picture it - me, sad. forces outside of my control moved me to texas, texas, YE HAW and i'm afarid that the jolie-pitts have no intention of ever following me here. sure, i get back to louisiana from time to time but not being in new orleans full time has seriously made me question whether i will ever be able to return to stalking celebrities.
until now.
i learned this evening that this town is CHOCK FULL of celebrity. mc hammer? check. chole dao? check. that other guy who did some stuff at some point and got to be on the television? HECK YEAH CHECK. i'm thinking now that if i got some of these b stars on my side, they could hook me up with the jolie-pitt clan. surely you get a directory when you make a movie with contact information for folks in case you ever, say, need to call up george clooney and find out how to insert a central line in a pre-teen. fyi i totally saw him do that once so don't let him be all 'i'm not really a doctor' when you ask him.
when i see mc hammer the first thing i'm going to ask him is how to find the jolie-pitts. the second will be where he stands on HEW-ston v YOU-ston debate.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
le fourthe of july-e
earlier this week it occurred to me that i honestly had no idea why we celebrated the fourth of july here in the old u s of a. i was pretty sure it had something to do with independence and possibly the celebration of explosives but, sadly, my elementary school american history has been pushed out my brain by far more pressing information such as my facebook login. which, really? it important. facebook is where i learn about what people i never liked in high school are doing. sadly, they aren't doing much and i have found little evidence that any of them are passively stalking celebrities. there's maybe one broad who seems to have a lot to say about ini kamoze (i'm the lyrical gangsta) but i don't think she's really brought it a level that, say, we could commiserate about over coffee and scones.
anyway, fourth of july. so it seems that this holiday is dedicated to the independence of america from, uh, that...other...place with the people and the monarchy and maybe the spice girls? whatever, i'll ask google later for some details but the gist is that america became america. woo and hoo. but, really? who wouldn't give up some excess property in the middle of f'ing july? it is hot and i'm pretty sure that the oppressors were just ready to go back home and call this whole heated swamp a wash. yeah, i know not everyone lives in a swamp but i do and, frankly, it is hot. ungodly hot. unbearably hot. the kind of hot that makes you question whether humans should really live in such an awful place. and why do we celebrate the hot by generating more heat via explosives? this just seems like poor planning. the fouth of july should feature, say, the world's largest outdoor hvac system cranked down to 45 degrees and pointed directly at my face. they could have american flags blowing in the gentle conditioned air breeze and sammy davis jr could serenade us all with 'god bless mr. carrier'. only that wouldn't happen because everyone knows sammy davis jr is one of the dearly departed. sigh. when we perfect corpse reanimation the first in line should be the rat pack.
i'm at least hoping that this year santa claus gets my letter and the fireworks over the mississippi river explode in a red, white, and blue sparkly visage of the jolie-pitts. my country tis of jolie-pitt.
still haven't seen 'em. tricksy bastards.
anyway, fourth of july. so it seems that this holiday is dedicated to the independence of america from, uh, that...other...place with the people and the monarchy and maybe the spice girls? whatever, i'll ask google later for some details but the gist is that america became america. woo and hoo. but, really? who wouldn't give up some excess property in the middle of f'ing july? it is hot and i'm pretty sure that the oppressors were just ready to go back home and call this whole heated swamp a wash. yeah, i know not everyone lives in a swamp but i do and, frankly, it is hot. ungodly hot. unbearably hot. the kind of hot that makes you question whether humans should really live in such an awful place. and why do we celebrate the hot by generating more heat via explosives? this just seems like poor planning. the fouth of july should feature, say, the world's largest outdoor hvac system cranked down to 45 degrees and pointed directly at my face. they could have american flags blowing in the gentle conditioned air breeze and sammy davis jr could serenade us all with 'god bless mr. carrier'. only that wouldn't happen because everyone knows sammy davis jr is one of the dearly departed. sigh. when we perfect corpse reanimation the first in line should be the rat pack.
i'm at least hoping that this year santa claus gets my letter and the fireworks over the mississippi river explode in a red, white, and blue sparkly visage of the jolie-pitts. my country tis of jolie-pitt.
still haven't seen 'em. tricksy bastards.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
last summer i decided that my 2 year-old daughter needed a pet. since her pop and i are both allergic (hate) cats and dogs - well, dogs require assistance taking a crap that i'm not willing to give - i decided to buy her fishies. in fact, i bought her 5 (!) fishies - each with his own name and personality. there was mr. orange, who was quite orange. mr. yellow, who was...ok, so they had lame ass names but at least i took those 23 seconds to name them and present them to my Very Excited daughter as such. she was beside herself with joy. fishies! real! live! fishies! i even got the moment on video. i felt like a Good Parent and went to bed that patting myself on the back and imagining all sorts of scenarios where my daughter the president/olympic hero/oscar winner made speeches to larry king thanking her mommy for believing in her and, of course, buying her fish as a toddler.
then one of the fish died. it happened less than 24 hours after putting him in the bowl. thankfully, bea wasn't good with counting so she didn't notice the drop from 5 to 4.
then one of the fish mysteriously disappeared. cannabilism is suspected.
then there were three. three happy fish who swam around and amused my daughter. oh the times we had with the fish. there was the time we, uh, watched them swim around. then the time we stayed up late...watching them...swim. admittedly, fish are fucking lame. they aren't even particularly pretty fish or exotic fish. in fact, they are 99 cent fish from wal-mart. but they are my daughter's fishies and she loves them. so much so that i moved the fishtank out of her room and into the kitchen and she never noticed. so much so that when i cried over having to leave them behind as we evacuated nola under threat of gustav, mother of all storms bea was all 'why you sad, mommy? what fishies?' incidentally, those fish stayed alive for a whole week without food or the special tank bubbler or lights. them fishies? hardy little bastards.
then one died. i have no idea why he died but one day we looked at the tank and he was floating along the bottom, not breathing. hmph. at least there are two more.
it took me a couple of days to get up the gumption to clean the tank and remove the carcass. i don't know if you've ever had to clean a fish tank but it really is a pain in the ass and, well, the other fishies didn't seem to mind the dead one (who eventually floated to the top). i like to think that i was allowing his friends an appropriate amount of time to mourn the loss of their tankmate.
i cleaned the tank on a tuesday. a cold tuesday. i put the two live fish in a measuring cup by the side, filled with fresh clean water. cold water. then i scrubbed the scum and lingering death juices from the tank, put in the special water drops that the guy at the pet store convinced me i needed and let the two fish back in the now clean tank water. cold water. they sort of...well, they sort of stayed really quiet and still and at the bottom, but they were breathing. i thought that maybe the cold water was a little bit of a shock and that they just needed some time to get used to the new water. i sprinkled some food, thinking that maybe food would be just the thing to get them moving again. no one moved. i checked and, yes, they were breathing so i left 'em alone. again, they were breathing. the fish were alive the last time i checked.
later that day...i was informed that the fish were dead. dead dead dead. i had killed the last two fish. i'm pretty sure i froze them to death but i maintain that it was accident. a sad sad unfortunate accident. i murdered my daughter's fish. but, hey, it's been a while since she noticed the fish so, yeah, it's cool. i thought briefly about replacing the fish but, meh - she hadn't mentioned the fish in months.
cue yesterday when my darling toddler proclaimed, 'mommy! someone took my fishies! where are my fishies!' well, fuck. i panicked and i swear the only thing i could come up with was to tell her that her fish were on vacation. naturally, this led to my writing a postcard 'from' her fish explaining to my daughter that they were away at disney world, having a lovely time. really. i wrote this on the back of a pluto christmas card. why i bothered to write this out for a kid who can't read yet? don't know. where this will end up? don't know. maybe the fish are destined to have a raucous round-the-world adventure. likely, i'll forget about it soon and the fishies will remain a distant memory in my toddler's brain only to be brought to the surface during regression therapy where some quack will explain to my daughter that the key to all of her psychological issues is that her mother lied to her at age 3 about what happened to her fishies.
you know where the fishies are not? they are NOT with the jolie-pitts.
then one of the fish died. it happened less than 24 hours after putting him in the bowl. thankfully, bea wasn't good with counting so she didn't notice the drop from 5 to 4.
then one of the fish mysteriously disappeared. cannabilism is suspected.
then there were three. three happy fish who swam around and amused my daughter. oh the times we had with the fish. there was the time we, uh, watched them swim around. then the time we stayed up late...watching them...swim. admittedly, fish are fucking lame. they aren't even particularly pretty fish or exotic fish. in fact, they are 99 cent fish from wal-mart. but they are my daughter's fishies and she loves them. so much so that i moved the fishtank out of her room and into the kitchen and she never noticed. so much so that when i cried over having to leave them behind as we evacuated nola under threat of gustav, mother of all storms bea was all 'why you sad, mommy? what fishies?' incidentally, those fish stayed alive for a whole week without food or the special tank bubbler or lights. them fishies? hardy little bastards.
then one died. i have no idea why he died but one day we looked at the tank and he was floating along the bottom, not breathing. hmph. at least there are two more.
it took me a couple of days to get up the gumption to clean the tank and remove the carcass. i don't know if you've ever had to clean a fish tank but it really is a pain in the ass and, well, the other fishies didn't seem to mind the dead one (who eventually floated to the top). i like to think that i was allowing his friends an appropriate amount of time to mourn the loss of their tankmate.
i cleaned the tank on a tuesday. a cold tuesday. i put the two live fish in a measuring cup by the side, filled with fresh clean water. cold water. then i scrubbed the scum and lingering death juices from the tank, put in the special water drops that the guy at the pet store convinced me i needed and let the two fish back in the now clean tank water. cold water. they sort of...well, they sort of stayed really quiet and still and at the bottom, but they were breathing. i thought that maybe the cold water was a little bit of a shock and that they just needed some time to get used to the new water. i sprinkled some food, thinking that maybe food would be just the thing to get them moving again. no one moved. i checked and, yes, they were breathing so i left 'em alone. again, they were breathing. the fish were alive the last time i checked.
later that day...i was informed that the fish were dead. dead dead dead. i had killed the last two fish. i'm pretty sure i froze them to death but i maintain that it was accident. a sad sad unfortunate accident. i murdered my daughter's fish. but, hey, it's been a while since she noticed the fish so, yeah, it's cool. i thought briefly about replacing the fish but, meh - she hadn't mentioned the fish in months.
cue yesterday when my darling toddler proclaimed, 'mommy! someone took my fishies! where are my fishies!' well, fuck. i panicked and i swear the only thing i could come up with was to tell her that her fish were on vacation. naturally, this led to my writing a postcard 'from' her fish explaining to my daughter that they were away at disney world, having a lovely time. really. i wrote this on the back of a pluto christmas card. why i bothered to write this out for a kid who can't read yet? don't know. where this will end up? don't know. maybe the fish are destined to have a raucous round-the-world adventure. likely, i'll forget about it soon and the fishies will remain a distant memory in my toddler's brain only to be brought to the surface during regression therapy where some quack will explain to my daughter that the key to all of her psychological issues is that her mother lied to her at age 3 about what happened to her fishies.
you know where the fishies are not? they are NOT with the jolie-pitts.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
since the birth of my second child, i have a been little uncomfortable with my body. sure, everyone says 'you JUST had a baby' but the truth is, i had a baby 3 months ago. if i had gotten a bad perm and was all 'my hair is a kinky krap mop' people wouldn't say 'but you JUST got the perm - it will get better!' no, the perm will never get better. they haven't improved the formula since 1987 and a quick trip through your own photo albums will illustrate that, even then, perms were wrong with a capital WRON. so i feel a little self-conscious about my figure since packing on [cough cough] pounds while growing my bouncing baby moose and this self-consciousness is compounded by the fact that i have almost no clothes that fit me. i can choose to either relive the round times by putting on maternity pants or pretend that camel toes are the height of 21st century fashion and pour my chunka thighs into pre-pregnancy jeans.
this morning i decided to temper my body image and clothing problem by choosing to wear sassy underthings under my frumpy overthings. i found a lacy racy thong (the exact nature of my underthings play an important role later in the story - i'm not just being overly descriptive) and matching bra and set about feeling Better About Myself. i'm not going to lie, the set did not quite resemble the sexy get-up it once was...including but not limited to the fact that i kept having to chase errant lumps of my luscious lactating ta-tas trying to escape from a b-cup of delusion. staring at myself in the mirror, i thought that perhaps my continuous boob-tucking and saggy ass would only serve to depress me more so i scrapped the whole idea and went to the laundry pile to try again. only, i didn't find another set. i got distracted by something or another (kid) and left the house in a more reasonable bra but forgot about the racy drawers.
i made it the whole day without much concern over the underpants except that i had a hot date in the late afternoon at the gym. since media likes to shove in my (fat) face that other women (like the jolie-pitt matriarch) can have babies and go back to looking great (skinny) before the kid is old enough to open his eyes. oh wait, that's kittens and puppies that are born with their eyes shut, not humans. come to it - why are kittens and puppies born blind? i have no idea and if i take a minute to think about it i can come up with maybe 100 reasons why this is an evolutionary DISadvantage to the feline/canine species. but anyway, celebrities (ms. j-p) show up hours after their offspring are sprung looking like they maybe let loose at the shoney's breakfast buffet that morning but they were always a bit on the thin side so the extra weight kooks kind of good on them anyway. so because i am a whore to media, i go to the gym and because i am also lazy and under the delusion that i have hidden stores of wealth, i sought the help of a personal trainer.
my personal personal trainer is called johnny, is maybe 21 years old, a little dumb, and extraordinarily attractive. i carefully planned my day such that i would be at home with enough time to carefully pick out work-out clothes and make myself look presentable before my appointment. as luck (laziness) would have it, i was running late and dashed out the door, not really able to take much time to make sure i looked good enough such that johnny did not (rightfully) judge me a sad, overweight, thirty-something lactating mother. when i got to the gym, i headed to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. my shirt? stained and see-through. and what do you see when you see through my shirt? my see-through sports bra. and through the see through sports bra? two sad little pads that keep milk from squirting out of my gigantic lactating ta-tas and onto an unsuspecting public. pants? not bad from the front but when i turn around...oh sweet jesus! i am still. wearing. the. thong. so now there's nothing protecting my ass's lumpy secrets. super. now i'm sitting in the bathroom trying to think of all the ways i can work out while sitting and all the reasons i can give johnny, the beautiful trainer, for needing to remain seated at all times.
thankfully, since this was our first meeting we didn't actually do any training today but set up an appointment for tomorrow when i can be sure to have on appropriate underthings. but, see, since i am me i couldn't just LEAVE the gym at that point. i was already in obvious work-out clothes and i didn't want to seem the slouch in front of the lovely johnny so i decided to go ahead and get to exercising. again, not wanting to seem a fat loser, i go to the treadmill where i crank up the incline and speed and huff and puff through an entire episode of judge mathis. then i go to the weird elliptical/gazelle hybrid/torture device and huff and puff through the local news. then i go to the bike and huff and puff through an entire issue of entertainment weekly. the entire time i'm thinking to myself 'wow! i must look GOOD in front of johnny! look at how hard i'm working! look at the sweat pouring off of my head! man, my butt feels a little moist.'
i get up from the bike, reach across the seat to retrieve my water from the side harness and that's when i notice that the seat of the bike is wet. confusion turns to horror as i realize that my racy little thong has allowed racy little beads of sweat to pour down my ass and through my pants. i have...an awkwardly sweaty ass. if i were about 50 pounds lighter i could maybe pull off the sweaty ass look but as it stands i am a moderately pudgy mother with a lumpy ass who just soiled the stationary bicycle. i literally - LITERALLY - walked backwards with my hands over my ass to my car. which, incidentally, meant walking through a tremendous thunderstorm but no way in hell was i going to hang out waiting for a lull in the weather when i was already dripping from the ass cheek.
so, yeah. thank god i didn't run into any jolie-pitts because i would have had to seriously, seriously weigh the pros and cons of awkward sweaty ass v j-p obsession.
this morning i decided to temper my body image and clothing problem by choosing to wear sassy underthings under my frumpy overthings. i found a lacy racy thong (the exact nature of my underthings play an important role later in the story - i'm not just being overly descriptive) and matching bra and set about feeling Better About Myself. i'm not going to lie, the set did not quite resemble the sexy get-up it once was...including but not limited to the fact that i kept having to chase errant lumps of my luscious lactating ta-tas trying to escape from a b-cup of delusion. staring at myself in the mirror, i thought that perhaps my continuous boob-tucking and saggy ass would only serve to depress me more so i scrapped the whole idea and went to the laundry pile to try again. only, i didn't find another set. i got distracted by something or another (kid) and left the house in a more reasonable bra but forgot about the racy drawers.
i made it the whole day without much concern over the underpants except that i had a hot date in the late afternoon at the gym. since media likes to shove in my (fat) face that other women (like the jolie-pitt matriarch) can have babies and go back to looking great (skinny) before the kid is old enough to open his eyes. oh wait, that's kittens and puppies that are born with their eyes shut, not humans. come to it - why are kittens and puppies born blind? i have no idea and if i take a minute to think about it i can come up with maybe 100 reasons why this is an evolutionary DISadvantage to the feline/canine species. but anyway, celebrities (ms. j-p) show up hours after their offspring are sprung looking like they maybe let loose at the shoney's breakfast buffet that morning but they were always a bit on the thin side so the extra weight kooks kind of good on them anyway. so because i am a whore to media, i go to the gym and because i am also lazy and under the delusion that i have hidden stores of wealth, i sought the help of a personal trainer.
my personal personal trainer is called johnny, is maybe 21 years old, a little dumb, and extraordinarily attractive. i carefully planned my day such that i would be at home with enough time to carefully pick out work-out clothes and make myself look presentable before my appointment. as luck (laziness) would have it, i was running late and dashed out the door, not really able to take much time to make sure i looked good enough such that johnny did not (rightfully) judge me a sad, overweight, thirty-something lactating mother. when i got to the gym, i headed to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. my shirt? stained and see-through. and what do you see when you see through my shirt? my see-through sports bra. and through the see through sports bra? two sad little pads that keep milk from squirting out of my gigantic lactating ta-tas and onto an unsuspecting public. pants? not bad from the front but when i turn around...oh sweet jesus! i am still. wearing. the. thong. so now there's nothing protecting my ass's lumpy secrets. super. now i'm sitting in the bathroom trying to think of all the ways i can work out while sitting and all the reasons i can give johnny, the beautiful trainer, for needing to remain seated at all times.
thankfully, since this was our first meeting we didn't actually do any training today but set up an appointment for tomorrow when i can be sure to have on appropriate underthings. but, see, since i am me i couldn't just LEAVE the gym at that point. i was already in obvious work-out clothes and i didn't want to seem the slouch in front of the lovely johnny so i decided to go ahead and get to exercising. again, not wanting to seem a fat loser, i go to the treadmill where i crank up the incline and speed and huff and puff through an entire episode of judge mathis. then i go to the weird elliptical/gazelle hybrid/torture device and huff and puff through the local news. then i go to the bike and huff and puff through an entire issue of entertainment weekly. the entire time i'm thinking to myself 'wow! i must look GOOD in front of johnny! look at how hard i'm working! look at the sweat pouring off of my head! man, my butt feels a little moist.'
i get up from the bike, reach across the seat to retrieve my water from the side harness and that's when i notice that the seat of the bike is wet. confusion turns to horror as i realize that my racy little thong has allowed racy little beads of sweat to pour down my ass and through my pants. i have...an awkwardly sweaty ass. if i were about 50 pounds lighter i could maybe pull off the sweaty ass look but as it stands i am a moderately pudgy mother with a lumpy ass who just soiled the stationary bicycle. i literally - LITERALLY - walked backwards with my hands over my ass to my car. which, incidentally, meant walking through a tremendous thunderstorm but no way in hell was i going to hang out waiting for a lull in the weather when i was already dripping from the ass cheek.
so, yeah. thank god i didn't run into any jolie-pitts because i would have had to seriously, seriously weigh the pros and cons of awkward sweaty ass v j-p obsession.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
an open letter to 2006
i'm sure that every year since 0 bc has struggled with issues of being significant. why will i be remebered? what contributions have i, eh, contributed to the history of mankind? if you think about it, it must be hard to be a year and it must suck ass to be 2006. take a second to think back to the 2006 and name 4 nifty things that happened in the world. whole lotta nothin.
the united nations declared 2005 'the year of microcredit' and 2007 'the year of the dolphin'
2006? 'the year of desert and desertification' i'm sorry, 2006, but's that fucking lame. it was slightly less lame when i first read it and thought that 2006 was the year of 'desSert and desSertification' but then i corrected myself and that fleeting street cred fled.
on behalf of years 2001, 2002, 2003, 2oo4, 2005, 2007, 2008, and 2009 i would like to offer an apology to you, 2006 for being the lamest two-oh-year.
the united nations declared 2005 'the year of microcredit' and 2007 'the year of the dolphin'
2006? 'the year of desert and desertification' i'm sorry, 2006, but's that fucking lame. it was slightly less lame when i first read it and thought that 2006 was the year of 'desSert and desSertification' but then i corrected myself and that fleeting street cred fled.
on behalf of years 2001, 2002, 2003, 2oo4, 2005, 2007, 2008, and 2009 i would like to offer an apology to you, 2006 for being the lamest two-oh-year.
Friday, January 2, 2009
an open letter to 2008
1356h
pj's coffee & tea co.
dear 2008,
does me cowering on the algiers levee like a raving lunatic while inebriated men in baseball caps set off awe-inspiring numbers of bottle rockets count as going out with a bang or a whimper? or both? no matter.
i've had a few days to try missing you. and you know what, 2008? i can't miss you if you won't go away. i see you everywhere i go: in my car that still needs a side view mirror from that time a tree branch fell on it. in the job i still don't have. in the fantastic boy i still haven't met despite my continued attempts to get myself drunk and easy to take advantage of. in the terror-producing volume of coffee i consume every day. on the flying car i was promised and still have seen neither hide nore hair of.
so you're on notice, 2008. i've got a notary on retainer and i'm just about ready to pull the trigger on a restraining order.
speaking of which. you know who really shouldn't be considering a restraining order? the jolie-pitts.
xxoo,
urbanity
pj's coffee & tea co.
dear 2008,
does me cowering on the algiers levee like a raving lunatic while inebriated men in baseball caps set off awe-inspiring numbers of bottle rockets count as going out with a bang or a whimper? or both? no matter.
i've had a few days to try missing you. and you know what, 2008? i can't miss you if you won't go away. i see you everywhere i go: in my car that still needs a side view mirror from that time a tree branch fell on it. in the job i still don't have. in the fantastic boy i still haven't met despite my continued attempts to get myself drunk and easy to take advantage of. in the terror-producing volume of coffee i consume every day. on the flying car i was promised and still have seen neither hide nore hair of.
so you're on notice, 2008. i've got a notary on retainer and i'm just about ready to pull the trigger on a restraining order.
speaking of which. you know who really shouldn't be considering a restraining order? the jolie-pitts.
xxoo,
urbanity
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)