Friday, October 5, 2007

Game night and Cheerleaders


The other night myself and a few of my closest friends got together to cook dinner and have a game night (we're one trip to Michael's away from menopause and shopping at Chico's, apparently). Our usual favorite of Taboo was getting a bit tired so we headed out to Fred Meyer's to pick up some fresh gamin meat (it's possible that this story has already peaked, so feel free to stop reading at any time).

Roundin the gamin aisle, I was really pulling for Settlers of Catan. Sidenote: Catan is an amazing game and not meant for those who are easily repelled by nerdy behavior and language, otherwise, I wholeheartedly recommend it. However, Settlers of Catan is far too classy a game to be sold at Fred Meyer's, kinda like how Cranium used to only be sold exclusively at Starbucks, but not in an uppity way. So, after centuries of debating and arguing over games, we decided on IMAGINIFF!!!!!!!!!!!!! If it was not clear by the excessive use of exclamation points, Imaginiff did not disappoint!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It was so wonderful that I had a dream about it that night, sexy.

You basically choose 8 people (including yourselves) and answer multiple choice questions about how they would react in particular scenarios, things they would choose, things they would be, etc. The rules state that you can also pick celebrities, but that's crap. Just stick to yourselves and people you know so you can make fun of them and laugh at them. Choosing peoples parents work nice, also. It is a board style game and you have pieces to try to move to the end, with challenges and whatnot, but all of that almost gets lost in the midst of accessing whether or not someone would confess to running over a cat, replace the cat, bury the cat do nothing, or blame the cat's owner for letting it outside (BTW, Liz George would blame the cat's owner).

Okay, so there's my endorsement for Imaginiff, tada.


Moving on to another thing I feel very passionately about. I really, really love the show Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders: Making the Team on CMT. This may be the first show ever I have watched on CMT. Now, I like country music. Reba McIntyre may even be at my fantasy dinner, but I think CMT is pretty lame. This show, however, is pure joy. If I haven't already alienated every feminist and female liberationalist (?), I'm sure I will shortly.

This show chronicles the audition process of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders and gives you (the viewer!!!) an inside look as to why or why not someone may make the team. Are their kicks a bit sub par? Not flexible enough? Hair color too blah? Would they look "inappropriate" in the uniform (such tact!)? The ringleader of the whole shebang is Kelli Finglass, the DCC director. Kelli ("Ma'am") is an immaculately composed and shellacked mother/big sister figure who has perfected a veil of compassion and empathy for these girls who are, mostly likely, "going home with a broken heart and crushed dreams". They even tug at your heartstrings a bit with Christina, a profoundly deaf girl who does a lyrical dance to Coldplay "Clocks", causing the dance instructor to cry and embrace her.

Not hooked yet? In the most recent episode the girls, who are now past auditions and into training camp (complete with a Jerry Springer-esque boot camp instructor!!! OMG), get their body fat percentage measured. One girl was found to be a whopping 16% body fat. This was 3% over the team average and, therefore, she was put on a meal plan and told to tighten up. Now, to the naked eye, she was incredible thin and had a killer bod (lez!), but as she was walking away, the camera happened to catch the slightest hint of back fat. Is this a bit harsh? Does it set women back 50 years? Yes, and yes. However, these women knew that 2 out of the 3 categories they would be judged on were based on appearance (face and body, duh). Kelli Finglass and the uniform can not be compromised by misplaced and unsightly faaat! So, as a judging viewer and a devoted fan of pom-poms (again, lez!), I say lose the excess adipose or find a new dream, girlfriend.

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

C. Booones


Apparently, when former New York mayor Rudy Giuliani "cleaned up" the city, he forgot one major infringement to this city's beautification: chi-cken bones. Chicken Bones. Me being bipedal on the NYC sidewalks means only one thing – chicken bones will plague me.


They are disgusting, unnatural, and certainly unnecessary as there is a trashcan on just about every corner. Just when I think I am safe from these C. Bones, one (or several) will appear, as if they just fell from the heavens. If you build it, they will come. Well, the same is true for chicken bones.


Half eaten chicken bones, legs, thighs, foil encased bones, skinny bones, fat bones. They are everywhere. Staring back at you from their hideouts: cuddled up to buildings, in the gutters, wedged next to scaffolding poles, NEXT to trashcans, doing back flips from street lights, and highfiving each other as they pass on the street – chicken bones are here to stay.

As the temperature rises, so does my infuriation with C.B. The thought of an iced over C.B. is far less blood boiling than seeing a C.B. through the hazy mist of a NY summer day. The sight of a humid, sticky chicken bone (skin flapping, dripping with bone grease) is enough to send me into an increased blood pressure blind rage.


Now, here is a question that shakes me from my slumber: Where are these chicken bones coming from?? Certainly, I see these bones being ingested (another issue altogether), but where are they acquired? I imagine it must be a place where there is no sit-down eatery available. Where the purchaser can simply obtain and flee. Street vendors do no vending of the bones, as far as I know. Are they black market? Is there an outdoor BBQ somewhere that I am unaware of? The place of C.B. origination must be nearby because I can't imagine (or, for the sake of my health, choose not to) that the chicken bones are traveled with for blocks and blocks before they are consumed and, consequently, disposed of in plain view.


Where is the birthplace of the chicken bone, and why do they insist that the sidewalk be their final resting place???




Tuesday, February 6, 2007

Another day older... another day wiser...

It's funny the things you learn in your OLD AGE that, while it seems to be common knowledge to the rest of the worldly population, is sparkling, shiny, new information to you. For example, I have recently learned that when a store announces that they are "Proudly Serving Boar's Head!" that they are, in fact serving a BRAND of meat, not an actual Boar's thinking machine. So, for your reading pleasure, I am sharing my otherwise very intellectual roommate latest lightbulb moment. Brought to you in the form of rapid fire email :



From: M
Sent: Tuesday, February 06, 2007
To: J
Subject: RE:


I don’t know how to load staples in the stapler….who the f doesn’t actually know how!!!!!!!!!!!????????? I’ve used both of Claire’s staplers and 2 of mine and now I don’t know what to do cause I don’t know how to reload!!! Ahhhhh


From: J
Sent: Tuesday, February 06, 2007
To: M
Subject: RE:

Okay, do you want help? I can talk you through this.


From: M
Sent: Tuesday, February 06, 2007
To: J
Subject: RE:


Yes please!!!!

From: J
Sent: Tuesday, February 06, 2007
To: M
Subject: RE:


You have to pull HARD! What part is tripping you up? This is too funny

From: M
Sent: Tuesday, February 06, 2007
To: J
Subject: RE:


I DON’T KNOW, I’VE BEEN MESSING WITH IT FOR LIKE 2 HOURS!

From: J
Sent: Tuesday, February 06, 2007
To: M
Subject: RE:

Okay, step by step (I’m LOLing):

1.Pull the top part of the stapler from the the bottom part that actually touchedthe desk. This can be done either one of two ways: a) manually pull very hard (grab the top, silver part that staples and pull in an “opening” motion from the bottom part) until the top swings up (opens like a lid). If this doesn’t work then there will be a little metal clip/button on the bottom of the stapler (the part that touches the desk), push that and it will release and the stapler will open.

2. Focusing only on the “top” part, pull the silver part away from the top part, this should work manually. Not buttons to release, just pull. Don’t worry about injuring yourself as the stapler has no staples.

3. Feed a row of staples inside the now opened silver part. Points on the staples face DOWN. The flat part faces UP. There will be a spring that pulls back and reveals an empty area. Load the row of staples. As you close the top the spring will push on the staples, pushing them to the front.

4. Close everything and restore to original state.

5. Staple.



From: M
Sent: Tuesday, February 06, 2007
To: J
Subject: RE:

OMG I’m officially retarded!! Bringing home the stapler for you to show me…


One, two... buckle your shoes...



Thursday, February 1, 2007

Go ahead, have that sixth Krispy Kreme.

One of the most earth shattering moments a woman can have is seeing her reflection. When I’m experiencing one of those dreaded fat, ugly, pimply, and greasy days,the only thing I want on the horizon is a pair of sweats (holes and stains optional) and a large amount of heart unhealthy food. Sometimes the only thing that seems to fit on these days is a pint of Ben & Jerry's. I convince myself I am having a day of liberation as I head to the grocery store to stock up on the feed. This is when it happens: WARNING! INCOMING: REFLECTION!!!

There you are, innocent and ghastly, walking along with your friend (fat supporter; enabler, if you will), laughing (chortling!) because you are liberated, comfortable, and about to consume about 3 weeks worth of food, when you turn your head and see your reflection in a store window. Laughing?! LAUGHING!! Look at yourself! Why are you laughing?!! The sight is appalling and enough to slap you back to reality. Harsh? Yes. However, rarely is it enough to stop the call of Sara Lee.

Monday, January 8, 2007

Obviously, a near-death experience.

**What I am about to tell you is fucking unbelievable. I just want to preface this story by telling you that you may want to get your ciggs ready, because you'll need one after reading this.**

There was a "mysterious" gas smell all over Manhattan this morning (seriously). Well, the mayor had already announced that it is nothing dangerous when DEB comes up to me. So, Deb is that woman in every office that constantly complains about things you could give two shits about (could NOT give two shits about?). Deb is, I suppose, laterally superior. I am, however, in no way Deb's assistant or even in the same department. I'm already cringing and pretending that my peripheral vision is failing me. The conversation went as follows:

DEB: Hey Jess, this gaseous smell is making me feel a bit uncomfortable...

"Jess": ...[continuous blinking]...

DEB: So, I'm just a bit worried.

"Jess": Yeah, well. They're are some people watching CNN in the lounge.

DEB: Okay, do you think you could maybe, if you have the time, find me a surgical mask? (YES! I wanted to STAB HER!!! I felt like I was on Punkd or some shit)

"Jess": ...[uncontrollable fit of laughter, repressing urge to strangle her with her shawl]... Yeah, I really don't think I'm going to have the time. But, you know it might be a good idea to hold a napkin over your mouth if you are that worried.

(I tried to say this last part as sympathetically and sincerely as possible as to dodge any insubordination bullet)

UPDATE: And I shit you not. I just walked by her desk and she is holding a KITCHEN TOWEL to her face with a fan blowing directly on her. Too bad she can't get her hands on the precious miracle potion that is Ginga' Ale.

Thursday, January 4, 2007

She's a master of her craft. And her craft is being a "bother".

I'm livid. Below is an exact copy and paste of an email I just received. Like, what the fucking fuck does this ho want me to do to remedy the situation? Not only does she not offer any suggestion to fix this shit... it is MOST certainly NOT a part of my job description. PS this woman is so annoying. Like fucking annoying as shit and wears a red shawl with fringes every day.

Hi J,
I hate to be a bother, but I lost $1.50 in the soda machine between yesterday and today. Each time I selected Ginger Ale, it would give me Mountain Dew.
Deb

First of all, yes, her real name is FUCKING DEB! DEB?! Of course it is. And Ginger Ale??? REALLY DEB?!?!?! Tummy trouble got ya down?
And? What? You want me to fucking break into that shit and retreive your GD buck and a half? Deal with it. You hate to be a bother? fuck you. The vending machine is a high risk investment, everyone knows that. Lastly, the sodas are exactly ONE dollar each. ONE. No more, no less. How the fuck did DEB lose a dollar AND A HALF??