I wrote a blog at the very beginning of... this blog, in which I described how much extra time I had at work to read fluffy magazines and gorge myself on useless information on what is in/out, and how to be thin if only I had time (**note: reading magazines is a valid excuse for not exercising), and other such inane, highly colorized and photoshopped shmaltz.
Since then, I have been promoted. NOW, I can read WEBCOMICS. Because it's more obvious if I have US Weekly stolen furtively from the lobby sitting in front of my keyboard, even if it's covered by a fancy-looking spreadsheet that I created for just such a purpose. I have given up on reading these magazines at work. Now I merely roll them up and sneak them home so that I can read them in bed and think "I wish I had a pair of excessively short black shorts that I could wear over sheer black nylons with 4" ankle boots and a see-through lace top. Why is my life so HARD?!" Then I roll over and continue eating bon-bons and lamenting my difficult, difficult life.
Seriously, though. I have had little enough to do over the last month that I have read the complete back archives of Questionable Content, and am working on the back logs of The Book of Biff. I have stalked every single one of you on facebook, added tons of friends from high school just to see what they've been up to, filed 6 month's worth of purchase orders, and read the leaked into to Midnight Sun. I've look up countless recipes that I'll prolly never make, pined after products on ebay that I'd feel too guilty to buy, and browsed nigh upon every list on oddee.com.
I am so full of useless information, saved links, and complete bull right now that I almost feel bad. Not bad enough to stop doing it, but bad enough to go home early most days. So hard!
Friday, July 24, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
Jesus Hates Page 712.
Apparently, Jesus has decided that tonight will be, as Jesse has aptly described it, "a big bucket of fail." Not that two things going wrong are infinite failure, but two things of such temporarily esteem-ruinous size are enough to beleaguer me into an evening of the melancholy sadness. SIGH.
Firstly, I was supposed to mail off a pair of jeans to a distant friend last week, but was seriously hampered by the hours of FedEx, the arrival of guests, and the swift departure to places north. In my semi-guilt, I went to FedEx tonight to overnight them to said friend, thinking they would arrive to him the day before he leaves town. I was wrong - they will arrive after his departure. So not only have I failed in my pants responsibilities, I have wasted AS MUCH MONEY AS THE PANTS COST on postage. This, in the times where Jesse and I are so tight on money that we can't go see movies, can't go out to eat, and can't go dancing. That postage was a week's worth of entry into dance events. I am very upset with myself for not checking BEFORE I mailed the damn pants. New rule: if you are going to purchase pants from me at an extreme discount, you have to pay the postage up front. It doesn't seem fair that I should pay to mail your jeans that I got for you at a discount. I hadn't thought much of it before, but now I am POOR.
Secondly, I have been avidly reading Gone With the Wind for a couple weeks, so avidly that I dream about Scarlett at night and think about what I would have done having been stuck in the middle of the civil war. (Answer: I would have died). So, in the aftermath of Federal Express sorrows, I decided to sit down with my newly beloved tome and spend the rest of the night. Until I came upon this paragraph: "Yes, he is my legal ward and I am responsible for him. He's in school in New Orleans. I go there frequently to see him. Bureau in a distant state had been highly lucrative at the expense of the ignorant blacks they were supposed to protect;"
WTF?
My copy of Gone With the Wind skips directly from page 712 to page 813 without a second thought for the poor girl who was just trying to lick her wounded pride from overpaying the Federal Express. Again with the upsetness. BAH! This leaves me with no choice but to write a blog whilst shaking my fist at the heavens and googling whether or not this has happened to anyone else and if I can get my money back. Stupid Scribner.
Firstly, I was supposed to mail off a pair of jeans to a distant friend last week, but was seriously hampered by the hours of FedEx, the arrival of guests, and the swift departure to places north. In my semi-guilt, I went to FedEx tonight to overnight them to said friend, thinking they would arrive to him the day before he leaves town. I was wrong - they will arrive after his departure. So not only have I failed in my pants responsibilities, I have wasted AS MUCH MONEY AS THE PANTS COST on postage. This, in the times where Jesse and I are so tight on money that we can't go see movies, can't go out to eat, and can't go dancing. That postage was a week's worth of entry into dance events. I am very upset with myself for not checking BEFORE I mailed the damn pants. New rule: if you are going to purchase pants from me at an extreme discount, you have to pay the postage up front. It doesn't seem fair that I should pay to mail your jeans that I got for you at a discount. I hadn't thought much of it before, but now I am POOR.
Secondly, I have been avidly reading Gone With the Wind for a couple weeks, so avidly that I dream about Scarlett at night and think about what I would have done having been stuck in the middle of the civil war. (Answer: I would have died). So, in the aftermath of Federal Express sorrows, I decided to sit down with my newly beloved tome and spend the rest of the night. Until I came upon this paragraph: "Yes, he is my legal ward and I am responsible for him. He's in school in New Orleans. I go there frequently to see him. Bureau in a distant state had been highly lucrative at the expense of the ignorant blacks they were supposed to protect;"
WTF?
My copy of Gone With the Wind skips directly from page 712 to page 813 without a second thought for the poor girl who was just trying to lick her wounded pride from overpaying the Federal Express. Again with the upsetness. BAH! This leaves me with no choice but to write a blog whilst shaking my fist at the heavens and googling whether or not this has happened to anyone else and if I can get my money back. Stupid Scribner.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Being Married makes you Unprepared
I was innocently doing my job the other day, walking things back and forth from my desk to the desk in Design wherein they belonged, when suddenly, out of the blue.... I was flirted with.
A tall, British-accented man made various comments that appeared innocently flirtatious. A girl should not be unprepared for this, especially one who doesn't wear her wedding, right?
Wrong.
I basically pulled a ninth-grade reaction to being partnered with a crushable boy in English class; blushed embarrassingly, giggled a little, and fled immediately.
Where is the sharp-tongued sassy girl that laughs in the face of comedic verbal sparring? Where is the used-needle sharp wit of a young woman who can banter at will with anyone, provided the subject matter stays above the belt and below the particle-physics plane? Not in that room that day. It was more like... "Nuuurrrrrr."
Pathetic.
It makes me feel better, though, that even in the whole day after the singular occurrence, I haven't yet thought of something that I could have said that would make me sound intelligent and yet simultaneously not be overbearingly and undermarriedly flirtatious in return. I usually kick myself afterwards for having thought of something too clever, too late. But this time, I suppose "Nuuurrrrr" will have to suffice, and hope that it won't happen so embarrassingly again.
A tall, British-accented man made various comments that appeared innocently flirtatious. A girl should not be unprepared for this, especially one who doesn't wear her wedding, right?
Wrong.
I basically pulled a ninth-grade reaction to being partnered with a crushable boy in English class; blushed embarrassingly, giggled a little, and fled immediately.
Where is the sharp-tongued sassy girl that laughs in the face of comedic verbal sparring? Where is the used-needle sharp wit of a young woman who can banter at will with anyone, provided the subject matter stays above the belt and below the particle-physics plane? Not in that room that day. It was more like... "Nuuurrrrrr."
Pathetic.
It makes me feel better, though, that even in the whole day after the singular occurrence, I haven't yet thought of something that I could have said that would make me sound intelligent and yet simultaneously not be overbearingly and undermarriedly flirtatious in return. I usually kick myself afterwards for having thought of something too clever, too late. But this time, I suppose "Nuuurrrrr" will have to suffice, and hope that it won't happen so embarrassingly again.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
On being an "Adult"
There is quite the racket going on in the neighbor's pool this afternoon, with the screeching and the splashing and the whooping... I don't mind in the least - it's the middle of a hot day after the fourth of July (i.e., the fifth of July). The interesting thing is that the various rackets are being made by people over the age of pubescence.. also which doesn't bother me.. but leads me to think. "What on earth do people do in swimming pools?" I mean, I hooted and hollered and screeched and splashed and turned brown like a nut every summer until I grew breasts. At which point I'd get in and be all... soooooooo.... what next? It's boring, I think, limiting yourself to a little variegated-depth kidney bean with no diving or running.
This (in addition to terrible swimsuit self-esteem) is the main reason why I haven't owned a swimsuit in over 4 years. I can understand having a swimsuit at the beach... there are waves there to contend with, and boys (if that's what you're aiming for), and sharks, to boot. You can swim faster without full regalia, though dudes in shorts swimming around tend to look less like seals than nearly-naked ladies.
Back to the folks next door... I wonder, really, where the line between post-pubescence and actual adulthood is drawn. Does splashing around in a small organ-shaped pool make you a child or an adult? What about if you have a beer in your hand? Does sitting in your apartment next door writing blogs about them make you a child, an adult, or a nosy geriatric?
How about going to Vegas with a nearly complete stranger? What does this make one?
Answer: Adventurous and/or an idiot. I feel in our case it was only the former.
Our adult behavior last weekend included spending most of the day Saturday cleaning our old apartment in Long Beach to get it prepared for the walking out, then rushing home to pack in 15 minutes and meet our young bank teller, escorted by his friends to make sure we're "not the rape-y type", and drive straight off to Las Vegas, to stay in a hotel room with his other stranger friend.
Does this make me juvenile?
Regardless, the trip was well worth the expenditure and effort that it took us to complete it. Our two stranger friends couldn't have been better Vegas partners. Like, not good enough friends for us to have to spend any time catching up on stuff or having expectations of behavior or feeling indebted to do things together, but still totally awesome enough to be the perfect source of energy for mad taxi rides, debaucherous behavior, and general good times. Additionally, it was the World Series of Poker, so I'm sure those of you who have seen Jesse's facebook posts know what kind of extreme glee this would bring him. Ridiculous kinds of glee. Giggles, even.
It was also Jesse's first time in Vegas - so overwhelmingly crazy. I'm not sure if you would figure this out in casual conversation with the man, but he and Las Vegas were built to meet each other. If he wasn't already married to me, he would probably marry the city and elope to a foreign continent where hookers are legal.. so Antarctica. I guess that wouldn't work. But you get the idea. Vegas+Jesse Smith=LURV.
This (in addition to terrible swimsuit self-esteem) is the main reason why I haven't owned a swimsuit in over 4 years. I can understand having a swimsuit at the beach... there are waves there to contend with, and boys (if that's what you're aiming for), and sharks, to boot. You can swim faster without full regalia, though dudes in shorts swimming around tend to look less like seals than nearly-naked ladies.
Back to the folks next door... I wonder, really, where the line between post-pubescence and actual adulthood is drawn. Does splashing around in a small organ-shaped pool make you a child or an adult? What about if you have a beer in your hand? Does sitting in your apartment next door writing blogs about them make you a child, an adult, or a nosy geriatric?
How about going to Vegas with a nearly complete stranger? What does this make one?
Answer: Adventurous and/or an idiot. I feel in our case it was only the former.
Our adult behavior last weekend included spending most of the day Saturday cleaning our old apartment in Long Beach to get it prepared for the walking out, then rushing home to pack in 15 minutes and meet our young bank teller, escorted by his friends to make sure we're "not the rape-y type", and drive straight off to Las Vegas, to stay in a hotel room with his other stranger friend.
Does this make me juvenile?
Regardless, the trip was well worth the expenditure and effort that it took us to complete it. Our two stranger friends couldn't have been better Vegas partners. Like, not good enough friends for us to have to spend any time catching up on stuff or having expectations of behavior or feeling indebted to do things together, but still totally awesome enough to be the perfect source of energy for mad taxi rides, debaucherous behavior, and general good times. Additionally, it was the World Series of Poker, so I'm sure those of you who have seen Jesse's facebook posts know what kind of extreme glee this would bring him. Ridiculous kinds of glee. Giggles, even.
It was also Jesse's first time in Vegas - so overwhelmingly crazy. I'm not sure if you would figure this out in casual conversation with the man, but he and Las Vegas were built to meet each other. If he wasn't already married to me, he would probably marry the city and elope to a foreign continent where hookers are legal.. so Antarctica. I guess that wouldn't work. But you get the idea. Vegas+Jesse Smith=LURV.
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