Literary memes are pretty irresistable to me, folks. If you’re even vaguely interested, read on. If not, the next post is just right down the page there… There you go… Keep scrolling… (more…)
Archive for August, 2007
Tonight I have decided to make a list. I enjoy list-making. It helps you center your priorities and focus on things which might otherwise slip away into some lonely non-list-having realm. I should also mention that I am quite drunk. Henceforth, some of what I may type may or may not make sense. That’s a lot of “may” sounds in one sentence. But regardless of how much sense I may or may not make, you can rest assured of one thing: my spelling and punctuation shall be impeccable!
Things I Have Done Of Which I Should Rightly Be Ashamed:
- Broke up with my college boyfriend of two years with a letter. A letter delivered by post, not by hand. On Valentine’s Day. I didn’t realize it was Valentine’s Day until I received a box by post containing a card, chocolates, flowers and my favorite movie. Suffice it to say that my Valentine’s Day present that year was far better than his.
- Stole a care package from a classmate’s locker in fourth grade. It contained a bandanna, some Blow Pops, some sparkly stickers and a bottle of bubbles. I have no idea to this day why I felt the need to steal that shit.
- Ate an entire super-mega-jumbo-sized tin of gingersnaps in one sitting; blamed it on my parents’ Doberman.
- Sideswiped a parked car when I was sixteen and still naive in the ways of pulling into tight parking spaces. I got out of my car, surveyed the damage, assessed that there was none to my car and promptly sped away.
- Got a puppy from a shelter with my college roommate. The puppy grew up into an exceedingly stupid dog that neither of us wanted anymore. Gave the dog to a rancher some time in between my sophomore and junior years, hoping that would be a better home for her.
- Applied for and received a credit card when I was 18 and immediately inflicted $5,000 worth of damage with it. Having no means whatsoever of paying my credit card bills, went crying to my grandparents who paid it off for me. But I also didn’t get any Christmas or birthday presents that year.
- Told my newly-minted stepmother (she and my father had just gotten married a few weeks before) that the only reason I was tolerating her presence was because I expected her to be my maid. The actual quote was “Let’s get one thing straight: you’re only here to clean up after me; I don’t want to hear anything else out of you otherwise.” I was nine years old.
- Stole my parents’ car on twelve separate occasions when I was fifteen years old to go joy-riding around town with my friends.
- Faked a fainting spell in church to get out of having to sit through the entire service.
- Every time my mother found a pack of cigarettes in my purse (back when I was still a smoker), I blamed it on my friend Sarah leaving them there.
There are many more, believe me. But I think ten is enough for one night.
A few things I’ve been meaning to put down before they get rudely shoved aside in my mind by intrusive thoughts of the butterscotch milkshake I’m craving or dress fitting appointments or JDE invoicing or whatever else might randomly slip in:
Random Compliments That I’ve Received Lately and To Which I Have Not Known How To Respond:
- “You look like a young Bette Midler” (holy crap — what???)
- “You have the nicest skin! I’m looking at it so closely and I can’t see any pores at all!” (while I certainly appreciate the sentiment, get.away.from.my.face — we’re at a business dinner, psycho)
- “You’ve got great boobs.” (from a chick, no less)
- “You’ve got great taste in food.” (okay, well…yes, I do — thank you)
I blame Pancho for this one:
You’re Ulysses! by James Joyce
Most people are convinced that you don’t make any sense, but compared to what else you could say, what you’re saying now makes tons of sense. What people do understand about you is your vulgarity, which has convinced people that you are at once brilliant and repugnant. Meanwhile you are content to wander around aimlessly, taking in the sights and sounds of the city. What you see is vast, almost limitless, and brings you additional fame. When no one is looking, you dream of being a Greek folk hero.
Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.
I never much cared for James Joyce or Ulysses, even though I catch myself unintentionally mimicking his stream-of-consciousness style at times. But you know what? I also catch myself writing about the inanities of everyday life and that doesn’t mean I like Erma Bombeck. Stupid quiz.
At least it captured my brilliant yet repugnant vulgarity.
Ed. Note: I meant to post this on Monday, but I was either really busy or really drunk or really lazy…take your pick.
There was a fierce tranny in my local Starbucks this morning. She looked like a young Amanda Lepore, complete with huge red lips, long blonde hair and kicky stilettos. I’m not quite sure what she was doing in a Starbucks in Memorial at eight o’clock in the morning, all kitted out in her finest denim jumpsuit and bouffant Traci-Lords-in-“Cry-Baby”-hair — actually, I’m not quite sure I want to know — but I loved her for it. The yuppies were carefully maintaining their distance from her, which was difficult because she was lounging languidly up against the main counter, batting her eyelashes at all the men in their houndstooth trousers as they approached for their venti lattes. The yuppies were either glaring at her with disapproval — “A transexual? In MY coffee shop?!? Well, I never!” — and trying to avoid eye contact completely. Watching them squirm with uneasiness while watching her revel in their obvious discomfort was probably the high point of my day. I wanted to give her a hug and thank her for bringing such joy to a Monday morning, but that seemed inappropriate somehow. So…thanks, mysterious tranny, whoever you are. (more…)
I spent eight hours today at an HR compliance seminar — sounds like a doozy, right? But this was the most bizzarre, completely awesome HR seminar I’ve ever been to (and, sadly, I’ve been to many). It began innocuously enough: a hotel meeting room with a name like “Sierra” or “Diamond” or “Martinique” or some other stripper-esque nomenclature, roughly 90 middle-aged women in their finest Chico’s and Talbot’s ensembles and a tired buffet of rock-hard croissants and lukewarm coffee. I grabbed a spot in the back corner of the room, hoping to do some covert reading and avoid any thrilling conversations (Oh, wow! We use Mercer as our TPA, too! Aren’t their out-of-scope fees outrageous? I know, I know — but their call center is local — no damn Indians — and that’s all you can ask for these days, right? Hahahahaha!).
The murmurs from the various HR ladies died down as a man entered the room — which is unusual in and of itself, since HR as a business unit is so heavily pink-collar — and shuffled to the front, taking a seat on a barstool and facing the audience. He looked somewhat haggard, with tired eyes and a slightly humped back. His shirt was unbuttoned one button too far, revealing the pasty, hairless chest beneath. His hair was ruffled carelessly. He eyed us all wearily. (more…)