Wednesday, April 30, 2008

I guess he chose to die?

During Date no. 6 with Douche Bag gorgeous male, I ask him, "Do you vote?" Slickly, he responds, "That's too personal a question." I counter flatly: "So you don't."

Meet me, a self-proclaimed politics junkie who loves to debate the issues, hold screaming matches with the homeless man on the corner of Tremont and Summer streets, and who has even ended the occasional friendship, all in the name of politics. In the same token, I do recognize that not everyone is of the same mindset. Most people can survive (and actually prefer) just knowing the bare minimum and anything more than that becomes unnecessary filler. Buuuuut… in my narrow-minded know-it-all manner, I assumed that the excitement and drama of this 2008 election season would be enough to get even the most non-committal person off their duffs. I seriously thought that it was the new "in" thing to know one's choice of Obama or Clinton. Everyone was doing their part, even the fashion world. I can almost swear on a pair of 2007 patent leather ombre Prada pumps that Vogue magazine had featured a piece on the most stylish outfits to wear to the voting booths. So I guess I was shocked to meet a generational peer who could casually shrug off the election to actually say that he didn't see the point. Dude... Seriously?

Of course I rush back to the office to email my sister who responds: He does NOT vote??? Abort! Abort! Abort! Holy shit…

Sigh. You said it sister.

Monday, April 28, 2008

Another reason Halle is Halle and I'm Me

Werther’s Original Chewy Caramels taste real good, plus they are a healthier candy choice (with 6 pieces equaling 5g of fat). The problem is nobody buys a bag of these candies without finishing the bag in one sitting. It is the height of delusion to think otherwise. Example, here I am the other day, driving home from work:

On the highway. Oh look, there’s the exit to HEB. I need fruits.

Inside HEB. Wow, from now till I get home, I’ll be super hungry. Maybe I should get something to snack on. Ooh, I haven’t had Werther’s Original Chewy Caramel candies in a minute!

Inside Car: I’ll just have one. Reading nutritional facts. Wow, 6 pieces only 5 grams! Cool. I’ll just have 6 then.

Now Driving. First piece. Yikes, stuck my teeth together. Note to self: Buy anti-cavity mouthwash.

Fourth Piece. This is good. 6 pieces will definitely do the trick.

Done with Sixth Piece. Reaching for 7th. Wait, what?

10th piece. Heh. What was I thinking denying myself something so good?

Back at home. 12th piece. I swear I can feel the endorphins being released.

15th piece. Ow, felt that zing. I’ll transfer candy to other side of mouth.

Much later. Last piece. Oh my God.

But then, considering there are 4 servings, it comes down to only 20g of fat consumed. That’s like the usual semi-large chocolate bar! Right? Except this tastes way better! And fear of your teeth rotting will keep you from doing this often!

...and the shame.

I’m going jogging first thing in the morning.

Letters to Halle

Dear Halle,
I think I may hate you
A hater

Dear Halle,
Thanks for proving to the unbelievers that there are aliens out there. Because you, my dear, cannot be human.
Citizens for Alien Life.

Dear Halle,
The women whose men just won't f*cking shut up about how hot you are club.

Dear Halle,
It's the rocks isn't it? Because six weeks after giving birth, my ass.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

Oh McDreamy

Ladies, the man pictured to the left is none other than… wait for it… THE Dr. McDreamy. Yes, him. I cannot tell you how many times this man made me sigh during the first season of Grey’s Anatomy. At least, until Birke took off his shirt in the on-call room to do the nasty with Christina. (Sigh). Or until McSteamy came on the scene. (Yum.)

So imagine my surprise when the preview for the potentially craptastic movie, Made of Honor, came across my television screen. Very classic reaction- fistful of popcorn paused en route to mouth, eyes wide and staring disbelievingly as the former male lead of at least two of my triple X-rated fantasies pranced around and pirouetted in a bubblegum pouffy 1980s-style bridesmaid dress.

Preview over, I wonder how desperate McDreamy had become to be reduced to a movie so seemingly embarrassing that it should have been slated for a straight to VHS release. (Yes, a DVD release is too kind for this disaster). And let’s not talk about the syrupy gouge-my-eyes-out annoyance that was Enchanted. So I dash for my laptop, google Grey’s Anatomy to see if the show had been cancelled. It’s not. So it’s worse than I thought- he had no excuse. So in an open letter …

Dear McDreamy,

Those of us Grey’s Anatomy loyalists spend countless moments defending our love of this show and of you. Your movie choices? Not helping.


Friday, April 25, 2008

Dude, don't harsh my buzz

Me: It's Friday! Aren't you excited?
Friend with very negative energy: How can I be? When I know Monday's around the corner?

Happy Friday!

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Head, meet desk

No wonder us IT folks are usually smug bastards:

From: MR
Sent: Wednesday, April 23, 2008 11:26 AM
To: IT Department
Subject: Word 2007

Does anyone know what I have to do to make Word not change an italicized word back to normal when I hit Ctrl+I after typing the word?

From: oogie
Sent: Wednesday, April 23, 2008 11:36 AM
To: MR
Subject: RE: Word 2007

Hit Ctrl+I again?


Monday, April 21, 2008

Rule #489 about dating

Gents, here's another dating rule to live by. (Yes, another one.) When you ask for and are honored with our phone number, and you're over the age of 23, call us within two days. The reasoning behind this shockingly complex notion? When two days have passed and we have not heard from you, we may automatically (and quite often correctly) assume that you have a girlfriend or a wife tucked away at home. And depending on the principles of the girl in question, we will not want to touch you with a 10-foot pole. Even if you profess your singledom from the top of some snow capped mountain.

Example: This past Wednesday afternoon, while walking through the streets of Boston's financial district and maneuvering the throng of suits, I walked past heartbreakingly gorgeous male suit. So gorgeous that you knew he had a Betty at home. I turned back to stare longingly at the back of said gorgeous male and there he's standing, staring at me. He motions me over, I skip over to him. Maybe a hop here and there. Trying not to drool, I engage in mindless chatter and we eventually exchange numbers. Based on the amazing first conversation we'd just had, I expect a phone call from him within ten minutes. End of day to be conservative. Wednesday passes. Then Thursday. F*ck? On Friday, I call his cell to ask him out for lunch. No response. Okay then. Brush dirt off shoulder. Back to Bachelors number 1 through 6. (Except #4. He didn't call the previous weekend, despite knowing I had been sick). Today is Monday. I get an email from douche bag gorgeous male. "Hello you, how are you?" I do not respond. Instead I forward email to my friends to state: Is he retarded? Douche bag then sends me a text. "Are you at work?" Then another text. "Because you didn't respond to my email?" Douche, you just sent me the email 20 minutes ago. Cool your heels- what happened? You broke up with Betty?

See. As much as douche bag is more gorgeous than every male I've dated in the past year, any interest I have in him? Gone. (And I had a LOT of interest in him). Spark can dissipate oh so easily when you consider that I hadn't heard from him in almost a week. The weekend passed without a call and when you don't call before or on the weekend, it means you're spending it with another girl. Unfortunately douche bag, I'm not interested in being groupie chick No. 3. No. 2, perhaps (I may decide to wait out No. 1 until she gets disgusted and dies or moves or leaves- her call) but definitely not somewhere below that.

So yeah, douche. It's a no-go.

Picasso... On my feet.

It's avant-garde. It's Prada. Right. But make me understand... Please.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

Suburban banality

Our lawn has been looking extra healthy and green this year. I think it might win Best Lawn in the neighborhood!*

*I wish I was kidding, but I'm not. I actually care, like when an HEB Plus opened in the area. Help me.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

It's 2001 again... To bush or not to bush?

Today, my friend says to me: “I think I'm going through a fear of coming out, as in, coming out naturally…”

She has a fear of coming out naturally? Pubically? I’m not the biggest fan of the Brazilian wax- have you ever had to deal with the itchiness that comes when the hair starts to grow in? To each her own, I guess. But then, [light bulb goes off] this could be the next ‘it’ movement! Imagine. A Vagina Monologues- like show, centered around the woman’s right to wax or to not wax. Or perhaps I could write to Eve Ensler and ask that she include the “fear of coming out naturally” as one of the vagina monologues?

Picture the moment. The speaker steps out onto the stage, the ordinarily harsh spotlight glowing a pale amber. The woman’s face reflecting an intensity and an urgency that settles a hush over a restless audience. She begins to speak, strong, loud, proud: When I was 53, my husband packed his bags and left. Ten months before our thirtieth anniversary, and without a goodbye. A week later, all I had to remember him was the expectation of a measly alimony check and a genital area that was bald and still swollen from my mandatory bi-monthly Brazilian wax. One night while watching Terms of Endearment, at the same moment my spoon scraped the cardboard bottom of my 5th straight Chunky Monkey, the growing hairs began to itch. As Shirley MacLaine screams “Give my daughter the shot!”, it hits me. There I was, stuffing my face with ice cream, 8 pounds heavier and scratching my bald vagina, while my husband sent me post cards from his new yacht docked somewhere in Barbados. Still scratching, I stood up. No more, I said. No more bald Vaginas!
[The speaker turns to the audience]
Scream it with me!
No more bald vaginas!
Say it!
No more Bald Vaginas!
I can't hear you!
The speaker leaves the stage. And at that moment, the audience knows that underneath her clothes, the speaker had overcome her fear of going natural.

I loved my idea. I patted myself on the back and day-dreamed of the inevitable accolades. Until my friend interrupts my attempts to high-five myself to correct me: “I meant wearing my hair natural.”

Oh then. Never mind.

Monday, April 14, 2008

Tom plays a good Chopin

So I recently realized that most of my knowledge of classical music comes from Tom and Jerry cartoons. What does this mean? Should I worry?

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Better than a self-portrait inspired by Warhol's Monroe

DNA 11 company takes your DNA, does some kind of computer magic where they separate it into nice little patterns, and sells the image as art. They are so pretty, and I actually went so far as to look up the price, but to think how douchey this will be hanging in my bedroom! If you are into that, what do you say when someone asks you what it means?

"It's my DNA from a cheek swab."
"Aside from that."
"It's abstract."

Ok. But a computer came up with those patterns. So now we're back to being pretentious.

Apples and Oranges

"I was raped", she said to me. Well, on a T-shirt. From her hideout in a safe. (“Oh, okay." (Awkward) "Would you like fries with that?”) This is Jennifer Baumgardener’s latest controversial statement, where rape victims publicly and proudly announce their sexual assault. A good idea in theory, but I cannot help but feel a million mixed emotions at this. Jennifer Baumgardener is the woman behind the famed "I had an abortion" tee, championed and won by various influential women, including Gloria Steinem, Ani DiFranco, etc. The "I had an abortion" tee makes sense. Such a tee proudly proclaims my right and power over my body, the right to choose what is done with it, decisions affecting it, etc.

I could be wrong, but the I was raped” tee, almost demeans the empowering and positive goals of the “I had an abortion” tee. Almost makes it a gimmick. To clarify, both should not be compared, as if both are actions that occurred on the wearer's body, and this is the wearer’s announcement of such action, openly inviting (or challenging) the world to engage in public discourse over ordinarily controversial topics.

This is not an issue of apples and oranges (apples and oranges are, after all, both fruit.) Abortion is a matter of choice. Rape is not. I have the right to decide the issue of my pregnancy in one, while my pride, innocence, my dignity, my body, is violated in the other. I have heard arguments that rape is often treated with shame and the “I was raped” tee will lessen the stigma attached to rape. There is that slight possibility. But even more possible (and likely) are those who will make a mockery of the pain, the hell, and the misery of these rape victims. This tee will likely not foster the right dialogue, and definitely not in an everyday setting. It will invite the idiocy of those who perhaps will think that the tee-shirt is along the lines of "I went to Paris and all I got was this lousy T-Shirt" … (read "I was raped and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.") Kudos to those for whom public discourse, brevity, etc. helps in their healing process. And I shall remain a staunch devotee of the school of thought that yes, discourse needs to happen on the topic of rape. But creating a situation possibly making light of such a serious and life-altering occurrence is definitely not the way to go about it.

Honey, we need to talk...

While I completely respect dude's right to choose, and putting aside all the obvious (and not so obvious) pro and anti arguments, I can't help but think- now there's another way to know if your husband's been unfaithful...

Friday, April 4, 2008

Puddy, this one's for you

I recently saw this bumper sticker on a car while driving through midtown Houston:

So cheeky. Just makes you want to follow the driver home.

Because I'm such a good democrat (and gas is currently $3.27 here in
Texas of all places), if it has to be, I will fully support Hillary, starting with this:

Happy Friday!

Thursday, April 3, 2008

Nobody wants to be Art

Dear world,

Please bear with me while I rant:

At times, Bostonians just bug. For a myriad of reasons besides the obvious that Boston is a city that is unbearably full of itself, albeit justifiably. Seriously, I think every noteworthy occurrence in colonial America and beyond happened in Massachusetts. From Plymouth Rock to John Adams to America's Independence to the Kennedys, its prominence in the Education, science, etc. etc. everything is in frigging Massachusetts. So the smugness, fine. Deserved.

But recently, Bostonians took their self-importance to a whole new level. Bostonians are extremely proud of the city's homegrown talent… its actors, teachers, athletes, scientists, etc. etc. And of course, their mascots (think New York city's naked cowboy). Here, we have the homeless (perhaps a bit crazy) man that rides his bicycle through the city, and late at night, screaming at the top of his lungs, making only one repetitive and drawn out sound... And recently, one homeless mascot, Mr. Butch, died in Boston’s Allston. And thousands of people showed up for his funeral. Mourning his loss. And there was a parade in his honor. And so I snapped (okay, semi-snapped). That many people cared about that man, they show up for a press-worthy funeral (and yes, it was covered everywhere)... The who's who of Boston showed up for this funeral, glitterati from far and wide was present, there may have been a red carpet or two (okay... I exaggerate)... YET, this man WAS homeless. Why didn't you help him while he was alive? I mean. All the thousands of people who came for his funeral... what? You each didn't have a dollar to spare to get the man off the streets? To prevent his eventual death from homelessness or whatever mental ailment he had?

Boston bugs. Just. Bugs. And so does that Deyn model girl. Whose 20-foot photo adorns the Burberry storefront and assaults my senses each time I walk by.