September 28, 2007
"The Girls Go Green"
Previously on "America's Next Top Model," 33 whores set sail, but only 13 were chosen as the most likely to make for dramatic television, including The Brains, The Ghetto and The Autistic. The dramatis trifecta, if you will.
The girls are in the L.A. fashion district with Jay, who is wearing a sparkly skull t-shirt. Clearly, he is jealous of the relationship Tyra and I have, so now he's starting up with the shout-outs to Wenchie. *sigh* It's all very tedious, really. Very well, Jay, you can play pirate, too.
Apparently, ANTM is "going green" because their ho-mobile this season is 100% biodiesel. Whatever that means. Tyra now fancies herself an earth mother, and her little chicks toddle in line right behind her. One of them is glad that it "keeps our earth good." Bra-VO, little chickie.
Enh? What's up with Jay saying tomorrow like tomoooooorrow? Where the hell is he from, anyway? I'm going to have to call Total Affectation on that one, Jay. Sorry!
The theme for this season's House o' Hos is "Tyra-Jaslene-Green." Hey, where are the other winners? Where's what's-her-name, the cute girl? And Danielle? God, Tyra is fickle.
Ebony is, apparently, trying to be "more reserved" so the other girls don't hate her. What?! What the hell kind of Oprah shit is that?! I wants me some bitchy, bitch!
Well, we're only 5 minutes in, and already someone has suggested skinny-dipping. Someone besides Husband, I mean. But I guess these dim bulbs think that skinny-dipping means fully-clothed. So bored. I'm going to flip through the Pottery Barn holiday catalogue.
Heather is alone all the time, and the other girls think that's weird. Personally, I find it refreshing. And I'd be doing the same thing. So F.U., other girls.
Oh, gag. I can already see where this whole season is headed. Tyra wants to make a difference in the world. The first shoot is an anti-smoking theme. The girls will take two photos: one photo smoking a cig; and one photo of the ravaging effects of smoking, which will be a composite looking-in-the-mirror thing.
There's disgusting stuff like tumors and cancer and bleeding from the mouth. Shouldn't this have been the Halloween episode? It's all very gruesome. Especially the one with the girl holding the dead baby. I think that's going over the top a bit, no?
Bianca and Lisa have randomly chosen to hate each for no reason. Well, thank GOD.
Bianca is all, "I'm ready to throw a cell phone at her."
HA! You know Tyra left that in there as a little fuck you to Naomi Campbell! That was brilliant.
In other news, Mila continues to be a vapid freak repressing her deep, dark, messy secrets and giggles her way through a photo shoot where she is made up to look like a chemo patient who has lost her hair. I'm starting to think she's waaaaaaaaaaaaaay more evil than Ebony.
In the holding tank, Bianca starts giving shit to Lisa about being an exotic dancer, and how Tyra would never pick a pole-dancer to be America's Next Top Model. Lisa gets all up in her grill (is that how the kids are saying it these days?), but neither throws a punch. They never do, do they?
Later, in the jacuzzi, the girls begrudgingly apologize to each other. Because water symbolizes rebirth and new beginnings.
Miss J comes in and blah-blah-blahs about styling issues and basic items and other buzzwords that are meant to justify his presence on the show.
(S)He announces that they're going shopping at Old Navy, and all the girls squeal like he just said Tiffany's. Jesus, where did they find these girls? I mean, I occasionally shop at Old Navy, but it's nothing to get excited about. Ladies, it's The Gap meets Walmart. Don't sell yourselves so cheap.
Oh, Christ, Benny Ninja is back. The girls get 10 min. to put together an outfit that will be judged by The Panel. Yeah, good luck with that.
Tyra Mail! The first elimination.
HA! They keep having to bleep Lisa.
Oh my God. I think we have a new House Bitch, people. Kimberly interviews that she's keeping her distance from Heather because people like that tend to get "clingy" if you're nice to them. Holy shit. I can't believe she just said that on national television.
Heather overhears the other girls talking about what a weirdo she is, and she gets all down and cries to her mom on the phone. Her mom is totally awesome, by the way, and after encouraging her, tells her to "be sweet to the other girls." I believe that's an ANTM first, ladies and gentlemen.
Panel time, contract with Elite Models, 6-page spread and cover of Seventeen, $100,000 Cover Girl contract.
No guest panelist this week, so it's just Tyra, Nigel, Twiggy and Miss J. And again I lament -- why is Jay not on the panel? What has he done to anger Tyra?
Chantal has way too many accessories, but they are blown away by her film. She just has to watch the "bedroom eyes."
Then there's some girl whose name I missed and they didn't have too much to say about her anyway.
Aubriel's earrings are too big.
Victoria has a nice, clean look and needs to work on her charm.
Lisa is saucy and cheeky.
Mila paegent-walks up to The Panel and Tyra has a stroke. Her photo looks like she was doing a sneaky-cheek fart, and they did NOT like the way she laughed through a shoot with such a serious subject. How can Tyra even see Mila from way up there on her horse?
Sarah... something about being able to see her inner monologue.
Bianca had dead eyes. Like her soul.
Janet... I don't know. Forgettable.
Ebony has "skinny, busted-up legs." Tyra asks her why she's been quiet and holding back, and she explains that she thinks her "confidence is misinterpreted," so she's trying to not be such a cunt. Is that always their excuse? Oh, I'm so confident that the other girls are jealous and see it wrongly as arrogance. I'm making a W at her with my fingers.
Kimberly needs to watch her hootchiness.
Heather is beautiful but has a shrinking demeanor.
Saleisha is confident. She's also the winner of Benny Ninja's Old Navy Outfit Challenge (The BNONOC, for short.) She threw on a sack dress and a cheap-ass necklace. Well-played, Saleisha. She wins a $1,000 Old Navy shopping spree and gets to shoot an ad for them.
The Panel deliberates: Chantal is too pretty, Janet is not a model, Mila is dead, Jenna need to go shopping, Kimberly is hootchie, Ebony has a dark side and couldn't handle the critique, Nigel loves Victoria, Heather is a dream to photograph (aren't they all?), Bianca is not a model.
Tyra announces that this season of ANTM is officially a No Smoking cycle. A couple girls look stricken. And I'm sure they'll pack on 10 lbs. each before the competition is over. HA!
All the girls get called except Ebony and Mila. Mila's going home, and thank goodness because not only is she retarded, but she's homely as hell.
Next week: Saleisha stands up to Bianca, and the girls get "the shock of their lives." So they'll have a photoshoot where they're electrocuted or something. I hope I can stay awake.
Posted at 08:47 PM | Comments (2)September 27, 2007
Back On the Chain Gang
Well, it's official. My work shoes are five-hour shoes, not nine-hour shoes.
How did I come to this brilliant -- if not painful -- conclusion? Did I go straight to the mall after work and forget my tennies? Did Husband surprise me by picking me up at work and taking me downtown for the day? Did I just feel like being taller?
No.
People, you had better sit down for this.
I've been at WORK. For NINE HOURS. Minus an hour for lunch.
Weep with me, my darlings. Your beloved Wenchie has had her cute, button nose pressed hard to the grindstone once again.
It went like this:
Thursday p.m. -- After much inner-debate and external waffling, Husband went into full-on Panic Mode and informed me that, in order to avoid living in a van down by the river, I had to go back to work fulltime. Effective immediately.
Friday a.m. -- To appease him, I emailed the H.R. lady from my old job with Mr. Frowny Face.
Friday p.m. -- H.R. Lady called with a possible job.
Monday p.m. -- I got offered a fulltime job, starting as soon as humanly possible.
Tuesday a.m. -- Had to break the news to New Boss, and break his heart. It was like breaking up with a really nice guy just because I'm not that into him.
Wednesday -- Had one last bittersweet day of freedom.
Thursday a.m. -- Spent 5 hrs. at current job.
Thursday p.m. -- Spent 3.5 hrs. at New New Job.
It's gonna be Dead Man Walking tomorrow morning. Husband is gonna have to drag me to my car, blubbering and dragging my feet.
But I'm still going to do my damnedest to keep cranking out the blogs (no guarantee as to quality), even at the expense of clean floors and homemade dinners, if only to passively-aggressively prove to Husband that I can't possibly pursue my dream of becoming a famous writer while working fulltime.
And believe me, he will not enjoy being married if I'm robbed of my lifelong dream. I'll see to that.
Posted at 05:52 PM | Comments (2)September 26, 2007
Big, Black Pants
We did two bottle band gigs over the weekend, which makes for a very long weekend. The first gig was for someone's 50th wedding anniversary, so there were lots of people there over the age of 70. The Saturday gig was for the residents of a large local retirement community, so there were lots of people there over the age of 80.
Surprisingly, the octogenarians were a much better audience. I guess, when you're that close to death, you appreciate anything that'll distract The Reaper for just a little while longer.
The retirement community had a really nice performance space. When we were done setting up and went to get dressed, it hit me that I had forgotten my dress.
My long, clingy, black dress.
How could I forget my dress?! It's the centerpiece around which my entire outfit is created! It's the canvas for the work of art that is moi!
I could forget my shoes, or my opera gloves, or even my earrings. But my dress?! GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
With my veiled pillbox hat on my head, and my huge-ass rhinestone earrings on my lobes, I approached the director still wearing my jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt.
"Dude. I'm so sorry. I forgot my dress."
"Wenchie. Have you seen our audience? It's not going to register. Don't worry about it."
Phew! At least he wasn't mad at me. And if Nicki has taught me anything, it's that any t-shirt can be dressed up with a necklace. And I had four strands of pearls! I was halfway to performance-ready!
A few women from the band started to offer me... something. But then they realized that they're all SIZE FOURS, and the laws of the universe wouldn't allow me to wear their stuff.
So, in a poetic, circle-of-life moment, it was WG who came to the rescue. With his black pants.
Now, who among us hasn't gained a few pounds as high school has retreated into the distance and our metabolisms slowed? WG is no exception. And -- how shall I say this -- he is much less of an exception than I.
Those pants were big.
Luckily, A is about my size (yes, he's in the Bottle Band, too) and offered me his belt.
Do you remember that skit on "Saturday Night Live," where Adam Sandler and the late and great Chris Farley were chicks working at The Gap? And when people tried on pants that were too big, they were all, "Well, you're supposed to cinch it!" (You can see the characters here, but I was unable to find the actual skit I'm referring to.)
I felt like that. Like I was wearing baggy, cinched Gap pants. I haven't worn my pants that high in 20 years. And I won't be wearing them that high again for another 40!
Once I pulled the whole look together with the hat and gloves and everything, I turned my back to everyone near me and said the only thing that I could, "Do these pants make my butt look big?"
Posted at 04:05 PM | Comments (0)September 25, 2007
Gimme a B!
Wait, wait, wait! I have a favorite story from high school that doesn't involve me getting violent or blacklisted! I remembered it Friday night when WG and I were talking about our high school reunion, and the name Amy M. came up.
Yes, WG and I are on speaking terms, despite the spelunking and the Coke. I have to respect any teen who can use spelunking in a sentence at a moment's notice, thus my energies are best directed towards other revenges. Besides, he has switched to Diet Coke, and that's not nearly as sticky as Classic Coke, so why bother throwing it?
Okay, the high school I went to had not only a cheerleading team, but also a pom-pom squad. Thee Pom-Pom Squad. Our pom-poms were state champions every damn year since Mary Magdalene first hiked up her skirt and yelled, "Go, Jesus!"
And just like every high school themed movie you've ever scene, the pom-poms were the prettiest girls in school. And the most popular. And the richest. And the sluttiest. And the bitchiest.
With a few rare exceptions. (I'm legally obligated to add that last sentence because Husband's Ex was a pom-pom, back in the day, and so was WG's wife. D'oh!)
Amy M. was the prettiest, richest, bitchiest of them all. Shiney blond hair, blue eyes, and big, big boobies. Your basic nightmare.
The pom-poms performed in the V-show every year. They used their coach's office as their dressing room, which was located in the Performing Arts wing by the stage, and not in the Athletic wing. Weird.
Anyhoo,... oh crap. I had not anticipated this next part of the story. I mean, I know the story because I'm telling it, but I forgot that relaying this information would just put another notch in my nerdy belt.
Okay. We played handbells. At my church, to be considered cool, the high schoolers had to play in the junior handbell choir. I shit you not. It was a whooooooooooooole different set of rules back then, folks.
And frankly, we were damn good. We played a Scott Joplin piece in the V-show -- I think it was "The Entertainer." I was in the choir, as was Billi and WG, and many other people not worth mentioning here because I will never blog about them again.
But EH is worth mentioning. Picture... Ron Weasley, only taller, skinnier, and even more socially awkward. Sweet guy, but quite the late-bloomer, to put it kindly.
Because the handbells are worth thousands and thousands of dollars, the drama teacher insisted that we store them in a locked office. But not his. EH was in there one evening, making sure they were all put away properly after our number, and ensuring that the cases were in the way as little as possible.
Convinced the pom-pom coach would not trip over them, he stood up to leave. Just then the door opened and in came the pom-pom squad. Amy M. was busy critiqueing their performance as she took her top off, so she didn't notice EH standing there. Staring. At her boobies.
Deer in the headlights doesn't even begin to describe it.
I don't know who screamed louder -- Amy M. or EH. He bolted out of the room, chased by the shrieks and laughter of twenty pom-poms.
For anyone other male in the school, the incident would have been a badge or honor, carried proudly to graduation and beyond. But EH was horrified and left the room whenever anyone mentioned it. Which was often. Indeed, I believe it was daily for the following six months.
And he didn't even get blacklisted from the pom-pom coach's office. No fair.
Posted at 03:14 PM | Comments (1)September 24, 2007
Phone Ettiquette Lessons from the Girl Child
The Girl Child is currently six years old. In November, she'll be turning seventeen. This is a surprise to no one who has a daughter. However, being technically childless myself, it was a bit of a shock to actually witness it myself.
I'll explain.
Girl Child wanted to have a sleepover with her friend Grace. So Billi dialed the phone and handed it to Girl Child, assuming she'd takeover in a minute to hammer out the details with Grace's mom.
Fifteen minutes later, Billi's like, "Where's Girl Child? Does she still have the phone?"
Seeing as how Billi was, at the time, trying to stop the now-very-mobile Spare from pulling the refridgerator down on top of himself, I galantly stepped forward to quest for the phone.
So I looked around the living room and dining room, called down to the basement. No Girl Child. Then I noticed the light was on in the powder room, with the door standing wide open, of course. I peeked around the corner to see Girl Child standing in front of the toilet, valiantly trying to pull up her undies and pants with one hand, while still talking on the phone.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Girl Child peed while talking on the phone to her friend.
Like mother, like daughter.
Posted at 01:34 PM | Comments (4)September 21, 2007
You Look Like a Monkey, and You Smell Like One, Too
I got Marty the BEST!!! birthday card.
On the front is a very somber-looking, goth cartoon chick, and it says It's your birthday.
On the inside, it says Well, it was. You were asleep for part of it and tomorrow is just another day in the dark parade. The parade where the candy is pain.
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA--
*breathe in*
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
The minute I stepped out of the Hallmark store, I called Heather and read it to her voicemail and cackled like The Queen from Snow White.
I wonder if they make Christmas cards in the same vein?
Marty read it and laughed heartily, and then the laughter turned to crying because it hit too close to home. And then he opened the awesome presents that I took five minutes out of my life to pick from his Amazon Wish List, and that dried his little tears.
I always get him awesome presents because his birthday is right before mine, and I want him to get me awesome presents. Like Heather, I can just get her crap because her birthday is in... I don't know, March? So by the time my birhtday rolls around, she has forgotten what I got her. Ta-daaaaaaa!
That's my Birthday Wish List to the right there. Which will turn into my Christmas Wish List after October 30th. Shop early, shop often! I included items for every price range, because I'm thoughtful that way. So even those of you living in Poor Town can pay homage to me.
Heather, I'm lookin' at you.
Posted at 01:53 PM | Comments (2)September 20, 2007
"The Girls Go Cruisin'"
Strap in, people. It's Cycle 9 of "America's Next Top Model." God help us all.
To kick things off, we're treated to a totally fake montage of Tyra "calling" a bunch of semi-finalists, who scream and cry for the completely spontaneous camera that happens to be there to capture the moment. And Tyra's bit was filmed three months later in a hotel room, I'm sure of it.
So. The 33 semi-finalists are going to Caribbean. Because that's where bikini photos are taken. The girls are blindfolded and surprised by Cap'n "Miss J" Stubing, who ushers them onto a cruise ship. Like, duhhhhhhhh, how else did they think they were going to get to the Caribbean?
One black girl with a mowhawk goes, "I'm totally psyched 'cuz... I'm poor!"
And I don't think she really means that's she's psyched to be poor, but rather that she's psyched to be going on a cruise because she'd never be able to afford one otherwise. I'm assuming. You never know with these girls.
I love it when Miss J calls them "busted-up, broke-down models." It's so Valley-of-the-Dolls. Almost as much as I love it when he makes the girls walk a runway in front of a bunch of tourists, while wearing floatation devices, and then mocks their walks until they cry. I smell a spin-off. I would totally tune-in for a solid hour of just Miss J.
Enter Heather, my immediate favorite. And not just because it's the name I like to call out during orgasm. She's also hunchbacked, mildly autistic, socially awkward and has ADHD. Crack baby! PLEASE GOD, let her get into the house. And the final three.
It's Heather who utters the line, "I've always had trouble believing I was beautiful." Yeah? Well, join the fucking club of the rest of us, honey. Jesus, like poor self image is some rare affliction or something.
Still, she's pretty and nerdy -- just like the real Heather -- and her mild form of autism promises some awkwardness in the house, so she's my current favorite.
And then the nightmare begins. The nightmare where Tyra comes out dressed as a showgirl, complete with feathered headdress, and talks some stupid song she wrote for the show because she can't sing. As if we needed any more proof that she has no talent whatsoever. Love it.
Then begins the parade of interviews (where the candy is pain), where the girls have to appear in front of a panel of Tyra, Jay and Miss J, and are subjected to all sorts of weird shit.
The first girl is wearing a belt around her ribs and some sort of leg-warmer-type drapey things? I don't know. It's horrible.
Token California Blonde Bimbo informs the panel that modeling agents "love my heighth." Um... I don't think you need the extra H there, sweetheart. They hate her, as their faces plainly show. Or perhaps Tyra just farted.
Heather apparently has Aspergers Syndrome. If you click the link, you'll see that two of the symptoms are "dislikes changes in routine" and "lacks empathy." God, this is gonna be GREAT!
Saleisha apparently went to Tyra's TZONE Camp, so Tyra is expecting extra-lots from her. Saleisha wants to pose for Victoria's Secret and Sports Illustrated. Way to bolster her self esteem, TZONE! Yay!
One of the girls is a bikini-waxer by trade. Yuck. So Tyra, being the classy gal that she is, gets up on the panel table and assumes the position for a full waxing, which is apparently on all fours. The Js are horrified. I'm sure the mental image of Tyra's naked poontang is what turned them gay in the first place.
And then she says, "How could I not like a girl who gives me a simulated kitty-cat wax?" I don't even know where to go with that one.
Some girl gets sick. Seasick, I presume, but there's no barfing, so I don't know. Nor do I care. Moving on.
Ebony is the frontrunner for Black Girl Who Everyone Hates. And by this time, she just blurs together with all her bland forerunners. Except for Jade. Jade was truly unique in her bitchery. Ebony is going to make me miss her, I can tell.
First thing Tyra does is tell Ebony that all the other girls hate her, and to make her talk about her childhood so that she breaks down and cries. It's Tyra's specialty.
Some chick with a really heavy Boston accent tells the panel that she had a hemmorage in her right eye when she was born, so she wants to represent all the right-eye-hemmorage girls out there and let them know that they're still pretty. Or something.
Mowhawk girl cries while telling the panel about her awful childhood. With good reason, too, I mean, girl has been through some shit. But God gives her the strength to carry on, which she learned without even attending TZONE! I like this girl. She's sweet and doesn't use her bad childhood as an excuse to be a bitch. She's my second favorite.
Mila celebrates everything and thinks crying is a waste of time. Eek. The panel hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhates her. Plus, she's homely.
Then there's a montage of the girls singing and dancing, as the panel makes them humiliate themselves as performing monkeys.
Some faux-bad-ass says that, "Girls don't like me. They're scared of me. I party with guys." I'll bet her mother is so proud.
One girl thinks it would be a good icebreaker to pull an accordianed piece of paper out of her nose. Words fail the panel. The girl is too fat for a regular model and too thin for a plus-sized model. So, what -- she's about a six? An eight at most?
Oh, crickey. We're going to be treated to Jaslene's Life as a Cover Girl. Clearly, someone has been to Finishing School!
Some horse-faced girl screams and freaks-out for the panel, at their request. And then Tyra can't believe she did it and asks Jay, "What did you think of her."
Jay's all, "She's... I LOVE her!" Awesome.
Okay, with that torture behind us, the girls are taken to a beach for their first photo shoot.
Hey, Jaslene was on the cover of Latina maganize! She looks fabulous, she really does.
After looking at all the slutty bikini photos, the panel makes their first cut. There are 20 boarding passes clipped to some board. Those with passes go on to the next round. Those without are stranded on some island. Oh, if only.
No one I give a crap about is left behind.
Now the 20 girls left have to go around the room and tell Tyra why she needs to choose them. Extra points for crying! And thanking Jesus!
The thirteen girls picked are: Mila the homely girl who celebrates, Bianca who already hates Ebony, Jennifer, Chantal, Gabrielle...
Wait, what? Did they say Gabrielle? This is the first I'm hearing of a Gabrielle. Where did she come from?
Victoria of the horse-face, Sarah the "real-sized model," Saleisha, Kimberly, Ebony "The Original Mean Girl," Janet who doesn't even need a makeover, Heather and Lisa.
Dammit! No mohawk girl? What a rip-off!
Next week: the girls move into their new home and immediately turn it into a pig-sty; Heather can't fit in; Bianca and Lisa have been together all of ten minutes before they start fighting. Promising, indeed!
Posted at 02:24 PM | Comments (1)September 18, 2007
Lederhosen
I'm sure this has happened to you. Somehow, I ended up with two pairs of lederhosen for my vintage Ken doll. In my quest to piece together the vintage outfit entitled "Ken in Switzerland," I must have gotten overzealous and forgotten what I had. Who hasn't, right?
It occurred to me that I could put both Ken and Allan in matching lederhosen... but there are some things in this world that are just too gay, even for me. So I decided to sell one pair on eBay, surprise surprise.
While the auction was active, someone sent me a question regarding the lederhosen:
Is this a costume?
Actually, it was more like:
is this a costume
But I was adding punctuation and grammar to make reading easier for you, my most learned and anal-retentive audience. (Twitchy, I'm lookin' at you.)
Now that I think about it, the lack of such basic writing skills is in perfect harmony with the ridiculousness of the question.
Is this a costume? As opposed to... what? Business attire? Swimwear? Ken's Sunday best?
Perhaps he's unclear on Ken's motivation to wear the lederhosen. Was Ken wanting to fit in with the local Switzerlandians? Did he bring them home and wear them in role-playing games with Barbie? Or did he star in Skipper's production of "Sound of Music?"
Dude, it's lederhosen for an 11" doll. Ken is not a real person. He never went to Switzerland. I DON'T UNDERSTAND THE QUESTION!!!
So I didn't answer it. Someone that stupid wouldn't know how to use PayPay anyway, so screw him.
Posted at 04:39 PM | Comments (0)September 17, 2007
Blacklisted
Something quite distasteful arrived in the mail over the weekend, my darlings. It was an invitation to my 20th high school reunion.
Mind you, I'm not disgusted by its appearance because I can't believe it's been 20 years since I was in high school. It has certainly felt like 20 years, and indeed, the more time I put between myself and that most nauseating of eras, the better.
No, I'm merely horrified by the number of bad memories it awoke it my brain, which usually prefers to keep itself occupied with thinking about what I'm going to have for my next meal, fantasizing about my chiropractor, and figuring out which box of crap to list on eBay next.
The list of people on the Reunion Committee itself is a list of People Who Didn't Know Wenchie and Hated Her Anyway. It's difficult enough to be different in high school (the horror!) -- try being different and poor.
And by "poor" I mean "my parents were still married and my mother didn't work, so there was no need for them to placate their guilt by buying me every damn thing I wanted." Yes, welcome to Poor Town, indeed. Population, me. Living in an affluent neighborhood is difficult if your parents don't stake their own self esteem on flaunting their affluence.
So yeah, weird and "poor." Add to that the rumors of lesbianism and sluttery, and I wasn't exactly in line for Homecoming Queen. Apparently, I was attempting to disguise my closet lesbianism by sleeping with every male in the school who would have me.
Which is ironic because there was only one male in the school who would have me. My boyfriend of a year and a half, which hardly makes me a slut. The rest of the guys, I don't know, thought it would be cool to date me briefly and claim to have had sex with a lesbian? Such a badge of honor! Best porno plot ever!
But I digress.
I'm certainly not going to the horrid event. Rule of thumb being -- if I didn't like them enough to keep in touch with them, why the fuck would I want to see them now? Also, I had many more friends in grades other than my own, i.e. Heather.
I am, however, filling out the little questionairre and mailing it back. My personal info will go into some little directory that all attendees will receive at the door (and all non-attendees can purchase). I will not be purchasing one; however, I have this morbid curiosity to see if some blast from the past might drop me a line.
Mind you, I have no desire to see any of my old flames. And they'd better not be stupid enough to contact me, lest I get ahold of their phone number and/or email address. I'm a petty, spiteful woman, and no score is too old to settle.
It would just be funny if some freak I haven't talked to in 20 years decides to drop me a line. Bloggably funny, hopefully.
In addition to the usual information, the Reunion Committee wants to know my favorite high school memory. And honestly, I'd have to say it was getting to miss my graduation ceremony because I was accepting the Illinois Poet Laureate Award from Gwendolyn Brooks.
(Oh, c'mon, like you didn't write poetry in high school!)
But that would sound too much like I'm rubbing my quasi-celebrityhood in the faces of all those fuckers who blacklisted me from the poetry magazine just because I threw a Coke in WG's face during lunch period. He totally had it coming! You should have heard what he said to me! I'll give you a hint -- it had to do with spelunking and my vagina. See? Had it coming!
Hmmmm, maybe that was my best memory...
Or perhaps it was the time that MM pulled my hair during Art class, so I punched her in the face, and the ring I was wearing cut her lip, so I looked like a total badass! That was awesome. People I didn't even know were congratulating me. That bitch had it coming for a decade.
She was really nice to me after that, in typical, cowardly bully-fashion. But her boyfriend wasn't too keen on me, so I was blacklisted from the V-show ensemble cuz he was Junior Director or some such shit.
Jesus, what didn't I get blacklisted from? Oh, yeah -- track manager. My friend, DB, wanted to meet hot junior and senior guys, so she made me be a manager for the varsity track team with her. Ironically, while she was flirting to no avail, I was learning how to tape up an ankle really well, to the point that several key hotties wouldn't let anyone but me tape their ankles.
One uber-buff, highly sought-after shotputter was actually interested in me, but my grades started slipping, so Mom blacklisted me from managing track.
I sense a trend.
I guess I'm going to leave that part of the questionnaire blank. Which, in itself, pretty much sums up exactly how I felt about high school. Thank God I'm an adult now, so I can surround myself only with people who think I'm cool and pretty.
Posted at 04:04 PM | Comments (4)September 11, 2007
Bladder Business
Awwwwwwwww, you guys are the cutest, with the hugs and carbs and outpouring of love! Group hug!
Everything has, indeed, sorted itself out, thanks to the mysterious workings of the universe and Husband's excellent karma (which, thank Odin, counteracts mine).
Daisy, in her mildly-retarded way, is completely unaware that she has sutures in her abdomen, and that there is mass amounts of yucky-tasting antibiotics in the SUPER YUMMY EXCELLENT HAPPY-TIME HELLO SAILOR TREAT that she gets twice a day (i.e. yogurt).
I would thank the dog-headed Egyptian god for the obliviousness of Labs, but I've forgotten his name. Seth? Sedrick? Snicklefritz? Something like that. I haven't even thought about him since he took me off his Christmas card list two years ago.
Anyhoo, the vet informed me that we'll have to extend her prescription another week, plus add another one. I guess those stones really did a number on her poor bladder.
We're still waiting for the results on what the stones are made of. I guess the test takes a while because the stones have to dissolve or something. Don't ask me -- I took the minimum science requirement in high school and didn't retain a damn thing. I spent most of the class writing different variations of Mrs. Simon LeBon on my notebook and surrounding it with hearts and shit.
Dr. Bunsen Honeydew -- now there's a science teacher who could keep my attention!
Posted at 01:33 PM | Comments (3)September 05, 2007
Worst. Day. Ever.
So it's Sunday afternoon, and I'm standing there in the Animal 911 waiting room, and the vet is showing me the X-ray where I can see the huge cluster of stones in my sweet Daisy's obstructed bladder.
My cell phone rings, and it's Husband, telling me that he's been fired. FIRED. By the same mother-fuckers who have been embezzling from the company. Fired by selfish, drunken, black-hearted, inhuman scum, for the crime of wanting to earn an honest living.
Welcome to Poor Town, indeed.
I've spent this week helping Husband clean out his desk and office, and taking my dog in for emergency surgery. It's been an emotional rollercoaster, to say the least. I would liken Sunday to the day I left my practice husband, without the benefit of moving into Billi and Brad's house.
So you can see how I might have been too distracted to blog. There's absolutely nothing funny about a urinary blockage or white collar crime.
Things have settled down a bit now. Daisy is home and resting comfortably, when not being sniffed all over by Stella. And Husband is very excited about starting a new company.
Unfortunately, I'm heading up north tomorrow, sans Husband and Daisy, avec Stella, Egrau and J. I know it seems cruel, but, what with being "between jobs," Husband will be home with Daisy much of the time. And I can't very well abandon Egrau and J, as it's my family's cabin we will be staying at. Have to play hostess!
I won't be back until Monday night, so I guess this week is kind of a wash as far as blogs go. I'm sorry. I'll do better next week, I promise.
Posted at 04:50 PM | Comments (5)