Saturday, December 27, 2008

A snowy treat for you

I hope you all had a wonderful holiday and are gearing up for the New Year! I wish you all the best.

Here is a little treat for you... it made me smile.

Thursday, December 25, 2008

merry christmas to all!


I just thought this was hysterical! Merry Christmas!!!




Wednesday, December 24, 2008

my Christmas wish: I want a Super Mario Rubik's cube imported from Japan


Did you know that no matter how you mess up a Rubik's cube, it can be solved by following a series of steps? I had no idea. This intrigues me. I have a mathematical mind so being able to get all the colors on the right sides of the cube by following a series of steps, no matter where they are when you start, is just too cool. And the idea of being able to use this as a party trick is just too tempting for me. I think I'm making it my actual New Year's resolution: to learn to solve the Rubik's cube by the end of 2009. Twelve months should be enough.

(Especially since I'm already failing at my pre-New Year's resolution to watch all 5 George Romero zombie movies. Mr. T and I tried watching Dawn of the Dead the other night and his burning of the DVD sucked because the movie stopped 2/3 of the way into it so I never got to see the cop turn into a zombie. Plus! I didn't know that Diary of the Dead wasn't out on DVD yet since it just came out in the theaters recently. So I'm off to a rocky start.)

Apparently, there are videos and all sorts of instructions, videos, and pictorials online to teach me how to solve the mystery that is the Rubik's cube.

Maybe in 2010, my resolution will be to solve the Rubik's cube behind my back. Ah, you've gotta love my high aspirations in life...


PS - I always thought it was spelled "Rubix".

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

my life isn't over... yet

Apologies if my last post was unclear. I am not married... yet. We merely got the marriage license, which means we have 60 days to actually tie the knot. But when we went to get the license, we walked right past the chapel where we will be getting married in exactly 23 days. So, feel free to retract your "congrats" and save them up for when the deed is actually done. Or don't retract your congrats and then you can send me a waffle maker, or something else, instead.

Getting married ghetto style

So Mr. T and I went to NYC's Municipal Building yesterday to obtain our marriage license. Just like any other city building it was cold and sterile. When we arrived there were about 50 people waiting to get their marriage licenses, too. (That means about 25 couples for those of you who are math-challenged.) We were crafty enough to complete our application online so we could jump right into line to wait for a clerk. While we waited in line we wondered whether the clerk would test us at all, like they did in Greencard with Andie McDowell and the strangely sexy yet oafish Peter Weir. Would they ask us questions to see how well we knew each other and judge whether we were fit to be married? Like, what side of the bed does he sleep on? What are his parents' names? When is his birthday? Boxers or briefs? They might try to catch us in a lie and then reject our application for a marriage license. That would suck. We figured they wouldn't be testing us, so we might as well have fun with it. We started hatching a plan to lie and say that we'd just met yesterday in Rockefeller Center at the J. Crew store, and that we were already "in love". The details of our hatched love fest are really not that interesting so I won't bore you (it involved a tryst in the J. Crew dressing room and leg warmers). But the bummer was that we never got to use our story. They couldn't have cared less if we were two strangers off the street or not.

You'd think that an entire room full of people on the cusp of nuptials would be a festive crowd, with people chatting about upcoming wedding plans and congratulating each other. But no, it was rather quiet. I think the administrative task of getting the license in the old building from clerks that barely looked you in the face detracted from any excitement one might otherwise feel. But all in all, it was a nice reminder that I'm actually getting married in a few short weeks.

On our way out of the building, we passed the actual City Hall Marriage Chapel, Rm. 257. At first I was like "WHAT?! I'm going to get legally married in this POS room?" But then I saw a small Hispanic couple posing for pictures after their ceremony. (I say small because they were rather short.) They were so pleased to have just gotten married, standing all straight and pasting real smiles on their faces. And it reminded me how it really doesn't matter where you do it. It's about what you're doing that matters--- promising to love someone unconditionally, blah blah blah. I'm not one for the sentimental crap. So then I got rather excited about my ghetto wedding here in Rm. 257. It's humorous, yet meaningful, all at the same time. Kind of like my relationship with Mr. T.

Here is a wonderful shot of the interior of Rm. 257:


Doesn't the Santa head on the wall and the little snowman scene on the floor just add a nice ambiance to the room? I'm hoping they leave the floating Santa head on the wall for when we are there, on Jan. 15 to be exact. If not, maybe by then, they'll have a dismembered Easter Bunny on the wall instead. Also, what the heck flag is that? And is that mistletoe above the podium, cause I sure as hell am not kissing the J.P., especially if it's an old dude.

My mother thinks it's very Carrie Bradshaw of me to get married at city hall. I just think it's convenient to be actually married before our "spiritual" (i.e. non-religious) ceremony in Mexico a few days later. Ah, Mexico. I can't wait. This 15 degree weather is killing me. I keep dreaming of pina coladas on the beach and starlit aromatherapy baths.

January 15 can't come fast enough...


*** UPDATE ***
Comedy Goddess has corrected me. Greencard does NOT star Peter Weir. That is the director. The guy playing Andie McDowell's foreign husband is Gerard Depardieu. Thank you, Goddess! A well-earned link!

Monday, December 22, 2008

Da-da-da-DAAAA! Announcing...

[picture me standing at the glass podium, opening the envelope at the Oscars in a beautiful eggshell Dior gown]... "and the first recipient of the prestigious S2S: For Superlative Blogging Award goes to..."

Zipbag of Bones


Cue theatrical music. People clapping. Cheering! Cat is trying to get up to the stage but all her frenemies are giving her hugs and kisses and back-pats (and a few guys are totally copping a feel, but she doesn't care). As she gracefully walks up the stairs you think she looks like an angel. But then! her stiletto gets caught on the hem of her floor-length Versace gown! As she free falls forward, her face headed for the top step, it seems like the world is watching in slow motion... she throws her hands out in front of her and everyone gasps in horror (and some out of sheer glee)... will her hands reach the step in time to save her face?... everyone waits with bated breath... the room seems still for a moment, the air heavy... her hands reach the step just milliseconds before her face, and she elegantly springs up like nothing ever happened. She even takes a humbling bow, indulging the audience. The crowd cheers! Yelps! Chants her name! Cat! Cat! She smiles, glides over to the podium, waves at the audience and begins her acceptance speech....

Saturday, December 20, 2008

My pre-New Year's resolution: inflict zombie madness

So, I'm not usually a resolution girl, but this year I have set a pre-New Year's resolution. I wanted it to be something that a) I've been meaning to do and just haven't made time for, b) something that will increase the vastness of my knowledge and cultural stamina, and c) something that is attainable in a 10-day period.

So I decided that it is to watch all the George Romero zombie movies, in order. As you know, I refer to zombies a lot. For some sick and twisted reason, I find them humorous. Mr. T and his brother (the FBIL) both find them terrifying, and I also find this entertaining.

If you don't know who George Romero is he is, he's pretty much revered as the king of zombie movies. In 1968 he produced what some consider to be one of the most celebrated American horror films of all time: Night of the Living Dead. Since then he has produced 4 additional zombie "...of the Dead" movies in the series and is working on a 6th that will be out in 2009.

(If you'd like to see some not-so-scary pics of life-sized "pet" zombies, and Mr. T and his brother pretending to be terrified, check out my post, I am no zombie hater.)

This the order in which I will watch all 5 zombie flicks:

1. Night of the Living Dead - the original, not the remake)
2. Dawn of the Dead
3. Day of the Dead
4. Land of the Dead
5. Diary of the Dead

As part of my research into this resolution, I discovered this poor masochist, who spent a full year watching zombie movies, one each day for 365 days straight. He reviewed every single one on his blog, 365 Days of the Dead. I mean, seriously?! THAT is dedication people.

Lastly, I'll leave you with this. (WARNING: raunchy and disgusting) I've seen my fair share of horror flicks and zombie movies, and the one that tops them all for having jumped the shark (thank you, Fonzie), is Zombie Strippers, starring Jenna Jameson (yes, the porn star). I'll give Jenna this: she was a way better actress than I expected her to be. Obviously, take this with a grain of salt because she played a stripper-turned-undead zombie whose only aspiration was to create more zombies and each as much human flesh as possible. Sidenote: She really does have a great ass.

I will recount the exact scene when this movie jumped the shark. Jenna is already a zombie, as well as all of her other stripper friends. Jenna is performing on stage and another zombie stripper gets jealous so she attacks Jenna. It then goes into a 10-minute long fight sequence between these two strippers who are trying to kill each other. No, the shark has not been jumped yet. But it is approaching. At once point, Jenna is thrown into the wall and she slides down it, looking all pissed off. She reaches for the pool balls that have fallen off the table and are strewn around her. She picks one up, sticks it in her who-ha (yes, there) and then proceeds to attack her opponent by shooting pool balls out of herself. And let me tell you, she has got one powerful who-ha. They shot out of there like a cannonball. She was sitting on the floor of the strip club, swiveling on her butt to aim at the other zombie stripper. Eventually, Jenna gets the girl between the eyes, and the pool ball embedds itself into her brain.

I search high and low to find a clip of this pool ball shooting scene, and couldn't find it. It's probably for the best. But instead, I found this absolutely pathetically-hilarious video of a woman showing you how to be a zombie stripper. Best line.... "let me just rub the naughtiness off my knees".



Happy Saturday!

Friday, December 19, 2008

For those of you wanting to set up Google Alerts

I got a few comments asking how to set up Google Alerts. It's very easy. Go to Google Alerts here. Make sure you are logged into your gmail account. It will ask you what type of alert you want to set up. I always choose comprehensive which will include everything. You can choose how often you want to alert sent to you. I typically do one per day. And then you tell it where you want the alerts set, which if you are already logged in, it will default to your gmail account. I have many alerts set up, which include "sassy two socks", "sassytwosocks" and my first and last name. It's very useful to keep track of what is out there, who is linking to you, etc.

Good luck!

UPDATE: Piracy scandal

Oh, how I love you all, my blog peeps!!! I feel so loved and supported! Happy day...

Here is a link to the blog pirate. Feel free to put her to shame.

I thought I ate my mouth guard

Yesterday morning's events:

So I wear this stupid mouth guard at night (most nights) because I clench my jaw when I'm sleeping and it gives me headaches. This *giant* piece of hard plastic is supposed to prevent that, though sometimes I doubt its $600 of effectiveness. Last I went to bed and I was most certainly wearing it when I fell asleep. But when I woke up this morning to go to my PT session I wasn't wearing it anymore. While I was walking to the gym I started to wonder what the hell I did with it? I must have done something while I was asleep. I don't sleepwalk (that I know of), or do much of anything at night other than toss from side to side to get to the cold side of the pillow. I slowly started freaking out. What if I swallowed my mouth guard? What if there is a giant piece of hard plastic trying to shoot down my intestines right this moment? Would they have to do surgery and cut it out? Would I lose a portion of my colon? If so, would I have to carry around one of those colostomy bags with me everywhere I went? That would certainly be a turn off. I was in shambles. Fortunately, by the time I got the gym I had caffeine in hand, which calmed me down, and I had worse things to worry about... my trainer, Tough Cookie (T.C.).

* * *

I have now had four sessions with T.C. She's a nice girl and sometimes I encourage her to be meaner to me. (I've said it before...I'm a bit of a masochist). But no matter what, my sessions are hard. But to be honest, I'm a bit of a complainer. Poor, poor T.C. If my abs don't hurt, than my leg does, and if my leg doesn't, my triceps do. I don't MEAN to complain. It's like I'm thinking out loud is all.

And then yesterday I was especially exhausted. I had a work event that went late the night before and then had to get up at 6:15 to go to the gym to meet her. On one particular exercise (the cruel and unusual "mountain climber"), I stopped it just before she got to the "1" in her countdown, so she called me out for my slacking but "let it slide this one time". So then she wanted me to do this crazy lunge thing, but she was telling me a funny story about something-or-other, so I asked her if she wanted me to count for her. The move involved a lot of counting (like 1-2-3-4-UP!-1-2-3-4-UP! and so on) and I wanted to hear her story. She promptly replied, "No, I don't trust you." Woo! Gotta love her.

Here is my depiction of the "crazy lunge". I'm not sure how many she made me do because I wasn't allowed to count. All I know is that we did one leg at a time so there was no alternating legs in between sets. We did 2 sets on each side (in case you'd like to try this at home!).


(And no, I don't have a receding hairline like this stick-woman. And yes, I did make faces like this.)

* * *

On my way home from the gym I started to think about the missing mouth guard again, partially to distract myself from the pain that had just been inflicted on me. I realized that the likelihood of my having eaten it was pretty slim as it's pretty hard plastic and wouldn't my throat hurt from swallowing it? So I started wondering if I sleepwalk and don't know it? Or if I somehow took it off in a fit or rage during the night while dreaming? It was a mystery. When I got home the first thing I did was search for this missing oral device. It wasn't in the bed. It wasn't on the floor. It wasn't in the bathroom or the sink. Having been unsuccessful with the obvious locations, I started uplifting things like pillows and lamps and books. And voila! It was underneath my copy of the Poisinwood Bible. W!T!F! Seriously?

I realize this story is somewhat anticlimactic, but to me, it's both strange and mysterious. I cannot remember a time EVER in my life where I've done anything during the night without remembering it (while I was sober). That last statement is like adding "...in bed" to fortune cookie fortunes. When ever I say that I've never done something, I always add "... while sober".

Once I discovered the lost mouth guard, I went to find Mr. T and tell him about the escapade. I found him looking in the mirror (shirtless) and before I could get a word in edgewise he said, "Don't my guns look HUUUUGE?! I don't even know how my arms FIT in this room they're so huge!"

Yup, he's been working out pre-wedding as well. And is apparently very proud of himself.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Piracy doesn't just occur in Somalia

I get Google alerts for "sassy two socks", and I got one today for a site called Oiuoiuui. It's a Blogger blog, but don't go to it because I don't want to give them the satisfaction. It says it was started by someone named Cheryl, but there is no profile or contact info. But there are several posts on the blog that ARE MY POSTS and the blog is called SASSY TWO SOCKS

Seriously.

What.
The.
Frick.
Is up????

I'm currently investigating how to "stick it to her" with a cease and desist notice, but since she has not contact info, I don't know how to get it to her.

The S2S Award: Don't wet your pants

I've decided to start my own weekly award, called {drum roll please}... The S2S Award: For Superlative Blogging! (Yeah, I know, I already mentioned the award name in the title, but whatever, I wanted to build it up).

I am completely aware that I do not have sufficient clout to have my own award and frankly, no one will really feel all that honored to receive this (I eat humble pie), but in this bloggy-blog world I can do whatever I want! It's part of the reason I love it so much.

I will give away a S2S Award each Monday, to someone who's blog I just adore (and secretly hate because they are funnier than me). I will try to mix the well-known with the unknown, and am completely open to nominations and suggestions.

And you may ask why is it for "superlative blogging"? Well, if you've been here before you know that to me everything is the best ever in my whole life! I.e. I have a superlative addiction. That's why.

And no, these are not my feet in the picture. I do not own a red polka dot skirt, nor green socks. But I wish I did, because it's darn cute.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Opinions please!

So, this is a tentative new design theme. The "Freak Show" thing is supposed to represent my life (and all the freaks in it, including me), as well as my love of NYC (since this is the Freak Show sign at Coney Island). I had a few complaints that the light font on dark background was hard to read and gave people seizures, which sucks because then I'm losing readers! Thoughts? Like? Dislike?

Stuff that isn't good enough for it's own post

Here are some random thoughts that I'm just to lazy to turn into individual posts.

1. Nothing makes me want to run home and douche more than toilet water splash-up. It's the worst! But seriously, does anyone douche anymore? Isn't it kinda old school?

* * *

2. I was so out of it after I got home from work the other day that I accidentally got in the shower with my underwear still on.

* * *

3. I like to wear my pant legs long, so when it's raining I wear skirts to work. Then my pant legs don't get wet.

* * *

4. I recently commented on a Facebook photo with my cousin in it. It appeared to be her and a bunch of transvestites. So I posted the comment: "Are you the only female-born person in this photo?" She forwarded me an email later that day and said "What am I supposed to say to this?" Apparently, her friend (another female-born person) was in the pic with her, along with various male-born persons cohorting around as women, and was wondering who the hell I was and why I thought she was a cross-dresser. Oops. Sorry, coz!

* * *

5. In other Facbook news, I took a quiz yesterday called "Will You Survive a Zombie Take-Over?" Apparently, I would. So, phew! But one of the questions was which two people would I choose to hunt zombies with?
a. George W. Bush, Jr. and Dick Cheney
b. Your mom and Chuck Norris
c. Leon Kennedy and Chris Redfeild

I chose a. G.W. Bush and Dick Cheney. And you might be wondering, "WTF!" because they are giant pussies and wouldn't be good in hand-to-hand melee. They'd be good for a little while, you know, helping me fight off the zombies with knives and fire guns, but if one of them went down it would give me more time to get away! I would have no problem sacraficing them to save myself. (Plus, while Chuck Norris would kick some serious undead ass, I would be worried about my mom, and I have no idea who Leon Kennedy or Chris Redfeild are).

* * *

6. I don't know how I failed to notify you of this development. My kitten, Tonks, fell into the toilet last weekend. Yes, INTO the toilet. Here's what happened: I was peeing and when I stood up the kitten must have jumped up on the seat and royaly missed, because before I even pulled my pants up I heard a giant SPLOOOSH! and turned around and saw her INSIDE THE TOILET. She jumped out and the entire back half of her body was soaked and dripping. She appeared to be in shock for a second and they ran away, spraying her urine-juice all over the apartment. I yelled to Mr. T, grabbed a towel and went scuffling with my pants down after her. Eventually, we caught her, dried her off, and told ourselves over and over that pee pee is sterile.

* * *

7. Last night a woman fell on the treadmill. Hard. If you've been here before, you know that this made my f'ing day. Apparently, some idiot left the treadmill on, running at like 1 mph, and this woman didn't notice before stepping on the treadmill to work out. First of all, what kind of doofus doesn't turn off the treadmill when they get off? Second, what kind of complete doofus doesn't notice that the treadmill is moving before they step onto it? Anyway, she ate it big. It was two treadmills over from me and I heard a giant THUD! and looked over to see her splayed out on her stomach, half on and half off the treadmill. It took every ounce of willpower I had not to laugh. And I'm happy to report, that I only laughed inside my head (and when I got home and told Mr. T).


Fun times, people. Fun times.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

You've probably noticed the Freak Show theme

Yes, there is a new design here that is still in the works. It needs some tweaking. Please hang in there and bear with me (please don't BARE with me).

I love me some stereotypical humor

I'd love to tell you that I don't watch television, and that I spend all my spare time reading quality literature. But the truth is... I do both. Well, sorta. I read about 1 book every week and a half or so, but most of it is crap, with a few intellectual reads thrown in for good measure (and so I don't feel so guilty about reading crap the rest of the time). Right now I'm reading The Poisonwood Bible. Which is awe-some! But I'm also reading Charlaine Harris' Sookie Stackhouse series (I'm on book 3), which was recently turned into a HBO show called True Blood. I always have two books going--- one that I read at bedtime and another that I read on the subway.

But I do watch a lot of television. I watch a handful of reality tv shows (Survivor, Project Runway, Biggest Loser) but for the most part I think they've gone down the tubes (Celebrity Rehab?! The Hills?!). However, I can see the draw. There is something fulfilling about watching the lives of people who are more pathetic than you. I also watch all of the CSI's, which could be my favorite, if I were forced at gunpoint to pick, as well as Gossip Girl (I heart Chuck Bass), Desperate Housewives (which I'm getting tired of), Grey's Anatomy, Lipstick Jungle (soooo bummed it was canceled), and the token HBO/SHOWTIME shows like Californication, Weeds, Big Love and Entourage. Let's talk about Californication for a sec. How hot is David Duchovny?! I mean, seriously?! He was all dorky and cute in X-files, but in a I-just-wish-he'd-bang-Skully way. But now his hard-ass, cocky, hard-shell-soft-interior, ridiculously good hair and perpetual scruff just make me wish he'd bang me (hypothetically, of course).

So anyway, the whole point of this post is that I typically don't like the slapstick half-hour comedy shows. But Kath & Kim is hysterical and I love it to death! Molly Shannon is a given, we know she's funny. But Selma Blair! She's amazing at playing dumb, walking around with her muffin top hanging out, misusing words, thinking she's hot shit, and rolling her eyes like it's nobody's business.

I seriously don't know what it is about this show that I love so much--- maybe it's the fact that the "cool" place to hang out in their Florida town is the mall, or that Kath is a MILF hair dresser who wears chunky jewelry and spandex, or that Kim is estranged from her husband of six-weeks and that he works at Circuit Plus Electronics, or that Kath wants to wear a Lil' Bo-Peep outfit as her gown and arrive in a pumpkin carriage on her wedding day to a sandwich shop owner in the mall who used to weight 350 pounds.

Here's a recap of my favorite episode where Kath is depressed because she thinks she's too old to be getting married again and Kim is upset because she thinks Craig is cheating on her, so they go to a dance club to feel younger and hotter.


The whole season can be seen on Hulu.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Freakish cat not happy until all humans are alive and mobile

Here is our typical nighttime routine:

[9:35 PM] I brush my teeth. Cat sits on bed, stares at me. She knows what time it is. It's Bedtime Treatsie Time. Her favorite time.

[9:45 PM] I break the little tails off of the fish-shaped treats, and give them to Baby Tonks. I feed Hermy the bodies, one by one, by hand, and giggle while I listen to the crunch, crunch, crunch of chewing.

[9:47 PM] Treats are gone. Cats bound away, joyously digesting dry little nuggets.

[9:50 PM] I read my book.

[10:30 PM] I fall asleep before Mr. T comes to bed.

[3:50 AM] Cats chasing each other across the bed!!! Around. And around. And around. Baby Tonks chasing her tail... on my back. I hide under the covers and wait.

[4:00 AM] Cat sitting on rug next to bed. Stares like Batman. Silently. Watching.

[4:10 AM] Cats jumping on my head!!! Chasing. Around and around. Up and down. Bounding.

[4:30 AM] Mr. T shuts them out of bedroom. Door doesn't latch all the way.

[5:30 AM] DONK! DONK! DONK! Awake to repeated thudding. Cat is throwing herself against door. Over and over. Lots of mewing.

[6:00 AM] Door finally opens. Up and down, across my face, jumping, chasing. Yelps, meows, and screams!!! Vocals get louder and louder!!!

[6:30 AM] I get up to feed them. Hopefully tie them over and get another hour of sleep.

[7:00 AM] Mr. T gets up. Drinks caffeine. Checks email. Lots of meowing and leg rubbing on other side of apartment. Away from bedroom. Ahhhh. Sleepy-time.

[7:15 AM] Daddy is not enough. Must have both parents. Back to bedroom. More chasing, jumping, mewing. Mommy trying to sleep.

[7:30 AM] Mommy gives in. Gets up. Grumpy. Meowing and leg rubbing in kitchen.

[7:45 AM] Both cats fall fast asleep. Pleased. Both parents are awake. Exhausted from a long night.

No joke. It sucks.

THE DAILY SASS: This is truly one of my favorites. It reflects my life all too well, except Hermy's meows are much more desperate and howling-like.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

Since when are ninjas tubby?



Since when do ninjas:

1. Talk with their hands, looking more like they're playing charades and acting out a crab on speed with jumbo-claws, than a killing machine?

2. Wear ill-fitting nylon and a cape? Wouldn't the cheap fabric *rustle* whilst he's trying to be stealth? And if I were his enemy I would just sneak up behind him (he wouldn't hear me because of the swoosh-swoosh of his nylon thighs rubbing together) and wrap his cape around his face so he couldn't see, and then stab a Chinese star in his eye.

3. Sport a beer belly and an all-around "pudge"? The ninjas I've known are ripped, and so tight you could bounce a bounce a cracker off their asses.

4. Talk? Let alone go on and on and on... for THREE. FRICKING. MINUTES???

5. Flash gang symbols? I think he just told the Wu Tang Clan to off me!!

6. Not carry numchucks and dual swords on their back? What if they encounter another equally deadly ninja, and that ninja has weapons? Hello?! Chinese stars pack a good blow at a distance!

7. Sit cross-legged? It's not very threatening. It makes me want to get him a cup of tea.

All in all, this is a poor, pathetic excuse for a ninja. He's like a retired ninja. Or a wannabe ninja. Or an actual ninja's younger brother who aspired to be just like "Big Bro" but just never measured up. I could karate-chop this guy in half before he could say "kamikaze".

THE DAILY SASS:
Mimes, Ninjas, and Cholesterol: The Silent Killers.
---Town Tees

Friday, December 12, 2008

some people just make me ask "why?"

I got a YouTube comment on Mr. T's Dave Matthew imitation video today. I had to post it there in order to embed it into my blog for Sunday's post. I didn't expect anyone to actually watch it on YouTube. But this comment makes me laugh so hard. I just can't stop. He is obviously a die-hard Dave Matthews fan:

"Such a loser for even posting a video like this,grow up cocksuckers."

HAHAHAHAHA!

Laughing at oneself is a gift

I believe the ability to truly laugh at oneself--- not judge, not regret, and not hold back--- is truly a gift. Seriously, no sarcasm here (which I know you're not used to from me).

As an example, I'm including what could possibly be the worst picture of me to ever be documented and retained for future use. This photo comes to you courtesy of Blogging Matilda, who happened to also be in the picture with me. This was probably taken in 1992, when I was 13. Possibly in 1993. I had braces, a horrific non-layered haircut, and a strange gleam in my eye. And doesn't it look like I have food stuck in my braces?

I recently posted a bunch of pictures to Facebook from middle school and high school. Some may say this was awesome, and some may say it's a faux pas since I didn't ask anyone before posting pictures of them from their "prime years". Most people thought they were great, funny, nostalgic, whatever. But one person seemed to be genuinely perturbed by my posting a picture of them that they may have seen as not-so-flattering. I actually thought it was cute, but what do I know? They didn't flat-out ask me to take it down, but they made it clear that they didn't like it. And hey--- if they don't want it up, then I should take it down. So I took it down. But it leads me back to the first sentence of this post (you like how I did that, huh?)

I think it says a lot about a person if they are able (or unable) to laugh at themselves. So this Facebook "non-incident" and my semi-deep-statement about humility may not be completely related, and I just don't think I can crunch those numbers right now. I guess I'm just reflecting on myself a bit when I look back at this picture. There was a time when I would have hated to look at this picture, be embarrassed by it, but now I just love it. It feels good to be able to laugh at myself wholeheartedly.

Maybe Braja can provide some of her words of yogi wisdom here... (not to put you on the spot or anything)

THE DAILY SASS:
Here's another one for you (meaning a dorky, over-the-top shot of me). This is from the day I got kicked out of Home Depot for trying on their rain gear and "cat walking" it through the aisles. Work it!


Oh hell! Here's one more that I made using YearbookYourself. It's supposed to be me in 1976. Except in 1976 I was -3 years old.



Thursday, December 11, 2008

part 3: catbook, amusing or disturbing?!

Think carefully before you answer that question. This is the third and final post in a series of facebook-related mouth-offs.

Part III--- Catbook and other species-specific freak gathering tools
Ok, so while I've taken three posts to bitch relentlessly about FB, I obviously participate. Feel free to laugh, stand on and chair and point, or send me evil anonymous comments--- but yes, I have Catbook pages for both my cats.

Exhibit A


Hermione even has 50 friends (of the cat, dog and human kind)!!! Tonks is still a baby so she only has a few friends. (Plus, she has freakish ADD so no one really likes her). Here is Hermione's profile, she's actually quite the comedian.

Exhibit B


However, did you know there is also Dogbook, Horsebook, Ferretbook, Rodentbook, and Fishbook??? I mean, what about Snakebook, and Chinchillabook, and MyDeadGrandmaBook? Why are these species so special?!

So how pathetic are you? Do you love facebook, hate it, abuse it? Do tell. It'll make me feel just a little bit better to know that others can relate to my slow and painful destruction.

THE DAILY SASS:
"Who's a good girl? Is it you?"

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Salsaholics Anonymous

This is how my first meeting went:

SA Leader [a staunch lady with glasses who looks a lot like a frog]: Let's welcome our newest member.

Me: Hey, everybody. My name is Sassy. And I'm a...er.....er... Salsaholic.

Everyone: Hello, Sassy.

SA Leader: Sassy, why don't you tell us why you're here.

Me: Well, um, it's a long story. But I guess I'll start from the beginning. I've always loved food. My mom was a great cook, so I ate well as a kid. Since birth, I had an affinity for the condiment. At first, it started out with Mayonnaise. We had a great relationship. I loved it on sandwiches, with fries, and frankly, with anything at all. And Mayo loved me, always sticking around (like, on my thighs). Mayo was a large man, but I loved him just the same. I never knew any better. But as I grew into my late teens, I outgrew Mayo's fatty creaminess, and realized that he didn't have my best interest at heart, as he was not helping me maintain my "girlish figure"(I think he secretly wanted me to be a fatty like him!). He was always so "indulgent", trying to get me to have more, more, more. So I left Mayo for Ketchup. It was a tough thing to do, and Mayo was pretty upset about this sudden turn of my cheek. But I had to do what was best for me and make it a clean break.

But boy, did Ketchup and I hit it off from the start. Ketchup was even more versatile than Mayo and gave me the space I craved by not sticking around all the time. Ketchup and I were together for a good 10 years before the rift started to form. All these "health freaks" started bitching and moaning about high-fructose corn syrup and how it is the reason for Americans being overweight, blah blah blah. Even Atkins didn't allow Ketchup during the Induction Phase! You know, I wanted to be healthy too! And Ketchup wasn't helping me be all that I could be.

I tried cutting back on Ketchup, thinking that we could continue our love affair if I had a bit more space. But 'lil K just wasn't having it. He got so upset. I really wanted to make it work, even with all the HFCS haters all over the news, but then Salsa came into my life.

They say timing is everything! Having come from a healthy upbringing, I immediately recognized Salsa's fresh look on life. He really knew how to have a good time--- with the onions and peppers and chunks of tomatoes--- heck, sometimes he'd even spice things up with some pineapple or mango. It was a passionate relationship from the start. I couldn't get enough! I was having him on eggs, beans, veggie burgers, salads... you name it! I just couldn't stop myself from heaping on mounds of fresh, low-calorie goodness! I knew it was getting to be too much, when I woke up in middle of the night clutching his little glass jar like it was life or death. I just couldn't live without Salsa, no matter how hard I tried to cut back! Even Salsa told me that he was starting to feel "smothered". That was a real blow.

So, here we are. Some of my friends and family say I should "mix things up" with Mustard or Compote, or even bring Mayo or Ketchup back into the rotation now and then. But I just can't do it. My mind says "try something new" but my body won't physically reach for that something-else. I'm literally going through a jar of Salsa a day. It's like he's calling to me--- haunting me even. I'm here to get help. And I AM a Salsaholic.


THE DAILY SASS:

Dear Gardenburger,

What is up with you, Gardenburger? You seem to have changed the recipe for your Original Gardenburgers. You should call the new version "Mushroomburger Original". I don't mind a few little mushroom particles in my veggie burger, but I'd prefer not to each a giant fungus patty, which is what the hell this new and improved Original recipe seems to be all about. The old version had a nice, well-balanced mixture of oats, barley and assorted veggies. But now, it's more like a schmering of wilted, slimy mushroom strips all mushed together and frozen that way.

Please advise as to why 1) you changed the receipe, and 2) why the hell you haven't disclosed this change thus far.

Sincerely,

Anti-fungus mutha

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

stick a spork in me...

No, not there... Or there.

PT (personal training) update: Saturday was my "orientation" session with Tough Cookie, so we did a little working out in between chatting about goals and whatnot, so it ended up being only about 30 minutes of solid exercise. Yeah, it hurt. It hurt a lot.

Today was my first 1-hour session. I went into it still sore from Saturday's session. It feels like someone has taken a dull spork and shredded my abdominals, right where my uterus is supposed to be.

It hurts to walk up stairs. It hurts to walk downstairs. It hurts to walk. It hurt to turn my head to look at this guys purple puffy hat.


I started looking for motivational posters to encourage me to suck it up. This is what I found:






Then I found a tool to create my own motivational poster, so I made this to inspire myself. I printed it and posted it right next to my computer screen.


If you were on a motivational poster, what would it say?

UPDATED: Part Deux, why facebook is trying to destroy civilization

*************
UPDATE: After reading Comedy Goddess' post about Glogg, I sent the recipe to Mr. T and suggested that we make it this holiday season (since we're both part-Svenska). This was his response:

"RAISINS, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY DRINKS!"
************************

Read Part I - Ads first. (But this one is funnier, so don't read that one if you don't want to.)

Part II--- Facebook groups, and why they are just plain wrong
At first I thought Facebook groups were just funny. I joined the Alumni groups, and the "remember when you had to blow on the Nintendo cartridge when it was messed up" group, and the political support groups. But now they are just out of control.

Mr. T recently came home and told me how his day was "SO awesome" because he found a new Facebook group called "Raisins, stay the fuck out of my cookies". Seriously?! I had to investigate. I was concerned for his mental well-being.

Here is the introduction and summary for the group. It's quite genius, if you ask me. Very convincing.

"Some time ago there was a place. A place called Hope. And in this place, there was a time. A time called Desire. And in this place at this time someone decided that pieces of chocolate were delicious and decided to put them inside of sugar dough. That was an awesome idea. But then you, the ass-licking, vindictive raisin, got jealous and lonely and decided to be inside of my cookies sometimes too. That was not awesome. In fact, it fucking sucked. You're a chewy, obnoxious, healthy interruption to my cookies.

Nature's candy? You know what-- fuck you. You're just the pathetic misshapen remnants of a grape, a mediocre fruit to begin with. You're in my cookie because you think you're so much better than chocolate chips, which happen to be awesome. You happen to suck.

In conclusion, fuck you. Fuck you and your motherfucking vitamins and your minerals. I don't respect your sexuality. Fuck you and your cocky-ass fucking wrinkles. You look like my scrotum. And while you may or may not be significantly larger than my scrotum, you taste much worse. My scrotum is delicious. Chocolate chips are delicious. You are a punk. But this isn't about my scrotum. This is about the blood of my forefathers, spilt on the land that you defile with your miniaturized goodiness. This is about liberty, justice, and other various things that are really awesome, like tiger sharks. And velociraptors. Goddamnit they kick ass. With their strong jaws and their many rows of razor teeth and sickle-shaped talons. I saw on the Discovery Channel that a flock of seven could tear apart Joe Lieberman in 18 seconds flat on a moderately humid day. That's so fucking cool. I wish I was like that sometimes--all powerful and strong. Sometimes when my roommate leaves I take all my clothes off and pretend I'm a velociraptor and pounce upon my roommate's desk as would a ferocious bloodthirsty velociraptor, knocking over his lamp with my semi-erect penis. And then I drink apple juice.

Fuck you, raisins. Stay out of my cookies."

So, get this. This "anti-Raisin" group has more than 34,000 members!!! I kid you not.


Mr. T and a few friends spent the day going back and forth about these raisins via facebook. They start out all somber, as if raisins truly are an issue to be taken seriously, and then it builds into crazy adolescence.

Friend A: I fully support this group. Fuck raisins.

Mr. T: I'm cool with raisins, I just don't want them screwing up my cookies.

Friend A: This is my new favorite group. Stupid raisins.

Mr. T: They really know how to ruin a good cookie.

Friend B: What?? Oatmeal Raisin cookies are the best. Try one from Whole Foods and tell me I'm wrong.

Mr. T: Hell nah. There are two things wrong with that picture- 1. Oatmeal. 2. Raisins. Breakfast and a wrinkly ass poor excuse for a fruit do not make a tasty dessert treat. Like those jerks who make carrot cake. WTF is up with that. Vegetables do not equal dessert.

Friend B: Feeble feeble mind. Do yourself a favor and go straight Whole Foods right now, and buy an oatmeal raisin cookie. You'll thank me.

Mr. T: Never. Raisins, Stay the Fuck Out of My Cookies!

Friend B: Oh, and carrot cupcakes with cream cheese frosting will make you explode in your pants if they're done right.

Mr. T: From my ass maybe.


And here are some related groups that appear on the Raisins page:


PS - I belong to two of the above related groups. Guess which two?


THE DAILY SASS:
W.T.F. I noticed Grandpa's What Kind of Muffin Are You? Quiz, so I took it. Apparently, I am a lemon poppyseed muffin! Now, I'm not denying the glowing description the test results gave me (see bottom of my blog for results), but seriously.... isn't lemon poppyseed the kind that no one eats unless it's the last kind left? That and bran? Dude, I got the shaft.

Monday, December 8, 2008

A visual review of my not-so-typical Sunday

Yesterday was started out like any other Sunday. A lazy day to get errands done and relax close to home. One of those errands was to purchase and decorate a Christmas tree. Rather than tell you about how yesterday's Sunday turned out to be not-so-normal, I'll show you, through pictures and videos.

Here is the gorgeous tree we picked out. It's a Frasier Fir. It's rather balanced and well-shaped, if you ask me.


This is the tree all dolled up. I saw the use of ribbon being wrapped around the tree on HGTV recently, so I thought I'd give it a go. It's a shame you can't see the top of the tree here, because I improvised and used sprigs of gold branches covered in feaux pearls. I really dislike the use of angels on the top of the tree. Not only am I very un-religious, but I always feel like the angel is watching me, following me around the room. It creeps me out.


This is only Mr. T and I's second Xmas living together. Prior to that, we had our own trees at our own apartments. We both like to work with a "theme" for our tree. One year it was handmade pinecone ornaments, one year he laquered citrus fruit slices, and one year he decided on a New York Yankees tree, with pinstriped blue and white lights. WHICH WAS AWFUL! Because I'm a die-hard Red Sox fan. He was sweet enough to make me my own red socks ornaments by hand. We named it the rivalry tree. Now, each year we put one ornament of each on the tree, next to eachother, in honor of ability to love each other despite our vastly different taste in baseball teams.


Even the cats joined in on the decorating action.


This year's theme was "red and gold". A couple more shots of the finished product. Boy, the iPhone takes a good photograph.


The FBIL (future-bro-in-law) joined us for the trimming of the tree. During the festivities, we drank Whiskey Sours, our traditional family Yuletide drink (only to be drunk from Thanksgiving to Christmas).


Usually, we only have one Whiskey Sour each, before moving onto wine. Yesterday, we had a few more than that (let's say.... three or four... each?), thus throwing us into a 4-hour dance party. There was a lot of air-guitaring.


We wore funny hats.

I danced on the furniture.

We listened to everything from U2 to Metallica to hip-hop to Brazilian Girls to Fergie to Guns 'n' Roses to 80's.
[I apologize in advance for the horrible videography.]



At one point, I even busted out my voilin from when I was a teenager and was running around pretending to play it like a guitar.



My calves are sore today. Too much dancing.

THE DAILY SASS:
Mr. T explained why he hated Dave Matthews so much. (Sorry, Matilda!). And then gave us his best imitation.

Dustin Hoffman, the path to salvation???

Living in New York City, I see a lot of crazy people. Especially on the subway. (Please take note that this is one of the many reasons that I despise the subway. This, and the fact that it's grosser and dirtier than a Thailand whore house.) Some take up entire seats on the subway and stink worse than a rotting corpse, driving people to bunch up on the other end of the car. Some stuff newspapers in their ears and rage about Jesus, toupees and Michael Jordan. And some just ramble quietly to themselves. I nearly fell out of my seat last week when a guy with Tourette's shouted "FUCK!!!" very unexpectedly and loudly. Although, I don't think he was crazy, just afflicted.

Mostly there are a lot of beggars who may or may not be crazy. When I say a lot, I mean I see an average of maybe two a week just on the subway. Usually, they get on, wait for the doors to close, and then in a raspy voice shout, "Ladies and gentleman, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I really need your help today....blah blah blah" They usually go on to explain how they got homeless, how they got AIDS, or some other sad story that you can't help but wonder if it's true. I don't usually give these people money, as I tend to give dollars to i) the homeless people that hold the door open at the bank for me, ii) those great Mexican trios that ride the subway singing Three Banditos or something, and iii) strippers. At least these people attempt to do something to earn the money they are asking for. And I really do enjoy the jaunty little tunes those banditos belt out. They're quite catchy.

But recently, a guy was so convincingly insane that I had to wonder if he was putting on a show. That, and he looked like Dustin Hoffman with a Jesus-mullet. He was speaking into what looked like a child's microphone toy, and was holding an open Trapper Keeper folder that was covered in sparkly stickers in front of his face. This folks, could not be made up. It's just too good. This is the closest I can come, with my subpar photoshop skills, to what he looked like.


Yeah, I know I know. He looks more like a Rastafarian than Jesus with a mullet. But this is the best I can do people!!!

This is a sampling of what he raved about, into his kid's microphone, for nearly 35 blocks:

"I am the almighty Profit. Sent down to earth by Jesus himself, to reign over you and lead you. I am the only Profit. It is I, and only I, who can bring you to true salvation. Do NOT look into my eyes, the Profit's eyes. It is forbidden! [Hence, why he was shielding his face with a TrapperKeeper]. Let the Profit bring you to true salvation. Let ME show you what true salvation feels like! All are welcome to join my congregation. If you join the congregation, you may then, and ONLY then, look into the Profit's eyes. When you look into my eyes, you will find true peace, TRUE PEACE, as if you were looking into a clear, tranquil pool of love. You can come with me, right now, and join my congregation, and learn from me, learn from JESUS!!! If, if, IF! you meet two criteria. First! You must be female. Only females can join my congregation. They are the angels. The angels that surround the Profit and give him the power to heal. The power to TRANSFORM! These beautiful angels will have direct access to Jesus, through the Profit. Let him SAVE you! Second! You must be no older than the age of 23! Not a day older. Not an hour older. Not a SECOND older!!! Come join me now, if you are a woman less than 23 years in age. Join my congregation of angels. Then, you can look into my eyes. And see the lord Jesus HIMSELF!!! AND BE TRULY FREE!!! ..."

THE DAILY SASS:
"That's the best pick-up line I've ever heard." --- random guy standing next to me on the subway, talking about the Dustin Hoffman Jesus-Profit

Sunday, December 7, 2008

Greatest. Wedding. Dance. Ever. Period.

If I were doing the whole "wedding thing", I would definitely be doing this! Maybe I'll learn the routine just for the hellofit.



THE DAILY SASS :
"Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas. Kiss my ass. Kiss his ass. Kiss your ass. Happy Hanukkah." --- Clark, Christmas Vacation

Saturday, December 6, 2008

oh, facebook... you so silly, Part I (also, J-Lo's hand-puppet dance)

Facebook is getting ridiculous. So much so that this is going to be a 3-part post. (Partly because I don't believe in ridiculously long posts--- when I have to read long posts I want to shoot myself in the head, but also partly because it's so out of control that I need to parse out my thoughts).

Facebook--- our tangled history:
About 3 or 4 years ago, I despised Facebook, Friendster, and even more so, MySpace (because hairy, european men started stalking me). Then I grew to love Facebook because all my highschool friends were joining, and it was like a virtual awkward love fest. Then I started updating my status regularly, because it was all the rage, and reading my friends' statuses. Then I started competing to have as many friends as possible, until I realize I was competing with myself, so that was no fun because there was no one to smacktalk to. Now I have a love/hate relationship with the big FB. I rely on it. Yet I despise it. Let the ranting begin.

Part I--- advertisements:
For Part I, let's start with the advertisements. It's the least funny, and I like to think I'm funny, so let's get it out of the way.

It's like facebook "knows" me. A little too well. When I bought tickets to the Sex in the City movie from fandango, it knew!!! and automatically posted it to my profile! WTF! Scary!

I got engaged a few months back, and now all I get are wedding ads. And what the hell is up with this groom leaping into the air with one arm on his hip!? He looks like he belongs in Cirque du Soleil:

And what the hell is this? What does a 3-day super sale have to do with a dog balancing perfume on its nose?! However, if Macy's was going to offer circus animal tricks while I shopped, maybe a cute monkey to follow me around, that would be a huge draw for me:



Although lately, they must be gearing up for my "usual" holiday weight gain, because I'm getting ads like this one. Does anyone else think this is just plain whacked out!?!? And this totally looks like Nicole Richie with Eva Mendes' hair and Cindy Crawford's mouth and bronze tan... does it not??


Mmmm-K! Whatev.

Facebook, you're really getting on my last nerve with these nonsensical, invasive, and perverse ads!!!

In conclusion, please stop stalking me.

Thank you very much.


THE DAILY SASS:
This is so asinine that it really deserves its own post, but I'm relegating it to THE DAILY SASS because it's related to J-Lo and Ben Affleck. This is seriously ridiculous. You are forewarned. (The first video is just to provide context to the second one.)




Friday, December 5, 2008

cupcake goodness

I was so good this week at eating healthy and following my Points, and because I lost the 4 pounds that I gained over thanksgiving, that I decided to reward myself with a giant gooey peanut butter buttercream chocolate cupcake for dinner. Feel free to drool.



And yes, that goodness inside of the cupcake is more peanut butter buttercream. This baby was bigger than my fist!

Good thing my personal training session is tomorrow morning.

tasteless encounters of the trashy kind

Do you ever get a compliment from someone who has absolutely no taste at all??? Perhaps someone you'd even call "trashy"??? Well, it's seriously causing me a giant mindfuck right now.

Let me first say that I pride myself on my fashion sense. I love my clothes. They define me. Literally. I love putting together the perfect, well-balanced outfit. Just like art and design, an outfit should be balanced in color, shape, fit and exude the "look" you are going for. Part of having a fashion sense is knowing what that "look " is and how you're going to pull it off without seemingly trying too hard. I'm sure ...love Maegan would understand what I'm saying here. I enjoy this part of my day. Usually I visualize an outfit before I put it on. On occassion, I have a bad day and nothing I own fits right or "feels" right and I try on like 20 outfits. You all know what I'm talking about. My friends and family will tell you that, with the occassional exception*, I am dressed to kill. Every day. Of. My. Life.

The other day a stranger on the elevator complimented me on my gloves, which are the cute knit kind with the fingertips missing. They are not the truck driver fingerless kind, or the homeless person fingerless kind. I wear them so i can use my iPhone's touchscreen when I'm wearing the gloves. Also, sometimes it's chilly outside but not freezing enough for fingered gloves, and when I carry my iced Venti unsweetened green tea, I need something to keep my hands from freezing off. Anyway, so this lady has blond hair with like 5 inches of roots showing, is wearing an oversized, worn, old, nasty men's leather jacket, a plain ill-fitting black skirt, and GET THIS, black stockings with open-toed shoes! In December! ARGH. I'd shoot myself in the head before I wore something like this.

So this woman compliments me. What the hell am I supposed to think? If SHE likes my gloves, should I throw them away? Give them to goodwill? Burn them in an seance offering to the God of Tackiness? This is like a car salesman telling a meat packager that he likes the way he covers his salami. It makes no sense. Now I like a good compliment, and I'll retort with a swift "why, thank you!". But I prefer these compliments to come from people who's taste I respect, like, can appreciate, whatever. Now you probably think I'm a whiner or that I'm asking for too much. But I think not! By her complimenting my gloves, she's was basically insulting me! Saying that SHE would wear my gloves, which means that they are tainted and tasteless. That, people, is a serious blow to my fashionistical (?) mind and soul. God save my wardrobe. Amen.

*occassional exceptions include the "so called" cut-off jean shorts my BFF claims I wore the day we met (which is a total lie), a seethrough orange flowy fairy-like top with lots of sporatic sequins (which I still own), too-tight white jeans that showed off the cellulite, a brief obsession in the 7th grade with a Luke Perry 90210 t-shirt, and once I wore a sweater with a gaping hole in the armpit because I didn't know it was there. I encourage any friends and family that read this blog to add to this list if I've forgotten anything.

THE DAILY SASS:
"Yup. She's definitely a close-talker."

Thursday, December 4, 2008

I would eat your arm right now if I could

I'm ravenous. Starving. And bitchy.

I feel like a flesh-eating zombie, walking around with nothing in my head but thoughts of how I will get my next meal. I would rip apart walls, chainsaw you to pieces, or trample my fellow zombies just for a bite of mac'n'cheese right now. Or even a piece of carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. Or a slice of pizza. Even crappy cardboard-crust pizza. Just something with gooey melted cheese.

Why would I subject myself to such torture you ask? I am getting married in 6 weeks and want to be skinny. Unlike most brides who want to be skinny so all their guests will be jealous and fawn over them, I want to be skinny for the pictures, so that when I look back 3o or 40 years from now, and I'm old and wrinkly, I can say, " damn, I looked good!"

Mr. T and I are going to Mexico, just the two of us. I'd say we're eloping, but we got the parental "ok" to do it alone. Let me just say how AWE-SOME it is to not have to stress about a reception, guest lists, registries, a big wedding gown, the cost!, and everything else that goes along with a full blown wedding. It just isn't me. Never has been. And I couldn't be happier to be doing it alone, away from home, and on a beach. (Plus, I have a secret fear that I'll start cracking up and laughing hysterically during the vows.) BUT! we'll be in Mexico. So I can't be looking all post-holiday puffy like everyone else. So I'm back on the Points.

Yup. Weight Watcher Points. They are perfect for me, because I like structure, but not too much structure. I can eat what I want, but only within a strict daily budget. It really works for me. I lost about 20 pounds over the last year doing it. But I gained a few back these past few weeks, and now I need to get that off, and say... another 10 pounds by January 15. Here's hoping.

I'm getting a personal trainer for the next 6 weeks. My first session is Saturday. I specifically told the trainer that I want an ass kicking, that I want her to keep pushing me even if I'm crying and face-flat on the floor, that I want her to ravage me, and call me a cry-baby and drive me into the ground until I die. It may end up being a bit reminiscent of Such a Pretty Fat, but who knows... maybe I'll get some good blog material out of it...

THE DAILY SASS:
"Because what good is finally being able to afford a pedicure if I lose a foot to adult onset diabetes?" --- Jen Lancaster

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

I kick ass, apparently

For those of you who think my Ode to the Lychee Nut was an attempt to suck up to Martini Mom... well, you might be right. Because she gave me this kick ass award, so it must be more than a coincidence.

Here are Martini Mom's rules for this award:

1. Do five jumping jacks
2. Balance on one foot.
3. Call a friend to say hi.
4. Take a hot bath.
5. Hug your kid.

Since I don't have a kid and I prefer not to stew in my own hot filth, I'm following suit with her 7 random facts about me that you probably don't want to know:

1. I love Christmas music, more than I should. If I could listen to holiday music 24 hours a day, from Thanksgiving to Christmas, I would. I honestly can't say why I love it so much. It's probably rooted in nostalgia, and the fact that I can sing along to every song. Mr. T despises this about me, to the point that if he'd discovered this before falling in love with me, we may not be getting married in two months. And add to this the fact that I'm an astronomically horrible singer, the poor guy has to listen to me singing along to Christmas music at full volume for the next month. It's so bad that even our cat, Hermione, runs away from me when I get going.

2. I once choreographed and performed a full dance routine to Britney's "I'm a Slave", and performed it in front of 50+ people. It was for a Halloween party, and four of us performed the routine. My costume that year was Britney Spears, so naturally I was clad in porno heals, fishnets, short shorts, and a boobalicious gurdle that pushed the girls up. There's something so disturbing fun about believing pretending to be a rockstar. (I am actively searching for pictures of this, so I'll post them if they surface).

4. I once bought an adult-size footsie pajama suit and wore it around for Thanksgiving day. While searching online for this outfit, I discovered a world of adult baby fetishes--- giant baby bottles, adult diapers, mommy services, and all. Ew. I would advise against seeking this out, even for a laugh. The cause of my adult baby suit was purely to make fun of my future-bro-in-law, who had a favorite green "sack" that he lounged around the house in. Every time his (ex)wife tried to give it away to goodwill, he'd sneak it back out. I looked like a giant blue teletubbie, but boy was I toasty.

I skipped #3, you say? Oh yeah, and I'm really impatient, too. We'll get back to #3.

5. I hate being drunk. There, I said it. But I like drinking. Please note the difference.

3. I'm an anal retentive planner. I guest blogged a while back at Wicked Witch of the Web, in a two part series (Part 1, Part 2), where I referred to myself as the Wicked Bitch of the Web. I was really pissed off shortly after writing these because I discovered Getting Things Done, and realized that I've been living GTD my whole life and if I'd beaten this guy to the punch I could be rich just for being a crazed lunatic.

6. When I was 14 I ate so much on Thanksgiving day that I threw up in my grandma's bathroom.

7. My parents decided to name me after misreading a tombstone in the Vermont sticks where I grew up, and my dad was admittedly stoned. The full story was only disclosed to me once I was in my 20's. I think they didn't want to pay for the therapy that would have been needed. Now that I'm an adult, I have to pay for my own therapy.

So, there it is.

Please refrain from telling me if the above list causes you to stop reading this blog.

Thanks again, Moms!









THE DAILY SASS:
Why is Planes Trains & Automobiles like every family's Thanksgiving movie??? Anyway, this is my FAV scene in the movie. Enjoy!


Tuesday, December 2, 2008

[click here] if you want to nail a hippie chick; oh, and Daniel Craig has rocked my world (again)

DISCLAIMER: Let me just say that I am no hippie. So this is not a step by step plan to get into my pants. I have no problem with hippies, but I find dreadlocks and hairy armpits disgusting. Oh, and pachouli makes me want to throw up. However, my parents used to be oober-hippies. My mom was the first one to burn her bra in highschool, and my dad grew his own weed. When I was born, we lived in the middle of Vermont with no electricity, my mom churned her own butter, I was forced to eat lots of tofu and carob, I drove a tractor at the age of 2, and my dad had a beard down to his bellybutton. THANK GOD they wised up and moved to civilization (Western Massachusetts) when I was 3 years old. I think in some twisted way this upbringing (though I don't remember much) is what brought me to NYC, where I belong, because I fit in so much better with other materialists, fashionistas, and assorted snobs.

But for those of you who dig a little extra hair or flair, this if for you. Got granola fever? Well, rest assured, I'm here to help. If you want to learn how to "get horizontally tangled with a sexy flower child", read on.

I've boiled it down for you:

1. "Be one" with the hippie. You must become one to bang one.

2. Start listening to Jam Bands or any sort of music that incorporates a lot of hand drumming.

3. Talk about every music festival that you went to over the summer and how awesome it were (even if you didn't go to any).

4. Become a raging liberal, teetering on the edge of communism.

5. Change your college major to Environmental Sciences or Ancient Eastern Philosophy and become a registered member of World Wildlife Fund.

6. Make sure that you always have lots of drugs (of varying kinds).

7. Buy a weird looking dog and give it a really strange name.

8. Start playing Ultimate Frisbee, and stop wearing shoes.

I think this about sums it up. I hope all of my hippie-chick-pining fans out there are happy.

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HOTTIE ALERT!!!
And on a completely unrelated note, I saw the new James Bond movie this weekend, Quantum of Solace. HOLY BABY JESUS!!! I fell in love with him all over again. I don't normally find myself daydreaming about blond-haired-blue-eyed-muscle-men, but Daniel Craig is one fiiiiiiinnnnneee exception. And he's one evil little tease of a tart. Here's some eye candy from the movie for you (god knows I'll be looking at these pics like 55 times today). Oh, and by the way, the movie was AWE-SOME. Go see it.


























































I would give my left kidney to be this woman!!

Gotta go. It's getting too hot in here.


THE DAILY SASS:

"Jerry, this is the way society functions. Aren't you a part of
society? Because if you don't want to be a part of society, Jerry, why don't
you just get in your car and move to the East Side!" - Cosmo Kramer

Monday, December 1, 2008

I try not to recycle, but....

My friendie, Blogging Matilda, posted this and I couldn't NOT post it here too. It's just that good. And it falls perfectly into my favorite (superlative?) category of seeing people fall on their faces. Don't let this video fool you, watch it to the end. Her dancing, which includes her rolling around the floor, is not the best part.



THE DAILY SASS: "I'd totally let Tony Soprano fuck me. But only if he called me a whore..." - anonymous friend