And Pam Anderson's boobs are fake, too

Apparently Britney may have messed up one of her "comeback" shows. People were apparently shocked, *shocked* that Britney wasn't really singing and booed her. Are these people like the dumbest people alive? Does anyone go to a Britney Spears show expecting her to sing? These are probably the same people freaking out because Ashlee Simpson dared to fake it on SNL. I'm a huge fan of shitty pop music, I'm not gonna lie. But at least I know that most of what I hear is brought to me by the magic of digital....

Speaking of shitty music, I can't handle the rap song where the guy just keeps saying "this is why I'm hot." Does he ever get around to saying why he's hot? I can't make it that far along in the song to find out. I'd sort of like to know why he's hot (it sure as hell isn't the crap he calls a song). Or is he really just being coy, keeping people wondering why he's hot? If so, it's working, since I want to know why he's hot.

I recently saw on E! News that shorts are the hot trend of the summer. Isn't that kind of like saying that coats are a trend during the winter? Is it a trend if it's a staple? Sure, you can have a more specific trend - the bermuda short, for example. But as I recall, the story featured long shorts, short shorts, pretty much all kinds of shorts. This is not a trend.

Happy Birthday!

Yesterday was my birthday. I turned 28 and totally forgot it was my birthday until the fiance called early in the a.m. At first I was wondering why he was calling me so early, and then I realized that it was my birthday. I've never been huge on birthdays; don't know why. I actually quite like getting older because it seems to bring more confidence and a sense of . . . hell, I don't know. Goodness... I think I was about 30 when I was 20, so maybe I just feel like I'm finally catching up. Although I don't generally celebrate my birthday, my future in-laws, family and co-workers made it an awesome day. Long story short, they saved my awesome registry dishes from discontinuance purgatory. And the co-workers filled me with cookies and cupcakes. Awesome.

Today we took a field trip to a historical Shaker village. I couldn't quite do the whole tour. I mean, do I need 45 minutes of tour to know that the Shakers didn't have sex and clearly did not believe in comfortable furniture? Maybe that's why there's only three Shakers left in the United States. I tried to watch the informational video, but I couldn't sit on the bench for that long. I hate to complain (wait, no I don't; I love to complain), but assless people like me can only sit on a hard bench for so long. I guess I should have thought to bring a hemorrhoid donut or something.

I keep seeing these commercials for people who were rejected by eHarmony.com. It sort of makes me wonder if I would be rejected. Or what kind of man the all mighty algorithm would do with someone who's pretty smart, talks like she was raised in a Dallas mall, and who can shake a room with a good burp. Not that I'm looking (clearly), but I just wonder what it takes to get rejected. From an online dating site. Is that like someone saying that you're incapable of being a match for anyone? Ouch. That would sting.

Today's random thoughts

"Real women have curves." Not all real women. Just the curvy ones. I realize that women are fed totally contradictory messages about their weight ("Love yourself! But losing a few pounds never hurt!"), but is constant trashing of small women really necessary? Oh yeah, and people really should know that when stores come out with size 00 (leading inevitably to a media freak out about all of us anorexics), those stores have, in all likelihood, just taken every other size down a notch (the "new" 00 is really the old 0, and all the other sizes have gotten bigger, so that she who was a size 6, is now a size 4).

One of the side effects of a prescription sleeping pill, I'm told on the commercial, is drowsiness. Is that really a side effect? Isn't that sort of like saying that a side effect of birth control is difficulty conceiving?

I have discovered why I love my still-new-but-worn-twice-now dress. It's apparently cool enough that men feel compelled to compliment me on it. It must be special if a dude is going to actually utter the words, "I really like you dress," to a total stranger that he's not otherwise hitting on.

Tip for the day: The word "shyster" is thought of in some corners to be anti-semitic (although people apparently disagree about whether this perception is warranted). Just thought I'd put that out there to prevent anyone just tossing around that word in front of a few Jewish colleagues. Because that's not mortifying. At all. Oh wait, it's totally mortifying.

Still alive

The wireless network I've been mooching off of went away. So I am left to while away my weekends and evenings with no internet. Every wireless connection in range of my apartment requires a network key. Paranoid bastards. I put up a note by the mailboxes in my building to see if any of the tenants in the other three apartments had a network they wanted to share - I'd pay them money, they'd let me mooch. No takers. Paranoid bastards.

I'm in Austin for another wedding. And a hair appointment. Good times.

Nothing exciting has been happening. I managed to walk over 2 miles to get to a doctor appointment only to discover that the insurance company had the wrong address and that I had the wrong day. Sweating for nothing is really super-awesome. And, given my sad physical condition, my legs were sore as hell the next day. You know it's sad when you put on your heels and, all of a sudden, everything that was aching feels normal and okay.

I'm upset that the latest trend of the season is the sack, er, tunic. As a woman of slight stature, I know I don't look good in sacks. I can't imagine that any woman looks good in a sack, even if you cinch the sack. I saw some chick at the airport yesterday wearing some oversize button down, cinched with a big belt, tight capris, and four-inch platform heels. Two words for this ridiculousness: Peg Bundy. Let's forget about the fact that you're traipsing through the airport in platform heels. But you're wearing a cinched sack! It's not okay!

In other news, congrats to Chris for deciding on UT Law! Yay debt! Yay selling out! Big money no whammies!!

Monday? Boo!

I wasn't really in the mood to work today. I did a quick look at the calendar and it looked like it was okay for me to not really feel like working. Last week, when I was the last one in the office at like 5:00, but couldn't leave because I don't pay for parking (and don't carry cash, so couldn't pay if I wanted to), I took a little nap in my office until I could leave at 6:00. Man, I am so going to miss my job. Not that I don't work hard. I do work hard. Even some weekends and the occasional late night. But it's nice to know I only have to get my work done, with no clock. I used to be billable. My desk was always covered in sticky notes with client codes and time spent on stuff (inevitably, I would go to do my time like a week later and couldn't figure out what my sticky notes said). That sucked. Not so much looking forward to doing it again. At least I'll be making more than $400 a week this time around.

I flew to Austin for a whirlwind of activity this weekend. My calves are always sore after I fly. For a while I totally thought I had deep vein thrombosis (thanks, mom, for always reminding me to get up and walk around on the plane to avoid sudden death). I couldn't figure out why my legs always hurt. Then I realized, to my horror, than I was probably sore from walking through airports with a huge purse-bag, dragging my suitcase behind me. Walking makes me sore. I am that out of shape. Horrifying. So I bought some mini cupcakes at the grocery store to make me feel better about the fact that walking makes me sore. Yummy.

Shopping therapy

I broke down and went to get new shoes tonight. I opted for my standard issue black heels. No fun here. Move along. I can't wait until I can shop again. Although it helps that the mall shopping here sort of sucks, so it's not like there's too much temptation, at least when it comes to shoes. I also bought my first black belt in almost 10 years. Although I eat as much as I used to, I've managed to lose a little weight since I moved here, which means all of my pants are too big. Without a belt, I just feel like I look dumpy and sloppy, constantly hitching my pants up. Now I just need to get some ass implants to make my pants really fit.

I'm currently avoiding my book in favor of my latest issue of Vanity Fair. It's the green issue. Not that I don't love mother earth, but the green issue gets on my nerves just a little. I'm sick of hearing about carbon footprints and carbon credits. I'm not going to lie and say I know what I'm talking about, but the whole carbon credit thing seems like a scam to me. Like a way for rich people to have heated pools and not feel bad about it because they bought their carbon credits, people who apparently feel that they don't have to actually sacrifice for whatever it is they claim to fervently believe in (unless driving a Prius counts). Broke people like me have the best plan to reduce our carbon footprints: turn the heat way down (or off), even when it's cold, and just walk around wearing fuzzy socks and two pairs of flannel PJ pants (make sure that you don't create a little pocket around your nose when you pull the covers up; I got a little fuzzy-floaty one night when I did this). Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Al.

Breaking all the rules

I refuse to abide by the gazillion different rules for addressing envelopes. No nicknames. Why would I call Tom "Thomas"? He's not Thomas, he's Tom. Unmarried couples that live together can't have their names on the same line. Why not? Some of these people are practically married. Order of names. There's rules for that, too. Screw it. Hopefully, my friends won't notice that I don't care about this finer point of etiquette. And if they notice, hopefully they won't care. And if they care, they have been hiding this side of themselves from me. I bet they also secretly know all what all the little forks and spoons are for, too. I say boo to these weird rules.

And the envelopes will be addressed in my shitty handwriting. Because, yes, I will admit to being too budget-conscious to hire a calligrapher for envelopes that will be thrown away. I find it interesting that it's considered uncouth to use a printer and a nice font when addressing envelopes. It apparently communicates to your guests that they aren't important enough for you to take the time to address the envelopes yourself. But hiring someone to address them for you says that, although you didn't take the time to address the envelopes yourself, you paid someone to do so. Whaaa?? I think that some calligraphers' union came up with this rule of etiquette. I bet Miss Manners was on the take when this little gem came to be a rule.

Why?

It's April. And it's snowing. WTF?

Small victory in my stupid little war

I think I played a role in preventing a woman from choosing my wedding place to have her wedding. I feel good about this. It's the little victories. Sure, some other sucker will wind up going crazy dealing with this woman, but I'd like to think that I just helped ensure a more pleasant wedding-planning process for someone else. I better get karma points for this. Or at least the good karma better balance out whatever bad karma will flow from trash-talking this woman.

The weather got shitty last night. I was all excited about wearing the new black peep-toe pumps. I got to prance around in them for like a week, but I guess I'll have to put them away for a little while. But my standard black heels are making the click-clack sound that tells you that the heel is worn down to the nail. I think I'll keep click-clacking around for the time being. I can make it work until I can bust out the peep-toes again.

Is it just me, or is Lou Dobbs an ass? He seems to complain and complain about government and yet appears to advocate for more government. That's like saying more crack will help me kick my addiction to crack.

I am woman

Hear me roar. Or cry. Like a little baby. I tried to use the epilator last night. I patiently grew out out the leg hair until I resembled a yeti. I took a hot bath, as this is supposed to open the pores and dull the pain that comes with ripping out all of your leg hair by the root. After about 2 seconds, I quickly discovered that the epilator is less a hair removal option than a torture device that I intend to tell the people at gitmo about. Forget waterboarding. I'd sell out my own mom to avoid the epilator.

But I don't give up that easily. I thought about topical anesthetics and called my sister so she could tell me about my nonprescription options. Those options are expensive. Then I remembered good, old-fashioned ice. So I systematically numbed small sections my legs with ice and then proceeded to voluntarily use a device that rips the hair out from the root. All in all, I think it worked out well. One day, I'll actually be comfortable spending the money to have all of my leg hair lasered off. Until that time comes, this should work out well.

Bring It On has to be like one of the best movies ever made.

Feeling smart

I was watching The Girls Next Door, and Hugh Hefner was giving his girlfriends their Christmas presents. They all bust out these fur coats and Hef makes a point of telling the ladies that the coats are faux fur. But when he said "faux" he pronounced the "x." So, he was trying to tell them that no animals were harmed in the making of the coats, but I wonder if they were confused about what happened to the foxes who maybe died for those coats. I may not know how to say "inane" and I may have mispronounced "Suffolk" today. But I know how to say "faux." Yay smart me! I can say stuff in French! Sing with me: I am so smart, I am so smart, S-M-R-T.*

I've had a headache for the past few days. Combine this with the fact that my descent into Houston last weekend had me feeling like someone was stabbing me in the face and back of the head with an icepick, and I am afraid I'm developing a sinus infection.** To the walk-in clinic!

* If you don't recognize this reference, you can't call me dumb.

** I'd like to thank my co-clerk for reminding me that my headache may have another cause and then telling me about the guy he knew in high school who had headaches and then found out he had a brain tumor.

Kicking my own ass

I was talking to my sister and relayed to her that she and the other half's sisters will play the crucial role of keeping the wedding lady away from me on my wedding day. Of course, my sister asked why I didn't just take my business elsewhere (the wedding lady did offer to give me back my deposit, but only a little more than half of the total deposit because she didn't offer to give me back my room deposit; how gracious of her, really). I explained to my sister that, dammit, the place is cute and I don't want to let this wench just get rid of me. I will have my charming wedding and this person will not be allowed to ruin it. Apparently, I have some point to prove. And I apparently will prove this point by giving this whack job thousands of dollars of my hard-earned money. Oh wait, I'm a tool. Yes, I am a big, fat tool.

Of course, planning a wedding from out of town is pain in the ass and trying to find something six months out would probably prove tricky and would introduce a whole new level of pain-in-the-ass-ness. And I wouldn't have enough hotel rooms. So, there is some logic behind my decision. But still . . . At least I can comfort myself with the thought of plastering the internet with reviews of my experiences. Maybe a little Seven on Your Side? I used to know a producer at Fox Seven who worked on these stories. Hmm.....

In other news, the weekend in Austin was fun. Lunch was lovely, happy hour was girly, and my dress rocked. I liked showing up looking different because then people tell you that you look great. I don't know how great I look, but still, what else are people going to say? "Hey! You look different!" I know people who would say that without the requisite follow-up about the greatness of the new look, but luckily I didn't see them this weekend. So people told me I looked great. And that was fun. Although some people seemed to have put a little oomph into it, leading me to believe that I have spent the last few years looking like a lesbian tree-hugger.*

*No offense intended to any lesbians, tree-huggers, or lesbian tree-huggers out there. Work it, ladies!

For fuck's sake

The wedding lady tried her hardest, but she did not succeed in ruining my weekend. She did establish herself as just flat-out, fucking crazy. She also came frighteningly close to canceling my wedding because her relationship with me isn't positive enough. Apparently, when I commented that I was concerned about her apparent lack of organizational skills and complained about the fact that she almost doubled the price of one of her services, this was rude and uncalled for. She thought that we "needed to approach things in a new way." Fuck you, lady. Seriously, I think she's a shady asshat, but I've made it clear to her that she'll get her money, even if she doesn't have a legal leg to stand on in demanding it. Apparently she needs to know that people like her; otherwise, the relationship isn't a good experience for her. Like we have to hug it out before the experience is something that she sees as beneficial. Shit, lady, all I want from you is a place to have my wedding. I don't need a guru, I don't need someone to lean on or call to shoot the breeze with. Take my money and get as far away from me as possible. And the best part, the part where I came really close to either punching her in the face or storming off to find the closest dog poo to set on fire and toss on her porch, was when she bitched at me for not respecting her as a businesswoman. When it takes me three voicemails and three e-mails to book a fucking hotel room, when you keep confirming that I have six hotel rooms when I have seven, when you e-mail me to see if I could maybe mail you my paperwork because you don' t have it, when you just decide you can raise prices whenever you want, I'm sorry if I haven't treated with whatever respect you think you have earned. For fuck's sake lady, get over yourself. Go stroke a crystal or do some yoga, chill out, and shut the hell up.

Word of mouth is a bitch and so is karma. And this nutjob deserves whatever fate has planned for her.

Enter Bridezilla

I think I yelled at the lady at the wedding place today. She seems to be a few fries short of a happy meal. Like someone who has smoked entirely too much weed (and doesn't have the brain cells to spare) and used to be something like a textiles artist, but who got an inheritance and thought it would be groovy to run an inn in Austin. So, a little wake-up call in the form of an annoyed, stressed out woman was in order (you know things are bad when the place e-mails you so that you can send them a signed copy of the agreement thing since they don't have it; problem is that I don't either). And I was just the woman to do it. I feel better. Normally I feel guilty when I yell at someone who has done me wrong as a customer, but not today. Of course, the last time I felt guilty about being a bitch, I got free stuff. But I don't think there's free stuff in my future with this place, so no need for results-oriented guilt.

I'm getting excited about Austin this weekend. Quality time with the better half. Hair will be done. Lunch will be had. Happy hour will be happy. And the TLR banquet. True, this event may not sound exciting (okay, so it's not), but I get to wear a new dress, so I'm excited. And the better half in a suit. Nice.

Field trip today at work. Which meant I managed to get about five minutes of work done. Which was awesome!

What I learned today

When walking around in your boy-shorts waiting for the self tanner to dry so you can put your pants back on, might as well put on some strappy high-heel sandals. Calves look better, knees look less ugly-knee-like, butt looks more impressive. All in all, doing the shoe thing makes the inevitable stroll past the full-length mirror more tolerable. Apologies to anyone for whom this post resulted in a brief, frightening image of me in my boy shorts. But get over it, since at least I'd be wearing the shoes, which makes the image a little more tolerable.

Credit - disaster waiting to happen or genius plan?

I got my wedding credit card. Since I can't actually afford my relatively inexpensive wedding at this very moment, but will be able to pay for it when I get back to Texas, I got a 0% interest credit card that should allow me to pay for this shindig interest-free and then pay the sucker off. Some people might say this plan evidences irresponsibility on my part. But I don't think I know those people, so who cares. Bonus - it's a Disney points card. Since I have this thing with wanting to go to Disney World, it makes like a smidge of sense. Of course, I'll no doubt have to spend like $100,000 before it's worth anything. So maybe I'll hit Disney World when I retire.

Turns out, I'm a "bride elect." I got a shower invitation recently and I noticed this term. I don't think I've ever seen it before, or I've never noticed it. Either way, I sort of like the sound of it. It makes it sound like there was a run-off and the bride elect won. Which then makes me wonder what sort of competition it was. Because if it involved the wifely duty of sitting on my ass watching television, I'm pretty sure I won. And who voted? Was it majority-rules, or did the groom-to-be get to use some sort of super-vote to make the ultimate decision? Either way, it makes me feel like I won something. Which is cool, since I never win anything.

For all you saps out there, I have an announcement: My sister is playing host to a cute stray dog that needs a home. It's a middle-aged lab who apparently just sits there. Doesn't get on furniture, good with other dogs, housebroken. Just wants to sit at your feet. I told me sister that if the dog just sits there, she should keep it. Not like it's extra work on top of the other two dogs she has. She apparently fails to see the logic, although I understand her reluctance to drive to Minnesota with three dogs. So, if you've been thinking of getting a dog, but maybe you feel like you're too lazy for one that actually requires effort, I've got a keeper for you.

Bring the pain

I did it. I ordered a glorified version of an Epilady, one of those things that rips hair out by the roots. I figure that a few tatoos and piercings establish that I have a respectable pain tolerance. I decided to take this step after being cold for months. I'm cold at work. I get home and I'm cold. I'm cold all the time. And I'm one of those lucky ladies for whom cold = goosebumps = speedy hair regrowth rendering attempts to keep clean-shaven futile. Although I get the feeling that the mens out there will dismiss this discomfort, I ask them to imagine an awesome case of razor burn being agitated all day long over half of their bodies. Yeah, it's that awesome. I guess it's a good thing that I'll be trying this while I live alone. Because, although I will be wearing shorts and will be otherwise clothed, I have a feeling that the physical trauma will be akin to bad naked. Don't want to scare him away before it's legal.

Road warrior

Back in town after spending the week in the big city for work. The drive home was nice since the weather was great. Although it took me like 45 minutes to figure out that my seat warmer was preventing the A/C from cooling me down. It occurred to me this week that I should be taking notes on some basics of appellate advocacy, so I can remember all the things that people do wrong. This week I saw what happens when trial lawyers attack. I don't have a thing against trial lawyers (and when people say it derisively, it makes me wonder whether they understand that there are two sides in a trial). But treating a group of appellate judges like it's a jury is decidedly a bad idea. And should you have the misfortune of ever doing an insurance case, make sure you provide handy definitions from a medical dictionary. Because seeing a bunch of latin words doesn't make anyone say, "Aha! There's a discombobulation of the hemostaphocenis! Now I know who should win." Instead, some poor soul is trolling through a medical dictionary trying to figure out what you've just said, and cursing you.

Now for a picture. I got my dress back from the tailor lady today. All redone to fit me. Copious amounts of self tanner will be required before I actually wear it in public. I can't remember the last time I wore anything that was above my knee. I don't know that the picture does it justice - it's silk and fits great. And if people think I'm wearing a dashiki, so be it.

I got nothing

Sorry to disappoint the three of you who come here looking for a little entertainment (because my life is so, um, entertaining), my life is more boring than ever. I took my dress to the tailor this weekend, thinking it would be a quick alteration. When I tried on my dress the first time, it was too big, so I got the store to get me a size smaller. Oops. Still too big. But I thought it was no biggie, a quick $30 alteration and I'll be good to go. Not so much. The little lady at the alteration place looks at me and says in her unplaceable accent, "this dress does not fit; is cute dress, but does not fit." (Be sure to roll your R's when you say this in your head.) She guesstimated that it'll be more like $75. On top of the fact that I shouldn't have bought the dress in the first place, this news hurt. But not enough to convince me to return the dress. I figure if I wear it to 2 things, I will come out ahead since I have a weird celebrity attitude about dresses - I don't like to wear them more than once. Which makes no sense given that I'm broke.

I also confess to buying spray tan in a can online this weekend. The reviews of the product I found online were good, so I thought I'd give it a shot. After a rather involved application process, the overall result wasn't bad. Not orange, easy to blend. I'm trying a new lotion on my legs to see how it works since I wasn't keen on the clean-up required when using the spray. I'd be happy to go with a milky white look; but my legs are more along the lines of pink (or blue if I'm cold). That's not cool.

Bring on the hotness

I'm not hot. At best, I'm probably cute. Assuming I've showered, done my hair, and put on a smidge of makeup. But I love getting older because the "I don't give a shit what you think, I look hot today" feeling is easier to come by. Call it the Sharon Stone effect. I just bought a new dress that's great for some upcoming events and weddings. It involves colors other than black or dark brown. It's knee length, which is shorter that what I normally would wear since I generally hate my toothpick legs. It's got a pattern!! And I can't wait to wear it. I'm even starting to appreciate my legs. That's going to be a harder, slower process.