McCloud and I have come to the shocking realization that we often have an easier time making plans (and friends) with folks we don't know, than we do convincing our current acquaintances to join us for an event. Sure, we're strong personalities, and sure that's not everyone's cup of tea. But it does seem like at some point it should be easier to convince current friends to come out and play than to convince total strangers to buy us a drink.
On more than one occasion we have had space (in the hotel, on the plane, in our bed) for someone, and struggled to get anyone from the current roster to partake, whereas we seem to easily garner attention (and presents!) from random folks around town (on the street, at the bar, in our bed...).
Is this another red flag? what does is say about our friends, ourselves or our choices??
hmm.
in other news, anyone want in on a lecture with us this evening?
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Job. Interviews.
So, I'm applying for my boss' job. Yup. Hoping to join the ranks of big kids as a manager.
Odds? Completely questionable.
The internal interview process has been, well...extended. And I'm suited (or should I say skirted?) up for the final one. Today.
According to my co-worker, "you look much better wearing what you are today than for your first one and the second one in your wool sweats."
Thanks? You are the BEST at backhanded compliments. And, those aren't sweats. The waistband rarely fits and they were expensive. Asshole.
In good news, I'm fairly certain I'll be able to keep a smile on my face as I just saw a woman moon most of 4th avenue. At first I wasn't sure it was a woman ass I had just seen . In fact, I kinda thought it was a dude's UNTIL I looked again (yes, I stare at car crashes, and anything vaguely grotesque: I consider it to be one of my human "conditions") and I saw her flashing her tits for everyone on 4th. So it's a chick. Nice. Awesome. I saw multiple people do U-turns on the sidewalk.
And yup, I laughed out loud. Like a guttural belly-laugh. I'm resigned to the fact that I'm going to hell, so it only seemed appropriate. In fairness, I know this woman is most likely severely mentally ill (or just awesome!) and I wish her all the best in her pursuits. And I thank her unjudgingly (I may have made this word up) and unconditionally for putting a smile on my face today.
Wish me luck. Please.
Odds? Completely questionable.
The internal interview process has been, well...extended. And I'm suited (or should I say skirted?) up for the final one. Today.
According to my co-worker, "you look much better wearing what you are today than for your first one and the second one in your wool sweats."
Thanks? You are the BEST at backhanded compliments. And, those aren't sweats. The waistband rarely fits and they were expensive. Asshole.
In good news, I'm fairly certain I'll be able to keep a smile on my face as I just saw a woman moon most of 4th avenue. At first I wasn't sure it was a woman ass I had just seen . In fact, I kinda thought it was a dude's UNTIL I looked again (yes, I stare at car crashes, and anything vaguely grotesque: I consider it to be one of my human "conditions") and I saw her flashing her tits for everyone on 4th. So it's a chick. Nice. Awesome. I saw multiple people do U-turns on the sidewalk.
And yup, I laughed out loud. Like a guttural belly-laugh. I'm resigned to the fact that I'm going to hell, so it only seemed appropriate. In fairness, I know this woman is most likely severely mentally ill (or just awesome!) and I wish her all the best in her pursuits. And I thank her unjudgingly (I may have made this word up) and unconditionally for putting a smile on my face today.
Wish me luck. Please.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Bachelorette Backslide...
So, I've been attempting to process the mountain of baked goods and phallic paraphenalia that was the bachelorette trip last weekend.
While it resulted in good times for all and some serious dancing (uh.. .my quads are sore?) there are a few moments that stand out in my memory and should be relived so as to make sure that I learn all possible lessons from them. Ok, maybe just one.
Strip Tease Aerobics.
Every party needs it's stereotypical "stripper" event, and I for one, considered some sort of aerobic activity a good counterbalance to the cookies, and a creative way to check this bachelorette box. After a morning of gluttony, and a surprisingly beautiful walk on the sunny beach, all the girls (maybe a bakers dozen of us..) changed into yoga pants and sports bras so as to be suitably dressed for our cardio session.
As it turns out, any level of "athletic support" was totally unnecessary, since what walked through the door at the bride-to-be's beautiful beach home was less "sports club fitness trainer" and more "Hartford-Hooker." Three of them in fact. three really, really tired looking... strippers?
They were dressed to impress.. short-shorts, yellowed lucite heels (what makes lucite yellow?) and of course, seriously tragic wet look curls. I gave a cohort a panicked look, and we immediately dashed for the fridge, desperate to swipe the last bottle of prosecco and hopefully alleviate the stress of what was most certainly NOT going to be a glorified step aerobics class...
It started with Stripper #1 (the attractive one) explaining to us that her business "Goddess-N-Motion" was meant to inspire confidence and "swagger."
Really.
At this point all it was inspiring me to do was drink more, and make a mental note to ask The Boy about strippers.
We were then introduced to Stripper #2 (the squishy one), who was to be our "instructor" for the afternoon. Stripper #2 was incapable of speaking up (I know we're loud, but still), incapable of keeping her shorts zipped (weird, are those trick shorts?) and also totally revolting. She kept claiming that stripping had "Totally transfoooooormed" her body which was accompanied by really ridiculous self touch/rub moves.
Really.
At this point I was wondering a) what could it possibly have transformed from. and b) was this the sort of transformation that I was personally looking for...
Then we "danced" or rather, we crawled. We were told to move slower and constantly touch our bodies, ideally our boobs, but also our thighs (uh, k). The crawling was ok, but I really wished that I had made less of an effort to pack a sportsbra and more of an effort to pack knee pads. they would have been helpful for the hard tile floor, and "approach" that we were instructed to take when approaching our "lover" or.... teddy bear?
The Strippers had convienently brought I gigantic, stuffed, state-fair-sized teddy bear. He was our "client."
Really.
Client. Where exactly had Teddy been? who had he been with and when (pray tell) was the last time we thought that Teddy's plush exterior got the gift of a good cleansing? My assumption was, NEVER, so I chose to ignore teddy, and his stubby extremities in favor of a good long time friend who had the unfortunate experience of me climbing all over her, crawling, turning and attemping a seductive "leg routine" from the floor which I can only imagine looked less like an enticing dance, and more like a beetle struggling to right itself in the middle of a sidewalk.
From there it was downhill. Poor Stripper #2 kept trying to anoint us with her "skills" but no one cared. at all. This was when I started to feel guilty. 12(ish) girls, giggling and mocking their livelihood can't feel good.. I felt a twinge of over-privileged guilt sneak up on me, which is when I noticed Stripper #3 (the sad one). Stripper #3 looked like she needed some love. or at least some sleep, and possibly some rehab.
While I really wanted to chat the girls up when we were done learning the "exotic art of striptease," It seemed a little rude to question them like specimens at a World's Fair, but I really didn't know what else to talk about.. options included:
"nice... heels..."
"is that L.A. Look in your hair?"
"where did you find Teddy"
or
"What's that scar from?"
None of them seemed like good options and I felt sorta like a bitch for constantly making sure none of them wandered off in the house, but hey, I judge. Its what I do.
Anyway, I'm fairly certain that the "aerobics" did nothing to lift, tone, or transform my backside. Hence, I'm fairly certain that I brought some of those baked good home with me (on my ass). But what's a weekend among friends if not fattening.
While it resulted in good times for all and some serious dancing (uh.. .my quads are sore?) there are a few moments that stand out in my memory and should be relived so as to make sure that I learn all possible lessons from them. Ok, maybe just one.
Strip Tease Aerobics.
Every party needs it's stereotypical "stripper" event, and I for one, considered some sort of aerobic activity a good counterbalance to the cookies, and a creative way to check this bachelorette box. After a morning of gluttony, and a surprisingly beautiful walk on the sunny beach, all the girls (maybe a bakers dozen of us..) changed into yoga pants and sports bras so as to be suitably dressed for our cardio session.
As it turns out, any level of "athletic support" was totally unnecessary, since what walked through the door at the bride-to-be's beautiful beach home was less "sports club fitness trainer" and more "Hartford-Hooker." Three of them in fact. three really, really tired looking... strippers?
They were dressed to impress.. short-shorts, yellowed lucite heels (what makes lucite yellow?) and of course, seriously tragic wet look curls. I gave a cohort a panicked look, and we immediately dashed for the fridge, desperate to swipe the last bottle of prosecco and hopefully alleviate the stress of what was most certainly NOT going to be a glorified step aerobics class...
It started with Stripper #1 (the attractive one) explaining to us that her business "Goddess-N-Motion" was meant to inspire confidence and "swagger."
Really.
At this point all it was inspiring me to do was drink more, and make a mental note to ask The Boy about strippers.
We were then introduced to Stripper #2 (the squishy one), who was to be our "instructor" for the afternoon. Stripper #2 was incapable of speaking up (I know we're loud, but still), incapable of keeping her shorts zipped (weird, are those trick shorts?) and also totally revolting. She kept claiming that stripping had "Totally transfoooooormed" her body which was accompanied by really ridiculous self touch/rub moves.
Really.
At this point I was wondering a) what could it possibly have transformed from. and b) was this the sort of transformation that I was personally looking for...
Then we "danced" or rather, we crawled. We were told to move slower and constantly touch our bodies, ideally our boobs, but also our thighs (uh, k). The crawling was ok, but I really wished that I had made less of an effort to pack a sportsbra and more of an effort to pack knee pads. they would have been helpful for the hard tile floor, and "approach" that we were instructed to take when approaching our "lover" or.... teddy bear?
The Strippers had convienently brought I gigantic, stuffed, state-fair-sized teddy bear. He was our "client."
Really.
Client. Where exactly had Teddy been? who had he been with and when (pray tell) was the last time we thought that Teddy's plush exterior got the gift of a good cleansing? My assumption was, NEVER, so I chose to ignore teddy, and his stubby extremities in favor of a good long time friend who had the unfortunate experience of me climbing all over her, crawling, turning and attemping a seductive "leg routine" from the floor which I can only imagine looked less like an enticing dance, and more like a beetle struggling to right itself in the middle of a sidewalk.
From there it was downhill. Poor Stripper #2 kept trying to anoint us with her "skills" but no one cared. at all. This was when I started to feel guilty. 12(ish) girls, giggling and mocking their livelihood can't feel good.. I felt a twinge of over-privileged guilt sneak up on me, which is when I noticed Stripper #3 (the sad one). Stripper #3 looked like she needed some love. or at least some sleep, and possibly some rehab.
While I really wanted to chat the girls up when we were done learning the "exotic art of striptease," It seemed a little rude to question them like specimens at a World's Fair, but I really didn't know what else to talk about.. options included:
"nice... heels..."
"is that L.A. Look in your hair?"
"where did you find Teddy"
or
"What's that scar from?"
None of them seemed like good options and I felt sorta like a bitch for constantly making sure none of them wandered off in the house, but hey, I judge. Its what I do.
Anyway, I'm fairly certain that the "aerobics" did nothing to lift, tone, or transform my backside. Hence, I'm fairly certain that I brought some of those baked good home with me (on my ass). But what's a weekend among friends if not fattening.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
O.L.D.
So, when I was a kid my mother insisted on dressing my sister and me up on a fairly regular basis: holidays, first day of school, family dinners, plane rides (don't know why, but to this day I usually look nice on airplanes. exceptions include: I'm too fat to fit back into my jeans or too hungover to figure out how to put my jeans on)
Anyway, that isn't really here nor there except that during these dress-ups I often remember my mother getting dressed first and tucking anything she could find into her tights or underwear (okay, it was mostly shirts being tucked) and then it was our turn. Me first, then my darling little sister. I can safely say we both HATED it and tried to wiggle our shirts out of our undies or tights or horrifically both. It was frightfully uncomfortable and almost always resulted in clothing in some crevasse where no clothing belongs.
FAST FORWARD to now. like today. this morning. I effing tucked my shirt into my tights. It only made sense. SOMETHING had to hold it in the skirt, which has an elastic waistband and the shirt is a little short. I am here to report that this method is TOTALLY working as my shirt has managed to stay tucked in to not only my skirt, but my tights and miraculously there is no wedgie involved. The only slight fail is that I should probably be rocking spanx instead of tights. Worse things have happened, I suppose.
I am OLD. that is all this can mean.
Anyway, that isn't really here nor there except that during these dress-ups I often remember my mother getting dressed first and tucking anything she could find into her tights or underwear (okay, it was mostly shirts being tucked) and then it was our turn. Me first, then my darling little sister. I can safely say we both HATED it and tried to wiggle our shirts out of our undies or tights or horrifically both. It was frightfully uncomfortable and almost always resulted in clothing in some crevasse where no clothing belongs.
FAST FORWARD to now. like today. this morning. I effing tucked my shirt into my tights. It only made sense. SOMETHING had to hold it in the skirt, which has an elastic waistband and the shirt is a little short. I am here to report that this method is TOTALLY working as my shirt has managed to stay tucked in to not only my skirt, but my tights and miraculously there is no wedgie involved. The only slight fail is that I should probably be rocking spanx instead of tights. Worse things have happened, I suppose.
I am OLD. that is all this can mean.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Food Groups?
Today I have consumed:
I'm fairly certain I don't know what food gorups half of these foods even go in.
I need a meal.....
- 16oz Soy Latte (bravely avoided the ham and cheese croissant... go me)
- Fiber One Granola bar
- string cheese
- rice cake (with tahini and seaweed)
- American cheese (on the rice cake)
- Pizza flavored Pringles "Styx" (surprisingly delicious)
I'm fairly certain I don't know what food gorups half of these foods even go in.
I need a meal.....
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