Airborne Express 'dude' called me 'guy' today while making a delivery, and that wasn't even the start of today's bad mood.
All week I have been most concerned with keeping my windshield and rear window de-iced, but stopping at the gas station on my way to work to refuel, I learned I had a much more serious and painstakingly time-consuming problem. My gas cap door (is that even what it's called?) wouldn't pop open. Why you ask? Because the white 1/4" of ice enveloping the rear end of my car was keeping the black door down. And for some reason I could not for the life of me find my ice scraper. Which meant I had to resort to a CD jewel case. The problem is the ice was too thick for the modest plastic and I shattered three cases before I had chipped enough away to finally gas and go. In the process I left numerous scratches on the side of my car as well as somehow cut up two of my knuckles. Today's high temperature by the way---9 degrees.
Please keep this story in mind the next time Tony or Muscle is whining about sub-60 degree temperatures.
More importantly while Omari Gets Served, or Does the Serving, in theatres tonight in his first 'meaningful' work since the B2K split---Atomic Kitten is apparently no more either.
Since I live in the States, I have absolutely no idea if these two lovely birds and one whos only half as lovely, have any talent or are simply a Spice Girl trio wannabe, but I will say this... Daddy likey the brunette. Me-ow!!!
Have you ever woken up to something so scary and indescribable that you immediately prayed to your maker for invisibility or lightspeed to allow for a speedy and undetected exit?
We're not talking about 'giving back' or 'slump-busting' experiences involving a temporary lessening of standards so that a big, toothless and/or ugly girl could have a moment of bliss. We're talking about a "Oh-dear-god-what-was-I-thinking-and-how-in-the-name-of-all-that-is-holy-can-I-fix-it-and-erase-it-from-my-memory" moment of shear and utter horror?
For me, ninja/jedi-esque escape patterns begin the second she dozes off, still with a satisfied smile on her face of course. That's because nothing good can ever come from sticking around. Once you came, saw, conquered (though not always in that order), the gig is up. The love of your life (see: the one) isn't going to be that easy, and you'll actually be as interested in minor details like her last name and marital status (and when her significant other gets back in town), before you actually verify that her carpet matches the drapes. I'm talking interior decorating people, get your minds out da gutter!
Seriously, the only thing that awaits you during the morning after, is something that doesn't look half as good as it did in the bar's poor lighting right around last call (no telling how many hours or paid professionals she employed prior to leaving the house), and don't even get me started on the breath. Forget the morning wood, because that's not going to get any better during an awkward-remember-me session, trust me. What you vaguely remember through your blurry vision (having kept your contacts in all night) and pounding head (damn you mojitos!) was in fact as good as it gets.
If you're still living with mom and dad, or have just been lucky enough to avoid such a dilemma, then pay close attention. The key is not unlike any Nightmare on Elm Street scene, Don't Fall Asleep. Freddie Krueger's got nothing on this girl's bedhead and pre-shower/makeover session. Though the first key to your success, staying awake is not the only one. Some other things you're going to need to consider BEFORE the deed is done:
-Don't bring her back to your place (she'll know where you live and she may still be there when you get back)
-Don't let her set a security alarm, and if she does pay attention to the code she inputs
-Cell phone (check), cab money (check)
You may think that you were sly and no one saw you leave, or who you left with. But you can never be too sure. So you've got to come up with a damn good reason you were AWOL for a post-midnight 4-hour time gap. Never ever admit that you left with anyone. It wasn't you, or yes it was you, but it must have only looked like you weren't leaving alone. Some early morning explanations you can utilize; car trouble, temporary incarceration, blackout, amnesia, dead cell phone battery, out of town, doppleganger/evil twin.
Notice that nowhere herein were you ever judged for what you did. Big uglies need love too. In fact, sometimes they even appreciate more. Beggars can't be choosers----whatever your case me be, it's cool. But that doesn't mean everyone is as understanding as your ol' pal 3rd Leg.
That said, have yourselves a happy, guilt-free hump-day!
My bad: 2 days in a row, 2 pics of slightly unattractive males (sorry Mr. Esmeralda, but I speak the truth). It's not everyday that we engage in healthy political discourse here, and today is really no different. There are any number of politically minded blogs for your consideration, and while most of them may be heavy on the Bush-hating rhetoric, I am much more interested in just about any other topic, especially those that include a perky set of B-cups. But, that doesn't mean I'm entirely unaware of important happenings, even some that don't involve a nice pair of "perkys" for example.
In case you missed it, yesterday in New Hampshire, former SNL writer and current liberal troublemaker Al Franken, bodyslammed (that's right I said bodyslammed) a Dean dissenter during a Dean for President rally. A couple of problems. One, how does anyone get "body-slammed" by the bespectacled Mr. Franken? Two, Mr. Franken's motivation and defense of his actions.
"I'm neutral in this race, but I'm for freedom of speech, which means people should be able to assemble and speak without being shouted down." Hmmmm, interesting (see: selective) definition of 'freedom of speech.' As in people should be able to assemble, speak without being shouted down, though risk physical assault if they're a card-carrying Republican.
Actually that may not be entirely the case when you review problem three, the heckler was a a supporter of Lyndon Larouche. Lyndon La-who? Maybe this dude did deserve a good beating after all. But come on, what kind of world do we live in when being a mouthy 'friend' of Lyndon Larouche means getting your ass publicly kicked by Al Franken?
The fun-loving, ladies' man to your left has sold over 25 million records, so I don't want to hear anybody laughing.
I'm digging the natural friction of VH 1's Bands Reunited, but couldn't they have come up with some better groups to profile, aggravate, and lampoon? I understand the premise of the show calls for some level of one-hit-wonderness, but I'm an 80's music lovin' fool who has never in my life heard of Romeo Void. How 'bout some Level 42, or Men at Work? Something with a little more mass appeal, knuwhattimean?
Hate to say it, but I'm down for even more love for Miss Scarlett (Johannson) after her 'healthy' Golden Globes' appearance. And I'll need someone to clarify, but I'm assuming Angels in America is pretty much the shit? I was already on The Office tip. But, you know how I do. And I knew that Nicole Kidman wasn't the curviest of girls, but damn where did it all go? One question I already have the answer to, Kevin Costner is the luckiest man alive. With Ashton Kutcher running a very close second.
Finally, I've come to a realization. I pretty much despise anyone who in an over-friendly, out of touch manner attempts to befriend me with any number of generic 'nicknames.' Buddy, pal, chief, guy, friend, geee, partner, captain, skipper, and kiddo, are all equally ill-received. But upon picking up a carry-out order today (chilli in a breadbowl if you must know) I've found one that I don't mind. Big man. As in, "Here you go, big man!" Well played, dogg, well played.