Shock-o-late Cake

Tuesday, May 31st, 2011 – Knees are bastards, mad love, I kill plants, the thirst that won’t die

Is it really a week since I last posted an entry? I’m getting lazier by the day it seems. I have no strength to do much at the end of the day but rock in a corner and drool on my shirt. Which, to the keen observer, is pretty much like an ordinary, less busy day for me, except with more apathy and less enthusiasm.
It’s really no wonder I drink.

I’ve tried, tonight, to catch up on my creaking Google Reader, valiantly straining under the heft of all those unread entries of yours. It’s like a losing battle though. I waded through a good, pleasant, cockle-warming pool of them, managed to leave a few comments – not nearly enough, but I’d still be here next September if I left them on every entry I read – and ended up getting nothing else done at all, except concocting a makeshift pizza out of some garlic nan bread and various oniony, peppery, cheesy toppings, which, if you ask me, is time well spent.

Time substantially less well spent was an hour that seemed like five weeks, entertaining my friend’s five year old, who insisted on riding me around the living room pony style, while I got rug burn on one knee and exacerbated the one that was already blaring at Defcon 1 with the yoga injury. Plus you all know how I feel about small, young, fast-moving, loud humans. I’m so not jiggy with them. If I had one of my own I’d be a full-on babbling alcoholic by now. Instead of just a full on babbler and part time wino. Luckily, for me and the world, I’d rather roll my pants in horseshit then eat them than have a brand new life-form spring forth from my loins.

I’ve also gotten really vexed that work is full of cake. I should probably have asked you to sit down before telling you that because, really, what position could possibly be better for me than in a place that deals in cake all day, every day and that requires that I sample said cakes and give opinions on texture and taste and chocolateyness on top of my more usual job description? Is it heaven or hell? I don’t know. All that sugar has confused me. It feels like heaven. My pants however, squawking in terror, are insisting it’s hell.

If that shocked you, you might want to move away from any sharp objects for this next sentence. I think there might really be a thing called “too much cake”. I know, right, what the hell?

There, you can open your eyes now and back away from the ledge. You’ll get over it.

Still no Ohio. Jesus Christ, people, I FAIL AT LIFE.

The One Where My Hair’s a Bitch

Wednesday, May 18th, 2011 – lunch is good blogging time

I decided, a few weeks ago, before starting the new office portion of my life, I should probably tame the wild beast that lives on my head, because usually my idea of a good hair day is one where it’s clean and I manage to not find families of wild animals or twigs living in it.  With this in mind I’d set out on an intrepid expedition to a local hair salon to have them try to “fix” it.   After viewing my head from all angles and making some most discouraging  clicking sounds, the lady with the scissors  said she was pretty sure she could do something with it that didn’t involve shaving it all off and plopping a paper bag over my head.

Of course she never once mentioned that the “something” might be making me look like I’m not entirely on top of matters, but I guess it was my own fault for not asking the right question.  The right question being, “Can you do something that doesn’t make me look not entirely on top of matters?”   

It’s not that it’s a bad style – it isn’t – it’s just not…..well….me.  Whatever that means.  Stupid hair.   I hate salons anyway.  They never make my hair look good . It only looks good weeks later when I’ve messed with it in some illegal manner hairdressers disapprove of.  Besides, it doesn’t matter what the hell you say to a hairdresser, they’re strong willed.   You can show them a photo, give them a description in vivid detail and you’ll still come out of the place looking like you said, “You know what?  Just get shitfaced and put a lawn mower on it!”  

So yes, I hate my stupid lady hair and am praying it grows out fast.   This might be the millionth time I’ve complained that I hate my hair after hair salon visits.  This visit happened weeks ago too and it’s only now starting to look like I might not be demented after all, just the owner of an ever so slightly “exuberant” personality.   And people wonder why I usually cut my own hair…

So how are you guys?   Want to have some mental wine and cheese with me?    Come back end of the week for some really riveting stuff on the great state of Ohio.   Why Ohio?  Why the hell not?  Rock on good buddies.

Can We Please Have an 8 Day Week?

Sunday, May 15th, 2011 – babbling, need coffee injection, wishing for silence and tequila

I almost fell asleep on the bus last night, as it trudged through the rainy streets, braking like a maniac when some errant pedestrian with the coordination and sense of direction of a newborn baby emu, would suddenly veer dangerously off the sidewalk and into its path, jerking me awake with a, “What the f…!”, at which time I’d be a little disoriented because my mind was on some tropical island pinging the elastic waistband of some unlucky man’s Speedos one second and stuck on a rickety bus the next.

You see, I haven’t been getting enough sleep. I go to bed feeling like I just spent fourteen hours body slamming The Rock, unable to utter a single coherent sentence through my exhaustion, then come about 5am I’m wide awake with the harsh morning daylight in my eyes, feeling hung-over. Which is really unfair considering I didn’t even get to drink anything! I also managed to fall asleep, Friday night, in an armchair, upright, in the midst of laughing at “An Idiot Abroad”. What the hell? Am I ninety?

Anyway, I’ve been attempting to sleep while wearing one of those ridiculous eye mask things they hand out in the posh seats on planes, that are supposed to block out the light. Only I must’ve been dreaming about bitch-slapping the living shit out of Lindsay Lohan or some such thing, because I still awoke at 5am, sneezing my ass off with seasonal allergies, only this time all my flailing around on my pillow (probably smothering the thieving, gin-soaked Lohan bint) had mussed up my hair and worked the eye mask around my head so it only actually covered one eye, leaving me look like a strawberry blonde Captain Jack Sparrow with pink eye. It was even more attractive than it sounds.

 If you would like to date me, as always, the line starts over there. 

It also made my eyes sweat. Who knew that was even POSSIBLE? So I slept a little longer, however, I’m not sure which is worse, being blinded by the light or the Swedish sauna, sweaty Buscemi eyes.

So yes, my weekend thus far has been spent, a) having a hangover (hi!), b) doing twelve hours of design work for gratis and c) being thirsty. I owe about 300 emails, have a ton of laundry to do, grocery items to acquire and some treadmill running to aspire to before tomorrow morning. Hmm.

Anyway, I must go now to try and find yet another lady item for my work wardrobe or be thought of as “the chick with one cardigan”. Jesus Christ.

I promise an insightful and very informative state essay this week. Anyone wishing to request states, do so in the comments and I’ll pick one and massacre do it justice.

So how are you guys? I’ll get to your blogs one day soon, I promise. For now, I’m going to schedule this post and get some goddamn shut eye. Hey ho!

Not So Manic Monday

Monday, May 9th, 2011 – Blah

I’m all full of the joys of Monday today for real, since I’m only working till 12:30, since I’m basically SUPPOSED to be part time, in order to leave time for my other job (being awesome!). So far today, however, I’ve been full-time crazy busy and the other chick I work with called in sick, so you know…it’s not looking great presently for my early exit. It’s amazing what knowing you’re leaving five hours earlier than usual (hopefully) will do for your mood. That and the fact you are smug in the knowledge that you still have half a stuffed crust pizza left in the fridge for dinner and enough Coke Zero to drown any sorrows you may have left. Oh yes please.

Obviously wine would be better but hey, I’m getting old, wine’s strictly for weekends.

A few gripes for today:

1) I heard that fairly horrible G-whine-eth Paltrow “Country Strong” number earlier and marvelled at just how much they have auto-tuned the living shit out of her voice. There were notes in it where she almost confirmed my long-time suspicions that she’s actually an evil, homicidal, android robot from a parallel universe. Who invented auto-tune? I’d like to kick them right in their fanny region and I don’t even care which “fanny” you celebrate, front or back. Right in the fanny with my boot. There’s no need for people to sound like robots. Not even The Paltrow. Don’t get me started on pop/dance music’s abuse of it. Really, don’t.

2) If you’re serving me in a store and you’re bagging up my item and getting me change, don’t yap to your friend at the next till about your weekend like I’m not even there. Because I AM there and so is my finger and girlfriend, I will poke you right in the eye. I like to interrupt with inane blurt-outs when this happens. “I HAVE SO MANY PENNIES, LOOK AT MY PENNIES!”, “YOUR CABBAGE IS EXTORTIONATE!” Drives them batty.

3) Not everyone wants a t-shirt down to their knees. When will this long top phase end, because I hate it and will not be ignored, damn you. While we’re at it can the pseudo eighties just fuck off now please and take their goddamn jeggings and tunic tops with them?

4) Someone needs to find the person at Yahoo, who keeps insisting on taking ridiculous articles from “Cosmopolitan” about what women want in a man, and reposting them on Yahoo News, then take them out back and shoot them right in the tits.

5) I hate broccoli. There is no reason for it to exist. So it’s good for you, big deal. It’s nasty and looks like a lung that’s been coughed up and left to go mouldy. No one needs to eat that. Broccoli’s like the Ringo Starr of the vegetable world, only less likable.

There, whine over. I’m going to go now and pretend I’m doing something productive. Holy crap, if there was a non-busy Monday, that would mean the apocalypse is here.