Monday, July 26, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
Next book review and more about dicks!
If there were a book for Shelly D to review, it's this one! Also, this local news clip is funny and awkward:
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
The Betwetter, and other things
Dear Internet,
I am about to go where I've not gone before: reviewing a book. It's been a few months since I've actually sat down to read anything besides The New Yorker (which apparently we don't get anymore or someone in our building is stealing) and books about finance. (I like to say Fih-nance, because it makes me feel elitist.) In any event, on a regular rendezvous to Border's on Sunday, I actually bought a book. Two in fact. One is a serious book by Cormac McCarthy, and the other is The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption, and Pee by Sarah Silverman.
Even though I'm a really big fan of stand up comedy, I never really got into Sarah Silverman. I actually had no real opinion of her, except of course thinking that I'm Fucking Matt Damon was the best thing, well maybe not as good as Dick in a Box. The best thing is actually this, after the fact:
Getting back to my original point. I was wandering around Border's in search of something that would give me brain nutrients, when The Bedwetter made me stop in my tracks. The book has gotten reasonably good reviews all around, so I figured I might as well get a copy. And I did, at 30% off. Hardcover no less. And I never buy hardcover.
Anyhow. It's actually quite good. And funny. Funnier maybe than her stand up. Especially all the stuff about dicks. There are even pictures and drawings of dicks. And an Afterword by God.
In general I have nothing relevant to say other than that I like it and it made me laugh when I was sort of bored and sad.
On a completely different note, I keep getting mustard in my nails. It's actually pretty gross, and scary since now it's moved out of happening in my drunk life and is happening in my sober life.
Shelly.
This is a crappy post.
I am about to go where I've not gone before: reviewing a book. It's been a few months since I've actually sat down to read anything besides The New Yorker (which apparently we don't get anymore or someone in our building is stealing) and books about finance. (I like to say Fih-nance, because it makes me feel elitist.) In any event, on a regular rendezvous to Border's on Sunday, I actually bought a book. Two in fact. One is a serious book by Cormac McCarthy, and the other is The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption, and Pee by Sarah Silverman.
Even though I'm a really big fan of stand up comedy, I never really got into Sarah Silverman. I actually had no real opinion of her, except of course thinking that I'm Fucking Matt Damon was the best thing, well maybe not as good as Dick in a Box. The best thing is actually this, after the fact:
Getting back to my original point. I was wandering around Border's in search of something that would give me brain nutrients, when The Bedwetter made me stop in my tracks. The book has gotten reasonably good reviews all around, so I figured I might as well get a copy. And I did, at 30% off. Hardcover no less. And I never buy hardcover.
Anyhow. It's actually quite good. And funny. Funnier maybe than her stand up. Especially all the stuff about dicks. There are even pictures and drawings of dicks. And an Afterword by God.
In general I have nothing relevant to say other than that I like it and it made me laugh when I was sort of bored and sad.
On a completely different note, I keep getting mustard in my nails. It's actually pretty gross, and scary since now it's moved out of happening in my drunk life and is happening in my sober life.
Shelly.
This is a crappy post.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Goobs to the Rescue. Or Not.
Dear Internet,
I'm going to come right out and say it. One of my boobs is bigger than the other. Everyone has this defect. At least that's what the internet and my doctor told me. But at this point in life, it's starting to annoy me.
For one, what the hell is wrong with humanity that one boob needs to be bigger than the other. I understand hands. I even understand feet. Incredibly, I even understand one leg being longer than the other. But boobs? Why?
Why am I so irritated by this? Well, you know I'll tell you. I went to a Divinity School Happy Hour / Cocktail Party with Mike. And because I was nervous, I, as usual, grappled with my breasts to find the right thing to say.
For those of you who don't understand this, boobs are a huge source of comfort. Big or small, dilapidated or burgeoning, they represent something altogether calming, even to the point of forgetting where one is. I think most of you can understand, actually.
In any event, as I sat dining on yet another mediocre hot dog, I sat, holding one breast only to find that is was bigger than the other. Now, granted, I knew this already. But every time I find it more annoying when I "re-discover" this fact.
Can't think of anything to do? Well, grab a goob (I didn't misspell that) and your love will continue to be fleeting. Especially when you realize, again, that one boob is bigger than the other.
It's an incredibly annoying thing for me. Especially because I have equilibrium / symmetry hang ups.
Even this pair of muppet boobs is uneven:
Please notice how the muppet's left boob (our right, for those tarts) is bigger, and the beads in her string top gravitationally swing to stage right? It's true for even non-humans.
And now, my day is totally ruined because King Solomon, lord of the giant swirly cats, just took a huge poop that ruined my thought process.
Shelly.
I'm going to come right out and say it. One of my boobs is bigger than the other. Everyone has this defect. At least that's what the internet and my doctor told me. But at this point in life, it's starting to annoy me.
For one, what the hell is wrong with humanity that one boob needs to be bigger than the other. I understand hands. I even understand feet. Incredibly, I even understand one leg being longer than the other. But boobs? Why?
Why am I so irritated by this? Well, you know I'll tell you. I went to a Divinity School Happy Hour / Cocktail Party with Mike. And because I was nervous, I, as usual, grappled with my breasts to find the right thing to say.
For those of you who don't understand this, boobs are a huge source of comfort. Big or small, dilapidated or burgeoning, they represent something altogether calming, even to the point of forgetting where one is. I think most of you can understand, actually.
In any event, as I sat dining on yet another mediocre hot dog, I sat, holding one breast only to find that is was bigger than the other. Now, granted, I knew this already. But every time I find it more annoying when I "re-discover" this fact.
Can't think of anything to do? Well, grab a goob (I didn't misspell that) and your love will continue to be fleeting. Especially when you realize, again, that one boob is bigger than the other.
It's an incredibly annoying thing for me. Especially because I have equilibrium / symmetry hang ups.
Even this pair of muppet boobs is uneven:
Please notice how the muppet's left boob (our right, for those tarts) is bigger, and the beads in her string top gravitationally swing to stage right? It's true for even non-humans.
And now, my day is totally ruined because King Solomon, lord of the giant swirly cats, just took a huge poop that ruined my thought process.
Shelly.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
We Have Great Soup: Lies About Pickles & Rice
Dear Internet,
After two weekends of fairly total debauchery, Mike and I figured it was high time to start hating on Chicago again. The latter part of April brought forth a unending flow of alcohol that led me to delirium tremens as well as many hours attempting to recall the stupid, ridiculous, and simply crazy things I had said and done to people I had just met and, God willing, probably won't meet again.
Yesterday, mostly without intention, ended up being a trifecta of crap ass. And crap ass food, which is the theme of this post.
1. Smallest Hot Dog Ever Makes Shelly an Angry Gal. The day started out well enough: we had enough toilet paper. The coffee wasn't burned by the time I mustered the willpower to get out of bed. My shower wasn't totally frigid. It had all the elements of being a decent day. But after taking the longest bus ride on the face of the planet from Hyde Park to the Loop, and we were starving, it was time to really shit things up.
As hot dogs are a very hot commodity in the Second City, Mike decided it was a good idea to check Yelp! for some suggestions. I have maintained for several months now that the jerk offs that review restaurants and bars on Yelp! are full of crap, and wouldn't know good food from an anteater, but nonetheless I went along with it because we were in some far off land of frat boys so I figured these douche bags would be able to pick out a good hottie from a bad one. Well I was wrong. Dead Wrong.
First of all, it was the smallest hot dog ever. Certainly not a Vienna Beef. Also, if you will think back to all of the hot dog pictures I've ever posted on this blog you would be destroyed when you saw this. This hot dog, although charred, was reminiscent of one of the crappy hot dogs you can get in Liberty Plaza: the ones that don't fill you up and frankly (wink wink) taste like wet cardboard. On top of its smallness, it was not coupled with a pickle spear or neon relish. Do you believe this? They used pickle chips. Where am I? I must have been in the nexus of the Chicago universe, or maybe even Des Plaines, because this was simply not right.
Beyond the pickle chip and non-neon relish, it was also proffered up with a stale bun that upon first bit splintered into a million pieces and I surrendered. What kind of surrender do you ask? Well, I didn't eat the hot dog.
The Horror. The Horror. (Make sure you read this whispering in a Marlon Brando-esque Kurtz voice. Commence eating mangoes and letting the juice drip down your arm while you earn $3 Million for showing up late.)
I didn't even take a picture I was so upset. I actually am still upset. Hence the blatant Apocalypse Now reference.
2. Bread and Sugar in Square Format is Expensive. After the hot dog debacle (I just learned how to spell this -- I was always adding a Long Island accent to the phonetics making it "de-baucle") I decided I was going to find De Stijl on vinyl.
Getting back to the point. The record store was a bust since there was no copy of De Stijl and I was too irritated to ask the owner to order it for me, what with the internet and all. I did get OK COMPUTER on vinyl, which, in the interim, will satisfy some vague need for something. Although I don't know what that something is. I fought an internal battle not to buy Icky Thump and The Chronic, only remembering later that I should have looked for Justin Timberlake's Future Sex/Love Sounds.
What an ass. So anyway. We went onward into the valley of frat boys and boutiques in quest of a bar. Instead of a bar I bought some awesome magnets. And then we went to some waffle house where you can order a waffle on the street through a window. Max would love it, by the way.
By now you should realize the problem: it was now close to 5:30 PM and I had not had a beer yet.
Mike, a graduate student at the acclaimed University of Chicago, doesn't know how to read a menu. He thought that the waffle itself cost $0.91. So digging around in his pockets he found $0.91 and ordered a waffle with powdered sugar. I hung out in the gutter smoking cigarettes and wondering if you can drink in public in Lincoln Park. Mike was dismayed to learn that the waffle not only did not cost $0.91, but that the sugar cost $0.91, and the waffle was actually $6.00. Total for square bread with sugar: $6.91. Not worth it.
3. It Doesn't Datter How Much You Like Pickles. Pickle and Rice Roup is Disgusting.
I learned this the hard way. Or rather, with a Polish man forcing me to get this bizarre concoction. First off, it looked like vomit. Second, it tasted exactly like what it said it would taste like: pickles and rice. Except worse because I didn't think it would be so disgusting. The reason I caved in was because there was no red borscht, which is what I was craving, so I would have probably agreed to anything at that point.
This was the culminating point of my day. From there on out it was ruined. And I still hadn't had a beer.
I should have airbrushed myself in that photo. Or at least been more Kim Kardashian-ish. Whatever that is -- I don't have much of an ass so that would be difficult.
I don't even have anything to say now because reliving that pickle soup moment has placed in me such a state of despair that all I can do is look at sketch pictures with the crayons from the Mason jar. That, or smoke crack rocks.
Shelly D.
After two weekends of fairly total debauchery, Mike and I figured it was high time to start hating on Chicago again. The latter part of April brought forth a unending flow of alcohol that led me to delirium tremens as well as many hours attempting to recall the stupid, ridiculous, and simply crazy things I had said and done to people I had just met and, God willing, probably won't meet again.
Yesterday, mostly without intention, ended up being a trifecta of crap ass. And crap ass food, which is the theme of this post.
1. Smallest Hot Dog Ever Makes Shelly an Angry Gal. The day started out well enough: we had enough toilet paper. The coffee wasn't burned by the time I mustered the willpower to get out of bed. My shower wasn't totally frigid. It had all the elements of being a decent day. But after taking the longest bus ride on the face of the planet from Hyde Park to the Loop, and we were starving, it was time to really shit things up.
As hot dogs are a very hot commodity in the Second City, Mike decided it was a good idea to check Yelp! for some suggestions. I have maintained for several months now that the jerk offs that review restaurants and bars on Yelp! are full of crap, and wouldn't know good food from an anteater, but nonetheless I went along with it because we were in some far off land of frat boys so I figured these douche bags would be able to pick out a good hottie from a bad one. Well I was wrong. Dead Wrong.
First of all, it was the smallest hot dog ever. Certainly not a Vienna Beef. Also, if you will think back to all of the hot dog pictures I've ever posted on this blog you would be destroyed when you saw this. This hot dog, although charred, was reminiscent of one of the crappy hot dogs you can get in Liberty Plaza: the ones that don't fill you up and frankly (wink wink) taste like wet cardboard. On top of its smallness, it was not coupled with a pickle spear or neon relish. Do you believe this? They used pickle chips. Where am I? I must have been in the nexus of the Chicago universe, or maybe even Des Plaines, because this was simply not right.
Beyond the pickle chip and non-neon relish, it was also proffered up with a stale bun that upon first bit splintered into a million pieces and I surrendered. What kind of surrender do you ask? Well, I didn't eat the hot dog.
The Horror. The Horror. (Make sure you read this whispering in a Marlon Brando-esque Kurtz voice. Commence eating mangoes and letting the juice drip down your arm while you earn $3 Million for showing up late.)
I didn't even take a picture I was so upset. I actually am still upset. Hence the blatant Apocalypse Now reference.
2. Bread and Sugar in Square Format is Expensive. After the hot dog debacle (I just learned how to spell this -- I was always adding a Long Island accent to the phonetics making it "de-baucle") I decided I was going to find De Stijl on vinyl.
Getting back to the point. The record store was a bust since there was no copy of De Stijl and I was too irritated to ask the owner to order it for me, what with the internet and all. I did get OK COMPUTER on vinyl, which, in the interim, will satisfy some vague need for something. Although I don't know what that something is. I fought an internal battle not to buy Icky Thump and The Chronic, only remembering later that I should have looked for Justin Timberlake's Future Sex/Love Sounds.
What an ass. So anyway. We went onward into the valley of frat boys and boutiques in quest of a bar. Instead of a bar I bought some awesome magnets. And then we went to some waffle house where you can order a waffle on the street through a window. Max would love it, by the way.
By now you should realize the problem: it was now close to 5:30 PM and I had not had a beer yet.
Mike, a graduate student at the acclaimed University of Chicago, doesn't know how to read a menu. He thought that the waffle itself cost $0.91. So digging around in his pockets he found $0.91 and ordered a waffle with powdered sugar. I hung out in the gutter smoking cigarettes and wondering if you can drink in public in Lincoln Park. Mike was dismayed to learn that the waffle not only did not cost $0.91, but that the sugar cost $0.91, and the waffle was actually $6.00. Total for square bread with sugar: $6.91. Not worth it.
3. It Doesn't Datter How Much You Like Pickles. Pickle and Rice Roup is Disgusting.
I learned this the hard way. Or rather, with a Polish man forcing me to get this bizarre concoction. First off, it looked like vomit. Second, it tasted exactly like what it said it would taste like: pickles and rice. Except worse because I didn't think it would be so disgusting. The reason I caved in was because there was no red borscht, which is what I was craving, so I would have probably agreed to anything at that point.
This was the culminating point of my day. From there on out it was ruined. And I still hadn't had a beer.
I should have airbrushed myself in that photo. Or at least been more Kim Kardashian-ish. Whatever that is -- I don't have much of an ass so that would be difficult.
I don't even have anything to say now because reliving that pickle soup moment has placed in me such a state of despair that all I can do is look at sketch pictures with the crayons from the Mason jar. That, or smoke crack rocks.
Shelly D.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Come on Bret.
Dear Internet,
For the past few days Max and I have been crazy for more news about Bret Michaels. Since Rock of Love, and now Celebrity Apprentice, I've been fairly enamored of Mr. Diabeetus, and now that he's had a subarachnoid aneurysm/hemorrhage, I am just sitting around wondering how my favorite B-list Celebrity Apprentice contender is going to make it through.
I'm a bit nervous. Perhaps he should lay off the bandanas for a while.
All joking aside, well at least sort of, this is a super scary thing. I wonder, and really Maxie Jean raised this, if The Donald is going to make an announcement prior to the start of this week's episode of The Apprentice? What can he say? Does he feel guilt because he went on a tirade about bandanas, how much he likes them, and if he were a rock'n'rolla he would wear one too? Imagine Donald's miraculous coif covered up by a red, pink or green bandana? It would be pretty amazing. And puffy.
Forget Cyndi Lauper and her roundabout storytelling, Curtis' uselessness, or the fact that Goldberg finally got fired after weeks of doing nothing. Please also forget the fact that I had an internal battle over who covered, Smokin' in the Boys Room (Motley Crue vs. Poison -- it was Motley Crue) on the Red Line, that I woke up with neon green relish in my hair and mustard in my fingernails (rough night, closed with Hot Dogs), and that I really can't wait for 8:00 PM CDT to come.
Donald's celebrity star player (post shoot, of course) is sitting in ICU waiting for some doctors to give him a prognosis better than Livin' for the Minute.
Keep your hands clasped in prayer and your insulin needles within reach. We're holding a Bret Michaels vigil.
Shelly D.
For the past few days Max and I have been crazy for more news about Bret Michaels. Since Rock of Love, and now Celebrity Apprentice, I've been fairly enamored of Mr. Diabeetus, and now that he's had a subarachnoid aneurysm/hemorrhage, I am just sitting around wondering how my favorite B-list Celebrity Apprentice contender is going to make it through.
I'm a bit nervous. Perhaps he should lay off the bandanas for a while.
All joking aside, well at least sort of, this is a super scary thing. I wonder, and really Maxie Jean raised this, if The Donald is going to make an announcement prior to the start of this week's episode of The Apprentice? What can he say? Does he feel guilt because he went on a tirade about bandanas, how much he likes them, and if he were a rock'n'rolla he would wear one too? Imagine Donald's miraculous coif covered up by a red, pink or green bandana? It would be pretty amazing. And puffy.
Forget Cyndi Lauper and her roundabout storytelling, Curtis' uselessness, or the fact that Goldberg finally got fired after weeks of doing nothing. Please also forget the fact that I had an internal battle over who covered, Smokin' in the Boys Room (Motley Crue vs. Poison -- it was Motley Crue) on the Red Line, that I woke up with neon green relish in my hair and mustard in my fingernails (rough night, closed with Hot Dogs), and that I really can't wait for 8:00 PM CDT to come.
Donald's celebrity star player (post shoot, of course) is sitting in ICU waiting for some doctors to give him a prognosis better than Livin' for the Minute.
Keep your hands clasped in prayer and your insulin needles within reach. We're holding a Bret Michaels vigil.
Shelly D.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Want Your Salad Chopped in Brooklyn? Too Bad.
Why is it that I can go to hundreds of different places in Manhattan and get a salad exactly how I want it, chopped, but if I venture over the East River suddenly that option is off the table? Not only are the salad options severely limited outside of the most famous borough, but if you ask them to chop the salad after mixing it, you'll get a look from the saladmaker like you asked for his right arm. The other day I tried a real upscale deli place near Borough Hall in Downtown Brooklyn, and they had no idea how to chop the salad, and the guy didn't even know the difference between walnuts and almonds! I don't know why things are so skewed in the world of make-your-own-salad, but I can speculate that it's because the secret salad-chopping skills first developed thousands of years ago were closely guarded by the Illuminati and they only let saladmakers in Manhattan read the sacred text, and only after swearing a blood oath never to export the secrets outside the island.
That's all for now,
max
PS - I also just figured out how to type a cross easily on my Mac †. Totally will help when I post about Jesus.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Bret Michaels: The Best Project Manager Ever? Part Deux
Dear Internet,
Rather than respond to Max's comments within the page, I decided to do it here:
First off, my delayed response is due to the fact that I work in a heavily regulated industry and we have websites blocked. My blog, apparently, being one of them.
Second, did you see how old some of the Harry Potter weirdos were? Like 30. Too old for Houses.
On to the discourse:
1. I am not jealous of Selita eBanks. She certainly has got looks, as I so stated. But the tasks on Apprentice are no brainers and these morons treat it like it's the most difficult buttload ever. So you've got two of three: looks, motivation, but she's hardly the smartest. In fact, they're all fairly dumb.
2. There's no such thing as a role player. They're called failures. What has she knocked out of the park? Both of the teams, in my opinion, were lacking. And of course the women didn't market what was most important in the task: THE FUCKING RIDE. No point in a 3-D interactive display without that, and if memory so serves me, the men did. I will give the women credit, they did have a nice display. And, getting back to the point of kicking ass, Bret fills in all the gaps, asks for things to do, even if he is a sissy and about to go into diabetic shock during it.
3. Cutting potatoes isn't getting down and dirty. Have you worked in a restaurant? That's premium kitchen duty when compared to dish washing.
4. You should always step it up, it's not a question of need. Success in business is about filling in the gaps always, not just when you think it's necessary.
5. Restaurant Challenge: The men didn't win only because there was a chef on the team. They won because they were savvy enough (and had the foresight) to over-charge (by $290) for hamburgers, whereas the women were going for volume. Wrong game, wrong day, wrong analysis.
Bret Michaels == Joan Rivers. My next best, when she finally comes out of her Dayquil/NyQuil super enlarged pupil haze, is Sharon Osbourne. She manages Ozzy, for crying out loud.
Enough said,
Shelly
Rather than respond to Max's comments within the page, I decided to do it here:
First off, my delayed response is due to the fact that I work in a heavily regulated industry and we have websites blocked. My blog, apparently, being one of them.
Second, did you see how old some of the Harry Potter weirdos were? Like 30. Too old for Houses.
On to the discourse:
1. I am not jealous of Selita eBanks. She certainly has got looks, as I so stated. But the tasks on Apprentice are no brainers and these morons treat it like it's the most difficult buttload ever. So you've got two of three: looks, motivation, but she's hardly the smartest. In fact, they're all fairly dumb.
2. There's no such thing as a role player. They're called failures. What has she knocked out of the park? Both of the teams, in my opinion, were lacking. And of course the women didn't market what was most important in the task: THE FUCKING RIDE. No point in a 3-D interactive display without that, and if memory so serves me, the men did. I will give the women credit, they did have a nice display. And, getting back to the point of kicking ass, Bret fills in all the gaps, asks for things to do, even if he is a sissy and about to go into diabetic shock during it.
3. Cutting potatoes isn't getting down and dirty. Have you worked in a restaurant? That's premium kitchen duty when compared to dish washing.
4. You should always step it up, it's not a question of need. Success in business is about filling in the gaps always, not just when you think it's necessary.
5. Restaurant Challenge: The men didn't win only because there was a chef on the team. They won because they were savvy enough (and had the foresight) to over-charge (by $290) for hamburgers, whereas the women were going for volume. Wrong game, wrong day, wrong analysis.
Bret Michaels == Joan Rivers. My next best, when she finally comes out of her Dayquil/NyQuil super enlarged pupil haze, is Sharon Osbourne. She manages Ozzy, for crying out loud.
Enough said,
Shelly
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Bret Michaels: The Best Project Manager Ever?
Dear Internet,
If you're not watching The Apprentice on Sunday nights at 9:00 PM EDT / 8:00 PM CDT, then you better crawl out of your hole. The Apprentice has, for the past few seasons, embarked on a tour de force of celebrity idiocy. Only next season will regular business people take the stage.
In any event, the past two seasons have been marked by stupidity, bitches, and, well, just regular lack of common sense. Not until now, however, has the every day rock n roller prevailed.
What rocker, you ask? Well none other than Bret Michaels, famed Rock of Love host, star, Poison front man, and weird girl catch. I personally love Rock of Love. It happens to be one of my all time favorite shows. Especially season one. I missed Rock of Love Bus. Getting back to my point. Bret, lovingly called the Rock of Love heretofore, is the best reality TV person for The Apprentice gig. Why? I'll tell you why, in ten simple statements:
1. Rock of Love puts on eyeliner better than Selita Ebanks. (Please note that I just learned that her last name was Ebanks. I thought that was a typo. EBanks makes me think of online banking applications, as in Chase and Citibank.)
2. "If you're gonna freak out, have a rock star freak out." 'Nough said. Bring on the PBR, Patron, strippers, hookers, Heroin, and, preferably, crack rocks.
3. Rock of Love says, "Dia-beet-us" rather than Diabetes. How's that for down home charm?
4. Bandanas. Every girl's greasy best friend.
5. "Michaels'[Rock of Love's] "Rock of Love" television series is one of the most successful in VH1's history. With three record-breaking seasons under his belt, Michaels is currently embarking on several other television projects, including the upcoming "Bret Michaels Show." That's a quote from The Apprentice website. Bitches.
6. See photo left.
This was presumably sexy at some point in history.
7. He has more hair, and potentially more Estrogen, than Selita e-Banks (I'm changing this so she sounds like software), Cyndi Lauper, Sharon Osbourne, and Summer Sanders. (Did I miss Holly Robinson Peete? Who cares, she's worse than "watching ice melt".)
8. Goldberg: "You're only as good as your weakest link." And that be him. Damn good tree, but terrible otherwise.
9.See photo inset right.
Another version of sexy for you sleazoids.
10. Every rose does have its thorn.
11. He's the only numbskull who will actually admit he doesn't understand something. Few and far between in real business and much appreciated. You go, Bret!
Rock on Rock of Love. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for you.
Shelly
If you're not watching The Apprentice on Sunday nights at 9:00 PM EDT / 8:00 PM CDT, then you better crawl out of your hole. The Apprentice has, for the past few seasons, embarked on a tour de force of celebrity idiocy. Only next season will regular business people take the stage.
In any event, the past two seasons have been marked by stupidity, bitches, and, well, just regular lack of common sense. Not until now, however, has the every day rock n roller prevailed.
What rocker, you ask? Well none other than Bret Michaels, famed Rock of Love host, star, Poison front man, and weird girl catch. I personally love Rock of Love. It happens to be one of my all time favorite shows. Especially season one. I missed Rock of Love Bus. Getting back to my point. Bret, lovingly called the Rock of Love heretofore, is the best reality TV person for The Apprentice gig. Why? I'll tell you why, in ten simple statements:
1. Rock of Love puts on eyeliner better than Selita Ebanks. (Please note that I just learned that her last name was Ebanks. I thought that was a typo. EBanks makes me think of online banking applications, as in Chase and Citibank.)
2. "If you're gonna freak out, have a rock star freak out." 'Nough said. Bring on the PBR, Patron, strippers, hookers, Heroin, and, preferably, crack rocks.
3. Rock of Love says, "Dia-beet-us" rather than Diabetes. How's that for down home charm?
4. Bandanas. Every girl's greasy best friend.
5. "Michaels'[Rock of Love's] "Rock of Love" television series is one of the most successful in VH1's history. With three record-breaking seasons under his belt, Michaels is currently embarking on several other television projects, including the upcoming "Bret Michaels Show." That's a quote from The Apprentice website. Bitches.
6. See photo left.
This was presumably sexy at some point in history.7. He has more hair, and potentially more Estrogen, than Selita e-Banks (I'm changing this so she sounds like software), Cyndi Lauper, Sharon Osbourne, and Summer Sanders. (Did I miss Holly Robinson Peete? Who cares, she's worse than "watching ice melt".)
8. Goldberg: "You're only as good as your weakest link." And that be him. Damn good tree, but terrible otherwise.
9.See photo inset right.
Another version of sexy for you sleazoids.10. Every rose does have its thorn.
11. He's the only numbskull who will actually admit he doesn't understand something. Few and far between in real business and much appreciated. You go, Bret!
Rock on Rock of Love. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for you.
Shelly
Monday, April 5, 2010
Cooters and Vogue. How I Knew the World Was Ending
Dear Internet,
I'm not quite sure when the camel toe, or as I like to call it, The Wendy, came back in style. I'm not quite sure if it ever was in style. And no matter how radiant and beautiful Giselle Bundchen is, a camel toe belongs on no woman.
In actuality, Giselle does not have a Wendy. But, dear Internet, the capacity for other women reading Vogue and deciding that it's high time they got a pair of short shorts is endless, and therefore so is widespread camel toe across this great land.
Actual Camel Toe(s):
Enough is enough. Take a bite out of crime, fight the war on cooters.
1. That is disgusting.
2. It obviously hurts.
3. Potentially life-ending if you consider infections.
4. Not everyone should wear shorts.
5. No one should accidentally show a cooter.
Shelly
I'm not quite sure when the camel toe, or as I like to call it, The Wendy, came back in style. I'm not quite sure if it ever was in style. And no matter how radiant and beautiful Giselle Bundchen is, a camel toe belongs on no woman.
In actuality, Giselle does not have a Wendy. But, dear Internet, the capacity for other women reading Vogue and deciding that it's high time they got a pair of short shorts is endless, and therefore so is widespread camel toe across this great land.
Almost Camel Toe:
Actual Camel Toe(s):
Enough is enough. Take a bite out of crime, fight the war on cooters.
1. That is disgusting.
2. It obviously hurts.
3. Potentially life-ending if you consider infections.
4. Not everyone should wear shorts.
5. No one should accidentally show a cooter.
Shelly
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Too Tired to Try. Or Not Drunk Enough.
Dear Internet,
It appears that I am afraid of the internet. There's really no other way of explaining why I'm too slow to write posts anymore. Oh, and I'm super lazy. This whole working in an office thing is sort of for the birds.
Well, not entirely. I feel like an actual person because I've been working in an office. Whatever or whoever an actual person is. But that's not the point. I wonder what happens when I cross that bridge in the morning that makes me too tired and too out of it to sit down and write for a few minutes.
Clearly the tone of this post is not my regular booze-induced rambling. I'm sort of concerned with my inability to be creative after 5:00 PM CDT. Perhaps it's because all day long I'm thinking of new fun things to call the creepy weirdos I work with. I work with one individual whose personality vaguely reminds me of Michael Douglas' William "D-Fens" Foster, and who will also presumably go totally crazy one day and bring a Tec-9 to the office and start shooting up the john.
The potential of this happening is probably about 63%, and if it does happen, it'll probably be awesome. Except for the fact that I'll probably be the first one shot Columbine-style. Why? I'm so sweet and mild mannered. Not true, particularly when you consider that I've coined my co-worker's swagger as a "mongoloid leprechaun gangsta strut". I'm almost certain to be caught in the crossfire. Especially since I told this individual, "you're not in this conversation."
Se la vie. I'm too tired to be nice and/or political sometimes, especially when the person sat on my keyboard, asked me ridiculous personal questions, and made me want to vomit because all he talks about is the auto industry.
That's all I've got. And the reason, I'm working right now in 60 degree sunny weather instead of wandering around drunkenly.
Sadly,
Shelly
It appears that I am afraid of the internet. There's really no other way of explaining why I'm too slow to write posts anymore. Oh, and I'm super lazy. This whole working in an office thing is sort of for the birds.
Well, not entirely. I feel like an actual person because I've been working in an office. Whatever or whoever an actual person is. But that's not the point. I wonder what happens when I cross that bridge in the morning that makes me too tired and too out of it to sit down and write for a few minutes.
Clearly the tone of this post is not my regular booze-induced rambling. I'm sort of concerned with my inability to be creative after 5:00 PM CDT. Perhaps it's because all day long I'm thinking of new fun things to call the creepy weirdos I work with. I work with one individual whose personality vaguely reminds me of Michael Douglas' William "D-Fens" Foster, and who will also presumably go totally crazy one day and bring a Tec-9 to the office and start shooting up the john.
The potential of this happening is probably about 63%, and if it does happen, it'll probably be awesome. Except for the fact that I'll probably be the first one shot Columbine-style. Why? I'm so sweet and mild mannered. Not true, particularly when you consider that I've coined my co-worker's swagger as a "mongoloid leprechaun gangsta strut". I'm almost certain to be caught in the crossfire. Especially since I told this individual, "you're not in this conversation."
Se la vie. I'm too tired to be nice and/or political sometimes, especially when the person sat on my keyboard, asked me ridiculous personal questions, and made me want to vomit because all he talks about is the auto industry.
That's all I've got. And the reason, I'm working right now in 60 degree sunny weather instead of wandering around drunkenly.
Sadly,
Shelly
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Being Dark Irish is Bigger Than Hip Hop
Dear Internet,
It has been quite some time since I've sat at this desk to do anything besides check my bank account. I haven't forgotten about my blog, I've simply been lazy, and also working out in the real world in The Loop. The Loop isn't necessarily the real world, nor is working, but that be the case. The Loop and my inherent laziness aren't the only reasons that I've been slow to get things going. I mean, I have PBR to drink. And St. Patrick's Day is coming.
Because of this looming holiday, I think it's about time to cast the snakes out of the South Side, especially because it rained so hard on Saturday. For the record, I am a member of the Dark Irish clan. I don't even know what that means, but I am half Irish, and I am dark, so therefore I am Dark Irish. Some months back I actually clarified this. Some of you will remember:
I've taken the liberty of editing my own errors, since I wrote it in the morning and I was probably hung over. My heritage has been up for dispute for some time now and I hope that settles it. Now back to what's important.
It is nearly a time to celebrate with Guinness (or green PBR or Old Style if that strikes your fancy), corned beef and cabbage, green apparel (American Apparel has some hot little green leggings), and of course, green rivers. We are in Chicago, which of course means "rivers tainted with beer and green food color".
So without further ado, here I am Chicago River-side on an ill-fated Saturday where I shared tater tots with a girl I don't know, devoured cheese fries and hot dogs at Portillo's, drank plenty a Guinness and Miller Lite, order $40 worth of vinyls from Third Man Records when we don't have a record player (Under the Great White Northern Lights, and we bought one Sunday), and had a photo shoot downtown.
Happy boozing,
St. Shelly the Green Dellalian
It has been quite some time since I've sat at this desk to do anything besides check my bank account. I haven't forgotten about my blog, I've simply been lazy, and also working out in the real world in The Loop. The Loop isn't necessarily the real world, nor is working, but that be the case. The Loop and my inherent laziness aren't the only reasons that I've been slow to get things going. I mean, I have PBR to drink. And St. Patrick's Day is coming.
Because of this looming holiday, I think it's about time to cast the snakes out of the South Side, especially because it rained so hard on Saturday. For the record, I am a member of the Dark Irish clan. I don't even know what that means, but I am half Irish, and I am dark, so therefore I am Dark Irish. Some months back I actually clarified this. Some of you will remember:
"Since I went to bed last night at 9:00 PM, I missed your text at 10:00. I just couldn't watch any more Law & Order, as hard that may be to believe. To clarify my heritage, which of course is rather confusing, I am 1/4 WOP, 1/2 Guinness Toting Mick, and 1/4 a mix of Scottish, Norwegian, French, and Native American, and probably some other nonsense. I like to think I'm Algonquin, but who the hell really knows. It probably equals out to about 1/222 Native American anyway, which doesn't amount to anything. I think my Indian name would be Runs for Beer and Cigarettes at Corner Bodega. As a good Long Island Catholic, I mainly state that I'm Irish and Guinea, heavy on the corned beef and cabbage. After all, everyone from that beautiful land is either Italian, Irish, Jewish or a combination. As for my complexion, obviously the Italian has superseded the Irish side. But since my Irish family is from County Cork, I bet someone had some hot sex in a peat bog with a Spanish Moor, making me Dark Irish, giving me love of drink and tobacco."
I've taken the liberty of editing my own errors, since I wrote it in the morning and I was probably hung over. My heritage has been up for dispute for some time now and I hope that settles it. Now back to what's important.
It is nearly a time to celebrate with Guinness (or green PBR or Old Style if that strikes your fancy), corned beef and cabbage, green apparel (American Apparel has some hot little green leggings), and of course, green rivers. We are in Chicago, which of course means "rivers tainted with beer and green food color".
So without further ado, here I am Chicago River-side on an ill-fated Saturday where I shared tater tots with a girl I don't know, devoured cheese fries and hot dogs at Portillo's, drank plenty a Guinness and Miller Lite, order $40 worth of vinyls from Third Man Records when we don't have a record player (Under the Great White Northern Lights, and we bought one Sunday), and had a photo shoot downtown.
Happy boozing,
St. Shelly the Green Dellalian
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
In My Time of Dying
Dear Internet,Ordinarily my sweat glands are totally out of control at work. And by out of control I mean that I base the outfit I'm going to wear on how much sweat will show through my clothes either through sweat stains or through baseball player-type salt stains. Recently, however, I haven't been sweating all that much. Initially I thought it might be because I've finally, after 28 years, become comfortable in my own skin. But that can't be it, because my odd decision making, especially in walking down the street, what I eat, and how I speak, is still so carefully considered, that it can't be less self-awareness. It must be some other biological change, for worse or better.
What I've ultimately decided is that I'm consuming less alcohol which has caused me to perspire less. For those of you who have witnessed my outfit selections, you will understand the great pains I have taken to sweat less, disguise sweat, and not look like a disaster over the past several years. Well, let's be honest, more than several. But now, to be confronted with less sweat? What the hell kind of curve ball is that?
All of these years I've had one constant: sweating unnecessarily to the point of embarrassment -- and now that's gone too. So not only am I dealing with regularly cold ass weather, but also no regularly insane perspiration. I'm dry as a corn field in Kansas in September. (That little simile is something I created on my own and I don't even know if it's accurate, but I do know that if I drive out of Chicago 2 hours south, 2 hours west, or 2 hours east I will see corn fields. I also figure that harvest is sometime in and around September. We might even be able to find a sign that says...)
Back to the sweating. Although this is something that, ultimately, is awesome, it is also something that causes a great deal of concern for me. Have I lost my edge? Am I some mild mannered person who can handle things all of sudden? Did I all of a sudden become even keel? I think not. There must be something larger at stake:
Via:
And...
And...
And...
Oh yea, and...
God. This is bad.
Shelly
Monday, March 1, 2010
28th Birthday == Best Gift Ever
Dear Internet,
Every year for the past 28 years I have gotten some pretty rad gifts. This year, however, has topped every single previous gift receiving year.
Not only did I receive the fantastic Frye boots I was so desperately longing for, but I also got a map of Long Island (I already discussed this as irrelevant, but it's still pretty awesome), a porcelain Schnauzer knick-knack, a bottle of Marc Jacobs Lola (it has a retarded, plastic art deco flower as a cap, but it smells ok), some cash, a buttload of food, but for all the awesome things that I got this year and in years past, the gift below takes the prize for the best ever (I've centered it because it deserves a serious place of respect on this blog and should be dutifully showcased):
I don't even know if anything can compare to this. I don't know if anything ever will. Frankly, it may have topped the two cats (King Solomon and Kitty) that I got as a birthday gift last year.
Gosh, I am excited. I actually am looking forward to waking up tomorrow morning at 6:30 just so that I can brew some coffee and pour a fresh, steaming cup into this mug. Because of course, the best part of waking up, is Bitches Talkin' Shit on the outside of your cup.
Thank you!
Shelly
Every year for the past 28 years I have gotten some pretty rad gifts. This year, however, has topped every single previous gift receiving year.
Not only did I receive the fantastic Frye boots I was so desperately longing for, but I also got a map of Long Island (I already discussed this as irrelevant, but it's still pretty awesome), a porcelain Schnauzer knick-knack, a bottle of Marc Jacobs Lola (it has a retarded, plastic art deco flower as a cap, but it smells ok), some cash, a buttload of food, but for all the awesome things that I got this year and in years past, the gift below takes the prize for the best ever (I've centered it because it deserves a serious place of respect on this blog and should be dutifully showcased):
I don't even know if anything can compare to this. I don't know if anything ever will. Frankly, it may have topped the two cats (King Solomon and Kitty) that I got as a birthday gift last year.
Gosh, I am excited. I actually am looking forward to waking up tomorrow morning at 6:30 just so that I can brew some coffee and pour a fresh, steaming cup into this mug. Because of course, the best part of waking up, is Bitches Talkin' Shit on the outside of your cup.
Thank you!
Shelly
Everyday I'm Hustlin'
Dear Internet,
Even if you're getting ready to go to your regular, normal job, whether your stacking books or kickin' ass and takin' names...
Keep that in mind. Because I am:
Even if you're getting ready to go to your regular, normal job, whether your stacking books or kickin' ass and takin' names...
Keep that in mind. Because I am:
Sunday, February 28, 2010
20 CCs of Neon Green Relish While the Gs Be Chillin' on the Nasty South Side
Dear Internet,
Just like ethnic and religious groups, cities have stereotypes too. Cities, and their outlying suburbs. Growing up on (I know I should say "in" but F that) Long Island, I was pretty aware of the stereotypes of Long Islanders (we love Billy Joel, wear boat shoes year round, have bad accents, love bagels and cawfee, tan regularly, and are afraid of Manhattan) as well as those of New York City (residents all work in finance, go out to The Hamptons on weekends, live on Fifth Avenue, are uppity) and Brooklyn (residents are gangstas, rappers, hipsters, and love pizza). But, I had some serious pre-conceived notions about Chicago, and the Midwest in general. (For the record, those of you have other pre-conceived notions, all Long Islanders are not rich and do not drive 7 Series BMWs, even if we wish we did.)
Some stereotypes, obviously, are true. Otherwise they wouldn't be stereotypes. By and large, Long Islanders are afraid of New York City. They also fake tan as much as possible, have terrible accents, not to mention voices, and love bagels. They will also drink coffee at any time of the day, regardless of weather. Bettah yet -- ice cawfee. (Please note, I did not forget the "d" in iced. No one on Long Island says "Iced Coffee".) Growing up, and well into my 20s, Chicago was a far off, windy and freezing land with deep-dish "pizza" (let's be honest and admit that it's a casserole), Da Bears, and Michael Jordan.
Never mind that I had forgotten that Michael Jordan didn't live there anymore and was not playing for Da Bulls. In any event, it's not like I made this up myself. I had heard and seen plenty about Chicago well before I had even visited. Oh where?, you ask? Obviously Drs. Green and Carter.
So let me begin a few months before now, to a place that made entirely more sense to me: New York. First and foremost, slices of pizza existed on every corner. I understood the transit system and could get everywhere. If I wanted falafel, there were at least 4 places to go in Manhattan (carts included) and one awesome one on N. 7th in BK. Me and Penn Station go way back. A move to Chicago would be a journey into uncharted territory, except for business trips when American Airlines lost my luggage (who brings an extra large suitcase to Chicago for three days anyway?). So anyway, as i got ready to move I thought about all the things I would need to find in Chicago: my favorite pizzeria, a local bar with hot dogs, a bodega around the corner selling 24 ounce Coors Lights or PBR...
Getting back to my point: my original impression of Chicago, before the 14 hour drive from Brooklyn, crossing New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana, was based a lmost entirely on ER, colored only slightly by Saturday Night Live. Since the beginning I was obsessed with ER, and not only because of the medical drama and my latent dreams of becoming an ER doctor. Obvs I was like, Holy Crap, I am just like Dr. Green! And I would totally have a tailored doctor coat like Dr. Carter. But, as soon as I saw Carter slide down Michigan or something and pick up a Polish dog with everything on it, I was like, I can do that. And, man, I wish I were a playa like Doug Ross.
So basically, above all things -- the news, the Sears Tower, hot dogs (believe it or not), Abbie Hoffman, Mayor(s) Daley, Barack Obama, Second City, John Belushi, and deep dish pizza (from now on known as pizza casserole) -- none so colored my theories and notions of the city in which I now live as Michael Crichton's brilliant series, ER. So can you imagine when I learned that Cook County General was a fictional hospital? This is what I was holding onto:
1. Getting a tailored white doctor coat (what are these called anyway?)
2. Going to Cook County General and busting open someone's chest and saving his life (see season 1).
3. Renting an awesome loft apartment with columns.
4. Becoming friends with Nurse Hathaway, and making her Shepard's Pie after she tries to kill herself.
None of these things happened or ever will, and logic tells me it's because there is no Cook County General. But can't one believe in something as awesome as this:
Shelly
Just like ethnic and religious groups, cities have stereotypes too. Cities, and their outlying suburbs. Growing up on (I know I should say "in" but F that) Long Island, I was pretty aware of the stereotypes of Long Islanders (we love Billy Joel, wear boat shoes year round, have bad accents, love bagels and cawfee, tan regularly, and are afraid of Manhattan) as well as those of New York City (residents all work in finance, go out to The Hamptons on weekends, live on Fifth Avenue, are uppity) and Brooklyn (residents are gangstas, rappers, hipsters, and love pizza). But, I had some serious pre-conceived notions about Chicago, and the Midwest in general. (For the record, those of you have other pre-conceived notions, all Long Islanders are not rich and do not drive 7 Series BMWs, even if we wish we did.)
Some stereotypes, obviously, are true. Otherwise they wouldn't be stereotypes. By and large, Long Islanders are afraid of New York City. They also fake tan as much as possible, have terrible accents, not to mention voices, and love bagels. They will also drink coffee at any time of the day, regardless of weather. Bettah yet -- ice cawfee. (Please note, I did not forget the "d" in iced. No one on Long Island says "Iced Coffee".) Growing up, and well into my 20s, Chicago was a far off, windy and freezing land with deep-dish "pizza" (let's be honest and admit that it's a casserole), Da Bears, and Michael Jordan.
Never mind that I had forgotten that Michael Jordan didn't live there anymore and was not playing for Da Bulls. In any event, it's not like I made this up myself. I had heard and seen plenty about Chicago well before I had even visited. Oh where?, you ask? Obviously Drs. Green and Carter.So let me begin a few months before now, to a place that made entirely more sense to me: New York. First and foremost, slices of pizza existed on every corner. I understood the transit system and could get everywhere. If I wanted falafel, there were at least 4 places to go in Manhattan (carts included) and one awesome one on N. 7th in BK. Me and Penn Station go way back. A move to Chicago would be a journey into uncharted territory, except for business trips when American Airlines lost my luggage (who brings an extra large suitcase to Chicago for three days anyway?). So anyway, as i got ready to move I thought about all the things I would need to find in Chicago: my favorite pizzeria, a local bar with hot dogs, a bodega around the corner selling 24 ounce Coors Lights or PBR...
Getting back to my point: my original impression of Chicago, before the 14 hour drive from Brooklyn, crossing New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana, was based a lmost entirely on ER, colored only slightly by Saturday Night Live. Since the beginning I was obsessed with ER, and not only because of the medical drama and my latent dreams of becoming an ER doctor. Obvs I was like, Holy Crap, I am just like Dr. Green! And I would totally have a tailored doctor coat like Dr. Carter. But, as soon as I saw Carter slide down Michigan or something and pick up a Polish dog with everything on it, I was like, I can do that. And, man, I wish I were a playa like Doug Ross.
So basically, above all things -- the news, the Sears Tower, hot dogs (believe it or not), Abbie Hoffman, Mayor(s) Daley, Barack Obama, Second City, John Belushi, and deep dish pizza (from now on known as pizza casserole) -- none so colored my theories and notions of the city in which I now live as Michael Crichton's brilliant series, ER. So can you imagine when I learned that Cook County General was a fictional hospital? This is what I was holding onto:
1. Getting a tailored white doctor coat (what are these called anyway?)
2. Going to Cook County General and busting open someone's chest and saving his life (see season 1).
3. Renting an awesome loft apartment with columns.
4. Becoming friends with Nurse Hathaway, and making her Shepard's Pie after she tries to kill herself.
None of these things happened or ever will, and logic tells me it's because there is no Cook County General. But can't one believe in something as awesome as this:
Shelly
Saturday, February 27, 2010
The Shellyhood of the Skin Tight Pants
Dear Internet,
Today is my birthday. If I were in New York on my birthday, it would be an all out beer slaughter at The Sly Fox (it's real name is Karpaty Bar and is adjacent to the Ukrainian East Village Restaurant) where I would invariably leave my gifts consisting of a cat harness and leash, scented candle, tulips, and lottery tickets. I would then force Max to go a day or two later to pick them up. This really wouldn't be an issue because he loves booze and going back to The Sly Fox/Karpaty Bar would be an excuse to throw back a few Rum & Diets before heading back to Zero Lorimer Street, Apartment Loud.
This year, instead, I spent my birthday in Chicago. I did receive an East Coast Happy Birthday at 12:00 AM Eastern/11:00 PM Central (sort of like TV shows), a tag team birthday text, and some flowers from Urban Meadows. I then dragged my hung over self to the the coffee pot and drank as much as possible to feel halfway in between Aspergers and Savant. Fairly uneventful, but fun day, I got my hair cut and colored (my colorist worked really hard to cover up the grays), had some Southern-style Poutine (a substitute for much-craved Disco Fries -- there is no Wiki for them! Just Cheese Fries!), and drank a few beers, and of course, went shopping.
The highlight of my day, aside from getting the Women's Frye Engineer 12R boots I wanted, was purchasing a pair of Levi's Denim Leggings, near black wash. I was really excited. I am still really excited. If I hadn't eaten so many fried potatoes with gravy, a Chicago-style hot dog with everything on it, drank a huge coke, had a buttload of PBRs, and devoured an entire (practically) carrot cake, I would put them on right now.
As I eyed them again just a few minutes ago, thinking up all the fantastic ensembles I am going to pair them with, I realized something. Every year, and with every birthday, my pants get tighter. By the time I'm thirty, I probably will cease to actually wear pants, especially if I keep going at this rate. I have been heading in this direction for some time now, but most recently it has been brought to light quite publicly.
Let's think back to Valentine's Day, when I so famously got a pair of shiny, side zipper, red leggings. I haven't worn them yet, but I have a bizarre fascination with them and have considered joining roller derby (WHIP IT!!!) just to wear them. Now, earlier today, on my 28th birthday, I decided I needed another pair of impossibly tight pants. I'm not even sure if they can be considered pants. I mean, Levi's certainly does, but a nun or my mom probably wouldn't. I think there is some weird inverse ratio here in effect. Instead of, as I get older, buying looser, more momesque jeans, I have reverted to wearing jeans that I wouldn't have worn when I was 22. Now, on the short side to thirty, I'm buying (who knows if I'm going to be wearing them) pants that may very well be too small for my age.
Mostly I don't care, but the big thing is that I shouldn't be doing this stuff at least until I'm 40, and definitely not unless I'm cougaring it up (I love that the person posting this definition is using the moniker "cougargeiger".)
I figure that if I can still wear them then I'm going to. Even if I can't figure out how. And besides, it's my birthday, so if I am going to receive irrelevant gifts (I got a map of Long Island and a porcelain dog), one of them might as well come from me.
Shelly
Today is my birthday. If I were in New York on my birthday, it would be an all out beer slaughter at The Sly Fox (it's real name is Karpaty Bar and is adjacent to the Ukrainian East Village Restaurant) where I would invariably leave my gifts consisting of a cat harness and leash, scented candle, tulips, and lottery tickets. I would then force Max to go a day or two later to pick them up. This really wouldn't be an issue because he loves booze and going back to The Sly Fox/Karpaty Bar would be an excuse to throw back a few Rum & Diets before heading back to Zero Lorimer Street, Apartment Loud.
This year, instead, I spent my birthday in Chicago. I did receive an East Coast Happy Birthday at 12:00 AM Eastern/11:00 PM Central (sort of like TV shows), a tag team birthday text, and some flowers from Urban Meadows. I then dragged my hung over self to the the coffee pot and drank as much as possible to feel halfway in between Aspergers and Savant. Fairly uneventful, but fun day, I got my hair cut and colored (my colorist worked really hard to cover up the grays), had some Southern-style Poutine (a substitute for much-craved Disco Fries -- there is no Wiki for them! Just Cheese Fries!), and drank a few beers, and of course, went shopping.
The highlight of my day, aside from getting the Women's Frye Engineer 12R boots I wanted, was purchasing a pair of Levi's Denim Leggings, near black wash. I was really excited. I am still really excited. If I hadn't eaten so many fried potatoes with gravy, a Chicago-style hot dog with everything on it, drank a huge coke, had a buttload of PBRs, and devoured an entire (practically) carrot cake, I would put them on right now.
As I eyed them again just a few minutes ago, thinking up all the fantastic ensembles I am going to pair them with, I realized something. Every year, and with every birthday, my pants get tighter. By the time I'm thirty, I probably will cease to actually wear pants, especially if I keep going at this rate. I have been heading in this direction for some time now, but most recently it has been brought to light quite publicly.
Let's think back to Valentine's Day, when I so famously got a pair of shiny, side zipper, red leggings. I haven't worn them yet, but I have a bizarre fascination with them and have considered joining roller derby (WHIP IT!!!) just to wear them. Now, earlier today, on my 28th birthday, I decided I needed another pair of impossibly tight pants. I'm not even sure if they can be considered pants. I mean, Levi's certainly does, but a nun or my mom probably wouldn't. I think there is some weird inverse ratio here in effect. Instead of, as I get older, buying looser, more momesque jeans, I have reverted to wearing jeans that I wouldn't have worn when I was 22. Now, on the short side to thirty, I'm buying (who knows if I'm going to be wearing them) pants that may very well be too small for my age.
Mostly I don't care, but the big thing is that I shouldn't be doing this stuff at least until I'm 40, and definitely not unless I'm cougaring it up (I love that the person posting this definition is using the moniker "cougargeiger".)
I figure that if I can still wear them then I'm going to. Even if I can't figure out how. And besides, it's my birthday, so if I am going to receive irrelevant gifts (I got a map of Long Island and a porcelain dog), one of them might as well come from me.
Shelly
Friday, February 26, 2010
Check Out This F-ing Rock and Roll Connection
Dear Internet,
As you know by now, I have a profound admiration and respect (also known as irrational, weird obsession) with Jack White. For several years now I have been plagued with how to meet him and become a member of his entourage, and then become a permanent fixture in his life, if not one of his adopted children. (I'm completely aware that he already has two kids of his own and doesn't need one that is 27 years old, err, 28 in about 15 hours.)
The first actual opportunity to embark on this endless quest was in July. BBChug, effervescent and brilliant as he is, was prescient enough to know that I would want tickets to The Dead Weather show at Terminal 5 in Manhattan. I never buy concert tickets, but I was fully prepared to shell out whatever I had to to be in the same room as Mr. White. The real reason all of our friends were getting tickets wasn't actually Jack, although that was my real incentive to go. The current and transplanted Jersey Kids' friends, The Screaming Females, were opening for The Dead Weather. And you know what I thought? Ka-Ching -- go to the show, cheer on The Females, go backstage, woo Jack with your awesomeness, and get on the bus to Boston.
In the end, obviously, it didn't happen that way. Although I did get to go backstage and stand in the VIP area. Jay-Z and Kanye West, both wearing Ray Bans (obvs), did happen by and I went all nutty thinking of the insane compilation that would happen if my favorite rock star and rapper got together with the production skills of Kanye. In any event, nothing really exciting besides that did happen. Although... We did exit Terminal 5 through the back door and got to see the tour bus.
So The Females did fail there, but since I've moved to the Midwest I've found a Jack White loop hole. I don't exactly know why it's a loop hole. I really basically just felt like using that phrase. I guess it's more of a "You Can't Meet Jack White" loop hole. But in any event, if it were a loop hole, it would be a good one. Ok, so enough of the semantics and back to the point. So as I was so unintelligibly saying, since I've moved to the Midwest I've met a good handful of people from Detroit. I've been really good about trying to keep my inner sociopath under wraps for a few months now, especially since starting work, so I haven't let the Jack White cat out of the bag just yet. Until today.
My co-worker, whom I work with directly, was born and raised in Detroit. We were discussing the new light rail being proposed by private investors in Detroit's downtown, when I asked: Is Cass Corridor part of downtown, or is a separate thing? My co-worker looked at me quizzically and said, How do you know about Cass Corridor? And on impulse I said, The White Stripes. This response caused a fair amount of laughter, some shock, and a little confusion amongst my comrades in cubes. But listen to what I learned:
This co-worker has a nephew who was big into the Detroit rock scene, has been to The Gold Dollar, and, a-hem, dated someone from The Von Bondies. Which means, at least by association, I know Jack White on two fronts: two degrees of separation via The Screaming Females and four via my co-worker. This basically equates to me being able to make my dreams to come true if I enable the American Dream of working really hard to accomplish something, that in the end, actually means nothing. Well nothing to anyone but me.
Gosh am I excited. Just think of all the possibilities: (1) Jack realizes my inherent talents in hearing great music and hires me to find awesome bands (not likely, since I only listen to a few bands, Stripes/Raconteurs/Dead Weather not included); (2) I love boots and have a great eye for them, so he hires me to find boots for him and Alison Mosshart; (3) I have an unyielding love for The White Stripes, and never get tired of listening to them, so I can put together special compilation vinyls without losing my mind; (4) I don't really know what else I can do with this here aside from just being a member of the entourage and telling the opening acts to get the fuck out of the party.
So with all these possible options, I'm pretty positive that I won't be able to woo Jack even when presented with the opportunity. I work in less than exciting corporate America, buy clothes from The Gap, and love to eat Velveeta. He knew me at "Can I have a pack of Camel Lights?" and was certain that I wouldn't fit the bill. Unless of course, I get rid of these gray hairs and throw on those Frye Engineer 12R boots Mike is supposed to get for me (see left inset), I can't expect much, at least until The Dead Weather play a show in Chicago.
Desperately,
Shelly
As you know by now, I have a profound admiration and respect (also known as irrational, weird obsession) with Jack White. For several years now I have been plagued with how to meet him and become a member of his entourage, and then become a permanent fixture in his life, if not one of his adopted children. (I'm completely aware that he already has two kids of his own and doesn't need one that is 27 years old, err, 28 in about 15 hours.)
The first actual opportunity to embark on this endless quest was in July. BBChug, effervescent and brilliant as he is, was prescient enough to know that I would want tickets to The Dead Weather show at Terminal 5 in Manhattan. I never buy concert tickets, but I was fully prepared to shell out whatever I had to to be in the same room as Mr. White. The real reason all of our friends were getting tickets wasn't actually Jack, although that was my real incentive to go. The current and transplanted Jersey Kids' friends, The Screaming Females, were opening for The Dead Weather. And you know what I thought? Ka-Ching -- go to the show, cheer on The Females, go backstage, woo Jack with your awesomeness, and get on the bus to Boston.
In the end, obviously, it didn't happen that way. Although I did get to go backstage and stand in the VIP area. Jay-Z and Kanye West, both wearing Ray Bans (obvs), did happen by and I went all nutty thinking of the insane compilation that would happen if my favorite rock star and rapper got together with the production skills of Kanye. In any event, nothing really exciting besides that did happen. Although... We did exit Terminal 5 through the back door and got to see the tour bus.So The Females did fail there, but since I've moved to the Midwest I've found a Jack White loop hole. I don't exactly know why it's a loop hole. I really basically just felt like using that phrase. I guess it's more of a "You Can't Meet Jack White" loop hole. But in any event, if it were a loop hole, it would be a good one. Ok, so enough of the semantics and back to the point. So as I was so unintelligibly saying, since I've moved to the Midwest I've met a good handful of people from Detroit. I've been really good about trying to keep my inner sociopath under wraps for a few months now, especially since starting work, so I haven't let the Jack White cat out of the bag just yet. Until today.
My co-worker, whom I work with directly, was born and raised in Detroit. We were discussing the new light rail being proposed by private investors in Detroit's downtown, when I asked: Is Cass Corridor part of downtown, or is a separate thing? My co-worker looked at me quizzically and said, How do you know about Cass Corridor? And on impulse I said, The White Stripes. This response caused a fair amount of laughter, some shock, and a little confusion amongst my comrades in cubes. But listen to what I learned:
This co-worker has a nephew who was big into the Detroit rock scene, has been to The Gold Dollar, and, a-hem, dated someone from The Von Bondies. Which means, at least by association, I know Jack White on two fronts: two degrees of separation via The Screaming Females and four via my co-worker. This basically equates to me being able to make my dreams to come true if I enable the American Dream of working really hard to accomplish something, that in the end, actually means nothing. Well nothing to anyone but me.
Gosh am I excited. Just think of all the possibilities: (1) Jack realizes my inherent talents in hearing great music and hires me to find awesome bands (not likely, since I only listen to a few bands, Stripes/Raconteurs/Dead Weather not included); (2) I love boots and have a great eye for them, so he hires me to find boots for him and Alison Mosshart; (3) I have an unyielding love for The White Stripes, and never get tired of listening to them, so I can put together special compilation vinyls without losing my mind; (4) I don't really know what else I can do with this here aside from just being a member of the entourage and telling the opening acts to get the fuck out of the party.
So with all these possible options, I'm pretty positive that I won't be able to woo Jack even when presented with the opportunity. I work in less than exciting corporate America, buy clothes from The Gap, and love to eat Velveeta. He knew me at "Can I have a pack of Camel Lights?" and was certain that I wouldn't fit the bill. Unless of course, I get rid of these gray hairs and throw on those Frye Engineer 12R boots Mike is supposed to get for me (see left inset), I can't expect much, at least until The Dead Weather play a show in Chicago.Desperately,
Shelly
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Three Inch Stacked Heels and The Damage Done
Dear Internet,
Rather than try to offer an explanation of the pain in my calves and the balls of my feet in a straight up blog post, I have composed a ballad to the tune of "Needle and the Damage Done," by Neil Young to express the unforgiving ache that has taken over the lower half of my body since deciding that going back to work in an office and wearing heels for 3 out of 5 days is the best way to live life.
For those of you who do not regularly wear heels, beware. It is a common and ridiculous tradition of women. This decision to wear heels isn't only for fashion, it is for height, posture, and the wonderful butt-lift that high heeled shoes provide. This week I adorned a pair of black three-inch knee high boots as well as a pair of mottled gray booties, also with three-inch stacked heel. On a Friday no less. At least I had the presence of mind to bring a pair of sneakers for the 3/4 of a mile walk from S. Wacker and Monroe to Congress and Plymouth to meet some new cats.
And so it goes:
Granted, this lyrical poem is crappy and doesn't really keep tune appropriately, but I'm not going to really work on it anymore because I have beer to drink and Indian food to eat.
Shelly
Rather than try to offer an explanation of the pain in my calves and the balls of my feet in a straight up blog post, I have composed a ballad to the tune of "Needle and the Damage Done," by Neil Young to express the unforgiving ache that has taken over the lower half of my body since deciding that going back to work in an office and wearing heels for 3 out of 5 days is the best way to live life.
For those of you who do not regularly wear heels, beware. It is a common and ridiculous tradition of women. This decision to wear heels isn't only for fashion, it is for height, posture, and the wonderful butt-lift that high heeled shoes provide. This week I adorned a pair of black three-inch knee high boots as well as a pair of mottled gray booties, also with three-inch stacked heel. On a Friday no less. At least I had the presence of mind to bring a pair of sneakers for the 3/4 of a mile walk from S. Wacker and Monroe to Congress and Plymouth to meet some new cats.
And so it goes:
Three-Inch Stacked Heels and the Damage Done
*Please remember the mournful tone of these lyrics.
You heard me clompin
down the street Monroe,
I look so fancy
but can barely walk anymore
Ooh, Ooh, the damage done.
I hit the corner and
lost my balance
I watched the stacked heel
force another slant.
Gone, gone, my footing
on the floor.
I sing this song
because I love these shoes.
And I know that some of you don't understand,
Because red blood,
Squeezes out of my toe.
I've worn the three-inch stacked heel
and seen the damage done.
A little pain racin' up my calf,
And every step like a
shitty model's strut.
Granted, this lyrical poem is crappy and doesn't really keep tune appropriately, but I'm not going to really work on it anymore because I have beer to drink and Indian food to eat.
Shelly
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
In the Loop. Stupid.
Dear Internet,
Yesterday was the first step towards being a real eating, breathing and working human being. By first step I mean I got out of bed, put on dress pants and a nice sweater, heels (believe it or not) and lugged two (yes, two bags) to an office in the loop for my first day of work at a new company. The first few days at a new job are really a trial. And by trial I mean a court case. You are presented, as, presumably, a juror for the first several days and weeks, with never before seen evidence into a situation that you had no a priori knowledge.
During the interview phases one learns minimal details into a company: what you will be working on, who you will be reporting to, if the company is public or private (and therefore revenues depending on that information), goals, and, hopefully, what is really expected of the position. Whether they want to or not, interviewers are often unable or incapable of truthfully expressing some critical components of the role, the company, how they relate, and of course the politics of a company. We all know this, or at the very least, should know that.
Gaining more truthful, or even downright illicit, information is difficult, if not impossible. Which is exactly why during the first few weeks of employment within a new organization new hires are total, bumbling, and at times, idiotic weirdos.
So with that, I take all new corporate challenges within the first weeks very simply. Learn the industry, figure out who is important and who is not, learn who will help you and who won't, and last, but certainly not least, worry about the most important things. What, mind you, are the most important things? I will tell you. Hold your horses.
1. Attempt not to fall and bust your ass on ice.
Since you will be wearing dress pants, a suit, and/or a skirt, walk cautiously at all times as you may fall for no apparent reason, particularly if you are accustomed to wearing sweatpants (Pajama Jeans if you're lucky), tank tops, and slippers, which are much easier to move about in. Not to mention, more comfortable than gabardine or wool. Heels particularly are dangerous the first week back in the real world as you have likely experienced serious calf muscle atrophy.
2. Determine how to get home at various times of the day, factoring in limited service times and CTA service cuts and layoffs.
In the event that you go stark raving mad in the first hours of your first day and realize that you made a horrible decision, be sure that you can escape and get home within 45 minutes of leaving so that you can find a bar to go to in your neighborhood that has a good happy hour special, since in the near future you will be out of a job.
3. If you do not go insane in the first five hours of your first day, find out what, if any, chat applications your company allows you to install.
This is really important. So important that it should probably be number 1. The sheer boredom you will face your first week of work (at least three days) will drive you to all sorts of desperate measures. If you do not have the rights to access websites with downloads for chat, find a work around. As a last resort, contact the Infrastructure Manager from your previous company and ask him to hack into your computer and install Trillian or Digsby.
4. Sit at your desk all day long. Get a bucket to pee in as necessary.
As much as it pains me to recommend this, do not succumb to the temptation to leave the building, wander around the streets, go to Urban Outfitters, find a hot dog cart at 10:00 AM, or chain smoke cigarettes on or near the loading dock. It's really the wrong thing to do, even though it would help pass eight hours way better. Options besides sneaking out: find unbanned and awesome websites like The Oatmeal, some nonsense celebrity blog like Radar Online or Perez Hilton (BTW, can you believe this whole Sammie and Ronnie saga? Both their names end in i-e. I thought they were made for each other!)
5. When you are being finger-printed do not tell the man squishing your digits onto pieces of paper, "I know how to do this."
This will almost certainly throw up red flags to the SEC and FIMRA, but it will also make you look more like a criminal than you already feel. If, by chance, you are wearing a ski mask and for some reason holding up the finger printing store, then by all means tell the proprietor that you know what you are doing. But if you are a regular office drone, or returning office drone, please keep your understanding and knowledge of finger printing to yourself.
6. When finally boarding the bus after 5:00 PM, make sure you are first in line.
You have worked terribly hard this week so far. Especially if you factor in that you haven't left your home during business hours in five and a half months, wore actual real-person clothes, shoes made of leather, and carried not one, but two bags. Therefore, no matter how tired or poor these huddled masses may appear, you are worse off for deciding that going to an office , rather than sitting on your sofa with a computer on your lap, was the way to be.
Tata for now. I am too tired to continue on to number ten.
Shelly
PS -- no good pics either. I'll have to remember to take pictures of the finger print entry machine.
Yesterday was the first step towards being a real eating, breathing and working human being. By first step I mean I got out of bed, put on dress pants and a nice sweater, heels (believe it or not) and lugged two (yes, two bags) to an office in the loop for my first day of work at a new company. The first few days at a new job are really a trial. And by trial I mean a court case. You are presented, as, presumably, a juror for the first several days and weeks, with never before seen evidence into a situation that you had no a priori knowledge.
During the interview phases one learns minimal details into a company: what you will be working on, who you will be reporting to, if the company is public or private (and therefore revenues depending on that information), goals, and, hopefully, what is really expected of the position. Whether they want to or not, interviewers are often unable or incapable of truthfully expressing some critical components of the role, the company, how they relate, and of course the politics of a company. We all know this, or at the very least, should know that.
Gaining more truthful, or even downright illicit, information is difficult, if not impossible. Which is exactly why during the first few weeks of employment within a new organization new hires are total, bumbling, and at times, idiotic weirdos.
So with that, I take all new corporate challenges within the first weeks very simply. Learn the industry, figure out who is important and who is not, learn who will help you and who won't, and last, but certainly not least, worry about the most important things. What, mind you, are the most important things? I will tell you. Hold your horses.
1. Attempt not to fall and bust your ass on ice.
Since you will be wearing dress pants, a suit, and/or a skirt, walk cautiously at all times as you may fall for no apparent reason, particularly if you are accustomed to wearing sweatpants (Pajama Jeans if you're lucky), tank tops, and slippers, which are much easier to move about in. Not to mention, more comfortable than gabardine or wool. Heels particularly are dangerous the first week back in the real world as you have likely experienced serious calf muscle atrophy.
2. Determine how to get home at various times of the day, factoring in limited service times and CTA service cuts and layoffs.
In the event that you go stark raving mad in the first hours of your first day and realize that you made a horrible decision, be sure that you can escape and get home within 45 minutes of leaving so that you can find a bar to go to in your neighborhood that has a good happy hour special, since in the near future you will be out of a job.
3. If you do not go insane in the first five hours of your first day, find out what, if any, chat applications your company allows you to install.
This is really important. So important that it should probably be number 1. The sheer boredom you will face your first week of work (at least three days) will drive you to all sorts of desperate measures. If you do not have the rights to access websites with downloads for chat, find a work around. As a last resort, contact the Infrastructure Manager from your previous company and ask him to hack into your computer and install Trillian or Digsby.
4. Sit at your desk all day long. Get a bucket to pee in as necessary.
As much as it pains me to recommend this, do not succumb to the temptation to leave the building, wander around the streets, go to Urban Outfitters, find a hot dog cart at 10:00 AM, or chain smoke cigarettes on or near the loading dock. It's really the wrong thing to do, even though it would help pass eight hours way better. Options besides sneaking out: find unbanned and awesome websites like The Oatmeal, some nonsense celebrity blog like Radar Online or Perez Hilton (BTW, can you believe this whole Sammie and Ronnie saga? Both their names end in i-e. I thought they were made for each other!)
5. When you are being finger-printed do not tell the man squishing your digits onto pieces of paper, "I know how to do this."
This will almost certainly throw up red flags to the SEC and FIMRA, but it will also make you look more like a criminal than you already feel. If, by chance, you are wearing a ski mask and for some reason holding up the finger printing store, then by all means tell the proprietor that you know what you are doing. But if you are a regular office drone, or returning office drone, please keep your understanding and knowledge of finger printing to yourself.
6. When finally boarding the bus after 5:00 PM, make sure you are first in line.
You have worked terribly hard this week so far. Especially if you factor in that you haven't left your home during business hours in five and a half months, wore actual real-person clothes, shoes made of leather, and carried not one, but two bags. Therefore, no matter how tired or poor these huddled masses may appear, you are worse off for deciding that going to an office , rather than sitting on your sofa with a computer on your lap, was the way to be.
Tata for now. I am too tired to continue on to number ten.
Shelly
PS -- no good pics either. I'll have to remember to take pictures of the finger print entry machine.
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Red, The Shiny, and The Ridiculous
Dear Internet,
I have sort of withdrawn myself from surfing the web and doing all sorts of other interwebually related things this weekend in an effort to run around the city. For the past few weeks I've felt a bit held up inside my apartment, only traveling outside to go to Hyde Park Produce, Exonn, and the liquor store. So I had a fun-filled weekend in Chicagoland, except for Friday night when I was having what one of my friends calls Throwback Friday, which basically means that I drank everything I could possibly get my hands on starting at 3:30 PM because it was my last day working from home. As you can see, I had devolved into a Jack White-loving monster by 7:40 PM.
So after some major recovery hours on Saturday, I headed up to The Loop for some Valentine's Day shopping. Not only was a I nauseous the entire time, I was also thoroughly irritated by the douchebags -- this is the honest term for the worst tourists around -- on Michigan Ave who don't know how to walk down sidewalks, either in the proper direction or speed. They also love to stand in the middle of busy corners, for example Michigan and Ohio or the every busy Michigan and Chicago, talking about which direction Water Tower Place is in, where the Sears Tower is, and of course, where they can find a Starbucks. Asking where a Starbucks is in of itself the most idiotic question ever.
Anyway, what I really should have done -- aside from getting some awesome sushi at Friends Sushi on Rush -- was go back home and get some bread and jelly and make Mike some fancy Valentine's Day breakfast, even including some fancy toast, the next morning.
Instead, I braved The Gap. Maybe you're wondering, and I asked myself a buttload of times, Why go in The Gap on President's Day Weekend? I, even in the mental state I was in, realized the sheer madness of my decision: it would be, naturally, insane in there. And it was. It was about 7,000 degrees, my puffy, sleeping bag of coat was clinging to me, my face was flush, and I was panting as I entered the store. I by-passed all the fun stuff geared towards Shelly and headed up the stairs to the men's section. T-shirts. Get t-shirts and go. This reconnaisance mission was really dangerous, and more similar to Kurtz's travel up the Congo than a regular day of shopping. If you please, we may also compare it to the fictional Nung River in Apocalypse Now.
I made a bee line to the pocket tees, grabbed three non-Metro Sexual colors and then went straight to the register. Well, not exactly straight to the register -- I did stop off to buy some teal opaque tights for $3.99 and two pairs of fancy socks at 2 pairs for $10. In any event, the deal was done.
Following this purchase, I was wracked with self-doubt. I wondered if I should have bought these t-shirts. Were they appropriate for Valentine's Day? As a veteran holiday shopper, I thought my purchases would be well received, but did Mike desire something more stereotypically cheesy? Probably not, but of course it was necessary. And so I went to CVS, one of my all time favorite stopping points. (After Duane Reade, of course.) And bought him a mini pack of SweetTarts and, for the love of Job, these awesome Pez dipensers and Elmo and Sesame Street V-Day Stickers:
Please note that Mike does not have a particular fondness for Pez or Disney characters. Nor does he particularly love Elmo or Sesame Street. These were, effectively, impulse buys aimed at obtaining laughter, a high on candy, and enjoyment in putting the stickers on Solomon and Kitty. Less a kind gesture and more of a joke, Valentine's Day confounds me.
I still, after nearly 28 years on this planet, cannot grasp the relevance and/or importance of Valentine's Day. All of the wilted flowers, shitty chocolates, and retarded copywritten greeting cards are generally too much for me to handle. An excuse to go out to a nice dinner, I'm all for. But random candies and shiny, red heart-shaped boxes with Russel Stover chocolates that have no map of which turd contains coconut and which has caramel is not for me. Which is why when asked what I wanted for Valentine's Day (which is basically just Halloween sans costume) I asked for these David Bowie-inspired shiny, red side-zipper inspired leggings:
They are red and therefore represent Valentine's Day. They are shiny, which makes me happy. And they have side zippers so that I can look like I am going really fast even when I am, in fact, going very slowly. To be completely honest, that picture does not do these pants justice. They are unreal, unholy and fucking insane. I loved them the second I laid eyes on them in December. And here they are in American Apparel's intended state:
I have no idea how I am going to wear these. Or where. All I know is that they are the best Valentine's Day gift ever -- oh, and dinner was good too, but these are insanely awesome -- and I will be wearing them in late March when Mo and BBChug come to Chicago. Mo, get a pair or be square.
Happy belated Valentine's Day! And YAY President's Day sales!
Shelly
I have sort of withdrawn myself from surfing the web and doing all sorts of other interwebually related things this weekend in an effort to run around the city. For the past few weeks I've felt a bit held up inside my apartment, only traveling outside to go to Hyde Park Produce, Exonn, and the liquor store. So I had a fun-filled weekend in Chicagoland, except for Friday night when I was having what one of my friends calls Throwback Friday, which basically means that I drank everything I could possibly get my hands on starting at 3:30 PM because it was my last day working from home. As you can see, I had devolved into a Jack White-loving monster by 7:40 PM.
So after some major recovery hours on Saturday, I headed up to The Loop for some Valentine's Day shopping. Not only was a I nauseous the entire time, I was also thoroughly irritated by the douchebags -- this is the honest term for the worst tourists around -- on Michigan Ave who don't know how to walk down sidewalks, either in the proper direction or speed. They also love to stand in the middle of busy corners, for example Michigan and Ohio or the every busy Michigan and Chicago, talking about which direction Water Tower Place is in, where the Sears Tower is, and of course, where they can find a Starbucks. Asking where a Starbucks is in of itself the most idiotic question ever.
Anyway, what I really should have done -- aside from getting some awesome sushi at Friends Sushi on Rush -- was go back home and get some bread and jelly and make Mike some fancy Valentine's Day breakfast, even including some fancy toast, the next morning.
Totally Tubular V-Day Breakfast Accompaniment.
Instead, I braved The Gap. Maybe you're wondering, and I asked myself a buttload of times, Why go in The Gap on President's Day Weekend? I, even in the mental state I was in, realized the sheer madness of my decision: it would be, naturally, insane in there. And it was. It was about 7,000 degrees, my puffy, sleeping bag of coat was clinging to me, my face was flush, and I was panting as I entered the store. I by-passed all the fun stuff geared towards Shelly and headed up the stairs to the men's section. T-shirts. Get t-shirts and go. This reconnaisance mission was really dangerous, and more similar to Kurtz's travel up the Congo than a regular day of shopping. If you please, we may also compare it to the fictional Nung River in Apocalypse Now.
I made a bee line to the pocket tees, grabbed three non-Metro Sexual colors and then went straight to the register. Well, not exactly straight to the register -- I did stop off to buy some teal opaque tights for $3.99 and two pairs of fancy socks at 2 pairs for $10. In any event, the deal was done.
Following this purchase, I was wracked with self-doubt. I wondered if I should have bought these t-shirts. Were they appropriate for Valentine's Day? As a veteran holiday shopper, I thought my purchases would be well received, but did Mike desire something more stereotypically cheesy? Probably not, but of course it was necessary. And so I went to CVS, one of my all time favorite stopping points. (After Duane Reade, of course.) And bought him a mini pack of SweetTarts and, for the love of Job, these awesome Pez dipensers and Elmo and Sesame Street V-Day Stickers:
Please note that Mike does not have a particular fondness for Pez or Disney characters. Nor does he particularly love Elmo or Sesame Street. These were, effectively, impulse buys aimed at obtaining laughter, a high on candy, and enjoyment in putting the stickers on Solomon and Kitty. Less a kind gesture and more of a joke, Valentine's Day confounds me.
I still, after nearly 28 years on this planet, cannot grasp the relevance and/or importance of Valentine's Day. All of the wilted flowers, shitty chocolates, and retarded copywritten greeting cards are generally too much for me to handle. An excuse to go out to a nice dinner, I'm all for. But random candies and shiny, red heart-shaped boxes with Russel Stover chocolates that have no map of which turd contains coconut and which has caramel is not for me. Which is why when asked what I wanted for Valentine's Day (which is basically just Halloween sans costume) I asked for these David Bowie-inspired shiny, red side-zipper inspired leggings:
They are red and therefore represent Valentine's Day. They are shiny, which makes me happy. And they have side zippers so that I can look like I am going really fast even when I am, in fact, going very slowly. To be completely honest, that picture does not do these pants justice. They are unreal, unholy and fucking insane. I loved them the second I laid eyes on them in December. And here they are in American Apparel's intended state:
I have no idea how I am going to wear these. Or where. All I know is that they are the best Valentine's Day gift ever -- oh, and dinner was good too, but these are insanely awesome -- and I will be wearing them in late March when Mo and BBChug come to Chicago. Mo, get a pair or be square.
Happy belated Valentine's Day! And YAY President's Day sales!
Shelly
Friday, February 12, 2010
Doin' the Last Day Right
Dear Internet,
I will be having continual updates. For now, Black Math is it.
Shelly
I will be having continual updates. For now, Black Math is it.
Shelly
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Good-bye House! Hello World!
Dear Internet,
Over the past five and a half months I've had the luck of rolling out of bed, traveling down the hall half awake, filling my Seagull coffee mug, AKA Remnants of Long Island, with fresh brewed Colombian coffee, wandering outside for a cigarette, and then navigating myself back down the hall to work a full day (well, close enough) from my home office. Next Tuesday dawns a new day for Shelly: I will be venturing off to an office for real, live, honest to goodness work.
Holy Shit!!!! Only now am I realizing the true ramifications of this endeavor. Now I will need to rise, presumably, when the sun is doing the same thing. The cats are already prepared to pounce on me at 5:30 AM, and will certainly be excited in the coming weeks and months because they will be dining on Friskies at 6:30 AM instead of 7:30. This is going to be huge for them. And by huge I mean they're kitty screams will be of joy instead of panic that I'm dead and they won't get Mixed Grill or Salmon Dinner.
I'll need to wear socially acceptable clothes and shoes. Probably even business casual. I'll need to ride the bus, and perhaps a subway. Buy lunch. Talk to people. Do work. What on Earth was I thinking?
Now that I really think about it, working from home is a fantastic concept. Even the words have a nice ring: work from home. Home. It's sort of like saying, "Look like an asshole, drink at your desk, do whatever, as long as you just get the job done." I prefer "work from home" tremendously to Working Remotely. That is a buzzword if I ever heard one. And kudos to the maniac who came up with the whole idea. S/he should really be awarded with some sort of prize for being awesomely lazy and manipulative.
Working from home, aside from allowing me to maintain a paycheck after moving and adjusting to Chicago, has also offered me some fun stuff. First off, I can, if I feel like it, just roll out of bed. I can work in front of a TV to stay on top of the comings and goings of the variety of hosts on The View or check out Giada De Laurentiis' latest creation on Food Network. I can wear retarded outfits. Actually, I'll be honest, they're not outfits. It's just crap slapped together. Crap from seventh grade. And, I can start drinking really early in the day if I feel like it. Working from home, it's a wonderful thing.
But like anything awesome -- like cats, babies, narcotics -- there are some downsides. So when considering working from home as an everyday gig, please consider the following:
1. You will get bored. Often. There's no one to talk to or not do work with. I've taken to talking to myself more than I did originally. I bitch and moan about how everyone is a jerk and needs to get a life, learn how to function, etc. I also live in an alternative universe where I'm really important and relevant.
2. Your cats will sit in front of your monitors at the worst possible moment and make it nearly impossible to check your Jack White RSS feed or watch the latest episode of The Real Housewives of Orange County on Bravo.com.
(I realize that Jack White, The White Stripes, The Dead Weather, so forth and so on into eternity, and The Real Housewives of Orange County do not really mesh, probably shouldn't be uttered in the same sentence, and that I have committed a mortal sin. I also don't care.)
3. It takes nearly all of your energy not to crack open a beer or have a Bloody Mary before 2:00 PM.
4. There's really no excuse for not making your bed or washing the dishes. You have no where to go.
5. Everyone thinks you're still working, even on vacation days, simply because you work from home.
Having said all that, it is important to clarify that there are, obvs, some major up sides to working from home:
1. If there's no one to talk to you can just chat on IM all day. You also can wear whatever the hell you want -- including t-shirts with holes in them, flip flops, no make up, and sweatpants. (I really wish I had bought a pair of Pajama Jeans before the end of this whole work from home thing.)
2. You can do your favorite things: hang out with your cats and obsess over when The White Stripes are going to put out a new album, when The Dead Weather are going to come to Chicago, if you should become a Platinum Member of The Vault and get special records even if you don't have a record player, and watch and learn endless things (I call it research) online. In the past few months I have really learned a lot about Heidi Montag, Kim Kardashian,and some other nonsense. Today for example, I read John Mayer's interview in Playboy.
3.
You can crack open beers at 4:00 PM because it's 5:00 PM in New York. Which usually results in something like this around 7:00 PM.
4. You don't have to make your bed, because you can work in it. I can't do anything about washing the dishes. You should really do that anyway.
5. You technically work later because you're in a different time zone, so you can send nasty-grams at 6:00 PM Central and the jerks on the East Coast have to start working again. Suckers.
In the end, basically what I'm saying is that working from home kicks ass. But it's also boring. Working in an office is awful, but gives you great material. At least if you have worked in the Dunder Mifflin of software. Or anywhere remotely dysfunctional. I'm sad to see my days spent in front of a computer in an apartment on the South Side of Chicago go. I'm sad about losing free flights back to New York. A company paying for my Internet. Friends and family back home. But I'm also excited to get outside, pick up a hot dog at lunch, meet some new people, and generally feel like I'm part of the world again. At least right now. I'll let you know how re-joining the real world is next week.
Shelly
Over the past five and a half months I've had the luck of rolling out of bed, traveling down the hall half awake, filling my Seagull coffee mug, AKA Remnants of Long Island, with fresh brewed Colombian coffee, wandering outside for a cigarette, and then navigating myself back down the hall to work a full day (well, close enough) from my home office. Next Tuesday dawns a new day for Shelly: I will be venturing off to an office for real, live, honest to goodness work.Holy Shit!!!! Only now am I realizing the true ramifications of this endeavor. Now I will need to rise, presumably, when the sun is doing the same thing. The cats are already prepared to pounce on me at 5:30 AM, and will certainly be excited in the coming weeks and months because they will be dining on Friskies at 6:30 AM instead of 7:30. This is going to be huge for them. And by huge I mean they're kitty screams will be of joy instead of panic that I'm dead and they won't get Mixed Grill or Salmon Dinner.
I'll need to wear socially acceptable clothes and shoes. Probably even business casual. I'll need to ride the bus, and perhaps a subway. Buy lunch. Talk to people. Do work. What on Earth was I thinking?
Now that I really think about it, working from home is a fantastic concept. Even the words have a nice ring: work from home. Home. It's sort of like saying, "Look like an asshole, drink at your desk, do whatever, as long as you just get the job done." I prefer "work from home" tremendously to Working Remotely. That is a buzzword if I ever heard one. And kudos to the maniac who came up with the whole idea. S/he should really be awarded with some sort of prize for being awesomely lazy and manipulative.
Working from home, aside from allowing me to maintain a paycheck after moving and adjusting to Chicago, has also offered me some fun stuff. First off, I can, if I feel like it, just roll out of bed. I can work in front of a TV to stay on top of the comings and goings of the variety of hosts on The View or check out Giada De Laurentiis' latest creation on Food Network. I can wear retarded outfits. Actually, I'll be honest, they're not outfits. It's just crap slapped together. Crap from seventh grade. And, I can start drinking really early in the day if I feel like it. Working from home, it's a wonderful thing.
But like anything awesome -- like cats, babies, narcotics -- there are some downsides. So when considering working from home as an everyday gig, please consider the following:
1. You will get bored. Often. There's no one to talk to or not do work with. I've taken to talking to myself more than I did originally. I bitch and moan about how everyone is a jerk and needs to get a life, learn how to function, etc. I also live in an alternative universe where I'm really important and relevant.
2. Your cats will sit in front of your monitors at the worst possible moment and make it nearly impossible to check your Jack White RSS feed or watch the latest episode of The Real Housewives of Orange County on Bravo.com.
(I realize that Jack White, The White Stripes, The Dead Weather, so forth and so on into eternity, and The Real Housewives of Orange County do not really mesh, probably shouldn't be uttered in the same sentence, and that I have committed a mortal sin. I also don't care.)
3. It takes nearly all of your energy not to crack open a beer or have a Bloody Mary before 2:00 PM.
4. There's really no excuse for not making your bed or washing the dishes. You have no where to go.
5. Everyone thinks you're still working, even on vacation days, simply because you work from home.
Having said all that, it is important to clarify that there are, obvs, some major up sides to working from home:
1. If there's no one to talk to you can just chat on IM all day. You also can wear whatever the hell you want -- including t-shirts with holes in them, flip flops, no make up, and sweatpants. (I really wish I had bought a pair of Pajama Jeans before the end of this whole work from home thing.)
2. You can do your favorite things: hang out with your cats and obsess over when The White Stripes are going to put out a new album, when The Dead Weather are going to come to Chicago, if you should become a Platinum Member of The Vault and get special records even if you don't have a record player, and watch and learn endless things (I call it research) online. In the past few months I have really learned a lot about Heidi Montag, Kim Kardashian,and some other nonsense. Today for example, I read John Mayer's interview in Playboy.
3.
You can crack open beers at 4:00 PM because it's 5:00 PM in New York. Which usually results in something like this around 7:00 PM.4. You don't have to make your bed, because you can work in it. I can't do anything about washing the dishes. You should really do that anyway.
5. You technically work later because you're in a different time zone, so you can send nasty-grams at 6:00 PM Central and the jerks on the East Coast have to start working again. Suckers.
In the end, basically what I'm saying is that working from home kicks ass. But it's also boring. Working in an office is awful, but gives you great material. At least if you have worked in the Dunder Mifflin of software. Or anywhere remotely dysfunctional. I'm sad to see my days spent in front of a computer in an apartment on the South Side of Chicago go. I'm sad about losing free flights back to New York. A company paying for my Internet. Friends and family back home. But I'm also excited to get outside, pick up a hot dog at lunch, meet some new people, and generally feel like I'm part of the world again. At least right now. I'll let you know how re-joining the real world is next week.
Shelly
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Earthquakes in Chicago: Shelly, Not Surprisingly, Had No Clue
Dear Internet,
I really don't know if I can beat the work Max did with Harold, but the best I can do is talk about some geological happenings in Chicago. Mostly this is news because the snow we have isn't -- it snows pretty much everyday. So anyway... Last night, or I guess really this morning, at around 5:00 AM Chicagoland had an earthquake. This sounds ridiculous and also like a lie, but according to the CHICAGO BREAKING NEWS CENTER:
I totally didn't know this at all. First off, why the hell are there earthquakes in Illinois? Tornados, sure. Blizzards, absolutely. Floods, definitely. But an earthquake? Really? Second of all, on top of the fact that we had an earthquake with a magnitude of 4.3 approximately 70 miles northwest of Downtown Chicago, we also have about 18 inches of snow. (This is an estimate because I haven't been outside.) And the snow is just like regular, boring stuff. Even the El is running on time. Thirdly, I have no idea what or where Gilberts really is. Or really anywhere in Illinois besides Chicago, and I don't even know that well. Although... I did go to Rolling Meadows, home of Rod Blagojevich, (who, btw is going to be on this season's The Apprentice) and Geneva, IL for a wedding.
My kitties, Solomon and Lola-Turned-Kitty, totally knew the 'quake was coming. Last night I went to bed at about 10:30. All the episodes of Criminal Minds, on multiple channels, were repeats that I've seen about six times each. Even though my favorite episode -- this lunatic who lived on a farm just over the river from Detroit and was kidnapping homeless people from Cass Corridor and then torturing them. Ultimately he fed them to his pigs. He in turn ate his pigs. -- was on, I just couldn't stay up. This was after about four hours of Bad Girls Club, which, unlike Jersey Shore, has no redeeming qualities. So I decided to turn in. Just about this time Solomon started running full speed up and down the hallway meofing. I use MEOF loosely because he can't actually meof. Instead he makes a high-pitched squeaking noise that sort of resembles a chew toy when you step on it. Or a half-dead Robin.
Following Solomon's lead, Kitty jumped into action, bolting just as fast up the hallway. Sol pried open the bedroom door and squeaked, ambled over to the closet door (banging into the vanity) and scratched at it until I let him in. Kitty followed suit. WTF, KITTIES!, I cried, but to no avail. Back and forth they ran: living room to hallway to office to bathroom to bedroom to closet, and back again. I finally gave up. It was too much for me. And really, it was either pass out or face Mike talking about Karl Marx and Capitalism again.
And so it happened. Northern Illinois had an earthquake in the wee hours of the morning and I had no clue. Even with the cats providing all kinds of unintelligible warnings.
Gad. Never in my life have I been subject to so many environmental things, and simultaneously. Cats, snow, earthquakes, lack of groceries -- it's unreal. It's basically come to a point where the only way I can deal with it is acting out:
And acting out like the heroine of Seinfeld, nonetheless. What a fucking idiot I am.
Drop, Cover and HOLD ON!
Shellly
I really don't know if I can beat the work Max did with Harold, but the best I can do is talk about some geological happenings in Chicago. Mostly this is news because the snow we have isn't -- it snows pretty much everyday. So anyway... Last night, or I guess really this morning, at around 5:00 AM Chicagoland had an earthquake. This sounds ridiculous and also like a lie, but according to the CHICAGO BREAKING NEWS CENTER:
"A mild earthquake shook northern Illinois this morning.
The U.S. Geological Survey initially reported a 4.3-magnitude quake at 3:59:33 a.m. centered about 5.5 miles east of Sycamore and 3.1 miles underground. But it later revised the magnitude to 3.8, and said the epicenter was just south of Gilberts."
I totally didn't know this at all. First off, why the hell are there earthquakes in Illinois? Tornados, sure. Blizzards, absolutely. Floods, definitely. But an earthquake? Really? Second of all, on top of the fact that we had an earthquake with a magnitude of 4.3 approximately 70 miles northwest of Downtown Chicago, we also have about 18 inches of snow. (This is an estimate because I haven't been outside.) And the snow is just like regular, boring stuff. Even the El is running on time. Thirdly, I have no idea what or where Gilberts really is. Or really anywhere in Illinois besides Chicago, and I don't even know that well. Although... I did go to Rolling Meadows, home of Rod Blagojevich, (who, btw is going to be on this season's The Apprentice) and Geneva, IL for a wedding.
My kitties, Solomon and Lola-Turned-Kitty, totally knew the 'quake was coming. Last night I went to bed at about 10:30. All the episodes of Criminal Minds, on multiple channels, were repeats that I've seen about six times each. Even though my favorite episode -- this lunatic who lived on a farm just over the river from Detroit and was kidnapping homeless people from Cass Corridor and then torturing them. Ultimately he fed them to his pigs. He in turn ate his pigs. -- was on, I just couldn't stay up. This was after about four hours of Bad Girls Club, which, unlike Jersey Shore, has no redeeming qualities. So I decided to turn in. Just about this time Solomon started running full speed up and down the hallway meofing. I use MEOF loosely because he can't actually meof. Instead he makes a high-pitched squeaking noise that sort of resembles a chew toy when you step on it. Or a half-dead Robin.
Following Solomon's lead, Kitty jumped into action, bolting just as fast up the hallway. Sol pried open the bedroom door and squeaked, ambled over to the closet door (banging into the vanity) and scratched at it until I let him in. Kitty followed suit. WTF, KITTIES!, I cried, but to no avail. Back and forth they ran: living room to hallway to office to bathroom to bedroom to closet, and back again. I finally gave up. It was too much for me. And really, it was either pass out or face Mike talking about Karl Marx and Capitalism again.
And so it happened. Northern Illinois had an earthquake in the wee hours of the morning and I had no clue. Even with the cats providing all kinds of unintelligible warnings.
Gad. Never in my life have I been subject to so many environmental things, and simultaneously. Cats, snow, earthquakes, lack of groceries -- it's unreal. It's basically come to a point where the only way I can deal with it is acting out:
And acting out like the heroine of Seinfeld, nonetheless. What a fucking idiot I am.
Drop, Cover and HOLD ON!
Shellly
Monday, February 8, 2010
Of Football and Taxes: Even Ziggy Stardust and Booze Can't Help
Dear Internet,
I've had a seriously delayed reaction to yesterday's Super Bowl. While I sat through the fourth quarter, which, to be completely honest, is the only quarter I watched, I looked on in dismay at The Indianapolis Colts and Peyton Manning and thought, WAIT A MINUTE! I wasn't having that reaction because I actually fully understand football, or because I finally realized what was going on, or because I realized I had drank too much and thought I was having DTs, or because I was tired and had a headache. I realized that I was being more self-absorbed and angry to actually watch the game or even write a new post. Too self-absorbed to right a blog post? Whoa!?
So now, at this time of night, my post is far from relevant, and in fact it's a little boring, but I feel the need to point out a couple of things about the game to end all games. I'm not actually talking about football either. Why would I? Kim Kardashian was missing from TV shots (at least the ones I saw) and I didn't even know Jeremy Shockey was on The Saints until he scored a touchdown. So, without further adieu, here are the highlights:
1. Charles Barkley should lay off the Taco Bell.
Did anyone else notice that this once supreme athlete now loves Tacos and Gorditas? For Pete's Sake, Charles. Give the kids something to work with. Not Tiger Woods Disasters and Tacos. What comes in this box that rocks, that rocks? A Cheesy Gordita crunched to munch... a $5 box that sticks to your butt, stomach, and thighs. Enough is enough. Oh yea, and why are you running for Governor of Alabama?
2. Anyone going to the Go Daddy website to see the uncut version of their Super Bowl commercial is not buying domains or SSL certificates.
I highly doubt that the majority of Americans watching the Super Bowl have any idea what an SSL Certificate or a domain is, or what either is used for. So while the commercials are vaguely interesting, and I suppose dirty (I never bothered to go to GoDaddy.com to find out if they were because I don't need a domain or an SSL certificate), they serve no overall purpose. I really want to know if there is a spike in sales of SSL Certificates. Or if anyone is getting anything out of this. It makes me tired just thinking about it. Go Marketing!
3. Never do your taxes on Super Bowl Sunday. Also, never do your taxes yourself.
On Saturday I mentioned that I had learned that my company's HR manager decided that I didn't need to pay Illinois state taxes, even though I was living there. I only learned this after I decided it was time to open my W-2.
Every year I (and of course you if you are working and/or are not self-employed) get this piece of paper that tells me how much money I made and how much money I paid in taxes. That part of it is fine for me. I mean, thanks for the summary and update: I forgot how little I earn. The part that really ticks me off is that every year I have the same reaction,
The number of exclamation points used above is for re-enactment purposes and to make me look less infantile and crazy. I probably used more and was a lot less coherent and logical. This same thing happens every year, and this year was no different, except I was on the edge of psychotic break or something or other they say on Criminal Minds(I have no idea when they changed the logo) because I might have to pay taxes to a different state! On top of that, this year I decided to do my own taxes. Which, by the way, unless you're Max and begin the entire process with a fifth of rum, diet coke, some ice, a pack of Winstons, and some David Bowie, there is really no reason to proceed because you're just going to end up more insane than you already were.
So Sunday, for all intensive purposes, was terrible. I harassed Mike, who is not an accountant, about how to file in two states, ranted about how I should be an anarchist, cursed Barack Obama because I have to pay taxes at all, yelled that my company's HR person is an Autistic Spectrum Reject, and drank most of the Old Style in the house. So just around the 4th quarter, I decided, maybe I should watch this game... And I was disappointed again. I'm actually still upset about it, which is why this post is so shitty.
I'm sorry,
Shelly
I've had a seriously delayed reaction to yesterday's Super Bowl. While I sat through the fourth quarter, which, to be completely honest, is the only quarter I watched, I looked on in dismay at The Indianapolis Colts and Peyton Manning and thought, WAIT A MINUTE! I wasn't having that reaction because I actually fully understand football, or because I finally realized what was going on, or because I realized I had drank too much and thought I was having DTs, or because I was tired and had a headache. I realized that I was being more self-absorbed and angry to actually watch the game or even write a new post. Too self-absorbed to right a blog post? Whoa!?
So now, at this time of night, my post is far from relevant, and in fact it's a little boring, but I feel the need to point out a couple of things about the game to end all games. I'm not actually talking about football either. Why would I? Kim Kardashian was missing from TV shots (at least the ones I saw) and I didn't even know Jeremy Shockey was on The Saints until he scored a touchdown. So, without further adieu, here are the highlights:
1. Charles Barkley should lay off the Taco Bell.
Did anyone else notice that this once supreme athlete now loves Tacos and Gorditas? For Pete's Sake, Charles. Give the kids something to work with. Not Tiger Woods Disasters and Tacos. What comes in this box that rocks, that rocks? A Cheesy Gordita crunched to munch... a $5 box that sticks to your butt, stomach, and thighs. Enough is enough. Oh yea, and why are you running for Governor of Alabama?
2. Anyone going to the Go Daddy website to see the uncut version of their Super Bowl commercial is not buying domains or SSL certificates.
I highly doubt that the majority of Americans watching the Super Bowl have any idea what an SSL Certificate or a domain is, or what either is used for. So while the commercials are vaguely interesting, and I suppose dirty (I never bothered to go to GoDaddy.com to find out if they were because I don't need a domain or an SSL certificate), they serve no overall purpose. I really want to know if there is a spike in sales of SSL Certificates. Or if anyone is getting anything out of this. It makes me tired just thinking about it. Go Marketing!
3. Never do your taxes on Super Bowl Sunday. Also, never do your taxes yourself.
On Saturday I mentioned that I had learned that my company's HR manager decided that I didn't need to pay Illinois state taxes, even though I was living there. I only learned this after I decided it was time to open my W-2.
Every year I (and of course you if you are working and/or are not self-employed) get this piece of paper that tells me how much money I made and how much money I paid in taxes. That part of it is fine for me. I mean, thanks for the summary and update: I forgot how little I earn. The part that really ticks me off is that every year I have the same reaction,
"Are they f-ing kidding me? Is that what I'm worth? I kill myself for these jerks?! What the fuck are they thinking? I'm not doing anything anymore!!!!!"
The number of exclamation points used above is for re-enactment purposes and to make me look less infantile and crazy. I probably used more and was a lot less coherent and logical. This same thing happens every year, and this year was no different, except I was on the edge of psychotic break or something or other they say on Criminal Minds(I have no idea when they changed the logo) because I might have to pay taxes to a different state! On top of that, this year I decided to do my own taxes. Which, by the way, unless you're Max and begin the entire process with a fifth of rum, diet coke, some ice, a pack of Winstons, and some David Bowie, there is really no reason to proceed because you're just going to end up more insane than you already were.
So Sunday, for all intensive purposes, was terrible. I harassed Mike, who is not an accountant, about how to file in two states, ranted about how I should be an anarchist, cursed Barack Obama because I have to pay taxes at all, yelled that my company's HR person is an Autistic Spectrum Reject, and drank most of the Old Style in the house. So just around the 4th quarter, I decided, maybe I should watch this game... And I was disappointed again. I'm actually still upset about it, which is why this post is so shitty.
I'm sorry,
Shelly
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Nair Fuss: Halloween Eggs, Aloe and Lanolin
Dear Internet,
Right now I'm just sitting in an uncomfortable rattan chair at my desk waiting for Mike to finish reading Karl Marx or some insane weirdo translation of an ancient Balinese text so that we can go get some pizza. I am also enjoying an ice cold can of Tecate, and the reason my Tecate is so cold is because I left it outside on the porch when Solomon and I decided it was high time he play in some snow. As self-proclaimed lover of Pabst Blue Ribbon, I'm pretty ticked off because all the stupid UofC undergraduates bought up every single 30 pack of PBR. I know this because I asked them if there were more cases somewhere in the back and they said NO. I'm one of the liquor store's best customers (that's not saying much since there are so many "good customers"), so I imagine they weren't lying to me. In any event, Solomon and Kitty just finished dinner and tonight's menu consisted of Friskies Ocean Whitefish & Tuna. Sally and Lola-Turned-Kitty have been eating this for a week now because cans of this particular flavor were on sale at CVS for 39 cents a piece. What a deal!
Anyway, today was mostly uneventful, aside from the fact that I learned that my company hasn't been taking Illinois state taxes out of my paycheck, and of course my Nair experience. The whole taxes issue isn't something I'm willing to deal with at this point, especially considering the Tecate because I'm likely to call Human Resources and ask when they gained an extra chromosome. What's more important is the Nair. I've been using Nair, which is a noxious depilatory hair removal cream, for several years now. According to Nair, it's for all seasons:
The fact that Nair can be used all year long has never really been something I was worried about. I've never been sitting around in August wondering, should I be using this right now? It is hot and humid, perhaps I won't get the best results. Instead I was probably thinking, I hope this garbage works, after all, it is only Nair. So anyway, at 2:00 PM Central Time, after I had read Gorgeous Joe's first blog post, Harold's latest, had about a half dozen cigarettes, drank 3 cups of coffee and read Dan Savage's Sex Q&A in the Chicago Reader I decided it was high time to take a shower. And, of course, Nair.
First off, it's interesting that Nair is both a noun and a verb. It's sort of like Google in that way, but not really any others. It's also interesting that Nair is basically sulfuric acid, but you can buy it in a plastic container at your local drug store. Other than that, it's just your average beauty product. Your average beauty product that smells like eggs prepared for Devil's Night or Halloween gently masked by Aloe & Lanolin, Cocoa Butter, or Baby Oil. Your choice of barely distinguishable fake fragrance. More so, it's one of the most feared products on the market -- which explains the insane ritual I have concocted when using it.
Since the entire goal of using Nair is to remove hair, you need to be really careful you don't remove hair you don't want to remove. For instance,the hair from your head or eyebrows. Here is my recipe for proper Nair use, and therefore hair removal:
1. Obtain several yards of paper towels from the kitchen.
2. Separate said paper towels into two paper towel section pieces -- required, about 16.
3. Turn faucet on hot and keep running full blast. (I hope you don't have Alcatraz-style faucets.)
4. Secure head hair in pony tail holder, bobby pins, headband, and whatever other barrettes and/or claw clips you have.
5. Encase hand in paper towel and open cabinet containing Nair product. Remove Nair from cabinet.
6. Place recently used Nair paper towel into trash can, place new paper towel on basin, and squirt globs of Nair into your hand.
7. Rub palms together and, carefully, begin the application of Nair to desired body parts.
8. Following ten minutes of waiting, reading The New Yorker, and generally bumbling around hoping that you didn't get Nair anywhere else, begin removal. (Please note that the bottle says three minutes, but that only works for individuals of Swedish descent, AKA Vikings.)
9. Following thorough removal of Nair cream, wash hands as if you are going into surgery. (I learned how to thoroughly remove germs, bacteria, and Nair by watching Dr. Mark Green on ER, so for proper hand washing practices please see YouTube or Dr. BBChug.)
10. Begin shower, hair still secured with various accouterments. Once in shower, wash hands seven times or until completely satisfied that all Nair has been washed from your hands.
11. After 20 to 40 minutes you should be all set.
(Please note that there are several other components to this but in order to get pizza I will have to follow up in comments.)
If you're really wondering why I even bother with such nonsense, I'm afraid I can't answer that. Nair, by some stroke of God or something, actually does work, although I'm deathly afraid of it. It smells terrible, more so because of its added scent. I never understood why Nair's R&D team never realized it just wasn't worth it to make it smell good. I mean, it's for hair removal. Who really cares what it smells like? This is like eating and breathing.
Anyway, at this point in my day I'm hairless and we've ordered pizza over the Internet.
WWPOTATF,
Shelly
Right now I'm just sitting in an uncomfortable rattan chair at my desk waiting for Mike to finish reading Karl Marx or some insane weirdo translation of an ancient Balinese text so that we can go get some pizza. I am also enjoying an ice cold can of Tecate, and the reason my Tecate is so cold is because I left it outside on the porch when Solomon and I decided it was high time he play in some snow. As self-proclaimed lover of Pabst Blue Ribbon, I'm pretty ticked off because all the stupid UofC undergraduates bought up every single 30 pack of PBR. I know this because I asked them if there were more cases somewhere in the back and they said NO. I'm one of the liquor store's best customers (that's not saying much since there are so many "good customers"), so I imagine they weren't lying to me. In any event, Solomon and Kitty just finished dinner and tonight's menu consisted of Friskies Ocean Whitefish & Tuna. Sally and Lola-Turned-Kitty have been eating this for a week now because cans of this particular flavor were on sale at CVS for 39 cents a piece. What a deal!
Anyway, today was mostly uneventful, aside from the fact that I learned that my company hasn't been taking Illinois state taxes out of my paycheck, and of course my Nair experience. The whole taxes issue isn't something I'm willing to deal with at this point, especially considering the Tecate because I'm likely to call Human Resources and ask when they gained an extra chromosome. What's more important is the Nair. I've been using Nair, which is a noxious depilatory hair removal cream, for several years now. According to Nair, it's for all seasons:"Beneath all those extra layers of clothing is your bare skin dying to be set free. And yes, there are times, even in winter, when you're going to be wearing less. Whether it's hot-tubbing après-ski, a Pilates class or a romantic evening by the fire, always be ready. Besides, you deserve to look and feel as gorgeously smooth in January as you do in June."
The fact that Nair can be used all year long has never really been something I was worried about. I've never been sitting around in August wondering, should I be using this right now? It is hot and humid, perhaps I won't get the best results. Instead I was probably thinking, I hope this garbage works, after all, it is only Nair. So anyway, at 2:00 PM Central Time, after I had read Gorgeous Joe's first blog post, Harold's latest, had about a half dozen cigarettes, drank 3 cups of coffee and read Dan Savage's Sex Q&A in the Chicago Reader I decided it was high time to take a shower. And, of course, Nair.
First off, it's interesting that Nair is both a noun and a verb. It's sort of like Google in that way, but not really any others. It's also interesting that Nair is basically sulfuric acid, but you can buy it in a plastic container at your local drug store. Other than that, it's just your average beauty product. Your average beauty product that smells like eggs prepared for Devil's Night or Halloween gently masked by Aloe & Lanolin, Cocoa Butter, or Baby Oil. Your choice of barely distinguishable fake fragrance. More so, it's one of the most feared products on the market -- which explains the insane ritual I have concocted when using it.
Since the entire goal of using Nair is to remove hair, you need to be really careful you don't remove hair you don't want to remove. For instance,the hair from your head or eyebrows. Here is my recipe for proper Nair use, and therefore hair removal:
1. Obtain several yards of paper towels from the kitchen.
2. Separate said paper towels into two paper towel section pieces -- required, about 16.
3. Turn faucet on hot and keep running full blast. (I hope you don't have Alcatraz-style faucets.)
4. Secure head hair in pony tail holder, bobby pins, headband, and whatever other barrettes and/or claw clips you have.
5. Encase hand in paper towel and open cabinet containing Nair product. Remove Nair from cabinet.
6. Place recently used Nair paper towel into trash can, place new paper towel on basin, and squirt globs of Nair into your hand.
7. Rub palms together and, carefully, begin the application of Nair to desired body parts.
8. Following ten minutes of waiting, reading The New Yorker, and generally bumbling around hoping that you didn't get Nair anywhere else, begin removal. (Please note that the bottle says three minutes, but that only works for individuals of Swedish descent, AKA Vikings.)
9. Following thorough removal of Nair cream, wash hands as if you are going into surgery. (I learned how to thoroughly remove germs, bacteria, and Nair by watching Dr. Mark Green on ER, so for proper hand washing practices please see YouTube or Dr. BBChug.)
10. Begin shower, hair still secured with various accouterments. Once in shower, wash hands seven times or until completely satisfied that all Nair has been washed from your hands.
11. After 20 to 40 minutes you should be all set.
(Please note that there are several other components to this but in order to get pizza I will have to follow up in comments.)
If you're really wondering why I even bother with such nonsense, I'm afraid I can't answer that. Nair, by some stroke of God or something, actually does work, although I'm deathly afraid of it. It smells terrible, more so because of its added scent. I never understood why Nair's R&D team never realized it just wasn't worth it to make it smell good. I mean, it's for hair removal. Who really cares what it smells like? This is like eating and breathing.
Anyway, at this point in my day I'm hairless and we've ordered pizza over the Internet.
WWPOTATF,
Shelly
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