I'll take it

Woo Hoo!!! I'm, once again, anonymously famous! I got quoted in the Gawker Stalker! About halfway is the documentation of my encounter with Chris Parnell in the Mac store last Sunday. It almost makes having to drop $60 for a new ipod worth it.

This is by far my 2nd most visited site (after Myspace) on the internets. So that I've been completely randomly non-quoted (my name isn't even there) on the site kind of makes my Tuesday.

Also (on a completely random note) this woman just called who was so obviously from Boston. I have never heard the Boston "A" on the phone, from a middle-age sounding woman, during the word "regarding." Astounding.

the question of my life

So. I've been watching the Project Runway marathon for quite possibly the fourth Saturday in a row and can someone tell me...Is Daniel V. gay? I mean I can totally get it if he is. But is he? Because he's adorable and talented. And a straight male fashion designer. Guh! Amazing. I mean, I live in NYC and he'll be at Fashion week so I'd work my charm as long as I know it's not in vain.

Oh man, if we got married, I'd totally want Tim Gunn to officiate our wedding. How amazing would that be?

My lack of .02

So I found out today that baring any unforseen circumstances I am graduating from college on June 1, 2006 (yea, I know, it's later than yours but its also at Radio City Music Hall, so shove it). This is pretty awesome news. Before today graduation was this tangible thing that I knew was going to happen but didn't really think to hard about, kind of like the Amazing Race premeire or the next ice age.

So I sat down and did my graduation audit and was fairly happy at what I had achieved until I looked at my credits for my major. When I was picking classes for this semester I found out that I could get an Honors in English degree if I took this one particular class, which sounded like a good plan. Then I found out that I have to have a 3.5 in my major, which sounded totally cool. I had had some problems but overall I felt I did pretty great in my English classes. Then I figured out my GPA. 3.48. Seriously. I have a 3.4-fucking-8. I am less than a tenth of a point away from being able to get an honors degree and I am livid. I'm trying to calm down, because I have a whole semester to work this out and its good that I caught it now. I noticed that the one grade that stuck out was my B in Fiction 1. My professor at the beginning stressed her un-belief in the whole "grades" thing which to me means you should go ahead and give everyone who does the work at least a B+ or an A- because, why fuck up someone's life over your own personal "beliefs"

I sent my professor a very calm and understaded e-mail asking for her reasoning behind my grade and now I'm just waiting for a response because seriously, if that B were to magically become a B+?! I would be in the clear. And really, the fact that I came to all the classes and did all the work and participated and all that shit should really make the "+" unless its because I didn't cry in our little conference. Which means I'm just going to have to kill her.

1 hour 39 minutes

...Is aparently how long I can go at work without coffee on a Hangover Wednesday before my brain starts to drip out my ears and I forget what that ringing sound means.

Also, Drunk Tuesday always seems like a better idea before Hangover Wednesday. And once again it wouldn't hurt if someone would remind me that Pabst Blue Ribbon tastes like goat pee before I purchase it at the improv show.

crazy people make the day go faster

So I'm working for this company that has a pretty wicked British influence. You could actually probably definatly call it a British company...that broadcasts things. So I sit here at the front desk and take advantage of the free internet and hot chocolate and try not to fall asleep between 9 and 5:30. Its not very exciting mostly because there isn't any production done here, it's just all the boring businessy crap (although its a nice office and the people are grand and like I said-- free hot chocolate and bagels on friday!) so I'm really forced to make my own fun.

Thankfully the fun was made for me this afternoon. A girl of about fourteen and an older woman who I'm going to assume was her mother walk into the office which was already weird because I bring the average age down about 4 years so anyone younger than me is a fairly rare sight. The girl breaks into this obviously rehearsed speech about how she missed auditions for Luna Lovegood (for Harry Potter, to all of those living under some sort of rock formation) because they were in London and she was here rescuing kittens or something and so would she be able to go ahead and audition here for me, right now at this very moment (I maybe paraphrasing but this was the general message). I try to not look at her like she rides the short bus and tell her that contrary to popular belief, not everything that has to do with the British also has to do with Harry Potter and so no, I was a complete vaccuum of information regarding Harry Potter auditions.

She kind of got sad but didn't fight, which is where her mother stepped in to inform me that "No, I was wrong, I did have information and no matter how many times I said I didn't have information I actually did because she has an accent which automatically makes her a mind reader." After repeatedly telling the woman that seriously? we had nothing to do with effin' Harry Potter and maybe she should try some one who, I don't know, does? I gave up and gave her the number for the London office so she could bother their receptionist for 39 cents a minute.

Also, the embarrasing Harry Potter freak inside of me wanted to shout, "Hello! You aren't British! Nice try Princess America!"

arthritis is a killer

I guess the old adage saying, 'you have the most fun when you least expect it' is true (Is that an old adage? It's very possible I just made it up). On Friday night I was mere moments from calling it a night at the dark hour of 8:30 pm after an exhausting day of ballet class, pretending that I like ex-bosses, baby-sitting melt downs and the evil glares of old ladies on the bus. Then, standing at the entrance of the subway I called B one last time. And for the first time all day, she answered (it's not that she has poor cell phone manners, like some people I know, its that she was working as a nurse and contrary to everything I've ever seen on ER you aren't allowed to whip the cell out in the middle of a code).

Anyway, dressed like a 12 year old with no make up on and pony-tail hair, I had quite the night. I'll spare you most details. Needless to say, I was v. drunk thanks to Bethany not liking her Texas-sized margarita and my parents raising me not to waste anything, particularly when it's made with alcohol. At one point I was surrounded by five guys while I danced to my theme song (I Wanna Dance with Somebody by Whitney Houston, no judging) and while that isn't on my list of things I want to do in 1001 days I feel like it should have been because it was pretty awesome and life affirming. Then at the end of the night (and by the end I mean when the kicked us out when the bar closed at 4 am--seriously) we're walking out and a tallish guy stops me to read my shirt. He laughs as it says "Let me be your sugar baby," which is cute and clever, just like me. Here is a paraphrase of the rest of our conversation.
Him: Oh man, if only you were five inches taller
Me: Uh what?
Him: I'm a physical therapist
Me: Uh what?
Him: I'm a physical therapist, having to bend down and kiss you all the time would hurt my back.
Me: Uh what?

...Then I walked out not quite understanding what had just happened. If there is one part of my body I'm NOT self concious about it WAS my height as I've always thought the pocket-sized thing kind of went with my personality. And if he was just trying to be polite and brush me off, which was also weird because I was obviously walking out, it didn't require a conversation, just a glance at the shirt and a laugh and everyone is on their way. However, he did give me the best story of the weekend which is more than I can say for the many boys I "danced" with that evening. Lads of NYC, I think we need to stop with the BET and just embrace the fact we shouldn't hang out on the dance floor.

three things

According to this opinion piece in The Washington Post (or as I love to call it, The WaPo) A new Wal Mart opens every three days in The United States. Doesn't that make you feel dirty? Like, need to take a three day shower, dirty?

And because we all need a good laugh all the time (especially when we feel so effin' dirty) Hissyfit linked This Gem. It's miraculous.

Also, Hi IMDB, I called this (half way down, regarding Stuart Little's parentals being showered with Golden Globes) three days ago. Pick up the pace, homeslice.

I'm slow

I *just* realized that Geena Davis's Commander in Chief and Hugh Laurie's House are on at the same time now. Look at Stuart Little's parents competing for ratings. It's nice to see them both doing so well after that pile of stinky M. J. Fox poo.

And they just both won Golden Globes. Nice job guys.

A Change of the Guards

At some point during the deep dark hours of Sunday morning amid the PBR and Hookah smoke Teeny Sasquatch Fuglord III (aka Christine) was given complete control of my love life for an unspecified amount of time. It would be almost impossible for her to do a worse job that the other people who have been in charge in the past 21 years. And she's already proven (on a very cold, drunk on 40s, textmessage-tastic December night) that she gets results.

It's in her hands now, the fetus of mess that we call my love life.

shut up pigtails.

Have you ever seen that Pedia Sure commercial where the Mother is grocery shopping with the daughter in the grocery store and the mother is picking up normal food (broccli, chicken and waffles for those of you keeping score) and after everything the daughter says in, pants down the most obnoxious child voice ev-eh, "I don't think I like [insert food here]"

If I ever annoyed my mom like that in the grocery she would have left me there.

Also, who doesn't like waffles. Stupid little picky girl who is going to grow up miserable and spoiled.

Vat-sized Heaven

I'm back in New York finally. I missed it while I was down South but now that I'm here, the thought I keep having is, "Oh man, now I have to buy/do/make my own toilet paper/laundry/food." V. depressing after 3 weeks at home which (I realized today) is the longest I've spent in Middletown since I left for college almost 4 years ago. Crazy, I know. But I did get a miraculous send off. Mom needed tires so she decided to join CostCo, also known as the special people club. Here's the thing about me and most things involved with suburban living, including bulk shopping: I am so increadibly intrigued by this alternate form of living I become giddy like a three year old with an inch worm. We got our fancy membership cards with our increadibly horrendous pictures on them and my mom turned me lose in the store. People who don't live in suburbia may not understand the idea of Costco. In Costco it is virtually impossible to buy one of anything. They live the idea of, "why buy one when you can buy six or seven hundred bags of chex mix/bic pens/pounds of tomatos?" Can I tell you? I did a dance. No joke. I was so excited by the fact that I bought a double-sized box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch for the price of a regular sized box in New York City that I danced up and down the aisle until my Mom threatened to take me home with out my cereal and my 16 Dole Cups of Mixed Fruit. And as if it couldn't get any better, if I hadn't already been embarrassing my family name enough, they had exactly ONE copy of The Third Season of West Wing for cheaper than Amazon was going to ship it to my post office box in three to four days. Cheaper + Instant Gratification= Tru Luv 4Eva with this kid.

Sadly, Brooklyn does not appear to believe in the magic of bulk buying but aparently Queens does (I knew there had to be something redeeming about that particular borough), so Roommate and I have planned a journey out in a quest for a 5 pound tub of cookie dough and 86 fun sized bags of Combos for when we're having a bad night.

auld lang might-just-suck

So far in 2006 I have:
When given vast stretches of free time, been completely unproductive
Over eatten out of boredom and the alive and well fat kid inside of me
Watched absurd amounts of television
Spent money I don't have on things I don't need
Done nothing to get closer to where I want to be a year from now.

...2006 is looking curiously similar to 2005.

I hate the idea of a new beginning on New Year's. It is entirely too much pressure for one twenty-four hour period. The idea that you're going to let a night of drunken shennanigans determine how the rest of your year goes doesn't seem quite so brilliant when stone-cold sober (as I am for about the 3rd time all break-- I told you there was nothing to do here). 2004 and 2005 were, for the most part, pretty sweet new years eves. I did the thing like its cliched to be done. Then I built up all this pressure for 2006 because 2004 and 2005, while awesome, were not as productive in various (read: most) facets of my life. This New Years Eve, while exceedingly rockin' in many a way, did not have the ending I had invisioned. Though the whole "crumpled magic celery dress on the floor" (read: chair. the magic celery dress never ends up on the floor) thing did occur-- it just wasn't how I had planned it.

Anyway. 2006 has so far been spent mostly in the company of Hugh Laurie and the rest of the cast of House as I tore through C's season 1 DVDs. In retrospect this wasn't the best idea as I will be celebrating Epiphany (Jan 6th, for all you heathens out there) having all 4 wisdom teeth extracted (a word that continues to send chills up my spine). The watching of the House and the overthinking (because, seriously, I have nothing else to do) of all the what-ifs has made me completely positive that in the process of the extraction I will crash and then need a lumbar puncture, which will go badly and I may or may not be paralyzed from it. Then they're gonna find out that I may in fact not need my teeth extracted at all, but I actually might have vasculitis, they can't be sure until they test my bone marrow which will leave me pretty much hating life and refusing any sort of other medical tests even though they may actual save my life until of course the doctor (who sometimes looks like Dr. House and sometimes looks like Dr. Derek Shepard because, guess what?!, it's my complete mental breakdown) comes into my room and tells me to trust him because he's going to save me, which of course I do. And then right as I'm about to have surgery he bursts in to say that I'm going to be okay! That it was just the fact that I wore those stupidly gorgeous 5 inch stilletos for 5 hours on New Year's Eve and then walked barefoot in Downtown Baltimore which gave me a serious syphillis of the foot, which is hard to diagnose but totally curable. Then Dr. Derek Shepard (who is who this overthought always ends up being about because a good head of hair wins out every time) decides that he can't life without me and he cures me and we move to Fiji.

So. If you never hear from me again, its probably because I'm in Fiji, with Dr. Derek Shepard doing 2006 like it was meant to be done.

Happy 2006 Lovelies.

the years go by so fast

So. I've been home for a week now. Seven days in Middletown. The prospect of spending another two weeks here is not quite filling me with glee. Here's the thing. My town? Boring. Booooring. I forgot how boring it was because the bordom can be staved with an automobile. I no longer have one of those. So I stranded in my house with my 13 year old sister and dial up internet and a constant allergy attack. I think it may resemble hell a little bit. We've gotten ourselves into a bit of a routine. I wake up at 2. Sit around my house. Then at 11, A, H, and C come and we sit around someone elses house until 4 in the morning. Then go to bed. wake up. lather rinse repeat. There have been some enjoyable moments. I got stinky drunk with kids from the class of 2002 out in public instead of down in a basement because we can do that now. I have had lunch like a grownup. I've seen a lot of people and heard a lot of gossip which would lead me to believe we are all getting older even though that thought totally freaks me out. I saw a kid I had a crush on pretty much uh, forever, and he is a grown up. Like. grown up. With the manners and the facial hair. Weird. I took my brother shopping at American Eagle which was pretty much the funniest thing ever (if you know my brother...which you probably don't...so just imagine the goth kid who dresses in black and is grumpy all the time hanging out in AE)
In AE:
Buttmunch: Hey, Rach? I'm confused.
Rachel: By what?
Buttmunch: Well, is this the girls section or the boys section?
Rachel: Uh. Just guys. Why?
Buttmunch: Which self respecting male wears a pale pink polo shirt?

etc etc.

I also realized how much I don't about my mom and sibs day to day life anymore. Its kind of weird. My mom works strange hours so no one ever sees her, we just get notes. Written in red ink on backs of envelopes. The eating habits are totally absurd. I think we own stock in Ramen Noodles. My mom and I saw a woman crying in the grocery store and acted like it was no big deal. No big deal? Since when has grocery shopping become a three hankie event? Is this something else I have to worry about when I grow up? That at some point, string cheese and Fuji apples are gonna make the tears run down? If that's the case I'll stay young forever.

silver linings

The transit strike still completely blows, in case you thought otherwise. I had to pretty much run 20 blocks yesterday so I could take a final while snot dripped oh-so-sexily out of my nose like a leaky faucet. You would think that we would do this transit strike thing in the spring. Early May would be nice for a strike. It's also very possible that this strike could go until early May...so I probably shouldn't jinx it. And just like with all incredibly sucktastic things, the transit strike too has its good qualities.

They held off until Monday night giving me a chance to find a floor to sleep on in Manhattan so only had to walk 2.37 miles instead of 8.28.

Today I walked that 2.37 miles and will walk another 1.83 miles with a 20 lb. duffle bag on my shoulders which pretty much means I'm done with exercise until mid-February.

Making it onto my train will constitute a small Christmas miracle and if that isn't cause for celebration with club-car booze, I don't know what one is.

Bonding effect. I've noticed this in New York. People don't ever talk to strangers (because why would you?) except when bad shit is going down then everyone is your best friend. While I'm not a stranger in this office (I've been working here on and off for about 3 months) I don't really know anyone but since yesterday I've just been chatting up a storm with all the people who normally just walk right past me.

And after today, the transit strike won't affect me. Horray! I've pretty much decided that I probably won't be back in the city until after it's over.

new rule

Okay. I don't know if perhaps you live under some sort of large rock or something but if you have the internet access you should know that Christmas was effing canceled in NYC at like 3 this morning.

So, if you know this, you can safely assume that if you are attempting to communicate with someone who is based in New York City they probably had some sort of wrench thrown in their morning commute that probably forced them to wake up an extra hour or two early so they could hike like a friggin' nomad to the office that doesn't care about them anyway.

And in knowing this and being a sentinent human being you should probably get the fact that they may be a little crabby as its approximatly four degrees outside and business casual attire on a whole is not really made for Arctic treking.

So, for the love of all that is good and holy, do not yell at these people! Do not talk to them like they came to school on the short bus! Do not mutter under your breath or sigh like you have the worst life ever! It will really make them just want to hang up on you because they're cold and tired and may have just walked the equivelent of a marathon to talk to your car-riding, subway-taking ass.

So we're clear on this right?

there is such a thing as too much narcissism

So. Last Christmas Cougar, under direct orders, got me a digital camera so I could capture the beauty of South Africa. Which I did.
Then I get back from South Africa and I still have this digital camera. Now sometimes there are pretty things that need to be photographed and I do my best.
And I try to capture moments of beauty and adorableness like the picture at the top with my cutest Aviva-doodle. And when four friends get totally glammed up for a wedding:
This is my goal with the little love of my life the digital camera, to capture things of beauty. That being said, after looking at the pictures taken last night at my most sexellent friend Paige's birthday fiesta, and the vast majority of the pictures I have on my computer from this camera; About 93% of my pictures are of my friends and me being (for the most part) increadibly drunk and (for a fair amount of the time) some-what unattractive (though we all in real life are the sexiest people you've ever seen. Trust me). I've pretty much figured out how the drunk digital camera narcissism thing works. There is the ever popular self portrait that nine times out of ten completely does not work. This is a hypothesis that my friend Teeny and I are hotly contesting, sadly no matter how many experiments we try, the statement holds completely true. There is a problem with angles, someone almost always has a double chin and most of the time you end up cutting out half of a persons' face. Most times once it gets to the point in the night where you think you're ready to be Annie Leibowitz doing a self-portrait you are in no condition to operating heavy machinery.

Then we have the "faces" pictures. At some point in the night you decide smiling is for wussies and deicide that it's time to be daring and sexy with your photographs. Most of the time you end up looking you just have to go to the bathroom or you ate bad suschi or you smell a diper. Very rarely is it sexy or daring.

Also. I don't know if it's just me (oh, wait, no...it's totally everyone else too) but when you start drinking maybe you start to believe that the camera has magical powers and if you look into it alcoholic beverages will start squirting out of it like a soda fountain. So you decide to keep your mouth open, just incase.

Then there are the pictures where there is one person who is so obviously much more inebriated than the rest that the picture becomes a "which one of these things doesn't belong?" game for four year-olds.

If you picked the psychotic in one in the middle then you're right! Good job little Suzy!

At some point during the night people forget what the camera does, and how the little flash means that that face has been recorded for, potentially, all eternity, and so they just stop caring. This is also the time when people start to believe that they are fucking Annie Leibowitz and it's time for their goddamned Pulitzer Prize (did you ever notice that the cursing goes up when the drinks go down?) and so they start taking pictures of pretty much anything.

Like when Tierra and this kid decided to trade shirts.

Sometimes though you get a photographic gem of complete drunkness that makes the other 600 pictures where you look like an ugly, bloated walrus who is sometimes missing the right side of her face completely worth it.

To view other examples of my friends and I being increadibly beautiful and drunk check out either of my photo albums

Official Irony of The Week

So all these people were really rude to me this morning in the temp office du jour because they were being too loud during a board meeting and kept telling them to shh. The people in charge took pity on me and told me to help myself to the most delicious free office food in the whole world (chicken, pesto pasta, salad, salmon, bagels, fruit etc) because they felt so bad. They were pretty much telling me to eat my birthweight in free office food for feeling bad about myself. "Eat your feelings!" Was the subconcious message. And so I sat at the front desk with a big ass plate of food, occasionally answering the phone with a wad of masticated bagel in my mouth until I ate so much I pretty much wanted to die and now I'm considering the consequences of unbuttoning my grown up pants.

The office of the day: Weight Watchers Corporate Headquarters

it's starting already...

I seriously thought I had another few years to mentally prepare myself for this moment, but I guess not. A text message I recieved yesterday while at lunch clinched the fact that we are officially growing up. Since Thanksging, two of my best friends have gotten engaged. Two. One of them was my best friend in middle school and high school. A whole bunch of people that I graduated with have gotten married/engaged/knocked up and I was able to blow it off because the people I went to high school with were crazy-weird. Kates may also be crazy weird, but we planned our weddings together walking to school in eighth grade, so this crazy hits pretty close to home. Also, it kinda came out of left field as the topic of discussion via my lunch text messaging yesterday mostly focused on the gross concoction I had whipped up from the hot buffet at the deli, why? because I'm still at the mental age of about twelve which means my friends getting married is starting to wig me out a smiggin'. I think its that all the hypothetical, "when I get married..." talk I've been doing since I was six is starting to become not so hypothetical; which means that other things (babies, 401(k) plans, morgages) are no longer hypothetical either. People, this sort of future that isn't really future anymore nonsense is totally freaking me out.

Luckily for all of you, there's an ice cube's chance in hell I'll get married before I turn fifty. But I wear a size 4, so try to pick the least unattractive bridesmaids dress you can. And if, by some lightning strike of randomness there is a boy that does want to marry me, and he asks you for ring advice-- silver, diamond solitaire, preferably Tiffany Setting (because it looks like a snowflake) and absolutly nothing from Kay Jewlers.

This has to be it for now, okay? No more engagements until 2006. And no pregnancies until my cousin poops out her little tyke in June. I mean it guys.

Forget the hippopotamus...

All I want this Christmas is a fuzzy, wuzzy, cute, cuddly, melts in your mouth not in your hand baby panda bear. Today is the first day in a few weeks that I have been denied the all-wonderful, all knowing Pandacam from Animal Planet (which is far superior to The National Zoo one) The company I’m working for today apparently doesn’t believe in real player (but they do believe in a bowl of M&M’s on my desk, so thanks for that) and the need isn’t bad enough to make me download programs onto strange company’s computer, though, it’s early yet. This is bad news, I mean, I have no way of knowing what little Butterstick (no seriously, It’s Butterstick. Stop with your Chinese mumbo jumbo) is doing right now. Is he playing? Is he eating? Is he taking the cutest little panda dump that the world has ever seen? I hate being in the dark about this.

I’m pretty sure this addiction means I need a boyfriend. A girl should not only have a panda to love at this holiday season. And yes, I know that pandas are mean and kill people and if you took away the dark spots around their eyes they would look like oversized rodents but don’t hate on evolution. They have those black spots for a reason: it crosses the line from rodent to freakin’ adorableness. And I just found out that China gets to take Butterstick in two years and raise him with their family. That’s kidnapping and I won’t stand for it. Plus they now have 16 baby pandas in China. And that’s just in one zoo! I think the Chinese need to stop being greedy, because “that’s what Jesus would -freakin’- do.” Leave Butterstick here. Apparently he eats anything put in front of him and if that’s not a sign of a red-blooded American than I don’t know what one is.

Also, I really wanted the title of this blog to be “screw the hippopotamus” or something (ps- how hard is hippopotamus to spell? It took me three tries and to me it still looks wrong) in that vein, but it was too weird. No sexual references when dealing with huge amphibious (also impossible to spell) mammals, it’s just not okay.

All Butterstick news and other news to make you feel smart and connected can be found at Wonkette.

and so it begins....again.

I don't know why, but this morning I got increadibly frustrated at both myspace and livejournal. Pair that with the fact that I refuse to post the same entry in two blogs, forcing me to be doubly creative (which sometimes makes the head go hurty) and that I'm secretly (or not so secretly) jealous/in love with Courtney and Lizzie's blogspot blogs. I demanaded one too. As we head down this journey of discussing the banalities of my life, you'll come to realize that I am a very demanding individual.

At any rate, I've been playing this blog game since June of 2002, which is a long time ago. I now have a total of (wait for it) three blogs. This being my fourth and final (for the moment). All the vintage stuff is gonna go somewhere so you can see what I was like as a freshly minted high school graduate (pretty much the same) and where I'm going when I graduate from college this coming spring (hopefully a place where attractive men faun over me).

I have a dork infested love of various blogs written by strangers, friends and friends of friends alike. Read them. They're really disturbingly funny and talented. I learned everything I know from them.

I've decided that the layout of blogspot is much more friendly to the blogger inside that wants to be an extrovert. Navigating myspace and livejournal is a time consuming process filled with half naked women and complete lunatics. That said here's where all the good stuff is going to go. Memes, announcements and things that need to be said three or four times will get copied into other blogs. But here's where the magic's gonna happen; if you can call discussing the finer points of Patrick Dempsy's hair and why I need to stop drinking mind erasers before I get arrested, magic.

That said. This is me. And thanks for hanging out.