My company holiday party was last night. I know what you’re thinking: a stiff party that you only attend because it’s the ‘right’ thing to do. Wrong! I actually like the people I work so I was really looking forward to the party. I even spent extra time getting ready. Part of my getting ready was shopping for a nice outfit. This year I added a new accessory. Ever heard of SPANX?
SPANX are marketed as a panty hose that has a little extra control through the thighs on up. What girl couldn’t use a little help? I normally don’t wear panty hose but I was feeling a bit ‘fluffy’ and well…you get the idea.
As I was getting ready I pulled the SPANX out of the package and sat down to put them on. How hard could it be to put on a pair of pantyhose? This is the moment I realized SPANX are not pantyhose they are a torture device disguised as pantyhose. I pulled, stretched and yanked my SPANX up and over my thighs. I stopped for a moment to build up momentum for my next hoist. I had to strategize whether to try the over the hips first or over the belly. The wrong move could cause injury. I decided to try the hips first. Three yanks and two jumps later my hips were encased. At this point I felt like this SPANX idea was not a good one but I couldn’t go back. I only had one more section to stuff into my SPANX. I forged on. During these next few moments of stretching and stuffing and pulling, beads of sweat started to form on my brow. “C’mon you piece of crap SPANX.” I muttered under my breath. These durable little buggers were tough and they were not about to let me win.
I felt like a referee between my belly and my SPANX. Carefully negotiating the material and my loose skin. I finally came to what I thought was neutral ground between the two. The SPANX were on and my belly was suffocated so it could no longer fight back.
Next I put on my pants and I was actually happy with the work the SPANX did. No more bumpy thighs or jiggly cheeks. I guess this is successful.
The three of us made it to the party. Me, my girlfriend and my SPANX. I let the alcohol numb the pain as I walked around and wished holiday greetings to all. The party lasted until after midnight and at this point I was successfully buzzed and my SPANX were still on duty.
Then all of a sudden I felt like Cinderella at midnight. My SPANX shifted (though I have no idea how) and the discomfort I had learned to accept during the evening would have been welcomed compared to the excruciating agony I was experiencing at that moment.
The three of us (me, my girlfriend and my SPANX) made our way to a cab in hopes of a hurried ride home. The only thing worse than standing with shifting SPANX is sitting in shifting SPANX. It’s like they were still trying to finish out their tour of duty. UGH!
I made my way into my house and right there, inside the front door I ripped myself out of my SPANX. I felt the blood rush back to my lower body and my toes tingled.
I left my SPANX on the living room floor. This morning, as I scooted all I wanted to do was give them a swift kick. But I didn’t. I need them for New Year’s Eve!
On the first load of laundry my washer gave to me, a forgotten tube of red lipstick
On the second load of laundry my washer gave to me, two floating dollars and a forgotten tube of red lipstick
On the third load of laundry my washer gave to me, three orphaned socks, two floating dollars and a forgotten tube of red lipstick
On the fourth load of laundry my washer gave me, four mustard stains, three orphaned socks, two floating dollars and a forgotten tube of red lipstick
On the fifth load of laundry my washer gave to me, five dry clean only shirts! Four mustard stains, three orphaned socks, two floating dollars and a forgotten tube of red lipstick
On the sixth load of laundry my washer gave to me, six clanging quarters, five dry clean only shirts! Four mustard stains, three orphaned socks, two floating dollars and a forgotten tube of red lipstick
On the seventh load of laundry my washer gave to me, seven missing buttons, six clanging quarters, five dry clean only shirts! Four mustard stains, three orphaned socks, two floating dollars and a forgotten tube of red lipstick
On the eighth load of laundry my washer gave to me, eight pink t-shirts, seven missing buttons, six clanging quarters, five dry clean only shirts! Four mustard stains, three orphaned socks, two floating dollars and a forgotten tube of red lipstick
On the ninth load of laundry my washer gave to me, nine sticks of gum (oops), eight pink t-shirts, seven missing buttons, six clanging quarters, five dry clean only shirts! Four mustard stains, three orphaned socks, two floating dollars and a forgotten tube of red lipstick
On my tenth load of laundry my washer gave to me, ten shrunken pairs of jeans, nine sticks of gum (oops), eight pink t-shirts, seven missing buttons, six clanging quarters, five dry clean only shirts! Four mustard stains, three orphaned socks, two floating dollars and a forgotten tube of red lipstick
On my eleventh load of laundry my washer gave to me, eleven tangled bras, ten shrunken pairs of jeans, nine sticks of gum (oops), eight pink t-shirts, seven missing buttons, six clanging quarters, five dry clean only shirts! Four mustard stains, three orphaned socks, two floating dollars and a forgotten tube of red lipstick
On my twelfth load of laundry my washer gave to me, twelve hours of grief! , Eleven tangled bras, ten shrunken pairs of jeans, nine sticks of gum (oops), eight pink t-shirts, seven missing buttons, six clanging quarters, five dry clean only shirts! Four mustard stains, three orphaned socks, two floating dollars and a forgotten tube of red lipstick
Yes, I’m one of ‘those’; One of those people who puts their Christmas tree up almost as early as the stores start playing Jingle Bells. I don’t know when I started celebrating Christmas early. I used to hate people who were in the Christmas spirit before Thanksgiving. I thought they were nuts. For the record I still hate holiday sweaters and I abhor the Family Matching Sweater & Khakis Christmas Photo.
Aside from being one of ‘those’ people, I am one of those people who drove 100 miles round trip to find the perfect tree. I usually go for a fresh cut but this year we decided to invest—yes invest in a top of the line pre-lit artificial tree. Saturday, we drove to one of the mega tree super stores on the outskirts of and for almost 2 hours, wandered through the artificial winter wonderland. We settled on a 7 ½ foot pre-lit slim fresh cut pine for $200.
If you thought the voyage was over, you’re wrong. Now it was time to find the perfect decorations for our new perfect tree. The mega tree super store had a few decorations we wanted but mostly they had the huge honkin’ blow up lawn art. I live in a condo—plus I think blow up lawn art is tacky.
So off we went to five different stores in search of the best decorations. Normally I would go on about each selection -- we were literally comparing shades of garland. But the one thing that is pissing me off is the piece of crap star that is supposed to be perfectly perched atop the 7 ½ foot pre-lit slim fresh cut pine tree. We have adjusted the perfectly perched star at least 25 times and it still leans to the right.
What the heck? Have I mentioned this tree is perfect? And if it’s so perfect, why can’t the stupid star see that? Why
does it have to mock me? Why does is sit nice and straight long enough for me to think I had won only to watch it slowly tip as if to smirk in protest?
I refuse to let it win. I could buy another star but this one is not going to beat me. This $9 star on top of my $200 tree adorned with $300 decorations and a $50 tree skirt can kiss my ass. As Chevy Chase's Christmas Vacation as my witness, I will not let this renegade tree toppin’ star beat me.
Like any red-blooded American who bleeds blue, I glued myself in front of the TV Tuesday in hopes that the top story for the free world this week was not the Brittany Spears divorce (though I am curious what took so long).
As I sat there watching the seats for the Democrats accumulate like the sacks of the Seahawks/Oakland game on Monday night; I began to wonder whether this whole ‘Mercury in Retrograde’ stuff really works.
I went to bed confident the great state of Illinois was not going to be led by a chain smoking Howdy Doody look-a-like and that many of the local races were going in our favor.
I was surprised (but not shocked) to wake up to the cliff hanger: “And Then There Were Two”. Should I dig out my “Who Shot JR?” t-shirt for such an event? With no risk of a repeated hanging chad debacle, I settled into the fact that the Republicans needed a few extra hours to remove their shoes to count the percentage points by which the Democrats whooped their butts.
Cheers resounded when the scales of Justice finally tipped back. I couldn’t have been happier…or could I?
With just a few moments passing between the victorious proclamation, who should appear on TV but our good ole boy Dub Ya with an big announcement….Rumsfeld Steps Down!
Technically, one would have to step up in order to step down.
Any who, I stared at the
screen like Timmy trying to interpret what Lassie is trying to tell him. “What’s that Dub Ya? Rumsfeld fell down the well?” Naturally a replacement was
quickly announced. A buddy of Dub Ya’s.
Looks like his Christmas card list is going to be pretty slim this year:
- Condy
- Dennis
- Gates
- Dick (please forward to the nearest hunting lodge)
- Saddam (better send it FedEx overnight)
- Pelosi (I dare her to stamp “return to sender” on it)
I can’t wait to see what happens next week!
If politics were a game of Red Rover teams would be picked by a candidate’s probable contribution to a team’s success.
If politics were a game of Red Rover teams would be lined up boy-girl-boy-girl to ensure a balanced team.
If politics were a game of Red Rover candidates would step up to the challenge when the other team sounded out their name in the taunting call “Red Rover, Red Rover send….right over!” instead of hiding.
If politics were a game of Red Rover a political party would rally around their weakest candidate to try and ensure victory.
If politics were a game of Red Rover do over’s would be given if requested and an open hand raise vote of majority rules is passed.
If politics were a game of Red Rover the candidate who breaks through the chain is actually declared the winner.
“…and what are you supposed to be?”
I hated hearing that Halloween after Halloween. There’s something to be said about a kid’s psyche who grows up in the Midwest and is forced to wear a snowsuit over their Halloween costume year after year. The only thing that that separated my everyday me from my costume was a rough cut plastic mask with a rubber band fastener. Safe, real safe!
Still, I looked forward to the week of Halloween where the family piled into the woody wagon and off to the local discount store in search of our Halloween costumes. Not that a costume would ever see the light of day with the constant threat of a Halloween snow storm.
Back then (Jesus, I think I turned into my mother the day I started to use that term), costumes were not made of non-flammable fabrics with pretty tiaras and pitchfork accessories. Back then, everyone had the same costume: a box with your choice of a super hero, witch or monster constructed of a highly flammable costume apron that tied at the neck and around the waist. Of course the matching mask, complete with nickel slit eye sockets, two pin holes for your nostrils and a hole the size of a straw for your mouth completed the look. So every time you rang a doorbell, your shallowed breathing gave way to a muffled, Darth Vadar like “Trick or Treat!”
I'm surprised no one ended up with toxic poisoning from the petroleum based gear. I think the only thing that kept any of us going with the adrenaline of the candy hunt.
Back then (yes, that’s three –I know you’re counting), everyone went trick or treating to strangers’ houses and after realizing the ground I could cover in one night, I ditched the cutesy pumpkin pail and traded up to a pillow case. I didn’t want to risk losing one candy corn.
Now I’m an adult and I can spot a fellow costume aproned adult anywhere because their kid has the BEST Halloween costume. Their kid has airbrushed makeup and high end accessories. Their kid’s little red wagon has been transformed into a pirate ship, horse or holiday float. Their kid’s costumes are made- not off the rack. No one will ever ask their kid “…and what are you supposed to be?”
Perhaps these kids are going to miss out on the self discovery voyage which forces us to listen to Ani DiFranco and shake our fist at the Administration. Perhaps these kids will miss the imagination gene that let’s you create a dream from the left over cardboard from Mom’s big ass Kotex box and some tin foil. And perhaps these kids will never learn how to savor a piece of candy corn by eating it first by the white triangle tip, then the orange body and finally the yellow top.
All because we went door to door yelling “Trick or Treat” for what seemed like miles in our snowsuits that covered our highly flammable costume aprons, and sweaty, ill fitting masks, all because it was Halloween. And we loved it—no matter how many times we were forced to answer the question”…and what are you supposed to be?”
It seemed like an easy idea. ‘Stop by the grocery store after work to pick up a 12 pack of Diet Coke.’ That’s it. Heck, I don’t even need to pretend I had less than 10 items to be eligible for the short line.
I even parked on the Diet Coke end of the store. In and out. Sounds almost too simple but it’s just Diet Coke, right?
Wrong.
I wish it was JUST Diet Coke. I wish it wasn’t Diet Coke with Lemon, Diet Coke with Lime, Black Cherry Diet Coke (though I’m not clear about why the “black cherry” precedes the “diet coke” but it does).
Maybe I’m in the flavored soda section vs the real soda section? It’s entirely possible. After all there is an entire aisle dedicated to our good clear liquid friend: Water.
I made my way down the aisle. Past the Pepsi fruit match-ups, through the ginger ales and local knock off drinks like “Dr. Rocker”. I see more Diet Coke products but no plain ole Diet Coke.
Caffeine Free Diet Coke is for pussies and for me when I think I need brown soda with less guilt. Then there is the latest newbie: Diet Coke with Splenda? Splenda? Are you kidding me? I like my Diet Coke the way it was meant to be: with Nutra Sweet and fully of cancer causing agents that can also shine up a ole penny.
I rounded the corner. Perhaps a gay ole end cap has my favorite drink on display. Nope. What about its' possible teaming up with a bag from the Dorito family? No dice. What the hell?
I went up to the Customer Service counter to ask about Diet Coke. Of course I had to wait through a line of 10 item + violators. “Aisle 16,” was all I got out of the Customer Service Desk. I tried to explain that I was there and there was no plain old Diet Coke. Then they pulled the “Ma’am” card. I hate being called Ma’am. Especially when it is said in the same tone as “bitch”.
I convinced them to send a stock person over. They were not very happy to be digging through the multiple fridge packs of Diet Coke-esque items for me. On a happy note, they did find one lonely 12 pack. Naturally it had 2 cans that had exploded and no one bothered to clean it up. The stock person was happy to announce that since it doesn’t contain sugar, it isn’t sticky like regular soda.
He tried to sell me on getting a 2-litre. No. It takes me 2 weeks to drink a twelve pack so I don’t want my Diet Coke going flat on me.
I ended up at the registers. I ended up getting a 20oz bottle from the self serve. The same one I could have gotten at the service station down the street from my house.
What gameshow or reality show would you kick butt on?
I swear I was born to be a game show contestant but I've never really made the big times (YET!).
I don't think about being a contender on just one game show, rather how I would be on various game shows. Here's what I mean:
Jeopardy- I would have to wear a smart looking suit and keep my boobs under wraps. Alex doesn't seem to go for anything vulgar and cleavage is a definate no-no. I would pray to not have any catergories like "The Bible", or "Roman Empire" and wiggle my way into the high dollar items at bottom of "Potpourri" and "Starts with "E"" catergories. My hobby or fun fact would be key to my 15 minutes of fame. Everyone is a librarian (snore) so I would want to highlight my writing classes at Second City or that Erma Bombeck was my 2nd cousin.
Wheel of Fortune- I've lost my connection to "The Wheel" since Pat Sajak had to give up quick math for the shopping spree. $265 for a cat lithograph?! Not that I wanted it, but I wanted to know what it felt like to throw away cash at such a crappy and useless prize.
The Price is Right- I know you're thinking "what does any woman want to do with a sexist guy like Bob?" I don't know but I want to be called. "Shannon Cunningham, come on down!!!" I would be enthusiastic but not obnoxious. And as much as I hate the bitches that bid $1 over the highest bid, I would totally steal the same strategy. I don't know what I would want to win but I don't wanna play PLINKO or that MOUNTAIN CLIMBER game. Those are the lamest ones. What I'm really looking forward to is spinning THE WHEEL. I've put a lot of thought in the THE WHEEL. First of all you need the right wardrobe. No untucked shirts or dunlap jeans. Nope I would have to ensure that I was wearing a jacket to cover any spillage. My spin would be hearty. I would stand on my tippy toes and reach to the highest rung and whip that wheel around and hope for $1.00. I hope I make it to the SHOWCASE SHOWDOWN!
But my favorite game would be HOLLYWOOD SQUARES!
Hollywood Squares- How perfect to get Whoopi Goldberg for the center square? Or Bruce Valanche for a block? Or see Anna Nicole try to define any words that don't start with the letter 'slur'?
I think I'll move to LA and work the gameshow circuit!
We've all done it. You get into your groove on a cardio machine and every so often you get a little ass clap escape. It breaks your concentration. First you look around to see if anyone else heard it. Then you take an extra big wiff to secure the area. Thank God it didn't stink.
Unfortunately, YOU did not follow this approach. You were scooting along on the elipitcal reading your Chemistry book- of all things and suddenly a green cloud practically surrounds you like Charlie Brown's buddy, Pigpen.
It was busy at the gym. You couldn't have played it off but you made eye contact. Yep, the lingering gaze of fart guilt. Jesus, Mary- what did you eat? While I tried not to hold your stare, I couldn't help that my eyes began to tear up. I looked around for back up. I thought about abandoning the machine. It will pass, right?
Wrong. For the next twenty minutes you settled in with your Periodical Table of Elements and a beaker of shit flowing out of your ass.
So for all of you gym farters who think it's ok to blow ass, this fart protocol rant if you. Learn it. Live it. Or fuckin' cork it!
I love my little 'hood. I love that my building is full of friends. I love that I can park in front of my place without much stress or frustration in finding parking. I love that people are respectful and know what it means to be a good neighbor.
That is until this past week. This past week the condo rehab courtyard building across the street started to let people move in. Usually I love to see new people but THESE people are already working my last nerve. These people are loud. These people are stingy parkers. Stingy parkers include 1) anyone who parks and takes up more than one space or 2) has the nerve to park the opposite direction of traffic because god-for-bid they walk an additional block like the rest of us.
So now I have nosy bad parking new neighbors who are already off my holiday caroling route. It couldn't possibly get worse, right?
Wrong. I noticed that one of my new neighbors who is in the line of sight from my living room, has decided to use their new Pella windows to display their Bush hating propaganda posters. I'm usually all for Bush haters, but do I really need to see this when I just want a nice view of a few trees?
Should I counter?
Is it immature to put up a sign that basically says, "Hey fucker, I don't put my bush in the window and I don't wanna see yours."
Or perhaps a passive aggressive flaming bag of poop on their shitty patio furniture?
Decisions, decisions...
One thing is for certain- I sure as hell ain't gonna be borrowing a cup 'o Splenda anytime soon.
