Wednesday, January 30, 2008

SOME PEOPLE suck at life

Sometimes I have absolutely nothing to write about. Part of the reason for this is that I actually like my job. I'm satisfied. And none of the people that I work with are the kind of cranky shitheads that make for good blog stories. In fact, I really like everyone I work with. Indeed, no one ever talks about the sunshine.

That's why it is fantastic that I've taken on job #2. Now I've got a job I can whine about.

At the end of Sunday's shift, the catering manager guy --I don't know his title, let's call him Sven --told me to email him with my start and end times for the day. So on Monday I emailed him "1:45 to 7:45pm." There. Done and done.

Wait. No. Then Sven emails me "Just wondering why you say 1:45 when you were supposed to start at 2."

I roll my eyes and email back. "Ok well then I started at 2. No big deal." Damn, there goes my extra $3.

"Well why did you say 1:45 when you started at 2?" Oh my god.

"Because the shift leader wrote down 1:45 on that little blue piece of paper she was carrying around and so I thought I would just be consistent with what she said. But we agreed on 2 so put 2. It's fine."

"I'm not concerned with what we agreed on, but did you start at 1:45 or 2." Are you kidding me?

"I guess thinking about it, it was closer to 2. Thanks for looking into it!" See how I try to end on a positive note? I still want him to like me.

It sure seems like that should be the end of it. But wait, there's more! Today I see I have another email from him. Oh boy! He wants me for another job. Yay, I'm rich! Adios, Back Monkey!

Not so fast. It's really a mass email sent to everyone who worked on Sunday, reminding them to email him with their hours. "For the clock out time, include whatever time your shift leader wrote on his/her blue time sheet." But then, the kicker. "For your start time, please put whatever start time we agreed on. SOME PEOPLE are telling me they started at 1:45 when they really started at 2. The explanation they gave was that this is what the shift leader had written down on their blue time sheets. Does this make sense to any of you? Didn't think so."

What. The. Fuck. And why am I the moron for writing what my shift leader wrote as a start time, when he is instructing me to go by what she wrote as an end time? MAN OH MAN is it hard not to write back and tell him to blow me.

Monday, January 28, 2008

And now introducing...job #2

I wasn't being honest with you when I made my list of New Year's resolutions. There's actually one more resolution. A big one. I resolve to fix my financial mess.

When I moved to LA after college, the shock of living in a big expensive city, combined with my crappy paying job and my inexperience with being a grown up proved to be a recipe for disaster. And so began the Great Credit Card Charge-a-thon that was my early 20s. And now, there's this: I'm in a decent-paying job and have everything else figured out (sort of), but I have this debt to get rid of. I think this is referred to as "a monkey on my back." But my monkey is a lousy passenger, poking me in the eyes, rubbing poo in my hair, and making too much noise while I'm trying to watch TV.

The monkey must die.

Wait. That's cruel. It isn't the monkey's fault.

The monkey must be driven out to the country side and set free.

And so a few weeks ago I began perusing craigslist for part-time weekend work and found a post looking for servers for a catering company. Catering is great part time work because it pays well, it isn't terribly difficult, often you score free food, and you get to be at all kinds of big fancy parties so you can kind of trick yourself into thinking you've been at a party instead of at work.

The job post asked for me to send a resume, so I spent all of 4 seconds drawing up one with all of my various waitressing and catering jobs. But then it also asked for me to send a picture. Which was creepy. And I'm pretty sure illegal, as well. Then my paranoia set in and I wondered if this was just some sleezeball collecting pictures of girls. What if he's a serial killer who will lure me in with his fake job offer? What if Mystery Perv photoshops my face onto some naked body and puts me on a porn site?

Ok, I shouldn't flatter myself. Plus, I need the money so it's worth the risk. If it's a picture he wants, then a picture he shall receive.

But then it occurred to me that I have no acceptable pictures of myself. This is partly because I'm not very photogenic and tend to be captured in pictures with my mouth half open and my eyes half closed, or in poses that give me a double chin or super fat arms. And in all of the rest of the pictures, when I actually compose myself and smile, I've also managed to hold up whatever alcoholic beverage I'm drinking just before the camera's flash goes off. And since I didn't think the catering company/Mystery Perv would appreciate my sending "Still Life With Corona Lite," I decided I better take a new, appropriate picture of myself. Using mac's photobooth application. While sitting at my desk at work. Gee, cool.

So I began to pose at my desk, trying to look respectable. And also trying, some how, to make it look like somebody else had taken the picture so I didn't look totally effing lame. Unable to judge the pictures properly, I enlisted the help of friend Anne. I emailed her my winning picture so far. She responded "you look angry." So I tried smiling. Which made me look stupid. "Try smiling with your mouth open," she replies. So I tried that, while angling my desk lamp into my face, all while glancing around the room to make sure my coworkers weren't noticing me. "Try looking like someone caught you laughing. Try laughing." So then I tried to force myself to laugh, silently, while turning my head from one side to the other, to end up facing towards the light right when I snapped the picture. "There, perfect, you look like someone caught you by surprise." Man I'm pathetic.

But at least I got an email to interview for the job. And the interview was at a public place, and the catering company has a whole website and turns out to be real thing. Yay! No serial killer!

Yesterday I worked my first event. It was held at the Shrine auditorium, which is on the USC campus, which is in some part of LA that I've never been to and that I don't think anyone knows exists. Seriously, there is nothing there but abandoned warehouses and parking lots with chain link fences.

I had to park in a scary parking garage and take a shuttle to the event. As I'm sitting on the shuttle bus (the short bus, as it were...), I see this guy dressed in the same outfit as me. Black dress shirt, and black pants, and dorky black shoes with a little buckle on them. I'm tempted to introduce myself and make a little catering friend, but then I stop myself, worried that maybe he's just dressed like a waiter, but isn't one, and then I will have a whole awkward bus ride with him. And I know how embarrassing it is for someone to make that mistake. Twice I have been mistaken for a valet parking attendant, which I can't understand because it's not like I go out to restaurants in a red windbreaker and khakis.

After I check in at the kitchen, I'm given an apron --one of those "bistro style" ones that is long and goes all the way to my ankles and makes me look like a chess piece. Then I'm given a necktie. Like an actual tie tie. Like I have a clue how to do this! I try to act like I'm awesome and so I just drape it around my neck and leave it that way for a few minutes while I wait to be given some kind of task.

Fortunately, I spot shuttle bus guy, who recognizes me and helps me tie my tie. Turns out, everyone I work with is just as friendly and nice as he is. And all in all, I rather enjoyed myself.

So thus began day one of my other job. If I just work at approximately 40,000 more events like this, I think I can make enough money for the monkey relocation fund.

Friday, January 25, 2008

A crappy week

Ok, it's been over a week since I've posted anything. But I've been sick. Siiiiick. Grroaaan. I even called in sick to work on Wednesday and I seriously can't recall the last time I did that. I may never have called in sick once in my adult (post-college) life. What a goody-two-shoes!

Here is a breakdown of my sick day:

9:00 Watched 6 episodes of 30 Rock on DVD.
11:30am Made tea and eggo waffle.
11:45 Watched 8 episodes of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.
2:45pm Pet cat.
3:00pm Napped, apparently. 1.5 hours unaccounted for.
4:30 pm Watched Adaptation.
6:30pm In a weird mood following the weird movie, stared out the window at the rain.
6:35pm Washed face.

So as you can imagine, I have no news to report. Nothing has transpired.

Thursday, January 17, 2008

The Disaster That Was My Attempt to Enlist the Expertise of a Personal Trainer

If you're a friend of mine, or a coworker, or someone who has come within 3 feet of me in the past week, I've no doubt regaled you with the story of how my gym ripped me off and made me super pissed. I know how much everyone delights in hearing my every thought, dream, and complaint, conveyed with too loud a voice and accompanied with ill-fitting hand gestures. And so, you're welcome.

But for everyone else, let me share with you my saga. I hope you've got about 2 hours to kill.

It all started last Monday, when the boyfriend and I, inspired by the promise of a New Year, decided to sign up at the new-ish giant gym that opened nearby. The gym was beautiful. The lockers in the locker room were wooden! They looked so elegant. All of the machines were shiney! And our tour guide/sales rep was a bit of a twirp, but seemed like a nice enough guy. I was impressed and so we signed up. All was well with the world.

And then, staying true to myself, I simply HAD to go effing it all up.

I went back to the gym the next day to work out. After spending 30 mins on the elliptical machine, watching an episode of Malcolm in the Middle on close caption on the TV in front of me, I wandered over the the weight machine area.

And then I wandered some more.

And then I sort of leaned on something that looked like it was maybe meant to build up your shoulder muscles?

Ok, I have no clue what to do in this area. I mean, I get how the machines work because they all have little diagrams of hairless, faceless people demonstrating proper usage. But I don't know what ones are best for me or how many reps to do, etc. "Oh, woe is me," I thought to myself, now leaning on some other piece of equipment. "If only someone could tell me what to do..."

Ding! I remembered every new member gets a free consultation with a personal trainer. And I know that the whole point is for the trainer to push you into signing up for overpriced individual sessions, but it's FREE! And I love me some free stuff.

I made my appointment with someone named Jason for the following night. I showed up for the session, my third night at the gym in a row!, and gave myself 15 minutes to warm up before my 7pm appointment. Then I went to the trainer's desk, only to be told that Jason was occupied with someone else and that I would have to wait until they could find someone else to help me. How dare they! In hindsight, this was the first clue that everything was going to go terribly wrong.

So the head trainer guy told me, as if he'd thought of a brilliant idea, to go warm up for 15 mins. But, but, but. Oh, all right. Fine. Then he found me about 25 minutes later, now thoroughly sick of the blasted treadmill and the whole freaking gym. He introduced me to my replacement trainer, Gia, who was very skinny and very pretty and I immediately felt like an ugly sweaty cow. (This is how they begin manipulating you, you see.)

For the next 10 minutes, Gia talked at about 400 words per second, reviewing the basics of fitness and nutrition and about why, now that I am 25, I will start getting fat really easily and so I need to build up muscle and how everything I am doing is wrong wrong wrong, all while drawing confusing sketches that looked sort of like this:
Wait, what?

No time to explain! Let's go work out! Weeee!

She darted off and ran upstairs and I tried to keep up. When I got to the top of the stairs she was standing near one of the walls, and though she wasn't actually holding a clipboard and blowing into a whistle, that's how she looks now in my memory of this moment. And then she was like, "Ok now do some squats. Lower! Hold it! 50 more! Now staying in the squat, jump and land in a squat!" What? "Go! Do it! Now 25 more!" Are you kidding?

And so it went for like 20 minutes. Afterwards, she brought out this little machine with 2 handles, and told me to hold it out straight in front of me. Turns out, this gadget sends little electrowaves through your body and tells you how much body fat you have. Also, turns out I'm a hippo.

26%! I started to do the math in my head. 26% body fat + the average person is 65% water, hmmm...

Then she showed me on her diagram how I fit into the "fair" range on the Body Mass Index scale, just at the borderline of "poor" territory. And that, I think, was what pushed me into wanting to sign up for personal training sessions. So Gia went over all of my options, which were all ridiculously expensive and I was ready to throw in the towel (though not literally because I always forget to bring a towel to the gym with me).

Now here's a piece of info about me: I can be sold ANYTHING no matter how much I don't need or want it. It's awful. It's the reason my car has an absurdly high tech alarm system worthy of a ferrari. It's why I can't watch infomercials because they've caused me to order the ab roller, the ab crunch, and the tae-bo extreme complete work out dvd set. It's why I have almost ordered Proactiv about 60 times, even though my skin is fine, just because Jennifer Love Hewitt says so. And it's why I ended up agreeing to a year's worth of training sessions, after Gia agreed to give me the student discount.

But I didn't know I had to pay for my first 2 sessions, plus some bullshit sign up fee, right then and there that very second. But Gia pulled the old bait and switch because as she had me talking about where I grew up and blah blah, she was billing my debit card that the gym had on file. Suddenly she was like, ok, just sign the touch screen. Woah woah, wha? $200! What's all this? No thank you, I can't pay this now, so nevermind. "Oh but it's already been charged to your account." But, I need that money! Give it back! "I can process the refund in the morning, but it won't go back into your account for a week." Buh, buh, but...

And then all at once I was shaking hands, given some info packet and escorted out the door with a reassuring pat on the shoulder. It reminded me of when you are blindfolded and spun in circles before playing pin the tail on the donkey. That whole night I was just repeating "shit shit shit shit" in my head. How had I gotten myself into this?

The next day, Thursday, I went back to the gym during my lunch hour to cancel out of the plan and demand a refund. The whole drive over there I was muttering to myself, practicing the speech. I've been robbed! This is not how you do business! Unacceptable! But then when I actually got to the gym and approached the enemy, I came down with "wanting the cool girl to like me" syndrome, and I just wanted to seem like someone who could handle, and pay for, training sessions. So I left the gym that day with a reduced number of sessions, but still with the program. And I felt pretty good about it.

My official first session with Gia was scheduled for 12:30 on Sunday. At about 11:55 on Sunday, when I was buried in blankets on the couch and watching romantic comedies on HBO On-Demand, I debated canceling my appointment and ordering a thai food feast instead. But, no, I am determined to be fit!

So I went to my training session. But Gia did not. And after waiting around for 5 minutes at the training desk, I asked where she might be. "Oh, she isn't gonna make it in today. Didn't she call you?"
"Um, no."
"Oh, well she should have called you."
"I see."
"Were you here for a fitness assessment?"
"No, we already did that."
"But you were supposed to meet with Gia? Are you sure she didn't assign you over to someone else?"
"Yes I'm sure."
And that was about as helpful as anyone was that day. I was too annoyed to work out and so I went home. The following day, I called the gym to give Gia a piece of my mind. "Oh, Gia is no longer with us."
"Did she die?"
"No, she quit."
"Well that would explain why she didn't make it to our training session yesterday."
"Did you have a fitness assessment scheduled?"
"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"
"Because Gia isn't a trainer. She does assessments and signs people up." Puzzled, I rescheduled with a new person and then hung up.

And then 5 minutes later I had a manic twitch and was like, "NO! THIS IS FUCKED UP!" So I called back and left a message for the manager to call me. Of course, he did not call me, and after 6 hours of stewing over this whole catastrophe, I think I finally cracked. That night, I went to the gym after work, explained pretty much this entire big huge story to the manager, and he felt bad and gave me my money back.


Ok, I know the payoff wasn't so great after all that blahblahblah. But at least I stood up for myself.

The End.

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

What I'm Watching on TV Now That TV Sucks: Part II

(-) Shows That Are Making Me Stupid
(+) Shows That Are Making Me Stupid But I Don't Care

Network: VH1
Category: (+)
No, no, no. Scott Baio isn't actually pregnant. His girlfriend/fiance, Renee, is. You silly goose! But I also took the title literally at first, and that's why I tuned in.

"So it's just a show about a pregnant chick?" you ask. "Who cares?"

My friend, you are missing the point. This is SCOTT BAIO we're talking about. And that means...something. I don't know what, yet. But SOMETHING, surely, or the good folks at VH1 wouldn't have brought us his saga.

You may or may not have watched last season's show, Scott Baio is 45 and Single, in which Scott Baio gets himself into this mess. I myself didn't really watch anything after the first 2 episodes. But what I learned is this: Scott Baio has commitment issues, Scott Baio is a big fat baby, and Scott Baio is friends with Wayne from The Wonder Years. Oh, and also no one ever refers to him as "Scott." He is always Scott Baio. ScottBaio.

In the first episode of this new season, we find ScottBaio exactly where we left him at the end of last season. And where's that? Turns out his girlfriend, the one he couldn't decide if he should marry, is now pregnant. WITH A BABY. Holy guacamole! Now before you go jumping to conclusions, she in no way messed with her birth control to get herself knocked up and thus force poor ScottBaio to commit to her foreverandever. I mean, she seems nice so I can't imagine she would do that. After all, ScottBaio's personality is insufferable, so she wouldn't want to be with him if she didn't truly love him. Although, he does have enough money to spontaneously buy her this giant mansion:
And this big engagement ring:


Well whatever. No time to dwell on the hows and whys. ScottBaio is having a baby! And the man is totally helpless. Somebody do something!

Oh, phew, he's attending to Daddy To Be classes. I almost forgot.

But the first one did not go well. The whole time ScottBaio was like, "Ah! What's that?" and "Is that a baby?" and "I can't believe I'm doing this" and "It's crying" and "I think I might kill it by accident" and OHMYGOD SHUT UP, SCOTTBAIO! Settle down. The way he was faking total ineptitude around babies, I had trouble believing he ever was one.

Looks like Renee's got herself into quite the pickle. But you know me, I love a good trainwreck.

Network: NBC
Category: (-)
The other night I was making dinner in the kitchen when I thought I overheard something along the lines of, "Tonight blah blah blah Mayhem and Justice take down the challenger..." I poked my head around the corner to find the boyfriend was watching American Gladiators. And wait, is that modern day Hulk Hogan hosting it? Is this a NEW episode?

Who knew this show was coming back on? And whose idea was this anyway? Oh well too late now. Guess I'll HAVE to watch it. FINE.

For being back on for approximately 3 weeks, the new AG sure has accumulated a big mess of fans. And fans that already have a particular favorite gladiator. And a lot of them like Wolf:Although I don't see what's so great about him. He howls before he does just about anything. Practically before every step he takes, and it gets tiresome. And he says things like "I smell fear and I taste blood." What? Ew.

I think I like Crush. In fact I have a crush on Crush.
I have an idea for a new show called Average American Gladiator and instead of featuring contestants who are all personal trainers or ninjas or whatever, we'll just bring in people who work at Jiffy Lube or Applebee's. And there will be no Gladiators. It will be just contestants. And instead of the contestants having time to train for the contest, we'll send recruiters to the local mall to approach people at random. "Excuse me, would you like to be a contestant on Average American Gladiators? You would? Great, drop that Icee and come with me!"

Also, for my new show, I think that all of the events should be either the Joust, where the two competitors stand on platforms and hit each other with the big pillowy q-tip looking things, or The HamsterBall, which I think may really be called Atlasphere or something. But it's THE GREATEST.
And maybe I could invent a new hamster themed game. Like something with giant human Habitrails.

Now THAT's great television.

Monday, January 14, 2008

What I'm Watching On TV Now That TV Sucks: Part I

For those of us who work in the entertainment industry (obnoxiously dubbed from within as "THE INDUSTRY") the writers strike IS the news. Now, I won't go yammering on and on with my opinions on the matter (p.s. I do support the writers, obviously), but I do have something to say: It was bad enough when my boyfriend and about half of my friends lost their jobs in connection with the strike, but now it's really hitting home. That's right, it's messing with my TV shows. This. Means. War.

Because the writers haven't been working since November, networks have had enough time to burn through all of the previously written episodes of the shows I care about, like The Office, and Scrubs, and How I Met Your Mother, and 30 Rock. Of course the networks anticipated this happening, and so they've come up with loads more god awful reality TV shows and game shows. And then big fat suckers like me HAVE to watch them because there's simply no choice.

So I'd like to introduce you to what I've been watching lately. I've assigned each show to one of two categories: Shows That Are Making Me Stupid and Shows That Are Making Me Stupid But I Don't Care.

(-) Shows That Are Making Me Stupid
(+) Shows That Are Making Me Stupid But I Don't Care

Network: A&E
Category: (-)
Everyone, meet Ryan Buell. You might remember him as the vaguely poetic guy from your 11th grade US History class who went out with that girl with chipped black nail polish and her hair died blood red. Well, now he's all grown up and attending Penn State. And when he's not busy skulking around the quad or working at the Starbucks in the student center, he tracks down ghosts and demons with his pals, The Paranormal Research Society. The PRS is made up of about 5 students, including Ryan, who is the founder. The rest of the members are, I'm guessing, his freshman year roommate, the girl who signed on because she has an insane crush on Ryan, some cute girl he met on facebook, and this annoying girl that none of them like, but she's the only one who knows how to use the digital video camera so they put up with her.
The episodes play out like a live action Scooby Doo: the gang gets in their van and drives to the site of that week's haunting. Then they turn out all the lights, hear a noise from the attic, and freak out. Zoinks! They always decide they need to call in their expert medium, an older gay gentlemen who arrives on scene and just sort of bosses around the demons for a while. In the end, the PRS never seems to rid the home of demons or ghosts, and nothing ever gets resolved. But I guess that's fair enough, because they only have so much time to spare before they gotta hit up happy hour at Patty O'Sullivan's for $2 drafts.

Network: Style Network
Category: (-)
It's fitting that this show has such a clunker of a name because it's just about the worst wedding show on TV. The premise here is that lazy, ugly brides-to-be enlist the help of bitchy, french-manicured wedding planners to orchestrate the tacky self-important circus that is their Dream Wedding. Meanwhile, the grooms-to-be, who appear all but disgusted by their fiances and are always about 5'3" tall, loom quietly around in the background, sending text messages and sweating through their polo shirts.

I can't stress enough that the people on this show are terrible. The only moment of joy you can feel as a viewer is when an unexpected thunderstorm ruins the plans for a beautiful outdoor ceremony and then you get to see the bride cry and the wedding planner spring into action with Plan B: use white balloons to decorate the ballroom at the airport Marriot. Oh! And also when the bride wears a strapless wedding gown that causes arm fat to roll over the top and no one, not even her precious wedding planner, tells her that she looks lousy.

Apparently this show only airs in marathon form because I've never seen fewer than 3 episodes in a row. I don't know why I always feel compelled to watch one after another after another, except that maybe in a rare moment of optimism I assure myself, "Certainly the next episode has to be better than THIS." Well, let me assure you, it never is.

Network: History Channel
Category: (+)
At one point the History Channel was all snotty and only aired historical programs. Documentaries about the Third Reich and the Red Scare, for instance. Well, clearly they have seen the light and dumbed it down for better ratings. And judging by the new line up, which includes the titles "Gangland," "Mega Disasters," and "MonsterQuest," they've left the programming decisions to a 13 year old boy.

This is an unscripted show that each week focuses on one particular monster that allegedly lives among us. Some examples: The Swamp Beast, Birdzilla, Giant Fish, and Mutant Canines. A whole slew of experts, scientists, and full-time whackos show you photographic evidence of these beasts, and then they interview whatever hillbilly saw the creature when he was out huntin'.

One episode I particularly liked was Lions in Our Backyard, about giant man-eating cats. One scientist showed these pictures taken by an automatic camera at like 3 am in Arizona of what was undoubtedly a giant jaguar. Seriously. Look! WTF?! So, fellow southern Californians, if you were already spooked by the regular ol' cougar, you should know that enormous jaguars, who could probably EAT cougars, are migrating up from South America.

But then, as if to calm the viewer down, the show moved on to this other guy who frantically explained how he saw a huge black cat in his backyard and hurried to take pictures. Since I don't have the actual picture to show you, I found one that closely resembles his evidence.

Wah-Wah. It was fabulous watching zoologists examine this "big black cat" photo because they were all like, "Are you kidding?"

Usually the shows end without conclusion. But this was not the case with last night's episode, which focused on one of the most terrifying monsters of all: The Flying Rod. Apparently these little buggers show up in photos even when no one can see them in real life. And then for the whole episode scientists were like, "It's a bird! It's a plane! No, wait, it's a mysterious flying rod!" Ooooo. And on video, they zoom around, disappearing and reappearing. I was like high on this one scientist's theory that these were creatures moving in and out of a 4th dimension. Yes! Ok, but then in like the last 5 minutes, total buzzkill. The culprit, as it turns out: MOTHS. I guess cameras can't quite take their picture fast enough.


Of all the new shows I've been watching, MonsterQuest must be my new favorite, although I'm not exactly sure why. I do know, though, that for an hour you believe in all sorts of mysterious beings lurking in our forests. And then five minutes after the show ends you could care less again.

Ok, I am exhausted from all of this typity typing. More shows to come in part 2.

Tuesday, January 8, 2008


Dear MySpace Friends,

If you've had a baby in the past year, I can pretty much guarantee I've visited your page on like a weekly basis. If you have one of those myspace trackers that tells you who's been peaking at your page --and, yes, some of them work!--then you've probably seen my name come up more frequently than your best friend's and thought to yourself, "ew!" But let me assure you that I'm not actually that interested in you or your bebeh. I just can't stop myself from gawking.

I think it's just because it still shocks the piss outta me that some people in my peer group are handling these kinds of responsibilities. Look at you! You made a tiny person and now you're in charge of keeping it alive. So impressive. These days I'm just impressed with myself for getting something dry cleaned.

Now, as your former friend in high school who lost touch with you until two years ago when I found you on a better friend's friend list and sent you a friend request, or as your friend who you just hung out with at like two parties before drunkenly insisting that I needed to add you as a friend, I feel that we are really close. But the sad fact is that we never get to see each other. And I rely on that default myspace photo of you making a silly face and holding a drink to remember what you look like, sometimes. Which is why I must insist that you don't put up a picture of your baby as your main photo. It makes me super confused! Especially since, as you know, all babies look the same.

Of course you can put up all of the baby pictures that you want inside your albums. And my you sure do have a big ol' heap of pictures! "Album: Baby Conner - 143 pictures." Wow! Just look at him...sitting there. And sleeping. Is that one of him crying? Delightful!

And, Mama, you really are very clever when you come up with those captions. "What a diva!" "I love bath time!" "What are you lookin' at?" Ha! Brilliant. If it were boring, unoriginal me writing those captions, I wouldn't have been able to come up with anything better than "I'm a baby!" "My face is all squinty and red." "Me again."

Yes, your baby is very cute. And I mean that in the way that all babies are cute because they're babies so they sort of have to be. Anyway, good work! I'm sure if I ever stop feeling awkward around babies, I'll have one too, and then I will document every doctor visit and bath and t-shirt with funny phrase (Mommy's Little Devil) and show you all of the pictures.

However, dear friend, I really wish you wouldn't put up your ultrasound picture. I believed you when you put up your myspace bulletin, "It's a girl!" I didn't need the evidence. I trust you. That's what friendship is all about.

I don't know if you know this, but ultrasound babies look even more identical to one another than actual babies. How do you know that's even yours?

No, I see where you're coming from. I can imagine that you're just thrilled to bits right now that you have a happy healthy bun in your oven. But, seriously, that picture is weeeeird. It's all inside of you and, though I like you, I did not ask to see your insides! Although, in case you were curious, here's a picture of what's going on inside me:

Ok, there, now we're even. You probably hate me by now and probably think I'm a total byotch. (Remember back in the day when we used to say byotch?) I have to get back to work anyway. And you probably have to get back to wrapping your baby in swaddling clothes or whatever.

So take care!

UPDATE: The New Yearsss Crisis

Last night I went to sign up at the gym. Item #8 on the New Year's Resolution List- CHECK! And while sitting at the membership desk I noticed this:

Yes, Happy New Years indeed.

Monday, January 7, 2008

New Year's resolutions: Day 1

So far have not had any food (and therefore no cheese yet!) and have only had regular black coffee. Last night I had a mocha, but it was sort of a send off mocha and also I needed something warm to drink while standing in the rain, waiting in line for a UCB show. It's only 9:25 am so I can't be expected to have joined the gym or learned poker or anything yet.

I have another thought on the New Year. I've noticed that New Year's Eve and New Year's Day have been combined into one all purpose event called "New Years." Rarely will someone ask, "What are you doing for New Year's Eve?" Instead, people prefer the phrase, "What are you doing for New Years?" And it's not really like the latter has fewer words to get through, but it just seems easier to say. I've said it too. Although I always feel stupid and remorseful afterwards.

What I can't tolerate is the abuse of the English language that is the phrase: Happy New Years!

Barf barf barf! Unless you are wishing friends and colleagues the happiest of upcoming decades, then saying years makes no sense. Complete disregard for the existence and intention of the apostrophe-S combo.

And that's the lesson of the day from Professor Snobby Pants High Horse.

Thursday, January 3, 2008

2008. Or, 2007 part II.

Oh boy, a new year! Typically, I shun New Year's Eve and all things related, but this year I decided not to be such a crap about it. So, instead of locking myself in my apartment, sitting on my fat ass, and swigging champagne from the bottle, Devin (boyfriend) and I rang in the New Year in New York. It was a great trip, during which I had not one, but TWO gourmet cheese plates and got to wear a hotel complimentary bathrobe for the first time in my life. Ah, I felt just like Kevin McCallister in Home Alone 2: Lost in New York.

And now that I'm back home I am working on my list of New Year's resolutions. My dad has a theory that no one should aim to enforce these resolutions right from January 1st because there is still too much stuff going on and too much holiday food to eat. So instead I set a January 7th start date, which is precisely why I am currently drinking a starbucks mocha with whip cream before my vague resolution to eat healthy kicks in.

I can't figure out how many New Year's resolutions one person should have, but it seems like the longer the list, the greater the chance of staying true to at least one of them for the full year. Here's what I have so far:

1. No more starbucks mochas. (In December I gained 5 pounds from these little buggers!)
2. Drink only 1-2 glasses of wine per night. (Not aiming too high here.)
3. Stop interrupting people when they talk just because I think I have something so witty to say that it simply cannot wait.
4. Stop writing blog while at work. It's not professional.
5. Only have cheese in one meal per day. (mmm. cheese.)
6. Quit acting like "party cigarettes" means something and just stop smoking altogether.
7. Stop telling my coworkers stories about my cats, it makes me look super lame.
8. Join gym.
9. Go to gym.
10. Read a biography of Oscar Wilde.
11. Read James Joyce's "Ulysses" so that I can tell people I'm reading it.
12. Learn how to play poker.
13. Make jazz the new thing that I'm into.
14. Get car washed more than twice.
15. When complimented on clothing, don't say "Oh, it's just from Target."

Ok, that's all I have so far. What am I missing? What are your resolutions? I'd like to know.