My husband and I were having a chat one day about the top 10 best feelings ever. The list ranged from the obvious (giant hug... get your mind out of the gutter) to the disgusting (finally going to the bathroom after being constipated) to the anal-retentive (successfully plucking an eyebrow hair after multiple failed attempts). But topping my personal list is a cheap, rough massage from the local shady massage parlor.
One of my favorite parts about New York is that you can get a massage any time of day for next to nothing. There are hundreds of qigong shops dotting the cityscape, begging for you to take your top off and wonder if someone's getting a happy ending in the stall next door.
There are two qigong places on the same street near my apartment. I frequent the Northern outpost since it's closer to my house, has a frequent massage card, and was featured in an episode of The Sopranos. A friend of mine frequents the Southern location.
At the Northern "spa" there is a young guy with a lazy eye who I always seem to get. He's a little creepy, but very good. Lazy Eye turned off my friend and drove him to the Southern joint.
Lazy Eye and friends are always eating dinner when I swing by, usually because I go during the week and after work. The entire staff is crowded in the small lobby eating noodle soup. Every time.
I feel badly for interrupting their meal, but I suppose you're asking for interruptions when your working hours are from 9 to 9 7-days-a-week. Yeah, that's right. 9 to 9. Don't you want to live here?
Anyhow, I woke up this morning with a raging headache and fancied a massage during lunch. I was working from home so I could visit my friends during lunch instead of dinner. I was curious as to what else they're eating over there.
But as I walked up to my joint, I noticed that it, and the adjacent shoe shine, were closed. Permanently.
I was super bummed and played a mental slideshow to the tune of "The Way We Were" as I trotted south one more block. Well hello, Southern.
Southern was a bit cleaner than Northern and much more private. The stalls at Southern are separated by non-porous screens as opposed to Northern's "I can see your boobies" bamboo curtains. Southern also plays better music. Maybe it's not actually better, but different from the tired old Asian symphonies of Northern.
My massage was nice, but not as rough-and-tumble as I like. The ladies of Southern are much gentler. I like getting beat on. But what was nice, was at one point the woman caressed my love handles in such a way that sparked a vivid memory.
I was instantly taken back to my youth (high school senior week, theme park workers frequenting theme parks, college spring break), and the times of getting your sunscreen applied by someone who likes you. Is nothing better?
Ladies, I'm sure you remember every guy who's ever lathered you up. Gentlemen, I'm confident that you have a "special technique" for this - the ultimate move.
Summers past are running through my head. Can't you picture it? That one hot moment before rolling on your back, popping in your headphones, and ignoring the opposite sex all day? Thinking you're gonna get some later even though you won't have straight hair or be wearing any makeup? The awkwardness melting away of being semi-nude with people you should probably not be seeing nude.
It's a sexually charged, pseudo-massage with cancer-fighting benefits. Wow.
I may have a new best feeling ever to add to my list.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Grand Theft Auto 4 - You've Stolen My Heart
I am so tired of Grand Theft Auto 4. I was promised that once we unlocked New Jersey (Alderney), that we would be on the road to completion. But then my husband paused the game and learned that we have only 35% completed. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
While the game is really cool and highly entertaining to watch, enough is enough alre
ady. I've heard every song on GTA radio about 134 times, and their topical commercials are so ingrained that I am ready to DVR "America's Next Top Hooker."
It probably doesn't help matters that the game is ALWAYS on in my house. As soon as my husband comes home, GTA4 loads. It was cute when I danced around like a tuneless 6-year-old to the game's theme song... the first 25 times. But now? Now, I want to punch my own lights out. I can only imagine how the FBI (residing across the street from my curtainless floor-to-ceiling windows) feels.
Just when I thought we'd met every boss and every family, I passed a series of GTA4 posters on the street this weekend that featured a bunch of characters I haven't heard of. Yes, we've got a long way to go. We did find some Hassidic Jew mission the other day, which oddly gave me a sense of smug satisfaction. Like I am a corrupt Hassid dealing in stolen diamonds and Eastern European illegals. And why wouldn’t I be?
Now that most of my TV obsessions have ended (only 2 more days til the LOST finale!), I really shouldn't mind the incessant GTA4. And maybe if I knew the end was near, I wouldn’t really care. Come to think of it, I didn’t really mind at all until we discovered that 35% taunting me from the flat screen. It's just too much game.
If you're like me and don't actually play, but have a loved one who plays while you watch, I would like to propose the following improvements for the GTA4 viewer to keep us entertained during the final 65% of the game.
- Less driving. Now that all 5 neighborhoods are unlocked, it takes FOREVER to get to the action. It's almost as if I am actually driving from Newark to Red Hook during rush hour traffic. If we must drive all this way, can't we employ some kind of cruise control? A setting that gets you from place to place in a straight shot without any pesky crashes that take out traffic lights and bust up your transmission.
- More sex. The last few "dates" we've been on, poor Nico hasn't gotten a piece. Come on, Rockstar Games. You know most people playing require virtual nookie as a substitute to the actual nookie they pass up to play GTA4.
- Less night time. Certain missions start during the day, leaving you to cruise the streets aimlessly for hours perfecting stunt jumps and randomly outrunning the cops. I suggest going to bed, but the husband says no. The husband is wrong.
- More comedians. A girl can only listen to Katt Williams' "Everyday I'm Hustling" routine so many times. Considering I'd had my fill of this bit before GTA4, I'm not too thrilled that the virtual Katt is interpretive-dancing his way through this game. It just fuels my husband's passions. Wow. I think I just realized a new SAT analogy. Melissa is to David Cook as CinS is to Katt Williams. And the 4 people who don't know us and read this post will be frightened.
I think these improvements would greatly improve my evenings at home. Much more so than absentmindedly reading the latest In Touch while GTA4 explosions drown out my cries for help.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Modern Art: Best When Drunk
I met a friend for brunch this weekend and we tied one on. It was an all-you-can-drink brunch, and the staff was highly invested in getting us inebriated. And it's a good thing too.
After brunch, we went to the New Museum to check out some modern art. I'd been wanting to check out the museum for a while, because it is near my house and has a sweet "Hell Yes!" sign out front.
I'm also a big fan of modern art. And when I say a big fan, I mean it in the "I like this more than other kinds of art" way. I'm not a patron or anything.
But I was NOT a fan of the art at the New Museum. Granted, there were a few pieces that I really liked, like this Spider-Man thing and some lighting concept, but my first impression of the place went a little something like this:
We continued this way for about 30 more drawings. There was also a Leif Garrett collage that was pretty hilarious. I'm sure people thought we were the worst museum guests ever, but you just can't be expected to hold in the laughter when someone's sex doodles are framed and titled.
After the first floor exhibit, things got progressively better, but not great. But the nice thing about the New Museum is that they know what they are and what they're not. How else can you explain the bar on their roof?
After brunch, we went to the New Museum to check out some modern art. I'd been wanting to check out the museum for a while, because it is near my house and has a sweet "Hell Yes!" sign out front.
I'm also a big fan of modern art. And when I say a big fan, I mean it in the "I like this more than other kinds of art" way. I'm not a patron or anything.
But I was NOT a fan of the art at the New Museum. Granted, there were a few pieces that I really liked, like this Spider-Man thing and some lighting concept, but my first impression of the place went a little something like this:
"Hey, check out that drawing."
"Um, is that a penis?"
"Yeah. Why does that guy look like a Mexican Popeye?"
"Does this remind you of the dick drawings from Superbad? What does that say?" (writing is in Spanish)
"'I like your boobs.'"
"Seriously?"
"Si."
Inappropriately loud laughter.
We continued this way for about 30 more drawings. There was also a Leif Garrett collage that was pretty hilarious. I'm sure people thought we were the worst museum guests ever, but you just can't be expected to hold in the laughter when someone's sex doodles are framed and titled.
After the first floor exhibit, things got progressively better, but not great. But the nice thing about the New Museum is that they know what they are and what they're not. How else can you explain the bar on their roof?
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Dirty Mouth
I have a pet peeve. Don't we all?
I absolutely LOATHE the smell of mint. Especially spearmint and toothpaste. It makes me physically sick.
I can't be near someone chomping on spearmint gum. Actually, all gum grosses me out - probably due to one too many lunches staring at a chewed wad of gum perched on someone's plate (full body shudder) - but spearmint is intolerable.
I once shared an office with a woman who chain-chewed spearmint gum. It was revolting. I was constantly using fragrant lotions and sniffing my hands. She probably thought I was doped out on the Bath and Body Works. I probably was.
But spearmint gum is generally avoidable. At least, for me it is. I can smell it from a mile away, which comes in handy when trying to avoid someone.
What is unavoidable, however, is walking into a public bathroom and getting smacked with the scent of freshly-brushed teeth. That person may feel tingly fresh, but my bowels feel otherwise.
Please people. Do not brush your teeth at work! Use some mints or a Listerine strip like the rest of us. Using the sink that I wash my hands in as your Crest-foamed spittoon is not OK.
Honestly, these people are taking dental health to an extreme. I do not recall any elementary school assembly instructing me to brush my teeth 3 times a day.
My Burritoville dentist (long story for another time) is probably rolling over in his high-fluoride reclining chair as I speak. But I cannot allow this highly inappropriate office behavior stand! The delicate noses of the workforce must have their voices heard!
Amen.
And yes, I am very happy that David Cook won Idol. But I am happier that I get to see him for two more weeks during the relentless American Idol media junket.
I absolutely LOATHE the smell of mint. Especially spearmint and toothpaste. It makes me physically sick.
I can't be near someone chomping on spearmint gum. Actually, all gum grosses me out - probably due to one too many lunches staring at a chewed wad of gum perched on someone's plate (full body shudder) - but spearmint is intolerable.
I once shared an office with a woman who chain-chewed spearmint gum. It was revolting. I was constantly using fragrant lotions and sniffing my hands. She probably thought I was doped out on the Bath and Body Works. I probably was.
But spearmint gum is generally avoidable. At least, for me it is. I can smell it from a mile away, which comes in handy when trying to avoid someone.
What is unavoidable, however, is walking into a public bathroom and getting smacked with the scent of freshly-brushed teeth. That person may feel tingly fresh, but my bowels feel otherwise.
Please people. Do not brush your teeth at work! Use some mints or a Listerine strip like the rest of us. Using the sink that I wash my hands in as your Crest-foamed spittoon is not OK.
Honestly, these people are taking dental health to an extreme. I do not recall any elementary school assembly instructing me to brush my teeth 3 times a day.
My Burritoville dentist (long story for another time) is probably rolling over in his high-fluoride reclining chair as I speak. But I cannot allow this highly inappropriate office behavior stand! The delicate noses of the workforce must have their voices heard!
Amen.
And yes, I am very happy that David Cook won Idol. But I am happier that I get to see him for two more weeks during the relentless American Idol media junket.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
I Wore My Sunglasses At Night
I was walking to lunch yesterday, and found myself fighting a sea of youths in graduation caps and gowns. When I got to Radio City Music Hall, I noticed that the marquee was congratulating the 2008 class of FIT. So congratulations class of 2008. Go and knit me a cardigan.
The graduates all looked pretty unremarkable, aside from the fact that there were 10s of people in caps and gowns walking down a busy Manhattan street during the lunch rush. I really expected more originality from you, FIT.
This got me to thinking about my own college graduation, where I wanted to make a statement. And that statement was "yes, I am very hungover."
1999 was the spring of the colored sunglass. You may recall a technicolor season of yellow, blue, purple, and even orange lenses surrounded by geeky black frames. You don't? Well then you must not have known me then.
I had sunglasses in every color of the rainbow. And I rotated them throughout the week. Probably to match my outfit.
My college photo albums are pockmarked with garish sunglasses of every color. There is even a shot of me and my girlfriends at a fraternity formal all wearing the sunglasses. Really? Was I that cool?
If memory serves, I chose yellow for my graduation. Perhaps because yellow is one of the GW colors. Perhaps to match my then poorly-dyed hair. Perhaps as an homage to my pending alcohol-induced jaundice.
But regardless of the reason, those glasses personify my graduation day. All the pomp and circumstance. The joy of riding the cusp of adulthood. Spending time with family and best friends that I still have today.
I had some good times in those hideous shades. So thank you, Urban Outfitters. Thank you for letting me see my end-of-college-days through rose colored glasses. (cue string quartet)
The graduates all looked pretty unremarkable, aside from the fact that there were 10s of people in caps and gowns walking down a busy Manhattan street during the lunch rush. I really expected more originality from you, FIT.
This got me to thinking about my own college graduation, where I wanted to make a statement. And that statement was "yes, I am very hungover."
1999 was the spring of the colored sunglass. You may recall a technicolor season of yellow, blue, purple, and even orange lenses surrounded by geeky black frames. You don't? Well then you must not have known me then.
I had sunglasses in every color of the rainbow. And I rotated them throughout the week. Probably to match my outfit.
My college photo albums are pockmarked with garish sunglasses of every color. There is even a shot of me and my girlfriends at a fraternity formal all wearing the sunglasses. Really? Was I that cool?
If memory serves, I chose yellow for my graduation. Perhaps because yellow is one of the GW colors. Perhaps to match my then poorly-dyed hair. Perhaps as an homage to my pending alcohol-induced jaundice.
But regardless of the reason, those glasses personify my graduation day. All the pomp and circumstance. The joy of riding the cusp of adulthood. Spending time with family and best friends that I still have today.
I had some good times in those hideous shades. So thank you, Urban Outfitters. Thank you for letting me see my end-of-college-days through rose colored glasses. (cue string quartet)
Monday, May 19, 2008
Eardrums Rejoice!
Super Annoying Intern has left the building!
There's a little moppet in my office who drives (drove, hooray!) me bananas. My office is pretty quiet, considering it is a den of cubicles, yet when Super Annoying Intern is here, the office is transformed into a shrill, flirty mess.
Now, I've had my fair share of internships. Probably more than my fair share. But I can't seem to recall ever crushing on an actual employee. (For those that know my marital story, you will recognize that this is Melissa writing, NOT CinS) And even if I had been interested in someone a decade older than me, it just would not have been appropriate to fawn all over them for an awkward semester.
But it seems our fair Super Annoying Intern feels otherwise, and is taking a page from the CinS playbook. She clearly loves her supervisor, Hipster Beard, and makes it very well known to all.
Twice-a-week, Super Annoying Intern flitters (flittered, YES!) into the office, shrieking some greeting, aimed at no one other than Hipster Beard. She then rolls her chair over to his cube, where she continues to shrill about inappropriate topics. Like her hopes and dreams.
She says some pretty ballsy stuff for a college kid in a room of 30-somethings. I wonder if Hipster Beard is impressed.
Super Annoying Intern has earned her moniker for a few other reasons aside from her love of the Hipster Beard and her ear-piercing cadence. She also wears severely office inappropriate clothes to work.
OK, I get that you are a student. I get that you can pull off those leggings. But really? Leggings and a t-shirt and Chuck Taylors? To work? Maybe she's not getting paid and feels she needs to stick it to the man by dressing like she's rolled out of bed to go to class. But even Hipster Beard wears a nice button down and real shoes with his jeans.
But at the end of the day, it’s not really the clothes. It’s all about the grossly lame flirting and the pain of watching a girl make a complete joke out of herself day in and day out. Well, twice a week.
It seems that the days of innocent hard work (read: internet cruising disguised as industriousness) are long gone. The office is just another classroom – a classroom of the world, where you can get 3 credits and a piece of adult ass.
There's a little moppet in my office who drives (drove, hooray!) me bananas. My office is pretty quiet, considering it is a den of cubicles, yet when Super Annoying Intern is here, the office is transformed into a shrill, flirty mess.
Now, I've had my fair share of internships. Probably more than my fair share. But I can't seem to recall ever crushing on an actual employee. (For those that know my marital story, you will recognize that this is Melissa writing, NOT CinS) And even if I had been interested in someone a decade older than me, it just would not have been appropriate to fawn all over them for an awkward semester.
But it seems our fair Super Annoying Intern feels otherwise, and is taking a page from the CinS playbook. She clearly loves her supervisor, Hipster Beard, and makes it very well known to all.
Twice-a-week, Super Annoying Intern flitters (flittered, YES!) into the office, shrieking some greeting, aimed at no one other than Hipster Beard. She then rolls her chair over to his cube, where she continues to shrill about inappropriate topics. Like her hopes and dreams.
She says some pretty ballsy stuff for a college kid in a room of 30-somethings. I wonder if Hipster Beard is impressed.
Super Annoying Intern has earned her moniker for a few other reasons aside from her love of the Hipster Beard and her ear-piercing cadence. She also wears severely office inappropriate clothes to work.
OK, I get that you are a student. I get that you can pull off those leggings. But really? Leggings and a t-shirt and Chuck Taylors? To work? Maybe she's not getting paid and feels she needs to stick it to the man by dressing like she's rolled out of bed to go to class. But even Hipster Beard wears a nice button down and real shoes with his jeans.
But at the end of the day, it’s not really the clothes. It’s all about the grossly lame flirting and the pain of watching a girl make a complete joke out of herself day in and day out. Well, twice a week.
It seems that the days of innocent hard work (read: internet cruising disguised as industriousness) are long gone. The office is just another classroom – a classroom of the world, where you can get 3 credits and a piece of adult ass.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Redemption Blong
It finally happened.
My husband, who has been working like a dog all week, got around to reading the blog late last night while I was already asleep. Upon reading, he crawled into bed next to me in whispered into my ear, "You suck. I read the blog and I want my wife back."
It seems my lame American Idol ranting has finally caught up with me. And it's about time. I've been living in a shame spiral since my first Idol post. But with no one to stop me, I've gone unchecked into the blogosphere.
And so, to make up for the atrocities of this week, I will now attempt to redeem myself in the eyes of my spouse and hopefully to the rest of you as well.
It all started like this...
I left work early yesterday to head down to my friend's gallery opening in the Lower East Side. Klaus works with metal and paper and creates things that make you think, "Wow! That is the ugliest thing I've ever seen. I want it on my credenza."
The gallery featuring his pieces is reserved for European artists only, which means that every opening involves a lot of booze and lanky women in leggings and flat boots. I, of course, fit right in. That is, for those who could see me way down at 5'3".
Soon after my second complimentary Manhattan (prosecco be damned!), my buddy came by the gallery to whisk me away from the Ukrainian hooker experience to go see his friend's band. My heel got caught in the sidewalk cracks about 4 times in the 4 block walk and I no one believed me when I soberly explained that this happens to me ALL THE TIME, not just when I've been drinking.
We got to the bar just as the band was starting. They're called D-Bag or A-Hole or some other initial-hyphenated term that means something rude. The band was pretty good and a little spoken wordish, which made me feel very progressive and musically hip. The lead singer was a hot chick that looked a little like my Rock Band avatar, so that helped too.
After the set, we hung out with the band for a bit, and they were all hyper-educated and awesome. The bassist designs jewelry and sneakers. The drummer is a raving vegan environmentalist. My avatar has her master's in film. They also enjoy brunch.
The bar grew uncomfortably humid as the next throng of independent music lovers came through, and so we left. We all ended up back at my buddy's place for a throng-free nightcap. He recently returned from a trip to Serbia and we sipped on slivovitz while listening to Serbian house music until it was time to go to bed.
All in all, it was a pretty sick Thursday.
I absolutely did all of these awesome things last night. I certainly did not watch Lost in my pajamas while downloading David Cook songs to my iPod.
My husband, who has been working like a dog all week, got around to reading the blog late last night while I was already asleep. Upon reading, he crawled into bed next to me in whispered into my ear, "You suck. I read the blog and I want my wife back."
It seems my lame American Idol ranting has finally caught up with me. And it's about time. I've been living in a shame spiral since my first Idol post. But with no one to stop me, I've gone unchecked into the blogosphere.
And so, to make up for the atrocities of this week, I will now attempt to redeem myself in the eyes of my spouse and hopefully to the rest of you as well.
It all started like this...
I left work early yesterday to head down to my friend's gallery opening in the Lower East Side. Klaus works with metal and paper and creates things that make you think, "Wow! That is the ugliest thing I've ever seen. I want it on my credenza."
The gallery featuring his pieces is reserved for European artists only, which means that every opening involves a lot of booze and lanky women in leggings and flat boots. I, of course, fit right in. That is, for those who could see me way down at 5'3".
Soon after my second complimentary Manhattan (prosecco be damned!), my buddy came by the gallery to whisk me away from the Ukrainian hooker experience to go see his friend's band. My heel got caught in the sidewalk cracks about 4 times in the 4 block walk and I no one believed me when I soberly explained that this happens to me ALL THE TIME, not just when I've been drinking.
We got to the bar just as the band was starting. They're called D-Bag or A-Hole or some other initial-hyphenated term that means something rude. The band was pretty good and a little spoken wordish, which made me feel very progressive and musically hip. The lead singer was a hot chick that looked a little like my Rock Band avatar, so that helped too.
After the set, we hung out with the band for a bit, and they were all hyper-educated and awesome. The bassist designs jewelry and sneakers. The drummer is a raving vegan environmentalist. My avatar has her master's in film. They also enjoy brunch.
The bar grew uncomfortably humid as the next throng of independent music lovers came through, and so we left. We all ended up back at my buddy's place for a throng-free nightcap. He recently returned from a trip to Serbia and we sipped on slivovitz while listening to Serbian house music until it was time to go to bed.
All in all, it was a pretty sick Thursday.
I absolutely did all of these awesome things last night. I certainly did not watch Lost in my pajamas while downloading David Cook songs to my iPod.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
At Least I'm No Mid-Western Housefrau...
To continue this week's trend of disturbing internet finds, I stumbled across a forum today made up of women who are crazier than me.
Let me explain. My David Cook obsession is getting out of hand. Since that naughty dream, I've been a little, well, coo-coo for Cookie Puffs.
Please husband, when you read this, try to remember how I looked when I saw Bruce Willis, and be confident that I will look equally awful if I ever were to bump into Mr. Cook. You can also remember that I was paralyzed and hyperventilating when I met last year's Idol of choice, Blake Lewis. These traits are not hot.
Anyhow, in my obsession-fueled boredom, I was checking out some fan sites to linger over photos of David's snarling sexy faces. And lo-and-behold, there is a lunatic chat room of married women who are all in lust with David Cook.
These women have formed a support group where they can take comfort in the fact that their marriages are loveless and sexless, with only American Idol to fuel their passions. One woman's husband wisely (or unwisely) does not let her play David Cook in the bedroom. Another asks if it is normal to think about sex with David more than sex with her own husband. My favorite line is when she then forecasts a nervous breakdown when Idol ends next week and she can't get her David fix.
YEESH!
Another disturbing part of this forum is that each woman has a personalized David Cook footer on each of her posts. Most involve banners with a montage of Cook faces and a slogan like, "David Makes Me Hungry Like The Wolf." (hey, at least they are all spelled correctly) Others have a 15-second video clip repeating over and over. My favorite is included here. David is making some kind of "I used to have an awful comb-over" gesture. I also make this gesture when referring to a dark period when I had bangs.
So the burning question is… Do I now feel that my obsession is as creepy and dirty as the rest of these women? The answer is no. Because unlike these forum gals, if I was single and met David Cook, he would totally give me the time of day. And this is why I love him.
Let me explain. My David Cook obsession is getting out of hand. Since that naughty dream, I've been a little, well, coo-coo for Cookie Puffs.
Please husband, when you read this, try to remember how I looked when I saw Bruce Willis, and be confident that I will look equally awful if I ever were to bump into Mr. Cook. You can also remember that I was paralyzed and hyperventilating when I met last year's Idol of choice, Blake Lewis. These traits are not hot.
Anyhow, in my obsession-fueled boredom, I was checking out some fan sites to linger over photos of David's snarling sexy faces. And lo-and-behold, there is a lunatic chat room of married women who are all in lust with David Cook.
These women have formed a support group where they can take comfort in the fact that their marriages are loveless and sexless, with only American Idol to fuel their passions. One woman's husband wisely (or unwisely) does not let her play David Cook in the bedroom. Another asks if it is normal to think about sex with David more than sex with her own husband. My favorite line is when she then forecasts a nervous breakdown when Idol ends next week and she can't get her David fix.
YEESH!
Another disturbing part of this forum is that each woman has a personalized David Cook footer on each of her posts. Most involve banners with a montage of Cook faces and a slogan like, "David Makes Me Hungry Like The Wolf." (hey, at least they are all spelled correctly) Others have a 15-second video clip repeating over and over. My favorite is included here. David is making some kind of "I used to have an awful comb-over" gesture. I also make this gesture when referring to a dark period when I had bangs.
So the burning question is… Do I now feel that my obsession is as creepy and dirty as the rest of these women? The answer is no. Because unlike these forum gals, if I was single and met David Cook, he would totally give me the time of day. And this is why I love him.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Cheezburger in Paradyze
First, I would like to admit that I had a naughty dream about David Cook last night. This was my third one. I have problems well beyond yesterday's post.
Now that that's off my chest, I wanted to share a bizarre internet phenomenon I discovered today.
Is anyone familiar with the site icanhascheezburger.com? They have pictures of cats and things with "funny" captions. I see these images all over Facebook and MySpace and never knew where they came from. But apparently there is a depository at icanhascheezburger.
Now, I totally get why someone would want to have a picture of a cat with a slogan. I remember the "Hang In There" poster from the guidance counselor's office as well as anyone. But what I don't understand is why all these slogans are grossly misspelled.
Maybe I'm not the demo, but I really don't get why something is funnier if it is spelled weird. Anyone?
The pimped spelling is called "LOLspeak," which leads me to believe its origin is based in text messaging. But as a die-hard T9 user, text messaging has actually made me a better speller. You can only spell tomorrow with one r so many times before wanting to throw your phone out the window.
But maybe the Gossip Girl generation can't be bothered to use T9 to learn how to spell. Maybe it's cool to jack up the English language. Maybe running spellcheck on my email makes me a tool. I am really at a loss.
I stumbled across a terrible movie the other day called Idiocracy. It's about the future. Everyone is an idiot, Starbucks peddles hand-jobs, and everything is misspelled. I think icanhascheezburger is the beginning of the end.
Now that that's off my chest, I wanted to share a bizarre internet phenomenon I discovered today.
Is anyone familiar with the site icanhascheezburger.com? They have pictures of cats and things with "funny" captions. I see these images all over Facebook and MySpace and never knew where they came from. But apparently there is a depository at icanhascheezburger.Now, I totally get why someone would want to have a picture of a cat with a slogan. I remember the "Hang In There" poster from the guidance counselor's office as well as anyone. But what I don't understand is why all these slogans are grossly misspelled.
Maybe I'm not the demo, but I really don't get why something is funnier if it is spelled weird. Anyone?
The pimped spelling is called "LOLspeak," which leads me to believe its origin is based in text messaging. But as a die-hard T9 user, text messaging has actually made me a better speller. You can only spell tomorrow with one r so many times before wanting to throw your phone out the window.
But maybe the Gossip Girl generation can't be bothered to use T9 to learn how to spell. Maybe it's cool to jack up the English language. Maybe running spellcheck on my email makes me a tool. I am really at a loss.
I stumbled across a terrible movie the other day called Idiocracy. It's about the future. Everyone is an idiot, Starbucks peddles hand-jobs, and everything is misspelled. I think icanhascheezburger is the beginning of the end.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Lameness of This Post = Divorce Papers
I want to start by apologizing. This post is gonna be really lame.
BUT I realized that I haven't done nearly enough talking about American Idol on this blog. And so it begins.
I know that American Idol hasn't even aired this week, but I have a lot pent up inside. Plus, it's the top three, which means that each judge picks a contestant to force some songs upon.
I read yesterday that David Archuleta's dad has been banned from the set due to his excessive stage-dadding, and I can't help but wonder how this will impact the little guy's performances tonight. I'm sure that the arrangements will be just as hackneyed and melisma-inducing as ever, but my prediction is that Lil David will sing all 3 of his songs with his eyes fully closed. Mostly to block out the distain on Papa's face, but also because he is a terrified little muppet who won't have Daddy's guiding hand up his tush this week.
I found some spoilers for tonight's song choices, and it looks like the contestants pick one, a judge picks one, and the producers pick one. Here you go:
David Archuleta
- Paula chose: “And So It Goes” by Billy Joel
- David chose: “With You” by Chris Brown
- The producers chose: “Longer” by Dan Fogelberg
David Cook
- Simon chose: “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” by Roberta Flack
- David chose: “The World I Know” by Collective Soul
- The producers chose: undetermined
Syesha Mercado
- Randy chose: “If I Ain’t Got You” by Alicia Keys
- Syesha chose: undetermined
- The producers chose: undetermined
I have no idea what a Fogelberg is, but I can't wait for the disaster that is Lil David singing Chris Brown. WOW.
And now I must stop before I completely destroy my soul. Or my husband destroys it for me.
Monday, May 12, 2008
The Aged
Has anyone seen these terrifying skincare banner ads out there on the world wide web? They are the craziest banners I've ever seen. There's a haggard old woman chillin in her right-column skyscraper and then the magic of photoshop... er, the treatment in question... swoops down over the ad and suddenly she's as tight-faced and pouty as Megan Fox!
I can't tell you what the actual product is (of course I can't find the ad again... damn you Google AdSense), but I can tell you that I did click-through to an equally horrifying landing page. On the landing page, you can find Megan Foxes of every color of the rainbow, all aging and anti-aging in tandem.
If only it were this easy.
I've been suffering from Grand Canyon grooves in my forehead for years. I've also developed a new friend, my "Kikucall Line," named for my former employer. The Kikucall Line runs vertically between my eyebrows. It's probably only noticable to me and to those who watch me on HD, but I think its subtlty is because I left my job before it drilled down too deep.
I visited a Sephora for a wrinkle consult and the woman basically told me that wrinkle eradictation was hopeless, and that the only way to get rid of my grooves was Botox. After the 'tox I could stock up on creams and they would then prevent the wrinkles from returning. Hmmm.
Considering that this woman's commission is tied into hocking products, the fact that she recommended a procedure instead of a cream must mean that she is correct. Of course a stranger with little to no medical training is the foremost authority on injecting bovine particulates into someone's face. This piqued my interest.
I was on a kick for a while to get the 'tox before my wedding, but then I thought better of it. But the old 'tox craving crops up now and again. It's said to be a treatment for migraines, which I also suffer, so I'm currently working on that angle. After all, it's much more dignified to have your insurance company pay for your youthful glow than to shell out your credit card to a shady company who hired an excellent graphic designer.
I can't tell you what the actual product is (of course I can't find the ad again... damn you Google AdSense), but I can tell you that I did click-through to an equally horrifying landing page. On the landing page, you can find Megan Foxes of every color of the rainbow, all aging and anti-aging in tandem.
If only it were this easy.
I've been suffering from Grand Canyon grooves in my forehead for years. I've also developed a new friend, my "Kikucall Line," named for my former employer. The Kikucall Line runs vertically between my eyebrows. It's probably only noticable to me and to those who watch me on HD, but I think its subtlty is because I left my job before it drilled down too deep.
I visited a Sephora for a wrinkle consult and the woman basically told me that wrinkle eradictation was hopeless, and that the only way to get rid of my grooves was Botox. After the 'tox I could stock up on creams and they would then prevent the wrinkles from returning. Hmmm.
Considering that this woman's commission is tied into hocking products, the fact that she recommended a procedure instead of a cream must mean that she is correct. Of course a stranger with little to no medical training is the foremost authority on injecting bovine particulates into someone's face. This piqued my interest.
I was on a kick for a while to get the 'tox before my wedding, but then I thought better of it. But the old 'tox craving crops up now and again. It's said to be a treatment for migraines, which I also suffer, so I'm currently working on that angle. After all, it's much more dignified to have your insurance company pay for your youthful glow than to shell out your credit card to a shady company who hired an excellent graphic designer.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Red Herring
I just returned from a lovely week in Sweden, and despite my overdose of blondes in tight pants, I had a very nice time.
I was out for a training meeting with colleagues from around the globe, and what surprised me most was how ignorant I am about most of the world.
My meeting was populated by some Italians, Spaniards, Chinese, Taiwanese, an Indonesian, a Brit, and of course, loads of Swedes. Everyone spoke English, which means for everyone except the Brit, they are all bi-lingual.
I am constantly fascinated and jealous of the bi-lingual and feel that they don't get enough credit.
Be honest, when you get in a cab or when your cleaning lady comes, don't you always feel a bit superior? But how many languages do you speak, buddy? Could you conduct your livelihood in Swahili? I think not.
I decided that I will take some Spanish lessons this summer to dust off the old high school educación. Plus it will make CSI: Miami villains much more relatable.
Another item of note was that most of the conversation covered US politics. I must have said the following phrase 100 times, "I think it's so interesting that you follow US politics. Most people in America don't even pay attention."
I know nothing about the current political race in China, or if they are allowed to vote there (are they still Communists?) Yet my Chinese friend knew everything about the Democratic primaries. He likes Obama by the way.
I did however receive props for my big-city Bush bashing. I think my colleague from Michigan was in trouble on that one. I'm pretty sure Bush drives American.
I was so overwhelmed by this clash of cultures that I did not embrace my usual zealous quest to consume all local foods. In every other country I have been to (or state for that matter), I make it a point to try the native cuisine. This is why I am one of two people I know who has eaten kudu. Yes, that's an animal.
At meal time, I stuck to fish. And not terribly traditional fish either.
The Swedes love their fish, probably because Stockholm is made up of 14 islands. I was also told a story about salmon being the food of the poor. The salmon people must have ingenious marketing folks these days. But the most traditional fish is herring. Pickled herring. Chased with a shot of whisky. I am not kidding.
It could have been my self-consciousness at my lack of globality, or the fact that I wasn't into vomiting in front of co-workers, but I skipped the herring and shots.
All in all, I was a pretty lame American. But I did drink the local beer.
I was out for a training meeting with colleagues from around the globe, and what surprised me most was how ignorant I am about most of the world.
My meeting was populated by some Italians, Spaniards, Chinese, Taiwanese, an Indonesian, a Brit, and of course, loads of Swedes. Everyone spoke English, which means for everyone except the Brit, they are all bi-lingual.
I am constantly fascinated and jealous of the bi-lingual and feel that they don't get enough credit.
Be honest, when you get in a cab or when your cleaning lady comes, don't you always feel a bit superior? But how many languages do you speak, buddy? Could you conduct your livelihood in Swahili? I think not.I decided that I will take some Spanish lessons this summer to dust off the old high school educación. Plus it will make CSI: Miami villains much more relatable.
Another item of note was that most of the conversation covered US politics. I must have said the following phrase 100 times, "I think it's so interesting that you follow US politics. Most people in America don't even pay attention."
I know nothing about the current political race in China, or if they are allowed to vote there (are they still Communists?) Yet my Chinese friend knew everything about the Democratic primaries. He likes Obama by the way.
I did however receive props for my big-city Bush bashing. I think my colleague from Michigan was in trouble on that one. I'm pretty sure Bush drives American.
I was so overwhelmed by this clash of cultures that I did not embrace my usual zealous quest to consume all local foods. In every other country I have been to (or state for that matter), I make it a point to try the native cuisine. This is why I am one of two people I know who has eaten kudu. Yes, that's an animal.
At meal time, I stuck to fish. And not terribly traditional fish either.
The Swedes love their fish, probably because Stockholm is made up of 14 islands. I was also told a story about salmon being the food of the poor. The salmon people must have ingenious marketing folks these days. But the most traditional fish is herring. Pickled herring. Chased with a shot of whisky. I am not kidding.
It could have been my self-consciousness at my lack of globality, or the fact that I wasn't into vomiting in front of co-workers, but I skipped the herring and shots.
All in all, I was a pretty lame American. But I did drink the local beer.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
My Bad...
OK, Cheesesteaks in September, I take it back.
I apologize for slamming you in previous posts, noting your lack of blogging prowess in such a public forum.
Yes, I recognize that you alone have been keeping this blog alive while I gallivant around Sweden, drinking too much coffee and eating too much fish.
Thank you dear husband. But watch your back when I land on Thursday.
I apologize for slamming you in previous posts, noting your lack of blogging prowess in such a public forum.
Yes, I recognize that you alone have been keeping this blog alive while I gallivant around Sweden, drinking too much coffee and eating too much fish.
Thank you dear husband. But watch your back when I land on Thursday.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Charity Case
When you hit certain points in your life, you realize that everyone your age is doing X. Sometimes it is something obvious, like how when you turn 16, everyone your age is driving, or when you turn 21, everyone you know is drinking (without a fake ID). (Don’t know what the magic age is for combining the two.) But once you graduate from college, these benchmarks are noticeable, but less obvious. For example, it seems to be generally accepted that when you’re in your late 20’s everyone (or at least a lot of people) you know are getting married (at least in the Northeast – I have a friend who got married in Alabama at age 25 and she was the last of her friends to get married). That probably explains why everyone I know is going to at least 3 weddings this summer. And it’s generally accepted that early 30’s = everyone you know starts having kids. And as one of my older colleagues morbidly pointed out the other day, it seems like late 50’s = everyone you know starts getting cancer or some other lethal affliction.
But here’s one I don’t get. Apparently late 20’s is also the time when everyone you know starts getting involved with charities and hitting you up for money. I recently went to my friends’ charity fundraising party, and also have been hit up for tickets to two other charity events planned by friends. Coincidence, I thought. But one of the more fratastic dudes I know from college just hit me up to sponsor him in a charity AIDS walk. Really? Has it come to this? Is everyone 27 and older now in the charity game?
It’s kind of like high school. The kid you always thought you were smarter than is taking AP Biology, so you gotta take AP Bio. The girl whose parents your parents are friends with plays two sports, so you gotta join the X-Country team. And you find out that the gunner whose applying to the same colleges as you volunteers on Saturdays at an elderly home. Guess what? Two weeks later you’re changing bedpans and getting pwned by old folks at Gin Rummy right alongside him.
So now it’s charity. New York City underprivileged youth. Systic Fibrosis. Diabetes. AIDS. Super AIDS. There’s a charity for each of these causes, and apparently everyone I went to college or high school with is running them.
I guess I’ll join one, since everyone else is doing it. Hell, maybe I’ll start one. A charity that allows kids the “opportunity” to come over to my house and play Grand Theft Auto or Rock Band with me while appreciating the glow a fresh neon sign while wearing the hottest new replica soccer jerseys eBay has to offer.
Now that’s a cause I can get behind.
But here’s one I don’t get. Apparently late 20’s is also the time when everyone you know starts getting involved with charities and hitting you up for money. I recently went to my friends’ charity fundraising party, and also have been hit up for tickets to two other charity events planned by friends. Coincidence, I thought. But one of the more fratastic dudes I know from college just hit me up to sponsor him in a charity AIDS walk. Really? Has it come to this? Is everyone 27 and older now in the charity game?
It’s kind of like high school. The kid you always thought you were smarter than is taking AP Biology, so you gotta take AP Bio. The girl whose parents your parents are friends with plays two sports, so you gotta join the X-Country team. And you find out that the gunner whose applying to the same colleges as you volunteers on Saturdays at an elderly home. Guess what? Two weeks later you’re changing bedpans and getting pwned by old folks at Gin Rummy right alongside him.
So now it’s charity. New York City underprivileged youth. Systic Fibrosis. Diabetes. AIDS. Super AIDS. There’s a charity for each of these causes, and apparently everyone I went to college or high school with is running them.
I guess I’ll join one, since everyone else is doing it. Hell, maybe I’ll start one. A charity that allows kids the “opportunity” to come over to my house and play Grand Theft Auto or Rock Band with me while appreciating the glow a fresh neon sign while wearing the hottest new replica soccer jerseys eBay has to offer.
Now that’s a cause I can get behind.
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