Today's Paradox

Today's paradox is brought to you by the mute turtle lady who works in the office next door to me. I've had the pleasure of running into her twice in the bathroom. Each time I did, I said 'hi' or otherwise greeted her, and she just stood there staring at me.

As the whole saying goes, she who looks and walks like a turtle is a turtle, right? I'd say that this whole non-speaking thing is an additional turtle-like tendency, which is not to be overlooked.

So anyway, here's the paradox:

If you look and walk like a turtle, and can not talk, you can't get a job unless you own the company. But if you are a turtle, how can you own a company?

And that concludes today's paradox.

If I Were a Serial Killer...

I would be known as the Construction Worker Massacre. Hypothetically, post mortem investigations and on-site interviews would reveal a trend in men hollering at a lady at 8 a.m. and subsequently getting shot in the groin, then neck, then eyes. A few special incidences, which investigators would later conclude were related to this string of deaths, will be characterized by shots directly to the mouth (the orifice which is ultimately responsible for the Construction Worker Massacre's anguish).

If ever I were brought in for questioning as a result of this post, my alibi would be: "I wouldn't write about killing someone and then go out and do it exactly as I described it on my blog."

Hell, it worked for Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct.

Unfortunately, these are the pleasant thoughts I entertain every morning as I walk into my office. But if you read this blog regularly, you already knew that.

Bad Drawings, bachelorette Parties, Purple's Status in the Color Spectrum

Tonight is my bestfriend Lauren's bachelorette party. Conveniently for me, it's in Chicago, so I can kill the D-bird and the bachelorette party-bird with one stone.

Not wanting my bestfriend's bachelorette party to be one of those cheesy penis-straw, condom-wearing affairs that I balk at on a regular basis, I thought to do something a bit sexier; a bit classier. I've never thought that a group of 8 girls needed much of a gimmick to get attention from the boys (hell, we are the gimmick), so I told Lauren to wear all white and everyone else to wear all black. I plan to top off Lauren's outfit with some sequined devil horns and a red veil, maybe write something naughty across her chest in red. My mental image is a bit like the picture above (only I can draw better in my imagination). For some reason a big sunflower will be hovering above us wherever we go.

I called Lauren last night to make sure that everything was in order. I asked her what she was wearing and she said black pants and a white shirt. My jaw locked, teeth grinded. Couldn't she just, for my sakes, wear white pants with the white shirt? Why is she going to wear black pants? I said ALL WHITE! I'm very neurotic when it comes to planning. Of course, nothing a little lamaze breathing couldn't handle. Hee-Hee-Who! Hee-Hee-Who! I reached a state of calm, rationalizing that it was fine if she wore the black pants as long as everyone else would be wearing all black. "Is everyone else wearing black?" I inquired. "Well Jen's wearing a purple top," Lauren answered.

Purple? Is that even still a color? Wasn't than banned back in '92? And if not, why not? Oh, by the way, who's Jen? Lauren told me that some of the people coming aren't on the email list I've been using to plan this thing. I've come to terms with the whole situation, deciding that our group tonight will look more like the group pictured here:

At least the hovering sunflower and myself are consistent. But ...purple??? I don't get it. That's neither black, nor white, nor legal.

I Blame it on Puerto Rico.

(Explained below)

Ever since moving to NYC I’ve hosted an inner argument with myself concerning the disgusting guys who holler at women on the street. They’re not just disgusting because they holler, they’re disgusting by nature and they holler on top of it. This is not a 'chicken or the egg' situation; nor is it an 'either/or' scenario. It’s disgusting squared, and I am lucky enough to encounter it daily. It has become such a problem that I don’t leave my office unless I absolutely have to.

The above diagram is a depiction of what happens when I do leave. I imagine this is probably relevant to most females who work in Manhattan. In case you can't read the bubbles, they just indicate me wondering if I should shoot myself, then the doorman proposing to me as I leave the building, followed by a bunch of lowlife's spouting their half-assed pickup lines and a guy begging for money as I escape into the subway.

I come up with a new solution to this problem every morning:

I'll write to the construction company and tell them how disturbing their employees are!

I'll make a recorded compilation of every singly holler I get and send it to morning NEWS shows!

I'm going to yell at the next guy who says something! (I actually told some guy to "Fuck off" the other morning and he laughed in my face. Evidently I'm amusing)

Seeing as how one must know the root of the problem before finding a solution, I gave up. That is, until today. For today I found the root of the problem: Puerto Rico. According to ThoseAreMyPants, Puerto Rican women liked to be hollered at:

"What do you have to do to land a beautiful Puerto Rican woman? You have got to holler! Holler, holler, holler, holler, Holler!

Last Friday was beautiful. If you had two sexy legs, a killer ass and a nice full body, you got hollered at. "What's up Girl? How are you? Where you heading? What's going on? Let me get your number..."

Holy shit! Sound familiar? Why yes it does... It's what I hear every morning. This form of communication is the Puerto Rican pick-up protocol. I imagine that there are several other countries who engage in this mating game of "call and response," but for my purposes, I'll just pack all the blame into Puerto Rico. Seeing this method's relative effectiveness in the homeland, the scumbags from Puerto Rico adopt it, immigrate to the mainland and employ it here.

I told the Skeeze my new theory and he said the women in Puerto Rico probably don't like the whole hollering phenomenon either.

I argued that someone must like it because it's being perpetuated. "Hollering," just like any other mating ritual, is confined to the rules of evolution. If it didn't work, it would be selected against. Clearly someone likes it.

It's also a case of supply and demand. If women weren't demanding this treatment, scumbags wouldn't be supplying it. Economics 101, my dear Skeeze.

So what's my solution? It might be as simple as banning immigration from Puerto Rico. Then again, there are a couple of minor hoops we'd have to jump through to pull that off. Since that's the case, the only real solution is to educate! Yes, we'll educate all of the women of the world not to respond to catcalls. No matter how ugly, desperate or pathetic you are, DO NOT RESPOND. This is the only way we can ensure that hollering is not fit enough to endure natural selection's wrath. You got it, all you junior Darwinists out there? Great. Let's get started.

And yes, I'm totally serious.

Mold!

For those of you who read yesterday's post about the mold (and Time Warner & 311), I have now added photo documentation thereof. Three pictures, to be exact. Just scroll down a bit and you'll see the evidence. Let me know your thoughts.

Thanks.

P.S. Don't despair - This does not count as today's post.
P.P.S. Not that you would despair about such a thing.
P.P.P.S. It would make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside if you did though. I'm just saying...

Time Warner, Rudd Management and 311 Don't Care About You

As seen on the Consumerist
I'll have to detail my case in categories.

Time Warner
As it turns out, my cousin and I haven't been using the $80/month internet we're paying for. Since we're never home, we decided to dial Time Warner to cancel our service.

Time Warner was one-step ahead of us though. You see, Time Warner (and AOL, who they own and who is infamous for its ruthless customer retention policies) can not stand when customers discontinue their services. When my cousin finally reached a customer service rep, the lady informed her that she could only assist her with the addition of services, not the deletion thereof. Apparently Time Warner's staff members have certain niche specialties. She proceded to put my cousin on hold for 40 minutes, at which point my cousin gave up.

I volunteered to take over the cancellation process yesterday at work. I was disgusted when I realized that the hold-recording was no more than a series of paid advertisements. I'm sure Time Warner's account executives promise these advertisers a certain amount of minutes that listeners will be privy to their messages. This means that even if the customer service reps are available, Time Warner customers will be put on hold in order to appease the advertisers' dollars.

I went through the waiting/brainwashing process until I finally got a representative. Following his standard greeting, I said, "Hi, I'd like to cancel my internet services." He said, "Hold," and transferred me back to the very beginning of the menu. Pissed of yet powerless, I waited another 20 minutes until a female rep answered. Before I told her of my intentions, I stated "Do not dare hang up on me. I've been hung up on and transferred twice. I'm canceling my internet services."

Ironically, I was speaking to the nicest lady at Time Warner. "I would never hang up on you, dear." Music to my ears.

In all of her niceness, the only option she could offer me was an August 16th pick-up date for my modem. This date corresponds with the date of discontinued services, which means we'd have to pay for another month. "No can do, I'll drop it off myself." She gave me the address, which is conveniently 3 blocks away from me. I assume the wait-time there will be a few hours and there will be plenty of hoops to jump through before I complete my mission.

Rudd Management






Here's the subtle plastering job Rudd hooked us up with.Blends in nicely with the paint, wouldn't you say?
There are blatant patches of deadly-mold on our walls. Before I moved in with my cousin, she assured me that she was on top of the mold situation and would have it taken care of. She made several attempts to call Rudd Management. Finally their slack-ass maintenance guy came over, scraped off a layer of green and plastered it up. We thought that part was fine, but he made no attempt to repaint our beautiful rust-colored walls. Well, good thing he didn't. If he had, perhaps we wouldn't have noticed the moss green patches that seeped back through. My cousin continued callling and calling, leaving at least 10 messages, all to no avail. At one point, she ran into the maintenance guy in our hallway and he looked like he saw a ghost. She yelled at him, telling him to take care of it immediately. Mold. Is. Deadly. Asshole.

The lazy bastard ended up going to look at it that day, but concluded that plaster sometimes discolors.

A "mere discoloration."
Hi, we're not idiots. Perhaps an off-white would be an acceptable discoloration, but not a bubbling, microbial moss green.

We have continued to call daily. All we have received is an empty promise that someone would come over and test it for us. No one has shown up. That was a month ago.

Plaster often bubbles too.

311
One of our friends suggested we call and complain about Rudd Management to the city's public service line. My cousin did so yesterday morning. I heard her struggling to get through to the idiot on the other end. At one point, I heard her spelling it out for her: "I have mold in my house. My management company is ignoring me. I need it tested immediately."

Once the lady understood, she promised she'd send someone over. The city's policy is to send someone over without calling first. "Well, please put a note on my complaint that we are never home. We need to be called first so we can make sure someone is here."

The lady promised to make such a note. My bet? She did not.

This process pissed my cousin and I off grandly. What kind of an archaic system is this? They refuse to make appointments? They just pop in and hope you're there? Why would they prefer wasting their time making frequent visits rather than, oh I don't know, calling beforehand?

My cousin wagers that the lady's slow response time and inability to understand a damn thing she was saying was most likely not due to stupidity, probably more of an outcome of her desire to lengthen the phone call so that she wouldn't have to pick up another call and "help" someone else. "The city hires these idiot union workers. Nothing ever gets done."

I'd have to say that I agree with her assessment.

In summary, Time Warner rips you off with smooth avoidance techniques. Rudd Management is lazy and couldn't care less about your death (as long as you pay your rent). 311's office resides next to Mr. and Mrs. Flinstone's; they hire only the inept and, quite frankly, they just couldn't give a shit about your complaints (your tax dollars at work).

The Disappointment Factor

Last night I was talking to D about recent articles he read in Details (because these are the deep issues we discuss).

He described one article about professional men who marry successful professional women in hopes of maintaining a high dual income. The catch is that these women—who, in turn, married these professional men in hopes of staying home with the kids since their husbands' earnings allow it—often quit their jobs to do just that. The husband is ultimately disappointed with his decision and, most likely, his wife.

I assured D that he won't have to worry about this. Since I don't bring home the bacon like some high power women, he'll never be living under false pretenses, nor will he be disappointed if I decide to stay home.

"If I was making a lot, you'd lose a lot. Since I don't make anything, you're not losing anything. I've decreased the disappointment factor."

D was pleased with this rationalization, and the extra credit I added in: "If, in a surprising turn of events, I end up making a lot of money, I'll actually increase the "pleasantly surprised factor."

Poor, Poor Souls Who Make-Out with Strangers on Airplanes

I've heard about it before and it actually seemed kind of hot, but no, not this. This was so not hot.

My airplane was one of those 3-row international ones. When I walked up to my row, I noticed a girl sitting with a guy who I thought was her boyfriend. A few minutes later I heard her introduce herself to him and was immediately annoyed because I could tell they were going to talk for the next 5 hours. Both were relatively heinous and extremely boring. She was 23 and worked for Sephora. He was 24 and did construction. Her voice was a high-pitched shrill that sent proverbial shivers down my spine. He had a southern twang that did the same.

It was no wonder that he offered to buy her 2 cocktails. It was the only way he would be able to stand the torture. Unfortunately for all involved, she started speaking even more after just a few sips.

The worst part of their conversation was her philosophical views on love and relationships:
"I don't believe in love at first site, only lust at first site."

How utterly profound. Not at all something you would find in a self-help guide...

Or maybe it was the part where she was bragging about how "some guys I didn't know invited me to a Hip Hop club in the Bronx."

Yes, darling - you are quite the commodity. That's quite the invite.

I was so disgusted that I had to stop pretending to read in effort to pretend to sleep. I say 'pretend' because there is no way one can sleep when oh-girl with the dog whistle voice is screeching at 135 mph.

Three hours into her lecture about why her friends are so immature and she's so enlightened, I see them holding hands (not lying). Then she has her blanket over her and is lying on his lap (swear). Finally they are making out and his hand is rustling under the shitty felt airplane blanket (seriously). About a half hour before we landed, she is having "the talk" with him (If I didn't see it, I wouldn't believe it either):

"This is so weird." (She said this no less than 18 times. He didn't seem to care).

"It's weird because I don't normally do this." (Famous last words of a whore. He wasn't convinced.)

"It's weird for two reasons though."

He never inquired what the second reason was, but she's not that deep. Let me fill in what she wanted to say:

"It's weird because I don't usually believe in love at first site (just lust at first site. Duh), but now I do."

I hate her.

Their five-hour relationship culminated when he asked for her phone number (FYI: As he was putting it into his cell phone the stewardess barked at him for having it on. Hallelujah. That was my only moment of joy). The girl insisted in a whiny voice that, "I don't think you're going to call me."

Ah, poor baby. What happened to the super-confident and self-righteous girl that your inner-whorebag replaced, eh?

Her last sentence was the only one that contained a single ounce of truth or wisdom the entire flight.

I'm Alive

Just hopped off the redeye from a trip to San Diego with D and "alive" might be too presumptious a word for my current state. I'm a tired mess. "Dead" might be the appropriate term here. Thank God cabs have fixed fares from the airports into Manhattan. Usually I'm afraid to fall asleep in a cab because I know the driver's going to drive to Long Island and back in effort to jack up the fare before I wake up. Today I got an extra hour of sleep on my luxurious ride home. I say luxurious because the driver was actually pleasant, polite and he opened the door and took out my luggage for me. Usually they just pop their trunks and bitch about traffic. Having gotten so lucky as to have a pleasant driver this morning, I went so far as to hypothesize the possibility of having a pleasant day. I sware, someone gives me an inch, I take a mile...

Anyway, I have a great story about the people I sat next to on the plane. That will have to wait though. I plan to post it later in the day. For now, I will leave you with my grandparents' latest theories.

On Saturday I got really sick within a matter of seconds. I simply sat down at lunch, took a sip of water and suddenly felt like I was going to faint. My throat swelled and I was on the verge of tears within another minute. I went to visit my grandparents later in the evening, feeling horrible. I explained to them what happened and these were their conclusions:

Grandpa: Maybe you're allergic to D or D's hair. I used to be allergic to your grandmother's red hair.

Here I laughed, because, you know, I thought he must have been joking. Guess not. Evidently she actually cut her hair at one point because they decided he was allergic to it.

Onto theory number 2. Last night I called back and they asked how I was feeling (each was on the phone as often happens on these calls). I told them I was doing better and my grandma announced her latest theory.

Grandma: I think you're allergic to Jewish food.

Ah, Christian brainwashing. How I haven't missed it. This is to say, I'm pretty sure this was her subtle way of telling me that I shouldn't be dating a Jewish guy. Or, in related - she was just reaffirming her conviction that I should be Christian. Or, lastly, maybe she actually just thinks I'm allergic to Jewish food. No more Gelfite fish for me, I guess.

Back soon...

Coincidentally...

I was just talking about the usage of bottled lime juice vs. real limes for the purpose of making mojitos. Upon doing so, I burped and it was lime-flavored. Cheers.

This whole Evite thing is a little out of control.

At once, the Evite was a sacred honor—the holiest of holy honors, which graced one's inbox in times of necessary celebration. Now it is but another piece of trash, which only plagues one's spam filters.

As of late, my friends (one, in particular) have been abusing the hell out of Evites. No discrimination. No discretion. Evidently, everything is Evite-worthy. A trip to the movies? Check. A day of shopping in SoHo? Yep. Even a walk in Central Park is now grounds for an Evite.

This is not okay. On that note, if you are doing any of the following, you are indeed a bastardizer of the once-almighty, even tantalizing, Evite:

Using it to invite people over to pre-party before a night out at the bars.

Using it more than once within a two-month time frame.

Using it to communicate with less than 10 people.

Using it for a legitimate event, yet writing it as if it were business correspondence. Ex: "Dear ____, I am having an event. Please let me know if you can attend. Thank you, ____."

Using it for a legitmate event and trying to be funny/witty, yet failing miserably: "Bring your own booze if you dont like margaritas or... margaritas." Ha! What a gas that Mindy is! Sigh.

Using it for an event that should be held in higher regard than that which the Evite is possible, i.e. a wedding. Cheap bastards.

Using two different Evites for one [lame] event. That is so wrong.

Sending constant reminders to the poor souls who are way too nice to tell you that you and these Evite things are getting on their last damn nerve. Ex: "Reminder: You haven't responded to Mindy's invitation to a night of Pin the Tail on the Fucking Donkey."

After having received a response to the above reminder, you send out yet another reminder. This one is to tell the poor saps who are attending your "event" only out of their deepest pity for you, that there are only 2 days left until Pin the Tail on the Fucking Donkey.

Naming your event, "And Yet Another One." (If the name makes you yawn, there's a pretty good chance that the "party" will too).

Being overly vague in order to counteract the fact that you are abusing the Evite:

"Hi,
Come.
Mindy"

And lastly,

Threatening people who do not respond to your half-assed attempt(s) to convince them to attend what is most likely a very mediocre event: "If you haven't responded to my e-vite yet, do it now, or else!"

Yeah, bite me.

So, in conclusion:

A). Don't use the Evite in vain, and

B). If you do use the Evite in vain, please include an "unsubscribe" option.

Thank you for your time.

D Better Watch Out

...because this arrived in my inbox this morning:



Besides the belly button ring and the shoes, I'd say it's an accurate representation of my daily attire. The six-pack is on point as well. Cough. Cough.

A Quick Gripe About Amazon's Cronies

I purchased Salman Rushdie's, The Satanic Verses, about 3 weeks ago. I just received it today.

For the last week or so, I've been dreading the prospect of calling Amazon to bitch about it. A 1/2 hour wait time, being put on hold 8 times and a bitchy, underpaid customer service whore to boot - this was way out of the question.

When the book arrived, I discovered the reason for the lag time: Media Mail.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan of media mail. I used it - illegally - to move all of my belongings across the country just a few months ago ("What do these 40 boxes contain, mam?" "Umm... books, manuscripts, literary publications without advertisements..."). The rate can't be beat and if you're not in a hurry to receive your goods, this is the way to fly.

However, the San Diego-based seller on Amazon charged me $6.00 for shipping. Let me rephrase: $6.00. 1 book. Rip. Off.

Especially because the stamp on the envelope (which is actually no more than a plastic polybag - $0.03 - so packaging can't factor into the price), is in the amount of $2.55.

I hate when supposedly grass root assholes (which is the category that all privately-owned San Diego bookstores fall into), make money off of my S&H fees.

On the other hand, when a bargain-hunting bitch like me saves a buck or two using media mail, well, that's totally legit.

All These Years I Just Thought Grandma Was Giving Me a Compliment

Now I come to find out, she just felt sorry for me. She merely wanted to, you know, explain a few things to me before I was old enough to ask questions...

My mom's mom used to shower my sisters and I with unnecessary praise, advice and the sort. These sentiments arrived delicately packaged in sentences of this variety:

"You know, people who have a wide mixture of nationalities/religions/cultures* in their blood, are the most creative."

"Thoroughbreds are boring."

"If your mom was rich, people would call her eccentric, but since she's not, they just think she's crazy."

I think my grandma was just making up excuses, however, for the fact that her grandkids are all a bit off their rockers; screws are definitely loose in the Gigi clan. I would bet my bottom dollar, though, that emails like the following might be partially to be blame:


From: Mom
To: Gigi
Date: Jul 12, 2006 10:00 AM
Subject: Mama Zita


Hi my deliriously beautiful daughter. I am at Rachel's** and I love to send you email when I can. I love being here because I can clean and play with Mikey***. Rachel's so funny and she likes to read magazines and look at her dating website for men. She is so picky though.Out of fifty men she only found one slightly attractive.

Did you get the picture of me with Samuel Rosen? Sam had 6 brothers, one of which died when he was young. One of his brothers was named Isadore and he was a doctor. Sam' father's name was Adolph Rosen before Adolph Hitler ruined the name. After he ruined the name, Adolph, few people ever named their boys Adolph ever thereafter. You would not believe the dirt I discovered on my Gramma Nita by doing geneology. I uncovered loads and wheelbarrows filled with dirt.

Did you like the ring I sent you from Rachel's trip toFrance? Did Sara**** like her necklace? I sent interesting cross earrings to Andrea***** from Rachel. They are bizarre-looking earrings. Andrea has enough guts to wear them though. I cut Mike's hair and he looks like he just came homefrom the barber, but now his hair is growing out again.Well, I will go for now. Rachel is shooting me a birthday beaver and her new shave job is beautiful.

Love, Mom.

P.S. Rachel is french kissing Mikey.

* We are Polish, German, Spanish, Puertorican, Jewish, Mormons (who don't celebrate either religion, yet mention it if it will get us somewhere).
** My sister
*** My old cat, who my sister now has
**** My cousin
*****My other sister

Not Your Common Mollusk, But Similar

Nope. Not this kind, silly.

I referred to someone as a "Wasp" the other day and The Skeeze chuckled. "A Wasp? Like the bug??"

Me: "A White Anglo-Saxon Protestant. Don't tell me you've never heard that before?"

The Skeeze: "You can't just go around making up words."

Me: "Are you kidding me? I know you've lived in a cave all of your life*, but this is really bad."

The Skeeze: "That's almost as bad as the acronym on that fortune cookie you got a while back:"



Me: "Well, you may as well put it to memory so you don't look like a dumbass next time you hear it."

The Skeeze: "I don't accept it though. It just goes to show that people make up words whenever they feel like it."

Me: "You don't have to accept it. It continues with or without you. After all, it has been around a good 200 years now. Your emotional issues with it aren't going to keep it out of the English vernacular."

At this moment, Charlotte's brother, on Sex and the City, berates her for not having vodka: "And you call yourself a wasp?"


This kind.

Oh, how I love being right.

*I've mentioned it before, but the Skeeze hadn't seen The Wizard of Oz until I force-fed it to him earlier this year. His cave-dwelling qualities can be summarized in a short novel, which I can not write right now. Just trust me on this one.

Today in Irony

I mean, really.

By the way, these are the obligatory boobs mandated by my new gimmick proposal.

I'm a Gimmick Whore

We here at Life Regurgitated love boobs. Yayyy Boobs.
I didn't think the day would come that I'd say it, but it's so true: I whore out, I mean break, for gimmicks.

I realized the validity of this claim when I was planning out this coming Saturday afternoon. Saturday will consist of eating at the now-famous, S'mac (Gimmick: Macaroni and Cheese variations only), followed by dessert at my all-time fave, Rice to Riches (Gimmick: Rice pudding variations only).

This strenuous planning session took place as I was dutifully checking I Hate You, New Guy Who Sits Next to Me* (Gimmick: Girl hates new guy who sits by her. Documents his every annoying move), and realizing that there's a delicious new gimmicky blog on the radar, Not Chosen, Just Posin' (Gimmick: Non-Jewish Guy/Girl just got job at Jewish Magazine. They think he/she is Jewish. He/She is not).

All of this leads me to the above-stated conclusion (I'm a whore) as well as the realization that I need a gimmick. How else am I going to survive in this bloggy-blog world? (Oh God, I can't believe I just said that. I realize that I just lost a few readers).

Decent writing about a mediocre world just doesn't cut it any more. I'll have to start posting pictures of my boobs. We here at Life Regurgitated love boobs. Sigh.


*Did the hated new guy quit or what?

Subway Ridin' 'Rithmetic: A Proposal

Remember when one of those forward-thinking airlines proposed that people with two asses should pay for two seats? Well, I'd like to propose the same thing to the New York City MTA. Either that, or I'd like to request that the guy who placed his right ass on my lap this morning perhaps consider standing from now on?

The (Burger) King of My World

Yesterday I was walking down the street with the Skeeze, saying something or another about D and the Skeeze felt that, yes, this was the appropriate time he let me know that:

Skeeze: "D kinda looks like the king from the Burger King commercials."
Me: "Yeah, I guess he kinda does."

To my chagrin, I walked in to the office this morning to see who, but the Burger King king smiling up at me from the cover of AdAge. I think you know where this is going... A game of:

Guess that Burger King king!

Here are your options. One is D and the other one is a King who looks like D. Choose the real Burger King king and you win nothing. Simple enough? Good!

So yeah, now that I'm single...

The Mystery of The Tiniest Bladder in the World: Solved. Twice.

I don't have one of these.
I've reported many times that my bladder is the size of a pea; that I pee a cajillion times per every cup of liquid drink, and that there is an intern sitting at the front of my office, by my escape door, who must think I have serious issues (And you will learn below that I most certainly do).

I've also said that I'm opposed to responding to commercials that claim "if you are a woman who goes to the bathroom more than 8 times a day, you might need this pill." Hell, it's 10:30 a.m. and I've already reached their piddly goal. But, no, I will not call. This is why:

I Don't Have a Bladder.

It makes perfects sense. At once I thought my bladder was just really small. Now, I realize I just don't have one. Oh well, less for me to worry about. At least I won't get bladder cancer (there really is such a thing).

I was set on this conclusion until this morning when I saw another commercial - this time, geared toward men who are constantly running for the bathroom. It could be that:




I have one of these

I Have Prostate Problems.

If I don't have a bladder, then I'd say anything goes. Maybe I'm a girl with a prostate. Stranger things have happened, you know?

Until I get the X-rays verified, I'll just go on pretending I have a bladder. But, in the meantime, I'm going to have to learn how to make that thing my bitch:

In the Grand Scheme of Things

Humbled?
Me?
Please.

World Cup Soccer

I Should Be a Narrator for Biased Documentaries

Considering the movie came out two years ago, I admit I haven't exactly been chompin' at the bit to see it. In other words, last night played host to my first viewing of Super Size Me. Not that I had places to be or people to see or anything of the sort, but 5 minutes seemed an adequate amount of time to let it play.

From what I did see:

In order to lend further credit to Morgan Spurlock's case that McDonalds is the devil, his girlfriend was interviewed about his behavior and the changes she'd noted since he started eating only McDonalds for X number of days (Oh, the shock factor! The suspense! I wonder what will happen if I eat processed meat and french fries all day, everday? I know - I'll tag the corporate brand to my mission too - use their name for my gain! No pun intended! Or was it? Ha! You'll never know! I am way too clever!)


So, this is the girlfriend
Her main case was that his sex drive was decreasing [Read: His sex drive was decreasing as a result of McDonald's]. The flaw in her argument, however, is that she didn't look a thing like she does in the above picture. No, no, no... Her hair was slicked back. She wore glasses. She looked downright heinous. Repeat last sentence. It wasn't cute:


"My boyfriend won't do me. Fucking McDonalds! It's all your fault".

Oh yeah. Blame it on McDonald's. It's all McDonalds' fault. McDonald's is responsible for your (insert issue here: fatass, fatigue, laziness, ugliness, shitty personality, etc...)

This is where my narration came in:

"Are you sure the lack of sex is McDonald's fault, honey? You don't think that maybe, just maybe, his libido issues are an effect of, well, your face? You don't actually expect him to get turned on when he comes home to see, umm, you, right? Or do you? There are way too many variables that are not being accounted for in this study. Hand me the remote control, I want to see what's on E!"

I am officially available for full narration of any upcoming biased documentaries. Credible documentaries need not apply.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do. Psyche.

A priceless email that I just got from my sister, who just broke up with her boyfriend:

From: Andrea
To: The Whole Damn Fam
Date: Jul 7, 2006 10:02 AM
Subject: ooooooooohhhhhhhh, ain't no more tears being shed over this fool... LOOK AT HIS HAIR

Please text me or call me or something so that we might talk just a little more shit about this hair cut.....

D Tries to Make Joke; Backfires

Since my birthday is a mere three months away and since D is a self-described "non-birthday person," my work here must start early. And by 'early', I mean that I started my campaign last night.

Me: Wasn't that sweet when, for your birthday, I sent you a cake?

D: You mean, you sent me a box of cake mix, some icing, a cake pan and candles?

(Yes, yes - I sent him a "do-it-yourself" cake. I thought it was cute)



Me: Same difference.

D: Well, maybe I'll just send you some not-put-together jewelery then?

Mind commences ticking. Mental imagery comes into fruition:



Me: You wouldn't dare - I double doggie dare you to pull such a lowly, slovenly, vindictive stunt....

(Wink, wink)

Even Amazon Knows I Have No Style

Here's an email Amazon just sent me:

"Based on your previous purchases in Apparel, we thought you might be interested in our huge selection of Crocs at great prices. Find a style that fits your personality. So comfortable and hip, get your own pair today.

"Nothing is hotter than Crocs. Look and feel cool in these versatile shoes. Discover men's, women's, and children's styles."

There are so many things essentially wrong with this email.

A) My previous purchases with Amazon were Salman Rushdie's, The Satanic Verses, and, of course, The Devil Wears Prada, neither of which screams, "This bitch could use a good pair of Crocs."

B). "Huge Selection". I might be wrong, but there is only one shoe here. It is just available in every color known to man in case Rainbow Brite happens to dig the style. Potential cartoon product placement? Hmmm?

C). "Find a Style that Fits Your Personality." Like I said, there's only one style. Unless, of course, you consider the "no-hole" option a new breed of Croc; a mutant specie of the shoe. Oh wait, there is another: the slingback species... Very edgy! To find a shoe that supplements your personality type, here are the three "different" strains of Croc in their colorful glory:

"Crazy" "Funky" "Fresh"

But most of all, you're an individual...

D). "Hip". This word is so great. It's what my grandma uses when she's trying to give me her old clothing: "You know, Gigi, these are back in style again. All the youngsters are wearing 'em. They're very hip."

I shit you not.

E). "Discover Men's, Women's and Children's Styles." Need I?

The scariest thing about this email -- I mean, scarier than the fact that I received it -- is that I had just been reading Logged Hours where Kate mentioned the heinous shoe in passing. From there, I headed over to my email and, voila!, this was in my inbox. I think Amazon is simply stalking me ... which, oddly, is a more comforting thought than thinking that someone would assume I liked these evolutionary unfit shoes.

I am a Peeing Machine

This much was confirmed by D this weekend in Miami, where I visited every public bathroom the city had to offer.

My small bladder is by no means breaking news (neither in terms of importance nor timeliness of discovery). It's just the story of my life: For every glass of liquid I drink, I run for the bathroom at least 2 or 3 times.

And since this isn't a recent revelation, the true reason I even mention it is because it's a good segway into the fact that girls/women/ladies in Miami and surrounding areas have a habit of pissing on public toilet seats. It too confirms my credibility and expertise on the subject, lest you question the relevance of my opinion. That said, if I had to count fingers to tell you the number of toilets I had the priviledge of swiping up piss from this weekend, I would need six hands to obtain the proper figure.

I've had my fair share of run-ins with urine-laden toilet seats in NYC, but Miami? The city where the ladies' main gig - their favored gimmick and their money-swindling facade - is the projection their supposed class? Irony never fails to provide priceless comedy. And while my legs still ache from squatting over swabbed toilets, I laugh (no, guffaw) at the fact that place where I dabbed up the most yellow, was home to the city's finest; a club where men pay $550/bottle just to get close to these ill-mannered yet talented actresses.

(I am but their faithful maid)