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You like me! Of course, you probably don't know me very well.

Archive for June, 2009

ice age heat wave can't complain

Tuesday, June 30th, 2009

I sprained my damn wrist and I feel like writing a long blog even though it hurts to type. If this stops halfway through, assume I’m in a corner somewhere popping advil and crying, ok?

Did you hear about Hajnal Ban? She is a local councilwoman in Somewhere, Australia.

She is a lawyer and a successful politician. Clearly, she’s beautiful. Also, she’s 5’4″. Know why she’s five four? Well, funny you should ask.

When she was 23, she had her legs broken and stretched 3 inches over the course of nine months. She was half an inch taller than me when she started, and now she’s half an inch shorter than the average Australian woman.

When asked why she opted to do it, she said “A lot of young females have insecurities about their weight or their nose; mine was my height.” She paid $40,000 to have the surgery done, in Russia.

I would like to say to each her own and move on from this story, but I’m having a hard time doing so. I can’t imagine that height is more important in Australia than it is here – the land of America’s Next Top Model – so her level of mocking in school was probably roughly equivalent to mine.

Also, I’m not a lawyer, and she is. However, I have had several careers in male dominated fields, so I know a little bit about trying not only to overcome being female, but simultaneously overcoming being a ‘little girl’.

And yes, she’s pretty, and I’m aware that a lot of the time that doesn’t help as much as you’d think.

I guess what’s bugging me is that she’s essentially asking us to believe that being shorter than average undermined her ability to garner respect, more than anything else about her. Why else would she have gone through nine months of (in her words) “incredibly painful” operations for 3 little inches?

She was teased when she was in school. So, I’m sure, were the overweight children and the kids with gigantic noses and the kids with curly hair and the skinny children and the kids with accents and the kids with big feet and the tall children.

Can all of these things be ‘fixed’? Yeah, through plastic surgery or whatever. But should they be? ¬†She got her three inches, and you know what? She lost the National Party election two years ago. Maybe she should dye her hair – then she’d look even less like me. Good riddance.

Later note in other height related news: Being tall is not a handicap either. Shocking.

don't go around breaking young girl's hearts

Friday, June 26th, 2009

Man alive. I realize that I am one of roughly… 17 billion bloggers who feels compelled to write about the Michael Jackson/Farrah Fawcett sadness that happened yesterday.

I’m working on a theory about MJ in which he faked his own death and is now happily ensconced in a Swiss detox facility where the evil American tax man will never find him. Y’all will of course be the first to know if I find any proof. In the meantime though, this video gives me goosebumps. Moonwalk, baby.


Does Switzerland have an extradition policy with the US? Is the tax man even allowed to extradite people? The world may never know. Ok, the world probably already knows – more accurately, I may never know. However, it makes me happy to think of him there after all the sadness and craziness he’s had in his life, so I’m gonna do so.

As for the lovely Miss Fawcett. Charlie’s Angels (even pre-Drew Barrymore) poses a problem for me. I love them in their asskicking, brainhaving hotness. I hate them for being so clearly enslaved to a man who is nothing more than a voice on the phone. Clearly, that whole Angel/Charlie relationship was more than a employer/employee one – they were smitten. Also, did they ALWAYS have to dress up as strippers n stuff? In Dollhouse, for example, there’s a lot of sexy dressing, but the Dolls get to be thieves and psychologists and plenty of other rolls that are not such gimme’s on the sex symbol front.

Anyway, everything I know about the woman makes me wish she had been my friend. She was so awesome that I have yet to see a joke about anal cancer anywhere – you swing some serious worldwide respect if you have anal cancer and no one even snickers. Even I’m not snickering. Even in my head. Really.

Farrah – MUAH.

One more quick note on the MJ front. Yesterday I got the scoop on his (fake) untimely demise before it was widely published on these great internets of ours. Being me, I immediately shared the news with everyone who might care. My note to my darlin Yvonne looked like this:

4:04 me: michael jackson is dead i heard!

In my head, that was a sad and shocked voice. In Yvonne’s head, it was apparently said with the same tone that I might have said ‘I just won the lottery!’. Which almost made her fall off her chair laughing. She’s awesome.

Gratuitous Eliza Dushku/Dollhouse shot:

Was I saying something about Dollhouse being less mysogynistic than Charlie’s Angels? Huh. Sometimes I’m not as smart as I think I am. Nice tights.

two tickets to iron maiden baby

Tuesday, June 23rd, 2009

The tiniestsprinter is in town! I’ve had very little awesomeness interaction with him thus far aside from a delish family dinner at Leaf in Boulder (mmm), where I got my mother to take this extremely memorable and relevant photograph:

photo (19)Yep, my brother is in town, I was with my mother AND father AND him – and the sole photo from the evening is this. We were attempting to prove that my arm automatically snaps to my neck when you take a picture of me. But, see that stuff on the very far left that sorta looks like smudges? That’s the edge of my shiny new tattoo.

photoSee? Fun huh. (Yes, this is sometimes what I do at work. Meh.)

Funny story about meh, while I’m thinking about it. On Sunday, the tiniestsprinter was driving into town from the superfantastic Portland Oregon. My dad called me mid-morning to ask if I’d heard from him, and I said nope, not yet.

Dad: “I texted him last night and he texted me back like an hour later, but it didn’t make sense. I couldn’t even read it. I think he was partying.”

Me: “That’s a definite possibility, unless he was racing in the morning.”

Dad: “Maybe we’ll have to stage an intervention while he’s here heeheehee.” Like he’s kidding but sorta serious, ya know? Good thing he doesn’t know how much I drink. He reads the tiniestsprinter’s blog three times as much as he reads mine, by his own admission, so he probably thinks Sam drinks three times as much. If he only knew.

So on Sunday afternoon I see my dad and he shows me this famous drunk sounding text message. It says:

Meh, the ride was ok. I’ll talk to you later about it me course.

*Ok thats not at all what it said, but that has the two relevant words.

The reason my dad thought my brother was drunk? Cause he’s never heard MEH before, and cause Sam’s phone switched ‘of’ and ‘me’, as phones are wont to do. I love my dad.

come on, let me see you shake your tailfeathers

Thursday, June 18th, 2009

Ok, several things.

One, the buddy who pointed me at Erin Denver read my last blog, was amused by my apparent blogger crush, and set it up so that we may grab drinks next week. What on earth will I wear? Should I stop saying funny things right now so that I have a bunch stored up? <nibbles fingernails nervously>

Two, I said I’d tell the story of my near death experience. It was both nearly the death of me AND nearly the death of my relationship – that’s how cool I was last Sunday.

Three, I don’t really want to tell that story because it wasn’t really that funny while it was happening. However, I will share this one little gem:

The DB and I walk into a barbecue of his friends. This is the first time I’ve met most of them, with the exception of the hostess. The hostess is, oddly, the ex-girlfriend of an ex-boyfriend of mine. She was immediately prior to me in his dating time-line, and when he and I were dating he was still carrying an Olympic-sized torch. Did I resent this? Nope, not at all – if we each had one ‘erase option’ in our dating history, he’d be mine. We only dated for a few weeks, anyway, so no harm no foul, right?

*why don’t we have ‘erase options’ in our dating history? I’m implementing that right now. Everyone, mentally review your exes, pick your least favorite, and boom, erase. Never happened. You’re welcome.

Anyway, the story of the ex’s ex is not the story I’m trying to tell here. The story I am trying to tell is this:

The DB puts the beer we brought on the porch, and I crack one. Before I even get a sip of my delicious Oskar Blues Mama’s Little Yella Pils (YUM – I’m not schilling for them, I just really do think it’s delish), the DB introduces me to his friend.

“Hi,” says the friend, “how do you two know each other?” It seemed like a weird question – like, how did we meet? Or what is our relationship? I don’t know what he meant, but I do know the correct answer was NOT what came out of my mouth.

“We’re sleeping together.”


Yep. That’s what I said. Turns out it’s a pretty effective conversation stopper. Who knew.


on the night in question, I took a record from your record collection

Wednesday, June 17th, 2009

I’m feeling awed. Awed, as in damn that girl is awesome.

So you may or may not have noticed that I blog inconsistently about what’s actually happening in my real, actual life. I tend to be more prone to tales of travels, crappy movies, and lying coworkers. For example, the DB popped up several months ago with very little back story, even though he’s actually my favorite thing ever.

I’m not sure why I don’t post about that stuff more. I think a) I’m not sure it’s particularly interesting and b) as ridiculous as this statement seems, I’m actually sort of a private person. No, really. No, for real.

BUT – I just discovered my new favorite person. Erin Denver. Somebody I know actually knows her and sent me the link to her blog this afternoon. While I am of course work-work-working, preparing for the Emerging Leaders interview, and thinking about Sweet Thing – I somehow managed to read several pages of her hilarity.

Witness: ‘I have been in the city for less than an hour and I’m already saddled with bags from H&M and MANGO while wildly staring at a seriously overpriced headband from Anthropologie that I would buy even if it was made from nothing but the finger nails of children. Suffering children. This thought seriously runs through my mind as I model it in front of a mirror, for myself, and then think, briefly, “simmer down psycho” while ignoring the squealing uncle sound coming from my purse, which is nothing more than the tortured groans of my bank card.”

Witness: “I do want to go back to his place; I do not want to have sex. I want to get close enough to smell his breath, but not close enough to need to worry about a geriatric pregnancy. This is because, I’m not ready to be involved with anyone else and part of this is, because, I’m not fully ready to give up on the Biscuit yet.” (I’m not sure who or what the Biscuit is. At first I thought it was a strange reference to having sex, but now I’m pretty sure it’s an ex-boyfriend. Either way, ha.)

I love myself very much. My mental image of myself is sorta like this (as the DB and I actually discussed this morning, for reasons that have become foggy in the haze of work-work-working):

But Erin Denver, in all her awesomeness, has awed me. Erin, I bow to your hilarity and your willingness to share your daily adventures.

As part of my happiness project, I hereby vow to be a little more like you.

I shall start tomorrow with the story of how I almost died on Sunday night, and forced the DB to have a relationship talk with me while I was doing it. Yep, superwoman. That’s me.