Friday, May 28, 2010

Gorge, Blaspheme, Hate!

I'm pretty sure my memoir would be called Gorge, Blaspheme, Hate. Oh elusive, effervescent nirvana, your fickleness irritates me. I've tried detoxing and decluttering but time and circumstance draw the line at decamping halfway around the world in search of tranquility. Surely the answer can be found closer to home--like at the bottom of a bag of Fritos?

Friday, May 14, 2010

Never Can Say Goodbye...

Extricating oneself from many conversations can prove to be tricky, but via text or IM? 'Tis a fine art--you don't want to be rude and leave anyone hanging, do you?

Excerpt from actual text message:

>Comin home

>K C U soon! How was ur test?

>K Tell u l8r

>K Drive safe

>stop txting me




Thursday, May 13, 2010

A Votre Sante, House Hunters International!

A $million-two for a crumbling 17th century 500 square foot three story house? Le sigh. With room for only a single-sized bed? Mm-hmm. Mismatched rickety stairs that you need to climb with one foot on the left ascending step, followed by one foot on the right? Check. Kitschy rooster fabric curtain cupboard doors hiding nonexistent storage space beneath the sink? Cock-a-doodle-doo! Washing machine in the bathroom with no dryer to be seen? Heaven!

Some people drink wine, I prefer to watch other people drink wine as they decide between three different far-flung properties on House Hunters International. Sweet heroin, I am addicted to those exotic locales, but even more so to what's behind those big, rustic doors.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Bog Party!

I have a super cool friend who is so cool I can't figure out why he bothers hanging out with the likes of me. He jets off to exotic locales like Marrakesh where he schmoozes with snake charmers, gets stranded by the volcano and then ends up in Paris, mais oui, to wait it out. I live vicariously through my friend, who just texted me that he was going to a bog party at Liberace's cool is that? Not wanting to appear even more provincial than I am, I sent him my best and told him to have a great time, all the while wondering what it was, exactly, that I was missing out on now: a bog party? What could it be? A fancy new drink, imported from Scotland? A new dance craze? I couldn't figure it out and it was driving me crazy. I swallowed my pride like I hoped he'd do his condescension and texted back: btw, what's a bog party? His thumb slipped, he meant to type big party. Must. Get. A. Life.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

Life is All About The Maintenance...

If life is a tragedy to those who feel and a comedy for those who think, it is a melodrama to those, like my mother-in-law, who believe the uncomplaining life is not worth living.

Eternal Quest For The Perfect Pajamas...

Have you ever pointed to a picture of the perfect haircut, and said, "That one! Make me look like her!" only to end up looking nothing like Dorothy Hamill? That's pretty much been my experience on my eternal quest for the perfect pajamas. I'm not asking for much, just a mythical, magical pair o' pjs that that won't wrinkle, bind, rip, make me look like a man, or smother me with sweat. This holy grail of 'now I lay me down to sleep, I pray my jammies don't start to creep' also has to allow me to be able to entertain the FedEx guy with no shame. They need to outline a femme fatale while showing no extraneous skin, and render nipples, unshaven legs, and miscellaneous wine spots and cinnamon Pop-tart crumbs invisible. Surely Angelina Jolie doesn't sleep in Agent Provocateur every night, right?