Wednesday, August 30, 2006
After a discussion about Valentine's Day cards and how there is nothing really new about them and how e-cards are lame he says:
"Well when was the last time you sent a Valentine?"
Do I smell like single or something???? I just thought I needed some lovin'. Go figure.
So you can only imagine how I felt on Saturday, when, as I was rushing to hop in the shower for the Future Mrs. Krabbypatty's (FMK) birthday party, I heard the loud clango f metal hitting the floor. The bed that I had been so peacefully napping in not too long before, had decided to, well, dismantle itself. Oh. Dear. God.
A reeactment: Replace the smirk on his face with sheer horror.
Since I had helped my Mom assemble the thing when I moved in, I made a weak attempt at lifting the mattress and box spring and the metal bed frame to try to fix it. Nope. Then I enlisted London and our other friend to help. Nope. Useless. All of us.
London and company had to leave for an appointment at the Genius bar at the Apple Store leaving me to my own devices. So what does a single girl in New York City do when she faces a dilemma right before she has to go to a party? She starts using her resources. I called all of the Westchester folks to see if they happened to be taking the West Side Highway so one of the husbands could help me. Nope. The party was on the UES so I pretty much knew I was screwed.
So what does a single girl in New York City do when she is really screwed? She cries. Wrapped only in my towel in my hot bedroom after a half hour of trying to fix my twin bed (which has survived Jdate, Mr. Brightside and Cougar Bait) I sat down on the floor and started balling. And I shouted over the phone to London: "This is why I need a boyfriend Goddammit, to like, you know, fix stuff!" I was a sad little girl.
In the end, I stacked some books under the bed, got rediculously drunk and at the party, and came home and had it break all over again. This time I took in stride, got up, puked and then crawled into Tiny Dancer's bed. The following day, London and I took apart the bed and now I sleep on top on the mattress and box spring on the floor. My decorating style has become ghetto feng shui. Come and get it boys!
I know. I need a grow up bed.
And yes, I know I don't need a boyfriend to fix stuff. I just need vodka.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
1. She played herself in the movie.
2. It clearly illustrates that she dresses like a hooch, skips school and makes out in the back of yellow pick-up trucks. And her boobs are so not those of 16-year-old.
3. She has a speaking role. Tiny Dancer says she sounds like a muppet. I think Elmo has more range.
4. They show too much of her sad times. Sure, she had it hard, but did I need to see the montage of people laughing (only in her head) when she returns to school after pressing rape charges? No, the Lifetime film with Candace Cameron and Mark Paul Gosslaar handled it better.
5. She looked preggers when she wasn't supposed to be.
6. They show "her first time." I would rather watch Chicken Little's first time.
7. The literally show her vomit. I thought YouTube would have that video by now (like the girl on Flavor of Love who made boom on his floor). I cna only imagine the sscript looked like this:
Setting: Fantasia's friend's apartment in the Projects. It is summer in said Projects, hot and sweaty where veryone drinks Colt 45, Boone's Farm and smokes Newports.
Interior: Fantasia's friend's house. Kids running around haphazardly. Fantasia at table eating breakfast.
Friend: Fantasia, you gotta start telling your man Rodney that this ain't his house so he can't be leaing his stuff lying around.
Fantasia (or muppet, whoever can stand in): Just make a big pile and I'll do the laun bleh hack, huaaa, blech [vomit spills out of Fantasia onto table, remain with a wide shot of Fantasia so the audeience gets all the puke action, and in turn, vomit on themselves].
8. She confesses she can't really read at the end of the movie to relate that to her American Idol experience. Like that was her big hardship. Ummmm, Fanny, listen, I think that having Dwayne Wayne as your father, getting raped, dropping out of high school and getting knocked up by a guy who ends up beating you up is your hardship, not the fact that you're a weak reader okay?
So Fantasia, please write me a check for two hours of my life plus my good sense in television. I'm sure your American Idol dollars can pay for that. And get yourself a Phonics book while you're at it.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Today I took a sick day from work because I woke up with a ginormous headache. But as I sit her in my pajamas I leave you with this exciting tidbit from my weekend, more specifically at Shea Stadium Saturday night for the 1986 reunion/Mets v. Rockies:
Me as Paul Lo Duca steps up to bat during the 4-0 defecit: Hey Paulie! Hit it like it was a 19-year-old girl!
And indeed, the nasty cheater did.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Since I have been working way too late and am on the verge of burn out I will redirect you to some of my favorite bloggers who are also celebrating CRAP FEST 2006:
I don't think they work for the same company as me, but seriously what is with the workload this week. It's like all of the big boss men decided to get together to crush the spirits of twenty-somethings who just want to get ahead and get a raise this week.
Damn the man. Damn him to hell.
Monday, August 14, 2006
So to the future Mrs. KrabbyPatty I say Congrats! And I look forward to getting wasted and trying to make out with someone at your wedding. (just kidding...sort of).
Honey, you can Lego of my hand now....
weddings make me lame.
When I was a little girl, my mom would take me and my sister's to a friend's house in East Hampton. She also took her boss. Who happened to be a nun. I loved it because they had a pool and that's all I needed to be happy. As I got older, I stopped going on the trips because I was either working, or didn't want to go hang out with my mom and a nun. Why would I when instead, I would have parties at my house and smoke cigarettes freely on the porch?
My mom stopped asking me to join her when I went to college. Now I beg her to take me. Why? Because it's like Zoolander, only rediculously fun-looking.
This past weekend, as promised, DM invited me to her share house. We met at Penn Station (which I think is my version of what hell would be like, literally, people do not understand personal space in thhat joint). We hopped on the Long Island railroad (which is quite nice once you get on the actual train) and two hours later, I was on my way to drunken fun.
Just two hours east of Manhatty lies to land of beer, boys and sick dance parties.
Here is what happened in my typical bulleted list style which means I am being full on lazt because I am tried from work and want to watch the Hell's Kitchen finale:
Many Beers + Shots (I think there may have been more than one) + Dance Party to Journey's Don't Stop Believing+Winning a free tank top in a beer taste test+making out with a youngin (yes, more cougar action!)+one innaproproate but HYSTERICAL joke+DM making out with a boy who looked foreign+taking and advil and some other brown pill before bed = a kick ass night with minimal hangover.
Perfect beach day with funny stories and beers on the beach. And I hate the beach. It was really close to the weather on what I call "THE BEST DAY EVER" but that's a story for another time.
I was made friends with the 007
I got to hang out with fun people
I finally "got rescued"
I learned what Drift foot is
And that's all I can remember. I do have 97 pictures from the weekend, all photographic evidence of the following things:
1. I have sick dance moves.
2. My friends like the big pink pole.
3. We like to get drunk and dance. And when I say dance, I mean like full on Napolean Dynamite, Flashdance, with your heart and soul dancing. It's. awesome.
Are these sick moves? Indeed.
So thank you DM for a very necessary break from reality. And I'm so in for a share next summer. Better work on some new moves for next year.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
I started sweating, and after the Lohan incident about a week ago I decided to buy a bottle of water to hydrate myself as I burned calories and hole in my wallet. No delis or bodegas in sight (of course not, it's Fifth Ave). So I hiked to a hot dog vendor and asked for a Poland Spring.
I figured it would be a dollar so I was prepared with my folded up single in my sweaty palm. As we made our exchange Mr. Weiner Seller barked at me for another 50 cents.
The risked of Lyndseying out again was to great, so I started to dig for two quarters so I wouldn't have to break a twenty. I pushed my sunglasses up on my forehead to get a better look and eventually found my needed currency. As I handed them over (a little peeved) Mr. Weiner Vendor said, "You have beautiful eyes."
WORTH EVERY PENNY!
(and no this is not me in the shot, I would never be caught dead with a large white clip and a half french twist)
And it made my day. So yea, compliments are worth paying for. I may have to hire someone in the near future (because this week, all the Bends were out of control).
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
It's effing hot in Manhattan and like no one knows how to use air conditioning. It reminds me the sweat which I lived with in London last summer because there wasn't air ANYWHERE, not even in my bedroom. My roommates AC is broken (her AC provides the air for our living room), the super is ingnoring our calls and they are painting our building so it reeks.
I'm annoyed. But I have found the cure for the hot Manhatty summer blues, Marino's cherry Italian ices. Two to be exact. I eat two every night, to my frozen sugar water delight as I feel my temperature going down on the couch. VIVA LA ITALIAN ICE!