Model Project: Exposed

I've been butchered.

My hair looks a mess.

Yesterday, I took part in a very reputable salon's famous "model project", a euphemism for follicle-guinea-pigging where "professional stylists", as they kept reassuring us, use you to learn on. After my consultation earlier this week, I was booked in a long razor cut class, a style I am not new too. My hair is extremely thick, the front wavy, the back kinkier (a texture I often describe as being like "My Grandmother's Crotch Quilt"), there's lots to go around. When braided, my mother used to liken my woven dread to a "loaf of challah bread." When straightened and shaped properly, it can look pretty good, but I don't have biceps like a Soviet powerlifter for nothing: This hair is a bitch to tame.

Going to the salon can also test a stylist's patience. It always begins with: "You have such nice hair!! Oh em gee, I love your hair!" and ends with "Sigh... LOUD GROAN. (snip snip) sigh. (clock hand fast-forwards to 3 hours later) (snip) Uch. sigh.." As a poor freshman in college, I used to sign up for free haircuts at some of the city's best salons: Bergdorf Goodman's gave me one of the best cuts ever, Peter Coppola salon on the East side was hit or miss, but never stomach turning. For the past few years I've been going to a salon near my house. But now I wanted something edgy, something daring, say Meg Ryan circa 2058 (surprisingly similar to Meg Ryan circa today).


Meg Ryan posing for a publicity shot for her upcoming movie, "Herpes Lip."

Hence, the Model Project. Long razor cut. Yesterday afternoon.

They seat me along a line of mirrors next to some other poor young lasses. My stylist, "Jessica" (in quotes not because it's not her name, but because I can't take her seriously), offers me a limp-dicked handshake, already a bad sign. If you're going to tame my mane, you need to be firm! Strong! Shake my fucking hand like a man, you bitch!

We start making hair salon chattery: Jessica, a tall woman with fire-engine red curly ringlets, is based in San Antonio, has a 6 year old daighter, and is in New York for the week to learn some new styles. In essence, she had never used a razor before to cut hair. She also happens to throw in that she used to be a "punk." Oh. fucking. great.

She compliments my hair ("Pshaw!" says I), and asks what I'd like to have done to it. One phrase I've learned from my many years of thick-hair-taming and overeating is "trimming the bulk." "Ya gotta trim the bulk" "Trim that bulk!" "See that bulk there? That's gotta be trimmed." etc. I tell her I'd like some of the bulk trimmed out, and that I'm thinking of cutting some side-swept bangs to soften up my angular, Central European moonface. She agrees, "It'll look great", and immediately the "stylists" are summoned to a meeting.

They would be led by a young hip Asian woman named Shirley. Shirley had hair that I would kill for. Shirley wore expensive clothes. Shirley was in charge.

We rinsed my hair in water (No shampoo! Hipsters aren't clean!) and got to the cutting. Jessica took her razor, an appliance akin to what Bugs Bunny wielded on Elmer in Rabbit of Seville, and began her butchery. Within the first 5 strokes, Shirley runs over. "You're doing that all wrong!" My heart sinks. Shirley corrected the manner with which she held my hair, and the angle with which she was cutting. In essence, both hands were doing something wrong. Weren't these professional, experienced stylists?

"How long have you been cutting hair?" I asked sweetly.

"Oh, well I've been working at a Salon in San Antonio, but mostly on coloring."

And boy was she good. You should have seen the color of my face when all of the blood drained out of it.

The mistakes kept on coming. Now listen: I realize this was a model project, meaning they were learning. It's not even so much that she was making mistakes. What got me was that if anyone tried to correct her, she would mumble, bitch and moan that she wished they would just let her cut the hair. And every few minutes or so when the 6 "stylists" were rounded up for a lesson on bang-trimming, or layering, my girl would huff and puff, drag her feet over to where they were, and then come back and stare at the ground for 5 minutes. The irony is SHE was paying for this class! The attitude, people, that's what got me. And not to talk, but it was clear she wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. Every once in a while, she would giggle to herself, kind of like Corky on Life Goes On. Do you read me people? I GOT THE DUD.


Like the handicapped, hairstylists, too, deserve their own parking.

So Jessica kept taking stuff off, the bulk I'm guessing, being corrected by Shirley, God bless her, for trying her best to keep this retard in line. I all of a sudden felt a pang of guilt for how I used to behave in middle school. This is what my teachers had to put up with! How frustrating. Oh, and the best part? Whereas in most salons, when they need to dampen your mane, they use nature's favorite hair product, "Water", Jessica kept spraying this so-called "hair tonic" on my head, a product that smelled strongly of melaleuca oil, something I associate primarily with the killing of fleas on Corny, the blind/gay poodle owned by a family friend. (RIP Corny) (And yes, he used to bone their male cat. Corny was a freak, yo!) So she unloads no less than an entire bottle of this shit on my hair. Remember this later when I get to the part where my hair doesn't "dry". "At all." "Because it is doused in oil."


Bruce thought long and hard about this life-changing decision. Would he go for the terracotta tile in the guest bath, or the marble? His head ached, his paws throbbed. He decided to get a vanilla bean frapp and sleep on the decision.

Jessica is approaching the tail-end (haha, tail end! Funny once you get to the end of the story, when I tell you how my hair looks like it sprung forth from a rat's asshole!) of the cut, and I can sense "stylist" fatigue. The razor dragging has lost its gusto, the hair holding limp and forgotten. Remember those side-swept bangs I so cleverly requested? Well, part my hair from ear to ear, comb all of the front-half forward, and cut across in a teased and blunt fashion. Then, part at side and spray with some stinky-ass product. Voila. Side-swept bangs. Totally not the look I wanted nor asked for. Instead of feminizing my face, I look like Edith Head.



As I had expected, I was the last woman standing (or comfortably sitting) in the class, as all the other girls walked out with great heads of hair. Of course! Their stylists were eager and willing participants in this class, there to learn. With not enough time left to dry my hair, she lathered in YET MORE product, which may or may not have been the toxic chemical that killed Toons in "Who Framed Roger Rabbit", and began scrunching my hair in juuuuust a way that it looked like I was gonna go home to my trailer by self-propelling myself home on one of those lever-pumping platforms you can move by yourself. (Anyone know the name of those things? I googled "railroad cartoons alone pumping", and came up empty-handed. UPDATE: It's called a handcar, and thanks to Atara Rich-Shea, who read the entire Thomas the Engine official site to cull this information for me. And, apparently, people race these shits.)


Me, left, headed home after a relaxing day at the spa.

Oh the most hilarious bullshit was when Shirley and Jessica were scrunching my hair, and Shirley says "really let the heat of your hand set the wave." Give me a break, Shirl -- I was on your side, sister, don't lose me now!

The hip Asian teacher could see my brows knitting a sweater made from suspicion and doubt. "Don't worry," she cooed, "Veronica Lake is sooo in right now." Veronica Lake may be in, but I don't see too many girls saying to their stylist "Give me the Darlene from Roseanne." Shirley, you must be kidding me.

I was given a survey to fill out, right in front of my "stylist", and put that everything was satisfactory, instead of God awful. Hey, survey, why don't you ask the petrified turd hanging out of the back of my head how the cut went? Or my layering scissors, which I used to thin out the meat curtains this asshole left hanging in my eyes? Why don't you ask my scissors how my cut went? Or the steam coming out of my ears? Why don't you ask the STEAM COMING OUT OF MY EARS IF MY CUT WAS SATISFACTORY?!?!?

Long, beautiful locks short, try avoiding the Model Project at all costs, or even at no cost at all.

RR/RW Mentally Challenged

Today's New York Post has a veeeeeery interesting casting call, one that, let's just say, aims to a very specific audience:

Saturday at Tonic (727 7th): Casting for MTV's "The Real World/Road Rules Challenge" (10 a.m. - 5 p.m.). Applicants must be 18-25 years old and need a recent picture and photo ID.

Hmm, that's funny.... Isn't one of the requirements of being on REAL WORLD/ROAD RULES CHALLENGE is having already been a contestant on either of these shows? Or has Bunim(RIP)/Murray tapped into every. single. participant already and is looking into new casting methods? By that rationale, shouldn't the show just be called "Challenge"? Perhaps they could pit homeless people against auto mechanics, thus still living up to the title.

Or maybe this is the only way they can reach out to Puck. He reads the Post, right?

Either way, stop by Tonic to possibly catch glimpse of the 48,000 F-list celebs that may or may not stop by.

(UPDATE: They are looking for people to compete against veteran cast members. OMG. This may be the only time I'll be able to wrastle Eric Nies without having the police pry me off! ps This is a new low in reality tv history. Yes, it' s worse than midgets marrying.)

And I, Intern, Will Not Pay You Anything

Pictured above, my intern, flinching before I sucker punch him.

So many sugar highs and deep, dark lows today, I'm starting to wonder if there's meth in my Pret A Manger salad.

So, to keep my faithful readers busy, an exerpt from a manic IM with another equally miserable, albeit gainfully employed, fellow:

IHeartJeremyPivensHair53: -sorry, getting IM by an intern.. nature's retards
MsMichelle69: YOU HAVE AN INTERN
MsMichelle69: hahahah
IHeartJeremyPivensHair53: NO
IHeartJeremyPivensHair53: OTHER PEOPLES INTERNS
MsMichelle69: aha
IHeartJeremyPivensHair53: it's like I peed in god's mouth, or something
MsMichelle69: i was about to laugh IN YO FACE
MsMichelle69: hold on my intern's here
IHeartJeremyPivensHair53: hahahaha
MsMichelle69: "I said 4 coffee BEANS from STARBUCKS, not 4 PECAN BUNS from MOISHES KOSHER KORNER, you fuckwad!"
MsMichelle69: sighhhh
IHeartJeremyPivensHair53: fuckwad
MsMichelle69: never hire the deaf
IHeartJeremyPivensHair53: hahaha

I had to include those last 3 resonating "hahaha"'s not only for my own ego, but to give you an idea as to where to laugh.

***APPLAUSE***

Hungarian Nation

This weekend, my friend Sita had to show around her boss's teenage daughter who was flying into New York from Budapest. My grandparents and parents speak fluent Hungarian, and even though my parents had never set foot in Hungary (you can thank World War II for that one), I decided to study abroad in Budapest while a junior in college. While most of my "peers" on the program were douchebags from Georgetown U. (really only 2 of them were douchebags but its amazing how a little vinegar can spoil a soup), I still managed to have one of the most amazing times of my life. I dream of going back, once I have vacation days, money, and friends. Oh, to dream. If you haven't been, seriously consider it: You can eat a trough-full of strange breaded meats for under ten dollars.

The one interesting thing about me (seriously, the only interesting thing) is that I am terrible -- TERRIBLE -- at languages. So even though I grew up in this magyarul-speaking household, and even though I lived and breathed Hungarian culture for a few months, that one chunk of brain that supposedly absorbs foreign languages remains a lonely, blank wipe-off board in a dimly-lit conference room in an office that used to house a barely successful dot-com company before the bust.

So I meet up with Sita, her fiance Justin (an adorable couple, I promise), and the boss's daughter, a lovely 14-year-old who speaks little English. What follows are the only phrases I could remember in Hungarian that I passed along to our little foreign friend.

*Eat shit

*Dog shit

*Small cat

*Very pretty view

*Let's play cards

*Whore

*(spoken at Wendy's) Hello! How are you? Thanks. I would like one chicken salad and one small coffee with milk.

*Fuck you

*A limerick: I go to school, my leg hurts. I come home, it doesn't hurt anymore.

*Towel

*Thursday

*One - Ten

*Ass cork

*Another limerick, fondly referred to around my house as "Shari Neni":
Aunt Neni is cooking beans,
and from her asshole, steam is coming.

*I feel sick

*I don't know

*Onion

*Stuffed Cabbage

*Goulash (ironically, in Hungarian, pronounced Goo-yash.)

*Almond pasta

*Soup (Foods took about 7 minutes to complete)

*Donkey

*Police

*Crazy woman banging on my door. (which is part of a great story involving, you guessed it.)

*Dude, Where's My Car? (also fun to say: Hey, Hah-ver, Hole a Coach-eem?)

*I have no money.

Considering that Hungary is tied with Finland for Europe's top two divorce, suicide and alcoholism rates, she obviously had the best time. I knew this because every time I would say something in Hungarian, she would bury her head in her hands, look at the clock on the wall, and then avoid eye contact with me. Also, did you know that there's a Hungarian "liquor" called "Unicum"? It's made from beetle throw-up, tarragon, molasses, watermelon seed extract, and Gary Busey's sperm. Supposedly it's a "cure-all." Get your hands on some.


Myth: It is not uncommon for Hungarian 8-year-olds to brew their own "prune brandy."

Slam Them Shut, They're Adore

The Gods blessed me today with the good fortune of finding these pictures of Fran Drescher holding what appears to be a near-extinct species of small Senegalese bear.



Let's pull in for a close up.



Aaaaaaand another close up.



Any information about this animal would be appreciated.

In other adorable news, lawmakers in Australia have just agreed to add a LEAP SECOND to this year's New Year, drawing out the year by exactly one second.


Ayyyy. A leeeappp second. Heh heh heh. YOY! Ees a tiny liddle one, like a leap from a leetle frog.

Toxic Schlock Syndrome

Just heard on a Fox 5 News promo here in New York, read in your most rambunctious newsanchor voice:

Did tampons cause this woman to lose her hands and legs?

(Ed: Cut to a woman with half-hands wrapped in bandages and prosthetic legs.)

Find out tomorrow at 5:30.

Hmm. Um... ok. (blink, blink) You see, I don’t know if I can wait until tomorrow at 5:30 to find out whether or not tampons made that woman lose her hands and/or legs. Better yet, my linens don’t know if they can wait until tomorrow at 5:30. And what of my horseback riding lesson penciled in for 2:30 tomorrow? Surely, my steed cannot wait until tomorrow at 5:30 to find out. And I don't want to keep Hugh Hoofner waiting, ladies and gentlemen.

Also, are they referring to inserting tampons in your vag, or smoking them? Because really, when it comes to my hands-slash-feet, details matter.


These people need to know the facts, Fox 5 News.

So I did a little research tonight. And here's what I found: TAMPONS CAN CAUSE LOSS OF LIMBS. Thanks to the very rare and very well publicized disease known as Toxic Shock Syndrome. Uh, 6th grade health class called, and it wants its textbook back. Let me tell you something, F5N: If the price I have to pay for not bleeding through my pants is the loss of an appendage, well that's a risk I'm willing to take. After all, I can always fashion a prosthetic limb out of said cotton plugs...


...kind of like Edward Tampaxhands.

Either that, or recreate an ancient wonder of the world using tampons and my hooks-for-hands, not unlike this genius creation:


Tamponhenge.

So thank you, Fox 5 News, for alerting me to this problem that I cannot avoid. Maybe shoving some tube socks up there would do the trick, who knows? I expect to find out other thrifty alternatives tomorrow evening at, you guessed it, 5:30.

Now, off to get some shut eye.

Speedy Feinstein

Would be my Loony Tunes name today.

OK busy busy. Couple of short notes, though:

1. I had the all time best celeb sighting in New York this weekend. He passed me, my eyes bulged, and no joke 2 seconds later my eyes were brimming with tears of joy. Here's a hint: He's the Appleton of my eye. Yes, that's right, Mark Linn Baker. Here's how he used to look:



Here's how he looks now:



...only on Sunday, on the Upper West Side where we passed each other, he was thrice the size of yesteryear and looked plenty PO'd.

2. Somehow found myself watching music videos very late last night. Here's one that totally rocked, and that I'm probably 20 years behind on: Weezer's Buddy Holly. Kidding. Nine Inch Nail's video for Only. If you're in your 20's, your hands will tingle throughout. Also, get your hands on Paul Anka's "Rock Swings." It'll make you long for high ceilings, a stool, and a really strong rope.

3. Finally, I posted a small tidbit about last night's episode of Six Feet Under over at TVGasm.

Sorry, folks, this is the best I could do today. I'll be back tomorrow with Plenty O'Tales, and maybe his Irish sister, Patty O'Furniture. (<--- That's what I'm talking about. You'd be getting pages of that today.)

Retiring Notice

That's it. I have no reason to continue with this blog anymore. I'VE MADE IT!

Check out the results when Googling "anal spelunking."

See anything suspect? No? Here, then, for posterity's sake:



See anything now?

I AM THE NUMBER TWO ANAL SPELUNKER (according to the Google search, of course.) Haha -- number two! How perfect! How simply bizarre. How completely gauche. Now if you'll excuse me, I have doodies to attend to...


Don't worry, my suicide note will read: I slay me.

Nightmare Inducing Pic of the Day

Welcome to the world of my nightmares: Ayara.



Don't know who he is, Google searches return nothing, but apparently, he has a magic show in Las Vegas.

Runner-up pics include, but are not limited to:






I almost left this pic out. I really, truly hate it.



So THIS is what John Malkovich is up to. Huh. Good for him!

(Photos courtesy of Rob Zombie.)

Roll of a Strifetime

You guys, my ship is sailing!! Check out this casting call for the new Pirates of the Carribean:

Pirates:Extreme characters and hideously unattractive types, ages 18-50. Odd body shapes or very lean to extremely skinny. Missing teeth, wandering eyes and serial killer looks with real long hair & beards. Wigs and makeup are not what we're looking for. We also need little people, very large sumo wrestler types, Michelle's, extremely tall or extremely short people, Michelle Collins, albinos, amputees, and you Michelle. Any size or shape that is NOT average is best. All ethnicities. Mostly men, very few women.

Excuse me for a minute while I call my "agent" and submit my "headshot"*:


Some say I look like Naomi Watts, but I think I'm prettier.

*Anything written above in "quotes" are completely imaginary. Note to you real agents out there - I'm open!

Also of note:

So I go to Dunkin Donuts to buy an oil tanker filled with coffee for $.99 today, and I decide to be crazy and throw in a "low fat" muffin. They're muffins are delicious, and when I got back to work I decided to peruse the DD website for some more info. Of course, this shit has 400 calories. Fine, I threw half of it away. (Cut to Guy Ritchie style lens work which has the camera going through my 7 layers of American Apparel "tissue tees" to inside my bra, where the other half of the muffin is kept for safe keeping. Would I throw away food? Come on, you know me too well for that.)

But what really got my attention was the "Allergy Data" that is listed for each food. Note:



Anything there seem.... strange and out of place. Sure, tree nuts. That's weird. Although I guess it makes more sense than peanuts no doubt. No, that's not it... hmm Phenylalanine?? No, no, that's just an organic compound, one of the 22 α-amino acids commonly found in animal proteins. Everybody knows that.

No, no... but something still seems odd...

Oh wait. There it is. CRUSTACEANS.

CRUS. STAY. SHUNS.

Oh Lawd!! LAWDY! Why would there be CRUSTACEANS. in my muthafuckin' DONUT/MUFFIN/COOLATTA? Or, for that matter, a SHRIMPOND.

WHAT THE HELL IS A SHRIMPOND? Do you know? Because GOOGLE doesn't know! In fact, the only sites that DO know what a shrimpond is (are? is "mpond" plural?) are Dunkin Donuts related!

Please, somebody, find me a donut with a crustacean in it. Because something tells me a Lobster Donut would actually be die-licious.


Is this a shrimpond? I must know.

Renting a Car

I need to rent a car in August.

Ok let's be honest. I don't need to rent a car. But I want to. I could take the bus. But you know how that turned out last time.

Anyone have any opinions about where to rent? I don't have too many requirements other than it be 1. cheap and 2. See 1.

Also, any of ya'll retired (AARP), or have any kinds of discount codes you care to share? You may e-mail me at youcantmakeitup@gmail.com.

I am literally a genius air saxophonist when I drive. It's all key in ignition, park to drive, foot to pedal, and cranking Gerry Rafferty's "Baker Street".


Like me, only put a wheel in front of her, and some lives in danger behind and next to her.

Happy Birthday Mike

So my dear friend Mike Barry turned 23 on 19.07.2005 (as a dirty European, i.e. Mike, would say), and I, so wrapped up in what I'm going to wear to next year's junior prom, forgot.

So today, I sent a little e-mail apologizing for my ineptitude, and promising to buy him a trough full of gimlet at his b-day party this Saturday night. Here's how the exchange went down:

ps Mike I'm a bad friend cause i didn't call you on your birthday. I think i might be pregnant.

Kidding but figured that was a good excuse for not calling you.

I will call you. Today.
love
Michelle

And the response:

michelle: i'm actually sorry for you that you didn't call me on my bday. all callers that sent me birthday wishes within the 24-hour timeframe received a giftbag from my publicist, which included:
bvlgari watches
miu miu by diane von furstenberg dog collar necklaces
one giant lindt truffle, filled with money and chocolate ganache, but mostly money
a capsule that, when opened over a candle and inhaled, gives eternal peace of mind
the tiniest ipod in the world, which holds one television theme song of your choice, and no more.

My television theme song would be "The Happening" by Diana Ross. Download it, listen to it, then toss your hat up in the air, spin around, and pass out from the fumes.

Favor

Gawker's holding a poll today of the hottest men at the NY Times.

Campbell Robertson, who is adorable, southern, charming, and overall tdf (to die for) is nommed... but he's nearly losing!! Which is total and utter bullshit.

Cast your vote for Cambpell, wontcha? I'm not getting anything out of this, I swear, other than a possible Boldface Name mention... right CR??

CLICK HERE TO VOTE

heartily,
Michelle Collins
(hint, hint)

Vaughn Upmanship

What do me and this barefoot hillbilly have in common? We're both changing our tune! And we both look great without our shirt on..... Stop looking at me like that.

This is an open apology to actor Vince Vaughn. If you're reading this blog for the purpose of laughing, STOP READING. This letter will drip with nothing but sincerity and heart, and namely, respect.

Dear Vince:

I am sorry for the things I said about you and your appearance the other day. I had wrongfully stereotyped you as being incredibly obnoxious, a "one-trick pony". From Swingers to Old School, it was the same cocky shtick, and it really went against my grain. So I thought I'd knock ya down a couple of rungs from the comfort of my anonymous blogging throne, its guilded clawed feet, plush ermine trim.

But oh, Vince, oh, Mssr. Vaughn. How wrong I was indeed.

I caught your new film Wedding Crashers (in a glove made from tender veal leather and admiration, no less), and may I just say, I don't remember the last time I laughed so hard. You and Owen were pitch perfect, and have both re-upped yourselves to the top guys in my heart after a string of disappointments. I'm so glad you both still have it in you!! Kittin from the branch, guys, and it all pays off I guess. See, I'm even learning the lessons that the inspirational posters could never inspire.

And Vince, re: your recent weight fluctuation: Who am I to talk?? I'm like the Tom Smothers of yo-yo dieting! Is there such a trick as "Eating a Whole Box of Snackwells"? If so, I have mastered this trick. In addition, I have only just today learned that you have quit smoking. Weight gain is such a given, I'm a little disappointed in myself that I wasn't more supportive.


I don't so much "Walk the Dog" as I do "Eat 7 Lean Cuisine's in One Sitting."

To those people out there reading this, Wedding Crashers might be the funniest movie I've seen in years. And Vince really made the movie. Toss whatever beef you have to the curb, and SEE THE FILM. Owen was in top form, as usual, a definite improvement over The Life Aquatic, which I found flat. If anything, it was Chris Walken (or, if we're really being informal here, CeCe Walken) who really felt bland in what I was expecting to be pure hilarity. And I won't bring up the famous cameo at the end, but even that felt fake, forced and unfunny. Wilson and Vaughn. Sigh. PitterPat of little baby feet and my heart.


I still think Owen needs a haircut, but more in a maternal and caring way than anything else.

Yours forever,
Michelle

"Large Print Edition" Item

Which "lover of the ladies" Scientologist is rumored to have had a sweaty, sex-fueled anal-spelunking session with fashion designer Hedi Slimane? One wonders if his bedroom dirty talk has him repeating the name "Hedi" over and over again, as in "Hedi, Hedi, Hedi." Oh, and Hedi doesn't do fat chicks.

Let's just say my source is an up-and-coming "slam it shut" gay whose ears are permanently affixed to the gay-pvine, and who supposedly heard it from the lips of one of fashion's most famous designers/celebrity kin.



Not so much a blind item as a Readers-Digest-back-of-the-toilet-large-print-edition item.

As Good As It Gets?

Congratulations are in order this morning, to Supreme Court Justice Nominee...

Greg Kinnear!


I knew he'd make a comback after his Oscar nomination, I just knew it!

Something else I found funny:

Google News apparently gets all of their John Roberts pics from a little website called www.365gay.com. As is evidenced by this thumbnail on the main Google News screen:



And another.



Also, John Roberts, heartthrob? Listen, if I couldn't have John Edwards (drool), I'll take Roberts. Abortion, Shmabortion, someone find a buttonhole to shove that cute little face into!



Also: Click here for some Greg Kinnear stationary. (I have no idea, but I couldn't not post it.)

The Kind of Day I'm Having

New York has been transplanted to the surface of the sun. My overall appearance is that of a woman whose husband tried to kill her with a plugged in toaster while she bathed this morning, only to survive and commemorate this miracle of life by throwing on an ill-fitting black t-shirt, and baggy, transparent pants from the Gap Outlet. But hell, I deserved it, what with our finances spiraling out of control, and our kids on the run somewhere in Detroit. How a 7 year old knew how to crack the combination to the plastic Garfield safe tucked under our bed that I kept our family savings in I'll never figure out. Now, childless, and in an imaginary, loveless relationship, my husband and I barely utter a word to each other. I'm mostly pissed about the toaster: It was a wedding gift from my old boss. What am I supposed to do now, put my toaster struedels in the crack of my ass and hope they're warm by dinnertime?

To make matters worse, I'm not even married.

Delusions aside, here I am at work, looking worse for wear. Then, not 2 hours ago, while I sat idly in my secretarial throne watching the flies drop dead, my shoe fell in the garbage can. And of course, while retrieving it, a co-worker passes my taupe-colored environs just long enough to pause, look at my blistered, bare talon, and keep walking without ever making eye contact. Today is July 19, 2005, it's 12:54 in the p.m., and I'm feeling sad. As in Social Anxiety Disorder.

Now that that's out of the way, how are you?

A couple of other notes:

This picture made me laugh.


via Utter Wonder, a hysterical site, with particularly funny photos/captions.

It's just occurred to me that I've had so much coffee today, my heart has stopped beating.

This Thursday, I'm guesting again on The Derek and Romaine Show on Sirius Q 149 with Andy from Towelroad, whose site is NSFW unless you work in a gay bathhouse. (i.e. SFBM, or Safe for Bette Midler.) I'll be going on between 7 to 8. I promise I won't bring up flavored pantyliners this time (although that's what I said last time and look how that ended up -- and really, the above article is fascinating.) I've just tossed the pantyliners out of the window altogether and have begun using fruit roll-ups. Surprisingly absorbent!


Although pantyliners definitely make robbing banks easier.

Most Obvious Headline of the Day

Gene is linked with obesity and diabetes

.
.
.
.

Um. OBVIES.





Gene Wilder: 1933 - Still Kickin. (Slam him shut, am I right ladies?)

In other news, I caught the new C&CF Candy Factory (as in "Things That Make You Go Mmmm"), and simply loved it. Especially the wee one, Charlie. Every time he was on screen, there was a small tear permanently pinned to the corner of my eye. I simply refuse to give birth to a baby that is not British, lest I never learn to love him or her as my own.

I'd say the best part about this movie was the running commentary by the 3 year olds two rows behind us. Thankfully, the girls sitting directly behind us were stoned out of their minds, and would crack up laughing anytime the kids laughed/cried/vommed/and/or/cockiedtheirpants. It really helped break the tension.

Also, thumbs up to Tim Burton for making the Oompah Loompahs not only less creepier, but almost borderline to extremely attractive.


Someone, quick, give the Olsen twins a paternity test.

Overall, an enthusiastic high five, down low to TB -- looking forward to Corpse Bride!

Best New Slang Part II

This time, of my own creation, and repeated at least 700 times this past weekend:

- When something is funny:

"That is HILARIE Clinton!" (pronounced like the first 3 syllables of hilari-ous.)

or

"Who do you think you are, HILARIE Clinton?!"

also

-When something is, well, you'll see:

"Slam you shut, you're adore!!"

You can also shorten this once it's become part of your everyday vernacular to: "Slam it shut!" Then, when people ask you why, you can zing em.

Whilst this last "slang" usage was met with resounding boos from my nearest and dearest, I truly believe that it will stand the test of time and friendship.


SLAM VAL KILMER SHUT AND LOCK HIM UP! HE'S ADORE!


Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Slam! Them! Shut!!


... (staring). You can leave this one unlocked and wide open to prey. She's so not adore, she's literally a jar.