Thursday, October 28, 2010

Random thought of the day

Why is a case of wine 12 bottles, a case of whiskey 12 bottles.... but a case of beer is 24? I'm at a loss.

At first I thought it could be related to the alcohol % and volume - i.e. you got equally fucked up from each case of said alcoholic beverage, but that doesn't work when you think it through:

A case of beer will cause you to wake up on your front lawn with a grass stain on your face and bloody knee that you don't know how you got.

A case of wine will put you in the hospital getting your stomach pumped.

A case of whiskey will kill you.

So that theory is out the door.

What's your theory?

PS - SassyTwoSocks was referenced by Gawker a few days ago in reference to that psycho who was posting "wanted ads" for women... exciting! On a side note, I found out that my sister-in-law knows this dude, Malik. Creepy.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Is it just me or is anyone else tired of the gladiator sandal?

I can't walk into a shoe store, mainstream or boutique, without being accosted by gladiator sandals. I see them and all I think about is Russell Crowe.

They are a fad that has lasted way too long. I'm sure many of you reading this own a pair and may be offended by my attack on a harmless shoe style. But let me ask you... don't you think they might just be a little ugly? Doesn't it bother you that everyone and their mother and gay brother is wearing them?

Let's review the various options, shall we?

1. Ugly. I can picture this on a homeless hippie who lost his job because he got arrested for smoking maryjane on the town common.

2. Not so bad. I barely consider this a gladiator shoe.

3. Ugly. Reminds me a parachute harness.

4. Meh

5. I just threw up. This wouldn't even look good on Giselle.

6. I just threw up again

7. Orange, really?

8. Doesn't everyone know that ankle straps like this give everyone a cankle?

9. Turquoise isn't so bad, but again with the cankle-making.

10. If I was held at gunpoint and was forced to wear a gladiator sandal, I'd pick this one.

I mean, look at this. I did a search for "gladiator" and the second most popular search is "gladiator sandals" followed by "gladiator shoes."

That's a sign right there that we need something new to obsess over. I'm open to some ideas... anyone have a good idea for a new trend to overkill???...

Friday, July 9, 2010

It sucks to be skinny AND have cankles

In the midst of my panic attack about passing out with a apparent bottle of urine in my bag last night, I noticed a girl on the subway who was thin and svelt but had major cankles. And I thought to myself, "that poor, poor girl - to be blessed with the thin gene AND the fat ankle gene must suck." Big time.

You may be thinking, well isn't be thin with cankles better than being fat with cankles. Well, I disagree. At least if you're overweight, there's still somewhat of a curve to your calf/ankle area, versus your entire lower leg being one long stump.

Either way, I suppose cankles suck big time.

Do you think people get lipo on cankles? Just some food for thought on this wonderful, 99 degree Friday...

Thursday, July 8, 2010

If your'e chewing, you're cheating!

Today I started a 48-hour detox cleanse, along with 3 of my co-workers. It's basically Master Cleanse with a fancier name - a drink containing lemon juice with cayenne and maple syrup. I'm not sure why this concoction continues to be favored among the detoxification crowd but my theory is that the combination of sour, spicy and sweet and tricks your mouth into thinking it's actually ingesting something. But if you ask me, it's not working.

I'm a little pissed off at them calling it a "48-hour detox". In reality, the last meal I had was around 8pm Tuesday night, and I'm technically not allowed to eat again until Friday morning, so wouldn't that make it a "60-hour detox"? Why must they undermine me? If it were truly a 48-hour detox I could eat a dinner tonight at 8pm. Douches!

Last night, around the 21 hour mark I was completely looped out - everything was funny. I had more energy than I knew what to do with and all I could do was laugh my ass off at absolutely nothing.

I've literally hit the 36 hour mark since I last ate and delirium is setting in. I never thought I'd find myself so excited to drink my breakfast - because it's better than nothing.

Last night, when I left the office I brought a water bottle with some of the lemonade drink it in and put it in my purse. My biggest fear was passing out on the subway ride home and having some stranger find what appeared to be a bottle of urine in my bag...

This morning on the subway some dumb bitch was stuffing a croissant into her mouth about 12 inches away from my face. I tried to "accidentally" knock her coffee into her lap to no avail...

So here I sit, S-I-P-P-I-N-G my lemonade-y drink and repeatedly telling myself, "mind over matter, mind over matter"...

Monday, March 15, 2010

Today is my day. So shut it.

In my office, each time it's someone's birthday, we photoshop a picture to include the face of our colleague, let's call him Wolf. Wolf is continually transformed into beautiful woman, famous celebrities, ladies with a bit more "girth", and famous athletes. If only each of us could be so lucky...

Here are a few examples:

And here is my very own bad birthday photoshop:

It's Jersey Shore meets the Backstreet Boys!

God, I love my job.

Friday, March 12, 2010

For what it's worth

I would say my crush on Dexter is more comparable to my imaginable love affair with Anthony Bourdain than my brief crush on Bradley Cooper (which wazs ruined when he left Jennifer Aniston for Rene Zellweger - who does that? Ew.)

But then I saw this pic and I reconsidered and think I might have been a bit tough on him...

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Morale of the story: don't exercise drunk and don't let the "stomach fat of life" get you down

Feel free to make this your desktop background. It's mine until Summer starts.

There's nothing worse then getting back into a gym routine. You show up at the gym the first few times and feel pasty, saggy and ill equip to be mounting giant machines for long periods of time. Slowly, you'll gain confidence. But for now, it's all about hating every person with a nice set of abs and trying to secretly squeeze Crisco into their protein shake to make yourself feel better.

You start out by doing the easy stuff - like the elliptical/level 1 or the bike that is basically a video game to distract you from the fact that you're actually working out. You may try to run on the treadmill but find the exertion to interfere with your watching of Millionaire Matchmaker, which always seems to be on the gym televisions. (I heart you, Patty). So you either walk, or make your way over to the stair machine*footnote 1, which I also refer to as "my version of Hell", thinking it's better than running and risking a major treadmill fall. Fortunately, I'm not drunk when I go to the gym like that guy.

****side rant****
First of all, all you woman who put makeup on at the gym BEFORE you work out can bite me. I hate you all. Second, I'm trying out this potential new gym, and when did they start staffing live DJ's? If I wanted to go to a dance club I'd be shaking my booty at the nearest gay bar. Third, I've discovered that group exercise classes with my co-workers are ideal because my competitive spirit makes me want to crush every single one of them like a little ant.
***side rant ended***

This week, I was highly distressed when taking a class called Fluidity (which I happen to be in the infomercial for, no joke, when I was a few years younger, more agile and pretty buff, if I say so myself). I was doing a stretch where you sit on the floor, stretch one leg out and pull the other one in, while you lift your arms over your outstretched leg and lean over, getting a nice stretch in your lower back and hamstring. While I did this, I realized that I wanted to stretch even further down and out, but I couldn't! My stomach rolls were in the way. They were *physically* prohibiting me from going any further even though my muscles wanted me to!! How devastating a revelation is that?!

Regardless, my foray back into the fitness world has been a bit of a culture shock.

Here's a quiz for you (the answer is provided at the end of this post):

Due to the past few months of rigorous activity that I refer to as "watching Dexter on the couch for 5 hours straight" what of the following has occurred:

a) less focus at work
b) fewer come-ons from random strangers with wandering eyes
c) more nacho consumption (extra sour cream, please!)
d) flabbiness
e) I'm a bitch and it's a trick question
f) All of the above

footnote 1 I don't mean a Stairmaster - the pedals that just go up and down - I'm talking about the machine that is actually a set of 4 or 5 steps that rotate. Do you know how many people I've seen fall off this machine? Too many. (well, there's no such thing as *too many* because I live to see people fall, but you catch my drift). Whomever built this torturous piece of machinery should be crushed with it, slowly and painfully.

On a side note, on a scale of 1 to 10, how sad is it that the season premier of Gossip Girl is the highlight of my week?

answer to pop quiz: (f)
It's shameful, really.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

You know you're a bad parent if...

You not only make your kid watch a maze that turns into a scary death face... but video tape him while he frantically punches the television and runs around sobbing...

Click HERE because the stupid embed code has been disabled.

There are like hundreds of these videos of parents torturing their children... even I'm not that cruel.

And just because I can (AND because you're an adult)...

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

You know you're watching too much crime scene tv if...

- You write down or photograph the badge number of every cab you take just in case your body is found dead, so the police can trace it back to the killer.

- When the food delivery guy comes to your apartment while you're alone, you turn up the tv and talk to someone who isn't there to make him think there is someone else in the house (therefore preventing him from attacking you).

- Keep a machete under your mattress to ward off intruders (AND think you can actually use it effectively).

- Dream in the first person that you were in an episode of CSI: New York and you're being chased by a man in a clown mask with a chainsaw.

- Cross the street needlessly just to avoid a man that looks a little like Dexter the serial murdering blood spatter analyst.

- Hold your keys in your hand with the pointy end out thinking that you would stand a chance against an attacker with just a puny piece of scrap metal.

- You are convinced that the guy at the dry cleaner is in the mafia and is laundering money using the bags that carry your dirty clothes in and out of the shop. Your evidence: the $20 bill you found in your pant pocket.

- You keep your hair cut short, despite that fact that your guy prefers the Pam Andersen "just sexed up" look, so that no one can grab you from behind.

- You worry that someday the police will think you committed a crime because they found a random strand of hair or hangnail at a crime scene and consider it evidence against you. When in reality your hair just sheds a lot, you have dry cuticles, and you're a girl about town!

- You make your man sleep closer to the bedroom door so that if an intruder breaks in and tries to kill you both he'll get killed first so you have a chance of escaping.

I tried to take some pictures of me looking paranoid and scared, but this is all I got. So have a good laugh.

PS - the pictures of proof positive that I need some Botox, but Mr. T gets very upset when I bring it up. He's paranoid that I'm going to look like Meg Ryan or something. Ugh, my life is so hard sometimes...

Monday, March 8, 2010

Cape Cod meets Soho with a bit of Sass (meaning me) thrown in...

That is how a colleague described this bag:

If you ever wanted to know what I would look like if I were embodied in a material item, it would be this Fatal Travel Tote by Treesje. (PS - my birthday is next week and I'm taking donations!)

I was having a conversation with Mr. T and his dad (the FIL) yesterday and the FIL brought up Munchausen's syndrome. I was nearly certain that this refers to when a mother tries to get attention by projecting illness on her child (like external hypochondria). The FIL was saying that it is actually the same as hypochondria but in the extreme. We went back and forth about what it really was until Mr. T looked it up on his iPhone. The actually definition (per some fancy medical institution) is:

Munchausen syndrome is a type of factitious disorder, or mental illness, in which a person repeatedly acts as if he or she has a physical or mental disorder when, in truth, they have caused the symptoms.

I realized at that point that 1) I was wrong, and 2) that my ENTIRE basis for thinking I knew what it was came from an Eminem song. My parents always said I should be a lawyer because I can argue anything to death, even stuff I know nothing about...

I think I've been putting a lot of pressure on myself lately to write thoughtful and witty blog entries, rather than just write whatever is on my mind each day (which tends to inherently be random and ridiculous). So I'm vowing to post every day for the next 30-days regardless of my mental state or lack of creativity. Ideas welcome...

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Ask me how I wove Rob Zombie, David Caruso and Justin Timberlake into this post [cause I have no effing idea]

I walked into the gym Monday morning and the lady behind the counter said, "Long time no see, stranger!" That'll make a girl feel good.

Going to gym made me remember what it's like to be human again. To have a life and a routine that doesn't include working from sun-up to CSI: Miami (god, I love that show).

(Side note: Did you know that Rob Zombie is directing next week's episode?)

Lately, I live and breath work, which could be worse because I love my job, my colleagues and my company. BUT when I wake up at 3am remembering things I forgot to do and have to write them down on a post-it next to my bed, it becomes pathetic...

Mr. T has been great with my insane schedule. And even more so, with my recent attempts at achieving some level of normalcy. He's single-handedly been running our household, as I'm pretty much perpetually in one of three states: 1) at work, 2) in transit, or 3) on the couch watching Dexter. If I had to pick a fourth state, it'd be "drunk".

(I'm saving the subject of Dexter for a later blog post... YES! it's that important.)

I've happily included a pic of Justin Timberlake on a motorcycle as an example of abnormality, if only to make myself feel better. I like the guy, don't get me wrong, but any former boy-bander would look wrong with rolled up cuffs, a backpack, and a helmet.

Lastly, I was accosted by a crazy lady in the subway two weeks ago. Literally, I was shoved and a bag I was holding went flying out of my arms and almost went over the platform and onto the tracks. I begun yelling vulgarities at her, as an involuntary response, and soon realize that if she's crazy enough to shove me and then resume her blank staring at the wall, I probably want to watch myself before I get murdered or worse...

If I was David Caruso, I would now say something vague and painfully serious, like "... and we're not going to let that happen..." and then the loud screaming of The Who would kick in.

Friday, January 22, 2010

There's no better way to say I love you [didn't I use that blog title before?]

I came across this vulva portrait necklace in Cosmo magazine (!), as if it was completely normal... there was no mention of the fact that it's disturbing. Just the mere concept gave me a chill. I can't even bring myself to include a picture of the damn things here.

Please note the fact that "Each piece is an original, one of a kind hand sculpted image of its owner to remind her that regardless of what the world and the people in it may tell her: she is beautiful."

The fact that someone might actually have this made, let alone send pictures of their own vajayjay, is just mind boggling to me. Cause you know there's some skeevy old perv on the other end of that purchase just waiting for unsuspecting feminists or clueless boyfriends/girlfriends to send along a picture of a big VAJ! thinking that someone might actually think that this is a gift of some kind...

I mean I'm all for a woman feeling powerful and beautiful, but can't you just go buy a pair of nice shoes on sale or put on some sexy underwear?

Seriously. Ick.

More on this later.... it's Friday at 7:13PM and it's officially the weekend (or some semblance of what I call "weekends" these days)...