1. "Calm down." This usually results in the opposite of the desired effect. And have you ever noticed that the person telling you to calm down is usually the asshole who pissed you off in the first place?
2. "Here is your moment to shine." This is much like 1. It loosely translates into, "I fucked up royally and need you to get me out of a jam. Look at all the glory I'm giving you in my lame attempt to suck up."
3. "Wanna know what I think?" The answer to this is always invariably and emphatically "No."
4. "I can't believe you're up already." Are you aware that the very latest I wake up is 6 AM? And I am sooooooo not a morning person. Sometimes (and really, try to wrap your head around this one), I have to get up at 4 AM to travel to work. I used to come home from a long night of drinking later than that! But really, it's not *that* unbelievable.
5. "Are you pregnant?" This is a "pet" of mine. Unless you are a medical professional or a SCUBA diving instructor, I'm hard pressed to think of an appropriate reason to ask this question. First, someone is either noticeably pregnant or not. It has been my experience that a woman who is not noticeably pregnant will tell you if she's expecting if she wants to tell you and she thinks you need to know. Otherwise, it's none of your business. If she hasn't told you the news and you ask, I can only assume that you think she looks pregnant. That's pretty much the same as calling her fat in my book. And it goes without saying that you NEVER tell a woman she looks fat.
6. "Your eyebrows are not supposed to look like that." Sorry. I couldn't resist that one.
7. "You people." I have always hated this because it creates such an "Us and Them" air. And I really fucking hate Pink Floyd. Seriously, you're not going to accomplish anything by using divisive language like that. It's only going to put the other side on the defensive and make things worse.
8. "You're too young to..." or "I have kids older than you." Ok. That might be true, but I'm still a thirty-something year old woman with a lifetime of experiences behind her, possibly more experiences than your stupid geriatric ass. You don't see me saying, "By the time my mother was your age, she broke her hip." Being the youngest in the family, I always thought that someday I would reach a point where people would stop saying this to me. But it hasn't happened. And I'll never catch up. This may never be rectified without this public service announcement.
9. "I'm sorry," when it is not sincere, especially when accompanied by a big smile. Fuck you. You're not sorry. Don't be fake.
10. "You'll be really sorry when..." after a sincere apology, especially when accompanied by a ridiculous consequence. Case in point - I recently took a chartered bus to Canada. Everyone on the bus had to get off the bus to go through customs at the border. We were waiting in a small vestibule for everyone in the group to finish going through customs or using the facilities (Bus potties are gross!). We started filing out and back to the bus when I recalled my friend mentioning on the bus about a half hour before we went to customs that she was thirsty. Realizing that I had change in my pocket, I started putting coins in the soda machine in the vestibule while the rest of the group entered the bus that was right outside. The bus driver came back in, just as I was putting my second to last coin in the machine.
"You can do that at the hotel!" She scolded.
"I'm sorry. I just put my money in. I'll be right there."
"You'll really be sorry when they keep us here!"
Let me get this straight. The Canadian border patrol is going to detain me for buying a Diet Pepsi?!?! Really?!?!? Does that mean I can apply for citizenship? Besides, the hotel was at least an hour away and there was no vending, just an overpriced minibar. Liar.
I guess I should have been so lucky to have been detained. You'll notice that "ay" did not make the list.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Saturday, January 12, 2008
To my friends - in case I don't express enough gratitude
I just wanted to say thanks to those of you who gave me words of encouragement, flattery, advice and humor over the last few days. It's so sweet of you. And some of you just crack my shit up.
A little aftermath:
I talked Paul down from printing out my blog and going to the spa's management office with it. I'm not looking for any kind of compensation from them as I don't intend to go back there. I also do not want a refund. As far as I'm concerned, I requested a service and they performed it. They should be paid. I'm not obligated to tip, so I didn't. Had the experience been more positive, I definitely would have.
While the texture of my face felt smoother yesterday, visually, I saw no difference. In fact, I have a few new zits and some of my facial scarring seems more pronounced now. My skin is roughly back to its regular texture today. The long and short of it is that I tried getting a facial and didn't like it. I'm sure I can find lots of other uses of my time and money. I think I'll live just fine without another one.
My eyebrows actually look worse. I couldn't tell that they were uneven before. I can definitely tell now. Luckily, my bangs will most likely cover them until they grow back to normal. That woman was out of her skull.
I don't believe Niculina is actually Russian. I'm not apologizing for my Russian slurs though, because I think I was funny. My mean and sarcastic humor is usually one of the few things that make me feel better when I'm having a bad experience. I looked up her credentials on the spa's website and it seems that she was educated at the Medical Institution of Bucharest, leading me to believe that she's Romanian. *Insert your own "Romanian women are really hairy joke here.* I'm now convinced that the Medical Institution of Bucharest is one of the following:
1. A mental institution in which patients experience occupational therapy by popping each others' zits and putting the lotion in the basket and all that.
2. Some sort of equivalent to the University of Phoenix or DeVry Institute.
Also, according to the website, one of Niculina's specialties is Brazilian bikini waxing. If she was that harsh about my face, I shudder to think about what she'd say about my nether region. Although, at least I really do shave that.
Someone else suggested that the whole eyebrow thing was a sales ploy to get me to purchase the additional service of a wax. It's possible. But given her reluctance to do it, I kind of lean towards that not being true. I would totally fall for something like that, though. I'm a marketing person's wet dream, after all. If that was her intention, it totally backfired. Not only did she not get her tip, she totally lost future business.
Anyway, it's not my fault that bitch was too fat to be a gymnast. Nadia Comaneci really shouldn't be taking the fact that she was already kicked off Celebrity Apprentice out on me.
Ok. I'll let it go now. Thanks again for being such wonderful people! You all have very special places in my grinchy little heart.
Mwah!
A little aftermath:
I talked Paul down from printing out my blog and going to the spa's management office with it. I'm not looking for any kind of compensation from them as I don't intend to go back there. I also do not want a refund. As far as I'm concerned, I requested a service and they performed it. They should be paid. I'm not obligated to tip, so I didn't. Had the experience been more positive, I definitely would have.
While the texture of my face felt smoother yesterday, visually, I saw no difference. In fact, I have a few new zits and some of my facial scarring seems more pronounced now. My skin is roughly back to its regular texture today. The long and short of it is that I tried getting a facial and didn't like it. I'm sure I can find lots of other uses of my time and money. I think I'll live just fine without another one.
My eyebrows actually look worse. I couldn't tell that they were uneven before. I can definitely tell now. Luckily, my bangs will most likely cover them until they grow back to normal. That woman was out of her skull.
I don't believe Niculina is actually Russian. I'm not apologizing for my Russian slurs though, because I think I was funny. My mean and sarcastic humor is usually one of the few things that make me feel better when I'm having a bad experience. I looked up her credentials on the spa's website and it seems that she was educated at the Medical Institution of Bucharest, leading me to believe that she's Romanian. *Insert your own "Romanian women are really hairy joke here.* I'm now convinced that the Medical Institution of Bucharest is one of the following:
1. A mental institution in which patients experience occupational therapy by popping each others' zits and putting the lotion in the basket and all that.
2. Some sort of equivalent to the University of Phoenix or DeVry Institute.
Also, according to the website, one of Niculina's specialties is Brazilian bikini waxing. If she was that harsh about my face, I shudder to think about what she'd say about my nether region. Although, at least I really do shave that.
Someone else suggested that the whole eyebrow thing was a sales ploy to get me to purchase the additional service of a wax. It's possible. But given her reluctance to do it, I kind of lean towards that not being true. I would totally fall for something like that, though. I'm a marketing person's wet dream, after all. If that was her intention, it totally backfired. Not only did she not get her tip, she totally lost future business.
Anyway, it's not my fault that bitch was too fat to be a gymnast. Nadia Comaneci really shouldn't be taking the fact that she was already kicked off Celebrity Apprentice out on me.
Ok. I'll let it go now. Thanks again for being such wonderful people! You all have very special places in my grinchy little heart.
Mwah!
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
I wish I could tie you up in my shoes, make you feel unpretty, too
I really hesitate to write what I'm about to write. First, I don't want anyone to think that I'm fishing for compliments. I assure you I am not. Second, this is going to be painfully embarrassing and humiliating to share. But I've made new year's resolutions to open up more and also to write more. And since I feel like a giant raw nerve at the moment, I can't really think of a more appropriate circumstance.
I had my first facial today. No, you sick perverts, it wasn't *that* kind of facial. Although, I think I may have preferred that. It probably would have been much less demeaning.
My sweet and wonderful husband gave me an extremely generous gift card for the Bell Tower Salon and Medi-Spa as an MBA graduation gift. Being a bit on the shy side when it comes to people touching and fussing over me, it took me some time to bring myself to make appointments to use the card. Paul and I enjoyed their Couple's Escape package a few weeks ago. I still had some money left on the gift card and decided to use it towards a facial since I had never had one. A friend of mine suggested a specific person to request for the facial, but unfortunately that person was unavailable due to maternity leave. Since I didn't know of anyone else who worked there, it really didn't matter to me who did it.
My appointment was scheduled for Saturday, January 5th. I was quite sleep deprived last week due to the New Year's Eve activities and having to take my sister back to the airport at an ungodly hour on Thursday. I would have loved to stay in bed all day, but I was a trooper and drove to the spa for my appointment thinking that it would be soothing and relaxing anyway.
When I arrived, I discovered that my appointment had been cancelled due to a "scheduling error." I was never notified of this cancellation. But I kept my cool, smiled, shrugged and said it wasn't a really big deal. I'd be happy to come back. This gave me the chance to get my drivers license photo taken. Who knew that experience would actually make me feel more attractive than a day at the spa?
I returned tonight for my rescheduled appointment with Niculina. She had just entered the waiting room as I was glancing at my watch, noticing that she was roughly 10 minutes tardy for our appointment. Again, I didn't say a word and shrugged it off. What was I doing anyway?
She was a cold tempered woman of eastern European descent. To say she was unfriendly would be like saying that oompa loompas tend to be a little on the short side. As instructed, I removed my shirt and necklace and took my place on the table, covering myself with a sheet and blanket. She asked me a few questions about what I use on my face, but really didn't seem to listen or really be interested in what I was saying. My appointment was for an acne facial, which I thought I would need since the only time my face has ever been free of zits was back when I was in high school and on birth control pills. After my initial cleanse, she told me that my pores were severely clogged and that I should do a purifying facial instead. Whatever. It really didn't make a difference to me and I trusted her expertise. She also said she would take care of "the white ones" on my face, I guess referring to the breakouts that I was there to solve in the first place. She then put my face under some harsh lights to get a better look.
If you're skimming, here's where it gets nasty.
This bitch, in her thick as Natasha Fatale accent said with an equally thick tone of disgust, "You need to grow your eyebrows out and redo them. They are NOT supposed to look that way." Excuse me? God? Is that you? I can't imagine anyone else being in any other sort of position to tell another human being what the fuck their face is "supposed" to look like. She went on, "Do you shave them?" Um, no. I told her that I usually have them done every few weeks when I get my hair cut. She reiterated, in case I missed her horrible criticism of my face the first time, "They shouldn't be like this. Grow them out and come back. I will fix them for you." My! How fucking gracious of you, bitch! How will I make it through the next few weeks without your precious gift?!?
Of course, this is what I say right now. At the time, I panicked. I have a fancy shmancy work shindig on Saturday. "Is there anything you can do now to fix them temporarily?" She sighed, as if I had asked her bleed a vodka tonic for me, "Well, you really should grow them out. They are uneven here and short there..." I told her that I had something going on for Saturday night and she eased, "Well, I can see what I can do. Maybe." I guess this was going to be a really big challenge for her.
As if my eyebrows weren't a crisis enough for this woman, she put on rubber gloves and preceded to squeeze and pop every microscopic bump that was on my face. She was popping the wrinkles in my fucking forehead. And it hurt! Badly! She kept squeezing my nose and I struggled to breathe through my unusually small nostrils (a feature that I have because I never picked my nose as a child). Between the physical pain and the emotional sting, I began to cry when she had completed the first half of my face. "Are you ok?" She asked. I couldn't respond. She asked again. With a cracked voice, I told her I was fine. "I will stop if you do not want me to continue," she said sounding exactly like Uncle Junior's one legged housekeeper. Well, what the fuck am I supposed to say? "Please stop and only do half of my face so that I'm uneven and look like Juliet Lewis's character in The Other Sister after her make over?" I told her to continue. "If only you could see what I am doing right now." Great. That made me feel even better. Just call me Chrissy Pus Face.
Then she asked for my hand. She took my finger and thumb, placing a tiny ball of pus between them, much like you would feel if you ever popped a zit. "This is what I am removing from your face." Great. Now my face makes me want to puke. I can only imagine what the rest of the world thinks. I continued to cry.
"How often do you get facial?" Nureyev in a skirt asked. When I told her this was my first one, she shrugged and nodded as if I was less than human.
"You want me to fix your eyebrows, but the wax is also going to hurt," she warned. This really pissed me off. I told her earlier that I usually did wax my eyebrows and here she was speaking to me as if I had never done it before. I reminded her of this. I continued to cry. "I just feel really ugly," I said. She then proceeded to tell me that this was nothing personal (no shit, bitch. I'm an awesome person...I just look like Quasimodo, apparently) and that she was giving me her professional opinion. She said that there was nothing wrong with my skin and that after being in this line of work for 20 plus years she has seen just about everything. You would think that after 20 plus years of experience, she would have a better bedside manner. But who am I to expect service with a smile? I'm just another ugly face.
And did you notice how she didn't tell me that I *wasn't* ugly?
She handed me a mirror so that she could show me exactly what was wrong with my face, but I told her that I felt so ugly after the way she spoke to me that I really couldn't even stand to look at myself. When she finally did wax my brows, it not only hurt less than the squeezing and popping of my crater face, but it also hurt less than when my hairdresser does it.
She continued with the facial, bringing out a buffering machine, "I am about to bring out machine. I must ask you at this time if you are pregnant." I'm sure she has to ask this of everyone, but while we're at it, why not just remind me that I'm fat, too?
I told her that I'm not pregnant. She buffed my face. When she finished, I asked why the machine could not be used on pregnant women. "They told us we are not to use the machine on pregnant women." Ooooookay. But why? I pressed further, but she just repeated herself. So I guess the reason is that she is just following orders, much like the Nazis did when they killed her people. What a shame that they missed her lineage...
I kept these thoughts to myself for the rest of the time, however. She had chemicals and sharp objects. And I'm fairly certain that a person of her position and intelligence might not be aware that the Cold War is over. So I remained uncharacteristically polite. When she offered me a glass of water, I responded with a meek and defeated, "Yes, please." She gave me some samples and reiterated that she was not trying to demean me, rather just give me her professional opinion. She pulled a hand held mirror out of a drawer and asked if I would like to look at how much better I look now that she fixed my face. I declined. She left the room so I could get dressed and then walked me to the counter as if I would storm out without paying.
When the sweet and perky blond behind the reception desk asked me how everything was I responded with an "Okay."
"Just ok?"
"Yes."
"Is there anything we can -"
"No," I said firmly, but not meanly. I really have no desire to ever return to that place, regardless of how great my other experiences were there and especially since they just opened a medi-spa within walking distance of my house. I paid my bill but didn't tip. The money that I planned to use for the tip will be going towards years' worth of therapy. I walked out with my head down and hair in my face while everyone behind the counter stared at me like I was as ugly of a circus freak as I felt.
When you are in a business like a medi-spa, you are selling the experience. People want to walk out of there with their heads held high, feeling stunning and beautiful. I couldn't feel anything further from that right now. And I can't stop crying. I know this whole thing sounds so annoyingly self absorbed and overly sensitive. And clearly most of you look at me on a regular basis so you've been well aware of my hideousness for so long that I'm sure what she told me is no surprise to any of you. I've never felt like an attractive person in the first place, but at least I've felt fairly confident over the last few years. Now all of that is shattered as well.
I had my first facial today. No, you sick perverts, it wasn't *that* kind of facial. Although, I think I may have preferred that. It probably would have been much less demeaning.
My sweet and wonderful husband gave me an extremely generous gift card for the Bell Tower Salon and Medi-Spa as an MBA graduation gift. Being a bit on the shy side when it comes to people touching and fussing over me, it took me some time to bring myself to make appointments to use the card. Paul and I enjoyed their Couple's Escape package a few weeks ago. I still had some money left on the gift card and decided to use it towards a facial since I had never had one. A friend of mine suggested a specific person to request for the facial, but unfortunately that person was unavailable due to maternity leave. Since I didn't know of anyone else who worked there, it really didn't matter to me who did it.
My appointment was scheduled for Saturday, January 5th. I was quite sleep deprived last week due to the New Year's Eve activities and having to take my sister back to the airport at an ungodly hour on Thursday. I would have loved to stay in bed all day, but I was a trooper and drove to the spa for my appointment thinking that it would be soothing and relaxing anyway.
When I arrived, I discovered that my appointment had been cancelled due to a "scheduling error." I was never notified of this cancellation. But I kept my cool, smiled, shrugged and said it wasn't a really big deal. I'd be happy to come back. This gave me the chance to get my drivers license photo taken. Who knew that experience would actually make me feel more attractive than a day at the spa?
I returned tonight for my rescheduled appointment with Niculina. She had just entered the waiting room as I was glancing at my watch, noticing that she was roughly 10 minutes tardy for our appointment. Again, I didn't say a word and shrugged it off. What was I doing anyway?
She was a cold tempered woman of eastern European descent. To say she was unfriendly would be like saying that oompa loompas tend to be a little on the short side. As instructed, I removed my shirt and necklace and took my place on the table, covering myself with a sheet and blanket. She asked me a few questions about what I use on my face, but really didn't seem to listen or really be interested in what I was saying. My appointment was for an acne facial, which I thought I would need since the only time my face has ever been free of zits was back when I was in high school and on birth control pills. After my initial cleanse, she told me that my pores were severely clogged and that I should do a purifying facial instead. Whatever. It really didn't make a difference to me and I trusted her expertise. She also said she would take care of "the white ones" on my face, I guess referring to the breakouts that I was there to solve in the first place. She then put my face under some harsh lights to get a better look.
If you're skimming, here's where it gets nasty.
This bitch, in her thick as Natasha Fatale accent said with an equally thick tone of disgust, "You need to grow your eyebrows out and redo them. They are NOT supposed to look that way." Excuse me? God? Is that you? I can't imagine anyone else being in any other sort of position to tell another human being what the fuck their face is "supposed" to look like. She went on, "Do you shave them?" Um, no. I told her that I usually have them done every few weeks when I get my hair cut. She reiterated, in case I missed her horrible criticism of my face the first time, "They shouldn't be like this. Grow them out and come back. I will fix them for you." My! How fucking gracious of you, bitch! How will I make it through the next few weeks without your precious gift?!?
Of course, this is what I say right now. At the time, I panicked. I have a fancy shmancy work shindig on Saturday. "Is there anything you can do now to fix them temporarily?" She sighed, as if I had asked her bleed a vodka tonic for me, "Well, you really should grow them out. They are uneven here and short there..." I told her that I had something going on for Saturday night and she eased, "Well, I can see what I can do. Maybe." I guess this was going to be a really big challenge for her.
As if my eyebrows weren't a crisis enough for this woman, she put on rubber gloves and preceded to squeeze and pop every microscopic bump that was on my face. She was popping the wrinkles in my fucking forehead. And it hurt! Badly! She kept squeezing my nose and I struggled to breathe through my unusually small nostrils (a feature that I have because I never picked my nose as a child). Between the physical pain and the emotional sting, I began to cry when she had completed the first half of my face. "Are you ok?" She asked. I couldn't respond. She asked again. With a cracked voice, I told her I was fine. "I will stop if you do not want me to continue," she said sounding exactly like Uncle Junior's one legged housekeeper. Well, what the fuck am I supposed to say? "Please stop and only do half of my face so that I'm uneven and look like Juliet Lewis's character in The Other Sister after her make over?" I told her to continue. "If only you could see what I am doing right now." Great. That made me feel even better. Just call me Chrissy Pus Face.
Then she asked for my hand. She took my finger and thumb, placing a tiny ball of pus between them, much like you would feel if you ever popped a zit. "This is what I am removing from your face." Great. Now my face makes me want to puke. I can only imagine what the rest of the world thinks. I continued to cry.
"How often do you get facial?" Nureyev in a skirt asked. When I told her this was my first one, she shrugged and nodded as if I was less than human.
"You want me to fix your eyebrows, but the wax is also going to hurt," she warned. This really pissed me off. I told her earlier that I usually did wax my eyebrows and here she was speaking to me as if I had never done it before. I reminded her of this. I continued to cry. "I just feel really ugly," I said. She then proceeded to tell me that this was nothing personal (no shit, bitch. I'm an awesome person...I just look like Quasimodo, apparently) and that she was giving me her professional opinion. She said that there was nothing wrong with my skin and that after being in this line of work for 20 plus years she has seen just about everything. You would think that after 20 plus years of experience, she would have a better bedside manner. But who am I to expect service with a smile? I'm just another ugly face.
And did you notice how she didn't tell me that I *wasn't* ugly?
She handed me a mirror so that she could show me exactly what was wrong with my face, but I told her that I felt so ugly after the way she spoke to me that I really couldn't even stand to look at myself. When she finally did wax my brows, it not only hurt less than the squeezing and popping of my crater face, but it also hurt less than when my hairdresser does it.
She continued with the facial, bringing out a buffering machine, "I am about to bring out machine. I must ask you at this time if you are pregnant." I'm sure she has to ask this of everyone, but while we're at it, why not just remind me that I'm fat, too?
I told her that I'm not pregnant. She buffed my face. When she finished, I asked why the machine could not be used on pregnant women. "They told us we are not to use the machine on pregnant women." Ooooookay. But why? I pressed further, but she just repeated herself. So I guess the reason is that she is just following orders, much like the Nazis did when they killed her people. What a shame that they missed her lineage...
I kept these thoughts to myself for the rest of the time, however. She had chemicals and sharp objects. And I'm fairly certain that a person of her position and intelligence might not be aware that the Cold War is over. So I remained uncharacteristically polite. When she offered me a glass of water, I responded with a meek and defeated, "Yes, please." She gave me some samples and reiterated that she was not trying to demean me, rather just give me her professional opinion. She pulled a hand held mirror out of a drawer and asked if I would like to look at how much better I look now that she fixed my face. I declined. She left the room so I could get dressed and then walked me to the counter as if I would storm out without paying.
When the sweet and perky blond behind the reception desk asked me how everything was I responded with an "Okay."
"Just ok?"
"Yes."
"Is there anything we can -"
"No," I said firmly, but not meanly. I really have no desire to ever return to that place, regardless of how great my other experiences were there and especially since they just opened a medi-spa within walking distance of my house. I paid my bill but didn't tip. The money that I planned to use for the tip will be going towards years' worth of therapy. I walked out with my head down and hair in my face while everyone behind the counter stared at me like I was as ugly of a circus freak as I felt.
When you are in a business like a medi-spa, you are selling the experience. People want to walk out of there with their heads held high, feeling stunning and beautiful. I couldn't feel anything further from that right now. And I can't stop crying. I know this whole thing sounds so annoyingly self absorbed and overly sensitive. And clearly most of you look at me on a regular basis so you've been well aware of my hideousness for so long that I'm sure what she told me is no surprise to any of you. I've never felt like an attractive person in the first place, but at least I've felt fairly confident over the last few years. Now all of that is shattered as well.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
There's no place like Hell for the holidays
Here are a few reasons why I have earned my one way, all-inclusive package deal to hell this holiday season.
I've redefined the true meaning of Christmas - A certain unnamed subscriber to this blog writes:
"Well, I am just about done with the shopping, and I am already over $1,000 in. I really hate this season... that money could have gotten me the guitar I wanted and the amp to go with it."
Some people might view this statement in a somewhat selfish light. Yes, I've devoted my hard earned cash to my loved ones, but what about ME? Then I got to thinking that we're always told that Jesus is the reason for the season. And really, what could be more Christ-like than the statement above? Jesus is always frontin' like, "Worship ME!" "Follow ME!" "*I'M* God's gift." "*I'M* the reason for the season." "It's MY birthday and YOU should be celebrating it." Yeah sure, Christ was a giver of light and all that shit, but when you think of it, it takes one hell of an ego to expect people to worship you for 2000 years. That in itself is a whole other point. We even measure our time based in when this guy was born. Talk about it being all about him. Does he really need me to be in church? I mean, the core concept of time itself is devoted to him.
Did I mention you're all going to hell with me just for reading this?
You all should just eat my balls - It has been well established that my skills in the kitchen are not quite that of Donna Reed's. Oh hell, they're really not even that of Donna Martin's and I'm fairly certain that rich bitch had a cook. But one thing that I am fairly confident in is my ability to make a holiday treat called Oreo Balls. For those of you not in the know, here is the recipe (a holiday gift for my supportive readers):
One package Double Stuff Oreos
One block cream cheese (8 oz), softened
One package chocolate melting chips (or 1 and 1/2 cups of dipping chocolate)
1/4 cup colored chips to decorate (white chips with a drop or two of food coloring work, too...just be careful not to add too much coloring or the chocolate gets too gummy)
Crush the Oreos until they are finely ground (the easiest way is with a food processor). Add cream cheese and process until well blended (it should have the consistency of paste). Roll into balls. Place on a cookie sheet lined with wax paper and refrigerate for one hour. Melt chips on stove or in microwave according to package directions. Using a spoon, roll ball in melted chocolate and return to cookie sheet. Melt the colored chips and drizzle over the balls for decoration. When you have finished dipping and decorating all the balls, refrigerate again until chocolate hardens. Store in an airtight container in the fridge.
I love making these (although, I hate cleaning up the mess created on the breakfast bar when I'm finished). They're extremely rich, possibly the one thing on the planet that is too rich for me. I usually put them in Gladware and take them to the offices that I visit throughout the month of December.
But here is my secret: I only do this because I get a sick satisfaction in being able to tell my coworkers, "Please! Eat my balls!" Lord knows I want to say this to people on a daily basis. This is the one time of year that I can get away with it and they think I'm playing nice.
December 21st is now a holiday all of its own - Based on the fact that about 90% of the people that I spoke with today were total fucking assholes, I declared December 21st "Dickmas." From the jerk off customer who has decided that I should not be calling him about the large sum of cash he has owed me for the last five months to the douchebag who believes that the fact that we're about to sue him somehow excludes him from paying the interest that has accrued on his account since August, people have just been total tools. From the dickwads in traffic by the shopping areas to the unappreciative twat waffles that were insensitive and thoughtless (just trust me...it would be a whole other blog in itself) so close to the holidays, I just had enough of people.
And speaking of annoying people, where the fuck do they all crawl out of at holiday time? Where do they all come from? I'm fairly certain this is the only time they ever leave their houses because they don't know how to drive, don't know how to be polite and they certainly don't know how to control their kids (yeah yeah, I know, "Wait until your demon seed rears its ugly head." You know me. My children will be afraid to speak until they are at least 21. I'm a scary bitch to most adults. Even sorority sisters think I'm mean. And if my menacing looks and disgruntled disposition do not scare a child into submission, there is always duct tape and leashes...possibly left over from their conception ).
This leads me to an unintended reason for going to hell.
I totally snark on your children behind your back - Nothing is more entertaining during the holiday season than the Christmas cards I receive with family pictures. Although some children are extremely adorable, there are certain ones who are well, not so much. A certain family from a southern state sends us pictures every year of their inbred looking children and I swear they look like engagement portraits. Other people have babies that are so ugly that I question if they threw out the wrong end of the cord. I'm certainly not referring to any of my friends on Myspace or any other frequent viewers of this blog. My Myspace friends only have attractive children.
Not only am I going to hell, but if my future children ever come into existence, they will be "breathtaking." I fully recognize that Karma is a bitch and you will be more than welcome to tell me if my baby is ugly. I will probably deserve it.
All I want for Christmas is a stocking full of Xanax - There are about a zillion self help books out there that will tell you that anger and hostility are just some manifestation of sadness. Now that I'm finished offending all of you, I will admit this is true. (Incidentally, self help books make for lousy Christmas presents. This should go without saying, but a coworker of mine just received one from her boss).
For those of you who don't know, my best friend died in a car accident on Christmas Eve in 2001 at the age of 26. The season is always very bittersweet for me because she loved Christmas so much. And at any minute from November 26th (her birthday) until December 24th, I could have a horrid breakdown and cry at the smallest thing (like a goofy fiber optic Christmas tree, for example...she didn't have room in the apartment for a real tree, so she bought this trippy tacky thing that changed colors and put it on the kitchen table...we would stare at if for like, minutes. ). I keep busy to distract myself. I go to parties. I surround myself with friends. I work like crazy. I get silly drunk and sleep on total strangers couches in weird towns. But at some point every year I find myself slumped over and sobbing uncontrollably.
I know some people reading this care about me to the point where they will want to stop me from doing that. Please don't. I want my time. Just let me have it. Let me be. Don't even acknowledge it. I didn't cry very much when it happened because I was in such shock. And all I could think about at the time was how my plan was to blow her off on Christmas Eve. This was because we were going to exchange gifts that night and hers had not come in as I had won it in an Ebay auction that did not end in time for the shipment to arrive before Christmas (It was an out of print CD that she had been looking for for years. I mean, we even searched for this thing in other countries and couldn't find it. It figures I'd finally find it and she'd never be able to enjoy it). Now I'm ok with just taking the time to be sad for a little while. I will bounce back. It's all good. I think this is how she would have wanted it. She was never much for other peoples' problems. She'd usually just tell them, "Cope," when they'd whine and ramble. But she'd also be pretty pissed if I wasn't at least a little sad. I'll always miss her and will never forget what a good friend she was to me. Rest in peace, my friend.
Love and appreciate those who surround you (except for the asshole strangers that cut you off in traffic or waste your time in store lines when they ask for price checks...fuck those people). And take the time to let them know how you feel about them this holiday season. You may not always have the opportunity to do so.
Merry Christmas/Festivus/Kwanza/Insert whateverthefuckyoupoliticallycorrecthippydipshitscelebratethistimeofyear!
Eat my balls!
I've redefined the true meaning of Christmas - A certain unnamed subscriber to this blog writes:
"Well, I am just about done with the shopping, and I am already over $1,000 in. I really hate this season... that money could have gotten me the guitar I wanted and the amp to go with it."
Some people might view this statement in a somewhat selfish light. Yes, I've devoted my hard earned cash to my loved ones, but what about ME? Then I got to thinking that we're always told that Jesus is the reason for the season. And really, what could be more Christ-like than the statement above? Jesus is always frontin' like, "Worship ME!" "Follow ME!" "*I'M* God's gift." "*I'M* the reason for the season." "It's MY birthday and YOU should be celebrating it." Yeah sure, Christ was a giver of light and all that shit, but when you think of it, it takes one hell of an ego to expect people to worship you for 2000 years. That in itself is a whole other point. We even measure our time based in when this guy was born. Talk about it being all about him. Does he really need me to be in church? I mean, the core concept of time itself is devoted to him.
Did I mention you're all going to hell with me just for reading this?
You all should just eat my balls - It has been well established that my skills in the kitchen are not quite that of Donna Reed's. Oh hell, they're really not even that of Donna Martin's and I'm fairly certain that rich bitch had a cook. But one thing that I am fairly confident in is my ability to make a holiday treat called Oreo Balls. For those of you not in the know, here is the recipe (a holiday gift for my supportive readers):
One package Double Stuff Oreos
One block cream cheese (8 oz), softened
One package chocolate melting chips (or 1 and 1/2 cups of dipping chocolate)
1/4 cup colored chips to decorate (white chips with a drop or two of food coloring work, too...just be careful not to add too much coloring or the chocolate gets too gummy)
Crush the Oreos until they are finely ground (the easiest way is with a food processor). Add cream cheese and process until well blended (it should have the consistency of paste). Roll into balls. Place on a cookie sheet lined with wax paper and refrigerate for one hour. Melt chips on stove or in microwave according to package directions. Using a spoon, roll ball in melted chocolate and return to cookie sheet. Melt the colored chips and drizzle over the balls for decoration. When you have finished dipping and decorating all the balls, refrigerate again until chocolate hardens. Store in an airtight container in the fridge.
I love making these (although, I hate cleaning up the mess created on the breakfast bar when I'm finished). They're extremely rich, possibly the one thing on the planet that is too rich for me. I usually put them in Gladware and take them to the offices that I visit throughout the month of December.
But here is my secret: I only do this because I get a sick satisfaction in being able to tell my coworkers, "Please! Eat my balls!" Lord knows I want to say this to people on a daily basis. This is the one time of year that I can get away with it and they think I'm playing nice.
December 21st is now a holiday all of its own - Based on the fact that about 90% of the people that I spoke with today were total fucking assholes, I declared December 21st "Dickmas." From the jerk off customer who has decided that I should not be calling him about the large sum of cash he has owed me for the last five months to the douchebag who believes that the fact that we're about to sue him somehow excludes him from paying the interest that has accrued on his account since August, people have just been total tools. From the dickwads in traffic by the shopping areas to the unappreciative twat waffles that were insensitive and thoughtless (just trust me...it would be a whole other blog in itself) so close to the holidays, I just had enough of people.
And speaking of annoying people, where the fuck do they all crawl out of at holiday time? Where do they all come from? I'm fairly certain this is the only time they ever leave their houses because they don't know how to drive, don't know how to be polite and they certainly don't know how to control their kids (yeah yeah, I know, "Wait until your demon seed rears its ugly head." You know me. My children will be afraid to speak until they are at least 21. I'm a scary bitch to most adults. Even sorority sisters think I'm mean. And if my menacing looks and disgruntled disposition do not scare a child into submission, there is always duct tape and leashes...possibly left over from their conception ).
This leads me to an unintended reason for going to hell.
I totally snark on your children behind your back - Nothing is more entertaining during the holiday season than the Christmas cards I receive with family pictures. Although some children are extremely adorable, there are certain ones who are well, not so much. A certain family from a southern state sends us pictures every year of their inbred looking children and I swear they look like engagement portraits. Other people have babies that are so ugly that I question if they threw out the wrong end of the cord. I'm certainly not referring to any of my friends on Myspace or any other frequent viewers of this blog. My Myspace friends only have attractive children.
Not only am I going to hell, but if my future children ever come into existence, they will be "breathtaking." I fully recognize that Karma is a bitch and you will be more than welcome to tell me if my baby is ugly. I will probably deserve it.
All I want for Christmas is a stocking full of Xanax - There are about a zillion self help books out there that will tell you that anger and hostility are just some manifestation of sadness. Now that I'm finished offending all of you, I will admit this is true. (Incidentally, self help books make for lousy Christmas presents. This should go without saying, but a coworker of mine just received one from her boss).
For those of you who don't know, my best friend died in a car accident on Christmas Eve in 2001 at the age of 26. The season is always very bittersweet for me because she loved Christmas so much. And at any minute from November 26th (her birthday) until December 24th, I could have a horrid breakdown and cry at the smallest thing (like a goofy fiber optic Christmas tree, for example...she didn't have room in the apartment for a real tree, so she bought this trippy tacky thing that changed colors and put it on the kitchen table...we would stare at if for like, minutes. ). I keep busy to distract myself. I go to parties. I surround myself with friends. I work like crazy. I get silly drunk and sleep on total strangers couches in weird towns. But at some point every year I find myself slumped over and sobbing uncontrollably.
I know some people reading this care about me to the point where they will want to stop me from doing that. Please don't. I want my time. Just let me have it. Let me be. Don't even acknowledge it. I didn't cry very much when it happened because I was in such shock. And all I could think about at the time was how my plan was to blow her off on Christmas Eve. This was because we were going to exchange gifts that night and hers had not come in as I had won it in an Ebay auction that did not end in time for the shipment to arrive before Christmas (It was an out of print CD that she had been looking for for years. I mean, we even searched for this thing in other countries and couldn't find it. It figures I'd finally find it and she'd never be able to enjoy it). Now I'm ok with just taking the time to be sad for a little while. I will bounce back. It's all good. I think this is how she would have wanted it. She was never much for other peoples' problems. She'd usually just tell them, "Cope," when they'd whine and ramble. But she'd also be pretty pissed if I wasn't at least a little sad. I'll always miss her and will never forget what a good friend she was to me. Rest in peace, my friend.
Love and appreciate those who surround you (except for the asshole strangers that cut you off in traffic or waste your time in store lines when they ask for price checks...fuck those people). And take the time to let them know how you feel about them this holiday season. You may not always have the opportunity to do so.
Merry Christmas/Festivus/Kwanza/Insert whateverthefuckyoupoliticallycorrecthippydipshitscelebratethistimeofyear!
Eat my balls!
Monday, August 13, 2007
My Weekend or Lesson Learned: Never Touch a Pussy Unless You Know Where It Has Been
The weekend started out swimmingly.
Paul and I met with Nicole and one of her friends for a quick dinner and drinks at Malibooz before the Dropkick Murphys show. Although they did not have the bite sized pierogies in old bay seasoning, the crab fries and pints of Magic Hat Circus Boy were fantastic.
We headed to the Silo, a nearby club, which was already packed. We paced around the upstairs before heading back downstairs and settling on a spot near the soundboard. There were two opening bands, whose names now escape me. One was of the typical punk variety. The other was reggae. Nicole and I had a discussion on the intermingling of punk and reggae between acts. Then the Dropkick Murphys came on.
They rocked. It was very hot. Sometime around their rendition of "No Nay Never" we moved back by the merchandise table. I bought a shirt from an angry guy working the table (Free advice, dude: If you hate your job that fucking much, quit!) and ended up exchanging it twice because the size never seemed right. I was obsessing and fixing during this whole thing and wasn't able to fully enjoy "Kiss Me I'm Shitfaced," most of the reason why I was there to begin with.
I remained fairly sober that night. The next day, I was to meet up with my sisters and my brother in law for a hot air balloon ride. I was afraid of getting sick, so I took it easy. So, in a turn of events, Paul got very drunk for a change.
We got home. The shirt didn't fit. I went to bed angry.
Three hours later, I woke up to get ready for the balloon ride. My stomach was a little queasy, but I was really excited about the ride. I pushed through. I grabbed a granola bar and a bottle of water and headed out the door. I rocked out to some excellent songs on the radio (Who knew that the radio was that good at 4:30 am? The last time I listened to the radio at that hour was when Steve What's His Face worked at the Pottsville station and played something like 26 or 27 U2 songs during his four hour shift). I was in good spirits.
I followed my sister's vague instructions on where to meet on LCCC's campus, but couldn't figure out exactly where I was supposed to go because I was the first one there. I drove around until I found my sister and followed her, to where we were supposed to meet, dodging herds of deer on LCCC's campus, talking to maintenance men. Finally, we sat and waited, figuring that we could just let the balloon people find us. My sisters joked (ok, maybe not, but I'm going to tell myself they were joking) about being afraid of being with me up in the balloon. After telling us stories of how she traumatized her daughter, Lori convinced me to put my medical card in my pocket, just in case.
The balloon people showed up, set up and we all jammed in. We were hoping for a sunrise sail, but due to clouds, this was not as striking as it could have been. However, the clouds made it no less beautiful and being up in the air over 15,000 feet was breathtaking.
We came down lower and cruised over trees and houses. Bart, our pilot from Air Escapes Ballooning warned us to watch what we say because the balloon serves as a gigantic amphitheater and the people on the ground would be able to hear us. As we flew above a dumpy looking house, a lady with curlers in her hair came out and snapped our picture. "What a beautiful sight!" she yelled to us.
"Wish we could say the same," Bart said. So much for watching your mouth. Overall, Bart and the rest of the staff, including his wife Toni were extremely nice and funny. They really made the trip extremely enjoyable.
My sister Lori looked down at the outside of the basket and mentioned that it looked a like it had a few rough spots. This was not the time or place to bring this up. We landed and hand to help drag the balloon down. Lori just followed along. "I didn't pay to do manual labor," she said later. That's our girl.
As they packed up the balloon, Toni set up a table and gave Karen a cake for her birthday. She brought out a cooler with a bottle of champagne and realized that she didn't bring any orange juice. My sisters and I convinced her that that was quite all right and mimosas were for sissies. We drank the champagne straight up with our cake at the ripe ol' hour of seven AM.
As the chase vehicle drove us back to the take off site, we joked about cats, Chinese food and astrology. I had a nice, warm fuzzy feeling. I would highly recommend ballooning with this company to anyone who is interested. This was one of the best days ever and it wasn't even eight AM.
Or so I thought.
We said our good-byes to the nice ballooning people. As I exited the campus and turned onto the highway, I saw a kitten in the middle of the road, limping on only two or three of its legs. I stopped in the middle of the road, clearly unable to move. It was at this moment that I decided to have a conscience. I couldn't just let the poor thing get hit by a car. My vet wasn't too far away. I thought maybe I could get it into the car and take it to them.
I pulled my car over and approached the kitten. At first it tried to run, but made it only to the other side of the road. I watched in horror as it was almost hit by a bus. When the road was clear, I went to it again and picked it up. It bit me, hard. I screamed "Fucking thing!" and dropped it. It ran a little more. I was bleeding and started to freak a little. I ran to my car and rinsed my hand with my water bottle.
I called Paul and asked him to call the doctor. They couldn't take me and suggested I visit the ER. As I pulled off, I could still see traffic trying to avoid the kitten, which was now going into convulsions in the middle of the road.
I actually debated going to the emergency room while I stopped off and picked up breakfast for Paul. Was it really worth the pain in the ass? They'd probably have to treat me for rabies and really what are the odds that the cat had rabies? Paul read the symptoms of rabies to me: Irritability (how would we know?), fever, blindness, coma, death. I guess it was a pretty big risk. So I sought wise advice from my dad. He freaked, especially because of the kitten's convulsions and told me to go to the hospital right away. My sister Karen also called after speaking with him and suggested going to my doctor. They'd probably just prescribe and antibiotic. No big deal.
Of course, I was already driving to the ER by the time she said that. I wandered in, told everyone how ridiculous I felt being there for a silly cat bite, but was assured that I was better safe than sorry. I checked in, answered a bunch of questions and sat in a hospital room for about an hour watching E! News when the nurse practitioner told me that they would be giving me rabies shots. Great. And since my last tetanus shot was in 1994, I better get one of those, too. Extra great.
What he didn't mention was that the rabies series would consist of four shots in the ass. Owie! I started bleeding after one of them. The nurse cleaned my blood off the floor using a Clorox wipe and no rubber gloves. Then I had one in the arm in addition to the tetanus shot. I was told that my arm would be sore from the tetanus shot, but nothing felt worse than my ass. I couldn't sit. I ended up sleeping for most of the weekend. All other plans were cancelled.
And I will have to go back for four additional shots in the arm. One of which is tomorrow. I better get to bed. This sucks
Paul and I met with Nicole and one of her friends for a quick dinner and drinks at Malibooz before the Dropkick Murphys show. Although they did not have the bite sized pierogies in old bay seasoning, the crab fries and pints of Magic Hat Circus Boy were fantastic.
We headed to the Silo, a nearby club, which was already packed. We paced around the upstairs before heading back downstairs and settling on a spot near the soundboard. There were two opening bands, whose names now escape me. One was of the typical punk variety. The other was reggae. Nicole and I had a discussion on the intermingling of punk and reggae between acts. Then the Dropkick Murphys came on.
They rocked. It was very hot. Sometime around their rendition of "No Nay Never" we moved back by the merchandise table. I bought a shirt from an angry guy working the table (Free advice, dude: If you hate your job that fucking much, quit!) and ended up exchanging it twice because the size never seemed right. I was obsessing and fixing during this whole thing and wasn't able to fully enjoy "Kiss Me I'm Shitfaced," most of the reason why I was there to begin with.
I remained fairly sober that night. The next day, I was to meet up with my sisters and my brother in law for a hot air balloon ride. I was afraid of getting sick, so I took it easy. So, in a turn of events, Paul got very drunk for a change.
We got home. The shirt didn't fit. I went to bed angry.
Three hours later, I woke up to get ready for the balloon ride. My stomach was a little queasy, but I was really excited about the ride. I pushed through. I grabbed a granola bar and a bottle of water and headed out the door. I rocked out to some excellent songs on the radio (Who knew that the radio was that good at 4:30 am? The last time I listened to the radio at that hour was when Steve What's His Face worked at the Pottsville station and played something like 26 or 27 U2 songs during his four hour shift). I was in good spirits.
I followed my sister's vague instructions on where to meet on LCCC's campus, but couldn't figure out exactly where I was supposed to go because I was the first one there. I drove around until I found my sister and followed her, to where we were supposed to meet, dodging herds of deer on LCCC's campus, talking to maintenance men. Finally, we sat and waited, figuring that we could just let the balloon people find us. My sisters joked (ok, maybe not, but I'm going to tell myself they were joking) about being afraid of being with me up in the balloon. After telling us stories of how she traumatized her daughter, Lori convinced me to put my medical card in my pocket, just in case.
The balloon people showed up, set up and we all jammed in. We were hoping for a sunrise sail, but due to clouds, this was not as striking as it could have been. However, the clouds made it no less beautiful and being up in the air over 15,000 feet was breathtaking.
We came down lower and cruised over trees and houses. Bart, our pilot from Air Escapes Ballooning warned us to watch what we say because the balloon serves as a gigantic amphitheater and the people on the ground would be able to hear us. As we flew above a dumpy looking house, a lady with curlers in her hair came out and snapped our picture. "What a beautiful sight!" she yelled to us.
"Wish we could say the same," Bart said. So much for watching your mouth. Overall, Bart and the rest of the staff, including his wife Toni were extremely nice and funny. They really made the trip extremely enjoyable.
My sister Lori looked down at the outside of the basket and mentioned that it looked a like it had a few rough spots. This was not the time or place to bring this up. We landed and hand to help drag the balloon down. Lori just followed along. "I didn't pay to do manual labor," she said later. That's our girl.
As they packed up the balloon, Toni set up a table and gave Karen a cake for her birthday. She brought out a cooler with a bottle of champagne and realized that she didn't bring any orange juice. My sisters and I convinced her that that was quite all right and mimosas were for sissies. We drank the champagne straight up with our cake at the ripe ol' hour of seven AM.
As the chase vehicle drove us back to the take off site, we joked about cats, Chinese food and astrology. I had a nice, warm fuzzy feeling. I would highly recommend ballooning with this company to anyone who is interested. This was one of the best days ever and it wasn't even eight AM.
Or so I thought.
We said our good-byes to the nice ballooning people. As I exited the campus and turned onto the highway, I saw a kitten in the middle of the road, limping on only two or three of its legs. I stopped in the middle of the road, clearly unable to move. It was at this moment that I decided to have a conscience. I couldn't just let the poor thing get hit by a car. My vet wasn't too far away. I thought maybe I could get it into the car and take it to them.
I pulled my car over and approached the kitten. At first it tried to run, but made it only to the other side of the road. I watched in horror as it was almost hit by a bus. When the road was clear, I went to it again and picked it up. It bit me, hard. I screamed "Fucking thing!" and dropped it. It ran a little more. I was bleeding and started to freak a little. I ran to my car and rinsed my hand with my water bottle.
I called Paul and asked him to call the doctor. They couldn't take me and suggested I visit the ER. As I pulled off, I could still see traffic trying to avoid the kitten, which was now going into convulsions in the middle of the road.
I actually debated going to the emergency room while I stopped off and picked up breakfast for Paul. Was it really worth the pain in the ass? They'd probably have to treat me for rabies and really what are the odds that the cat had rabies? Paul read the symptoms of rabies to me: Irritability (how would we know?), fever, blindness, coma, death. I guess it was a pretty big risk. So I sought wise advice from my dad. He freaked, especially because of the kitten's convulsions and told me to go to the hospital right away. My sister Karen also called after speaking with him and suggested going to my doctor. They'd probably just prescribe and antibiotic. No big deal.
Of course, I was already driving to the ER by the time she said that. I wandered in, told everyone how ridiculous I felt being there for a silly cat bite, but was assured that I was better safe than sorry. I checked in, answered a bunch of questions and sat in a hospital room for about an hour watching E! News when the nurse practitioner told me that they would be giving me rabies shots. Great. And since my last tetanus shot was in 1994, I better get one of those, too. Extra great.
What he didn't mention was that the rabies series would consist of four shots in the ass. Owie! I started bleeding after one of them. The nurse cleaned my blood off the floor using a Clorox wipe and no rubber gloves. Then I had one in the arm in addition to the tetanus shot. I was told that my arm would be sore from the tetanus shot, but nothing felt worse than my ass. I couldn't sit. I ended up sleeping for most of the weekend. All other plans were cancelled.
And I will have to go back for four additional shots in the arm. One of which is tomorrow. I better get to bed. This sucks
Sunday, July 22, 2007
TAGGED!!
Here are the rules:
Post eight random facts about yourself.
At the end of your blog, tag eight friends to do the same. Don't forget to leave messages for them that they've been tagged in the comments sections on their pages.
NO TAG BACKS!!
Facts must be posted in your blog.
1. I remember things from when I was two. On my second birthday, my Nana and Pap Pap gave me a set of play dishes that I threw on the floor. Later, Pap Pap and I played with the dishes and I pretended to make corn. Pap Pap told me it was very good. He died shortly after that. No one told me until I was five when I finally got around to asking where he was.
2. I am insanely obsessed with music. Yet, I don't have an ounce of musical talent. I was forced to take piano lessons from third to twelfth grades and I hated them so much. After nine years of the suffering through, I can barely read the bass clef. And I'm fairly certain that if someone put sheet music in front of me, I'd have no clue what I was looking at.
3. I put too much faith in astrology. And I judge people by their signs. I'm always leery of Aries folks because they have horrid tempers. I'm forgiving of the Taurus friends for being superficial and vain sometimes. I think wide eyed and pure Virgos are cute. And I befriend every Sagittarius that I meet because we hang out well together.
4. If I don't have something to look forward to, I get extremely depressed. I have to always have something exciting (trips, concerts, visits) planned in the not too distant future or I feel like my life is boring.
5. I've been to 49 of the 50 states. I will be going to number 50 (Alaska) in August.
6. I work hard, but sometimes I think it's just better to rely on luck. When I work really hard and don't obtain the desired result, it's heartbreaking. When I "luck out" when something happens, I'm elated. It's a rush. I think that as long as you make the right decisions, think things through and never lose your sense of survival, you can get anywhere or do anything you want. That's not necessarily hard work. It's just having a good head about things.
7. I have an awful fear of snakes. I can't even look at them on television. I get tense. My heart beats faster. I feel a lot of anxiety. They don't have legs. They shouldn't be able to move.
8. I'm what the marketing types refer to as an "experiencer." The other night at dinner, someone asked the question that if you were offered a trip to the moon, would you take it? I quickly answered that I would. The other six people at the table said they wouldn't and looked at me like I was nuts.
We only get one life and at any second it can be taken away. That's why it's important to be doing exactly what you want to be doing at every single moment. Time should never be wasted.
And now, my victims!
1. Paul
2. Gina
3. Jam
4. Chris
5. Nicky
6. Brad
7. Candice
8. Jody
Get posting, bitches!
Post eight random facts about yourself.
At the end of your blog, tag eight friends to do the same. Don't forget to leave messages for them that they've been tagged in the comments sections on their pages.
NO TAG BACKS!!
Facts must be posted in your blog.
1. I remember things from when I was two. On my second birthday, my Nana and Pap Pap gave me a set of play dishes that I threw on the floor. Later, Pap Pap and I played with the dishes and I pretended to make corn. Pap Pap told me it was very good. He died shortly after that. No one told me until I was five when I finally got around to asking where he was.
2. I am insanely obsessed with music. Yet, I don't have an ounce of musical talent. I was forced to take piano lessons from third to twelfth grades and I hated them so much. After nine years of the suffering through, I can barely read the bass clef. And I'm fairly certain that if someone put sheet music in front of me, I'd have no clue what I was looking at.
3. I put too much faith in astrology. And I judge people by their signs. I'm always leery of Aries folks because they have horrid tempers. I'm forgiving of the Taurus friends for being superficial and vain sometimes. I think wide eyed and pure Virgos are cute. And I befriend every Sagittarius that I meet because we hang out well together.
4. If I don't have something to look forward to, I get extremely depressed. I have to always have something exciting (trips, concerts, visits) planned in the not too distant future or I feel like my life is boring.
5. I've been to 49 of the 50 states. I will be going to number 50 (Alaska) in August.
6. I work hard, but sometimes I think it's just better to rely on luck. When I work really hard and don't obtain the desired result, it's heartbreaking. When I "luck out" when something happens, I'm elated. It's a rush. I think that as long as you make the right decisions, think things through and never lose your sense of survival, you can get anywhere or do anything you want. That's not necessarily hard work. It's just having a good head about things.
7. I have an awful fear of snakes. I can't even look at them on television. I get tense. My heart beats faster. I feel a lot of anxiety. They don't have legs. They shouldn't be able to move.
8. I'm what the marketing types refer to as an "experiencer." The other night at dinner, someone asked the question that if you were offered a trip to the moon, would you take it? I quickly answered that I would. The other six people at the table said they wouldn't and looked at me like I was nuts.
We only get one life and at any second it can be taken away. That's why it's important to be doing exactly what you want to be doing at every single moment. Time should never be wasted.
And now, my victims!
1. Paul
2. Gina
3. Jam
4. Chris
5. Nicky
6. Brad
7. Candice
8. Jody
Get posting, bitches!
Monday, July 9, 2007
Waiting On the World to Change...Live Earth 07-07-07
There's a fine line between hypocrisy and irony.
My initial thoughts on a concert to save the world immediately went to the massive amount of waste that a large group of people in one place at one time tend to create - tons of garbage, disgusting bathrooms by the end of the night, not to mention all the fuel consumed to get all of these people in said place at said time.
And don't even get me started on the fact that such an event would take place in New Jersey of all places.
But since I bought a ticket and chose to attend (did you see me on TV? I was the one in the Sonic Youth t-shirt ), I'm going brush aside the thoughts of "hypocrisy" and just say it's a touch ironic. I went for the music. If it just so happened that I learned something in the whole process, no harm, no foul.
Paul and I watched some of the coverage from other countries while we were getting ready to leave for Giants Stadium where the US leg of the show was to be held. We got to the show without incident only to discover that we had been assigned parking areas once we got there. I breathed a sigh of relief that I grabbed the entire ticket envelope rather than just the tickets, as I had considered. We were directed to the "blue" lot, paid our $20 parking fee (ouch!) and made our way to the little booths outside the gates.
On our way to the gate, we were accosted by a hippy dippy chick who first asked, "Hey, have you ever heard of us?" I looked at her quizzically as she handed me a magazine. "We're from [insert name of whacky organization that I can't remember here] and we publish zines and create art and CD's and we inspire and motivate people through art..." she started babbling on in a very rapid but steady pattern. Then I caught her say, "We all live together in house in West Virginia..." and subliminally "JoinMyCultFundMyCultJoinMyCultFundMyCult." I smiled and told her that I'd check out their website...which I've now forgotten. Damn!
As we got closer to the gate, a guy from the World Wildlife Fund handed me a paper fan. I thanked him and told him I looked forward to throwing it on the ground later. Paul scolded me for being a dick. I drank some raspberry flavored organic milk and bought a t-shirt. We took it back to the car. I forgot the fan there. We went back to the gate and waited.
I was surprised that security was somewhat easy to get through. We considered going to the State Fair, which was also going on in the Meadowlands parking lot. The idea was quickly nixed as we were curious as to where our seats were. I must say they were fan-freakin'-tastic, despite being fairly high up. Our section wasn't too far from the stage and the sun was already casting a shadow on us, meaning that we wouldn't burn in the hot sun for the rest of the afternoon.
We went back to a beer stand and got two Smithwicks because drinking is cool. We settled in and sent text messages to get our names on the screen and get other messages throughout the day regarding the schedule and other environment tips.
Kena was the first act. I had no clue who they were, but I quickly figured out they had a song on a Vorizon commercial or something. He sang three songs before the stage rotated for the next artist to come out. Holy efficiency, Batman! They were able to keep that thing moving by setting up for the next act from backstage and then rotating that part out. In between acts, we were treated to clips from shows elsewhere in the world, short films on saving the environment and some speakers among the likes of Jane Goodall (who greeted us with actual monkey noises), Al Gore and Robert F. Kennedy Jr.
KT Tunstall came out next and told us all we should "eat more soil." I'm fairly certain she meant soy, but she definitely said soil. Thanks, KT. It's not like I don't already have a dirty mouth. I looked up and saw a plane flying overhead with a banner that said "Don't Believe Al Gore! Demanddebate.com." Some goofy people came and sat directly in front of us. More on them later.
Taking Back Sunday was next. I always wanted to see them. Although I was disappointed that they didn't play "A Decade Under the Influence," I was delighted to hear "Make Damn Sure" and "What it Feels Like to be a Ghost." We heard that Keith Urban would be next. I'm not all that into country music, so this seemed like a good time to take a walk and use the facilities.
As I finished washing my hands, I heard the crowd go ape shit. I ran out of the rest room and met up with Paul to see what was going on. Leonardo Di Caprio was introducing Al Gore. "No more going to the bathroom until the shitty artist is actually on the stage!" Paul scolded. Al Gore introduced Keith Urban, who sang "Gimme Shelter" with Alicia Keys, a song that had been played in other countries by other artists throughout the day. Beach balls with globe patterns started flying around the crowd, but they quickly disappeared. I'm sure you can find them on ebay today, if you're interested.
Ludacris came out next. To my surprise, the filthy stoners in front of me were big rap fans. They were two guys with ponytails and a girl with a gigantic ass. One of the pony boys was apparently dating the girl, but you'd never know by the way she acted. Her boyfriend seemed like a bit of a stick in the mud anyway. The other guy and the girl danced to Ludacris and rubbed their asses on the poor guy as he sat there in the middle. Throughout the day, I was treated to little parts of their conversations amongst themselves and others seated around them. Some of the gems include:
"This is the best concert I've ever been to!" I mean, it was good, but the best? Eh.
"Robert F. Kennedy Jr! He's the last living Kennedy, you know!" Uh oh. Someone better call Ted and Caroline...
"Why don't you just smoke here? He's doing it," to the girl sitting next to them who disappeared every now and then. She looked horrified at the suggestion.
"Oh look! It's a clip of Genesis! Do you remember them? They had this video in the early 90's that went [sings] 'I can't dance. I can't sing' and the guy did this robot thing..."
*sigh*
That's the only frame of reference you have for Genesis, you moronic twit!??!?!?!?! Not that I'm a big fan or anything, but I would say that's right around the lowest point of the band's history.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Ludacris finished and AFI was next. The only song they do that I know is "Miss Murder," but I really wanted to see them anyway. Their lead singer is quite charismatic. When they played "Miss Murder" the tool with the ponytail in front of me decided to hold a conversation with the water boy regarding how to get a job and totally blocked my view. Thanks, ass!
Fall Out Boy followed. I love Fall Out Boy. Fuck you for laughing. But much like when we saw them on the Honda Civic tour, the sound sucked. Their sound guy needs to be taken out back and beaten. And I refuse to believe they distort anything to make them sound better. Fall Out Boy owns you, fuckers!
Thank God for Akon, because by now I had to pee again and I was getting kind of hungry. They prefaced his time slot with a lovely video about being a vegetarian (even if everyone just chooses one day in the week to not eat meat, we can all make a difference! ) that featured close ups of animals' assholes with shit coming out of them. I'm sorry that I'm not painting a graphic enough picture for you with my explanation. But fuck them and their messages! This just made me angry because they were trying to gross me out. And when I get angry, I crave meat. When said shitty artist took the stage (meaning Akon), we got up and waited in a long line for chicken fingers. I was in the midst of trying to put bbq sauce on my food when I heard them announce Zach Braff. Why were all the cool presenters coming out while I was away from my seat?
Then it was time for John Mayer. Surely, I'm aware of John Mayer, his music and that he's fairly attractive. I was not prepared however to see exactly how hot he was! Holy fuck! And he could play, too! As he did his guitar solos, he made all these faces. "I wonder if he makes those faces when he's having sex," I wondered aloud.
"You'll never know," Paul reminded me. Thanks, killjoy. Maybe he'll leak a porn tape someday. You don't know.
After the oh so hot man was finished playing, Melissa Ethridge came out and played and talked a lot. There was confetti. I hope it was environmentally safe. Most of what Melissa was saying was very political and I'm curious as to how much of it was aired on American TV. Her music and words had me welling up a bit. They showed the lyrics to her song behind her on the screen.
And while we're on the topic, Phillips was a sponsor of the show. This meant that we were treated to the same message all day about how we can consume less energy by changing just four of our light bulbs at home to one of their super enviro friendly light bulbs. They had eight hours to share other tips with us, but chose to only communicate this veiled advertisement. Remember kids, green does not exclude greed.
Melissa Ethridge introduced Al Gore again who came out to tell us about his seven principles or whatever. Alicia Keys was next. She played "If I Ain't Got You" and I remembered how much I love that song. Some British lady sat in the empty seat next to me and sparked up. She started chatting with some guy about her kids and asked if he had ever heard of the Grateful Dead because she had seen Dave Matthews open for them and mentioned that smoking pot was her favorite thing to do. Another lady came up the aisle wearing a tiara and did a little beauty queen wave at some of her friends. That made me giggle a little.
Dave Matthews played and took his usual six minutes between songs, dragging the whole set out. Kelly Clarkson was next. I love her. Fuck you all again for laughing. Everyone was digging the Kelly. There were a bunch of meat head jocks behind us cheering for her to sing "Since U Been Gone!" Kenye West was next. I took another walk and ate a chocolate chip brownie.
You really haven't lived until you see a stadium full of people in New Jersey watch Bon Jovi play. Cameron "When Paris Hilton suffers, we all suffer" Diaz introduced him and the place went nuts. He was ok, I guess. Bon Jovi is pretty touch and go with me. I either love his songs or hate them.
Smashing Pumpkins came out and rocked hard. I think they may have been my favorite act of the day. It was just getting dark. They were loud and angry on "Bullet with Butterfly Wings." I loved every second, until the last song at least. I've never been a big fan of "Today."
Roger Waters came out with no introduction. He just played. He finished with the Wall. I'm not sure that's the best song to be playing at Live Earth, but whatever. I've never really liked Pink Floyd all that much. The flying pig made its round and with an inscription on its side that said "S.O.S. Save Our Sausages."
This left time for about four songs from the Police. The first, I'm guessing, they wrote for the event. It was ok. From there they went into "Roxanne" and "Can't Stand Losing You" wrapping up with the oh so predictable "Message in a Bottle" with John Mayer on guitar and Kenye West doing some annoying rap in the middle. The show finished round about 10:30 and I must say that I'm pretty excited about going to see the Police later this summer.
We made our way out. The kind folks from Pepsi were handing out cans of their tasty beverage for the ride home. I noticed a lot of garbage on the ground left behind by the crowd, although I will say that there were a lot more recycling bins everywhere and people were a little better about it than at a regular concert. I even saw a few people picking bottles up off the ground and throwing them into the recycling bins. I supported my underground economy by buying another t-shirt. It was green and cooler looking than the officially licensed one. We escaped the parking lot quickly and again without incident.
All in all, it was a fun day and a good concert. I don't know if it will necessarily make a world of difference, but at least I enjoyed my day.
My initial thoughts on a concert to save the world immediately went to the massive amount of waste that a large group of people in one place at one time tend to create - tons of garbage, disgusting bathrooms by the end of the night, not to mention all the fuel consumed to get all of these people in said place at said time.
And don't even get me started on the fact that such an event would take place in New Jersey of all places.
But since I bought a ticket and chose to attend (did you see me on TV? I was the one in the Sonic Youth t-shirt ), I'm going brush aside the thoughts of "hypocrisy" and just say it's a touch ironic. I went for the music. If it just so happened that I learned something in the whole process, no harm, no foul.
Paul and I watched some of the coverage from other countries while we were getting ready to leave for Giants Stadium where the US leg of the show was to be held. We got to the show without incident only to discover that we had been assigned parking areas once we got there. I breathed a sigh of relief that I grabbed the entire ticket envelope rather than just the tickets, as I had considered. We were directed to the "blue" lot, paid our $20 parking fee (ouch!) and made our way to the little booths outside the gates.
On our way to the gate, we were accosted by a hippy dippy chick who first asked, "Hey, have you ever heard of us?" I looked at her quizzically as she handed me a magazine. "We're from [insert name of whacky organization that I can't remember here] and we publish zines and create art and CD's and we inspire and motivate people through art..." she started babbling on in a very rapid but steady pattern. Then I caught her say, "We all live together in house in West Virginia..." and subliminally "JoinMyCultFundMyCultJoinMyCultFundMyCult." I smiled and told her that I'd check out their website...which I've now forgotten. Damn!
As we got closer to the gate, a guy from the World Wildlife Fund handed me a paper fan. I thanked him and told him I looked forward to throwing it on the ground later. Paul scolded me for being a dick. I drank some raspberry flavored organic milk and bought a t-shirt. We took it back to the car. I forgot the fan there. We went back to the gate and waited.
I was surprised that security was somewhat easy to get through. We considered going to the State Fair, which was also going on in the Meadowlands parking lot. The idea was quickly nixed as we were curious as to where our seats were. I must say they were fan-freakin'-tastic, despite being fairly high up. Our section wasn't too far from the stage and the sun was already casting a shadow on us, meaning that we wouldn't burn in the hot sun for the rest of the afternoon.
We went back to a beer stand and got two Smithwicks because drinking is cool. We settled in and sent text messages to get our names on the screen and get other messages throughout the day regarding the schedule and other environment tips.
Kena was the first act. I had no clue who they were, but I quickly figured out they had a song on a Vorizon commercial or something. He sang three songs before the stage rotated for the next artist to come out. Holy efficiency, Batman! They were able to keep that thing moving by setting up for the next act from backstage and then rotating that part out. In between acts, we were treated to clips from shows elsewhere in the world, short films on saving the environment and some speakers among the likes of Jane Goodall (who greeted us with actual monkey noises), Al Gore and Robert F. Kennedy Jr.
KT Tunstall came out next and told us all we should "eat more soil." I'm fairly certain she meant soy, but she definitely said soil. Thanks, KT. It's not like I don't already have a dirty mouth. I looked up and saw a plane flying overhead with a banner that said "Don't Believe Al Gore! Demanddebate.com." Some goofy people came and sat directly in front of us. More on them later.
Taking Back Sunday was next. I always wanted to see them. Although I was disappointed that they didn't play "A Decade Under the Influence," I was delighted to hear "Make Damn Sure" and "What it Feels Like to be a Ghost." We heard that Keith Urban would be next. I'm not all that into country music, so this seemed like a good time to take a walk and use the facilities.
As I finished washing my hands, I heard the crowd go ape shit. I ran out of the rest room and met up with Paul to see what was going on. Leonardo Di Caprio was introducing Al Gore. "No more going to the bathroom until the shitty artist is actually on the stage!" Paul scolded. Al Gore introduced Keith Urban, who sang "Gimme Shelter" with Alicia Keys, a song that had been played in other countries by other artists throughout the day. Beach balls with globe patterns started flying around the crowd, but they quickly disappeared. I'm sure you can find them on ebay today, if you're interested.
Ludacris came out next. To my surprise, the filthy stoners in front of me were big rap fans. They were two guys with ponytails and a girl with a gigantic ass. One of the pony boys was apparently dating the girl, but you'd never know by the way she acted. Her boyfriend seemed like a bit of a stick in the mud anyway. The other guy and the girl danced to Ludacris and rubbed their asses on the poor guy as he sat there in the middle. Throughout the day, I was treated to little parts of their conversations amongst themselves and others seated around them. Some of the gems include:
"This is the best concert I've ever been to!" I mean, it was good, but the best? Eh.
"Robert F. Kennedy Jr! He's the last living Kennedy, you know!" Uh oh. Someone better call Ted and Caroline...
"Why don't you just smoke here? He's doing it," to the girl sitting next to them who disappeared every now and then. She looked horrified at the suggestion.
"Oh look! It's a clip of Genesis! Do you remember them? They had this video in the early 90's that went [sings] 'I can't dance. I can't sing' and the guy did this robot thing..."
*sigh*
That's the only frame of reference you have for Genesis, you moronic twit!??!?!?!?! Not that I'm a big fan or anything, but I would say that's right around the lowest point of the band's history.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Ludacris finished and AFI was next. The only song they do that I know is "Miss Murder," but I really wanted to see them anyway. Their lead singer is quite charismatic. When they played "Miss Murder" the tool with the ponytail in front of me decided to hold a conversation with the water boy regarding how to get a job and totally blocked my view. Thanks, ass!
Fall Out Boy followed. I love Fall Out Boy. Fuck you for laughing. But much like when we saw them on the Honda Civic tour, the sound sucked. Their sound guy needs to be taken out back and beaten. And I refuse to believe they distort anything to make them sound better. Fall Out Boy owns you, fuckers!
Thank God for Akon, because by now I had to pee again and I was getting kind of hungry. They prefaced his time slot with a lovely video about being a vegetarian (even if everyone just chooses one day in the week to not eat meat, we can all make a difference! ) that featured close ups of animals' assholes with shit coming out of them. I'm sorry that I'm not painting a graphic enough picture for you with my explanation. But fuck them and their messages! This just made me angry because they were trying to gross me out. And when I get angry, I crave meat. When said shitty artist took the stage (meaning Akon), we got up and waited in a long line for chicken fingers. I was in the midst of trying to put bbq sauce on my food when I heard them announce Zach Braff. Why were all the cool presenters coming out while I was away from my seat?
Then it was time for John Mayer. Surely, I'm aware of John Mayer, his music and that he's fairly attractive. I was not prepared however to see exactly how hot he was! Holy fuck! And he could play, too! As he did his guitar solos, he made all these faces. "I wonder if he makes those faces when he's having sex," I wondered aloud.
"You'll never know," Paul reminded me. Thanks, killjoy. Maybe he'll leak a porn tape someday. You don't know.
After the oh so hot man was finished playing, Melissa Ethridge came out and played and talked a lot. There was confetti. I hope it was environmentally safe. Most of what Melissa was saying was very political and I'm curious as to how much of it was aired on American TV. Her music and words had me welling up a bit. They showed the lyrics to her song behind her on the screen.
And while we're on the topic, Phillips was a sponsor of the show. This meant that we were treated to the same message all day about how we can consume less energy by changing just four of our light bulbs at home to one of their super enviro friendly light bulbs. They had eight hours to share other tips with us, but chose to only communicate this veiled advertisement. Remember kids, green does not exclude greed.
Melissa Ethridge introduced Al Gore again who came out to tell us about his seven principles or whatever. Alicia Keys was next. She played "If I Ain't Got You" and I remembered how much I love that song. Some British lady sat in the empty seat next to me and sparked up. She started chatting with some guy about her kids and asked if he had ever heard of the Grateful Dead because she had seen Dave Matthews open for them and mentioned that smoking pot was her favorite thing to do. Another lady came up the aisle wearing a tiara and did a little beauty queen wave at some of her friends. That made me giggle a little.
Dave Matthews played and took his usual six minutes between songs, dragging the whole set out. Kelly Clarkson was next. I love her. Fuck you all again for laughing. Everyone was digging the Kelly. There were a bunch of meat head jocks behind us cheering for her to sing "Since U Been Gone!" Kenye West was next. I took another walk and ate a chocolate chip brownie.
You really haven't lived until you see a stadium full of people in New Jersey watch Bon Jovi play. Cameron "When Paris Hilton suffers, we all suffer" Diaz introduced him and the place went nuts. He was ok, I guess. Bon Jovi is pretty touch and go with me. I either love his songs or hate them.
Smashing Pumpkins came out and rocked hard. I think they may have been my favorite act of the day. It was just getting dark. They were loud and angry on "Bullet with Butterfly Wings." I loved every second, until the last song at least. I've never been a big fan of "Today."
Roger Waters came out with no introduction. He just played. He finished with the Wall. I'm not sure that's the best song to be playing at Live Earth, but whatever. I've never really liked Pink Floyd all that much. The flying pig made its round and with an inscription on its side that said "S.O.S. Save Our Sausages."
This left time for about four songs from the Police. The first, I'm guessing, they wrote for the event. It was ok. From there they went into "Roxanne" and "Can't Stand Losing You" wrapping up with the oh so predictable "Message in a Bottle" with John Mayer on guitar and Kenye West doing some annoying rap in the middle. The show finished round about 10:30 and I must say that I'm pretty excited about going to see the Police later this summer.
We made our way out. The kind folks from Pepsi were handing out cans of their tasty beverage for the ride home. I noticed a lot of garbage on the ground left behind by the crowd, although I will say that there were a lot more recycling bins everywhere and people were a little better about it than at a regular concert. I even saw a few people picking bottles up off the ground and throwing them into the recycling bins. I supported my underground economy by buying another t-shirt. It was green and cooler looking than the officially licensed one. We escaped the parking lot quickly and again without incident.
All in all, it was a fun day and a good concert. I don't know if it will necessarily make a world of difference, but at least I enjoyed my day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
