MyTool.com

It is difficult for me to complain about MySpace. I feel like a hypocrite since Blogger isn’t much better. They’re both the same…a bunch of people posting things they think are worth reading. I haven’t spent much time on MySpace but I figured it was an anonymous world with random crap. Au contraire!

My friend Rose has been dating a boy, Chip. I call him Chip because when he was first discussed, Dorothy referred to him as Chip and I thought that was his real name. So I kept emailing Rose inquiring about Chip. She had no idea who I was talking about at first. She finally caught on but didn’t take the time to correct me. Funny. Come to think of it, I do this type of thing often and nobody mentions it. Never worth the trouble since I probably won’t take the time to reverse the error.

I didn’t realize Chip’s actual name until I met him. And by meet him, I mean view his MySpace account. Yowzas! Rose asked my opinion of MySpace before she revealed his page and I didn’t have one. It’s hard to take any of this too seriously. I said that before I took a gander into the depths of Chip. He has a full description of life achievements; fights in cages, tattoos, and found roommate who may also be his soul mate since they don’t leave each other’s side. Even for dates. Attached to the page were photos of him partying with friends and “just chillin.” (The dude is HOT, I’ll give him that.)

Perhaps I only have an issue when people post pictures of themselves on websites. Somehow personal stories and random thoughts don’t bother me, since I do it, but to actually post a picture seems odd. (And not only because I don't have the patience to actually complete the task.) Apparently I’m solo in my thoughts because the posts on Chip’s account everyone posts a variety of personal photos. Some in bras with comments like “you were great last night”, etc… I don’t think Rose should worry about that because they were clearly made up and who cares. She was more concerned about dating a guy who thinks this type of thing is "cool." I agree. Puddy doesn’t have internet access or an actual computer so I don’t have to worry about these things.

Closing the browser, we launched into a debate about the cons of MySpace. What about privacy? What about crazy girlfriends (besides Rose) browsing for info on you? What if a potential employer took a look? We concluded with the thought that Chip is young and doesn’t understand which led to the horrifying truth…WE ARE OLD!

Makes me want to distribute this blog to my employer so I can feel young and stupid again.

Simple Treats for a Simple Time

I’m sitting her pouting today because after last night’s debacle out on the town, Sophia in all her brilliance went and purchased spaghetti-o’s to eat before she fell asleep. I LOVE SPAGHETTI-O’S! Why the hell have I not thought of buying them since I was thirteen? And why am I depriving myself of all the other meals, well-balanced I’m sure, from my youth?

Starting today I plan to eat a kid’s meal at least once a week. I’ll start with Spaghetti-o’s then along down the line: Kraft Mac-n-cheese, Velveeta Shells-n-cheese, Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Campbell’s alphabet soup, sugar cereals (Froot Loops, Lucky Charms, Cocoa Puffs), and my all time favorite snack (and meal)…Twinkies. I kept those little cream filled artificial sponges in business! Not sure how they survived past my 12th birthday (when people started to comment on my womanly figure and I had to stop eating things like Twinkies) but I’d like to thank the others who kept them in their lives for the long haul.

When I was growing up, my mother wouldn’t allow sugar cereals or candy in the house. That was much tougher for me than the lack of alcohol in the house that proves to be a problem when I visit home now. Once a month, we were allowed to have a box of Berry Berry Kix. This one precious treat split between three kids was hard to make last longer than one week. Especially because my brother, Bubba, and I would wake up in the wee hours of the morning before school and eat as many bowls as possible to make sure we ate our fair share. I could eat 6 bowls before puking. My sister, Brace Face, would wake up and shriek and cry that we ate all her cereal. I’m the oldest, if it’s anyone’s cereal, it’s mine. And I didn't require braces, so there you go... My mother would tell us to share and then give Braces her own box of Life. I hate Life (just the cereal, not my fabulous foggy existence) so she was able to eat as much as she wanted. Bubba ate anything so he cried for the sake of being deprived of something edible. This same routine happened every month but mom didn’t consider it a real issue. Same with seasonal candy. If she dared to put out a bag of holiday M&M’s to share the Christmas or Easter joy, those little colorful bastards were scooped up by the handful and shoveled in our drooling mouths before she had the chance to crumple up the empty bag. I'd then yell and scream at Bubba for being a pig and probably eating more than me so it wasn't fair.

This could explain why I need a bigger does of EVERYTHING and why I have to have everything I want RIGHT FUCKING NOW! Before I analyze that and bore myself to death, I plan to consume a pop tart or 2.

Grey Fantasy

I must admit that like the majority of TV viewers, I’m a HUGE fan of Grey’s Anatomy. I actually planned this week around last night’s season premier. I grabbed a few drinks after work and headed home to wait for 9 pm. Even Puddy knew he shouldn’t call until after 10 pm.

The drama is a little ridiculous. They’ve got gun shots nearly killing the best surgeon in the world who may never walk again, a torrid love affair where the crazy kids can’t admit their feelings, a heart transplant patient proposing to the pretty doctor before his sudden death. I’m sure the public can relate to all the intense situations. Take my life, for example, working in a boring corporate world where I make it a habit to accomplish as little as possible and not get fired, nights out on weekdays causing dark circles under my eyes the next morning, and the frustration with Acropolis for applying too much cucumber sauce to my gyro. The blister on my heel caused by old shoes I haven’t worn in awhile reminded me of the episode where the RA made the heartbreaking decision to tell a man quarantined due to the plague that his wife just died.

I think I also enjoy watching the show because I like to invent scenarios of how they could kill Meredith. Since she’s the main character, my dream will never happen, but I can’t stand her so I think they should at least consider my ideas.

1. When she ran out of the hospital because it was too difficult to choose between McDreamy and McPlayed-Robin-in-Batman, I pictured a wrecking ball slamming into Meredith as it casually swung by the hospital doors.
2. While lying next to Izzie comforting her about her recent loss, I imagined a piano falling through the house landing directly on Meredith. Izzie would be unharmed or end up with a few splinters in her forearm and end the episode playing the piano.
3. As McDreamy and Meredith consummated their love that has to be real this time because his wife is in the next room, I pictured Addison (wife) opening up the door of the hospital room with enough force to pull Meredith from her husband’s arms and crash her through the glass window.

We know drama.

I’ll continue to watch, hoping and praying (if I prayed) that one episode will satisfy my fantasy.

And speaking of fantasy…Dr. Alex is HOOOOOOOOOOOOT!

Losing Air Candy

Airplane travel is miserable; security hassles with new and improved rules where the primary goal is to annoy everyone while making them feel safe, the option and depressing fact that you have to actually purchase airline food (unless you are on JetBlue or riding first class), constant flight delays due to weather or oversensitive passengers. (delayed once because someone had a wasp on their seat and screaming “stop the plane!!!” was the best way to remove the minor inconvenience.) These things alone make me want to walk to most destinations but when that isn’t possible I fly. Does every airline have to make it more painful by employing ugly, unpleasant flight attendants? What goddamned feminist group outlawed the hiring of stewardess based on appearance?

I attended a wedding in Aspen this past weekend. On my flight from La Guardia to Denver I was selected for another round of screening before boarding the plane. Lucky me. Because I refuse to check bags, with the new Triple L rules (No Liquids or Lotions because of London) I just don’t travel with toiletries in my carry-on and purchase them at my destination and mail them home. I have it down to a science. On this particular round of screening, they decided to take my oil based eye-liner. I don’t wear it so it wasn’t the biggest loss. I tried to argue but I wasn’t eager to make it a national crisis so I let it go. While waiting my turn to enter the plane, I fumed that the girlfriend (or boyfriend) of random, momentary useless, security guard now has some very nice make-up.

Once boarded, I found my seat across the aisle next to a woman reading a how to book; Stop Worrying and Start Living. I assumed this concept applied to the whiskers decorating her chin. It put me in a foul mood. Adding to this were the three flight attendants that were somewhere between middle-age and elderly, bitter, and had the run-over-wet-hung-up-to-dry look. Is this part of some sort of Title 9 law? Is this an EOE package practiced? I suppose if I was turned down for a job based on my looks I’d be upset and cause some issues that would lead to fair-faced employment. I hope I wouldn’t. I hope it would clue me in to the public view. “Hey, not so attractive by United Airlines standards maybe I should do something about it or find a job where looks don’t matter.” (Like something that doesn’t deal with people.) The public suffers in some form when people are denied the right to discriminate based on physical attraction. This can still include diversity with race and gender, just leave out the ugly.

The flight ended well. I had 3 mini-bottles of wine (white) and ended up chatting it up with dude in suit next to me who happens to be an employer in my industry. I sent my resume to him this morning and perhaps that company will pay me more for what I do today. Worth a shot…

China Doll

I have met multiple men who have an Asian fetish. At first I didn’t understand because I didn’t know many women of this race. I’m from Middle America where the only diversity is within the Caucasian crowd: white trash, poor white trash, white people who think they are another race, my crowd, and yuppy scum.

When I moved to California this attraction made sense because Asians are EVERYWHERE. I still didn’t understand why it was a fetish. I suppose it is the same as men preferring blondes to brunettes or those who require a nice ass before a fine rack. And vice versa. The man I adored at the time told me if I was Asian he would marry me right then and there. As a joke, I tried to tape my eyes back once to reinvent my look but it didn’t work. Since I wasn’t interested in the whole ‘til death routine, I didn’t care that I was only good enough for him to befriend for awhile. The sex wasn’t that great so I wasn’t losing much in the end.

My first year in New York City I would ask men who hit on me, ‘do you have an Asian fetish?’ Most of them thought I was extremely odd. Why would a chick ask that unless she was Asian? Perhaps I asked this question to avoid a future of perpetual squinting.

It has come up again…what is it that makes this race more attractive than another?

1. Are the women more obedient? From what I’ve seen, unless they are born and raised in the old county, they are far from docile.
2. Are they tighter where it counts? I assumed the men who preferred Asian were probably smaller than the average man so this quality in a woman was important.
3. Was David Bowie’s "China Girl" at the top of the charts when these men started dating? Fetish research aside this is a great song (and video). “oh baby just you shut your mous”
4. Did they just see Memoirs of a Geisha? This makes the most sense. I nearly developed a kimono fetish when I left that movie.
5. Do these men regret not serving in the military and missed their time for shore leave along the Pacific Rim? No…wait, this makes the most sense.

Freedom to Recline

In public transportation, I believe the rule stands that if the seat is able to recline the option to do so is granted to the chair’s occupant, not the people sitting in the vicinity. If this isn’t an unspoken law you follow, perhaps you should make note.

This past weekend Hoola-hoop and I traveled to the woods to enjoy our boys, Booze and Puddy. The trip was perfect except for the unfortunate train ride home. I hate train day! In the middle of a heated conversation about UTIs, Hoola-hoop tried to recline her seat. One needs to be as comfortable as possible while discussing various Cranberry extracts. As she pushed back, a voice behind her perked up rudely, “Can you please not do that?” As if Hoola was blowing spit wads her way. She will next time.

Hoola peered behind the seat to observe what type of person would make such a request. The bitch had 2 seats to enjoy and was still complaining about space?!?!? I can’t stereotype because there isn’t usually a certain look that goes with self-absorbed, self-important, and clueless. I could say in general they are usually attractive since there has to be a reason they can get away with such outlandish requests. Turns out, selfish people can be fat and ugly as well. This dirty-blonde heffer even pointed out that she was, “doing her homework, studying for a big exam.” So? What the hell does that have to do with anything? If she admitted to a nutrition test perhaps we could’ve been a little more lenient.

I offered nothing in this situation because I didn’t even know where to start. And I didn’t want her to tackle and eat me while I exited the train. All I could do to demonstrate my anguish was glare at her when I took a trip to the café cart and/or bathroom.

Hoola concocted revenge plans and wanted to change seats to the only one available on the train, the one next to Miss Piggy. “This seat taken? I couldn’t recline my last seat because the person behind it was a fat bitch.” I offered Hoola $20 to do it, but she, too, was afraid of Miss Piggy’s eating patterns. We weren’t aware of her feeding schedule and didn’t want to upset the natural order.

How much does Polygamy cost you?

Searching for something to read with my recent travels, I grabbed the closest item which was a book titled, God’s Brothel. Great tile. An oxymoron I was eager to explore. My smile faded when I opened the pages to an introduction that made me say, “What the fuck?” out loud.

In general, I find religion fascinating. Interesting because I don’t understand how and why it is practiced. A funny comment coming from someone who used to walk in Jesus’ footsteps, which apparently meant no drinking, smoking, or having sex until college. I didn’t heal anybody or walk on water, but I was nice to everyone’s face and faked modesty when people bowed at my feet in gratitude.

Some religions make more sense to me than others because of my Christian upbringing but I keep an open mind and find the traditions and rituals of other beliefs intriguing. It scares my family as if my interest will lead me down a different path and I’ll become a Monk. Pretty sure if the basic repent-and-all-is-forgiven religion doesn’t do it for me, I doubt I’ll jump on board with a life of abstinence and meditation while kicking it in a monastery.

Truly open or not, my feeble little mind can’t quite grasp the concept of Polygamy, the focus of God’s Brothel; a non-fiction, horrifying tale published recently. I have no problem with multiple wives, I don’t really care, and it’s none of my business if the women in this religion honestly believe they are worthless and don’t deserve a seat in heaven. I just have a problem when a religion has the right to abuse a social service paid for by my tax dollars. I suppose I could be grateful they don't believe in doctors so are not milking healthcare benefits.

In a nutshell, men work and give all their money to the church so they can reserve a better seat in celestial being, heaven for these worthless, trailer living, baby breeding, sloth like creatures that live off welfare. There are only 50,000 of them in the United States, possibly the world, so I suppose they don’t cost me too much, it’s just the principle of the matter that pisses me off. How can they get away with this? Even with the sexual abuse (girls forced into sex starting at age 13) and incest (fathers marry daughters, brothers marry sisters, etc), government can’t touch them because it is part of their religion. And God beats State in Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and wherever else this species is found. Based on this book, there are people who have been trying to shut them down for decades and are unsuccessful.

No judgment for those of you who attend Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Just one question, what the fuck is wrong with you?

Let's Celebrate Crazy

I’ve always classified high maintenance woman as the ones that need constant attention, are constantly hard to please, freak out on their boy about ridiculous shit. Like their boy choosing a guy’s night out over watching The Notebook and cuddling. The psychotic behavior that gives women a bad name. I was always so proud that this definition would never apply to me. Until…

Puddy was supposed to come to NYC for a visit the weekend of Aug 25th. The trip didn’t happen because he had to work. I was not happy to the say the least. In fact, I was consumed with a blood boiling fury I couldn’t rationalize so I hung up on him. Crazy bitch.

I immediately called best friend Browns to find out how to handle this unreasonable outburst with the standard questions; what the fuck is wrong with me, how do I fix it, and why is this behavior ever acceptable to anyone. She listened and diagnosed, “you just haven’t been laid in three weeks, go get yourself a better vibrator and call him to apologize. Crazy bitch.” Indeed.

Puddy beat me to it. He called back with promises to make it up to me. I didn’t even know what that meant but I agreed instead of apologizing for my anger as Browns suggested. I was still so wigged out that I was nuts. I never get mad about these things and I hate that I’ve started. I remained wrapped up in an internal debate, ‘do people realize when they are crazy?’ while he explained the factors that made it impossible for him to head south. As if legitimate reasons make sense to the insane.

My silence indicated I was still furious. And I suppose I was. Partially with myself for erratic behavior, and then just pissed I didn’t get my way. I’m one easy going girl because I have low expectations and ALWAYS get my way. I’m nasty when I don’t. I learned several things with this experience.

I arrived in New Hampshire near tears and twitching from withdrawals, anxious to have him “make it up to me.” I just assumed he meant mind blowing sex. What else could I need? Turns out it means sex and jewelry. So crazy behavior is celebrated with sparkly presents? Hmmmm…have women always known this? And here I thought I had it all figured out by fighting the emotional roller coaster.

High maintenance is just good common sense. Who knew?

The Sports Factor

It is important to Puddy that his girlfriend participates in the 3 sports he is active in: Tennis, Golf, and Skiing. He is THRILLED that I’m involved in all of them in some capacity.

Tennis: Blanche scored tickets to the US Open on Wednesday night so we went and watched Sharapova play some dumpy, dude-like chick and then Roddick crush some cutie from Denmark. We struggled to figure out the scoring while drinking beer and discussing Sharapova’s “uniforms.” I concluded that Kournikova was hotter even though she couldn’t play as well. Roddick is fun to watch but Blanche and I preferred to dream about seeing a Federer match. Maybe next year.

Tennis: Check

Golf: I went golfing with my father once when I was 13. We had to leave by the 7th hole because I couldn’t grasp the concept that the green was not a road or parking spot for the golf cart. My dad doesn’t pay attention to stupid rules either so although he warned me it wasn’t enforced. Golf course security took care of that. We had to give up the cart or quit for the day. We quit, who the hell wants to walk the course? Since then I’ve accompanied several people on various golf days as the official drink bitch and do my part by asking, “What would Tiger do?”

Golf: Check.

Skiing: I love to ski and think I’m Olympic material. After a traumatic head injury that put me in a coma for a couple weeks when I was 14, a bruised tailbone at 20, and a broken wrist at 25…survey says, not even close. Harmonizing nicely with my expert-slash-extreme delusions is a snobbery that would never accept skiing anywhere but the best; Utah, Colorado, Montana, the Alps, etc… Skiing on the East or West Coast is not an option which means I ski about once a year. This also means that I damage something every 1 in 5 trips. I look forward to doing some destruction on my ski trip to Vail with Puddy and friends in January. I may need to swing by an arcade and play that life-like ski game, Alpine, to brush up on my parallel so he won’t abandon me on the mountain.

Skiing: Check.

Puddy also made an effort to take an interest in my college football team. ‘Tis the season and nothing better than joining the full crew on Saturdays to watch our favorite team be killed by everyone in the Big 12. Puddy made a joke about betting against my team. I set the terms, “If you win, I’ll cook you mac&cheese. If I win, I’m allowed to sleep with other people.” He retracted his suggestion. Good thing he doesn’t care if I have an interest or participate in gambling.