Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Mrs. Jason Priestley? What could have been...
Last night while watching InStyle Celebrity Weddings (yeah, I can't believe I'm admitting to watching it, either, but I kind of have to for the purposes of this story), I learned that I was thisclose to being Mrs. Jason Priestley. Apparently Jason met his wife while working on a play in London (no doubt the same play I saw him in while I was there--I mean, really, how many plays has Jason Priestley done in London?). She was puking in the street in Soho, and he found this so charming that he fell in love with her instantly. Here, my friends, was my fatal mistake. For when I met Jason Priestley, I was not puking in the street, but rather taking a picture of all of my friends with him like a big sucker. Damn! Why couldn't I have just broken the no-vomiting streak for the chance to have my wedding attended by 90210 alums like Jennie Garth and Tiffani Thiessen and to have the Barenaked Ladies sing a Carpenters cover at my reception? A little vomit is worth all that, surely. And furthermore, if what Jason Priestley likes is drunk girls stumbling around the streets of London, where was he all those times after 2-for-1 night at Cafe Society when my friends ditched me at the bus stop and I was drunkenly stumbling around the streets of London? Huh? I guess it just wasn't meant to be. (By the way, I realize my friends didn't come off so great in this paragraph, but aside from the two bus-stop-ditching incidents and the one making-me-take-a-picture-of-all-of-them-with-Jason-Priestley-while-conveniently-leaving-me-out-of-said-picture incident, both of which they already know I will never forgive them for, they really are fabulous.)
Here's what else I learned from InStyle Celebrity Weddings, or rather the way-too-long Leann Rimes commercials during InStyle Celebrity Weddings: Leann Rimes's engagement ring is positively tiny. Not by normal-people standards, mind you, but by Hollywood standards, which dictate that Heidi Klum's engagement ring is 10 freaking carats and how does she even hold her hand up with that thing on it, Leann Rimes's ring is miniscule. Now we know why Britney bought her own.
Last night while watching InStyle Celebrity Weddings (yeah, I can't believe I'm admitting to watching it, either, but I kind of have to for the purposes of this story), I learned that I was thisclose to being Mrs. Jason Priestley. Apparently Jason met his wife while working on a play in London (no doubt the same play I saw him in while I was there--I mean, really, how many plays has Jason Priestley done in London?). She was puking in the street in Soho, and he found this so charming that he fell in love with her instantly. Here, my friends, was my fatal mistake. For when I met Jason Priestley, I was not puking in the street, but rather taking a picture of all of my friends with him like a big sucker. Damn! Why couldn't I have just broken the no-vomiting streak for the chance to have my wedding attended by 90210 alums like Jennie Garth and Tiffani Thiessen and to have the Barenaked Ladies sing a Carpenters cover at my reception? A little vomit is worth all that, surely. And furthermore, if what Jason Priestley likes is drunk girls stumbling around the streets of London, where was he all those times after 2-for-1 night at Cafe Society when my friends ditched me at the bus stop and I was drunkenly stumbling around the streets of London? Huh? I guess it just wasn't meant to be. (By the way, I realize my friends didn't come off so great in this paragraph, but aside from the two bus-stop-ditching incidents and the one making-me-take-a-picture-of-all-of-them-with-Jason-Priestley-while-conveniently-leaving-me-out-of-said-picture incident, both of which they already know I will never forgive them for, they really are fabulous.)
Here's what else I learned from InStyle Celebrity Weddings, or rather the way-too-long Leann Rimes commercials during InStyle Celebrity Weddings: Leann Rimes's engagement ring is positively tiny. Not by normal-people standards, mind you, but by Hollywood standards, which dictate that Heidi Klum's engagement ring is 10 freaking carats and how does she even hold her hand up with that thing on it, Leann Rimes's ring is miniscule. Now we know why Britney bought her own.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Pleasure or pain--your choice, only $25 plus a $3 processing fee
Why does it seem as if every admission I pay lately is $25 plus a $3 processing fee? And why, also, does it seem like admission to these events is rarely, if ever, worth $25 plus a $3 processing fee? (Honestly, I think it's the $3 processing fee that's killing me. Just when I've managed to swallow the idea that I'm paying $25 for admission to whatever it is, I'm suddenly hit with those extra three dollars, and outrage strikes again. "What--$28?! No. I was willing to pay $25 for this, but $28? That's just asking too much. I am not paying $28 for--oh, fine.")
My latest $25-plus-$3-processing-fee expense is the only one I can feel remotely good about--and ironically, it's also the one that's going to cause me the most pain. This morning I registered for the 5K that I will be running in less than two weeks, and although I felt $25 plus a $3 processing fee was a little too much to pay just to prove to myself that I could run 3.1 miles (really, I could just go out and run 3.1 miles by myself for free), I didn't mind the expense so much because it's going to charity. (Well, all of it except for that damn $3 processing fee, which I'm becoming more and more convinced is the root of all evil.) Also, I get a T-shirt.
Then there are the things for which I struggle to justify the $25-plus-$3-processing-fee payment, mostly because they do not involve me getting a T-shirt. There was the New Year's Eve dance party, where my $25 and $3 processing fee bought me the privilege of dancing on a nasty, beer-soaked concrete floor to music that was popular three years ago with a bunch of people who, like me, were way too overdressed to be dancing on a nasty, beer-soaked concrete floor to music that was popular three years ago. And then there's the Biltmore Estate, which I will be paying $25 (there was no mention of a $3 processing fee, but if history is any indication, it will surely be tacked on at the last minute) to visit next month. I'm willing to pay the $25 (and, I suppose, the inevitable $3 processing fee) only because this is the discounted winter admission price, and I really want to see what they have there that's so spectacular that people would actually pay the full admission price ($45 and God knows how much of a processing fee) for the privilege of seeing it. The freaking sidewalks better be paved with diamonds and they better sprinkle solid gold dust from the ceiling at that price, is all I'm saying. Not to mention, I'd better get a T-shirt.
Why does it seem as if every admission I pay lately is $25 plus a $3 processing fee? And why, also, does it seem like admission to these events is rarely, if ever, worth $25 plus a $3 processing fee? (Honestly, I think it's the $3 processing fee that's killing me. Just when I've managed to swallow the idea that I'm paying $25 for admission to whatever it is, I'm suddenly hit with those extra three dollars, and outrage strikes again. "What--$28?! No. I was willing to pay $25 for this, but $28? That's just asking too much. I am not paying $28 for--oh, fine.")
My latest $25-plus-$3-processing-fee expense is the only one I can feel remotely good about--and ironically, it's also the one that's going to cause me the most pain. This morning I registered for the 5K that I will be running in less than two weeks, and although I felt $25 plus a $3 processing fee was a little too much to pay just to prove to myself that I could run 3.1 miles (really, I could just go out and run 3.1 miles by myself for free), I didn't mind the expense so much because it's going to charity. (Well, all of it except for that damn $3 processing fee, which I'm becoming more and more convinced is the root of all evil.) Also, I get a T-shirt.
Then there are the things for which I struggle to justify the $25-plus-$3-processing-fee payment, mostly because they do not involve me getting a T-shirt. There was the New Year's Eve dance party, where my $25 and $3 processing fee bought me the privilege of dancing on a nasty, beer-soaked concrete floor to music that was popular three years ago with a bunch of people who, like me, were way too overdressed to be dancing on a nasty, beer-soaked concrete floor to music that was popular three years ago. And then there's the Biltmore Estate, which I will be paying $25 (there was no mention of a $3 processing fee, but if history is any indication, it will surely be tacked on at the last minute) to visit next month. I'm willing to pay the $25 (and, I suppose, the inevitable $3 processing fee) only because this is the discounted winter admission price, and I really want to see what they have there that's so spectacular that people would actually pay the full admission price ($45 and God knows how much of a processing fee) for the privilege of seeing it. The freaking sidewalks better be paved with diamonds and they better sprinkle solid gold dust from the ceiling at that price, is all I'm saying. Not to mention, I'd better get a T-shirt.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Is there anything less appetizing than dead babies?
There might be, but I really don't want to know about it. The dead babies were bad enough. This afternoon at the library, I pulled into a space next to this old van, every last inch of which was covered with bumper stickers. You know the type. However, it wasn't until I parked that I happened to notice that the entire side of the van was plastered with stomach-turningly graphic pictures of aborted fetuses. Yeah.
It's not that I didn't still enjoy the cheeseburger and raspberry limeade cream slush that I got from Sonic, but I really think I might have gotten more pleasure out of it if I hadn't seen that first.
There might be, but I really don't want to know about it. The dead babies were bad enough. This afternoon at the library, I pulled into a space next to this old van, every last inch of which was covered with bumper stickers. You know the type. However, it wasn't until I parked that I happened to notice that the entire side of the van was plastered with stomach-turningly graphic pictures of aborted fetuses. Yeah.
It's not that I didn't still enjoy the cheeseburger and raspberry limeade cream slush that I got from Sonic, but I really think I might have gotten more pleasure out of it if I hadn't seen that first.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Your Friday diversion
If you, like me, are sitting around bored out of your mind at work because you suddenly have far less work to do than you've ever had before, and there don't seem to be any hand-modeling jobs coming your way at the moment (and I can only imagine that many of you are in such a pickle), fear not, for I have found a diversion for you.
For the past couple of hours, I have been completely engrossed in reading Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About. It is, in a word, awesome. It is also, in another word, time-consuming. So, in two words: Awesome and time-consuming. Perfect. That's just what this never-ending Friday needs.
If you, like me, are sitting around bored out of your mind at work because you suddenly have far less work to do than you've ever had before, and there don't seem to be any hand-modeling jobs coming your way at the moment (and I can only imagine that many of you are in such a pickle), fear not, for I have found a diversion for you.
For the past couple of hours, I have been completely engrossed in reading Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About. It is, in a word, awesome. It is also, in another word, time-consuming. So, in two words: Awesome and time-consuming. Perfect. That's just what this never-ending Friday needs.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Well, at least the phones are the same
My work-friend Francesca and I, while loyal devotees of the British version of The Office, are also pretty fond of the American version. Perhaps too fond, judging by this interaction today, which almost could have been a scene from the show:
INT. OFFICE HALLWAY--MID-AFTERNOON
Francesca: You're not doing anything, are you? You're just walking around!
Me: Well, what are you doing?
Francesca: [Pause] Pretty much the same thing.
Me: Yeah, that's what I thought.
Hmm. I think perhaps much like The Office, this scene was better in the original.
My work-friend Francesca and I, while loyal devotees of the British version of The Office, are also pretty fond of the American version. Perhaps too fond, judging by this interaction today, which almost could have been a scene from the show:
INT. OFFICE HALLWAY--MID-AFTERNOON
Francesca: You're not doing anything, are you? You're just walking around!
Me: Well, what are you doing?
Francesca: [Pause] Pretty much the same thing.
Me: Yeah, that's what I thought.
Hmm. I think perhaps much like The Office, this scene was better in the original.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
My hand: Coming soon to a newsstand near you!
One of the good things about having the plug pulled on one of my magazines is that my previously stress-filled work days have now become relatively stress-free. Another good thing is that my sudden abundance of free time means that I have more opportunities to nurture my nascent hand-modeling career, which is what I did for most of this morning. All right, so technically I didn't set out to nurture my hand-modeling career--I merely volunteered to help out our photo stylist, who needed some people to throw some hats in the air for a cover shoot. While on the shoot, the photographer realized that they actually needed someone to hold one of the hats stationary in order to get the focus for the shot. There I was in the right place at the right time, and now I've got a cover (a cover!) for my hand-modeling portfolio. You should be able to find my hand on your local newsstand around the beginning of May.
By the way, congratulations to Amber (or someone else who lives in Chicago and got to my blog by going through her blog) for being my 50,000th reader! Also, apologies to Amber, because I still do not have a prize to offer for such honors. Maybe by 100,000, I'll have my act together.
One of the good things about having the plug pulled on one of my magazines is that my previously stress-filled work days have now become relatively stress-free. Another good thing is that my sudden abundance of free time means that I have more opportunities to nurture my nascent hand-modeling career, which is what I did for most of this morning. All right, so technically I didn't set out to nurture my hand-modeling career--I merely volunteered to help out our photo stylist, who needed some people to throw some hats in the air for a cover shoot. While on the shoot, the photographer realized that they actually needed someone to hold one of the hats stationary in order to get the focus for the shot. There I was in the right place at the right time, and now I've got a cover (a cover!) for my hand-modeling portfolio. You should be able to find my hand on your local newsstand around the beginning of May.
By the way, congratulations to Amber (or someone else who lives in Chicago and got to my blog by going through her blog) for being my 50,000th reader! Also, apologies to Amber, because I still do not have a prize to offer for such honors. Maybe by 100,000, I'll have my act together.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Seriously, what is wrong with me?
So how's this for a rockin' Saturday? Last night, I went to bed at 9.
Actually, that's not entirely true. At 9:00, I was watching Will & Grace DVDs, fully intending to start on some freelance work afterward (so clearly, my night was already off to a rollicking start), but I became so overwhelmed with exhaustion that I decided it would probably be a good idea to take a quick nap before I attempted to make any sense of my freelance assignment.
An hour later, I woke up so groggy that I realized the freelance work was likely a lost cause. Therefore, I decided to just stop fighting the exhaustion and go to bed already, reasoning that my early bedtime would compel me to wake up early the next day, giving me plenty of time to complete my freelance assignment in between all my other commitments.
It was a good idea in theory--except the "early" time I woke up was 3 a.m., which meant I had to force myself to go back to sleep until a normal hour. Which ended up being 9.
After sleeping for nearly 12 hours, you'd think I'd be exceptionally well-rested, but I'm not. I'm still finding it a bit difficult to hold my head up and keep my eyes open, and the not-very-exciting nature of my freelance work is only compounding that. And so I implore you: Seriously, what is wrong with me?
So how's this for a rockin' Saturday? Last night, I went to bed at 9.
Actually, that's not entirely true. At 9:00, I was watching Will & Grace DVDs, fully intending to start on some freelance work afterward (so clearly, my night was already off to a rollicking start), but I became so overwhelmed with exhaustion that I decided it would probably be a good idea to take a quick nap before I attempted to make any sense of my freelance assignment.
An hour later, I woke up so groggy that I realized the freelance work was likely a lost cause. Therefore, I decided to just stop fighting the exhaustion and go to bed already, reasoning that my early bedtime would compel me to wake up early the next day, giving me plenty of time to complete my freelance assignment in between all my other commitments.
It was a good idea in theory--except the "early" time I woke up was 3 a.m., which meant I had to force myself to go back to sleep until a normal hour. Which ended up being 9.
After sleeping for nearly 12 hours, you'd think I'd be exceptionally well-rested, but I'm not. I'm still finding it a bit difficult to hold my head up and keep my eyes open, and the not-very-exciting nature of my freelance work is only compounding that. And so I implore you: Seriously, what is wrong with me?
Friday, January 20, 2006
Yeah, but what was the question?
On my way home from work, I drove past this church, the sign of which bore the following message:
Drugs and alcohol are not the answer. Jesus is the answer.
The problem here, of course, is that without the inclusion of a question, this is just patently untrue. Drugs and alcohol are the answer to a lot of questions. For instance: What has been responsible for a good number of high-profile celebrity deaths? What does the D.A.R.E. program warn kids about? What does Christa blog about 95 percent of the time? (All right, maybe drugs isn't exactly part of the answer to that last question, but it sure ain't Jesus, I can tell you that.)
So remember, kids, although Jesus is the answer to a lot of questions (among them: "Whose birthday do we celebrate on Christmas?" "Who was the subject of a recent film that made Mel Gibson shitloads of money?" and "What do people often say when someone cuts them off in traffic?"), it's probably not safe to assume that he's the answer to all questions.
On my way home from work, I drove past this church, the sign of which bore the following message:
Drugs and alcohol are not the answer. Jesus is the answer.
The problem here, of course, is that without the inclusion of a question, this is just patently untrue. Drugs and alcohol are the answer to a lot of questions. For instance: What has been responsible for a good number of high-profile celebrity deaths? What does the D.A.R.E. program warn kids about? What does Christa blog about 95 percent of the time? (All right, maybe drugs isn't exactly part of the answer to that last question, but it sure ain't Jesus, I can tell you that.)
So remember, kids, although Jesus is the answer to a lot of questions (among them: "Whose birthday do we celebrate on Christmas?" "Who was the subject of a recent film that made Mel Gibson shitloads of money?" and "What do people often say when someone cuts them off in traffic?"), it's probably not safe to assume that he's the answer to all questions.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
It's the little things
So far, this week has been full of big things. Big opportunities, big questions, big revelations, big assumptions, and big changes, one right after the other. And while most, if not all, of these big things have been of the good variety, the effect of them descending upon me all at once has been more than a little overwhelming at times.
So now I'm taking solace in the little things, like the short messages written inside the individually wrapped Dove dark chocolates residing in my freezer. They say things like, "Sing out loud to the elevator music" (I haven't done this yet--I never take the elevator) and "When two hearts race, both win" (cheesy, I know, but it got me right there). My favorite one that I've come across, however, is the smallest one of all, bearing only two words: "Why not?"
A small question, yes, but I have a feeling that it might just lead me to even bigger things.
So far, this week has been full of big things. Big opportunities, big questions, big revelations, big assumptions, and big changes, one right after the other. And while most, if not all, of these big things have been of the good variety, the effect of them descending upon me all at once has been more than a little overwhelming at times.
So now I'm taking solace in the little things, like the short messages written inside the individually wrapped Dove dark chocolates residing in my freezer. They say things like, "Sing out loud to the elevator music" (I haven't done this yet--I never take the elevator) and "When two hearts race, both win" (cheesy, I know, but it got me right there). My favorite one that I've come across, however, is the smallest one of all, bearing only two words: "Why not?"
A small question, yes, but I have a feeling that it might just lead me to even bigger things.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
This may be another one for the "too much information" file...
...but if I have to hear it, then you at least have to hear about it.
Late the other night, I was sitting in my favorite chair, innocently tapping away on my laptop, when I heard someone who may or may not have been my upstairs neighbor's belly-dancer girlfriend having what was quite possibly the loudest orgasm on record. She put to shame both the famous When Harry Met Sally deli scene and your average Herbal Essences commercial. She brought to mind the turn of phrase once used by Chandler on Friends when describing the effect he hoped to have on his new girlfriend: "My God, someone's killing her in there." For a moment I wondered if Danielle had moved back in, but even at her most vocal, she was no match for this girl.
I'm really hoping this was a one-night stand, because honestly, I don't know if I can take this kind of interruption on a regular basis. Although I guess I couldn't blame her if she wanted to come back for more.
...but if I have to hear it, then you at least have to hear about it.
Late the other night, I was sitting in my favorite chair, innocently tapping away on my laptop, when I heard someone who may or may not have been my upstairs neighbor's belly-dancer girlfriend having what was quite possibly the loudest orgasm on record. She put to shame both the famous When Harry Met Sally deli scene and your average Herbal Essences commercial. She brought to mind the turn of phrase once used by Chandler on Friends when describing the effect he hoped to have on his new girlfriend: "My God, someone's killing her in there." For a moment I wondered if Danielle had moved back in, but even at her most vocal, she was no match for this girl.
I'm really hoping this was a one-night stand, because honestly, I don't know if I can take this kind of interruption on a regular basis. Although I guess I couldn't blame her if she wanted to come back for more.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Your annual alternately biting/effusing Golden Globes wrap-up
We've all been here before. I hate January. I love the Golden Globes. Some people don't know how to dress themselves. So let's get on with it, shall we?
-What was with Sarah Jessica Parker's boring black strapless gown? What happened to the fashion risk-taker we all know and love (to hate)? Perhaps she got tired of me accusing her of regurgitating Ryan Seacrest.
-Oh my God! Charlize Theron has been attacked by a piece of renegade tulle!
-Apparently Nancy O'Dell picked up her gown from a rerun of Dynasty.
-How did Sandra Oh get so drunk so fast? She must've been knocking a few back in the limo.
-Just remember, girls--I asked George Clooney to marry me first.
-How did no one know that Gwyneth Paltrow was pregnant until, like, last week? I guess everyone was too busy watching Angelina's belly to notice Gwyneth's rapidly expanding one.
-Speaking of Angelina: Listen up, Evangeline Lily. I know Angelina Jolie. Angelina Jolie is a friend of mine. And you, my dear, despite how bad-assed you may be on Lost, are no Angelina Jolie. So if that flowing, empire-waist, Gwyneth-esque gown was an attempt to get some pregnancy rumors swirling about you--I don't think it's going to work. (Nor do I think I have to tell you that Dominic Monaghan? Ain't exactly Brad Pitt.)
-Ellen Pompeo: No. Just no. Someone should have told you this before you left the house.
-Geena Davis, on the other hand? Is awesome.
-I still think it's quite unfair that Zach Braff is dating Mandy Moore and not me, but I think I can learn to accept it. As long as George Clooney accepts my marriage proposal, that is.
We've all been here before. I hate January. I love the Golden Globes. Some people don't know how to dress themselves. So let's get on with it, shall we?
-What was with Sarah Jessica Parker's boring black strapless gown? What happened to the fashion risk-taker we all know and love (to hate)? Perhaps she got tired of me accusing her of regurgitating Ryan Seacrest.
-Oh my God! Charlize Theron has been attacked by a piece of renegade tulle!
-Apparently Nancy O'Dell picked up her gown from a rerun of Dynasty.
-How did Sandra Oh get so drunk so fast? She must've been knocking a few back in the limo.
-Just remember, girls--I asked George Clooney to marry me first.
-How did no one know that Gwyneth Paltrow was pregnant until, like, last week? I guess everyone was too busy watching Angelina's belly to notice Gwyneth's rapidly expanding one.
-Speaking of Angelina: Listen up, Evangeline Lily. I know Angelina Jolie. Angelina Jolie is a friend of mine. And you, my dear, despite how bad-assed you may be on Lost, are no Angelina Jolie. So if that flowing, empire-waist, Gwyneth-esque gown was an attempt to get some pregnancy rumors swirling about you--I don't think it's going to work. (Nor do I think I have to tell you that Dominic Monaghan? Ain't exactly Brad Pitt.)
-Ellen Pompeo: No. Just no. Someone should have told you this before you left the house.
-Geena Davis, on the other hand? Is awesome.
-I still think it's quite unfair that Zach Braff is dating Mandy Moore and not me, but I think I can learn to accept it. As long as George Clooney accepts my marriage proposal, that is.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Wedding overload! Wedding overload!
Somewhere between discussing bridesmaid's-dress choices with Nikki, spending most of Friday afternoon gathering research for a wedding-magazine launch, chatting with a co-worker about her daughter's upcoming wedding, and watching wedding episodes of both Sex & the City and Dawson's Creek (all right, so I brought that last one on myself, but once I started, it was kind of hard to stop), it's safe to say that I had already pretty much reached the wedding saturation point even before I consented to attend a bridal fair yesterday with my friend Terri. Thank God we arrived shortly before it shut down, because after just a few minutes in that environment (which Nikki's delightfully witty fiance, Jon, describes better than I ever could), my brain had already started to short-circuit.
So how am I recovering this morning from a weekend of wedding overload? By combing the free magazine I received at the bridal fair for more ideas for the magazine. I think there's something wrong with me.
Somewhere between discussing bridesmaid's-dress choices with Nikki, spending most of Friday afternoon gathering research for a wedding-magazine launch, chatting with a co-worker about her daughter's upcoming wedding, and watching wedding episodes of both Sex & the City and Dawson's Creek (all right, so I brought that last one on myself, but once I started, it was kind of hard to stop), it's safe to say that I had already pretty much reached the wedding saturation point even before I consented to attend a bridal fair yesterday with my friend Terri. Thank God we arrived shortly before it shut down, because after just a few minutes in that environment (which Nikki's delightfully witty fiance, Jon, describes better than I ever could), my brain had already started to short-circuit.
So how am I recovering this morning from a weekend of wedding overload? By combing the free magazine I received at the bridal fair for more ideas for the magazine. I think there's something wrong with me.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Is iTunes trying to tell me something?
I've got it set on shuffle right now, and the following is a list of the songs it has played, one right after the other, without any prompting from me (all right, I purposely selected the first one, but that doesn't count):
"Life Is Beautiful," Ryan Adams
"C'est Si Bon," Eartha Kitt
"Good to Be Alive," DJ Rap
"Closer to Fine," The Indigo Girls
Could iTunes be trying to cure me of my rediscovered teenage angst? I'm not sure, but I do know that if Natalie Merchant's "Life Is Sweet" comes up next, I'm going to be kind of freaked out.
I've got it set on shuffle right now, and the following is a list of the songs it has played, one right after the other, without any prompting from me (all right, I purposely selected the first one, but that doesn't count):
"Life Is Beautiful," Ryan Adams
"C'est Si Bon," Eartha Kitt
"Good to Be Alive," DJ Rap
"Closer to Fine," The Indigo Girls
Could iTunes be trying to cure me of my rediscovered teenage angst? I'm not sure, but I do know that if Natalie Merchant's "Life Is Sweet" comes up next, I'm going to be kind of freaked out.
Why? No, seriously. Why?
Why do they make see-through wedding dresses? I'm not talking about dresses with some sort of sheer overlay. I'm talking about dresses with bodices made of lace or other semi-transparent material, so that the bride's nipples are clearly visible through the fabric. Who is buying these dresses? Are there really brides out there who desire nothing more than to flash 200 of their closest friends and family on the big day? Is this some sort of incentive to get people to attend the ceremony? "The honor of your presence is requested at our wedding. If you come, you'll get to see my nipples!"
Honestly, people. Even Britney Spears' wedding dress, while obscenely short, was at least opaque.
Why do they make see-through wedding dresses? I'm not talking about dresses with some sort of sheer overlay. I'm talking about dresses with bodices made of lace or other semi-transparent material, so that the bride's nipples are clearly visible through the fabric. Who is buying these dresses? Are there really brides out there who desire nothing more than to flash 200 of their closest friends and family on the big day? Is this some sort of incentive to get people to attend the ceremony? "The honor of your presence is requested at our wedding. If you come, you'll get to see my nipples!"
Honestly, people. Even Britney Spears' wedding dress, while obscenely short, was at least opaque.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Apparently I've been happy
Tonight, after a particularly hellacious day at work, I was at the track, trying to run off some stress. (Look at me, thinking of running as stress relief, rather than a cause of stress--that must be progress, right?) I was shuffling through my iPod, trying to find some angry music to accompany me, when suddenly I was at a loss. I mean, I've got the songs on my pre-set "running mix," some of which are kind of angry (I seem to run best when listening to bitter break-up music, for some reason), but that just wasn't going to cut it today. My mind flitted briefly to my old stand-by in college, Ani DiFranco, but she wasn't right either. Finally, I just gave up and turned on the running mix. Soon after I did, it hit me: I've transfered all of my CDs to my iPod, which includes all of the music I bought while in high school--you know, Garbage, Alanis Morrissette (the good stuff, before she started singing about transparent dangling carrots), all that really super angry music. How is it possible that I'd so soon forgotten all of my teenage angst? Whatever the case, it seems that I've remembered its accompanying soundtrack just in time.
Tonight, after a particularly hellacious day at work, I was at the track, trying to run off some stress. (Look at me, thinking of running as stress relief, rather than a cause of stress--that must be progress, right?) I was shuffling through my iPod, trying to find some angry music to accompany me, when suddenly I was at a loss. I mean, I've got the songs on my pre-set "running mix," some of which are kind of angry (I seem to run best when listening to bitter break-up music, for some reason), but that just wasn't going to cut it today. My mind flitted briefly to my old stand-by in college, Ani DiFranco, but she wasn't right either. Finally, I just gave up and turned on the running mix. Soon after I did, it hit me: I've transfered all of my CDs to my iPod, which includes all of the music I bought while in high school--you know, Garbage, Alanis Morrissette (the good stuff, before she started singing about transparent dangling carrots), all that really super angry music. How is it possible that I'd so soon forgotten all of my teenage angst? Whatever the case, it seems that I've remembered its accompanying soundtrack just in time.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Shower the people
Something has gone seriously awry with my shower. When I turn it all the way on, the water pressure is practically nonexistent, yet when I turn it halfway off, so that most of the water from the tap is actually gushing into my tub, the showerhead water pressure suddenly returns to full force. This makes very little sense to me, but what makes even less sense is that when I do this, the water coming out of the tap and the water coming out of the showerhead are often radically different temperatures. I will often just stand there in the shower with one hand under each water source, marveling at how one can be scalding hot while the other is freezing cold. Needless to say, this makes it quite difficult to get any of the things done for which I went into the shower in the first place.
So vexing is this mystery of plumbing that I think that even if my parents had given in and bought my sister and I that set of Bob Villa do-it-yourself home repair books we always wanted (which, no doubt, would have been displayed proudly next to the Ronco Food Dehydrator and Sally Struthers veterinary assistant degree that we also wanted but never received), it still could not be solved. Some mysteries are beyond the comprehension of even Bob Villa.
Something has gone seriously awry with my shower. When I turn it all the way on, the water pressure is practically nonexistent, yet when I turn it halfway off, so that most of the water from the tap is actually gushing into my tub, the showerhead water pressure suddenly returns to full force. This makes very little sense to me, but what makes even less sense is that when I do this, the water coming out of the tap and the water coming out of the showerhead are often radically different temperatures. I will often just stand there in the shower with one hand under each water source, marveling at how one can be scalding hot while the other is freezing cold. Needless to say, this makes it quite difficult to get any of the things done for which I went into the shower in the first place.
So vexing is this mystery of plumbing that I think that even if my parents had given in and bought my sister and I that set of Bob Villa do-it-yourself home repair books we always wanted (which, no doubt, would have been displayed proudly next to the Ronco Food Dehydrator and Sally Struthers veterinary assistant degree that we also wanted but never received), it still could not be solved. Some mysteries are beyond the comprehension of even Bob Villa.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Je ne pense pas
There is no end to the ways in which I have allowed myself to be seduced by Paris, and now that list includes watching the season premiere of the new Bachelor. Sure, I wrote off this ridiculous show a few seasons ago, but once I heard that the new season would be taking place in Paris, my heart began to feel a tug. I thought maybe, just maybe, it might be like that time when I was watching Before Sunset, and Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy got on this boat, and this boat took them right past the exact same riverbank where Jeff and I sat on a warm afternoon after shopping and eating crepes on the Ile St. Louis.
And maybe it could've been like that, if The Bachelor were directed by Richard Linklater. (Although really, I can't imagine that would make much difference, other than causing me to lose all respect for Richard Linklater.) Because in the end, you'd still have what we got last night: too few rose-colored memories of Paris, and way too many obnoxious Americans trying to speak French with atrocious accents, plus psycho girls who won't shut up about reproduction. And while the reproductive psycho girl was mildly awesome (particularly during the credits when she was questioning the crew guy about the Bachelor's motives, and the crew guy was like, "Yeah, I don't really know him"), I still think I'm going to have to say non, merci to this wretched show once and for all.
There is no end to the ways in which I have allowed myself to be seduced by Paris, and now that list includes watching the season premiere of the new Bachelor. Sure, I wrote off this ridiculous show a few seasons ago, but once I heard that the new season would be taking place in Paris, my heart began to feel a tug. I thought maybe, just maybe, it might be like that time when I was watching Before Sunset, and Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy got on this boat, and this boat took them right past the exact same riverbank where Jeff and I sat on a warm afternoon after shopping and eating crepes on the Ile St. Louis.
And maybe it could've been like that, if The Bachelor were directed by Richard Linklater. (Although really, I can't imagine that would make much difference, other than causing me to lose all respect for Richard Linklater.) Because in the end, you'd still have what we got last night: too few rose-colored memories of Paris, and way too many obnoxious Americans trying to speak French with atrocious accents, plus psycho girls who won't shut up about reproduction. And while the reproductive psycho girl was mildly awesome (particularly during the credits when she was questioning the crew guy about the Bachelor's motives, and the crew guy was like, "Yeah, I don't really know him"), I still think I'm going to have to say non, merci to this wretched show once and for all.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Yeah, it's Monday
This morning as I was getting ready for work, I suddenly realized that I had put my underwear on inside out.
What makes it even worse is that I had put them on the night before--so not only did it take me that long to realize my mistake (granted, I was asleep for much of that time, but still), but I also can't really fall back on the old "Well, it's Monday" excuse.
I hope this is not any indication of the way the rest of the week is going to go.
This morning as I was getting ready for work, I suddenly realized that I had put my underwear on inside out.
What makes it even worse is that I had put them on the night before--so not only did it take me that long to realize my mistake (granted, I was asleep for much of that time, but still), but I also can't really fall back on the old "Well, it's Monday" excuse.
I hope this is not any indication of the way the rest of the week is going to go.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
The June Carter collection, now at K-Mart
I went to see Walk the Line last night. (My theory that I--other than my friend Terri, who went to see it with me--was the last person in America to see this movie was quickly disproved by the overcrowded theater.) The film was mesmerizing for several reasons, but the main source of fascination for me was June Carter/Reese Witherspoon's impeccable wardrobe. There wasn't a single ensemble she wore in the film that I didn't immediately want to possess. (Actually, there was one. I remember it because, just as I was thinking to myself, "I want every single outfit she wears in this movie," she appeared onstage in some hideous long-sleeved dress with an orange and blue pattern reminiscent of a circa-1970 sofa, and I then thought to myself, "Except for that one.") Seriously. How great would it be if some discount chain (I said K-Mart, but it would more likely be Target...or H&M) would knock off her deliciously retro wardrobe and sell it all at super-reasonable prices? So great, I think.
Of course, Katherine Heigl and her ilk would probably just take the pretty skirts and dresses and bastardize them for red-carpet events, so maybe it's best if this idea remains a fantasy.
I went to see Walk the Line last night. (My theory that I--other than my friend Terri, who went to see it with me--was the last person in America to see this movie was quickly disproved by the overcrowded theater.) The film was mesmerizing for several reasons, but the main source of fascination for me was June Carter/Reese Witherspoon's impeccable wardrobe. There wasn't a single ensemble she wore in the film that I didn't immediately want to possess. (Actually, there was one. I remember it because, just as I was thinking to myself, "I want every single outfit she wears in this movie," she appeared onstage in some hideous long-sleeved dress with an orange and blue pattern reminiscent of a circa-1970 sofa, and I then thought to myself, "Except for that one.") Seriously. How great would it be if some discount chain (I said K-Mart, but it would more likely be Target...or H&M) would knock off her deliciously retro wardrobe and sell it all at super-reasonable prices? So great, I think.
Of course, Katherine Heigl and her ilk would probably just take the pretty skirts and dresses and bastardize them for red-carpet events, so maybe it's best if this idea remains a fantasy.
Friday, January 06, 2006
It's not exactly a 40-foot billboard in Times Square, but...
This afternoon, I got a sneak preview of the layout of the hat article I modeled for--and discovered that the full-page opening image is...well, me. All right, mostly it's the hat, but I am the one wearing it, and slightly out of focus in the background are my lips, chin, and unusually protruding collarbone. (Seriously. I don't know what was going on. I've got the collarbone of a mid-anorexia Lindsay Lohan in this picture for some reason.) Oh, and my hand is resting on the brim of the hat prominently in the foreground because, after I informed the photo stylist about my desire to become a hand model, she wanted to make sure I had another shot to add to my portfolio. No, really. That's why she had me put my hand on the hat.
The experience of seeing my picture blown up to such proportions, all the while knowing it would soon be appearing on newsstands, was equal parts exciting and horrifying. It was kind of like when we did our practice round for Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, and the video was projected onto these two jumbo screens in the studio. It was at that point that I started to think maybe I didn't really want to be a millionaire so much.
My sneak peek at the layout also revealed that my Katherine Heigl dress unfortunately didn't make it into the magazine. I suspected as much, though. By the time we finally got to the photo shoot, selected outfits, then chose hats to go with the outfits, the light outdoors had become pretty harsh, rendering the images too shadowy to be used. So you win, Katherine Heigl...this round.
This afternoon, I got a sneak preview of the layout of the hat article I modeled for--and discovered that the full-page opening image is...well, me. All right, mostly it's the hat, but I am the one wearing it, and slightly out of focus in the background are my lips, chin, and unusually protruding collarbone. (Seriously. I don't know what was going on. I've got the collarbone of a mid-anorexia Lindsay Lohan in this picture for some reason.) Oh, and my hand is resting on the brim of the hat prominently in the foreground because, after I informed the photo stylist about my desire to become a hand model, she wanted to make sure I had another shot to add to my portfolio. No, really. That's why she had me put my hand on the hat.
The experience of seeing my picture blown up to such proportions, all the while knowing it would soon be appearing on newsstands, was equal parts exciting and horrifying. It was kind of like when we did our practice round for Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, and the video was projected onto these two jumbo screens in the studio. It was at that point that I started to think maybe I didn't really want to be a millionaire so much.
My sneak peek at the layout also revealed that my Katherine Heigl dress unfortunately didn't make it into the magazine. I suspected as much, though. By the time we finally got to the photo shoot, selected outfits, then chose hats to go with the outfits, the light outdoors had become pretty harsh, rendering the images too shadowy to be used. So you win, Katherine Heigl...this round.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Oh, baby
My mom called last night to tell me that my best friend from high school is expecting a baby. I haven't seen or talked to her since her wedding almost three years ago, but I often think about the way our lives have diverged since high school, when we were so inseparable that we wrote each other multiple letters (not notes...these were letters) throughout the day. When we would stay over at each other's houses and literally stay up talking the entire night. Even then, though, there was a part of me that knew our lives were going to take us in different directions. In the last letter that I wrote her right before I graduated, I told her, in that oh-so-wise way 18-year-olds have, "We are both mature enough to realize that our friendship as we know it right now is drawing to a close." I said I hoped that the bond we had was strong enough to withstand the changes, but if it wasn't, to know how much I appreciated her friendship and how grateful I was for the things I'd learned from her.
But Amanda--she had faith that, despite our separate paths, we'd eventually circle back around. "When we're old our grandkids can play while we argue over guys," she said in her last letter to me. "Just wait and see."
I hope she's right.
My mom called last night to tell me that my best friend from high school is expecting a baby. I haven't seen or talked to her since her wedding almost three years ago, but I often think about the way our lives have diverged since high school, when we were so inseparable that we wrote each other multiple letters (not notes...these were letters) throughout the day. When we would stay over at each other's houses and literally stay up talking the entire night. Even then, though, there was a part of me that knew our lives were going to take us in different directions. In the last letter that I wrote her right before I graduated, I told her, in that oh-so-wise way 18-year-olds have, "We are both mature enough to realize that our friendship as we know it right now is drawing to a close." I said I hoped that the bond we had was strong enough to withstand the changes, but if it wasn't, to know how much I appreciated her friendship and how grateful I was for the things I'd learned from her.
But Amanda--she had faith that, despite our separate paths, we'd eventually circle back around. "When we're old our grandkids can play while we argue over guys," she said in her last letter to me. "Just wait and see."
I hope she's right.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
This is not a good sign
Earlier today, I was at Target with my friends after our post-New Year's Eve meal at Steak N Shake. (Incidentally, is there any better hangover food than a plate of cheese fries? If there is, I have yet to find it.) We were browsing through the dollar section when I came across a Magic 8 Ball keychain, with which I had the following exchange:
Me: Is 2006 going to be a good year?
Magic 8-Ball: Too bad.
Me: No, really, is it?
Magic 8-Ball: No.
Me: Seriously, come on. It's going to be awesome, right?
Magic 8-Ball: No.
Uh-oh.
Earlier today, I was at Target with my friends after our post-New Year's Eve meal at Steak N Shake. (Incidentally, is there any better hangover food than a plate of cheese fries? If there is, I have yet to find it.) We were browsing through the dollar section when I came across a Magic 8 Ball keychain, with which I had the following exchange:
Me: Is 2006 going to be a good year?
Magic 8-Ball: Too bad.
Me: No, really, is it?
Magic 8-Ball: No.
Me: Seriously, come on. It's going to be awesome, right?
Magic 8-Ball: No.
Uh-oh.
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