Monday, August 24, 2009

Ahem

I told myself that today I would do all my mindless internetting and the ritual eating of the breakfast before starting work so I can maximize not only my efficiency but also cut out all the fun stuff in one fell swoop so I don't use it as an excuse to take take a 10 minute internet break after making one phone call.

Do I get a prize or something prize-like for my award winning run-on sentence?

I've found a flaw in the plan. I don't know if you all realize this or not, but the internets, they are infinite. And my blog is part of the infiniteness. And blogging takes more time than just about anything else I do on the internet. Ergo, I'm sacrificing time management on the alter of efficiency. Should I have brought a burnt offering for that? Where are my manners...

I was deathly ill (read: scratchy throat) this past weekend, and by Saturday night I had lost my voice completely. However, just prior to Saturday night I sounded exactly like a pubescent bullfrog. Most warm blooded humans with any ounce of soul tethered even perilously to the last vestige of flesh and bone would be able to garner some kind of sympathy for the infirm. The cashier at CVS on Saturday night was no such mortal being.

Non-Human CVS Cashier: Hello!

The Otherwise Sympathy Inducing Human Customer: hII. (Ahem, cough, clear throat)

NHCVSC: Is this all for you? (motioning to my extra strength throat spray stuff)

TOSIHC: yES, (hack, clear throat) THank ooO.

NHCVSC: So, are you sick or what? What do you need this for?

TOSIHC: Na sURE wh--- (ahem) what is WRONG. My vo--- (ahem) vo--- (cough, ahem) vOICE keeps go---ing iiNN and out.

NHCVSC: I'm sorry, what did you say?

TOSIHC: (Ahem, cough, clears throat) I s--d I th--k I'm OOsing my VOice.

NHCVSC: Come again?

TOSIHC: My thROAT huRRts and I'm l--sing my --ice.

NHCVSC: Ha ha. I heard what you said the first time. Ha ha ha.

TOSIHC: J--k (hemm, cough) JERK.

In totally unrelated news, throat spray makes me gag.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Counting Down to Retirement

Who else feels like their memoirs should be titled, "My Best Just Isn't Good Enough: A Look Into the Ugly Side of Near Constant Failure?" I've worked 13 hours so far today and I'm still going to miss a deadline. Ugh. That's my hand you see there in the horizon with the gnawed fingernails and nervous twitch sinking down into whatever fictional body of water you would like to envision. I'm personally imagining a mid-flush public toilet of grotesque magnitude...that feels about right. That hand movement you see there, it's not quite a wave, more like...oh, lets say...a desperate signal for help. Please don't ignore it. Do, DO send coping mechanisms straight away- I prefer chocolate and What Not To Wear marathons, but am open to exploring other ideas. I'll also be needing a copy of the classifieds. Chop chop.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Cookie Monster

Up until 95 seconds ago, I honestly believed my parents fed me cookies swimming in a bowl of milk for breakfast throughout my impressionable formative years. I distinctly remember indulging in delicious overflowing bowls of chocolate Teddy Grahams many a morning before bouncing off to elementary school in a blissful sugary rush.

(Sidenote, it's late. My syntax isn't perfect and I definitely realize that I've technically admitted to eating delicious bowls, but what I meant to say was that the Teddy Grahams in the bowls were delicious. The bowls themselves were only so-so. I'm too lazy to fix the sentence, which is absolutely hypocritical based on the amount of time I've spent explaining my mistake.)

Anyway, I just found this site that proves my parents were not intentionally nutritiously neglectful. Teddy Grahams were marketed as actual cereal in the 90's, which I fully support given that I may still primarily consume them with a spoon. Or a shovel. No wonder half the population has the di-a-bee-dus. I should go ahead and put Wilford Brimley on my speed dial. Wonder if he's on facebook...

Monday, August 10, 2009

Where Do I Apply

A certain Texan friend who knows me well recently suggested I look into professional "adult romance" fiction (aka porn lite) writing to obtain the obscene salary and personal job satisfaction that I so longingly desire and have no prospects of achieving in my current line of work. Being a novice in the field myself, I wonder how to go about exploring this new career opportunity. Naturally, I like to write, so right away I have a head start. I'll check that off the list. I wonder if there are any sort of formal internship programs already set up, and what the application process for such a program would entail. Would field research be required, and if so could this be merely observational or is it best to get hands on experience? Would I have access to cross vocational training? What about opportunities for advancement? I think I would be ok writing novellas or short scripts, but venturing into full length smut creation seems intimidating. I have a hard time committing to an email font, let alone entire themes of ill repute! Perhaps if I can get a foot in the door I'll be able to work my way up the corporate ladder. You know, I'll bet the adult fiction industry has a whole different set of professional jargon that I'm not even aware of, as our culture is so proficient with the double entendre. I wonder what analogous item a professional is expected to climb when dealing with this facet of the entertainment industry? Surely not a ladder. I have much to learn.

Wanted: tall, muscular Eastern European equestrians from medieval times or sooner for field research on an upcoming novella. Long flowing hair preferred, though all types are welcome to apply. Indicate on your application if you have any previous experience rescuing or seducing distressed and/or repressed damsels, or if you have any allergies or sensitivities to sand, hay, grass, musty air, dark alleys, or heavy breathing as prolonged exposure to these items is necessary to fulfill terms of employment. Applicant must be able to gaze longingly and/or with burring desire for at least 30 minutes at a time. EEO employer.

Good thing I rarely follow through with most of my bright ideas, huh mom. She would be so proud.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Natural Born Stalker

I promise that my future posts won't all be about More to Love. Except for this one.

Cross my heart.

Hope to die.

Er, let's change that to "hope to dye." The former seems unnecessarily severe. It's just a blog.

Last night boyfriend and I settled in for a glorious night of slovenly watching the teevee. Boyfriend left work early and I joined soon thereafter, and not one minute after my foot crossed the threshold of his gadget infested man cave we had our bootleg season 2 of Battlestar Galactica up and running. Bliss.

As a side note, your sinful judgement of my sophisticated entertainment tastes is leaking through my monitor and beginning to corrode my keyboard. Battlestar Galactica and More to Love- think of it as diversity. PC TV.

After 3 captivating episodes of the aforementioned BG, we switched over to last nights second episode of MTL. It was the most deliciously engrossing train wreck of a deluded love story I have ever had the honor of bearing witness to. And I don't even care that I ended that sentence in a preposition. I'm willing to let the ghost of my 6th grade teacher, Mrs. Berrong, the same teacher who threatened to cut off a chunk of my sisters emo hair style during her "wall of bangs" phase, haunt my dreams tonight just to describe the twisted splendor of this show.

At this point in our big boned tale of love and loss, the contestants have presumably met Prince Charming ONE TIME. The girls are preparing to go on a split group date for their second opportunity to win over the boy wonder with their feminine wiles and curves of varying degrees, so naturally, here come the testimonials. There is one lucky lady in particular, Christian, who is convinced that the bachelor already loves her, and refers to his unwavering commitment with the same kind of ignorant passion and dewy romantic filth usually reserved for fairy tales and Disney movies. She waxes on about how he is the man her mother would pick for her, how he is so sweet and gentle with her, how he clearly respects and admires her pure heart and all other manner of deluded foolishness. I think she may have even uttered the word soulmate. Meanwhile, this guy is making out with 5 different girls all at once and 3 others are waiting in line behind them. Christian must have some kind of mental disconnect, because Mr. Right can't even muster up the gumption to kiss her on the mouth, and she thinks thats great! She fancies herself quite the alluring and mysterious tease. At one point she pauses in her litany of praise over his every quality, and he actually kinda halfway goes in for a real kiss as she just stares at him in bug eyed, fanatical admiration, but then he diverts mid-strike (you can almost hear him mentally say, "Nah") and plants an awkward cousinly peck juuuuust to the left of her lips, but nooooooot quite on her cheek.

She, of course, takes this as a sign of his gentlemanly charm, and continues to go on about how they were meant for each other, and that they have so much in common, and how she fits just perfectly in the crook of his shoulder, and how they will be so happy together forever once she can get rid of all those other evil bitches and lock him up in the cellar in her parents basement so she can have him all to herself where no one will ever be able to take him away from her. Not even a psychiatrist...or an excorsist...or a swat team. (pant, pant, pant) Just as the camera pans away, you catch the first fleeting glimpse of what ends up being near constant stalkerish adoration sweep across her face, and you just kind of know that underneath her pillow she's hidden a Luke replica doll made out of candy bar wrappers and a pair of dirty boxer briefs she stole out of her last crush's laundry hamper that night she crawled in his bedroom window to watch him sleep.

Anyway....I spent most of the show pacing in front of the tv like I was watching a sporting match, yelling at the girl who couldn't go 45 seconds without crying, cheering on the ballsy vixens going in for the kill, and literally whooping with delight when Bonnie, the edgy tattooed quick witted girl who proclaims to have the soul of a 50's housewife, said something clever. Boyfriend did his best to ignore me while balking at his temperamental computer and throwing out the occasional, "Wow, you must...uh...really be into this show, huh. Why don't you sit down, you're making me nervous."

As promised, that is all for my MTL synopsis. Until next week. Heh.

Saturday, August 1, 2009

Disclaimer for the previous post

Hello blogging world, it is I, your humble servant.

The post following this one discusses a topic sensitive in nature. I really debated publishing it because I fear it may send a message regarding myself, when the intent was more along the lines of social commentary. But publish I did. Obviously.

The issue below is not about me. It's not about my weight or my self image or my insecurities, and I hope that as (or if...or as if) you read it, you will consider the representation of my own feelings as examples to my point, not as the point itself.

Clearly, once (or if), you read the post and then, as we did in middle school, apply what you've read to this post, you will understand that some issues never fully resolve, even if the appearance of the issue does.

Gratis.

Love Loving More to Love

I'm not what you would call the most...petite...woman to have ever graced the world with her presence. So when I saw the previews for More to Love on Fox, basically another in the long line of Bachelor-type shows but featuring contestants that have what some might consider "bonus material," I was not only skeptical that the show would turn out to be a season long exploitation of fatties throwing their weight around in a manic effort to find the one thing they believe their own bodies will never allow them to have, but I was also wickedly curious.

The show definitely didn't disappoint, and after the first episode I am shocked by the surprisingly kind and honest way that Fox handled the portrayal of these women of no insignificant stature. Did they seem a little pathetic and weepy? Yes, of course. It is "reality" television after all, there has to be some kind of drama, but gosh darn it, they have a right to seem pathetic! Their tears were so meaningful and produced from years of an inner dialogue that repeats over and over that they aren't good enough, they are too fat, no one will love them this way, they are disgusting and they must change. Even the most strong willed, self confident, physically perfect woman on occasion questions her looks, wonders if life would be different if she was a little taller, her eyes a little brighter, her nose a little straighter or her boobs less lopsided...

Ok, lets be real here. That last one shouldn't really count. Don't we all wish our boobs were a little less lopsided?

Anyway, my point was, before I got distracted by boobs (hmmm...is this what it's like to be a guy?), that the women in the show, and countless others like them, have an ongoing, daily reminder of their defect. It's in the way they walk, the type of clothes they wear, the activities they continue to make excuses to avoid, the wondering who will be thinking nasty thoughts about them if they buy an ice cream cone, or a salad, or nothing at all. Average framed people can't possibly understand just how deep the fat goes. It gets in every part of your life. You begin to truly believe that no one can look past it, not because it is true, but because you yourself can't look past it. It's all you see. You can't forget it. You can't have a relationship or a conversation or even a passing glance with a stranger on the street without knowing deep down that they see a fat person, first and foremost. You tell yourself this, again, not because it is the reality, but because it is your reality.

The vulnerability of this show was staggering. Women, myself included, have gone to such great lengths to deny to the world that they see themselves as fat, or more realistically, that all they see in themselves is fat. We typically don't address it. I remember I used to not even like to say the word fat in any type of context, because I was sure if I did, whoever I was talking to would immediately apply the adjective to me. I read a comment from some TV critic after the first episode aired that mentioned that one of the contestants, I can't remember her name, confessed that she had never been on a date because she was always afraid she was being asked out only as a joke. Like someone was having a laugh at the fat girl's expense, to see if she would really believe that someone would actually want her. The critic seemed aghast, like this line of thinking was borderline delusional. But it was so real. I know I've always thought like that. It made me wonder how many men I have accidentally turned away in an attempt to save myself from a phantom humiliation. Before I met boyfriend, and alas, sadly even after I met him, I would pawn off every guy who showed me even the slightest bit of interest onto my girlfriends. I didn't want them to think that I was so stupid as to believe they might be into me. In bars if a guy came up to talk to me, I assume it was just to get to my friends, so I automatically get into matchmaker mode. It even took me months to fully convince myself that boyfriend actually liked me, and wasn't just using me for a while until he could find a better model. I literally asked him, point blank and completely unprompted, if he actually liked me or if he wanted me to set him up with someone else. On our third date. Right after he kissed me for the first time. After he had called me every day since we met. After he took off work early two days after our first date to surprise me at work because he couldn't wait to see me again. After we had been emailing every 15 minutes for the last two weeks because we had so much to say to each other. After all that, I still couldn't and didn't really believe that an average sized guy could ever really want me. But he did! And he does! Yay!

I say all of this not to garner any sympathy or fish for compliments or get slapped on the face with a floppy dead herring (I couldn't think of a third reason why I would be not saying this, but it just sounds better to have three options), but rather to just commend these brave women who are giving a voice to the fears and insecurities and realities that so many other people face. Being fat is still so taboo, and most fat people are still so scared to really talk about it. Not just make jokes or excuses or vows to lose weight, but to really talk about how the present reality of weight winds its way though every aspect of their lives. I think that watching this show made it so clear that these women will most assuredly find love because they are good, beautiful people with sparkling personalities, and I think the longer the show airs, the more evident that truth will become to the women themselves, no matter who ends up with the well-built bachelor, and to the rest of the world.

I think we should all take a minute to thank Fox for not letting this show become the big joke that those beautiful women are so afraid they may fall into, should they let themselves believe that they are worth the real thing.