Call Me! Call Me Anytime!

My office computer is PAINFULLY slow. Oftentimes, I whip up a post while waiting for my online sales database to load. Sadly, I am not kidding. It's astounding how inefficient it can be to work at a technology company.

This brings me to my ultimate pet peeve. My Brick.

My Brick is actually my cellphone. At first glance, you would think the Brick is, in fact, the first cellphone ever made. At second glance, you realize that it is actually the world's smallest laptop. I did not intend for that to sound awesome.

I used to have a gorgeous, slim, easy-to-handle Blackberry Pearl. It fit in my purse, had a lovely rollerball, and rocked a variety of badass ringtones. But when I changed jobs, I learned that my new employer does not support Blackberry. BOOOOO!

And so I had to get a new phone. But instead of choosing a phone that was to my liking, the Brick was thrust upon me. The Brick weighs about 4 pounds. It does not fit in the cellphone pouch in my purse. Its touch-screen features require a coke nail for proper use.

I keep waiting for a new work-supported phone to become available on AT&T so the Brick can have an "accident." But until that day, I suffer.

The irony is that I am in mobile. And I work for a company that makes cellphones. It's really embarrassing.

Something else embarrassing about my phone is that I can't figure out how to silence my ringer once it starts ringing. There have been plenty of days when I have forgotten to switch my phone to vibrate and my entire office was treated to my lame ringtone of the moment. The latest ringtone (which is no longer topical AT ALL and thereby even more embarrassing) is David Cook’s Billie Jean. Yes, I am aware that American Idol has been off the air since May. I am also aware that I am 30.

Aside from being embarrassing and out-of-date, I also have a hard time hearing my DC ringtone. My husband is endlessly frustrated by my neglect in answering my phone. The other day, it came to a head.

CinS called me 9 times (as verified by my missed calls log) and burst into our apartment in a tornado of frustration.

"I called you 9 times! If you wanted to go out to dinner tonight, you should have answered your phone!"

"Oh. Sorry. It was in the other room."

"What if it was an emergency? You never answer your phone!"

"I'm sorry. I hate my phone."

CinS then proceeded to dial my phone while making exaggerated angry faces. He followed the noise (that I still couldn’t hear, but somehow he could), fished my phone out of my purse and held it up to my ear.

"Melissa, you are a professional woman. You cannot have a ringtone like this. Maybe if your phone rang like a phone, you would hear it. I don't care if all the other 17-year-olds tease you for not having a cool ringtone, but I need to be able to reach you. Change your ringtone now."

"But...."

"The only possible reason for you to have this ringtone is for when David Cook calls you."

I then exited my body to fantasize a tame, corporate rock-and-roll lifestyle in which David Cook calls me on a regular basis.

"Get a real ring please," my husband says.

And so I did. Now, when my phone accidentally rings at the office, I answer it with pride, not hushed tones. But I do miss DC. And definitely cannot show my face in the high school parking lot ever again.

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.

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.

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.

Idol Dish

In case anyone cares, I watched American Idol last night. Here's what I got out of it:

• I don't know any Dolly Parton songs other than the neglected 9-to-5
• Carly's husband should be cast in a Lifetime movie as the scary tatooed man with a heart of gold
• My boy David Cook isn't actually balding, as demonstrated by his new hairstyle
• Ramiele continues to flaunt her chubby knees
• My husband has a low-tolerance for my Idol obsession and would rather be playing Rock Band

Reality TV Update

My friend spotted a tantilizing description on her Time Warner Cable guide last night, "Flavor of Love 3: The women perform a hip-hopera."


It's descriptions like these that can convert any high-brow PBS veiwer into a stark-raving mad fan of Celebreality. Kudos VH1. Kudos.


I, of course, am a frequenter of Flavor of Love 3 and Rock of Love 2, and have been known to tune-in to Celebrity Fit Club, Celebrity Rehab, The Pick-Up Artist, My Fair Brady, Mission Man-Band, and the new train-wreck that is I Know My Kid's a Star. I also watched that testosterone knock-off of The View in the early 00's simply for Sr. Bonaduce. I did not however, watch him Break. I prefer my Bonaduce healthy and gravel-voiced, as opposed to 'roid raged and gravel-voiced.

But VH1 nonsense aside, I am also a giant 13-year-old girl and loves me some American Idol. And I'm super-excited that today is Tuesday so I can watch these fools belt out some Dolly Parton. Aside from 9-to-5, which no doubt Kristy Lee Cook will butcher, I don't really know any Dolly songs, which means tonight's show will be just as boring as the last 2 weeks. This season is the worst so far... yet I can't stop obsessing! I'd like to think it's becasue I'm in a crazy pool, but it's really due to my inappropriate obsession with David Cook.

Mr. Cook, with his giant dome-over, is the man. I had a dream that he was in a boy-band in the late 90's and made a zany, mad-cap romantic comedy with his band. Sort of like On the Line, but with more than 2 N'Syncers. I have deep-seeded problems.

If only all my inappropriate reality TV obsessions were on some sort of dating show. Now that's Celebreality worth watching.