I am all about self-humiliation. I think a day without humiliating myself is a day wasted. However, I do not like humiliating other people. My friends will tell you that I will go to great lengths to make people laugh (e.g. pink 80's prom dress, blow up dolls as birthday presents, Taylor Swift-covered walls, singing really bad karaoke songs, etc. etc.) but I am horrified - HORRIFIED - when someone else is embarassed in public. That's why I can't watch shows like "The Real World" and "Big Brother," because those people are so constantly embarassing. If I am forced to watch, I usually put my hands over my face like a kid watching a scary movie. In summary, me embarassing myself=hilarious...me embarassing other people=uncomfortable and shameful.
All of this to say that some people enjoy embarassing other people, especially when they know more about a subject than you. Like when I talk to some people in the medical profession and I explain the surgery I had on my knee. This is how I usually describe it: "My knee kept popping everytime I bent and then straightened it after sitting for a while, so the doc went in and snipped the tendon thingy that holds my knee cap in place so that it would be a little more fluid in movement and it worked! No more pain!" Now, if you just read that, you could probably understand exactly what the surgery entailed, no? I mean, Forrest Gump could understand that. But certain medical professionals feel the need to say, "Oh, you mean a Lateral Release." Now, I could give the person the benefit of the doubt that they thought I actually wanted to know what the procedure was called and therefore were informing me so that in future conversations I could use two words instead of the incredibly long phrase should the subject ever come up again. But since I am a cynical bitch, I am going to assume that they were just trying to embarass the shit out of me. What good did correcting me in front of other people do other than feed your giant ego because you knew a technical term? I mean in my line of work, if someone says "I will get you the measurements and the info on color and size and all that," I don't snidely say, "Oh, you mean the specs." I would kick myself in the balls (figuratively) if I ever did that to someone.
The worst of these offenders are the employees at Starbucks. I visit The 'Bucks far too often. I can't help it...I am addicted to freshly blended, over-priced espresso beverages in pleasantly colored brown and green cups. It reminds me of my time in the Girls Scouts, I guess. I usually order one of three things when I go to The 'Bucks because I am a creature of habit and fear change. For this study, we will only examine the behavior of the employees at the 'Bucks across from Vanderbilt (it figures). So, I walk up to order and already I am nervous because I want to get the terminology correct because there are people behind me and if I get it wrong I will just die. Plus? I like for cashiers/servers to ask me as few questions as possible (like, "How would you like that cooked?" or "What two sides would you like with that?") because it makes me feel smarter (small pleasures, people...work with me). Being the 'Bucks regular that I am I know that ordering usually goes like this: 1) size, 2) type of milk (nonfat, 2%, etc.), 3) no foam or no whip, 4) syrup flavor if applicable, 5) name of drink (latte, mocha, etc). This particular time it happens to be about 150 degrees outside, so I opt for an iced version of my favorite beverage, the nonfat, sugar-free vanilla latte. While standing in line, I have been going through my order in my head so that when presented with snooty cashier, I can get it right and experience my own sense of smug satisfaction. Finally, it is my turn. "Can I get a grande, nonfat, sugar-free vanilla latte, iced please?" Perfection, Amanda. You nailed that shit. Everyone is looking at you like you are the hero that just hit a home run with the bases loaded and two outs. You are the Barry Bonds of Starbucks, my friend. After taking the order, cashier dude usually yells the order to drink-maker dude and drink-maker dude repeats it to make sure he gets it right. Good system, small margin for error. "I need an ICED grande SKINNY VANILLA LATTE please." Motherfucker!! I thought I had this. Who knew that the word "iced" should go before size? No one told me this. Here I stand embarassed in front of all of the Vandy doctors in their scrubs and Vandy students with their laptops and trust funds because I didn't know that "iced" goes first and their is a fucking nickname for my beverage of choice. Cashier dude looks at me with which I can only assume is an eat-shit smirk. Drink-maker dude follows protocol by repeating "ICED GRANDE SKINNY VANILLA LATTE???" Sonofabitch, YES! Shit, do you have to say it that loud? To make matters worse, drink-maker dude tacks this on to the end: "Do you want whip cream?" Fuck me! I said the drink wrong AND I got a follow up question. I am so embarassed right now that I want to curl up in the fetal position and rock back and forth repeating "There's no place like home," over and over again. And then..."So we've got an iced grande NO WHIP skinny vanilla latte." Kill me now. I give him my money, defeated. I can never show my face in this Starbucks again. Damn them for making me feel inferior! I grab my drink and run off to the little side station to get a napkin. I pull out a pen and write on the napkin: NOTE TO SELF: ICED GRANDE NO WHIP SKINNY VANILLA LATTE...DUMBASS. I have to study this for the next time I visit the 'Bucks...at a completely different location, of course. Hey, you live and you learn, right? And you learn that addictions will make you put yourself in humiliating situations over and over again.
Now if you will excuse me, I have some studying to do before tomorrow morning's Starbucks run...
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Journalistic integrity.
I have a confession to make. I suck at journaling. I have always wanted to journal, and have always marveled at those who do so consistently, but it has never caught on with me. My bookcase contains about 10 journals of all shapes and sizes that have about a month's worth of writing in them usually starting on January 1 (did I mention that I suck at New Year's resolutions too?). It's not that writing down my thoughts at the end of the day is time consuming or oppressive, it's just that I, well, don't think my life is interesting enough to keep writing about. Sure, I could write about where I ate for lunch that day or a new wine that I tried or whatever, but will I really care about those things 20 years from now when I look back and read them? Plus, what if I become famous someday and long after I pass away, they find my lost diaries and want to publish them until they realize that the general public does not want to read "Today I ate asparagus and it made my pee smell." Then people will laugh at me and realize that I wasn't really as talented as they thought I was and didn't deserve to be famous after all. And I just don't want to put my two adopted African children through that.
That being said, I made a vow to myself to journal every day of my trip to the mountains, mostly because I had some mental shit that I had to work out and I thought that writing my thoughts out on paper might help me work through it. I did not count, however, on my mom bringing about 15 different bottles of wine and letting the sweet elixir flow like the nectar of the gods. And since I did most of my writing at night, the entries turned into something a little more entertaining than feelings, analyzing, emotions and other worthlessness. Highlights below.
.. ..
Day One
Woke up late (awesome). Did some yoga a la DVD to become one with my inner zen. Apparently my inner zen is just as cynical as my outer zen because the woman on the DVD just might be the most annoying person ever. I try to concentrate on my breathing but the bags under her eyes are distracting. I am so fucking zen right now. Ohmmmm.
Gym. Old people on treadmills. Classic episodes of "American Gladiators" on the TV. Sweet! Old person switches the TV to Fox News. Shit. Crazy rich old people with all of their money and conservative fake news. Shower time!
Craft fair. Man, people sure do make a lot of crap and call it "art." Among the paintings of bears and deer and some pottery that looks like someone pooped it out, I find a necklace that is actually pretty cool and pretty cheap. Score! One of these days I am going to cut branches off trees, paint them different colors, glue them on a canvas, slap a $100 price tag on it and go to a craft fair and sell the shit. I could clean up.
Nighttime. Pre-dinner cocktails with mom on the porch. We talk…and talk…and talk. We process some stuff from my childhood and from her marriage to my dad, which include details about gross stuff and I throw up a little in my mouth. But then I wash it down with pinot grigio. Cut to two hours later. We are drunk and have totally forgotten to cook dinner. Oops. We agree to go the new restaurant down the street that has beer, which is remarkable only because it used to be a dry county until this year. Score one for the drunks! I like when my mom drinks because she laughs at her own jokes and cusses. Through our conversations I know that she is completely in every way my mother. And I am definitely her daughter.
.. ..
Day Two
Breakfast. Yoga. Shopping in nearby town of Highlands. I find a store that has half-priced Lucky Brand Jeans but not my size, which convinces me that the mountain gods hate me. I return to the condo defeated.
Time to hike! I want to hike by myself to clear the cobwebs from my mind and find clarity at the top of a mountain. Four miles of straight uphill later – with an amazing view of the valley I solve problems, make commitments, find my smile and come to a place that is familiar and warm. It's nice. After about an hour, I make my way back down the mountain. Suddenly I feel like someone has just stabbed me in my heel. I look down and swat off a very large, ugly bug. The pain shoots up my leg and I immediately think I am going to die on this mountain. I start hobbling down the trail, going quickly because I don't know how much longer I will have until I faint and hit my head on a rock. "I will die on this mountain," I think to myself. Dramatic? Perhaps. Possible? Maybe. It happens. My ankle swells up like Kirstie Alley on a post-Jenny Craig bender. Before I know it, I make it to the bottom. I have lived to hike another day. When I get back to the condo, I prop my foot up and pour myself a glass of wine and raise my glass. To the bug that bit me and made me realize how precious life is – I hope he died a slow painful death choking on my blood. Cheers!
.. ..
Day Three
Dad and Jeff arrived today. We go hiking at Whiteside Mountain. We split up – mom and I go up the uphill part, and the pussies, I mean the boys, go up the more gradual trail. We cross at the top. Mom and I make it to the bottom where Jeff is waiting. No sign of dad. We wait. And wait. I wonder if dad got bit by the same kind of bug I did yesterday and has fainted for real. He finally makes it down. It's wine-thirty, bitches! Let's go!
.. ..
Day Four
(blank)
.. ..
Day Five
(blank)
.. ..
Day Six
(blank)
.. ..
Day Seven
Shit. Old dog, new tricks. Better make room on the bookshelf.
That being said, I made a vow to myself to journal every day of my trip to the mountains, mostly because I had some mental shit that I had to work out and I thought that writing my thoughts out on paper might help me work through it. I did not count, however, on my mom bringing about 15 different bottles of wine and letting the sweet elixir flow like the nectar of the gods. And since I did most of my writing at night, the entries turned into something a little more entertaining than feelings, analyzing, emotions and other worthlessness. Highlights below.
.. ..
Day One
Woke up late (awesome). Did some yoga a la DVD to become one with my inner zen. Apparently my inner zen is just as cynical as my outer zen because the woman on the DVD just might be the most annoying person ever. I try to concentrate on my breathing but the bags under her eyes are distracting. I am so fucking zen right now. Ohmmmm.
Gym. Old people on treadmills. Classic episodes of "American Gladiators" on the TV. Sweet! Old person switches the TV to Fox News. Shit. Crazy rich old people with all of their money and conservative fake news. Shower time!
Craft fair. Man, people sure do make a lot of crap and call it "art." Among the paintings of bears and deer and some pottery that looks like someone pooped it out, I find a necklace that is actually pretty cool and pretty cheap. Score! One of these days I am going to cut branches off trees, paint them different colors, glue them on a canvas, slap a $100 price tag on it and go to a craft fair and sell the shit. I could clean up.
Nighttime. Pre-dinner cocktails with mom on the porch. We talk…and talk…and talk. We process some stuff from my childhood and from her marriage to my dad, which include details about gross stuff and I throw up a little in my mouth. But then I wash it down with pinot grigio. Cut to two hours later. We are drunk and have totally forgotten to cook dinner. Oops. We agree to go the new restaurant down the street that has beer, which is remarkable only because it used to be a dry county until this year. Score one for the drunks! I like when my mom drinks because she laughs at her own jokes and cusses. Through our conversations I know that she is completely in every way my mother. And I am definitely her daughter.
.. ..
Day Two
Breakfast. Yoga. Shopping in nearby town of Highlands. I find a store that has half-priced Lucky Brand Jeans but not my size, which convinces me that the mountain gods hate me. I return to the condo defeated.
Time to hike! I want to hike by myself to clear the cobwebs from my mind and find clarity at the top of a mountain. Four miles of straight uphill later – with an amazing view of the valley I solve problems, make commitments, find my smile and come to a place that is familiar and warm. It's nice. After about an hour, I make my way back down the mountain. Suddenly I feel like someone has just stabbed me in my heel. I look down and swat off a very large, ugly bug. The pain shoots up my leg and I immediately think I am going to die on this mountain. I start hobbling down the trail, going quickly because I don't know how much longer I will have until I faint and hit my head on a rock. "I will die on this mountain," I think to myself. Dramatic? Perhaps. Possible? Maybe. It happens. My ankle swells up like Kirstie Alley on a post-Jenny Craig bender. Before I know it, I make it to the bottom. I have lived to hike another day. When I get back to the condo, I prop my foot up and pour myself a glass of wine and raise my glass. To the bug that bit me and made me realize how precious life is – I hope he died a slow painful death choking on my blood. Cheers!
.. ..
Day Three
Dad and Jeff arrived today. We go hiking at Whiteside Mountain. We split up – mom and I go up the uphill part, and the pussies, I mean the boys, go up the more gradual trail. We cross at the top. Mom and I make it to the bottom where Jeff is waiting. No sign of dad. We wait. And wait. I wonder if dad got bit by the same kind of bug I did yesterday and has fainted for real. He finally makes it down. It's wine-thirty, bitches! Let's go!
.. ..
Day Four
(blank)
.. ..
Day Five
(blank)
.. ..
Day Six
(blank)
.. ..
Day Seven
Shit. Old dog, new tricks. Better make room on the bookshelf.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Conversations with Plant Lady.
PL: Knock Konck!
Me: Hi there.
PL: (walks over to floor plant) Wow! She's just sprouting little babies everywhere.
Me: (feigning interest) Oh yeah?
PL: Yeah, she's got one, two, three, four, five, six little babies coming out of her.
Me: Maybe I should throw her a baby shower.
PL: Yeah, six of 'em!
Me: She sure does get around.
PL: Your tree here is a little whore! Ha ha!
Me: Oh...um...wow...ok.
Me: Hi there.
PL: (walks over to floor plant) Wow! She's just sprouting little babies everywhere.
Me: (feigning interest) Oh yeah?
PL: Yeah, she's got one, two, three, four, five, six little babies coming out of her.
Me: Maybe I should throw her a baby shower.
PL: Yeah, six of 'em!
Me: She sure does get around.
PL: Your tree here is a little whore! Ha ha!
Me: Oh...um...wow...ok.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Do internet scammers even try anymore?
Going through some e-mails today, I came across one from the IRS telling me that my stimulus refund would be deposited soon. Of course, not being void of all of my good sense I know that the IRS does not e-mail people because only human beings with souls use e-mail. Needing some entertainment for my weary brain, I clicked on the e-mail, mostly because the subject line promised me my "tax refound." Apparently my stimulus check was lost, but now is refound. Amazing greace, how sweet the seound!
Anyway, I clicked on it expecting what any kind of scam trying to get my $600 check would say..."we want to give you your money but don't have anywhere to send it, please give us your checking account number so we can deposit your money as soon as possible, you hapless fucking idiot." But what I found was oh so much better. I screen captured it for your pleasure:
I can't pick the best part of this scam e-mail. Is it the fact that the IRS tells me that I have "got" a tax refund? The IRS sneers their snotty little noses at grammar. We are the IRS, dammit! We not got to use grammar rightly if we no want! Or is it the fact that the refund is on my Visa or Mastercard? Why can't they put it on my Amex or Discover card? Maybe my favorite part is the "Complect Formular." The IRS has no use for the English language, so they decided to make up their own Latin-esque phrasing to make it sound like Julius Caesar. "Thou doth complect formular unto thine refound, you hapless fucking idiot!" No, no. I think my favorite part is the fact that my refund is $620.50. Not the even number of $600 that was promised, no! Just because I am a great American citizen and a true patriot, I get an extra $20 bill and two quarters to remind me of the great patriots Andrew Jackson and George Washington (twice) and how I should strive to be like them. So, American patriot, click on this Complect Formular and we shall be cleaning out your bank account posthaste, because this is America and we can.
Seriously, do these internet scammers even try anymore? I mean, you would think they would put a little bit of thought into something if they were trying to make a lot of money. Or maybe this is just an experiment to see if someone will actually fall for it. Hmmm...maybe I will try this to see if it would work. I do have that extra $20.50 to work with...
Anyway, I clicked on it expecting what any kind of scam trying to get my $600 check would say..."we want to give you your money but don't have anywhere to send it, please give us your checking account number so we can deposit your money as soon as possible, you hapless fucking idiot." But what I found was oh so much better. I screen captured it for your pleasure:
I can't pick the best part of this scam e-mail. Is it the fact that the IRS tells me that I have "got" a tax refund? The IRS sneers their snotty little noses at grammar. We are the IRS, dammit! We not got to use grammar rightly if we no want! Or is it the fact that the refund is on my Visa or Mastercard? Why can't they put it on my Amex or Discover card? Maybe my favorite part is the "Complect Formular." The IRS has no use for the English language, so they decided to make up their own Latin-esque phrasing to make it sound like Julius Caesar. "Thou doth complect formular unto thine refound, you hapless fucking idiot!" No, no. I think my favorite part is the fact that my refund is $620.50. Not the even number of $600 that was promised, no! Just because I am a great American citizen and a true patriot, I get an extra $20 bill and two quarters to remind me of the great patriots Andrew Jackson and George Washington (twice) and how I should strive to be like them. So, American patriot, click on this Complect Formular and we shall be cleaning out your bank account posthaste, because this is America and we can.
Seriously, do these internet scammers even try anymore? I mean, you would think they would put a little bit of thought into something if they were trying to make a lot of money. Or maybe this is just an experiment to see if someone will actually fall for it. Hmmm...maybe I will try this to see if it would work. I do have that extra $20.50 to work with...
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Conversations with Plant Lady.
Plant Lady: Knock, knock!
Me: Hi there! How's it going?
PL: Just fine thanks. (Looks at an open program book on my desk). That guy's got one hell of a fake tan!
Me: Yeah, it seems so. And fake teeth.
PL: I got fake teeth, but not a fake tan.
Me: Oh. Um, ok.
PL: (Looks over at one of the figurines on my desk). I have another client with the guy fighting the chicken thing at one of my other offices. I don't know what it means, but it's funny.
Me: It's from "Family Guy." Just a random thing, but it makes me laugh.
PL: You know that show "Lost in Space"? I have another guy who has that robot from that show that goes "Danger, danger Will Robinson!!!" (flailing her arms in the air and using a robot voice). You know? "Danger, danger!!!!"
Me: Yeah, I was born in 1977.
Me: Hi there! How's it going?
PL: Just fine thanks. (Looks at an open program book on my desk). That guy's got one hell of a fake tan!
Me: Yeah, it seems so. And fake teeth.
PL: I got fake teeth, but not a fake tan.
Me: Oh. Um, ok.
PL: (Looks over at one of the figurines on my desk). I have another client with the guy fighting the chicken thing at one of my other offices. I don't know what it means, but it's funny.
Me: It's from "Family Guy." Just a random thing, but it makes me laugh.
PL: You know that show "Lost in Space"? I have another guy who has that robot from that show that goes "Danger, danger Will Robinson!!!" (flailing her arms in the air and using a robot voice). You know? "Danger, danger!!!!"
Me: Yeah, I was born in 1977.
Monday, February 25, 2008
I wish the Oscars had a little wiener, 'cause that is what I'd truly like to see.
So last night was the Oscars, Hollywood's Boringest Night(tm), live on ABC. I was dreading the ceremony for the most part, so I was glad that Beth and Melissa came over with Las Palmas goodness so at least I could be in a glorious cheese dip coma for most of the wretched event. Beth and Mel am-scrayed after about an hour and a half and left me to my own devices. I realize that I could have turned it off and read one of the many books that I needed to read and therefore make myself smarter for it OR I could blog about the Awards That Time Forgot and therefore amuse myself without having to actually work at it. Below is my summary of the 80th Annual Egofest.
PRE-SHOW
Apparently ABC feels the need to show us some red carpet stuff because I guess the coverage on CNN, E!, TV Guide, MSNBC and probably some digital cable channels that I don't have wasn't enough. Slow news day. Regis Philbin, The Oldest/Loudest Man in America, interviews some old lady with saggy boobs that has been sitting on the bleachers for like 80 years. I don't know. I zoned out until Beth mentioned that she was "feeling herself up." I correct Beth saying that she was feeling too high on her chest to be doing that and that she was probably restarting her pacemaker. Cut to some random chick in an ill-fitting green dress interviewing Jennifer Garner, who is all kinds of cute. I don't want to sleep with her or anything. I just want to play touch football or make lemonade with her…or maybe have a lively conversation about tort reform. She seems smart like that. Jennifer Garner seems quite poised for someone who was just attacked and groped by Gary Busey. Speaking of big teeth, here is that handsome actor Hillary Swank. As I am noticing the nice tuck job he did to get into that dress, Cory texts me to say that the tranny actually looks decent. I agree and spend the rest of his interview getting sucked into the vortex of his massive mandibles (not "man nipples"). This leads us to Cameron Diaz who I would like to see get chomped to death by Hillary Swank and Gary Busey. It's funny because the interviewer doesn't have anything to talk about but that nutjob Daniel Day Lewis. Regis is back with a couple of nobodys who won a contest to sit in the bleachers. I don't know their names, but one of them is a pretty brunette and the other one is a flaming homosexual. He looks like he just got off his shift at Aeropostale. Regis hates his life right now. And…Daniel Day Lewis! He has the best lesbian haircut I have ever seen…and it doesn't move. That's a good lesbian. His life partner has the dress that she made from materials purchased at JoAnn Fabrics and a giant crystal-looking dangly thing in the breasticle area that I guess dropped off the chandelier and Liberace's house. Other famous people not worth mentioning. Then when I thought all was lost…Ellen Page! She is so cute. She answers the "Why does everyone love 'Juno'?" question for the 1,000th time because red carpet hosts can't think for themselves. She just turned 21 and suddenly I feel less weird about totally crushing on her. Ahh. Regis. Interviewing Bill Conti, who just might be older than Reege and also a bit crazy, the conductor of the orchestra. Too bad they don't have to accompany "It's Hard Out There for a Pimp" this year. Sigh. Ok, I think it is showtime. I already feel like I have aged 10 years.
OPENING SEQUENCE
I want to know how much this shit cost. Because I could have farted out a better opening than this. I am pretty sure that an intern did this…in Microsoft Paint. This is going to be a long night.
THE SHOW STARTS
Jon Stewart comes out of a giant tube that looks like a penis pump. I can just see the producers sitting around discussing how Jon should make his entrance. "Maybe he could dance? Walk out on his hands? Eat a burrito while singing the theme song from 'Shaft?' I got it! Picture this: GIANT. PENIS." His first couple of jokes bomb, but then he says something about "Thank god for teen pregnancy," and I go giddy because they cut to Ellen Page. Then they cut to Jack Nicholson, The Oscar Crazy Man, who has undoubtedly already hit on Ellen Page and asked her to come back to his room to get freaky. Century old joke about how to come up with your stripper name, which I think is also the way to come up with your drag name. Just ask Hillary Swank. The painful monologue comes to a close and Jack just got a woman pregnant, so that means time for the first award!
My new best friend Jennifer Garner comes out with a bad hairdo. I blame Gary Busey. The exciting award for Costume Design is up first. Yeah, that's exciting. Way to draw everyone in, Oscar producers. Do you want to do a Vaudeville number next? Maybe a Shakespeare reading? "Elizabeth: The Golden Age" wins for making Cate Blanchett look like Michael Jackson. The woman who won looks like she is wearing upholstery from my grandmother's couch. "Leave it to the costume designer," Beth comments. Indeed.
Clooney comes out and makes a joke about how long the show always is. Et tu, George? The funny thing is that everyone always makes fun of how long the show is, but nobody ever does anything about it. It's like when you were in school and you wore your brand new New Kids on the Block t-shirt to school and you thought you were so rad and then a shit-faced little boy made fun of you for wearing it and you went home and put it in a drawer and never pulled it out again until you needed a dust rag? Yeah, Academy? Put it in the drawer. Oh. Uh. Is it? Yep. First montage of the night. Does this montage have a theme? I think it is "Remember when this show used to be good?" Oh god. Celine singing that Titanic shit song. My heart won't go one because it just stopped because I stabbed myself.
Steve Carell, one of my favorite people, and Anne Hathaway, the only woman whiter than I am, present Animated Feature. I think the French film is going to win because Academy voters love shit they don't understand. Plus, "Surf's Up?" I watched that on a plane and asked the flight attendant to replenish the air bag supply. That Rat-tat-tat-fooey movie wins and I say "meh."
That woman on that show that I don't watch and starred in that movie I don't like comes out and says how nervous she is. Dude, you didn't win anything, you are just presenting a category that includes a nomination for "Norbit." Chill. Best Makeup goes to…Loreal Paris…um, I mean, some French film. Blah blah blah boring.
Amy Adams sings a stupid song from that "Enchanted" movie and I feel sorry for her because it is just her and obviously this song has some sort of context in the movie, but those of us who haven't seen it are left to imagine stuff. I imagine what it would be like to be a little person in a house full of high shelves.
Dear Catherina Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas Zeta-Jones,
Shut up.
Love,
Amanda
The Rock comes out wearing a nice suit that I can only assume he picked out at Anne Taylor Loft. It's nicely fitted for that feminine look. Anyway, Visual Effects goes to some kind of Compass movie with polar bears and shit. Moving on. Art Direction for "Sweeney Todd." Congrats to Tim Burton who will never win for anything because they don't give Oscars for being crazy. Jack Nicholson is an exception.
Finally, an award that matters! It only took an hour. Supporting actor. Jennifer Hudson's boobs look uncomfortable, like they are about to receive a mammogram. They show Hal Holbrook, who was heart-breakingly awesome in "Into the Wild" and is married to Julia Sugarbaker. "I thought she was dead," Melissa remarks. The jury is still out. If Javier Bardem doesn't win this there is no justice in the…OK, he won. He is ten kinds of cute and I think for a moment that maybe he has replaced Dennis Quaid as my man crush. He speaks Spanish to his mama and every woman in America faints.
Making fun of montages. I force a fake laugh. Ugh. Again…the drawer. You just wasted two minutes of my life.
Keri Russell has armpit cleavage and I am so happy because it is proof that skinny girls can have pit cleavage too. She introduces a song from "Augush Rush," a film which put me into a diabetic coma because it was so syrupy sweet. They song kick ass though and that little girl can wail.
Owen Wilson makes an appearance to remind everyone that he is still alive an (possibly) not suicidal at this moment. Another short film of some sort wins whatevers. That stupid fucking bee from that stupid fucking "Bee Movie" presents Animated Short. I hate this segment of the program every year because you know the producers are so proud of themselves for thinking this up: "Let's, wait for it…have an animated character present an animated award. It's brilliant!!" Dumb.
OK, another important award, Supporting Actress. Ruby Dee is so amazed by her performance that she is slack-jawed. Sorry, Rubes, I don't think you will win. You were in "American Gangster" for like two seconds and you had like five lines. If that was the only criteria you needed to win an Oscar, Shannon Elizabeth would have a mantel full. And the Award goes to…Eric Stoltz! Oh wait, that's Tilda Swinton with no makeup, no eyebrows and no tits. Hmmmm. She thanks George Clooney's nipples and we are out.
OK, now I am going with the Cliffs Notes version:
Hannah Montana is at the Oscars, which makes the average demo for this show go from age 75 to 74.
The Coen Brothers win Adapted Screenplay for being sick fucks.
Another "Enchanted" performance, this time with that squeaky-voiced blonde and an over-stereotyped black guy in bad lighting.
Sound Editing and Sound Mixing sound like the same thing, but sound doesn't sound like the same sound in sound. One of the Bourne movies wins both and I can't remember my name anymore.
Best Actress goes to Frenchie McFrench who ees jus so appy to be eere!!!!
They drag Colin Farrell out of his gutter to present an award but don't bother to give him a comb and a shave. Cheap bastards.
A song from a movie I have never heard of wins for Original Song, but all I can think of is what a douchebag John Travola is with his sprayed on hair and stupid dancing.
MONTAGE!! All of the Best Picture winners of the last 80 years. I never realized until now how much the Academy rewards shittiness in all its forms. I mean "Gladiator?"
Nothing about Renee Zellweger is real.
Nicole Kidman doesn't even look pregnant. Or maybe I was just blinded by the hunk of jewels around her neck.
Some old dude gets up there and starts talking and I turn to the Weather Channel.
He is still talking. Let's see what's on TLC…
DEAD PEOPLE! Alphabetical order. Until… The L's go by without a Ledger and I think, "Wha?" Then they stick him at the end because his death transcends the alphabet.
Diablo Cody wins for Screenplay and she is so not weird. What a disappointment.
The Daniel Day Lewis Award goes to…that guy!
Best Director is the Coens and I guess they should change that category to Best Director(s) just in case.
DENZEL! I want to lick that man's bald head.
Best Picture goes to…Psycho Killer Movie (No Country For Old Men).
Some not-so-old men talk about some shit and I cry a single solitary tear because I just wasted four years of my life that I will never get back. Then I fall asleep dreaming about what I would do if I ran into Ellen Page and Jennifer Garner at an after-Oscar party.
Zzzzzzzzz.
PRE-SHOW
Apparently ABC feels the need to show us some red carpet stuff because I guess the coverage on CNN, E!, TV Guide, MSNBC and probably some digital cable channels that I don't have wasn't enough. Slow news day. Regis Philbin, The Oldest/Loudest Man in America, interviews some old lady with saggy boobs that has been sitting on the bleachers for like 80 years. I don't know. I zoned out until Beth mentioned that she was "feeling herself up." I correct Beth saying that she was feeling too high on her chest to be doing that and that she was probably restarting her pacemaker. Cut to some random chick in an ill-fitting green dress interviewing Jennifer Garner, who is all kinds of cute. I don't want to sleep with her or anything. I just want to play touch football or make lemonade with her…or maybe have a lively conversation about tort reform. She seems smart like that. Jennifer Garner seems quite poised for someone who was just attacked and groped by Gary Busey. Speaking of big teeth, here is that handsome actor Hillary Swank. As I am noticing the nice tuck job he did to get into that dress, Cory texts me to say that the tranny actually looks decent. I agree and spend the rest of his interview getting sucked into the vortex of his massive mandibles (not "man nipples"). This leads us to Cameron Diaz who I would like to see get chomped to death by Hillary Swank and Gary Busey. It's funny because the interviewer doesn't have anything to talk about but that nutjob Daniel Day Lewis. Regis is back with a couple of nobodys who won a contest to sit in the bleachers. I don't know their names, but one of them is a pretty brunette and the other one is a flaming homosexual. He looks like he just got off his shift at Aeropostale. Regis hates his life right now. And…Daniel Day Lewis! He has the best lesbian haircut I have ever seen…and it doesn't move. That's a good lesbian. His life partner has the dress that she made from materials purchased at JoAnn Fabrics and a giant crystal-looking dangly thing in the breasticle area that I guess dropped off the chandelier and Liberace's house. Other famous people not worth mentioning. Then when I thought all was lost…Ellen Page! She is so cute. She answers the "Why does everyone love 'Juno'?" question for the 1,000th time because red carpet hosts can't think for themselves. She just turned 21 and suddenly I feel less weird about totally crushing on her. Ahh. Regis. Interviewing Bill Conti, who just might be older than Reege and also a bit crazy, the conductor of the orchestra. Too bad they don't have to accompany "It's Hard Out There for a Pimp" this year. Sigh. Ok, I think it is showtime. I already feel like I have aged 10 years.
OPENING SEQUENCE
I want to know how much this shit cost. Because I could have farted out a better opening than this. I am pretty sure that an intern did this…in Microsoft Paint. This is going to be a long night.
THE SHOW STARTS
Jon Stewart comes out of a giant tube that looks like a penis pump. I can just see the producers sitting around discussing how Jon should make his entrance. "Maybe he could dance? Walk out on his hands? Eat a burrito while singing the theme song from 'Shaft?' I got it! Picture this: GIANT. PENIS." His first couple of jokes bomb, but then he says something about "Thank god for teen pregnancy," and I go giddy because they cut to Ellen Page. Then they cut to Jack Nicholson, The Oscar Crazy Man, who has undoubtedly already hit on Ellen Page and asked her to come back to his room to get freaky. Century old joke about how to come up with your stripper name, which I think is also the way to come up with your drag name. Just ask Hillary Swank. The painful monologue comes to a close and Jack just got a woman pregnant, so that means time for the first award!
My new best friend Jennifer Garner comes out with a bad hairdo. I blame Gary Busey. The exciting award for Costume Design is up first. Yeah, that's exciting. Way to draw everyone in, Oscar producers. Do you want to do a Vaudeville number next? Maybe a Shakespeare reading? "Elizabeth: The Golden Age" wins for making Cate Blanchett look like Michael Jackson. The woman who won looks like she is wearing upholstery from my grandmother's couch. "Leave it to the costume designer," Beth comments. Indeed.
Clooney comes out and makes a joke about how long the show always is. Et tu, George? The funny thing is that everyone always makes fun of how long the show is, but nobody ever does anything about it. It's like when you were in school and you wore your brand new New Kids on the Block t-shirt to school and you thought you were so rad and then a shit-faced little boy made fun of you for wearing it and you went home and put it in a drawer and never pulled it out again until you needed a dust rag? Yeah, Academy? Put it in the drawer. Oh. Uh. Is it? Yep. First montage of the night. Does this montage have a theme? I think it is "Remember when this show used to be good?" Oh god. Celine singing that Titanic shit song. My heart won't go one because it just stopped because I stabbed myself.
Steve Carell, one of my favorite people, and Anne Hathaway, the only woman whiter than I am, present Animated Feature. I think the French film is going to win because Academy voters love shit they don't understand. Plus, "Surf's Up?" I watched that on a plane and asked the flight attendant to replenish the air bag supply. That Rat-tat-tat-fooey movie wins and I say "meh."
That woman on that show that I don't watch and starred in that movie I don't like comes out and says how nervous she is. Dude, you didn't win anything, you are just presenting a category that includes a nomination for "Norbit." Chill. Best Makeup goes to…Loreal Paris…um, I mean, some French film. Blah blah blah boring.
Amy Adams sings a stupid song from that "Enchanted" movie and I feel sorry for her because it is just her and obviously this song has some sort of context in the movie, but those of us who haven't seen it are left to imagine stuff. I imagine what it would be like to be a little person in a house full of high shelves.
Dear Catherina Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas Zeta-Jones,
Shut up.
Love,
Amanda
The Rock comes out wearing a nice suit that I can only assume he picked out at Anne Taylor Loft. It's nicely fitted for that feminine look. Anyway, Visual Effects goes to some kind of Compass movie with polar bears and shit. Moving on. Art Direction for "Sweeney Todd." Congrats to Tim Burton who will never win for anything because they don't give Oscars for being crazy. Jack Nicholson is an exception.
Finally, an award that matters! It only took an hour. Supporting actor. Jennifer Hudson's boobs look uncomfortable, like they are about to receive a mammogram. They show Hal Holbrook, who was heart-breakingly awesome in "Into the Wild" and is married to Julia Sugarbaker. "I thought she was dead," Melissa remarks. The jury is still out. If Javier Bardem doesn't win this there is no justice in the…OK, he won. He is ten kinds of cute and I think for a moment that maybe he has replaced Dennis Quaid as my man crush. He speaks Spanish to his mama and every woman in America faints.
Making fun of montages. I force a fake laugh. Ugh. Again…the drawer. You just wasted two minutes of my life.
Keri Russell has armpit cleavage and I am so happy because it is proof that skinny girls can have pit cleavage too. She introduces a song from "Augush Rush," a film which put me into a diabetic coma because it was so syrupy sweet. They song kick ass though and that little girl can wail.
Owen Wilson makes an appearance to remind everyone that he is still alive an (possibly) not suicidal at this moment. Another short film of some sort wins whatevers. That stupid fucking bee from that stupid fucking "Bee Movie" presents Animated Short. I hate this segment of the program every year because you know the producers are so proud of themselves for thinking this up: "Let's, wait for it…have an animated character present an animated award. It's brilliant!!" Dumb.
OK, another important award, Supporting Actress. Ruby Dee is so amazed by her performance that she is slack-jawed. Sorry, Rubes, I don't think you will win. You were in "American Gangster" for like two seconds and you had like five lines. If that was the only criteria you needed to win an Oscar, Shannon Elizabeth would have a mantel full. And the Award goes to…Eric Stoltz! Oh wait, that's Tilda Swinton with no makeup, no eyebrows and no tits. Hmmmm. She thanks George Clooney's nipples and we are out.
OK, now I am going with the Cliffs Notes version:
Hannah Montana is at the Oscars, which makes the average demo for this show go from age 75 to 74.
The Coen Brothers win Adapted Screenplay for being sick fucks.
Another "Enchanted" performance, this time with that squeaky-voiced blonde and an over-stereotyped black guy in bad lighting.
Sound Editing and Sound Mixing sound like the same thing, but sound doesn't sound like the same sound in sound. One of the Bourne movies wins both and I can't remember my name anymore.
Best Actress goes to Frenchie McFrench who ees jus so appy to be eere!!!!
They drag Colin Farrell out of his gutter to present an award but don't bother to give him a comb and a shave. Cheap bastards.
A song from a movie I have never heard of wins for Original Song, but all I can think of is what a douchebag John Travola is with his sprayed on hair and stupid dancing.
MONTAGE!! All of the Best Picture winners of the last 80 years. I never realized until now how much the Academy rewards shittiness in all its forms. I mean "Gladiator?"
Nothing about Renee Zellweger is real.
Nicole Kidman doesn't even look pregnant. Or maybe I was just blinded by the hunk of jewels around her neck.
Some old dude gets up there and starts talking and I turn to the Weather Channel.
He is still talking. Let's see what's on TLC…
DEAD PEOPLE! Alphabetical order. Until… The L's go by without a Ledger and I think, "Wha?" Then they stick him at the end because his death transcends the alphabet.
Diablo Cody wins for Screenplay and she is so not weird. What a disappointment.
The Daniel Day Lewis Award goes to…that guy!
Best Director is the Coens and I guess they should change that category to Best Director(s) just in case.
DENZEL! I want to lick that man's bald head.
Best Picture goes to…Psycho Killer Movie (No Country For Old Men).
Some not-so-old men talk about some shit and I cry a single solitary tear because I just wasted four years of my life that I will never get back. Then I fall asleep dreaming about what I would do if I ran into Ellen Page and Jennifer Garner at an after-Oscar party.
Zzzzzzzzz.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Buckle up!
Earlier today I was talking to my good friend Betsy and we were recapping our weekends for each other when I mentioned that I had gone to this store Buckle and bought some jeans. After conversing for a few more minutes, we come to find out that we each had eerily similar experiences in the store. That got me thinking that maybe I should write a blog about it to warn others of their practices before the poor shlubs set foot in the store.
First of all let me say that whoever came up with the retail marketing plan for Buckle is a friggin' genius and I hope they get/got paid an obscene amount of money for their services. You will find out why in the proceeding paragraphs.
With my tax refund in hand, I decided to take a little trip to Cool Springs Mall and buy myself a little happy. It has always seemed to me that saving money is for losers. I would rather have cute jeans or download 50 songs from iTunes than be a responsible adult. Actually, I am an 80% responsible adult, because I had a conversation with myself beforehand where I said, "Listen, fuckface (my pet name for myself), you only get to spend 20% of this money on frivolous stuff. The rest goes to charity -- ha ha! Just kidding. Charity, smarity." My inner voice is a selfish bitch.
So me and my inner voice are strolling along past the stores I had no interest in and on my way to Sears to clothes shop (that's a joke) I saw this neat little store called Buckle. It wasn't as off-putting as other youth-oriented stores (e.g. Abercrombie with their half naked gay men ads, Hollister with their "unce unce" music, Aeropostale with their size 0 and below, etc.). I enter this Buckle and immediately fall in love with a cute hoodie I see hanging, haunting me with its longing gaze. After glancing at the price tag and deciding it would not be in my best interest to buy a hoodie for $75, I commenced looking at their plentiful supply of jeans. You have to understand that for me to spend over $40 on jeans ever, they have to either be able to make me lose weight or make me a vanilla soy latte with extra foam. As far as I could tell, these Buckles could not do either. I was about to leave when a girl who I can only assume will be starring in "High School Musical 3: Tramp Stamp!" accosted me. I don't recall her name, but I am guessing it was something like Princess or Sparkle or something. She started bombarding me with questions when I said I had never been there before. How tall are you? What size do you wear? Where do you usually buy your jeans? Will you sign my yearbook? She scared me. But I got even when I told her I usually buy jeans at Old Navy...her face looked like something out of "Blair Witch Project."
When Sparkle finished her interrogation, I was holding about 10 pairs of jeans that I don't remember picking up at all -- I think they just appeared. She shoved me into a dressing room next to Britney and Tiffany, who were oh ma gah-ing over some text message. I freed my arms of the 50 pounds of denim into the chair in the room. Something was wrong with this dressing room. What the hell is wrong with this dressing room? Right. There are NO MIRRORS. WTF? The mirror was outside the room. I should have turned around and run as fast as I could. But I am pretty sure Sparkle had planted a GPS tracking device on me somewhere while she distracted me with her confusing sizes and jean names ("Sinful Angel Wing Jean"? Really, Papi?).
I start to try on the jeans and I swear I don't even have one full leg in one pair and I hear Sparkle, "Hey, Amanda (they ask you your name when you come in)!!!!!!!!!! How are those working for you?" I inform her that I need a little more time. "OK, sweetie. I'll check back in with you!!!!!!!" Joy. The first three pairs are duds, mostly because of this weird thing I have where I prefer the world to not see my ass crack. I know, I'm strange. The next pair were so bad that I had to call my friends at Camel Towing to free me. At this point I realize that it is about 100 degrees in the store. Beads of sweat are rolling down my forehead. I walk out of the dressing room with a pair on to look in the mirror (did I mention that they did not have mirrors in the dressing room? I did?). In case the muffin top didn't clue me in that the jeans were too tight, Sparkle came farting by to offer, "Now remember, they will stretch!!!!!!" Thanks for making my brown eyes blue, Sparkle.
So, here I am in this dressing room sweating to death, wearing jeans that are too tight and too long that I really can't afford. I find myself plotting my escape because I know that Sparkle has probably staked out all exits and has her taser ready if I try to leave without purchasing anything. I feel beat down, manipulated, harassed, abused and misled. I think about calling my congressman or the embassy. Is Buckle a third-world country? Finally I decide that there is no way out other than to buy a $70 pair of jeans (the cheapest, by the way). I tell Sparkle to ring them up for me. Then she informs me of their awesome layaway plan, so if I wanted to pick out a couple more, I could put down some money and come back and buy them later. Huh? Someone please explain to me how a clothing store has a layaway plan. Oh right, because you could feed a family of four for a week with the money you pay for one pair of jeans.
I politely declined her layaway offer and shoved my credit card in her face, eager to leave this troubled world behind. I thought for a second that when she swiped my card that Buckle instantly new everything about me from my favorite color to the date of my last bowel movement. Sparkle handed me my solid 14K gold jeans in a a cheap silver bag when what I really wanted was a hard shell briefcase with handcuffs. I took my package and got the hell out of there. I couldn't help but marvel at how they duped me into buying something I wasn't sure of in the first place. My feelings of gullibility flooded over me and I vowed never to purchase from the evil Buckle again.
OMG! You should see this cute pair on buckle.com that I just found!! Hmmmm...they do have layaway...
First of all let me say that whoever came up with the retail marketing plan for Buckle is a friggin' genius and I hope they get/got paid an obscene amount of money for their services. You will find out why in the proceeding paragraphs.
With my tax refund in hand, I decided to take a little trip to Cool Springs Mall and buy myself a little happy. It has always seemed to me that saving money is for losers. I would rather have cute jeans or download 50 songs from iTunes than be a responsible adult. Actually, I am an 80% responsible adult, because I had a conversation with myself beforehand where I said, "Listen, fuckface (my pet name for myself), you only get to spend 20% of this money on frivolous stuff. The rest goes to charity -- ha ha! Just kidding. Charity, smarity." My inner voice is a selfish bitch.
So me and my inner voice are strolling along past the stores I had no interest in and on my way to Sears to clothes shop (that's a joke) I saw this neat little store called Buckle. It wasn't as off-putting as other youth-oriented stores (e.g. Abercrombie with their half naked gay men ads, Hollister with their "unce unce" music, Aeropostale with their size 0 and below, etc.). I enter this Buckle and immediately fall in love with a cute hoodie I see hanging, haunting me with its longing gaze. After glancing at the price tag and deciding it would not be in my best interest to buy a hoodie for $75, I commenced looking at their plentiful supply of jeans. You have to understand that for me to spend over $40 on jeans ever, they have to either be able to make me lose weight or make me a vanilla soy latte with extra foam. As far as I could tell, these Buckles could not do either. I was about to leave when a girl who I can only assume will be starring in "High School Musical 3: Tramp Stamp!" accosted me. I don't recall her name, but I am guessing it was something like Princess or Sparkle or something. She started bombarding me with questions when I said I had never been there before. How tall are you? What size do you wear? Where do you usually buy your jeans? Will you sign my yearbook? She scared me. But I got even when I told her I usually buy jeans at Old Navy...her face looked like something out of "Blair Witch Project."
When Sparkle finished her interrogation, I was holding about 10 pairs of jeans that I don't remember picking up at all -- I think they just appeared. She shoved me into a dressing room next to Britney and Tiffany, who were oh ma gah-ing over some text message. I freed my arms of the 50 pounds of denim into the chair in the room. Something was wrong with this dressing room. What the hell is wrong with this dressing room? Right. There are NO MIRRORS. WTF? The mirror was outside the room. I should have turned around and run as fast as I could. But I am pretty sure Sparkle had planted a GPS tracking device on me somewhere while she distracted me with her confusing sizes and jean names ("Sinful Angel Wing Jean"? Really, Papi?).
I start to try on the jeans and I swear I don't even have one full leg in one pair and I hear Sparkle, "Hey, Amanda (they ask you your name when you come in)!!!!!!!!!! How are those working for you?" I inform her that I need a little more time. "OK, sweetie. I'll check back in with you!!!!!!!" Joy. The first three pairs are duds, mostly because of this weird thing I have where I prefer the world to not see my ass crack. I know, I'm strange. The next pair were so bad that I had to call my friends at Camel Towing to free me. At this point I realize that it is about 100 degrees in the store. Beads of sweat are rolling down my forehead. I walk out of the dressing room with a pair on to look in the mirror (did I mention that they did not have mirrors in the dressing room? I did?). In case the muffin top didn't clue me in that the jeans were too tight, Sparkle came farting by to offer, "Now remember, they will stretch!!!!!!" Thanks for making my brown eyes blue, Sparkle.
So, here I am in this dressing room sweating to death, wearing jeans that are too tight and too long that I really can't afford. I find myself plotting my escape because I know that Sparkle has probably staked out all exits and has her taser ready if I try to leave without purchasing anything. I feel beat down, manipulated, harassed, abused and misled. I think about calling my congressman or the embassy. Is Buckle a third-world country? Finally I decide that there is no way out other than to buy a $70 pair of jeans (the cheapest, by the way). I tell Sparkle to ring them up for me. Then she informs me of their awesome layaway plan, so if I wanted to pick out a couple more, I could put down some money and come back and buy them later. Huh? Someone please explain to me how a clothing store has a layaway plan. Oh right, because you could feed a family of four for a week with the money you pay for one pair of jeans.
I politely declined her layaway offer and shoved my credit card in her face, eager to leave this troubled world behind. I thought for a second that when she swiped my card that Buckle instantly new everything about me from my favorite color to the date of my last bowel movement. Sparkle handed me my solid 14K gold jeans in a a cheap silver bag when what I really wanted was a hard shell briefcase with handcuffs. I took my package and got the hell out of there. I couldn't help but marvel at how they duped me into buying something I wasn't sure of in the first place. My feelings of gullibility flooded over me and I vowed never to purchase from the evil Buckle again.
OMG! You should see this cute pair on buckle.com that I just found!! Hmmmm...they do have layaway...
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