It's almost 2 pm central time, and I'm currently hyped up on leaded Pepsi. (Leaded Pepsi would be a term to indicated it's not diet; and that I'm feeling the hyper-burn of both sugar and caffeine. Oh, yeah, baby.) The only thing holding me to my desk, other than that absurb Puritanical Work Ethic (which isn't very ethical if I'm typing this, right?), is that in about 3 hours I'll get to take off like a prom dress and drive like Ricky Bobby to the nearest theater and watch that sure to be nominated for an oscar, Blades of Glory.
I am psyched out of my mind.
I am in need of a Will Ferrell pick me up. I'm even willing to put up that dorky Napoleon jackass to watch the film, and a few months ago, I wasn't sure I would be. I am mentally prepared. The trailers look hysterical. Hell, even the critics gave it a rating of B! They never give movie ratings anything particularly high! Hell, Braveheart is one of my favorite movies of all time, and the critics only gave it a B+, which coincidentally is the same grade they gave to Amazing Grace, which I thought deserved an A as well.
Yeah, a B is paramount to getting summa cum laude on the critic circuit. This movie should have me giggling for days. And that would rock, because I need a laugh. I also need my Taco Bell--when is my co-worker going to return with my lunch?
What's your favorite pick-me-up laugh-for-days movie? Do you have a favorite Will Ferrell movie?
Friday, March 30, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Random Email of the Day
I was actually working. (Imagine. I know, it was hard for me to picture it too.) In the midst of typing in some boring info, my email envelope icon popped up and I had to check. It was from a married couple I’m friends with.
His wife immediately writes:
Then she emails:
Jeremy has a friend we think you might like. I don’t think you’ve ever met before. Would you be opposed to being set up? We could also schedule a get together some time and invite both of you to introduce you.After a moment of near panic, because the idea of dating sends me into fits of hyperventilation, I calmly responded with: Well, is he cute? Because these are the important questions you need to ask. This was the response.
Let me know your thoughts.
Jennifer
P.S. Jeremy can tell you more about him.
I have to agree. He surely couldn’t pick any worse dates than I’ve already done. But of course, I’m fixated on the boobs comment. Actually I’m fixated by the fact that “big boobs” made me think of you comment. That’s really funny because they’re not. So I email:
His name is Tom. He's a good guy that I go out drinking with from time to time. You might have actually met him at the Super Bowl Party we threw 2 years ago. He's a nurse and came in scrubs I think. Anyways, he doesn't have any fetishes of killing pigs and then showing people the video. He's not a creep or anything so that's cool. He's in his lower 30s. His build is similar to mine. He's been active in several CEC shows, just not lately. I mentioned the other night that I had a friend I should hook him up with and he said "hey, I'm not seeing anyone hook me up." (There's no sexual connotation in that). A few years ago I asked him what he looked for in a girl and he said "Big boobs" so that made me think of you (wait, that sounds bad! LOL). He was semi-joking and semi-buzzed at the time too.
After hearing and seeing some of your past boyfriends, I realized he probably wouldn't be that bad of a hook-up. I mean heck, I'm not sure I could find guys like you've dated if I tried. He's got a good job (nurse at the university) and a good place (Broadway Apartments by wal-mart) and is a solid guy. He's into movies, sci-fi, and some books (not as much as you). He's about as much into sports as I am (a little bit but not as bad as he could be). He's also a semi-tech guy so that's good.
As for a double date, I don't think you/us need that. Hellion/You've been on blind dates before and can hold your own.
Jeremy.
First, let me just say how immensely flattered I am that I can fall into the category of "single girl with big boobs". Esp since you've seen them. *LOL*And the response I get is:
The fact that he's not into killing pigs and showing videos of such kills does rocket him to the top of my list. That was going to my next question. Also behind, "Does he have any weird obsessions with the movie, Titanic?"--though I didn't want to come off as too picky.
Hmmm. He sounds good. Does he email? (And I like the whole "hold your own" comment. Makes me feel I go on my dates armed or something...rather funny really.)
Dude, I forgot all about seeing your boobs (well not all about, just in context of talking with him recently about a possible person to connect with him). I mean your breasts were spectacular. I mean heck, even Jenny has to agree with me there. Wait, what are we talking about? Or yeah, your boobs...no wait that's not it.
I don't have his email. Let me see if I can find it and I'll get back to you.
-Jeremy.
His wife immediately writes:
I am a little scared how this conversation has progressed. He’s a good guy Hellion and I don’t think he has any particular thoughts on Titanic one way or the other. If Jeremy gets his email maybe you can start your meeting there and then meet him when ready.Well, who can blame her concern about this conversation? So I email back with:
Jen
P.S. I don’t feel like working anymore today.
Don't worry, Jen, I totally bring out this quality in emails. And really, it's my fault--I did start it. Don't feel you have to agree with his previous statement. But thank you, Jeremy, nonetheless. *LOL*You should always thank those who compliment you, you know. Good manners.
Then she emails:
No, your boobs were great. I do agree with Jeremy. I was just laughing at how we went from ‘here’s a nice guy to set up Hellion with’ to ‘her boobs on Mardi Gras’.Oh, good, I have great boobs. I’m very excited. This is a red-letter day.
These are the emails you remember…
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Jack, Ranger & Harry: My Men
Fictional men are the bomb. They're never moody; they're always sexy; and they're not nearly the pain in the rump that the real things are. So here are Odes to all my favorite fictional men. (I probably should get one made up for Darcy--God, I love that man. Though he was a bit moody.)
Ode to Jack
Ode to the pirate called Jack
The rogue with a tongue so clever—
Norrington’s fine; and Orlie’s sublime,
But Jack’s my true love forever!
57 days (May 25 release date) until witty Jack is saved. Approximately 8 weeks. And yes, Jack, I would have come to save you just because I missed you! (Of course, I wouldn’t have handcuffed you to the ship and let you die—you really need to stop kissing the wrong women. Seriously.)
Ode to Ranger
Ode to the hunter called Ranger,
The man with the gun and the bod—
To sleep with him ruins you forever,
But that happens when you sleep with a god.
82 days (June 19 release date) until a Ranger fix—and being he’s ruined me, he needs to fix it. (I don’t know where Sin got 73 days left, but if she’s getting a copier EARLIER, she needs to hook me up with her supplier…)
Ode to Harry
Ode to the wizard boy called Harry
Who faces dastardly Voldemort!
If he dies, I’ll do nothing but cry and cry—
Sobbing tears by the bushel and quart.
114 days (July 21st release date) until Harry kills Voldie. (We know he’s gonna kill Voldie—but let’s hope he doesn’t have to die along with him.) They have the book covers out now for our rabid (okay MY rabid) fascination. I’m once again excited. (That two week moping ‘Eh, who cares about Harry?’ period has obviously passed.)
Who is your favorite fictional man? And what would his ode be if you had to write one?
Ode to Jack
Ode to the pirate called Jack
The rogue with a tongue so clever—
Norrington’s fine; and Orlie’s sublime,
But Jack’s my true love forever!
57 days (May 25 release date) until witty Jack is saved. Approximately 8 weeks. And yes, Jack, I would have come to save you just because I missed you! (Of course, I wouldn’t have handcuffed you to the ship and let you die—you really need to stop kissing the wrong women. Seriously.)
Ode to Ranger
Ode to the hunter called Ranger,
The man with the gun and the bod—
To sleep with him ruins you forever,
But that happens when you sleep with a god.
82 days (June 19 release date) until a Ranger fix—and being he’s ruined me, he needs to fix it. (I don’t know where Sin got 73 days left, but if she’s getting a copier EARLIER, she needs to hook me up with her supplier…)
Ode to Harry
Ode to the wizard boy called Harry
Who faces dastardly Voldemort!
If he dies, I’ll do nothing but cry and cry—
Sobbing tears by the bushel and quart.
114 days (July 21st release date) until Harry kills Voldie. (We know he’s gonna kill Voldie—but let’s hope he doesn’t have to die along with him.) They have the book covers out now for our rabid (okay MY rabid) fascination. I’m once again excited. (That two week moping ‘Eh, who cares about Harry?’ period has obviously passed.)
Who is your favorite fictional man? And what would his ode be if you had to write one?
Monday, March 26, 2007
Harry Update
I didn't want Harry to feel neglected that I'm still babbling about Captain Jack (but really, why wouldn't I be babbling about Jack? We have much more in common than Harry and me--and plus Jack always brings rum. He's also not as shy in the bath as Harry can get when approached by a strange girl fanatic. Plus Jack has a higher sense of self-preservation than Harry, who seems to court trouble on purpose. Say what you will of cowards, but he who fights and runs away can run away another day.)
116 days until the last book release.
32 more days until the HALF WAY mark of waiting. Woohoo!
116 days until the last book release.
32 more days until the HALF WAY mark of waiting. Woohoo!
More Bad Poetry
I find sestinas fascinating. A total pain in the ass to write, and it's hard to make them good. So I tell you now, this one isn't good...but it doesn't talk about any of my typical neurosis, so it makes for a lovely change of pace. Damn, I didn't even mention rum! Shit.
There was a handsome bold pirate named Jack
Whose eyes and bonny long locks were black.
He loved a girl with hair like loose flames of red,
Whom he affectionately called His Hellion.
Together they fought against all attack
And lived on his pirate ship of Love.
But all men, even Jack, are stupid when it comes to Love.
“She doesn’t make a good pirate,” contemplated Jack.
“What if she were injured or worse during an attack?
Why all my blue days would turn to black!
I must do all I can to protect my fragile Hellion,
My darling with hair like loose flames of red.”
When he kicked her to an island, his darling saw red!
How dare he do such a thing and then say it was for Love?
“I’ll show him who’s not a pirate,” fumed a furious Hellion
“I have some tricks I’ve yet to show Jack.”
Her mood went from scarlet embers to limitless black—
Her pirate should beware from whence of his next attack.
At sunset, the Captain soon sound himself under attack
By an enemy with locks like the sun’s flames of red
“Oh, shit,” he said, when he realized his love’s mood was black
“But I only hid her on the island out my full sense of Love!
Women! You can’t live with them or shoot them,” said Jack.
Then he began to plan what he would do about his Hellion.
With a look though her spyglass, there spied Ms. Hellion
“Yes, run, you dog, you know you’re under my attack!
But no matter where you run, you’ll find me, dear Jack”
She flew down from the crow’s nest, her hair flying red,
“Oh, the things I have to put up with for the sake of Love.
Oh, to be near my bonny with his teasing eyes so black.”
“Son of a bitch!” yelled the man with eyes so black
He couldn’t help but admire his persistent wench Hellion
Perhaps he hid out of fear, and not out of Love
Perhaps she had every right to levy attack.
Or perhaps he just missed tupping his Lady Red.
“Yes, that’s what it is,” wryly thought Jack.
Did you ever hear such a tale as Jack and his firebrand Hellion?
How a black garbed pirate could levy such a bed-melting attack?
All for a woman of red—who would give anything for Love.
There was a handsome bold pirate named Jack
Whose eyes and bonny long locks were black.
He loved a girl with hair like loose flames of red,
Whom he affectionately called His Hellion.
Together they fought against all attack
And lived on his pirate ship of Love.
But all men, even Jack, are stupid when it comes to Love.
“She doesn’t make a good pirate,” contemplated Jack.
“What if she were injured or worse during an attack?
Why all my blue days would turn to black!
I must do all I can to protect my fragile Hellion,
My darling with hair like loose flames of red.”
When he kicked her to an island, his darling saw red!
How dare he do such a thing and then say it was for Love?
“I’ll show him who’s not a pirate,” fumed a furious Hellion
“I have some tricks I’ve yet to show Jack.”
Her mood went from scarlet embers to limitless black—
Her pirate should beware from whence of his next attack.
At sunset, the Captain soon sound himself under attack
By an enemy with locks like the sun’s flames of red
“Oh, shit,” he said, when he realized his love’s mood was black
“But I only hid her on the island out my full sense of Love!
Women! You can’t live with them or shoot them,” said Jack.
Then he began to plan what he would do about his Hellion.
With a look though her spyglass, there spied Ms. Hellion
“Yes, run, you dog, you know you’re under my attack!
But no matter where you run, you’ll find me, dear Jack”
She flew down from the crow’s nest, her hair flying red,
“Oh, the things I have to put up with for the sake of Love.
Oh, to be near my bonny with his teasing eyes so black.”
“Son of a bitch!” yelled the man with eyes so black
He couldn’t help but admire his persistent wench Hellion
Perhaps he hid out of fear, and not out of Love
Perhaps she had every right to levy attack.
Or perhaps he just missed tupping his Lady Red.
“Yes, that’s what it is,” wryly thought Jack.
Did you ever hear such a tale as Jack and his firebrand Hellion?
How a black garbed pirate could levy such a bed-melting attack?
All for a woman of red—who would give anything for Love.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Arlington
I admit I don’t know a lot about Texas. It never really bothered me before. I mean, I know they fought for the Southern Cause; I know the Texas Rangers (obviously) originated there (from Waco); and I know “Remember the Alamo!” where Davy Crockett, Colonel Travis, and Jim Bowie died. I know George Strait is from Texas, long live the King. Johnny Horton died on his way back from playing at the Skyline (in Texas)—killed by a drunk driver. Waylon Jennings has a couple kick-ass songs about Texas, “Let’s go to Luckenbach, Texas, with Waylon, Willie, and the boys…” And I still get teary-eyed when I hear “San Antonio Rose” on the radio.
That’s what I know about Texas.
Apparently there’s an Arlington there. And if you google it, they talk about football and six flags, neither of which I’m all that obsessive about. Apparently I’m a moron. I’m sure if a Harry Potter convention had ever been held there, I would know all about it, but alas, I don’t think Harry is all that popular there. Something about Bible Belt states and witchcraft doesn’t lend itself to Harry Potter conventions.
When someone mentions Arlington to me, I think: Virginia. (As Sin says, where the CIA is, baby!) But I’m thinking, it’s near all the other monuments and stuff—you know, big stuff, like Arlington Cemetery and George Washington monument and a thousand other museums. You know, it’s the spot where Robert E. Lee had his home, and Quartermaster General Montgomery Meigs thought it’d be a great place to bury all the dead. (I don’t think he thought much of Lee.) Of course, it probably jogs my memory since I've been to Arlington, VA.
But let’s not limit our scope. There are other Arlingtons I also haven't been to.
There’s an Arlington in each of the following states, none of which I've visited either: Alabama, California, Georgia, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Massachusetts, Minnesota, Nebraska, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Oregon, South Dakota, Tennessee, Vermont, Washington and Wisconsin. (There are some in Canada too…but I thought I’d try to focus our search to our lower 48.)
Arlington, MA, is particularly enticing since it’s like 6 miles from Boston, and Paul Revere’s famous ride went through it. Interesting. Loving that. Hell, I might have driven through it and not realized it during my Boston trip. (I can wax orgasmic about Boston.)
The Arlington in Oregon seems to pay their female workers just as shitty as they do here. *marks off her list as an Arlington to visit*
Arlington, SD, couldn’t make up its blipping mind when it was being named, first starting with Nordland (we can see why they picked a different name), then Denver (though the postal people never acknowledged this change), then finally deciding to name themselves after Arlington, MA. Must be a city of Libras. *crosses off her list*
Arlington, VT, apparently was hometown to a bunch of the Green Mountain Boys in the Revolutionary War. Also hometown of Norman Rockwell. Nice, maybe could do.
Arlington, WI, is a sprawling metropolis of 484 at last count. The women get paid more here than in Oregon. Hell, they get paid more than I do here. Maybe I should move to Wisconsin.
I won’t even bother to look at Kansas. No one lives in or visits Kansas on purpose. Kansas is the Hotel California of states.
Of course, I’m not really interested in relocating to an Arlington. If I was going to relocate or take a trip, I thought Hell, Michigan looked pretty entertaining. And from there, it’s only a couple hours to get to Climax. (Irony comes free in Michigan, apparently. Comes free, get it. God, I kill myself.) But I’m not interested in Michigan’s normal weather. If I’m going to Hell, I’m going to Grand Cayman to get there. At least there, they also have Tortuga Rum.
That’s what I know about Texas.
Apparently there’s an Arlington there. And if you google it, they talk about football and six flags, neither of which I’m all that obsessive about. Apparently I’m a moron. I’m sure if a Harry Potter convention had ever been held there, I would know all about it, but alas, I don’t think Harry is all that popular there. Something about Bible Belt states and witchcraft doesn’t lend itself to Harry Potter conventions.
When someone mentions Arlington to me, I think: Virginia. (As Sin says, where the CIA is, baby!) But I’m thinking, it’s near all the other monuments and stuff—you know, big stuff, like Arlington Cemetery and George Washington monument and a thousand other museums. You know, it’s the spot where Robert E. Lee had his home, and Quartermaster General Montgomery Meigs thought it’d be a great place to bury all the dead. (I don’t think he thought much of Lee.) Of course, it probably jogs my memory since I've been to Arlington, VA.
But let’s not limit our scope. There are other Arlingtons I also haven't been to.
There’s an Arlington in each of the following states, none of which I've visited either: Alabama, California, Georgia, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Massachusetts, Minnesota, Nebraska, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Oregon, South Dakota, Tennessee, Vermont, Washington and Wisconsin. (There are some in Canada too…but I thought I’d try to focus our search to our lower 48.)
Arlington, MA, is particularly enticing since it’s like 6 miles from Boston, and Paul Revere’s famous ride went through it. Interesting. Loving that. Hell, I might have driven through it and not realized it during my Boston trip. (I can wax orgasmic about Boston.)
The Arlington in Oregon seems to pay their female workers just as shitty as they do here. *marks off her list as an Arlington to visit*
Arlington, SD, couldn’t make up its blipping mind when it was being named, first starting with Nordland (we can see why they picked a different name), then Denver (though the postal people never acknowledged this change), then finally deciding to name themselves after Arlington, MA. Must be a city of Libras. *crosses off her list*
Arlington, VT, apparently was hometown to a bunch of the Green Mountain Boys in the Revolutionary War. Also hometown of Norman Rockwell. Nice, maybe could do.
Arlington, WI, is a sprawling metropolis of 484 at last count. The women get paid more here than in Oregon. Hell, they get paid more than I do here. Maybe I should move to Wisconsin.
I won’t even bother to look at Kansas. No one lives in or visits Kansas on purpose. Kansas is the Hotel California of states.
Of course, I’m not really interested in relocating to an Arlington. If I was going to relocate or take a trip, I thought Hell, Michigan looked pretty entertaining. And from there, it’s only a couple hours to get to Climax. (Irony comes free in Michigan, apparently. Comes free, get it. God, I kill myself.) But I’m not interested in Michigan’s normal weather. If I’m going to Hell, I’m going to Grand Cayman to get there. At least there, they also have Tortuga Rum.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Devil's In The Details
To quote Jack, “A wedding? I love weddings!”
Well, with the following amendment, so long as I’m not in them. I was a bridesmaid once, and that was plenty. I didn’t understand. I was young, naïve, and yes, self-absorbed at the time of my bridesmaidal occupation; but I sincerely think I missed out on the girl gene of caring about certain details in regards to a wedding. Like, some people really care how many people are allowed at the wedding (and whose feelings will be hurt if they’re not invited), if there should be three bridesmaids or seven (and how are we going to fit all my friends and siblings into the wedding party without pissing off my friends or my mother), and should I have Alstroemeria or Liatris at the front of the church? Church? Speaking of which, where should I have my wedding? At the chapel with the red carpet or the one with the stained glass windows?
I wish I were kidding, but these are the things brides actually worry about. And it doesn’t end there. There are articles and media and mothers constantly going on and on about how each detail must be carefully thought out, or the wedding will suck and you’ll never be able to hold up your head in town again. Or worse, your mother will not be able to. And I, as the bridesmaid, was obviously unhelpful when I pointed out the obvious: It’s your wedding. Do it however you want.
This was apparently bad advice. And unwanted. I don’t understand it. It’s sound advice. (Except perhaps she didn’t know what she wanted. Maybe bridal planning is a lot like dieting—it doesn’t go well if you have too many options to pick from.) Well, I’m here to help you limit your options. There are only two things you need to worry about for a wedding, three if you count the cake. (And you should, cake is important.)
Number 1: The Groom. One would assume at the time of your wedding planning you have already acquired one of these. One-third of your planning is already solved. Congratulations!
Number 2: The Dress. You have to look good. You’re the bride. This is The Moment to look smoking hot and make every other dumbass man who ever broke your heart absolutely ripped with jealousy and regret.
Number 3: The Cake. (This one was semi-negotiable.) Wedding cake is like crack and none of us get to eat it near enough. Plus, you feed cake to people, and no one will remember anything else about that wedding. Other than you looked gorgeous, obviously.
Everything else is up for negotiation, and frankly if you don’t care about it, don’t have it at your wedding.
But my mother (grandmother/MIL/sister/friends/insert female here) thinks I should [insert needless drama item here] or my wedding will be awful! They lie. It’s not their wedding. When it’s their wedding they can insert all the needless drama items they want. In the meantime, it’s your wedding and you should be looking for a dress.
If I get married in Vegas, everyone will think I’m pregnant/cheating them out of a real wedding/not serious about marriage. Uh-huh. Who’s footing the bill for this gig anyway? You, my dear bride? Yes, people will say anything to get cake. When you return from your lovely Vegas wedding, undetailed by the burdens of massive federal debt or stress of a celebrity-style wedding, you can buy a cake for the little naysayers and be done with it.
The moral of the story is that you can’t please everybody, but you can please yourself—and if you’re happy, then the groom’s happy. And if he’s not happy and cares more for the details than you—he’s running for office or he’s gay—and in either case, you need to get out now. The End
Oh, and my wedding (provided that I’m not hit by a bus first, which is apparently more likely): Vegas. On the pirate ship. In a bitchin’ bridal pirate gown. Or…maybe a different theme. Who knows? But I assure you I’ll have the two things that matter: The Groom and The Gown. Everything else is just details, baby.
Well, with the following amendment, so long as I’m not in them. I was a bridesmaid once, and that was plenty. I didn’t understand. I was young, naïve, and yes, self-absorbed at the time of my bridesmaidal occupation; but I sincerely think I missed out on the girl gene of caring about certain details in regards to a wedding. Like, some people really care how many people are allowed at the wedding (and whose feelings will be hurt if they’re not invited), if there should be three bridesmaids or seven (and how are we going to fit all my friends and siblings into the wedding party without pissing off my friends or my mother), and should I have Alstroemeria or Liatris at the front of the church? Church? Speaking of which, where should I have my wedding? At the chapel with the red carpet or the one with the stained glass windows?
I wish I were kidding, but these are the things brides actually worry about. And it doesn’t end there. There are articles and media and mothers constantly going on and on about how each detail must be carefully thought out, or the wedding will suck and you’ll never be able to hold up your head in town again. Or worse, your mother will not be able to. And I, as the bridesmaid, was obviously unhelpful when I pointed out the obvious: It’s your wedding. Do it however you want.
This was apparently bad advice. And unwanted. I don’t understand it. It’s sound advice. (Except perhaps she didn’t know what she wanted. Maybe bridal planning is a lot like dieting—it doesn’t go well if you have too many options to pick from.) Well, I’m here to help you limit your options. There are only two things you need to worry about for a wedding, three if you count the cake. (And you should, cake is important.)
Number 1: The Groom. One would assume at the time of your wedding planning you have already acquired one of these. One-third of your planning is already solved. Congratulations!
Number 2: The Dress. You have to look good. You’re the bride. This is The Moment to look smoking hot and make every other dumbass man who ever broke your heart absolutely ripped with jealousy and regret.
Number 3: The Cake. (This one was semi-negotiable.) Wedding cake is like crack and none of us get to eat it near enough. Plus, you feed cake to people, and no one will remember anything else about that wedding. Other than you looked gorgeous, obviously.
Everything else is up for negotiation, and frankly if you don’t care about it, don’t have it at your wedding.
But my mother (grandmother/MIL/sister/friends/insert female here) thinks I should [insert needless drama item here] or my wedding will be awful! They lie. It’s not their wedding. When it’s their wedding they can insert all the needless drama items they want. In the meantime, it’s your wedding and you should be looking for a dress.
If I get married in Vegas, everyone will think I’m pregnant/cheating them out of a real wedding/not serious about marriage. Uh-huh. Who’s footing the bill for this gig anyway? You, my dear bride? Yes, people will say anything to get cake. When you return from your lovely Vegas wedding, undetailed by the burdens of massive federal debt or stress of a celebrity-style wedding, you can buy a cake for the little naysayers and be done with it.
The moral of the story is that you can’t please everybody, but you can please yourself—and if you’re happy, then the groom’s happy. And if he’s not happy and cares more for the details than you—he’s running for office or he’s gay—and in either case, you need to get out now. The End
Oh, and my wedding (provided that I’m not hit by a bus first, which is apparently more likely): Vegas. On the pirate ship. In a bitchin’ bridal pirate gown. Or…maybe a different theme. Who knows? But I assure you I’ll have the two things that matter: The Groom and The Gown. Everything else is just details, baby.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Bridget Jones in Mid-Missouri
I have a soft spot for the Bridget Jones heroine. Critics have maintained that she’s a dumbass; that no woman in her right mind would want to be mistaken for her, be classified as her, but deep down, we all have a bit of Bridget Jones in us.
Some of us more than others.
Myself really. Especially now that I’ve turned 32—and isn’t that where Bridget Jones’ saga starts? In her 32nd year? She’s at the New Year’s Turkey Curry buffet, and there is Mark Darcy—and boom, her life changes forever. She doesn’t want to be the laughing stock. She needs to crack down, get serious, and get a boyfriend.
So last Friday, I went out with Sin, who was having a crap week. We agreed to go drinking. Any way I can support a friend with beer, I’m there. Of course the problem with this is that I drank more than she did, so she had to put up with me. (So much for capping off her crap week nicely, right?) After a pitcher and a half of Miller Lite (that’s just my consumption, and I was massively upset we were leaving behind half a pitcher of beer), we leave and Sin drives us to the Mall. We wander around for a while—and I buy a Sinatra CD—and then we wander back to the movie theater. We go inside, we buy tickets and soda, and then we go into the theater.
Sin wants to sit in the back, but not in the back row. (The lights get in the way.) There is a row where long-legged people can sit and not feel cramped. She picks this row, and I plop down beside her in the midst of a beer-buzz. No one in front of me. Perfect. We chat and giggle a bit. No idea what we are talking about. I’m wondering if I should pee again—I’ve only already gone about a dozen times—but to be sure, I don’t want to go during the movie. I kick off my shoes. This is my M.O. I start undoing buttons, taking off items of clothing…I’m surprised I’m not naked by the end of films.
A couple comes in and sits in the row in front of us. Her hair is jacked to Jesus—she, of course, sits in front of me. I can’t see. Stadium seating, my ass. Sin says, “You want to move?” I’m trying not to be a total pain in the ass, so I say, “I’ll move. I’ll sit on your other side.” I kick my stuff to her other side, sit, and put my feet up. Ninety seconds later, a new couple comes in and sits in front of me. More hair jacked to Jesus.
By now Sin is laughing so hard, she struggling to muffle it in her coat. I give her a look and she says, “Let’s move a row back.” Awesome. I get up, start throwing my purse and shoes to the row behind us, and watch Sin cleverly negotiate a straddle across a row of stadium seats. She hops and boom, she’s seated again. Well, hell, I think, I can do that. (Beer, you recall.) I hitch my pants, fling a leg over the seating, and go to hurdle—just as I hear “Hi Hellion” from above. I look up, and there’s my Mark Darcy in the row where I normally sit, presumably with his girlfriend who is also smiling at all this activity. “That’s Hellion," he points, then waves.
Hell. Seriously what are the odds? I mean, my Finite Mathematics teacher couldn’t have come up with a formula to predict this.
However, unlike Bridget who would have fallen backwards, sent her skirt flying over her waist and shown off her sunflower panties (that was a different episode)—I managed to finish hurdling the seats, sit down, and proceeded to concentrate in not moving for the next two hours. Which was hard considering I’d had a bunch of beer, and I could have probably peed twice more.
No idea what the movie was about.
Anyone else have any Bridget Jones’ moments? Any romantic comedy heroines you totally relate to?
Some of us more than others.
Myself really. Especially now that I’ve turned 32—and isn’t that where Bridget Jones’ saga starts? In her 32nd year? She’s at the New Year’s Turkey Curry buffet, and there is Mark Darcy—and boom, her life changes forever. She doesn’t want to be the laughing stock. She needs to crack down, get serious, and get a boyfriend.
So last Friday, I went out with Sin, who was having a crap week. We agreed to go drinking. Any way I can support a friend with beer, I’m there. Of course the problem with this is that I drank more than she did, so she had to put up with me. (So much for capping off her crap week nicely, right?) After a pitcher and a half of Miller Lite (that’s just my consumption, and I was massively upset we were leaving behind half a pitcher of beer), we leave and Sin drives us to the Mall. We wander around for a while—and I buy a Sinatra CD—and then we wander back to the movie theater. We go inside, we buy tickets and soda, and then we go into the theater.
Sin wants to sit in the back, but not in the back row. (The lights get in the way.) There is a row where long-legged people can sit and not feel cramped. She picks this row, and I plop down beside her in the midst of a beer-buzz. No one in front of me. Perfect. We chat and giggle a bit. No idea what we are talking about. I’m wondering if I should pee again—I’ve only already gone about a dozen times—but to be sure, I don’t want to go during the movie. I kick off my shoes. This is my M.O. I start undoing buttons, taking off items of clothing…I’m surprised I’m not naked by the end of films.
A couple comes in and sits in the row in front of us. Her hair is jacked to Jesus—she, of course, sits in front of me. I can’t see. Stadium seating, my ass. Sin says, “You want to move?” I’m trying not to be a total pain in the ass, so I say, “I’ll move. I’ll sit on your other side.” I kick my stuff to her other side, sit, and put my feet up. Ninety seconds later, a new couple comes in and sits in front of me. More hair jacked to Jesus.
By now Sin is laughing so hard, she struggling to muffle it in her coat. I give her a look and she says, “Let’s move a row back.” Awesome. I get up, start throwing my purse and shoes to the row behind us, and watch Sin cleverly negotiate a straddle across a row of stadium seats. She hops and boom, she’s seated again. Well, hell, I think, I can do that. (Beer, you recall.) I hitch my pants, fling a leg over the seating, and go to hurdle—just as I hear “Hi Hellion” from above. I look up, and there’s my Mark Darcy in the row where I normally sit, presumably with his girlfriend who is also smiling at all this activity. “That’s Hellion," he points, then waves.
Hell. Seriously what are the odds? I mean, my Finite Mathematics teacher couldn’t have come up with a formula to predict this.
However, unlike Bridget who would have fallen backwards, sent her skirt flying over her waist and shown off her sunflower panties (that was a different episode)—I managed to finish hurdling the seats, sit down, and proceeded to concentrate in not moving for the next two hours. Which was hard considering I’d had a bunch of beer, and I could have probably peed twice more.
No idea what the movie was about.
Anyone else have any Bridget Jones’ moments? Any romantic comedy heroines you totally relate to?
Friday, March 16, 2007
TGIF
Terri won. Of course, she’s the only one who submitted formal answers—and she got 6 out of 10 right. I mean, that’s good. Usually I refer to these men as “The Weeper” or “The Coffee Guy”. I will have to think of something appropriate to send Terri. I did greatly appreciate Christie’s response of: “These all sound like something Jack would say.” *coughing fits of laughter* That should at least get an honorable mention—being once I read the statements again and thought about Jack; yeah, they do all pretty sound like stuff Jack would say.
Took a quiz earlier this week. http://www.tomorrowland.us/tlm/ It was: Are you a Talent, Lifer, or Mandarin? I was a Talent. I’m pretty sure this had to do with the fact it asked me, “If you got to do your dream job, would you do it for a pay cut?” Sure, I said, if it was really a DREAM job. I mean, if I got to give sponge baths to Ranger all day—if that was my job—hell yeah, I’d take a pay cut.
That’s probably not what they meant, but I don’t really give a crap.
And really that’s the point of Today’s Rambling, brought to you by “I don’t give a Crap” toilets. It’s Friday, my favorite day of the week, and this particular Friday is next to a big drinking holiday. Find me a beer and someone to bullshit with, and I’m going to pretend all the other somewhat-crappy stuff that went on this week did not happen. Because you know what? It doesn’t matter—it’s over now—and I can go about with deleting those unnecessary memory cells with pitchers of Miller Lite. Then to finish off the evening, I’ll trot across the parking lot and watch that new Gerry Butler movie—you know the one where he’s half-clothed and all passionate and gung-ho? Yeah, I don’t remember the title either—it doesn’t matter. My drunk ass will ask the ticket guy: “I want to see the naked Gerry Butler film. No, I’m not kidding…it’s playing here.”
Well, that’s the intent anyway. I might just be content with the beer and bullshitting.
Happy Friday, Everyone!
Took a quiz earlier this week. http://www.tomorrowland.us/tlm/ It was: Are you a Talent, Lifer, or Mandarin? I was a Talent. I’m pretty sure this had to do with the fact it asked me, “If you got to do your dream job, would you do it for a pay cut?” Sure, I said, if it was really a DREAM job. I mean, if I got to give sponge baths to Ranger all day—if that was my job—hell yeah, I’d take a pay cut.
That’s probably not what they meant, but I don’t really give a crap.
And really that’s the point of Today’s Rambling, brought to you by “I don’t give a Crap” toilets. It’s Friday, my favorite day of the week, and this particular Friday is next to a big drinking holiday. Find me a beer and someone to bullshit with, and I’m going to pretend all the other somewhat-crappy stuff that went on this week did not happen. Because you know what? It doesn’t matter—it’s over now—and I can go about with deleting those unnecessary memory cells with pitchers of Miller Lite. Then to finish off the evening, I’ll trot across the parking lot and watch that new Gerry Butler movie—you know the one where he’s half-clothed and all passionate and gung-ho? Yeah, I don’t remember the title either—it doesn’t matter. My drunk ass will ask the ticket guy: “I want to see the naked Gerry Butler film. No, I’m not kidding…it’s playing here.”
Well, that’s the intent anyway. I might just be content with the beer and bullshitting.
Happy Friday, Everyone!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Ramblings & a Pop Quiz
129 days until the new Harry Potter book comes out. That's 18 weeks. I'm not keeping tabs on it or anything. Holly mentioned the book again today when she said one of our faculty members will be out of town when it's released so she could read the faculty's copy of the book. She also made me promise to bring my hardbacks in before the Big Day so I could not set fire to them like I promised if Harry does die in the 7th book. She has also made a note to buy duct tape, but right now I'm not feeling the excitement. (I mean not like I am for POTC3). I think I'm gearing up for the worst to happen (as is my nature), so I'll probably be, "Eh" when the day actually arrives. And even if he does die, I probably won't so much as throw a paperwad in irritation. I'll just talk about what a crap book it is...then give all my books to Holly.
The next Ranger book (okay, it's the next Plum book, but I call them the Ranger books) comes out at the end of June. That will also be something to look forward to.
And then there is POTC3. I mean someone has to save Jack...and it can be me, if that's what everyone thinks. I would *love* to save Jack. That's the end of May. May 25th. (Interesting, that was the same day Braveheart was released to theaters in 1995, I think...*looks* No, Braveheart was released May 24th. My mistake.) I'm actually looking more forward to that. (Going to be broke that month too. That 70s Show Season 6 comes out May 8th. God forbid I don't add it to the collection.)
Hellion Quiz: Match the Men Who Said This
1.) Man: "What if we'd gotten married?" Me: "We'd be divorced." Man: (sinful smile) "No, no I don't think we would be."
2) "You're not the kind of woman a man has sex with. You have that vibe...that girl vibe like you'd get pregnant right away."
3) "He's right. You do have a glow about you...it's very sexy."
4) "If you skip class with me, I'll buy you ice cream...you know you want to...any kind you want, so long as you lick it from a cone."
5) Man: "Did you miss me?" Me: "Like a dose of the clap." Man: "Cool! Because we would have had to have sex in order to get that right?"
6) "No offense, but I think your boobs are dead."
7) "You're right. I was using you for sex." (*starts weeping*)
8) "You'd make beautiful babies."
9) "Did you really flash your boobs at this party? Man, I don't go to the right parties."
10) "You're really pretty. My father thinks all the women I date are dog ugly, but really, you're very beautiful."
A. Larry
B. Justin
C. Jack
D. Mike
E. Bryan
F. Mustafa
G. Eric
H. Dennis
I. Billy
J. Mac
Anyone who can get all 10 right--I'll send you one of my books off my bookshelf--I'll surely have something you'll want to read. (If there is more than one winner, the first one who got it right will get the prize.)
The next Ranger book (okay, it's the next Plum book, but I call them the Ranger books) comes out at the end of June. That will also be something to look forward to.
And then there is POTC3. I mean someone has to save Jack...and it can be me, if that's what everyone thinks. I would *love* to save Jack. That's the end of May. May 25th. (Interesting, that was the same day Braveheart was released to theaters in 1995, I think...*looks* No, Braveheart was released May 24th. My mistake.) I'm actually looking more forward to that. (Going to be broke that month too. That 70s Show Season 6 comes out May 8th. God forbid I don't add it to the collection.)
Hellion Quiz: Match the Men Who Said This
1.) Man: "What if we'd gotten married?" Me: "We'd be divorced." Man: (sinful smile) "No, no I don't think we would be."
2) "You're not the kind of woman a man has sex with. You have that vibe...that girl vibe like you'd get pregnant right away."
3) "He's right. You do have a glow about you...it's very sexy."
4) "If you skip class with me, I'll buy you ice cream...you know you want to...any kind you want, so long as you lick it from a cone."
5) Man: "Did you miss me?" Me: "Like a dose of the clap." Man: "Cool! Because we would have had to have sex in order to get that right?"
6) "No offense, but I think your boobs are dead."
7) "You're right. I was using you for sex." (*starts weeping*)
8) "You'd make beautiful babies."
9) "Did you really flash your boobs at this party? Man, I don't go to the right parties."
10) "You're really pretty. My father thinks all the women I date are dog ugly, but really, you're very beautiful."
A. Larry
B. Justin
C. Jack
D. Mike
E. Bryan
F. Mustafa
G. Eric
H. Dennis
I. Billy
J. Mac
Anyone who can get all 10 right--I'll send you one of my books off my bookshelf--I'll surely have something you'll want to read. (If there is more than one winner, the first one who got it right will get the prize.)
Monday, March 12, 2007
The Period Piece
I’m a movie junkie. It’s a flaw, yet at the same time helpful whenever I’m playing a game of Scene It. (Not that anyone wants to play with me.) Over the weekend, when I should have been working on a quilt block (which I made and it totally sucked), I went to see Amazing Grace.
This movie has all the elements of a Hellion movie.
1) It was a period piece. I love period pieces. I have quite a collection of PP movies. Dangerous Beauty; Braveheart; Rob Roy; Elizabeth; Pride & Prejudice (the long and the short versions); Sense & Sensibility (with Alan Rickman and his Voice, “Hello”—which subliminally says “take off your clothes and lie on the couch”); Pearl Harbor; The Notebook; The Patriot (Braveheart in America); Titanic (yes, I own Titanic—the ironies abound); Shakespeare in Love; and undoubtedly eons more.
2) It rips your heart out. I love to start crying at Hollywood manufactured, totally manipulative emotional scenes. I sniffle like I have a bad allergic reaction and my eyes get all teary, and if someone dies I was real partial to (see: Braveheart), I start crying like mad. Not shaking sobs though, but the real painful, silent, devastated crying where you want to curl up in your seat with your blanket and cry, cry, cry.
3) It’s inspirational. After Braveheart, I was little Miss Freedom. And I was almost Anti-England. “No, no, I love Scotland, not…” hiss “England.” Right, whatever. After The Patriot, I was all “England sucks” again—and America rules. And after this one, I sat in my seat going, “I really need a passionate cause because I’m not doing anything great with my life.” Mind you, I have as much desire to become a missionary and assume a missionary position as I do to scrub a toilet. Actually I’d rather scrub the toilet—it wouldn’t last as long and it wouldn’t require me going to a questionable third world country where I might die of dysentery. (Yeah, I know Amazing Grace isn’t about missionaries, but being that there aren’t any more slaves in America or England—I was speaking of a passionate cause that would be available to me.)
4) The lead-guy is so totally hot. (I’m really amazed at myself that I didn’t put this as my first element. I feel like I’m growing as a person.) Ioan Gruffudd (YO-an GRIFF-ith) was a hottie as Horatio Hornblower, and he’s a hottie as a bible-thumping near-preacher-now-politician. Those curls, that romantic brow, those melting dark eyes—hello fellow Welshman!
So what are you favorite kinds of movies, why, and what is possibly your most favorite movie of that genre?
This movie has all the elements of a Hellion movie.
1) It was a period piece. I love period pieces. I have quite a collection of PP movies. Dangerous Beauty; Braveheart; Rob Roy; Elizabeth; Pride & Prejudice (the long and the short versions); Sense & Sensibility (with Alan Rickman and his Voice, “Hello”—which subliminally says “take off your clothes and lie on the couch”); Pearl Harbor; The Notebook; The Patriot (Braveheart in America); Titanic (yes, I own Titanic—the ironies abound); Shakespeare in Love; and undoubtedly eons more.
2) It rips your heart out. I love to start crying at Hollywood manufactured, totally manipulative emotional scenes. I sniffle like I have a bad allergic reaction and my eyes get all teary, and if someone dies I was real partial to (see: Braveheart), I start crying like mad. Not shaking sobs though, but the real painful, silent, devastated crying where you want to curl up in your seat with your blanket and cry, cry, cry.
3) It’s inspirational. After Braveheart, I was little Miss Freedom. And I was almost Anti-England. “No, no, I love Scotland, not…” hiss “England.” Right, whatever. After The Patriot, I was all “England sucks” again—and America rules. And after this one, I sat in my seat going, “I really need a passionate cause because I’m not doing anything great with my life.” Mind you, I have as much desire to become a missionary and assume a missionary position as I do to scrub a toilet. Actually I’d rather scrub the toilet—it wouldn’t last as long and it wouldn’t require me going to a questionable third world country where I might die of dysentery. (Yeah, I know Amazing Grace isn’t about missionaries, but being that there aren’t any more slaves in America or England—I was speaking of a passionate cause that would be available to me.)
4) The lead-guy is so totally hot. (I’m really amazed at myself that I didn’t put this as my first element. I feel like I’m growing as a person.) Ioan Gruffudd (YO-an GRIFF-ith) was a hottie as Horatio Hornblower, and he’s a hottie as a bible-thumping near-preacher-now-politician. Those curls, that romantic brow, those melting dark eyes—hello fellow Welshman!
So what are you favorite kinds of movies, why, and what is possibly your most favorite movie of that genre?
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Hell
I've been thinking about Hell lately. I have this book, you see, I'm writing, have written, am rewriting when I should be working on other manuscripts--but I can't help myself. What can I say? Lucy is a tempting guy.
Elizabeth and Luc get into a philosophic debate about what hell is really like. I'd really like to use this scene, as goofy as it is. (And it is. It's very soap opera-like and angsty, but I still like it. Probably because she has the last word. I love it when my heroines have the last word.)
“Oh, are you going to save me now? Are we getting philosophic?” Lucifer asked, swirling his Miller light as Elizabeth watched him with her knowing eyes. What was it about those eyes? “How’s this for philosophy, Lizzie: 'To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead.'” He took another swig of beer. “You shouldn’t fear to live or love.”
“Oh,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “Is that your problem?”
“Problem? I don’t have a problem. You’re the one who won’t step out of her big brown box and give me a chance.”
She gave another slow smile. “I wasn’t here drinking to fix the problems of my love life. You were. I’m just here to drink beer. You’re the one who wanted to be ‘saved.’ Get philosophic,” she mocked out the last work with each syllable. She leaned across the table and looked him squarely in the eyes. “If you want to be saved, you’re going to have to ask. Just like everyone else.”
She stood, picking up her beer and finishing it off, then clunking the bottle on the table. “It’s been nice, Luc. Call me again any time you want to be broody and discuss philosophy.”
“Sounded like a sermon to me.”
“That wasn’t even the beginning of a sermon, Luc. Sermons make me think of brimstone and fire preachers who are more interested in making you more scared than happy. We should fear hell because the devil is there; because it is evil, everyone will be evil; and you’ll burn forever. But you don’t go to heaven because you’re scared of fire.”
She looked at him intently, her eyes like blue fire. “But I know exactly what hell would be like. It isn’t hot, or cold, or miserable in the human ways. It’s miserable in the soul ways. It’s where everyday you wake up and realize you are separated forever from the one person who loved you most—and you will never see him again. You will never feel his breath on your cheek when he tells you he loves you; you will never know the warmth of his embrace as he wraps you in love.
And the worst thing of all, is that every day you’ll remember it a little less, what it was like to be loved, until you think you just imagined it all. It never existed but in the dreams that wake you to the emptiness. You won’t even be able to recall his face—and that’s when you’ll be the most frightened. Because if you can’t even remember him, what if he can’t remember you either? You exist for no one, until you don’t even remember yourself who you were. Hell is not fire; hell is without love, an eternity without meaning.”
She turned a half-smile at him. “How is that for maudlin drunken philosophy? Or you still thinking I’m here to save you? I have news for you—I’m not. I have no interest in a missionary position.”
What do you think Hell is like? Do you think you'll be there? And if you are, what do you plan on doing when you get there?
Elizabeth and Luc get into a philosophic debate about what hell is really like. I'd really like to use this scene, as goofy as it is. (And it is. It's very soap opera-like and angsty, but I still like it. Probably because she has the last word. I love it when my heroines have the last word.)
“Oh, are you going to save me now? Are we getting philosophic?” Lucifer asked, swirling his Miller light as Elizabeth watched him with her knowing eyes. What was it about those eyes? “How’s this for philosophy, Lizzie: 'To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead.'” He took another swig of beer. “You shouldn’t fear to live or love.”
“Oh,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “Is that your problem?”
“Problem? I don’t have a problem. You’re the one who won’t step out of her big brown box and give me a chance.”
She gave another slow smile. “I wasn’t here drinking to fix the problems of my love life. You were. I’m just here to drink beer. You’re the one who wanted to be ‘saved.’ Get philosophic,” she mocked out the last work with each syllable. She leaned across the table and looked him squarely in the eyes. “If you want to be saved, you’re going to have to ask. Just like everyone else.”
She stood, picking up her beer and finishing it off, then clunking the bottle on the table. “It’s been nice, Luc. Call me again any time you want to be broody and discuss philosophy.”
“Sounded like a sermon to me.”
“That wasn’t even the beginning of a sermon, Luc. Sermons make me think of brimstone and fire preachers who are more interested in making you more scared than happy. We should fear hell because the devil is there; because it is evil, everyone will be evil; and you’ll burn forever. But you don’t go to heaven because you’re scared of fire.”
She looked at him intently, her eyes like blue fire. “But I know exactly what hell would be like. It isn’t hot, or cold, or miserable in the human ways. It’s miserable in the soul ways. It’s where everyday you wake up and realize you are separated forever from the one person who loved you most—and you will never see him again. You will never feel his breath on your cheek when he tells you he loves you; you will never know the warmth of his embrace as he wraps you in love.
And the worst thing of all, is that every day you’ll remember it a little less, what it was like to be loved, until you think you just imagined it all. It never existed but in the dreams that wake you to the emptiness. You won’t even be able to recall his face—and that’s when you’ll be the most frightened. Because if you can’t even remember him, what if he can’t remember you either? You exist for no one, until you don’t even remember yourself who you were. Hell is not fire; hell is without love, an eternity without meaning.”
She turned a half-smile at him. “How is that for maudlin drunken philosophy? Or you still thinking I’m here to save you? I have news for you—I’m not. I have no interest in a missionary position.”
What do you think Hell is like? Do you think you'll be there? And if you are, what do you plan on doing when you get there?
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Fantasy Men
I’m pretty sure I was a couple geek points away from being a D&D girl in high school and college. I have geek points in other areas—total book geek, attend ren faires, and totally freaking lose my mind when I see a man in a kilt (or nearly any costume—Star Trek might be stretching it, but I might play).
My friend Tiff is constantly on some sort of banter about Taboo topics and what gets you hot and yadda, yadda, yadda. And where I’m definitely more run of the mill vanilla with perhaps a strawberry stripe (you know, sweet, but tart) rippling throughout my kink-factor love life (I’m speaking very optimistically by calling it a “life” here), Tiff’s runs along the variety of Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk—it’s dark and it has everything you can imagine and perhaps even more—and definitely goes down better in small doses. The closest thing I come to anything remotely kinky is if we’re playing dress up. I do a lot better at just about anything if I think I’m playing a part. (See: Pisces.) I’m not someone you’d hire, but if I dress the part, I can generally interview my way into at least getting offered the job.
When we go out to bars, I put on my badass Hellion outfits (or at least I used to—now I’m more the comfort seeking variety) and strut in with my heels on and my eyeliner in place. Totally playing a part. It’s one of my many versions of myself. (I sound totally skitzo, don’t I?) What was this topic again? Oh, yes, fantasy men.
Duh. I was discussing with Sin about what would probably happen if I met a guy in a kilt. “He doesn’t even have to have a good accent. He’s got a kilt on—just say hello—and I’m spider-monkeying up him, planting kisses all over him.” *sucking on a piece of chocolate* “Men should be very afraid.” They are, they are. So it got me to thinking, big philosopher that I am, exactly what kind of fantasy men I go for. I thought I’d make a list, as a word of warning to all men, that if you meet one of the following, be prepared to be molested and left with a smile on your face.
1) The Highlander: typically a guy in a kilt, but occasionally, my friend Mac had a death wish and would roll his r’s in my ear and affect this lovely, horribly fake Scottish accent purely for my benefit, because he seemed to enjoy my big grin and suddenly petting nature. So kilt or accent or both—if both, just watch where my lipstick goes….
2) The Pirate/Highwayman: something about a guy with a sword telling me I have to take off my clothes. I do prefer pirates with all their teeth—but it IS my fantasy.
3) The Ranger: he’s a new acquisition to the list. He wears all black, drives the best cars, smells like Heaven, and ruins you for all other men in bed. Hell, yeah.
4) The Rake: smooth-talker, witty banter, and moves every conversation to the bedroom. Lead the way, Mayne, and I will follow.
5) The Cop: Handcuffs. (Hey, Tiff, maybe I do have an untapped kink factor.) “I’m sorry, officer, was I speeding again?”
Hmmm. I need at least two more days so I can rotate this through out the week. I’ll think of something and post later.
Any fantasy men who you’d spider monkey for? Firemen? Professors? Architects? Cowboys?
My friend Tiff is constantly on some sort of banter about Taboo topics and what gets you hot and yadda, yadda, yadda. And where I’m definitely more run of the mill vanilla with perhaps a strawberry stripe (you know, sweet, but tart) rippling throughout my kink-factor love life (I’m speaking very optimistically by calling it a “life” here), Tiff’s runs along the variety of Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk—it’s dark and it has everything you can imagine and perhaps even more—and definitely goes down better in small doses. The closest thing I come to anything remotely kinky is if we’re playing dress up. I do a lot better at just about anything if I think I’m playing a part. (See: Pisces.) I’m not someone you’d hire, but if I dress the part, I can generally interview my way into at least getting offered the job.
When we go out to bars, I put on my badass Hellion outfits (or at least I used to—now I’m more the comfort seeking variety) and strut in with my heels on and my eyeliner in place. Totally playing a part. It’s one of my many versions of myself. (I sound totally skitzo, don’t I?) What was this topic again? Oh, yes, fantasy men.
Duh. I was discussing with Sin about what would probably happen if I met a guy in a kilt. “He doesn’t even have to have a good accent. He’s got a kilt on—just say hello—and I’m spider-monkeying up him, planting kisses all over him.” *sucking on a piece of chocolate* “Men should be very afraid.” They are, they are. So it got me to thinking, big philosopher that I am, exactly what kind of fantasy men I go for. I thought I’d make a list, as a word of warning to all men, that if you meet one of the following, be prepared to be molested and left with a smile on your face.
1) The Highlander: typically a guy in a kilt, but occasionally, my friend Mac had a death wish and would roll his r’s in my ear and affect this lovely, horribly fake Scottish accent purely for my benefit, because he seemed to enjoy my big grin and suddenly petting nature. So kilt or accent or both—if both, just watch where my lipstick goes….
2) The Pirate/Highwayman: something about a guy with a sword telling me I have to take off my clothes. I do prefer pirates with all their teeth—but it IS my fantasy.
3) The Ranger: he’s a new acquisition to the list. He wears all black, drives the best cars, smells like Heaven, and ruins you for all other men in bed. Hell, yeah.
4) The Rake: smooth-talker, witty banter, and moves every conversation to the bedroom. Lead the way, Mayne, and I will follow.
5) The Cop: Handcuffs. (Hey, Tiff, maybe I do have an untapped kink factor.) “I’m sorry, officer, was I speeding again?”
Hmmm. I need at least two more days so I can rotate this through out the week. I’ll think of something and post later.
Any fantasy men who you’d spider monkey for? Firemen? Professors? Architects? Cowboys?
Shoes
I like shoes. I’m an all or nothing shoe gal. I have tennis shoes, flip flops and sandals—and then I have kitten heels and CFM pumps. I have one pair of flats but they look like Catholic Girl shoes—so even then, they serve a purpose. I’m always on the lookout for new shoes.
Yesterday I was playing catch up from my Friday Freeday, and this gentleman comes in. We’ll call him Joe. He wants in the program to finish his masters, which by the way he already thinks he was in. In fact, we’ve already had a couple discussions by phone and he’s come to my office to fill out paperwork. I hand him a packet, he proceeds to fill it out at my desk. I start a folder.
“Okay, Joe,” I say. “Now let me explain what your chances are for getting your program finished this semester.”
“They’re good, right?” He’s got a big shit-eating grin on his face.
“Right. Okay, hurdle number one. You have completed 24 hours. You can only bring in 12 hours of non-degree graduate credit….”
“But I didn’t realize I was non-degree. See, it says Grad over here on my transcripts…”
“That’s nice, Joe, but you’re still non-degree. See, next to the grad, it says NON-DEGREE. Okay. Now, this is bad because although all those hours are graduate level, right now, 12 hours are going to be classified as personal enrichment.”
“Yeah, that’s not what I was shooting for.”
“It never is, Joe. So we have to get you backdated.”
“So it can be done?”
“That’s only hurdle one, Joe. Stay with me. You also have to fill out a program of study….”
“Give it to me. I’ll do it now.”
“Yes, but you can’t really fill out the form until you’re in the program. Do you see my catch 22, here? Great.” Gets program form and hands it to him anyway. Might as well. “Fill it out anyway and we’ll proceed. Now the drop-dead date…”
“Drop dead date?”
“Yes, the last date you can turn in a program or you can drop dead—that’s in like two days. And you haven’t taken the graduate exam yet—so right now I have to talk with Dr. Sparrow to see if he’ll let you be conditionally admitted. If so, if all this goes right, you’re looking at a ½ of 1% likelihood of graduating this semester.”
“So there’s a chance? Awesome.” Mr. Optimism smiles. I just start laughing. I like this guy. What can I say?
I shake my head. “You are the one Dr. Sparrow warned me about. He said you’d be a problem. Well, you know what, you’re buying me shoes.” Don’t you like my leaps of logic?
“I’ll buy you whatever you want if you get me in this program. It’ll be worth it.”
“Good, because you’re buying me shoes. You might even be buying me some dinner because shopping is so exhausting.”
“I’ll buy you dinner. Everett’s okay?” Everett’s is one of the most expensive places in town. How nice.
“Of course, Everett’s is.”
“Longhorn has better steak,” he says.
“Yes, yes, it does, and it’s a bit cheaper…no…wait…”
He grins. “Longhorn can get pricey.”
“It can. Actually if we’re doing steak, I vote for G&D, no frills, great steak, and it’s right next to Shoe Carnival. Let me talk with the Grad School, and I’ll emphasize how important it is I get my shoes.” I do, and the Hellion over there laughs at me and says, we can probably do it, if you have the program turned in, etc. Hmmm. He must have worked some magic on her too. Actually I also promised her that he was willing to buy her shoes as well. She said she wore an 8 ½ or a 9, and she preferred a nice heel. I said, “I love heels myself. I think that will be the way to go.” I get off the phone. “Okay, Joe, we’re willing to work for shoes. Where’s my statement.”
“What statement?”
“This one.” I point to a question on the form. “You were supposed to write me a statement. I don’t even care what it says. It’s not going to matter. You have a 4.0 in everything anyway; we know you can write, which is why they make you write the statement to begin with…just write something down so I can mark it off my list.”
He laughs again. “You’re so funny.”
“Of course, I am. I’m in a good mood because I’m getting new shoes.” So he fills out his statement, his program, and around 5 pm, he trots back in my office because he can’t get the online website I sent him to to work. I sit him at my desk, pull up the site, and have him fill out the other form he needs. I sit at my desk, prop up my feet, and read my Ranger book. Joe finds this the height of amusing.
Dr. Sparrow came in this morning and laughs at me. “Joe is the ultimate procrastinator.”
“Yes, but he’s buying me shoes.” Four inch FMPs if I have anything to say about it. And I have a good idea who I’d first strut them off for too…and it won’t be Joe. Or Booty Call in Ohio. Or even Southern Boy.
So are you a shoe slut too? What are your favorite pair of shoes and why? My faves are a pair of 4 ½ inch red strappy heels. Total badass, total hellion shoes. (I need to find a skirt to wear with them. That’s my other mission in life is to find a skirt that will go with these shoes. And boy, when I do….)
Yesterday I was playing catch up from my Friday Freeday, and this gentleman comes in. We’ll call him Joe. He wants in the program to finish his masters, which by the way he already thinks he was in. In fact, we’ve already had a couple discussions by phone and he’s come to my office to fill out paperwork. I hand him a packet, he proceeds to fill it out at my desk. I start a folder.
“Okay, Joe,” I say. “Now let me explain what your chances are for getting your program finished this semester.”
“They’re good, right?” He’s got a big shit-eating grin on his face.
“Right. Okay, hurdle number one. You have completed 24 hours. You can only bring in 12 hours of non-degree graduate credit….”
“But I didn’t realize I was non-degree. See, it says Grad over here on my transcripts…”
“That’s nice, Joe, but you’re still non-degree. See, next to the grad, it says NON-DEGREE. Okay. Now, this is bad because although all those hours are graduate level, right now, 12 hours are going to be classified as personal enrichment.”
“Yeah, that’s not what I was shooting for.”
“It never is, Joe. So we have to get you backdated.”
“So it can be done?”
“That’s only hurdle one, Joe. Stay with me. You also have to fill out a program of study….”
“Give it to me. I’ll do it now.”
“Yes, but you can’t really fill out the form until you’re in the program. Do you see my catch 22, here? Great.” Gets program form and hands it to him anyway. Might as well. “Fill it out anyway and we’ll proceed. Now the drop-dead date…”
“Drop dead date?”
“Yes, the last date you can turn in a program or you can drop dead—that’s in like two days. And you haven’t taken the graduate exam yet—so right now I have to talk with Dr. Sparrow to see if he’ll let you be conditionally admitted. If so, if all this goes right, you’re looking at a ½ of 1% likelihood of graduating this semester.”
“So there’s a chance? Awesome.” Mr. Optimism smiles. I just start laughing. I like this guy. What can I say?
I shake my head. “You are the one Dr. Sparrow warned me about. He said you’d be a problem. Well, you know what, you’re buying me shoes.” Don’t you like my leaps of logic?
“I’ll buy you whatever you want if you get me in this program. It’ll be worth it.”
“Good, because you’re buying me shoes. You might even be buying me some dinner because shopping is so exhausting.”
“I’ll buy you dinner. Everett’s okay?” Everett’s is one of the most expensive places in town. How nice.
“Of course, Everett’s is.”
“Longhorn has better steak,” he says.
“Yes, yes, it does, and it’s a bit cheaper…no…wait…”
He grins. “Longhorn can get pricey.”
“It can. Actually if we’re doing steak, I vote for G&D, no frills, great steak, and it’s right next to Shoe Carnival. Let me talk with the Grad School, and I’ll emphasize how important it is I get my shoes.” I do, and the Hellion over there laughs at me and says, we can probably do it, if you have the program turned in, etc. Hmmm. He must have worked some magic on her too. Actually I also promised her that he was willing to buy her shoes as well. She said she wore an 8 ½ or a 9, and she preferred a nice heel. I said, “I love heels myself. I think that will be the way to go.” I get off the phone. “Okay, Joe, we’re willing to work for shoes. Where’s my statement.”
“What statement?”
“This one.” I point to a question on the form. “You were supposed to write me a statement. I don’t even care what it says. It’s not going to matter. You have a 4.0 in everything anyway; we know you can write, which is why they make you write the statement to begin with…just write something down so I can mark it off my list.”
He laughs again. “You’re so funny.”
“Of course, I am. I’m in a good mood because I’m getting new shoes.” So he fills out his statement, his program, and around 5 pm, he trots back in my office because he can’t get the online website I sent him to to work. I sit him at my desk, pull up the site, and have him fill out the other form he needs. I sit at my desk, prop up my feet, and read my Ranger book. Joe finds this the height of amusing.
Dr. Sparrow came in this morning and laughs at me. “Joe is the ultimate procrastinator.”
“Yes, but he’s buying me shoes.” Four inch FMPs if I have anything to say about it. And I have a good idea who I’d first strut them off for too…and it won’t be Joe. Or Booty Call in Ohio. Or even Southern Boy.
So are you a shoe slut too? What are your favorite pair of shoes and why? My faves are a pair of 4 ½ inch red strappy heels. Total badass, total hellion shoes. (I need to find a skirt to wear with them. That’s my other mission in life is to find a skirt that will go with these shoes. And boy, when I do….)
Monday, March 05, 2007
Nicknames
I’m not wild about nicknames myself. This may be an odd statement to reveal about myself, since most people only know me as “Hellion” or “Wench”, but there you go. Mainly because my real name is so horrendous that childhood nicknames should have been labeled as child abuse. (Seriously, children are the worst bullies. Some sort of evolutionary “you are the weakest link, goodbye” thing going on in their little lizard brains.)
My real name can be shortened to have an “ie” tacked on; however, being that many people in high school tried this stunt, and then rhymed it with “wannie” or “mannie” or whatever their rhyming dictionary offered them—I abhorred that name. To this day, there are times I can hear one of the female jocks screeching my “ie” nickname in this obnoxious way (which she considered affectionate) and I just shudder. I rarely allow anyone to call me by my “ie” nickname—and one of the two qualifiers have to be in place for you to be allowed to do so.
First qualifier: we can’t have gone to grade or high school together. Period. Even though I graduated a thousand years ago, it does not matter. If we went to school together, you’re never allowed to call me by that name. Of course, I doubt I’ll allow you to address me at all…because I pretty much can’t stand anyone I graduated with. But don’t worry, it’s a fair prejudice. I loathe them all equally. There is no reason for us to ever speak to each other again. Ever.
Second qualifier: I have to feel you like me. If I think it’s being used as a term of affection, I’ll let you call me pretty much anything you like. “Aww, my little rum-runner, how are you this morning….” My little skunk-kitten…whatever. So I let a few women use the “ie” name first, mainly because they didn’t do that obnoxious pronunciation of it. I’ve admittedly let some men call me my “ie” nickname. Mainly they met the first qualifier, but usually when they say it, they usually give me their reckless, I-know-you-love-me grins, and I probably do, so I let it go. I’m a sucker for men and their flirty ways. Men are my kryptonite. Bastards.
I got to college and I shortened my name to exclude the “ie” portion. And after a time of being mouthy, sarcastic, and a wee bit cheeky, I decided Wench was a good description…and then Hellion. [---] the Hellion was my nickname. It was my email too…but after a while, being we all knew I hated my first name, I just became Hellion. It makes a good anonymous persona, and I was able to adapt this totally badass personality to go with it. Instead of being a witty introvert with a keyboard, I could give off the vibe of being a tall red-headed, black-leather-wearing hell-cat a-la Lara Croft, but in reality, I’m more of a frumpier version of either Meg Ryan or Drew Barrymore, neither of which you’d send out back to beat up so much as chipmunk. (I do have a deadly glare though.)
What’s your favorite nickname for yourself and why? What’s the nickname you won’t allow anyone to call you?
My real name can be shortened to have an “ie” tacked on; however, being that many people in high school tried this stunt, and then rhymed it with “wannie” or “mannie” or whatever their rhyming dictionary offered them—I abhorred that name. To this day, there are times I can hear one of the female jocks screeching my “ie” nickname in this obnoxious way (which she considered affectionate) and I just shudder. I rarely allow anyone to call me by my “ie” nickname—and one of the two qualifiers have to be in place for you to be allowed to do so.
First qualifier: we can’t have gone to grade or high school together. Period. Even though I graduated a thousand years ago, it does not matter. If we went to school together, you’re never allowed to call me by that name. Of course, I doubt I’ll allow you to address me at all…because I pretty much can’t stand anyone I graduated with. But don’t worry, it’s a fair prejudice. I loathe them all equally. There is no reason for us to ever speak to each other again. Ever.
Second qualifier: I have to feel you like me. If I think it’s being used as a term of affection, I’ll let you call me pretty much anything you like. “Aww, my little rum-runner, how are you this morning….” My little skunk-kitten…whatever. So I let a few women use the “ie” name first, mainly because they didn’t do that obnoxious pronunciation of it. I’ve admittedly let some men call me my “ie” nickname. Mainly they met the first qualifier, but usually when they say it, they usually give me their reckless, I-know-you-love-me grins, and I probably do, so I let it go. I’m a sucker for men and their flirty ways. Men are my kryptonite. Bastards.
I got to college and I shortened my name to exclude the “ie” portion. And after a time of being mouthy, sarcastic, and a wee bit cheeky, I decided Wench was a good description…and then Hellion. [---] the Hellion was my nickname. It was my email too…but after a while, being we all knew I hated my first name, I just became Hellion. It makes a good anonymous persona, and I was able to adapt this totally badass personality to go with it. Instead of being a witty introvert with a keyboard, I could give off the vibe of being a tall red-headed, black-leather-wearing hell-cat a-la Lara Croft, but in reality, I’m more of a frumpier version of either Meg Ryan or Drew Barrymore, neither of which you’d send out back to beat up so much as chipmunk. (I do have a deadly glare though.)
What’s your favorite nickname for yourself and why? What’s the nickname you won’t allow anyone to call you?
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