Monday, March 27, 2006

Tell K-Fed I won't call him Daddy

It’s Monday. Mondays are sort of a day of reckoning in corporate America. Even though legally “The Man” provides you with 2 days off per week, he still wants a full account of your whereabouts come Monday, when it is time to get back to work. Here is how my Monday mornings usually go down:

Me: “Good Morning Boss Man, Boss Ladies and Various Others in Office.”

Them: “How was your weekend?”

Me: “It was good. How was yours?” (they always ignore my questions. Like they are secretly in the FBI on weekends.)

Them: “Just good?”

Me: “Huh?” (as I am still pretty asleep as I most likely just woke up oh, about 25 minutes before this conversation)

Them: “Your weekend. It was just ‘good’?”

Me: “Oh. No. I mean I guess…it was fine.”

Them: “What did you do?”

Me: (automatically go into crisis mode. I don’t need them to know about my alter ego that comes out after a few cocktails/beers/shots. I don’t need them to know that all the stuff I talked about doing that weekend never happened because I was bed ridden with a hangover on Saturday.) “Oh, not much. Hung out with some friends, walked around the park, ran some errands…(here is where I trail off hoping that’s enough)”

Them: “Some weather Saturday, huh?”

Me: “Yea…”(having no clue what they are referring to as I made sure all blinds were closed because any direct sunlight may have killed me on Saturday. Usually I start to walk away slowly at this point.)

Them: “Well ok then…Thanks.” (They always say “Thanks” even if all I did was stand there.)

There was a lot more I could have told them. I could have told them that I had an inappropriate dream about Kevin Federline on Thursday night (I know, I know, revolting isn’t it?). A dream that in turn ruined my entire weekend. A dream that made me nauseated at my roommates birthday dinner. A dream that I used to induce vomit on Saturday so I would feel better. A dream that warrants no explanation. A dream that will never, EVER, be mentioned again after today. (Pause as I throw up in my mouth a little).

I also could have told them about the lesbian that hit on me Friday night. She was old, unattractive, and grabbed my hand as I exited the ladies room. She kissed my hand. I was flattered. I think she might have said “Thanks” as I walked away.

I could have told them how I rocked a game of darts on Friday night. And I mean rocked. Q and I must have gotten a hold of something magic, because we beat this guy (who said he knew how to play, I think he lied). Well, we sort of won. We never got to finish the game, but all we needed was one more bulls eye. I think I might start dart hustling in my spare time, like those guys who hustle at pool halls. But instead of naming my darts Lucille, I would name mine after The Chipmunks: Alvin, Simon, and Theodore.

I also could have told them about the young man who propositioned me (it was just plain gross) at 7 am Saturday morning as I trekked home from a late night post bar sing along and an acquaintances apartment (for no other reason as to give him and a friend little privacy, and for the fact that I was done drinking). A well-dressed man approached me like he needed help. I thought he needed directions. After what felt like five minutes of him getting up the nerve to ask me his question, it turned out he did want directions. Into my pants. I’ve never said the word “No” louder in my life. He’s lucky. I was very close to swatting him with my purse, but I was too aware that my beer consumption had affected my swing.

So you might be wondering why I keep up all of my vices if come Monday, I hide from them and act like a completely mature adult? Because I actually like my vices. Indulging in them keeps me sane. All adults have vices. Whether it be smoking (which they still don’t know I do here considering we talk about health here a lot), drinking, gambling, working too much, slacking too much, talking to much, not talking enough, gossiping, having sex too much, loving too little, being overly critically, being less than truthful, cheating, stealing, eating in excess, buying unaffordable things, taking credit for other people’s work, having elicit dreams about a famous pop stars less than attractive WT husband, etc. The list could go on forever. Everyone has vices. And mine aren’t hurting anyone but myself. I’ve spent so many years developing them I am actually comforted by my vices from time to time. I embrace them. They make me human. So no one needs to know about them but me (and everyone I choose to tell i.e. you, which is usually plenty of people).

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Urban Antropology 101: What you see is not always what you get.

Against my better judgement and all of my will power, I joined a gym. I didn't want to do it. I knew I wouldn't go and just waste tons of money. But when my sister came to me with the cheapest gym membership I had ever heard of with one of the countries biggest chains, I couldn't say no. I located one two blocks from my apartment. It has a pool and sauna. The biggest selling point for me? The retail store inside.

So I joined up in February, early February to be more exact. After a month and a half of putting it off and the biggest display of excuse making I think I've ever seen myself perform (I need my membership to come in, I'm sick, I'm tired, My foot hurts, I'm hungry, I have no sport bras) I went. To the gym. For the first time since 2003.

Of course, when I initially went to get my card I received no tour since I had already paid my membership. I quickly figured out where the locker room was and started to get ready for my big work out. I put my new gym bag in my locker with all my gym type stuff and locked it with my brand new gym lock (nothing like a new experience to make you go shopping!) and grabbed my iPod and water. Now what? I stared at the girls around me in the locker room. I had expected to see the types of girls that I see around me everyday. The ones with the perfect bodies and teeth. But I was surprised. Most were bigger than me (which made me happy, I hate working out next to skinny bitches who obviously don't need to be at the gym), some were smaller, and some were just plain, um, er, trailer trash.

Who knew? In the middle (and I mean middle, you could throw up at my gym and it land on Times Square) of the greatest and biggest city in the world there it was. A hot yellow 1980s muscle man tank top, unmistakable died blorange frizzy hair pulled back in a black scrunchie, jams and scrunchie socks inside sneakers that looked suspiciously liked LA Gears (but they didn't light up, I was dissapointed). Trailer Trash in the gym. I figured she was a tourist working out on vacation.

I felt like an urban anthropologist. Where did this species come from? I waited for her to speak, but she didn't. She looked like she knew her surroundings. So I followed her. Out of the locker room and into the main part of the gym. She led me to the Precor machines (which I was happy about since that was what I was trying to find anyway). There wasn't one open next to her but there was one behind her. So I watched this trashosapian, who I decided to name Laverne for the next 30 minutes ( I outlasted her by 15, score: me=1, Laverne=0). When she got off the machine she turned to speak to the person who was going to use it next. I put my iPod on pause immediately to catch a snippet of her dialect. I waited to hear a Southern twang, a midwestern drawl, even a West Coast "dude".

And then I heard it. Laverne was no sranger to the urban jungle. She spoke loudly, with a booming outerborough accent. She probably doesn't live in a trailer. Probably a two- or three-bedroom house in Flushing. She had on a wedding ring. Laverne was probably married to a guy named Bobby or Tommy or Johnny. She probably had kids. She probably watched all of their baseball and basketball games growing up and now that they are older, she is working on getting herself in shape so she can stay healthy. Laverne smiled a lot. Laverne was a happy scrunchie wearing lady.

Then I got jealous of Laverne. She had everything I want. The husband the kids, and most likely a decent job (my gym is in the basement of a HUGE office building). She cared about herself, not what pther people thought. She wasn't at the gym working out so she could look good for other people (watch out Nicole Richie, I'm gonna be sooooo skinnier than you). She didn't care what she was wearing at the gym (I bought my gym fashions they day before). She wasn't there for anyone but herself. Score: me=1, Laverne=happiness.

I've decided that if I see Laverne again I won't approach her (or gym stalk her). I want to leave her in my mind the way I think she lives. That she goes home after the gym to make dinner for Bobby or Tommy or Johnny, that she gets in a fight with her teenage son who eventually forgives her because she's mom and she watches her shows on tv and goes to sleep happy with her life and the choices she's made.

And after I leave the gym, I will go home, Make dinner for myself, get in a fight with my mom over the phone but forgive her because she's my mom, watch my shows and go to sleep hoping that one day I'll be as happy as Laverne, but with a MUCH better wardrobe.

Laverne hearts, Bobby, Johnny or Tommy.

Thursday, March 16, 2006

It's not Festivus, but I figure I'd air my grievances anyway

It started awhile ago. Bored at my old job as an administrative assistant at a marketing company (which means I did a whole lot of nothing), I looked through all of my old emails. My sister had forwarded me an email froma guy friend of hers that was list of things he generally didn't like. Then I got to thinking. This is a pretty decent idea. Send out your personal preferences and dislikes and perhaps, just perhaps you can get them out of your life. So I started to write. And the list was long. So long in fact, that I am not including the entire list in just this one post.

Today, I am verbalizing my grievances. I am sending out my list of things I don't trust, like or things I generally find in bad taste. But only 25 of them. I don't want to bombard the world all at once and or offend to many people on one day (It is St. Patrick's Day Eve after all).

So enjoy and if you find yourself on this list, please leave me alone or change completely. I obviously don't like you very much.

1. Cuba Gooding Jr. - For two reasons. 1. Introducing "Show Me The Money" into the lexicon and for the fact that he went from a total career high to low in about 2 seconds. Even Jon Voight took longer than that.

2. People who carry umbrellas all the time - they're just plain pessimists.

3. Guys who still wear Drakkar Noir - no explanation needed.

4. Anyone who has dated Kate Moss - Because of her million nude photo shoots in W, I've seen her nekkid and I don't need that kind of comparison.

5. Anyone who thinks Leelee Sobieski is attractive or who think her name has a nice ring to it. It's verbal poo to me.

6. Chloe Sevigny. I just seriously dislike her. Period.

7. Greenpeace workers. The stalk people by land, sea and telephone.

8. Adults who play with toy trains (this means you Bobby Baccala), unless they are really cool like the trolly on Mr. Rogers or carry beer.

9. Bob Saget - went from dirty comic to clean cut dad to dirty comic to invisible clean-cut dad. Who are you schizo?

10. The Gap - Have you seen their prices? Do they think they are Express? And does Express think their Saks or something? Bitch please.

11. People whose natural smell (meaning like, not sweaty or anything, just unperfumed) is nasty. And people who stink in general.

12. Anyone over 23 that doesn't get hangovers after a night of drinking. Or maybe I'm just jealous of them.

13. People who hold the elevator for other people when they are just coming through the front door and are checking their mail. Who has that kind of time?

14. Lyndsey Lohan – Is it just me or does that freckle on her lip come and go as she pleases? It’s witchery.

15. People who drink Michelob Ultra as a weight loss method. It’s still beer. Put down the donuts and stop annoying me with your low-carb beverages.

16. Flavor Flav - although fun to watch his omnipresence on TV is just plain frightening.

17. Anyone who wears grillz (see above).

18. People who don’t even have basic cable.

19. Cat people.

20. Anyone who has worked at something called a “dairy.”

21. Anyone who willingly goes on an MTV dating show…NEXT!

22. The French. I truly believe they just sit and laugh and plot against us. I’m gonna do the “I told ya so” dance when a giant crepe is launched in our direction.

23. People who don’t include photos on their myspace, friendster or any of those types of sites. I’m guessing they are hiding the fact they look like a foot.

24. Gaiken. He needs to put his hand on the door knob and turn to get out of that closet.

25. And Finally, people who refer to money as anything other than money, dollars or cash (unless you are in a foreign country and you have to). I think the word "moula" went of style in 1985.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Shout out.....

Here's a shout out to another fellow blogger. Check out her site, but don't forget about me!