bad. These may also be written by vaguely famous people whom you care nothing about.
4. The Romance books
I hate the first three so I'm stuck with Romance. I further sub-categorize these into Woman Romance and Man Romance. I think we're all familiar with the former - two people with seemingly impossible odds meet and have serious sexual tension, they can't be together, they shouldn't be together, they do it (must involve pages and pages of narrative about how good the sex is), they profess their undying love, then tragically one of them manages to screw something up (alternate plot line - 3rd party screws something up and causes huge ridiculous misunderstanding), they separate and all looks lost until....they realize they must be together and reunite to live happily ever after. Amen.
The Man Romance is cleverly disguised as spy thrillers, military books & mystery novels. Invariably they follow the same plot line only they include action scenes, guns, gadgets and typically the females involved are hot, in distress and need to be saved by the male character (must involve pages and pages of narrative about how hot the female character is, however sex is covered in roughly a single sentence). Amen.
Infrequently I find a book that doesn't suck. This is what happened when, quite by accident, I picked up Twilight. I knew nothing about it other than the book blurb looked not-sucky. I liked it alot. Probably a little more than I should have. I think I may have reread the ending more than once. I was a little sad when there was nothing left to read.
This is where it gets embarrassing.
My mother sees the book sitting on my entry table and says, "Hey, is this that book that all those 13 year old girls are going crazy over at the mall?". Hmmmmm. Apparently the answer is yes. Much like Harry Potter, this is one of those books that is designed for the "tween" set yet loser adults like me all over the country are reading it anyway. I had absolutely no idea. I'll admit to being a Harry Potter fan without any embarrassment. Somehow this seems slightly less respectable - teen vampire romance? Seriously, what is wrong with me? Apparently my reading comprehension is roughly 7th grade.
This is where it gets really embarrassing.
I discovered today that there are 3 more books in the series. I went to Amazon and bought them all. I think I'm secretly a 13 year old girl and I don't care what any of you have to say.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
In that time you’ve responded to all your email, caught up with your long lost friends, ordered every book online you’ve ever wanted, scheduled all those overdue doctor’s appointments and now you’re staring at the news tickers willing something interesting to happen so that you have something to read.
So I beg of you….give her something to read. She actually sent me a harassing email asking me if I was ever going to post again because she needs something to read. So really, you would be doing me a favor as well (since I have nothing to say lately and she seems to be getting desperate). I’ve included below a list of the blogs that I’ve sent her to date and those that I just pulled together. Please – she needs some new material!
And here are a few more I haven’t sent her yet:
So please, leave your favorite blogs and sites in the comments – anything as long as it doesn’t involve shopping online. She will thank you, her husband will thank you.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Monday, October 6, 2008
Stuff to Do or Stuff to Look At:
Here's something for you to do while bored at work (compliments of my friend up north). I scored a miserable 29. Frickin eastern Europeans...
Another gem from her...you have to love a company whose slogan is - "when you care enough to hit send" http://www.someecards.com Since we have all settled in nicely to this lazy world of having our Outlook remind us of people's birthdays and then managing to type less than 300 characters into an ecard, this works out quite well for anyone who is moderately hateful as well as lazy.
And a funny site that is updated infrequently but it's funny as hell: http://bartlebysunite.tumblr.com/
What I've been up to:
Last week I wore a new sweater. By 9AM I looked like I got into a violent fight with a Persian cat. The cat won. By 10 it was in my eyes and floating around my office. I dug out my lint roller (travel size and not terribly effective) and proceeded to roll my belly. I'm quite certain anyone who saw it was probably equal parts curious and horrified.
I had the following conversation with one of my co-workers last week:
Me: Am I a bad mother if I don't have a nursery theme?
Her: You know how I feel about this.
Me: Seriously, the kid can't see more than 4 inches in front of it's face, it's not going to notice the lack of decoration
I now own something in green and yellow for the "girl-ish" child.
This past weekend we went shooting. I considered the following logic in advance - when I am underwater and I hear someone it sounds muffled like Charlie Brown's teacher. I figure that's probably the way everything sounds to the kid. So I decided to go shooting. After a crap first round I started to shoot a little better. 2/3rds of the way through the second round I decided to look up pregnancy and shooting on the iPhone. Ah, one of many mistakes - right up there with reading about birth defects. I have now sucked in an undetermined amount of toxic lead and made my child deaf and potentially mentally retarded. I have decided to ignore this for the same reason I ignore those people that tell me if I have an occasional glass of wine that my child will come out with eyes on the side of its head like a carp.
And so we ended the weekend with dinner with the fam. My father decided to make everyone cocktails. His cocktails are usually a double plus by any standard and consist of alcohol and more alcohol. My mother had already had a glass of wine while cooking (a "small" one she says, we don't really believe that) when she decided to also consume a gin martini. Sitting at dinner the conversation went something like this:
Mother (to my husband): Oh! You have such nice hair color.
Husband: Yes, it's for the fall.
Mother (to my brother-in-law): Oh! You have really thick hair. And you have nice color too.
Mother (to no one in particular): Oh! I think I'm a little drunk.
Then later we lost my grandmother. She disappeared to go to the bathroom and after 15 minutes someone asked if anyone knew where she was.
Mother (yelling to my grandmother): Mom, where are you?
Mother: Mom, are you there?
Grandmother: I'm here, I'm wasn't sleeping, I was shitting.
Well that clears up everything...
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
"What about that?"
"Meh, let's hit the next strip mall."
"I don't care if it's McDonalds, I'm starving."
"Oh for the love of God just park the car."
And so it went on for 4 or 5 strip malls until someone finally parked and we were presented with two options - a sushi place and a Chinese restaurant. They wanted sushi, I am not supposed to eat sushi in my current state (or more specifically I won't eat sushi in a strip mall). So on we went to the Zen Garden.
The entire menu was pictures of Dim Sum and it seemed to favor chicken feet and other equally appealing things. On the upside there was a perpetually waving cat at the reception desk (like this). They advertise on the website that there is a "Breaktaking Garden". Indeed.
Unfortunately the food was bland and made me feel a bit ill. But it was worth it to watch the pained expression of my one co-worker (a self professed "American Eater") attempt to stuff this crap down his throat. We laughed at him and made jokes about how he was going to make a bee line for McDonalds on his way to his next meeting. He said we were wrong, he planned to check out the vending machine in the office. Nothing a bag of Cheetos can't fix.
So if you find yourself north of Seattle, avoid the Zen Garden, unless of course you want a pork fried dumpling that tastes suspiciously like a Philly cheesesteak and some fried chicken feet...
Sunday, September 21, 2008
However, in keeping with my fantastic luck, I am now entering my third trimester and people still tell me I don't really look pregnant. Some people don't even notice. You're probably thinking this is a good thing. It's not. I'm carrying low and wide. This kid has spread out and made "her-ish" self at home - socking weight on me in places I didn't know I could gain weight. As one of my co-workers pointed out, "you just look bigger all over, not really pregnant". Delightful.
My husband swears I look pregnant. Probably because he has a faint recollection of what my ass looked like before this happened. But all this whining is not the point of my post. My real problem is the fat girls...
A few years ago, my friend from NYC was telling us this story about a guy she knew. They were in a bar and he was trying to point out a girl across the bar and in his description he said "the one with the peach belt". As it turns out this girl was in fact not wearing a peach belt but instead was just letting the goods hang out over her pants. At a distance it looked like a peach colored belt. There are many names for this phenomena - the "dunlop" (when you stomach done lop over your pants), a Muffin Top, FUPA (we won't elaborate on that one) or the classic - Love Handles.
In addition to low rise pants, it also seems to me that younger women are woefully flabby in the mid section. I see teenage girls wandering around with their guts hanging over the pants like a middle aged trailer dweller whose had 5 kids. What's up with that? Is there no shame left in this world? Don't their mothers tell them to get back in the house and cover that up? And don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You see them coming, belly jiggling like a bowl full of jello under their witty vintage t-shirt.
So while I found this trend among young girls offensive and sad, it really had nothing to do with me...until now.
The last several seasons flowy shirts have been in style and it seems that every fat chick has finally covered up the muffin top. Good for them, bad for me. Now I just look like every other fat girl hiding under a flowy top. At first I was pissed and thought to myself, "There's a lot of fat chicks out there stealing my thunder". Then I started to think about the upside to this situation.
- I can still get a glass of wine in a bar without people giving me the evil eye.
- I still get leered at on the street by men because they don't realize I'm knocked up (sure they may be fatty lovers, but I'll take what I can get these days).
- I can order a latte without being judged by the barista.
- I can still buy shirts in the non-maternity store since nothing is fitted these days.
However on the down side,
- No one goes out of their way to offer to help me with stuff.
- Strangers don't offer their seats to me.
- I don't get those looks from other women that say, "oh look, she's pregnant, how cute".
Like I said, stealing my thunder.... Makes me want to run out and buy one of those awful t-shirts that says something like, "Knocked-Up" with a giant arrow pointing down. Or better yet, I'll adopt a waddle and start clutching my stomach.
Or perhaps we can all make pregnant women everywhere happier - Next time you see a girl in a floaty top, ask her when she's due. We'll see how long she keeps stuffing her muffin into my clothes!
Friday, September 12, 2008
Sunday, August 31, 2008
This morning as I was enjoying my morning coffee (with caffeine, I don't care what you say about me) I looked in my email and found that some offended Spanish person had commented on this post.
"Offended Spanish Person said...
Typical white people. spicy latin foods make you instinctively go yuck!
Tamarind is a fruit. It is grown in pods, similar ot beans, and is popular in latin areas liek the carribbean and central/south america and southeast asia.
It's amazing how something can be popular in more than half the globe and white people have no idea it exists,now you know how we feel about bland, flavorless foods like wonderbread that you people seem to LOVE.
P.S. If you had been less lazy and maybe read the packaging you wouldn't have bought them. How hard is it to notice in big letters FRUTAS ENCHILADAS: aka fruits IN CHILIS!""
Yes, that's me. Just your typical Wonder Bread eating white person. My mother might have an aneurysm if she read that. Call her a progressive hippie tree hugger, but don't ever say she fed her children Wonder Bread. She would sooner die than feed us bread that was softer than a paving stone!
So I would like to respond to this poor offended Spanish person.
Dear Offended Spanish Person,
Please accept my heartfelt apologies. I in no way intended to offend the tamarind fruit or the culinary palate of "half the globe". I can certainly commiserate with your disdain for Wonder Bread. Perhaps you should also put Marshmallow Fluff and hydrogenated peanut butter on that list of bad food of the white man. Hell, I might also suggest adding - Hamburger Helper, Kraft Mac-N-Cheese and a helping of SPAM for good measure.
Indeed, it appears I was a bit lazy in not carefully inspecting the packaging. Certainly this product was in it's primary market. (I'm certain that neighborhood consumes tamarind by the truckload.) Clearly it was an error on my part to assume that I would find sugary sweet delight in the Jolly Rancher bag.
And finally, I must apologize for my lack of sarcasm and poor writing skills in the aforementioned post. Quiet honestly I could give a shit about the Tamarind or the chili lollipops. The real intention was to poke fun of my husband and his love of all things German. Clearly I missed the mark. I am shamed to admit that my humor must have been overcome by my vicious "instinctive white people hate" of Latin food.
Hallelujah! It's like uncovering childhood abuse through hypnotic therapy. Who knew I had such a fondness for squishy delightful white bread. Your comment on my post has opened up a whole new world to me. I think I'll go make myself a fluffer nutter right now.
I do hope you can forgive me and I think I speak on behalf of all white people everywhere when I tell you that we mean no harm to your "fuit, grown in pods, similar to beans". We just can't help ourselves, we're culturally stunted by consumer products and our oppressive parents.
An Enlightened White Person
Saturday, August 30, 2008
I honestly believe these classes are for the truly stupid and inept so I asked around the office to see what the general opinion was. One co-worker said, "you won't learn anything but at least you'll get to laugh at all the stupid people around you." Fantastic - 8 hours with people who shouldn't be allowed to walk on the streets let alone birth children. Totally my idea of a fun Saturday.
Regardless, I signed up for most of the classes they offered (to the tune of several hundred dollars. Have I mentioned that I need to get into the baby business in some way, shape or form? This crap is a worse rip off than the bridal industry...). So throughout the month of November, we will be learning about our pain management choices, touring the hospital, getting a CD of soothing sounds, learning to breastfeed and I will be re-learning infant CPR. I did pass on the remedial diapering class. Even I have my limits...
So back to my original point - I got a confirmation email from this woman in the hospital who runs the programs and her closing read, "Have a nice Labor Day weekend and happy gestating!".
Happy gestating indeed....freak.
We're off to enjoy the needle strewn shore of New Jersey this weekend. Have a great Labor Day and remember, if you're gestating, be happy.
Friday, August 29, 2008
(btw - with all the modern technology available, they still couldn't really tell me for sure if this child is a boy or a girl. The kid wouldn't give up the goods during the anatomy scan so while it looks "girl-ish" it could be a boy pulling a Silence of the Lambs Buffalo Bill kind of thing. Fast forward to 3:00 if you're cinematically stunted. And no, I'm not suggesting our child will be a transvestite with body piercings. Did anyone else realize this chick is the one on ER now? I digress...)
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
Friday, July 18, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
The last 8 weeks of my life have gone something like this. I feel nauseated, I eat & feel better, I then feel nauseated again. I am essentially like a rat in a maze desperately looking for my next snack. I have no shame at work, I will stuff my face with pretzels in front of anyone. At home a piece of cheese is only steps away. The hard part is traveling. I have taken to carrying a plethora of snacks in my bag. Pretzels, dried apricots, mini Cliff bars, hard candies, apples, yogurt, basically anything that will fit in my bag and my mouth.
In the last week or two it's morphed into more of an eat or you will become horribly nauseated. This is a vast improvement over my previous situation however it has escalated my need to eat since I know what's coming. I now become angry and violent if I do not get food, immediately.
Last weekend I was on my way to my sister's house with my mother and sensing the onslaught I said "Oh, I need to eat something." to which my mother responded, "I'm sure your sister will have food". I did not believe her and so I called my sister and said, "Do you have something for me to eat or should I stop on the way to your house?". She assured me she had food.
We got there and she had nothing. Then she admitted she lied. Who does that?
The following weekend my sister had a housewarming party. The house was literally packed to the gills with food. I say to my mother on the way there (since we had to arrive 3 hours early), "Oh, I need to eat something." to which she typically tried to tell me that my sister will have something for me.
See, this is where the similarities between me and the rat end. I knew they were lying to me. So when we got there and there was no food because no one had picked anything up yet, I was not surprised. I stole a car and found the nearest fast food place and ate glorious french fries. Carbs are super awesome, especially when they're greasy and covered in salty goodness.
Later my mother told my husband that she thinks the reason why I don't feel well is because I'm not eating well. Fortunately I have a very wise husband who defended his crazy pregnant wife and told his mother-in-law that, in fact, she is eating quite well and that is not the cause of her not feeling well.
This is a strange, new and rather unpleasant phenomena in my life - my mother has turned into an expert. She has informed me that her pregnancies (30+ years ago) were wonderful and therefore there must be something wrong with me that I don't feel like dancing around in a mumu relishing in my pregnant beauty. Oh, and apparently because I am miserable this is the equivalent of "being mean to her grandchild" and I need to cut it out because the kid can sense it.
You know what I think? Not driving me to get a sandwich and giving me crap about it is much meaner.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
So my absence as of late has been because I am physically unable to stay awake past 7PM. I also feel like poop on a stick. These two things in combination do not get the creative juices flowing. Something had to give. Actually many things, but we'll get to that in a moment.
So anyway, here are a few observations.
Unpleasant: After returning from vacation I went to put on a suit to go to work and discovered that my hips had spread. Something I didn't notice until nothing fit. I tried on every damn suit in the closet until I finally tried the fattest suit I own and found it barely fit. I looked decidedly inappropriate.
Pleasant: Due to suit situation above, I was forced into the maternity store early. I had two choices, buy bigger clothes or buy maternity. As much as I really hate the idea of maternity it seemed far more practical (and economical). Many, many maternity clothes make you look like a frickin cupcake, but on the upside they are the most comfortable things I have ever put on. Stretchy waistbands, flowy tops, I never knew it could be so good. No wonder those old ladies wear expandable "slacks".
Unpleasant: The constant feeling that I'm going to upchuck. I almost think that if I did puke I might feel better, but I just don't think it's in the cards. The only thing that keeps me somewhat non-nauseated is constantly eating. Sounds good right? Not really because I only feel good for about 10 minutes and then it's back to puke-town.
Pleasant: No matter how much I eat those stretchy pants will still fit.
Unpleasant: People at work think you're gaining weight. You're not positive that's what they're thinking because it's not like they're going to come out and tell you but you're relatively certain the way they do a double take when they see you coming. Although it could be a reaction to my change in dress. I'm not exactly the bohemian peasant top type of gal.
Pleasant: My hair seems thicker although that could be a figment of my imagination or my desire to derive some positive benefit from this whole experience.
Unpleasant: All the waiting at the doctor's office, consent forms, reading about things that might happen, figuring out how to fit a 3rd person into 1100 square feet, the weird smell that I smell when I walk into my house (what the hell is that??), the fact that I can't eat fish (both because of mercury and because it now makes me want to puke) and finally the fact that my house is a mess and my husband doesn't notice.
Pleasant: I have now justified, to myself, the need for a cleaning lady and I have started calling around to find one. Joy of all joy I will never mop another floor or clean a tub.
I think I'll end on a high note here. And in the event you were wondering, I am not part of the Gloucester County pregnancy pact. I just want to clear that up right now.
Friday, June 6, 2008
The first is quite nice - chav. As far as I can tell, the closest descriptor we have on the other side of the pond is wigger. Not nice, but it seems to fit. The only possible discrepancy is the fondness for Burberry plaid that the chavs seem to have. Apparently they are so offensive that Burberry stopped making certain items with the plaid that they favored. When you are so nasty that a major label stops producing something just so you can't drag down their good name, that say influence...and not in a good way.
Then there's slag. This is apparently a unisex insult as well as a noun and a verb. You can be a slag (closest American translation is roughly skank - which I would like to add is one of my personal favorites - it says so much in five letters) or you can slag someone off (which is to insult them but not in a serious way).
Examples of both were plentiful in my friend's neighborhood in southeast London. She compared it to South Philly, her husband compared it to the NorthEast. The prevalence of tracksuits and bad hair made it a toss up in my opinion.
A few other points of note should you wish to visit London soon: You really do get black boogers unless you stay off the Tube. The Tube is massively uncomfortable in any amount of heat or humidity. The bus is nasty and forces you to touch things that people have touched before (probably with unwashed poo dirt hands).
So take some wipes and a few good packs of tissues if you want to check out the chavs and slags.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Sunday, May 25, 2008
As the URL suggests, Bill is looking for someone who will go to Belize with him. Presumably he is interested in females. However the most important thing seems to be that said female will have sex with him and pay for some or all of her own expenses. Should you be interested in taking a little vaca with Bill, there's an application on the site where you will fill out insightful questions - such as, "If Bill is paying your way, why should he?". So many answers, so little time.
I mean let's be honest here - this is straight up solicitation. What kind of female would pimp herself out for a vacation? And if it were me, I would like to know why Bill thinks he's interesting or good enough in the sack to keep someone trapped in a foreign country for a week - quite honestly by day 4 you're going to be a bit sore and you'll likely start to think about how much laundry and work you have waiting for you at home.
Happy hunting Bill!
On a lighter note but perhaps just as psychotic, the Russians won the Eurovision song contest. My husband forced me to watch it for several reasons.
1. The guy was accompanied by some dude playing a Stradivari (the last time one was sold at auction it went for more than $3.5M - Yes! Fantastic choice for reality television! )
2. He also had an Olympic ice dancer swirling away on a patch of ice the size of my kitchen
3. The Russians spent over $15M on the production of this one song
4. The song was produced by Timbaland & written by some dude who works out of Philadelphia.
It's a new level of awesome. And by awesome I mean - completely ridiculous. You have to check this out for yourself. (I was particularly moved by the end when his shirt flies open and the three of them reach out, while kneeling on the ice patch, and tell you that you have to believe. *sniff, sniff* So moving.)
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Friday, May 16, 2008
Then I get home and notice that some fruitcake had left a comment with his myspace page. Clearly a self promoting wackadoo who was involved in writing some of their new songs. You can check out his stupid comment in the last post if you want to see a corny myspace page.
This morning, as I ate my cereal and drank my coffee, the Today show was making annoucements that New Kids on the Block are going to be performing later in the program. The audience is entirely made up of 30 something year old women screaming like lunatics. In the rain. Holding up signs (conveniently laminated to protect them from the rain).
God help us all. I think I'll DVR it...
Thursday, May 15, 2008
A few things about Monday:
1. It was my husband’s birthday
2. I was stuck in the airport in a futile attempt to get to Manchester, NH
3. I was sick, still
This did not make for fun times.
Aside from all of the miserableness, this trip once again reminded me that not everyone washes their hands after they pee. Airport bathrooms are a special place. Is that really so hard to do – soap, water, scrub? I thought it was common knowledge that bathrooms are dirty and so you should wash up before you leave. This is why there’s probably poo on your keyboard right now. Your co-workers can’t be bothered to wash their hands and so they track poo dirt all over the office and despite the fact that you wash well and use a paper towel to open the door you still end up touching the copier or the coffee maker and BAM – poo dirt.
Every time I shake someone’s hand I wonder if they’ve washed or not. I guess this is why my mother used to tell me to keep my fingers out of my mouth. And since I watched the movie “Knocked Up” I know that poo dirt also causes conjunctivitis. So while you're at it, keep your fingers out of your eyes too.
I’m also shocked by people that put their handbags on the bathroom floor. I know that luggage is dirty and I accept that and treat it accordingly, but your purse? I sometimes put my bag on my kitchen counter or my bed. As a result, it most certainly doesn’t need to be on the floor of a public bathroom.
It's a bit like those scary news stories about bacteria in hotel rooms. You know some big fat naked guy was sitting in the desk chair but you don't want to think about the poo dirt on your chair or you'll end up with some freakish OCD type complex that forces you carry around Lysol wipes and medical booties for your feet. I'll bet he runs around the room naked wiping snot on all the door handles too.
On second thought, Lysol wipes are pretty easy to transport. Think how nice it would be to wipe everything down.....that's not crazy, right?
Friday, May 9, 2008
This week it was Atlanta, GA. However I found myself in Marietta which is not quite the same thing. On my way to dinner the first night I drove past 4 pawn shops (one which had some deer taxidermy strapped to the roof), 3 bail bonds place, one compost facility, a detention center, a landfill, a place that had $99 suits for all occasions and at least a dozen Waffle Houses. Nothing screams affluent suburb quite like all those things in combination.
This is a far cry from what I remember of Atlanta. I spent 9 months here in my early twenties. It was hands down the best place I ever worked - great restaurants and bars, good times plus I was young and perpetually drunk. This time…sober with deer taxidermy. Very weird.
And finally, since my brain is fried, and I have little to say, I choose to tell you a few things I recently shared with my co-worker – I’m pretty sure he thinks I was raised in some weird hippie compound
1. I at fried chicken for the first time in my twenties because my mother never fried anything, ever
2. She also didn’t let us eat processed sugar – I had 3 cereal choices as a kid – Cheerios, All Bran and Grape Nuts
3. I thought wheat germ on ice cream was good and little honey sesame treats were like kiddie crack
4. I didn’t know what Mac and Cheese was until I arrived at college – I had never seen/eaten it before
5. We only ate natural peanut butter and whole wheat bread.
This is especially weird because I’m traveling with a guy we’ll call Bob (to protect the somewhat innocent) who regularly eats PB&J and hot dogs. Not that I haven’t had the occasional children’s menu snack, but he claims these are his dietary staples. I find this far more terrifying than my dirty hippy list above.
And so, in the next two weeks I have to go to Portland & Boston. At that point I’m going to check out and go on vacation. Do not despair, I’ve recruited a guest blogger to keep you entertained. Perhaps she’ll be more diligent than I’ve been lately. I think you’ll like her, she makes me laugh. She’s a fabulous individual who lives in the middle of the country. She likes the occasional martini and cigarette (which is why we got on so well). Beyond that I’ll let her tell you whatever she wants.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
I thought this was a public speaking and communications training. And like most trainings I expected some sort of lame ice breaker activity that would force me to come up with an adjective that starts with the same letter as my name (Fantastic Fran? Terrific Tom?) or perhaps have to share some interesting tidbit about myself (I love kitties and old people!). No, they wanted me to come up with a way to act out my name. This slightly more challenging than one might think. As I watched a grown man run around the room flapping his arms like a bird I realized I had made a tragic mistake.
I truly hate being asked to do things like this. I have serious issues with public embarrassment. I was not reassured when people from last cycle's class got up and started talking about how they derived so much benefit from the class but the key is to put yourself out there.
Under no circumstances have I ever put myself out there.
Ok, ok, I pledged a sorority in college and of course was asked to do goofy things, but they always took us off campus to do the really bad stuff. Doing goofy things in front of people you don't know is almost ok (especially when you've been drinking) but at work...c'mon.
Here's the real kicker. I don't have a fear of public speaking, I do it on occasion and have never suffered crippling panic attacks. Am I riveting? Probably not but it gets the job done. However, something about this class gives me an overwhelming sense of anxiety and dread. I just know she's going to ask me to do something that I hate. Indeed.
So here we are, headed into week 5 and it's turned into college in many ways. My life has been taken over by the project from hell so I spend my time figuring what is the least amount of work that I can do and not get kicked out. How many classes can I miss? What if I leave a little early? How much did the company actually pay for this crap? Holy....
This week I have to talk about something I feel passionate about. I have no passion for anything. Well, I have plenty of passion but they tell me it has to be something positive so I can't bitch about stuff like I do here.
So help a girl out here, give me ideas - what do I feel passionate about? Help...please.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
This week I went to Detroit. Did you know that they are famous for their hot dogs? Me neither. So I tried a "Coney" which involves a hot dog (apparently they have high standards for hot dogs in Michigan), mustard, onions and chili.
It sounded good until I bit into it. Then I made a face. Then I threw it in the trash. I was informed by kid behind the counter that "the exterior is crunchy because it's a natural casing". Ack! Then I made another face. Then I left.
I'm ready for a non-natural casing.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Why on earth am I telling you this? Because I came across this article. She's a woman who answered her ticking biological clock with a sperm donor. I commend her for being a single mother, but the part I don't understand is her suggestion that if you don't find Mr. Right, and you want to have children, that you are in a lose-lose situation - settle now or settle later, you'll eventually have to settle if you want a man. She maintains that women out there are turning away perfectly good men because of annoying habits. She suggests that you should look past these things because eventually your hot romance will turn into a partnership where these things don't matter. Then she goes on to say that most married women, even when complaining about their awful husbands, would rather keep them than be alone. This is her supporting evidence that settling is ok because aren't we all really eventually in a situation where it's a wash.
So I gave up a relationship that surely would have yielded a perfectly fine family. Someone who was similar enough in family values and probably would have been a good father, all for the far flung idea that I could be and wanted to be in love. I used to joke that women are ruined by romance novels. We have these fabricated high expectations about what a relationship should be and that some day some guy will sweep us off our feet.
Anyone who has ever read a romance novel or watched a chick flick knows the general plot line - boy and girl meet and dislike one another, boy and girl have bonding experience and have crazy monkey sex, a 3rd party interferes and causes some massive misunderstanding and it appears that true love will go unrealized and then finally they are reunited, have crazy monkey sex and vow their undying love.
I still believe that's a pile of crap. However I will say this. A smart man (whom I almost dated but didn't because I ditched the opportunity to meet him for the chance to go out with a guy who turned out to be a loser) said to me after listening to me complain that a guy I was seeing didn't call me enough, "Hey, if you know that's what's important to you and he's not getting it done then why do you stick around - he's not going to change?". Good point.
My dating criteria became very simple:
An all around nice guy.
A guy who calls me enough so I know where I rate in his life.
A guy who is not intimidated by me.
A guy who is smarter than me in areas that I am not smart but smart enough to know that I am smarter than him in some areas too.
A guy who knows when I disagree with him that I'm not fighting, I'm just discussing.
A guy who shares similar family values.
A guy with whom I have some shared interests.
A guy that I like sleeping with.
I found all of these things in my husband. I felt like I could spend the rest of my life with him the second day I knew him. Crazy? Sure, but it's true. It took him a bit longer, but that's why I like him - I'm the snap judgement, he's the ponder-er, but we usually end up the same place. So in short, I didn't need to settle because he was the one who fit. That's not to say he's perfect (nor am I), he's just not doing the specific things that would have been deal breakers for me.
He used to tell me that he liked that I wasn't a crazy female. What he fails to recognize is that in almost every previous relationship, I was a crazy female. We've all been like that at one point or another. It's the simple fact that he met the criteria which made me a happy person. I was getting everything I needed, so I didn't have to go all psycho on him. Providing you're not actually crazy, I think this logic holds water.
Perhaps we won't always be in wedded bliss but nothing can take away that we started there. I don't harbor any resentment around what might have been and I don't believe he does either. Sure, I complain about stupid crap he does - his inane amount of socks, his inability to clean-up anything...ever and his amazing propensity to dawdle. At the end of the day I wouldn't trade him in because I love him, not because I don't want to be alone.
So I think this woman's suggestion is absolute crap. If you're a relatively well grounded person, don't settle, just prioritize your needs and be patient. Oh, and be sure to get really drunk every once in a while. I'm just sayin'...that's what worked for me.