I could really benefit from a punching bag. I am so hot right now. And not hot as in what Anne's BF's bro called me last weekend...which is so flattering b/c all I get is cute. And I don't mean that in an ungrateful way, cute is nice and sweet. But sometimes I just want to be hot and sexy — something I will never be.
I am hot as in pissed. I'm angry that I adore dunking donuts in my coffee. I'm angry that coffee could be calorie free, but I refuse to drink it without loads of creamer and sugar. I'm angry that I can't think of a better synonym for "loads," and I'm too lazy to grab my Thesaurus.
I'm angry that after 4 weeks on a specialized work-out plan, complete with free personal trainer and gym membership, I'm at exactly the same spot as I began, only my love handles are more obnoxious due to my fading tan. I'm angry that tonight I went to the gym and rode a bike (I hate riding bikes) and couldn't figure out how to work my heart monitor with matching heart-rate watch. On top of that, I'm angry that I wore satin panties to the gym. They stuck to my ass, which is soo yucky feeling. Don't wear satin panties when you sweat.
I'm angry that I'm getting an abundance of wrinkles on my forehead at 23. I'm mad that one boob is bigger than the other. And I'm angry that I have to get so goddamn personal on Livejournal.com, but my therapy appointment isn't until Thursday. I love you guys.
*=Angry Little Girl
Monday, November 29, 2004
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Fuckity McFuck the Pie
It's Thanksgiving. I could write a list of everything I'm thankful for. But that would be gay. And I haven't been feeling all that thankful lately. Whatev. I'm only human.
But I can tell you this: This morning, Curtis woke me up at 8:20 a.m. to help him make a couple of pumpkin pies. Grrr. I adore my sleep! So I told him to get a can of pumpkin, some cinnamon, brown sugar and pie crust. I had everything else for Gramma Kasper's pie recipe. (Thanks Anne!) So Curt comes back with TWO cans of pumpkin, organic cinnamon, and two funky-ass looking brown wheat pie crusts. Ew. I guess we're making two pies. I send him back for the sugar. He comes back with organic. I think that was the only store open at 8 a.m. on T-Day. He suggests mixing EVERYTHING together instead of making two separate batches. Makes sense.
So we mix it all together and spread some butter on the crust to make it prettier. After pouring pie mix all over the kitchen counter, we stick the pies in the oven. After 15 mintues, I check on the babies and to my horror, the crust is black and there's chunks of yellow egg floating around in the pies. FUCK. Fuck. Fuck.
Then of course Courtney wakes up. FUCK. I'm always trying to prove to her that I can cook, but I continue to burn things, ruin appliances and make her bedroom smell like ass. And there's two burnt pies with yellow chunks floating around and pie mix dripped all over the counter, floor and oven.
T-Day Lesson: Don't make two pies at once. Don't use organic shit. Don't spread butter all over shit to make it "pretty." Don't let Tina cook. Or Curtis.
But I can tell you this: This morning, Curtis woke me up at 8:20 a.m. to help him make a couple of pumpkin pies. Grrr. I adore my sleep! So I told him to get a can of pumpkin, some cinnamon, brown sugar and pie crust. I had everything else for Gramma Kasper's pie recipe. (Thanks Anne!) So Curt comes back with TWO cans of pumpkin, organic cinnamon, and two funky-ass looking brown wheat pie crusts. Ew. I guess we're making two pies. I send him back for the sugar. He comes back with organic. I think that was the only store open at 8 a.m. on T-Day. He suggests mixing EVERYTHING together instead of making two separate batches. Makes sense.
So we mix it all together and spread some butter on the crust to make it prettier. After pouring pie mix all over the kitchen counter, we stick the pies in the oven. After 15 mintues, I check on the babies and to my horror, the crust is black and there's chunks of yellow egg floating around in the pies. FUCK. Fuck. Fuck.
Then of course Courtney wakes up. FUCK. I'm always trying to prove to her that I can cook, but I continue to burn things, ruin appliances and make her bedroom smell like ass. And there's two burnt pies with yellow chunks floating around and pie mix dripped all over the counter, floor and oven.
T-Day Lesson: Don't make two pies at once. Don't use organic shit. Don't spread butter all over shit to make it "pretty." Don't let Tina cook. Or Curtis.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Hot Guy Day
Today was Hot Guy Day at the Hoboken grocery. I think everyone knew but me. But let me back track a bit.
This morning, 7 a.m.
I wake up and as I get out of bed to hit Snooze like I always do, I notice that my right eyeball feels a bit funny. Forgetting Snooze, I approach my full-length skinny mirror. (I know, I'm lucky. I don't know how or why, but it's The Skinny Mirror. Ask Court.) As I peer at my reflection, I notice that my eye is the size of a small golfball and...it feels like shit. It is half closed, and my left eye is beautiful. So you can imagine what a freak I must look like. And I can't even imagine what this must look like in a non-skinny mirror. Fuck.
So I go knock on Courtney's door. "I know. You're not going to work." Huh! As if I always call in sick. So she assures me that I'm not a bad person for calling in, and after phoning my two bosses—assuring them that I'd do some work from home—I call Dr. O. Wait. This is taking too long. On to the point of Hot Guy Day.
So after a long day of taking my prescribed eye drops, applying a warm compress to my eye (which is nothing more than a microwaved wet rag) and emailing and IMing my friends to brag that I'm at home, Court picks me up to go to the grocery store. The local A&P. We never go b/c it's kinda ghetto. But after tonight, oh, I will be back.
This evening, 7 p.m.
Clad in my hot pink PJ pants, a dirty yellow Mizzou sweatshirt, glasses and NO makeup (I didn't even curl my lashes and apply gloss—hey, you never know where you'll meet that special someone), we enter the A&P. Gaaah! I'm surrounded by hotties. And it doesn't help that Court's wearing her cute fuschia stilettos. Boys won't admit it, but they love hot shoes. Um, I doubt my 8th grade Adidas shower shoes got a second glance. But fuck. So golfball-sized eye in tow, I'm trying to avoid these hotties and hide behind the boxes of rigatoni and Snackwell's in my cart. Then my dad calls to bicker with me about pumpkin pie crust. So here I am, yelling in Aisle 5, hotties are walking by trying not to look at my Freak Eyeball, and I'm trying to convince my dad that it's OK that I use graham cracker crust and that "It's the 2000s, I can do what I want." They really need to coin a word for this new century.
Needless to say, it was Hot Guy Day, and no one told me. That's it. No fairy tale ending. I didn't find a husband. But I bought the crust I wanted to get. And some low-fat cookies. Ha. Who needs a Ghetto Grocery Store Guy anyway.
This morning, 7 a.m.
I wake up and as I get out of bed to hit Snooze like I always do, I notice that my right eyeball feels a bit funny. Forgetting Snooze, I approach my full-length skinny mirror. (I know, I'm lucky. I don't know how or why, but it's The Skinny Mirror. Ask Court.) As I peer at my reflection, I notice that my eye is the size of a small golfball and...it feels like shit. It is half closed, and my left eye is beautiful. So you can imagine what a freak I must look like. And I can't even imagine what this must look like in a non-skinny mirror. Fuck.
So I go knock on Courtney's door. "I know. You're not going to work." Huh! As if I always call in sick. So she assures me that I'm not a bad person for calling in, and after phoning my two bosses—assuring them that I'd do some work from home—I call Dr. O. Wait. This is taking too long. On to the point of Hot Guy Day.
So after a long day of taking my prescribed eye drops, applying a warm compress to my eye (which is nothing more than a microwaved wet rag) and emailing and IMing my friends to brag that I'm at home, Court picks me up to go to the grocery store. The local A&P. We never go b/c it's kinda ghetto. But after tonight, oh, I will be back.
This evening, 7 p.m.
Clad in my hot pink PJ pants, a dirty yellow Mizzou sweatshirt, glasses and NO makeup (I didn't even curl my lashes and apply gloss—hey, you never know where you'll meet that special someone), we enter the A&P. Gaaah! I'm surrounded by hotties. And it doesn't help that Court's wearing her cute fuschia stilettos. Boys won't admit it, but they love hot shoes. Um, I doubt my 8th grade Adidas shower shoes got a second glance. But fuck. So golfball-sized eye in tow, I'm trying to avoid these hotties and hide behind the boxes of rigatoni and Snackwell's in my cart. Then my dad calls to bicker with me about pumpkin pie crust. So here I am, yelling in Aisle 5, hotties are walking by trying not to look at my Freak Eyeball, and I'm trying to convince my dad that it's OK that I use graham cracker crust and that "It's the 2000s, I can do what I want." They really need to coin a word for this new century.
Needless to say, it was Hot Guy Day, and no one told me. That's it. No fairy tale ending. I didn't find a husband. But I bought the crust I wanted to get. And some low-fat cookies. Ha. Who needs a Ghetto Grocery Store Guy anyway.
Sunday, November 7, 2004
The Story of Marinara Boy
The city is never lacking in crazy people. Last night after a fabulous night at Down The Hatch:
Michelle and I, 9th St. PATH station.
Drunk Guy: Wanna have some fun ladies?
Michelle: No thanks!
Drunk Guy: Aww, c'mon! I need someone to put me to bed!
Me: Nah. I'm putting my friend to bed. But you can buy us pizza!
Drunk Guy: You like mar-i-nara sauce? We can have fun with mar-i-nara!
Me (with big, sarcastic mouth): Why? You wanna rub it all over our bodies?
Ew! What was I thinking?!
Drunk Guy: Mar-i-nara sauce! Tom-a-toooe.
Me: You know, you'd be so cute, if only you weren't so drunk.
Michelle: Yeah, it makes you really unattractive.
Drunk Guy: You like me?
Me: Nah. I like marinara sauce.
Michelle and I, 9th St. PATH station.
Drunk Guy: Wanna have some fun ladies?
Michelle: No thanks!
Drunk Guy: Aww, c'mon! I need someone to put me to bed!
Me: Nah. I'm putting my friend to bed. But you can buy us pizza!
Drunk Guy: You like mar-i-nara sauce? We can have fun with mar-i-nara!
Me (with big, sarcastic mouth): Why? You wanna rub it all over our bodies?
Ew! What was I thinking?!
Drunk Guy: Mar-i-nara sauce! Tom-a-toooe.
Me: You know, you'd be so cute, if only you weren't so drunk.
Michelle: Yeah, it makes you really unattractive.
Drunk Guy: You like me?
Me: Nah. I like marinara sauce.
Tuesday, November 2, 2004
Call Me Votey McVoterson
I meant to get up at 7 a.m. to beat the voters to the voting booth. I really wanted to sport my "I Voted" sticker around the office. I got up at 8 a.m. instead. Turns out the lines here in Hoboken were atrocious this morning, and they weren't giving out any stickers. Bastards. My roommate thought it was ridiculous that I wanted a sticker. Maybe they only give those out in Missouri. Anyway, I was starting to get irritated with all the people screaming at me to vote. Ram it down my throat, why don't you? I'm voting, OK? Geeeez. So at 7 p.m. mind you, I voted. Those damn things are so confusing, I thought I was supposed to push "Cast Your Vote" after every green "X" I marked. Turns out you're supposed to press "Cast Your Vote" at the very end. No wonder my dad always tells me to read directions first. What do they say—patience is a virtue? I guess I don't have any virtues. At least I voted for KERRY-EDWARDS first. That's all we're really concerned about anyway. So now as I sit here playing Solitaire with Snood intervals, it's becoming quite clear that this IDIOT might win the election. Uh-oh.
