OMG, I have a blog! I totally forgot!
I cannot believe that I haven’t updated in over a fucking YEAR. I completely blame television for this, as it seems like whenever I’m within 10 feet of one, I can’t do anything else other than watch it.
More to come...
An open letter to the woman in my office who insists on continually pissing all over the toilet seat in the women's washroom (and in my favourite stall, no less):
You are a mystery that must be solved.
Listen, I know it can be gross to sit your bare ass down on a toilet seat that doesn't really belong to you, but it's not like this is some shit-reeking outhouse at Ozzfest, lady; it's our office bathroom. There are like, 10 women in here, and we're the only ones who have access to it. And as far as I can assume, none of us have crabs. (Although I will admit that you never really know about those things.) Anyhow, the crab point is moot, because even if you do pull a hover-job, and even if some of your liquid waste matter does get on the seat, HAVE THE CONSIDERATION TO WIPE IT OFF, for Christ's sake. I don't care if you drop a hunk of TP on there and rub it around with your shoe, as long as that urine makes it into the bowl somehow, it matters not.
I have made it my personal mission to sniff you out before I leave this place. And I will find you...mark my words.
I've been going all Veronical Mars on your ass: If I come in the washroom and see that my stall is occupied, I check shoes or, if need be, spy through the crack in the door to see who it is. As soon as the suspect leaves, I rush over and check the seat. No pee? No perp.
And if I'm finished my duties and you come in, I stay in there to brush my teeth in the hopes that I'll also see you exiting. If my gums begin to bleed and you're still not out, you'd better believe I'm making a mental note of which stall you're in. I've got an internal database which contains the stall preference of every woman in this office, baby...it's only a matter of time before you show yourself.
I will say this: YOU ARE GOOD. It's been two years and I have yet to catch you. But when I do, boy...well, I probably won't do anything, but at least I'LL KNOW WHO YOU ARE. And reveling in your grossness and total lack of consideration will be more than enough for me.
Thank you for your time.
"This is my brother Sam, and his twin brother Ham."
WTF? For the love of all that is good and pure, I ask you -- WTF? At least Hazel and Phinnaeus will be united in the misery of their terrible names. Ham, on the other hand, will resent his twin forever, because he just had to elbow his shrivelled little self through the birth canal first and get the good name, didn't he? Or so I suspect. Poor, poor Ham.
I can only imagine how many Dr. Seuss jokes these two had to endure as children.
It's perfectly reasonable -- you can get one subway token with your $2.50 in change, five with your $10 bill, or ten with a $20. But please for the LOVE OF GOD do not put a FIVE in there, because getting two tokens for $5 is a ridiculous request and it's only logical that you should have to go to the bank to get out cash if that's all you have in your wallet and you'd actually like to go home that night.
Right?
Wow, March 29. That's gotta be a new record for lazy right there.
I'm out of excuses. The sad reality is that most of the time, spending 5 minutes typing a blog entry is just far too taxing for me.
In other news, yesterday I saw a man on the subway wearing a bag on his head. A paper bag. With eye holes. I kept looking around for a camera or Aston Kutcher or something. But nothing.
There's gotta be a better way to cover up a pimple.
'Tis true. I've got a monkey on my back, and his name is Mark Burnett.
Here's how my week's looking:
Monday, I sat through two hours of The Bachelor's selection process -- this installment involving Jerry O'Connell's scumbag brother and 25 women who, at first glance, all appear to be complete lunatics. In other words, this one is going to be GREAT. Especially after Chris Harrison told the ladies: "The first rule of The Bachelor is that THERE ARE NO RULES." Or something like that.
Last night came three more hours of great editing and cheesy stock music. First was American Idol. After watching Paula slur her way through yet another incoherent round of judges' comments (My favourite was when she was all: "Randeeee....youknow, we'vebeentogepher foralongtieghhh..." as she slumped over the table -- what is this woman on, and where can I get it?) and cringing as Constantine Maroulis tried yet again to get me to Drink the Purple Kool-Aid (I'm not gonna do it, buddy, no matter how badly you molest me with your eyes), I ATTEMPTED TO VOTE for Nikko Smith for, like, half and hour. Apparently, even though my birth certificate says otherwise, I am actually 14 years old.
Then, I was treated to two hours of my all-time favourtite, The Amazing Race. I must say that last night's episode set new standards for Awesomeness. Meredith and Gretchen transformed from your standard-issue elderly AR team into the Coolest Geriatrics in the Land, and those damned adorable bothers Brian and Greg almost gave me a heart attack at the end there. I don't think I've screamed at the TV so much since Jerri Manthey got voted off Survivor. (I don't like Jerri Manthey.) I also decided last night that Rob is not so much an evil genius as he is a Giant, Conscience-Free Meathead. I hate him now, and Amber too. If those two jackasses use the phrase "Guardian Angels" one more time, I will lose my shit.
Yesterday's episode was a big Evil Rob showcase. Look, Rob doesn't want to give the old people any money! And LOOK, he DIDN'T EVEN STOP to see if Brian and Greg and Cameraman (does this guy have a name?) were OK! AND LOOK!!! HE DOESN'T EVEN FEEL BAD ABOUT IT!!! He is Evil, definitely. And in case we weren't sure, the AR folks threw in plenty of slow-motion Satanic Rob shots (complete with doomsday notes) for good measure. Loves it.
You would think that I would be spent after all this realilty action. But wait! There's more! Because tonight I have, have, HAVE to see America's Next Top Model. The Lesbian Wrestler gets a flesh-eating virus! (It's probably excema, but THAT wouldn't have made the preview very exciting.) And of course, there's the American Idol results show, and I can't miss that. I hope America will put poor Anthony Federov and his Trach Hole (sorry, but I can't stop staring at it) out of his misery. Goddamn it!
Thursday, there's Survivor, of course, and I can't WAIT to see what happens with Awesome Stephanie and the Ulong Parade of Losers. And then I have to watch The Apprentice. Will Bren comb his hair? Will Kendra get a personality? Will Chris quit chewing tobacco in front of children? I'll have to tune in and find out! Because it's all Oh-So-Important, you see. THEN, if I haven't had enough, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy is on. Which...yeah, can't miss that, either.
Friday and Saturday, I take off. But in my downtime, I do spend an awful lot of time reading the 20-page recaps of the shows I'VE ALREADY SEEN on Television Without Pity. As you can see, I have a problem. And I don't know how to tear myself away.
(And thus ends my history of naming my posts with song titles...it started getting pretty lame around the time I used "Carribbean Queen", and let's face it -- I'm lazy.)
But really -- I DO say "fuck" way too often. I say it in public, I say it in client meetings, and, on three VERY memorable occasions, I have accidentally said it in front of my mother. This has gotta stop. I am a LADY, after all, and LADIES DON'T SAY "FUCK". Jessica Simpson doesn't say "fuck". She says "shoot", and maybe that's why she is famous and I am not. (Although -- it might have more to do with her creepy Svengali Daddy or her incredible ability to belch the alphabet, but who knows?) I need to come up with some options to use the next time I, say, hammer a digit into my new JERKER desk from IKEA. Here are a few:
"Egads!"
"Jiminy Cricket!"
"Well, I'll be darned!"
"Jumpin' Jehosephat!"
"Christ!"
OK, so the last one works. But even "Christ!" doesn't have the satisfying resoundedness of "fuck". It so wonderfully encapsulates what I'm feeling in so many situations. It is a noun, a verb, and an adjective. It is the perfect word, really. How on EARTH am I going to stop using it? Fuck!
In other news, I attended a friend's Stag & Doe this weekend. For those of you who are unfamiliar, Stag & Does (also known as Buck & Does or Jack & Jills) are a great way for engaged couples (who don't believe that the engagement party, shower(s), bachelor/bachelorette parties, and the wedding itself drain enough cash from the bank accounts of their loved ones) to make money to pay for the big day. They rent out some cheap hall, sell tickets, charge for drinks, and sucker the wedding party into hawking raffle tickets for crappy prizes that no one wants to win but everyone buys tickets for because THAT'S JUST WHAT YOU DO. There are also games of the lowest common denominator variety, which you and your friends can play for a fee (of course). My personal favourite from this particular Stag & Doe was a Stump-Hammering Tournament, in which opponents grabbed their tools and squared off to see who was the Fastest Nailer in the Prevost. I don't know which bugged me more: The fact that said tournament required half an hour of my undivided attention, or my unfortunate loss in the Ladies' Final. I was robbed! I got a bum stump! Fuck!
In all seriousness, may I give you some advice? If you're about to get hitched and are considering a Stag & Doe, do yourself a favour and DON'T. Your friends and family will resent you forever. Or maybe that's just me talking.
Lastly, I just learned from one of my regular reads that today marks the beginning of International Blog Comment Week. So don't be lurkin' all up in here without saying anything.
Just a quick post to say Happy Easter...I'm on my way home to get babied by my parents and also to put back on the poundage I lost from the flu, thanks to my mother's cooking. Great. Let's hope that certain parties don't decide to celebrate the fact that He Has Risen by launching a Festive Air Strike against those who don't believe. Ah, religion.
Also happy to report that, unlike me, Fish seems to have made a full recovery from his illness. I can't believe it...he's a miracle fish! I thought he was a goner for sure. I won't doubt you again, my friend.
Yesterday: Day Two of the aforementioned Oh-So-Necessary creative presentation seminar. I wake up feeling like I've just been run over by a Mack Truck. I had been feeling unwell for a couple of days, but today i'm really sick. It's the Flu. Remembering that my bosses have done everything but threaten us with bodily harm if we do not attend the Oh-So-Necessary seminar, I decide to make a go of it. Here's a tip: If, in the morning, you need to SIT DOWN in the shower to prevent yourself from passing out, it's probably a good idea to stay home.
I don't know which part of the morning I enjoyed more: Drawing stares on the subway with my profuse sweating and heavy breathing, puking into a garbage can at Eglinton Station, or riding in a taxi with my head hanging out the window all the way home. OK...lesson learned. (Another lesson learned: Next year, I should probably set aside my Insane Needle Phobia long enough to get a flu shot.)
Needless to say, I missed the seminar.
So I've essentially been resting for two days, which sounds good but is incredibly boring, really. I'm too sick to putter (I had to nap after going downstairs to buy Kleenex), so I've been forced to stay put, watch bad daytime television and, you know, read books. Which is fantastic when you choose to do it, but it can make you mad restless when you've got no other choice. I'm freakin' stir crazy, man.
Unfortunately, I was too busy upchucking in public to catch Maury yesterday...thank goodness a friend emailed me a synopsis:
"Help me! My fat baby weights 300 pounds!"
I was sitting there, unable to move. I couldn't look away, and certainly could not turn it off. This was an hour of my life I will never get back. I am angry with myself for being so weak. These babies were eating ribs, corn bread, Snickers bars, root beer from their bottles, and pasta in the middle of the night. And of course, in order to exploit the kids to their fullest potential, Maury paraded them on stage in only their underpants or diapers. My favourite child was a 9-month old, 78-pounder named Jordan.
So sorry I missed it.
Posting has left me spent. I think I'll go sleep until Queer Eye comes on.
**DISCLAIMER**
This post was written under the influence of several glasses of Shiraz, so please disregard all comments...
Tomorrow's mood forcast...grumpy with a side of bitchiness...
I don't know why I've been so emotional lately...maybe it's because after a year working day and night on The Big Launch, it's just over now...and suddenly not being busy really makes you realize just how alone you are. And, you know, my birthday's coming up...and, I don't want to repeat myself, but the ovaries! Prince Charming...I'm kinda cute! And I smell good! Over here!
Speaking of Prince Charming, where has John Stamos been all my life? (I'm referring, of course, to my adult life, as when I was a child, Mr. Stamos was all vests-and-Hanes-T-shirts on Full House and all playing-drums-with-The-Beach-Boys and stuff, which didn't really fry my burger.) He's a total hottie now, though, and his new show, Jake in Progress, is pretty damned good. Have Mercy!
I have just finished Day One of a two-day creative presentation seminar that my boss felt it was Oh-So-Necessary for all of us to attend. Don't know if I agree, but it's a nice way to waste a couple of work days, that's for sure. Homework for today was to watch myself present some creative on video (we had to do taped presentations today). What a bizarre thing, to watch yourself on video! I popped the tape into my VCR, pressed PLAY and immediately was like OH GOD THIS CAN'T BE ME -- REALLY, WHO IS THIS GIRL? NO, SERIOUSLY, I HAVE TO BE MUCH THINNER THAN THAT, AND WHERE IS THAT VOICE COMING FROM -- NO, REALLY, THAT MUST NOT BE ME. THIS GIRL IS IRRITATING AND NOT SO ATTRACTIVE -- THEY MUST HAVE GOTTEN THE TAPES MIXED UP, BECAUSE EVERYONE KNOWS THAT I AM MUCH MORE PLEASANT TO LOOK AT AND LISTEN TO THAN THAT GIRL IS.
Looking at yourself on video is not the world's most flattering experience. I'm going to go cry into my pillow now...
One more thing...the title of this post is reminding me of a conversation I overheard between two salesgirls the other day:
"No, it's Bob Marley."
"Really? I totally thought it was WD40!"
