Am I cursed? Are the forces of evil maligning against me?
Saying DONT GO TO NEW YORK THIS WEEKEND!
Hinting perhaps that Labor Day is meant for something more significant than checking out SJP's fabulous new everything-under-$20 boutique?
This morning at the Charity, I industriously decided to change the toner on the color printer. I breezily read the directions on the box (note: NOT HELPFUL WHATSOEVER) and do my MacGyver thing. After ten minutes of not getting anywhere (and with everyone tied up on a conference call) I finally pulled the damn thing out of the printer...... and then twisted a mysterious lever.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
A cloud of murky blue (oh I'm sorry, I meant cyan) fog descended around me as I froze, torn between fight or flight.
Cyan ink everywhere in our tiny little kitchen. Including the kitchen sink.
Yes, laugh it up. Please, co-workers, laugh it up.
Still mildly blue, I trudged home. And on the ever reliable DC transport system, I stop centimeters short from stepping on a quivering baby bat in its death throes.
I mean really, metropolitan authorities, this isn't an Indiana Jones movie.
What if I was an obese, easily startled tourist?
Hmnn, what then?!?!
What?
Oh, how did I pay for my oh-so-disquieting ride home you ask?
Oh, well with my nifty metro smartrip pass. That I DROPPED IN THE TOILET earlier this week.
Yep. But really, it had almost $75 on it. And what's a lady to do?
Well, she sticks her delicate fingers in the loo and yanks it out. Lovely.
Maybe I'm being overdramatic.
Poor little bat.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
hope?
Alright, I admit it. I'm hardened, a bit cynical.
But today at work (I'm in the business of helping others) at the Charity, something happened to make even this coal shed melt a little bit.
A letter was slipped underneath our door, with a check for $32 for the children of Sudan. It was from a 12 year old girl and had tiger stickers, and rainbows and suns with smiley faces drawn on the envelope. On the back, she wrote "Brighten your day!"
Sigh.
(Come on - you'd have to be an Argentinean dictator to make fun of that.)
But today at work (I'm in the business of helping others) at the Charity, something happened to make even this coal shed melt a little bit.
A letter was slipped underneath our door, with a check for $32 for the children of Sudan. It was from a 12 year old girl and had tiger stickers, and rainbows and suns with smiley faces drawn on the envelope. On the back, she wrote "Brighten your day!"
Sigh.
(Come on - you'd have to be an Argentinean dictator to make fun of that.)
Sunday, August 19, 2007
le weekend
Well I was in a bit of a rut this past week. Apparently my phone manner at work is under par (umn), unwelcome ex-boyfriend thoughts are popping into my head, and the frenchman jetted off to Prague where cell phones no longer work.
Major moping, pouting, and a 15 hour nap (seriously, whats wrong with me?) later, I pack my obnoxiously large super-purse and head to the parents house for a pick-me-up. On the way, I hung out with a high school friend whom I have the bad habit of blowing off.
His venue of choice? Fast Eddie's pool hall. Sweet.
If there was a game where hitting that white ball in the pocket meant winning, I would be the champ.
Saturday meant waking up in Mama's bed (we call her Diddy-boo) with a hangover, wedged in between the cat and Diddy herself. Then, a two hour car ride to a one and a half hour party of thirty lesbians. Sadly, all my social anxieties were on full display since not a fellow in sight. But there was a lake...
A lake that was a weird cooling receptacle for the nearby nuclear power plant and rocking a solid 95 degrees. A brief dip ended by something ticklish swishing past my leg.
It could have been algae, but I don't want to grow a third arm.
Post-swim, Diddy and I shared a brisket sandwich (bad idea) and headed home. To our communal bed, as mine wasn't made and I certainly wasn't going to have at it.
Sunday morning, mopes not completely gone. So I requested a cinnamon bun and skim milk. To my delight (and after some sass), Diddy jumps in the Volvo to oblige. Perhaps she senses my irrational pity party?
Then on to much needed girl time with Maggie May (so named for her unhealthy obsession with Rod Stewart). We go to a birthday party and spend the whole time sitting together and being fabulous. After some fire ants crawl up my uber-short skirt, we call it a day.
The frenchman finally checks in, and I get over my funk. Enfin.
Major moping, pouting, and a 15 hour nap (seriously, whats wrong with me?) later, I pack my obnoxiously large super-purse and head to the parents house for a pick-me-up. On the way, I hung out with a high school friend whom I have the bad habit of blowing off.
His venue of choice? Fast Eddie's pool hall. Sweet.
If there was a game where hitting that white ball in the pocket meant winning, I would be the champ.
Saturday meant waking up in Mama's bed (we call her Diddy-boo) with a hangover, wedged in between the cat and Diddy herself. Then, a two hour car ride to a one and a half hour party of thirty lesbians. Sadly, all my social anxieties were on full display since not a fellow in sight. But there was a lake...
A lake that was a weird cooling receptacle for the nearby nuclear power plant and rocking a solid 95 degrees. A brief dip ended by something ticklish swishing past my leg.
It could have been algae, but I don't want to grow a third arm.
Post-swim, Diddy and I shared a brisket sandwich (bad idea) and headed home. To our communal bed, as mine wasn't made and I certainly wasn't going to have at it.
Sunday morning, mopes not completely gone. So I requested a cinnamon bun and skim milk. To my delight (and after some sass), Diddy jumps in the Volvo to oblige. Perhaps she senses my irrational pity party?
Then on to much needed girl time with Maggie May (so named for her unhealthy obsession with Rod Stewart). We go to a birthday party and spend the whole time sitting together and being fabulous. After some fire ants crawl up my uber-short skirt, we call it a day.
The frenchman finally checks in, and I get over my funk. Enfin.
Monday, August 13, 2007
warts and all
The thing about ex-boyfriends is they won't ever really get out of your head. Because they just suck.
There's the one whose name has become a four-letter word.
(The one that will always hurt, just a little bit in the back of your throat. )
Because maybe the third time's not the charm. Maybe it's the fucking kicker.
I've travelled far and wide in this world (well far enough) and after kissing lots of frogs - I finally fell in love with one.
(Side note: I have a paralyzing phobia of the real amphibian critter. This doesn't help.)
But in the between time...
Ah, the new yorker. So hip in his designer jeans that cost more than a bus ticket to visit him.
But it turns out that a boy's reaction to a cute little puppy pissing on his fancy jeans is a good indicator of his character. [That would be, a complete f'ing asshole.]
And maybe if he constantly attacks your emotional hangups (I do have a few but hey), he's hiding some of his own.
And frankly, some of us just aren't into dirty talk. I'm a lady, thank you very much.
The Bulgarian, well, what a lovely interlude. Although he did hedge uncomfortably close to the line separating us liberals from those who are wrong.
But he always called as promised.
Oh you Eastern European hunk, you had me at, "I'll pick you up at 8."
Because you always did.
Soft kisses and Ryan Adams, yup I liked that one.
But then the frenchman came back...
(and who can resist a faux hawk and an armful of Kinder?)
There's the one whose name has become a four-letter word.
(The one that will always hurt, just a little bit in the back of your throat. )
Because maybe the third time's not the charm. Maybe it's the fucking kicker.
I've travelled far and wide in this world (well far enough) and after kissing lots of frogs - I finally fell in love with one.
(Side note: I have a paralyzing phobia of the real amphibian critter. This doesn't help.)
But in the between time...
Ah, the new yorker. So hip in his designer jeans that cost more than a bus ticket to visit him.
But it turns out that a boy's reaction to a cute little puppy pissing on his fancy jeans is a good indicator of his character. [That would be, a complete f'ing asshole.]
And maybe if he constantly attacks your emotional hangups (I do have a few but hey), he's hiding some of his own.
And frankly, some of us just aren't into dirty talk. I'm a lady, thank you very much.
The Bulgarian, well, what a lovely interlude. Although he did hedge uncomfortably close to the line separating us liberals from those who are wrong.
But he always called as promised.
Oh you Eastern European hunk, you had me at, "I'll pick you up at 8."
Because you always did.
Soft kisses and Ryan Adams, yup I liked that one.
But then the frenchman came back...
(and who can resist a faux hawk and an armful of Kinder?)
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Frappucino may be high in calories, fat.
So one of my co-workers doesn't like me. This may be for a variety of reasons.
I think mainly because I'm skinny. Yeah.
According to my father, me and my sister have both inherited his mother's childbearing hips. One day, in an effort to explain why I don't rock capris at the workplace, I blamed my genetic heritage. To this, my coworker said no way, she was the one with childbearing hips.
And then I agreed. "Well yeah."
(I mean, she just had a baby, so obviously she has childbearing hips now. Really, that's how I meant it.)
Brief backpedaling went nowhere, and she flounced out of my office. Well, it might have been more of a sedate walk but there was attitude.
The next morning, I was calmly enjoying my 10:30 mocha (light) frappuccino, and tapping away. Tap, tap, tap. She entered.
"Hmnn, I see why you don't eat now."
(whoohah?)
"You get all your calories from your coffee drink. Like, that's an entire meal right there. Seriously."
(mmmmn, frappuccino I love you.)
"Do you have any idea how filling that is? Seriously."
10:35. Morning coffee break ruined. Seriously.
I think mainly because I'm skinny. Yeah.
According to my father, me and my sister have both inherited his mother's childbearing hips. One day, in an effort to explain why I don't rock capris at the workplace, I blamed my genetic heritage. To this, my coworker said no way, she was the one with childbearing hips.
And then I agreed. "Well yeah."
(I mean, she just had a baby, so obviously she has childbearing hips now. Really, that's how I meant it.)
Brief backpedaling went nowhere, and she flounced out of my office. Well, it might have been more of a sedate walk but there was attitude.
The next morning, I was calmly enjoying my 10:30 mocha (light) frappuccino, and tapping away. Tap, tap, tap. She entered.
"Hmnn, I see why you don't eat now."
(whoohah?)
"You get all your calories from your coffee drink. Like, that's an entire meal right there. Seriously."
(mmmmn, frappuccino I love you.)
"Do you have any idea how filling that is? Seriously."
10:35. Morning coffee break ruined. Seriously.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
the OC? bah oui
my family always says they know the frenchman loves me because he listens to all my inane prattle.
to my credit, last night we had a super intense conversation via our nifty msn webcam on the pervasive racism in france. and then after it deteriorated into name-calling -
the frenchman: your president is a huge idiot dumbass
me: well your president is friends with mine, so who's the real idiot, hmnn...?
(note*sarkozy is apparently in the states on "holiday" kissing up to his new bff dubya. and that I in no way disagree with the assertion that our president is an idiot dumbass)
- I calmly started painting my nails 'classic red' and ignoring the frenchman.
But then in an effort to ease the tension - because frankly all that talk about prejudice and racism against arabs (not from the frenchman but from other less tolerant frogs) had upset me quite a bit - I started telling him the most recent developments on the OC. I know, the OC is like three years old. and whats the point when the hills is on. but I missed it the first time round, cause I was a judging judy and watching I don't know Will and Grace or something. and its on everyday at 6pm. And i love it.
L.O.V.E. it.
And by extension, so must the frenchman.
So Ryan's dating Taylor now, even though Marisa just died like six months ago. but Taylor's ex french husband just showed up in town after writing a tell all novel about their sexual exploits (here the frenchman's interest temporarily piqued). but the ex is a real intellectual poet while Ryan still works in a Mexican restaurant so i predict that Taylor cheats on him with the french poet. meanwhile Seth just proposed to Summer who said no, and Marisa's mom is running a brothel.
breath.
frenchman: wow, ca bouge (that moves)
me: yes, ca bouge
to my credit, last night we had a super intense conversation via our nifty msn webcam on the pervasive racism in france. and then after it deteriorated into name-calling -
the frenchman: your president is a huge idiot dumbass
me: well your president is friends with mine, so who's the real idiot, hmnn...?
(note*sarkozy is apparently in the states on "holiday" kissing up to his new bff dubya. and that I in no way disagree with the assertion that our president is an idiot dumbass)
- I calmly started painting my nails 'classic red' and ignoring the frenchman.
But then in an effort to ease the tension - because frankly all that talk about prejudice and racism against arabs (not from the frenchman but from other less tolerant frogs) had upset me quite a bit - I started telling him the most recent developments on the OC. I know, the OC is like three years old. and whats the point when the hills is on. but I missed it the first time round, cause I was a judging judy and watching I don't know Will and Grace or something. and its on everyday at 6pm. And i love it.
L.O.V.E. it.
And by extension, so must the frenchman.
So Ryan's dating Taylor now, even though Marisa just died like six months ago. but Taylor's ex french husband just showed up in town after writing a tell all novel about their sexual exploits (here the frenchman's interest temporarily piqued). but the ex is a real intellectual poet while Ryan still works in a Mexican restaurant so i predict that Taylor cheats on him with the french poet. meanwhile Seth just proposed to Summer who said no, and Marisa's mom is running a brothel.
breath.
frenchman: wow, ca bouge (that moves)
me: yes, ca bouge
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