Saturday, April 28, 2007

Blogging the NFL Draft

I realize this is my second sports-related post, but bear with me. Usually the NFL draft is a relative snooze-fest with Mel Kiper waxing poetic on where the picks should go (seriously, Mel has a job that anyone who has the ability to pay attention to college and NFL stats could do). It isn't that I hate Mel, but I revel in it when he is wrong on his picks.

Take Brady Quinn, for instance, who was predicted to go in the top five, or at least top ten, went at number 22. 22, that is not a typo! The Browns traded the Cowboy's 22nd pick, in what must seem like a miracle for Cleveland-ers, to get Quinn (the Browns took OT Joe Thomas for their number 3 pick). While this is probably very devastating for Quinn, who will likely see a decrease in the number of millions he is paid this year, it provides drama that a run-of-the-mill draft lacks. The only thing that could have been more shocking is if Quinn wasn't taken at all and dropped to the 2nd round. Now, who wants to make their guesses on what the Cowboys got in return from the Browns?

Friday, April 27, 2007

The Stomach Flu Sucks Serious Ass

If I have been notably absent from blogging, and even if my absence hasn't been notable and I just don't give a rat's rosy red behind what you lack the ability to take notice of, it's because I have recently been diagnosed with a stomach virus. It's one of those diagnoses you don't really need to go see your doctor for, because it's pretty damn apparent, at least to you and your toilet bowl, that things aren't all hunky-dory on the G.I. front. But, I have been watching a lot of "House" lately, so I took a trip to see my Osteopath, just in case the "differential diagnosis" (it's from the show, sorry) revealed that instead of a stomach virus my body had been overtaken by some mysterious neurological illness. But, of course, the vomiting, diarrhea, aches, pains, and general blah-ness was attributed to my "catching" a stomach bug, which means that I had a few days to enjoy riding the porcelain bus while building up my television viewing time. I haven't been able to eat much, so I pass the time by watching cooking shows on the Food Network. Today, Paula Deen made a peach and blueberry cobbler that looked divine, but which, I am certain, would send me running for the bathroom.

Do you know what I CAN eat? Crackers. Crackers and Gatorade.

Shut up.

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Take Your Child to Work Day

When I was a kid (long ago and far away) this was still called Take Your Daughter to Work Day. Apparently all 7th grade English teachers united to boycott the horrible day when their classroom was overrun with the stink of I-shower-at-night pre-pubescent boys. At any rate, this day is now extended to children of both sexes.

On my very late way into work this morning (I’m experimenting with the limits of what exactly fashionably late really is) I witnessed these poor children cordoned off in a far section of the cafeteria watching a Power Point presentation, presumably about what their parents do all day. Power Point? For a group off 11 year-olds? SERIOUSLY?

Those poor kids looked like they’d like nothing more than to actually be in math class at that very moment. If you ask me, this is just asking for these children to stay in school indefinitely, draining their parents’ retirement funds for tuition for useless liberal arts degree after useless liberal arts degree…

When I was a kid, Take Your Daughter to Work Day was something to look forward to, not something to dread. We always went with our Dad, because our Mom was a teacher, and going to school on a day we had off from it was nothing to get excited about.

Our day usually started off with a doughnut breakfast (Score!) while we dead-headed on the train down to the city. In the morning we’d play on Dad’s computer with a coloring program he’d had installed especially for us, and get to meet all the people he called, “Bigot,” “Moron,” and “BOOBra,” (the very chesty secretary named Barbara) at the dinner table every night. Lunch would be McDonalds (yet another score, Mom never let us have fast food) followed by a very fun and fascinating tour of Grand Central Terminal (organized presumably so that the parents could actually accomplish some work while we were there) whose facts I can still spout even 15 years later. (Did you know sound is carried along an archway? You talk into one side of it and someone listening at the other side will hear you. Amazing.) At the end of the day we’d dead-head back home on the train, and have NO homework!

I bet nowadays if kids miss school for Take Your Child to Work Day they have to write a report or something to present to their class when they come back. It’s total crap. I think when I have kids Take Your Child to Work Day will consist of shopping, soap operas and nap time. And now I want a doughnut…

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Pregnancy makes you stupid

Ok, not YOU personally, but some people. Take my friend Liz*, for instance. She’s four months pregnant. The other day we were looking at something where I had written the word, “Crocheting” (it’s one of the old lady hobbies that I indulge in, leave me alone.) Liz saw it and said, “What the hell is CROTCH-et-ing?” Now this isn’t exactly a word most people use on a daily basis, except Liz happens to indulge in this same old lady hobby, and knows full well “what the hell” crocheting is.

Normally Liz is brilliant; she’s getting her doctorate in cardiovascular blah blah blah. It’s almost insane how smart she is. She’s a full time student maintaining a 4.o GPA, doing important research in her field, not to mention being a wife and mother. I don’t think most people could even comprehend the work she does, let alone get a 4.0 on it.

Right now though, she’s an idiot. I love her to death but she becomes a moron when she’s knocked up. The same thing happened the first time she was pregnant. She became a total air-head for 9 months, but as soon as that baby was out of her womb and in her arms, she was back to her old smarty-pants self again.

I think I’ve figured it out though. When she gets pregnant, all of her brain goes into that little person growing inside of her, so that it too may become a genius someday.

Proof you ask? Of course. Liz’s now 2 year-old son, Michael*, is bordering on Einstein. He counts, says his ABC’s, can tell you everyone’s names, understands that his little brother or sister is growing in his mom’s belly and can carry on a telephone conversation with relative ease. Did I mention he’s also adorable? Ok, that’s neither here nor there.

Basically, Liz lends her brain to her uterus for 9 months so that she can help balance out the growing population of morons in the world, and so far it seems to be working quite well. And if her current mindlessness is any indication of what’s to come, this baby will be twice as smart as Michael is.

The moral of my story is: if in the far distant future when I am with child, I suddenly become a sunshine-spreading optimist; rest assured that my fetus is busy inheriting every ounce of my callous pessimism, and will surely live up to its mother’s name.

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent and overly hormonal.

Monday, April 23, 2007

Dressing for the Weather

Do you know just how badly I wanted to call in sick to work today? Before I shut my (envy-inducing green) eyes last night, I hoped I'd wake up this morning having contracted some mysterious illness that would prevent me from properly functioning at my desk for 8 hours. I mean, the Weather Channel told me that today's weather would be near-perfect. Sunny, mid-eighties, low humidity, a light breeze - see what I mean? Who can work on a day like today? Who can pound the keyboard while the birds sing, the trees sway, and the sun shines? Me, obviously, because that is exactly what I've been doing since 9 am. And I'm paying for it. You see, in my excitement over today's outdoor situation, I failed to remember what the weather tends to be like inside my office building. And that's cold, damn cold. And I have no pantyhose on. And my shirt has three-quarter length sleeves. I am shivering, dammit. OK, yes, my shoes are adorable, but the fact that you can see most of my toes in them is causing me agony. I need a blanket, and a hot cup of tea, and my House DVDs. I think I have a headache, and my throat is a little scratchy. Maybe I am a teeney bit on the ill side after all...leaving early is almost as worth it as calling in...dontcha think?

Friday, April 20, 2007

Passive-Aggressive Nonsense

If you have something to say, just say it! Don’t beat around the bush, don’t hint, and don’t make a foul attempt at being coy. Be a grown-up and speak your mind!

We all know that when you say something nasty or backhanded and follow it up with a “tee-hee” or the even more putrid “LOL,” you’re not actually joking. You meant what you said but you added a dose of what you consider to be humor in case you needed to back-pedal and say, “Oh, but I was kidding!” Right...

So to all of the passive-aggressive nonsense back-peddlers out there: Buck up and grow a set. Happy Friday.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Shoes, Glorious Shoes

Anyone who knows me at all surely could have guessed that I’d be waxing poetic about shoes at some point. Round, pointy and peep toed; stiletto, wedge and kitten heeled (yes, ballet flats too) all find their way into my closet to be photographed and stored in their original box when not in use. Anal retentive you say? No, really? What can I say? I have a bit of a habit, and a very expensive one at that.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no Carrie Bradshaw. Most of my shoes are well-known brands, but I’ve certainly never purchased, let alone tried on (I’m too frightened that I’d become an even bigger shoe snob) a pair of Manolo Blahnik’s or Jimmy Choo’s.

I find I’m at my friendliest (which is saying something) when shoe shopping. And I never actually go shoe shopping by the way, I usually just meander away from what I was supposed to be shopping for and find myself in Nine West trying on the cutest pair of orange leather loafers that I have absolutely nothing to wear with.

I’ve talked women both into and out of buying shoes. I console them when they are sobbing because they’re forced to buy a size 11, “Don’t worry, sweetie, Steve Madden flats run small, you’re not really a glamazon,” and reassure them that they really do look fierce in those zebra print stilettos.

There is one thing that I find I have a difficult time being honest with other woman about whilst in my happy place, but it needs to be said. There’s nothing that makes me more disturbed than a woman teeter-tottering her way up the street in a pair of new shoes. If you feel like an moron walking in them, odds are you look like an moron walking in them. I guarantee that when you’re clumsily making your way through a crowd thinking everyone must be staring at your fantastic new pumps; they’re actually staring at how ridiculous you look, and comparing you to their four-year-old playing dress up.

So here it is. I know those are the most ab fab shoes you’ve ever seen, and you probably have the perfect top to wear them with, but listen carefully, muffin: if when you try those pretty little pumps on in the store you feel yourself wobble, don’t you dare leave with them. Put them back on the shelf and leave them for the big girls to play with.

No, not even if they are on sale.

Friday, April 13, 2007

To the really fit woman at the gym

I go to the gym because I do not have the luxury of buying myself a treadmill. All I ask is to listen to my iPod and walk the hill program at my steady pace, not because I enjoy it, but because I enjoy salt 'n vinegar chips very much. When you come prancing over next to me, BLAST up the floor fan so that it blows my business six ways of Sunday, and happily try to strike up conversation I want to slap you. I realize I mainly pretend to not be able to hear you, but that does not mean you should try to speak any louder or tap me on the shoulder.

Perhaps you and the STEP instructor who likes to come around and recruit for her class should get together, you seem like a perfect match.

I’m a no-time person

When people ask, “Are you an Early Bird, or a Night Owl?” my answer comes quickly and easily: “Neither, moron.”

When my alarm goes off in the morning at 7:00, I hit snooze every nine minutes until at least 8:12 when I begrudgingly drag myself out of bed and into the shower. If you dare disturb my sleep before this time: may God have mercy on your soul, because I certainly won’t. I decline invitations to meetings starting before 10:30, and on a good day I’m only 30 minutes late to work. Do not smile at me, or wish me, “Good Morning,” or even wave in a cheerful manner, for I’m liable to bite your head off.

The best part of my day is the moment I crawl into bed, lean against my pillows and pull the 800 thread count sheets up over my body. Before sliding into bed I must perform a series of rituals to calm myself down and get my mind ready for sleep. If at any point my slumber is interrupted, I must start the rituals again. So yeah, if you thoughtlessly knock on my bedroom door for anything less than a severe cranial contusion, prepare yourself for a beat down. Even my husband gets an elbow to the gut when he gently nudges my sleeping body so that he can spoon me properly.

I’m not exactly a daytime person, either. I generally spend my day sliding into and out of sugar highs, avoiding any real work and willing myself not to deck any unwitting coworkers.

It has been noted that I’m “not exactly in a good place right now,” which is probably true; generally I’m a witch 100% of the time. Nevertheless, if you cut me off on the road, pass me an assignment or even leave me a benign voice mail, (as my mother used to tell me when my adolescent attitude was raring up,) “You’re cruisin' for a bruisin'.”

You Are NOT Jake Ryan

Remember the cult classic movie Sixteen Candles? Sam ate carrots to get her boobs to grow, complained about having to ride the bus to school, and wished the most popular senior guy would dump his Prom Queen girlfriend for her (yeah, right). Jake Ryan was dangerously dreamy, did the hottest girl in school and drove that stellar red Porsche.

Doesn’t it remind you of 6th grade sleepovers? Watching bad movies, playing Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board and falling asleep with your hand in the Doritos bowl? (Mmmm Doritos…) Focus, dammit!

Yeah, it was two decades ago when I last pined away for that imaginary hunk, so WHY is there a guy in my parking garage who still drives Jake Ryan’s red Porsche?

I’ve parked near it for over a week just hoping to catch a glimpse of this pathetic creature, and I finally saw him this morning. He was quite as lame as I pictured him: Middle-aged, FOakley’s tethered on a sunglass rope and a receding hairline which he tries to compensate for by allowing the back to grow just a touch too long (you’re picturing an elderly Steve Sanders, right? Good.)

A quick guess at his life story tells me this: his name is Chad and he’s recently divorced from his high school sweetheart who was cheating on him with her night school ethics professor. Since Chad has plunged back into the dating pool he has reverted back to what he last knew chicks to dig, which consists of Jake Ryan’s Porsche and the aforementioned ensemble, and likely includes acid-washed jeans on weekends.

For pity’s sake, Chad, I know you’re depressed but take a look around! Passers-by don’t ogle you because you look rad; it’s because you look like a moron!

I feel dreadful for Chad, really I do, but that surely won’t stop me from scribbling, “What’s happenin’ hot stuff?” into the dirt on his Porsche window.

An Ode to the Masters

In listening to Dan Patrick's radio show yesterday I heard his schtick with Rick Reilly. Now, I am a fan of Reilly's pieces in SI (and am royally pissed that when you go to you cannot read his pieces, and are given some video that is supposed to make up for it, note to SI, it doesn't), but I had no idea he was so bawdy!

On Dan's show Reilly was talking about the Masters and how Zach Johnson would likely be waiting tables at Olive Garden in 5 years. Dan's reaction (and mine) was to remind Reilly that Zach Johnson played on the Ryder cup, there are many worse golfers on the tour. Reilly was being a blowhard about how Zach is the same age as Tiger and Tiger has 11 more Majors than Zach, blah blah. So now we compare every golfer to the "Tiger standard"? What is that about?

Anyway, they move on to talking about how the Masters was kind of boring because there weren't any big game, risky shots, really. Dan used Retief Goosen as an example. His play on the 13th (a par 5) was very conservative. Dan argued he should have been going for it in two (like Tiger) instead of obviously playing it safe and going for par. That is when Reilly chimes in with "Yea, when I was in the writers' booth later, the "Sopranos" came on and I looked up and said 'Hey, that's the second Big P***y I've seen today!'"

Dan even seemed shocked that Reilly had said it on national radio and while I'm no prude, I always thought Reilly was this intelligent, funny, witty, even suave kind of guy, not the loud mouth, anything for a shock, bozo he was yesterday.

At least I didn't have to hear Keith Olbermann turn the focus of every conversation back to himself.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Go Team!

So, in the interest of keeping things so fresh and so clean, I've invited a few of my sexier and more outspoken friends to contribute their own insights and perspectives to our little blog. Kara's first is just below, so feel free to comment and let us know what you think!

I'll be out of town for a couple of days - my brother-in-law is celebrating (heh, not so much celebrating as tolerating) his 30th birthday. I suppose I shouldn't poke fun at the chap, since I am a mere 10 months from joining him on the other side of the hill. So, the Mister and I will be packing up our two pooches and heading to sunny Rochester, NY, where the women are tanned, highlighted, bound in leather and surrounded by a cloud of Parliament smoke. Hey, don't get me wrong, it's great to get out of town for a few days, no matter the destination. I just wish we could go somewhere that isn't best known for the gravelly tone of it's female citizens' voices. Just imagine how Rachel Ray would sound after 25 packs of Camels and one too many $40 days, and you're there!

And, I'm off. Like a brown dress.

Abhorring Perfection

Have you ever met someone that you’ve tried to hate but just can’t bring yourself to? I have. There is this gorgeous woman who works in my office who I try to hate on a regular basis. She’s tall and thin with lustrous blonde hair that probably smells like coconut just waiting to be sniffed by creepy male passers-by. She has perfect dimples, straight white teeth and clear blue doe-eyes. She dresses better than I do, hell, she dresses like a Connecticut housewife crossed with a NYC fashionista, and her hair is ALWAYS done. Perfectly.

Aside from her looks, she is smart, witty, and above all, sweet. She is nice to everyone, even the idiot people in the office that everyone else ignores and makes fun of. Just this afternoon I saw her chit-chatting with one of the dafter idiots and she was LAUGHING AT HIS JOKES! I have tried repeatedly to hate her, until I have to call her about an issue and she responds promptly with the most helpful information before wishing me a lovely day.

What is my point, you ask? Well, aside from ranting about her annoying perfection, I have come to the conclusion that she’s hiding some deep, dark secret. Maybe she has a third nipple, or her perfect hair is really a wig (that WOULD explain why it is always done to perfection… Although you can even see Tyra’s weave line and she’s got personal hairdressers on staff…) I thought briefly that maybe she has webbed feet, but I definitely remember staring at her perfectly painted piggies in the most amazing houndstooth peep-toes (for which I aimlessly scoured the internet even weeks after she wore them to absolutely no avail because I was too embarrassed to ask her where she got them.)

So no, I don’t hate her. I can’t bring myself to say even one mean word about her. I will smile and wave each and every time I see her, and wish her a lovely day in return. So what if I secretly imagine she’s a closet cokehead buried in debt from her nose-candy habit? It could be true. Maybe…

Wednesday, April 11, 2007


Ever have a day when you are just completely and utterly exhausted? A day when, no matter how much work you have to do, and how quickly a deadline might be creeping up on you, you can barely keep your eyes open long enough to register that you actually ARE at work, sitting in front of your computer? That's how I'm feeling today, and all I am able to really concentrate on is trying to figure out what in my cubicle would make a suitable pillow. Since our "company" moved to a new building and we were forced to give up our cozy offices in favor of teeny, supposedly more efficient cubicles, the option of a power nap has gone straight out the window. Not that I have a window, but you get where I'm coming from, right? Dang, I miss my old office. It was large, and quiet, and when I shut the door and turned off the light it became pitch-black. Back then, everyone would take power naps, 15 minutes here, 10 minutes there. It was a brief respite from the monotony of our daily work, and it helped us get through the tediousness of the rest of our day. Now? Now I can't close my eyes for 30 seconds without nervously tearing them back open and looking about, just in case someone saw me daring to take a break. Don't get me wrong, I am in no way working non-stop from 9 to 5. But actually getting a few minutes of legitimate shut-eye is out of the question. First of all, it's bright in here. Not outdoors bright, or even doctor's office bright...I'm talking surface of the sun bright. It's also cold and noisy, with an unidentifiable hum that is constantly operating somewhere on the floor. I have never found the source...although I'm nearly positive that it's the sound of souls dying. My cubicle is 8 feet by 4 feet, grey, and with surprisingly short walls that allow me to view the daily work habits of Mr. DJ, my asshole co-worker. One of these days I am going to post about Mr. DJ, when I have the time and energy. Right now I'll just say he's a total freakazoid, and leave it at that.

Anyway, back to my cubicle. Like I said, it's grey and drab, but I have attempted to perk the environment up with random McDonald's toys and black and white pictures I printed up on company paper. I have a little plaque that says,"ADVERSITY doesn't build character, it reveals it", which I thought was really deep and insightful the first few hundred times I looked at it. Not so much anymore, but it sure beats an empty fabric-covered wall. I also have a picture of my husband and me, back before I got a job with the government and my whole life was ahead of me, and I'm looking hot in it, so that picks me up a little. Underneath my desk is a pair of ratty slippers that I walk around in. It's really amusing to see the faces of my co-workers when they realize what the lime-green blobs covering my feet are. Without exception, they tell me,"Wow, I wish I could wear slippers at work", because apparently you need really big balls to make an attempt at comfort while trudging through eight hours of meaninglessness (I don't care if that's a word or not).

And here it is, almost 1 o'clock, and I am staring at a pile of paperwork, trying to psych myself up to work all the way through until 5. I wonder if my health insurance will cover a fake-suicide attempt...

Saturday, April 7, 2007

Irrational Hatred

We all have a seemingly unfounded hatred of one or more 'famous' people out there. I hate Fergie. You know who I mean. The chick who "sings" for the Black Eyed Peas - yes, that's the one. I don't know exactly why I despise her very existence, I just do. Her gyrating. Her wacky sense of style - or complete lack thereof. Her eyebrows, and that stupid piercing. The fact that Josh Duhamel seems to be enamoured by her blows my mind completely. Perhaps I can't stand her because she is famous. It's not as though she hasn't worked hard to get where she is. I mean, Kids Incorporated hasn't been on the air in, like, 20 years. And a meth addiction must be a bitch to get over. She must have clawed and fought her way to the top, and I guess I can respect that. But what does she do once she does get her big break? She makes horrible, grating, insulting-to-my-ears music. This is a 30-something year-old woman, not a teenager. Why, then, are her lyrics more juvenile than anything Britney Spears ever 'sang'? "My Humps"? Really? You have got to be kidding me. When the DJ dared to play that song in the middle of my wedding reception, I grabbed my gigantic dress and left the dancefloor - seriously, I walked out of my own wedding reception in protest, simply because the DJ felt it necessary to trash up what had been, up until that moment, quite a classy affair (if I do say so myself...which I do). What's even more insulting is that she doesn't have any 'humps' to speak of. This is a white chick we're talking about here. Her last name is Ferguson for crying out loud.

So, even after all that, I still can't put my finger on one single reason why Fergie grinds my last nerve. I can sit here all day, sifting through the thousands of little things about her that irk me to no end. Who's got the time, though? Isn't it more fun to just concentrate your rage on someone far, far away, with no real reason? Someone you'll never, ever meet? Yes, I dare say it is. So I will continue to foster my irrational hatred of Fergie, if only because it helps preserve my non-hatred of the people I meet in real life. Feel free to choose a celebrity of your own to loathe. Popular choices include Kirsten Dunst, Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan and Sienna Miller. Go on, try it.

Feeling better already, huh?

Thursday, April 5, 2007

Because work sucks...

I am going to wax poetic about the Florida Gators. Yes, I'm still a girl.

My husband and I both graduated from the University of Florida (feel free to visit UF's website - it's linked at the left of the screen), and we both remain loyal fans of all things Gator. It's difficult to describe to someone who didn't attend a large public university like Florida, Michigan, Texas or OSU just exactly what it's like to be a part of something really big. Wait, I mean HUGE. 50,000 students huge. 2,500 acre campus huge. 96,000 seat football stadium huge. Even the cockroaches in Gainesville are gigantic, and seemingly immortal (that's another post). But what's really big is the collected pride that the millions of fans of these colleges and their sports teams feel each and every day of their lives. When someone says, "I bleed Maize and Blue", it's not just some cutesy phrase that gets tossed around lightly...they really mean it. And they live and die by the fortunes, and misfortunes, of their teams.

So, the Gators. The Gators are my team, and I love them. I love how I can be in a terrible mood, surrounded by piles of meaningless work, and at my wits end thanks to the stupidity of one co-worker (oooh, that would be yet another post), only to read on that Gators basketball coach Billy Donovan has decided to remain at Florida instead of even entertaining an offer from archrival Kentucky, and instantly feel positively giddy. I get chills when I hear about the amazing, historic accomplishments of the Gator basketball and football teams over the past year, and I get choked up thinking of how much I miss the environment surrounding UF. There is a brief period in each of our lives, when we're at just the right age, when we're in just the right place, and we're surrounded by just the right people, when we come close to touching perfection.

For me, it was the years I spent in Gainesville.

Apparently, I have a masculine 'voice'...

Hmmmm...this is puzzling, because I have been described as many things, but never as 'masculine'. I have been informed, though, that my computer "voice", or blogging style, is "decidedly masculine". The person who informed me of this misspelled 'masculine', but I won't dwell on that..not today anyway :). Anyhoodles, I suppose now's the time to make an ultra-feminine post, something that will prove to the world that I am, as Mike Myers so eloquently stated in So I Married An Axe Murderer, a WOOOOOOOOOOOOman!

I cry at the drop of a hat. Seriously, I cry at almost anything that could be described as even remotely sentimental. I cry at old men playing chess and little babies laughing. I cry when I see a zebra being mauled by a pair of lionesses. I cry, on cue, ANY time the music swells during a movie or television show, especially that goddamn Steel Magnolias. Movie TRAILERS make me cry, for Pete's sake! I cry when I think of high school, when I hear that stupid Bonnie Raitt song (you know the one), and every time 'One Shining Moment' is played at the end of the NCAA Basketball Tournament. A cool breeze, dolphins, and the smell of the ocean can make me tear up. I cry each and every time I laugh, no matter how hard I happen to be laughing, or how un-funny the moment actually turns out to be. I get choked up whenever a montage of ANYTHING is playing before me on my television -shoot, I can feel my eyes well up as soon as Jimmy Roberts appears to introduce a montage on NBC Sports. The Olympics make me bawl, so do jet flyovers at sporting events and orphaned puppies. I cry for legitimate reasons, too, like when a loved one dies or tragedy strikes - but everyone feels like letting go of a few tears then, so that wouldn't really add to my girlyness factor.

Excuse me...I just pictured my husband sleeping, and now I need a tissue....

Ok, back. Here are a few other things about me that would HAVE to make you think I've got ladyparts down there:

-I have a list, and only men are on it. #1 is Wentworth Miller (see above....and kindly step off). My husband says he would step aside without protest if Wenty should show up at my doorstep. I'm still waiting, but I have faith.

-I like to drink girly drinks, like Kir Royales, Cosmos, and Amstel Lights.

-I am obsessed with lip products, and currently have two lip balms, a lip gloss and a lipstick jostling around in my PURSE.

-I hate my hair.

-I wear shoes that are uncomfortable.

-I crave chocolate and pray for someone to just give me one good reason every 28 days.

-I am writing a freakin' novel about my feminine qualities because another chick mentioned, in passing, that I might have an inkling of masculinity about my blogging style. If that doesn't prove that I'm a girl, nothing else could.

In honor of my friend the Wizbian...

First of all, I must get this out of the way before I begin my rant: I do NOT watch American Idol. I did watch one season, it might have been the second or third one, and I can honestly say I remember none of it. A very good thing for my brain, as far as very good things go.

So, why am I so pissed off about this Sanjaya kid? Is it because I can't shuffle my way to my living room couch, fumble with the remote, and squint at the TV in hopes of seeing a weensy wittle bit of Matt Lauer without getting slapped in the face with AI 'news'? Instead of a tidbit of useless information to get my day started or the wave of joy I feel upon hearing Chris Hansen's voice, I have Mo Rocca and some flunkie from TV Guide doing their damndest to explain the why, god, whys behind Sanjaya's, um, success (?). This is not news! It is not news that this kid cannot sing a note - like I said before I DON'T (I swear!) watch this dreck, but anyone with a computer or television set has been subjected to at least a snippet of Sanjaya's vocal poison. And it's not news that Howard Stern has launched a campaign to bring about the demise of the ratings behemoth that is AI by urging his minions to vote for this no-talent hack. SO, why does Ann Curry care so much? Why is Al Roker asking the fans outside Rockefeller Center what THEY think about Sanjaya's longevity? There has GOT to be something else they can talk about, something important, something riveting.

American Idol IS news, you say? You ARE riveted?

Oh, ok then.

Wednesday, April 4, 2007

So..this is blogging...

I can't say I ever thought I'd start my own blog, yet here I am, and it took suprisingly less goading than even I would have expected. My brain is rather fried at the moment, so I can't quite be certain that I am making any sense...but I'm going to give it a go, and hopefully kill a little time before LOST comes on....maybe tomorrow I'll post about how awful tonight's episode turned out to be.

So, the other day I was reading that a SpeedRacer movie is in the works. Seriously? Have we really reached a point where creativity and originality have died, been crumpled up and then dropped into the recycling bin? It seems as though every new film these days is a re-make, a re-worked television show, or a live-action version of a cheesy cartoon from the '70s. Think about it: Bewitched (sucked), War of The Worlds (crap), The Dukes of Hazzard (garbage), Charlotte's Web (why?). There is a Transformers movie opening in July, and Jessica Simpson is starring in a re-make of Working Girl. I am not kidding. Somewhere in Hollywood, right now, there is a screenwriter lazily updating "Family Ties" for the big screen. No joke, watch for that movie, it has to come out eventually. I wonder who will play Alex P. Keaton.

Probably Kieran Culkin.