Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Go ahead. Laugh at me. It's okay.

Yesterday I wore my husband's jeans to work. I've been stealing them lately because 1) I realized I could fit into them, and 2) they are super comfy, like sweatpants. Plus, isn't there something sexy about wearing your man's pants?

Yet he continues to not comprehend my interest in his clothing. I'm thinking about starting to borrow his buttondown shirts and wear them with skinny jeans. Hot, right?

So anyway, here is me in my office in Mr. T's jeans. When I say "laugh away at me" it's because I'm so un-photogenic that I tend to make stupid faces in every picture (hence the body shot with no head being first). The last one is my attempt at trying to look like a normal person.

Strike a pose.

Giddy-up. (look at those tummy roles!)

See, what did I tell you?

I'm trying... I really am...

Who's a bad mutha???

PS - if you read Love Maegan... you'll know that I totally stole her one-leg-up pose. But they say copying is a compliment, right??

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Sassy gets free socks

This picture is of my midget feet in a new pair of socks, looking out over Broadway from my apartment. Now, you creeps out there, don't go pulling some triangulation or satellite shit to find out where I live and stalk me. Beware, my cats are vicious. And I sleep with a glock.

So, who doesn't love free shit? That's what I want to know. If you were walking down the street and a stranger just stopped you and asked if you wanted $100, no strings attached, you'd take it, right? Well, I did. And I'm damn proud of it.

So I occasionally get emails from other bloggers or websites looking for cross-linking opportunities, and that's all good. But I only ever act on those if I actually like the blogger or website itself. I can be bought. But only if I like the person who's paying me off. Make sense?

I got an email from a company called Bridgedale, who makes socks. Specifically, high-end socks made for outdoor/running use. At first I was skeptical. I thought, "they're offering me free socks, but what do they want in return? Pictures of me naked with only my Bridgedale socks? Cause that would be a no-go. My ankles don't look good in socks – I get the 'puffy ankle thing' very easily which makes my legs look like stumps." But this guy, Boo (yes that is actually his name), was super cool and said that he would send me socks and that I only had to blog about them if I wanted to, and if I actually liked the socks. So basically, free shit!! Well, long story short, he sent me *SIX* pairs of socks, three for me and three for my husband, and I had no obligation from that point onward.

But let me tell you. The socks rock. They are super comfy for running and exercising. Honestly, I have no idea what they would retail for, but if you run or get sore feet, I would advise that you try a pair. This is my favorite pair. One more item of note before I bore you to bloggy-death: the Hubs is a serial marathoner and is running his 8th or 9th marathon later this year (I can't keep track), and he has chronic foot problems when he runs. He gets bloody nails that fall off, blisters the size of half-dollar coins and lots and lots of grossness that he likes to taunt me with. And *HE* approves of the socks – loves them, in fact. We give it 4 out of 4 stars. ****

So enough marketing crap, even though I don't think of it as marketing since I willingly recommend them to you.

Onto to better stuff since I've neglected you for way too long. Here's a little something to wet your whistle while I try to remember what the hell I was talking about when I told you I would post about Chinese porn and foot fetishes:

This is what Hermy would look like with botox in her lips:

This is my brother-in-law dunking his *entire* head into a water fountain at a bar for the SECOND time in a row (the first photo didn't come out so he did it again). It's amazing what seems like a cool thing to do at 1:30 in the morning when you're drunk. The Hubs wasn't out with us that night and when he saw these pictures was like, "how did you know the fountain wasn't 4-inches deep and you weren't going to slam your head into a giant slab of rock?" Touche, Mr. T.

This is my baby kitten, Tonks, wanting to cool off from the humidity in the crisping bin of the refridgerator. Is there anything she fears?

Tomorrow I'll be telling you about how the Hubs and I booked our honeymoon airfare and how he presented a full-on PowerPoint presentation to me beforehand. Ta-ta!

Monday, June 22, 2009

something is screwy

No I have not left you all forever. I've just been in "work mode" for the last few weeks. I promise I'm coming back soon.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Chew on this....

Don't say I failed; just call me a procrastinator

I haven't forgotten about you. I just swamped at work.

I promise a post about Asian's with inclinations for mangled toes and foot fetishes is forthcoming...

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

5-word teaser for tomorrow

Bent feet sandals Chinese porn

Stay tuned.

-- Post From My iPhone

Thunder cats, poop and my scratchy balls

You know what's funny? When it thunderstorms and the cats freak out so bad that all they can do is run around the apartment. As if nowhere is safe. Well, at the time I felt bad for them. And for me, because it was 2:30 in the morning and I was simultaneously running around trying to calm the cats and ducking when the thunder sounded like a shotgun going off next to my ear.

Last night was the first Summer thunderstorm, of which I'm sure there will be many. Last Summer we had more thunderstorms than I ever remember having, at least two a week. But so far this year it's pretty mild weather so who knows. Usually they come when it's super duper hot.

So, back to the cats. Poor little Tonks, the baby who likes to shower with me, was so scared. It was her first thunderstorm since.... well, she was born. Her whole body was rigid and trembling. She couldn't stay in one spot, even when I put her under the covers with us. I think "flailing" would be the most accurate term to describe her sheer terror. What I really want to do right now is go into how much I love nighttime thunderstorms, but I won't...

Alas, I digress. I'll move onto the real reason you're reading this post... poop.

So, as you may have seen in previous posts, I work in a loft office building. Commercial loft spaces are known for being more "laid back" and not quite as well-kept as the nicer Class A buildings. We have a lot of construction going on by us so the construction workers are always using our bathrooms. Because we're on the second floor our bathrooms tend to get used by these intruders more than others. Homeless guys are also known to wander into our men's bathroom and basically use the sinks to "cleanse" themselves. I honestly don't know how these vagrants get in because the door is locked. It baffles me. The poor men in my office usually go up to the third floor because it's so bad. One time our men's bathroom was completely covered in blood. No idea why.

You know, I should start taking short breaks at work (in lieu of smoking--- if smokers get breaks so should I!), and go down to the freight entrance to ask who wants to use the bathroom and charge a $5 fee to get in. They'll each get 5 minute to do whatever they need to do (don't think about it, it's easier that way). It would be very entrepreneurial of me if I did it. I figure, if I could take four short breaks a day and get 3 people each break, that would be $60 a day! That translates to $300 a week, $1200 per month, or $15,600 per year! That would almost support my handbag and shoe habit! Whoa... my brain can barely handle this thought process...

Today. Oh man. One of my colleagues was headed up to the third floor to use the bathroom and found a pile of poop in the stairwell. Everyone in the office decided that we needed a second party to verify that it was in fact poop. Somehow I was that person. It was clearly feces. At first glance you think it must be human, and it probably is. But I tried to tell myself that a large dog could have left it there. THANKFULLY it didn't smell. Cause I would have booted right then and there. And then the stairwell would have been full of both vomit and feces, and stunk like hell, and it would just be unacceptable that I, Sassy, contributed to a such a foul mess. Seriously, it's okay to throw up a bit in your mouth right now. Go on. Do it. I won't tell.

Lastly, I'm really bitchy today. And I thought I would share that with you. Partly cause I'm pretty mellow most of the time. Which could be because of the Xanax or Lithium that I'm on most of the time. If you say PMS, I'll strangle you. I don't believe so much in the "PMS" crap that is constantly being perpetuated. I think men are more moody than women for the most part. But today I'm just easily set off and I don't know why. Could it have been the pile of human feces? Perhaps. But unlikely since I was crabby before that event took place. People and things are just getting under my skin a little too easily. I had to turn the bitch dial up to HIGH today several times. And usually it only happens once a month or so at work. I don't have a problem being bitchy. In fact, secretly I enjoy it. But for 3 or 4 times today I was forced to rant, curse, send a snippy email and/or raise my voice on the phone, which generally means it's me. Sorry to all of my victims. Well, I'm sorta sorry.

Right now, if I was a guy, I would go home early, watch the Red Sox/Yankee game tonight and sit on the couch all night with a beer while I scratch my balls. I mean, really. When one has had such a crabby day, is there anything left to do but sit and scratch your balls? Unfortunately, I don't have balls (physically, anyway). So I guess I'll go to the gym instead and run it out. Hopefully, I don't run into this guy again. Cause lord knows I might just yank his damn pants up.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Men. [alternate title: Why acronyms exist...]

Let's just take a second before I get into it to point out that this picture is me in the act of "breaking and entering" on private party in NOLA, where I *nearly* got arrested. The house is nice, right? If those awful people hadn't shown up I was planning to head up the stairs and look in the windows and see Vampire Lestat playing the piano.

So, onto more important things...

I was sitting with The Hubs at Starbucks this weekend and a woman walked by wearing tight sweatpants and a shirt that was 4 sizes too small for her and came up above her belly button. Unfortunately for her, she didn't look good. Her tummy was sagging over the waist of her pants and jiggled as she strutted past our table. Now, I get that not everyone has a tight tummy. And that is *precisely* why she shouldn't dress like that.

It is the "muffin top phenomenon". WHY!? Must women who have jiggly bellies wear shirts that are too short and pants that are too tight? I don't care if some men like a little "wiggle" or whatever... I mentioned the "muffin top" to The Hubs and he was all, "the what top?"

Can you believe he's never heard of the term "muffin top?" Shocking, really. So I explained that when a woman wears pants that are too tight thus forcing her belly to sag over the top and look even larger than it really is, it creates a shape similar to a muffin: straight on the bottom and poofy on top. Like a muffin! Rather than laugh, or say, "wow that's creative!" he ventured to an area that I was not interested in going.

He said, "FUPA." And I just looked at him with a confused face. He said, "FUPA. It's what my college buddy used to call it."

"Call what exactly?"

The Hubs responded so matter-of-factly, "Fat Upper-Pussy Area".

The sheer shock of what he just told me washed over me. "Jason used to refer to women by using the term FUPA?!?! Woooowwww..... Did he make that up?"

"Yes, Jason invented the term. And, well, it's not exactly the same as a muffin top, if I understand it correctly. The muffin top is more of a fat stomach exacerbated by pants that are too tight and/or shirts that are too short. But FUPA is actually the area below the belly button and just above the pubic region. Some women just have fat there."

I just stared it him in utter disbelief and shock. Then we just got up, left Starbucks and went about our day. But I've been thinking about FUPA ever since. Even checking out my own "UPA" to see if it's fat. It appears not to be, but I think I'm still a little fuzzy on the details...